Lisa didn't try to hide her smug smile as she studied her reflection in the elevator's polished stainless steel doors. They all hated her for her looks: her full pouty lips, her deep green eyes, her pretty face framed by a cascade of dark, wavy hair she refused to tie back. All her clients' soon-to-be-ex-husbands saw her as a slutty secretary in a trim business suit and three inch stiletto sandals, not as a cut-throat divorce lawyer. And that was their mistake.

She knew that they all fantasized about her when she let them get a glimpse of her black lace-trimmed demi-bra under the creamy silk blouse that wasn't buttoned up quite high enough. Or the lace top of her back-seamed stockings and the clasp of her garter belt. They all wanted her...until she ripped their balls off and served them to them in the form of the divorce settlement. That was when they learned to hate her.

She laughed. God, she thought, it makes me wet to see them squirm and shout and threaten to rip my tits off before they realized they're beaten and have to sign the papers like whipped little puppies.

It didn't matter to her if there was only fifty dollars in the joint account or fifty million, she made sure the wife got the lion's share -- or lioness's share in this case -- even if she had to bend the rules more than a little. It was her job and she was damned good at it. And she enjoyed every minute of it.

Tonight, she planned to celebrate her most recent triumph with an exquisite dinner at an exclusive restaurant now owned by one of her former clients. All, of course, on the house.

It troubled her only momentarily that she would be dining alone. Again.

A tall, well-built man in a blue suit blocked her exit from the elevator on the parking level. He looked like a lawyer.

"Lisa Johnson?" he said. It was not a question.

"Call my secretary in the morning," she snapped. "You should know that's how it's done...."

"I'm with the State Bar Association," he interrupted. "We have some questions."

Lisa stared in stunned impotence at her cell phone. It was well after midnight, raining, and she was stuck with a flat tire exactly in middle of the two mile dead area between cell service on the deserted, wooded road to her house.

She threw the phone aside in a moment of irrational rage. There was no way she was going to walk a mile or more in the rain in three inch Italian heels to get cell service. She'd wait in her car till someone came along.

She slumped into the driver's seat, fuming. The farcical meeting with the Bar Association lawyer, with accusations of unethical conduct that were only marginally true, had gone on interminably. But that had been only the beginning. That was followed by a contentious interview with some government functionary who made veiled references to illegal offshore banking transactions, then an exhausting grilling by the DEA about an absurd accusation that she was dealing drugs.

She was tired, angry and hungry. The restaurant had been long closed by the time she had managed to extricate herself from the clutches of male-dominated legal bureaucracy. Tomorrow she would settle with all of them but tonight all she wanted was a glass of wine, a long soak in a hot tub, and something to eat. But it seemed as if even that was going to be denied her.

A sudden bright flash of yellow lit up the night, causing her a moment of terror before she realized it came from the light bar of a tow truck.

Bright flashing yellow lights lit up the rain on her rear window, making it impossible to see who was in the truck. She cautiously rolled down her window a crack as the driver tapped on it.

"Need help?" he inquired. "Auto club member?"

"Yes," she said, breathing a small sigh of relief as she fumbled for her membership card.

"Why don't we go sit in the truck and I'll get your information while my assistant changes the tire. Get you out of here faster."

She took a deep breath. "Why can't I stay in the car?"

He shrugged. "Auto club policy. In case the car slips off the lift or...I dunno... Martians attack or something." He grunted ruefully. "Makes no sense to me either but you know how it is."

She couldn't help smiling. "Okay," she said and started to open the door.

"Hang on, he said. "Fred's bringing an umbrella."

He shielded her with the umbrella and guided her to the passenger side of the truck. She had to struggle to get up the step to the cab with her tight skirt that was plastered to her legs with the rain. She was sure he was staring up her skirt but, when she turned to check, he was shouting directions to his assistant.

She settled into the seat, tugging her skirt down and arranging her jacket to provide the maximum coverage.

He climbed into the cab then maneuvered the truck to the front of her car. Then he pulled out a clipboard and began carefully writing her information onto a form. It was all very professional and mundane.

She heard the truck's machinery grinding and humming but didn't think anything of it. The assistant slapped the driver's door. "All set," he said.

The driver grabbed the umbrella and escorted her back her car, steering her in front of the truck and its blinding lights before seeing her safely back in the driver's seat.

It wasn't until she reached for her key in the ignition that she realized it was missing. Then the car's front end lurched upwards.

The heavy truck began to move and she was moving with it!

She tugged at the door handle then stared down at the wet pavement flashing by. They were already moving too fast for her to consider any foolish attempt to jump from the car. She searched for her cell phone but it was no longer on the seat. A greasy smear on the leather told her that the tow truck man had taken it.

She froze. She was being kidnapped. And she had no way to call for help.

This isn't happening, she told herself. They forgot I was on the lift. That's it. Just a mistake. She leaned on the horn. Nothing happened. The she noticed the tangle of wires hanging from under the dashboard. The car had been sabotaged.

This was no mistake! They knew!

The next hour passed in a haze of panic and disbelief. They drove a circuitous route down deserted streets through darkened neighborhoods and finally down a desolate stretch of country road she didn't recognize. The truck barely slowed as it turned onto a rutted dirt lane that led to a derelict farm.

The truck drove into yard and stopped.

She flung open the door and ran out into the black, rain-swept night, her stilettos sinking into the mud of a field, slowing her, tripping her but still she ran on, not daring to look back until she was lost deep in a field of withered corn stalks. She crouched down and looked back. No one seemed to be following.

The truck idled for a moment, its doors opened and closed, then the truck drove off with her car still in tow.

She crouched in the field until her leg muscles began to cramp but still no one came. There was no light, no sound -- nothing but the cold rain rattling on the dried leaves. Wet, cold, muddy, scratched by the corn stalks, she blundered through the field until she was relatively sure no one would be able to find her until daylight. And with daylight would come rescue. Or at least hope. She would be missed. They would be looking for her.

She stumbled upon a low, dirty, disused crib of some sort that offered a small measure of protection against the rain. She needed some place to spend the night and the crib seemed her only choice. She had to get down on her hands and knees to crawl inside. It was dark, wet and foul-smelling but better than the open field. She huddled in a corner, miserable and confused, hugging herself to try to keep warm. Then the horror and unreality of it all struck home.

Two madmen had kidnapped her and left her alone in the field. Were they waiting out there with guns? Was this some twisted hunting game? Or were their plans even more sadistic? A dozen scenarios flashed through her mind -- rape, torture, murder, white slavery...each more stomach-churning than the last.

She began to hyperventilate and forced herself to slow her ragged breathing.

It's just for ransom, she told herself. That's it. It has to be. They'll contact her firm and demand a million dollars. Maybe more. And the firm would pay. Of course they would. She was worth it.

Shivering with fear and cold, trying to quell the nagging little voice inside her head that the firm wouldn't pay, she finally allowed herself to break down and cry. And somehow, she fell into a fitful sleep.

She awoke with a fright. Something was moving in the field. She crawled back into the corner as far as possible and waited, hoping against hope that they wouldn't find her. Agonizing minutes passed as the sound came closer and closer then a "thud" as something landed on the roof.

She screamed and scrambled out of the crib, ready to defend herself in whatever way she could.

But it was only a raccoon that met her terrified gaze, perhaps as frightened of her as she was of it.

She rose cautiously. Nothing. Her scream didn't seem to have brought anyone out of the house or barn. It didn't make sense. Why kidnap her then just leave?

Steeling herself, she ventured out of the field. Nothing. No car. No sound. Nothing.

Relieved, she ran down the lane to the road only to find her way blocked by a high chain mesh gate topped with razor wire. An equally intimidating fence ran off to either side of the gate. The farm sat in a small hollow and the fence wouldn't be visible from the road.

She backed away in horror as the truth struck her. The fence and razor wire were still bright and new. This was planned. This was more than a simple kidnapping. This was a prison. And there was no escape for her.

By the end of the day, she was weak from fear, cold, exhaustion, hunger and thirst. The rain had stopped but it remained gray and overcast and a breeze had sprung up, rattling the corn and chilling her to the bone. Her clothes were still muddy and wet from the night before and there was no chance they would get any drier with the coming evening. It looked like it might rain again.

She had tried removing her shoes to better move around the farm but the ground was sharp and prickly. She had no choice but to hobble around the soft fields and rocky yard in shoes that were as much prisons for her feet as they were torture chambers.

She had cautiously investigated barn all the outbuildings but they were empty. Completely empty. There was not a stray piece of wood or wire or loose nail she could use as a tool or weapon. And there was nothing resembling a blanket, not even an old grain sack. The outbuildings might offer shelter but no comfort.

Her thirst drove her back to the field where there was a pool of water between the corn rows. Kneeling, trying not to think about what she was doing, she cupped her hands and scooped up the muddy water, drinking until she could not stand the musty, earthy flavor of the water.

She knelt there, sobbing, until she exhausted her tears. She was beaten. She would surrender. She was just so very hungry and tired and cold.

Mechanically, she stood and walked toward the farm house.

The front steps and porch echoed with the sound of her heels as she approached the front door.

Nothing happened.

She tried the handle. The door swung open soundlessly on oiled hinges.

She stepped inside, ready for the worst.

Nothing happened.

The house, like the other buildings, was completely empty. On the left, a small parlor with a ruined fireplace. On the right, perhaps the living room. A staircase with missing treads flanked the hallway on the left. Straight ahead appeared to be a kitchen.

If nothing else, she thought, there might be a pump where she could get some clean water.

Her footsteps rang unnaturally loudly on the cracked, yellow vinyl carpet of the hallway that led past an empty bathroom to the kitchen.

The kitchen was as bare as everything else. No pump. No food. Not even any shelves in the cupboards. Nothing she could use.

She saw her reflection in the kitchen window, lighted by the fading daylight that slithered down beyond the dead fields. She couldn't help but notice that she looked like hell: hair tangled and matted, makeup smeared or gone, her blouse ripped, her clothes muddy and misshapen, her nylons in tatters.

"This is Hell!" she shouted to no one in particular, half-expecting a confirming chuckle from the Devil.

Nothing. No sound, not even the creaking of old floorboards.

"If this is Hell," she shouted again, "why is it so fucking cold?"

She knelt on the floor and cried again but it did no good.

She curled into a ball and fell asleep.

Sunlight, creeping down the hallway from the front window, awoke her.

She lay on the floor, unable to bestir herself for a long time until her aching bladder forced her to her feet and out the back door.

She remained squatting in the back yard, panties down around her thighs, skirt hiked up, long after she had relieved herself. She was unable to think clearly, unable to function, unable to understand what was happening to her and wondering whether she would die of hunger or thirst, wondering how long it would be until the muddy pools of water in the fields dried up.

She crawled towards the field without bothering to arrange her clothes and stuck her face into one of the puddles of water, drinking until there was nothing but mud in her mouth. She crawled to the next and drained it as well.

Then she lay down in the field and waited for the sun to warm her.

They had left her nothing. No tool, no weapon, no food, no hope. Worst of all, no reason for any of this.

The sun glinted off the farm house's windows and she realized they had left her something.

Glass.

She struggled to her feet, pulled up her panties and struggled through the wet yard to the house.

The window glass.

A weapon if anyone ever showed up. Or a tool. To end it all and deprive them of their sick amusement.

She took off her jacket, wrapped it around her hand and smashed the glass in the kitchen door.

Only it didn't shatter.

She pounded again, harder. Her hand bounced off. Harder and harder, over and over she smashed at the glass until her hand was an agony of bruised flesh.

Plastic.

They had replaced the glass with unbreakable plastic.

"Fuck you, you sick twisted bastards!" she screamed as she slumped to the floor. "Fuck you very much!" she added with less enthusiasm. "And fuck me, too," she added very quietly. "Fuck me very much."

She thought about hanging herself with her nylons but there was nothing to tie them to, nothing on which to stand to fall to her death. The stairs to the upper floor were missing and, in any event, she was sure they would have nailed the windows shut. But even as she entertained that notion, she knew that, no matter how desperate she was, she was too much of a coward to try it. She was afraid of only hurting herself and dying, slowly, in agony.

The glass would have been much better. Slitting her wrists and just drifting off into unconsciousness and death. Yes, the glass would have been good.

She considered getting up, considered staying where she was, then something bright caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and it was gone. But she had seen it.

Up under one of the empty cupboards...something shiny...something you'd only notice if you were sitting on the floor.

She crawled over. It was a key. A shiny, brand new padlock key, like what the key for the padlock on the gate would look like.

They missed something! She gloated silently. The goddamned fucking bastards missed something!

She knelt up and grabbed the key.

The noose slid over her head and pulled tight around her neck before she even knew he was in the kitchen behind her.

The noose was so tight she could not even scream. Desperately she clawed behind her neck for the hand that held it but found only a cold metal pipe. She recognized it as some sort of animal capture stick like the ones they use on wild animals.

She couldn't turn around to face him; she could only stand there, helpless, at his mercy.

He loosened the noose slightly, allowing her short, barely sufficient breaths.

"Thank you so much," he said, "for finding the key to your new home. Now, would you like to go see it?"

He yanked her backwards sharply, spun her around and marched her out the back door, always staying behind her. He pushed her around to the side of the house to the entrance to the storm cellar. She'd tried to open it before but it had been secured with a rusty old padlock. But now that she was it in sunlight, she realized that it wasn't old. It had just been made to look that way.

And, she realized, the key she had found went to that lock.

He plucked the key from her hand, unlocked the padlock, then pulled the doors up and open.

A dark staircase led downward.

"Hi honey!" he said cheerfully. "You're home!" and pushed her down the stairs.

She was too weak and exhausted to resist.

Lights came on and she saw, to her horror, what appeared to be a medieval dungeon and torture chamber. But this one was equipped with video cameras and monitors. She could see herself in the nearest monitor as she came down the stairs, looking exactly like a wild animal being shoved into its cage.

The monitors showed her humiliation from a half dozen angles...from behind, in front, from the sides, the floor and the ceiling.

She could watch in horrified fascination as he pushed her past a post in the middle of the room, fed the pole through a hole in it and yanked her hard back against it.

He roughly pulled her arms behind the post, wrapped each wrist in a leather restraint and bound them together. He then pulled a belt around her elbows and pulled it tight, forcing her to thrust out her chest as if presenting her breasts to him.

He removed the noose and let her gasp for breath before forcing her mouth open and jamming in a perforated ball gag. The strap didn't buckle behind her head but, instead, went around the post, preventing her from moving her head.

"Don't want you screaming or begging or wheedling," he said. "Not that anyone can hear you, of course, it's just so terribly tedious."

She screamed garbled obscenities at him and he slapped her hard once, twice, three times.

"From now on," he continued in a congenial tone, "no one gives one small shit about what comes out of your mouth. Only about what goes into it." He paused to let her realize what he meant. "And there will be so very many, many 'things' that will go into it."

He moved around in front of her, blocking the light so she couldn't see his face. But there was something familiar about his voice. If only she wasn't so tired and hungry and fuzzy-headed. If only she could think.

He reached out and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.

She squirmed uselessly against the bonds. She closed her eyes but that only made the sensation of his hands crawling down the front of her blouse even more intense and horrifying. She opened them and tried to look away but all she could see in her limited view were video monitors showing him undressing her from every angle imaginable.

"Oh," he said, "the nights I've dreamed of doing this, of seeing that lace-trimmed bra you always wore, the one that was so damned near transparent that your dark nipples showed through your blouse when you sat just right." He paused, admiring her.

Whether from fear or cold or his touch, her nipples tightened and stood out sharply through the thin fabric of her bra.

"Oh, I understand the tease. That was fine. A woman has the right to make men crazy that way. And I enjoyed it. Oh yes, I certainly enjoyed it. And you need to know you're not here because I think you deserve to be put in your place for that. No. Teasing is okay even if it's just a weapon. I didn't have to look. And, as I said, you had the right to do it. But you know I looked. It's just that now, that tease gives me so much more to look forward to."

He peeled her blouse back from her body then slowly and lightly ran his fingers over her goose-bumped flesh before drifting down to caress her breasts through the fabric of her bra. His hands were trembling slightly.

"Much better," he breathed, "much better than I imagined." His fingers circled her nipples, then cupped and weighed her breasts. "Perfect C cup breasts with those totally outrageous nipples." He sighed. "I can see how you can wear these scandalously skimpy bras...you don't really need one at all. The bra is just more of the tease. I appreciate that now."

She was too tired to struggle, too exhausted to even try to knee him in the crotch for all the good it would have done. She could do nothing but stare straight ahead at him as he ogled and fondled her breasts.

"I can't wait to see your panties," he said breathlessly. "That was the one thing you never exposed. Oh, you showed the tops of your stockings, the ends of your garters, even a tantalizing glimpse of the top of your thighs when you bent over. But never a glimpse of your panties." He paused. "Do you wear any I wonder?"

His hands slipped down to her ass and he pulled her roughly to him. She could feel his heat and the stiff, urgency of his cock pressing against her belly. It nauseated and horrified her because it was a sure sign of what he intended. She almost wished he'd just do it and get it over with because, after the first time, it wouldn't matter so much the next time.

But he was enjoying taking his time as if he knew it intensified her agony.

"I know you dress like a whore under your business suit. Does it give you a feeling of power somehow to be the slut and the bitch at the same time? To know that, underneath, you are what all men desire and, on the outside, what all men dread?"

His voice was familiar. If only she could think.

He unzipped her skirt and pushed it to the floor, then he stepped back to admire her.

His quick intake of breath indicated his approval. "Yes," he whispered, "even better than I imagined. Matching lace-trimmed tanga panties and garter belt. Oh, you are quite the seductress. Quite the perfect slut."

He backed away and sat in a leather chair beside one of the monitors. She could clearly see herself, stripped to her underwear, gagged, helpless, bedraggled and caked with mud. He was obviously enjoying the spectacle immensely.

He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and exhaled slowly. "But I wonder," he said, his voice turning colder, "if you've been fucked since your divorce. That is, other than by the settlement you ex-husband exacted. If that why you're so angry at men? Is that why you set up us with lies and false accusations we can never disprove and, if we dare contest them, end up with ruined reputations no matter that they're lies? Or did you entice men into your web just so you can humiliate and debase them, to do all the things to them you didn't have the nerve to do to your ex-husband?"

She wanted to smash his smug face, to grind the cigarette out in his foul mouth and, irrationally, she tried to lunge for him.

His laugh infuriated her further.

"What you failed to recognize was that none of us...the men you ruined with your slimy tactics...none of us where your ex-husband. No, you decided to exact your revenge on us for no reason other the fact you were too weak to take it out on him even though he was the one who deserved it. And he was the one who taught you all the tricks of the trade, so to speak."

He sat and examined the end of his cigarette critically a moment, then continued. "But what you also failed to consider was that we could learn from you just as you learned from him. And you never paid any attention to us as individuals -- as people. You saw us only as bank accounts. Which means you never thought about the skills we possessed, collectively, skills that have made all this possible," he gestured grandly at the terrible room. "Computer skills, videography, networking, construction, metalworking, even tow truck driving...a whole range of skills that you will only slowly come to..." he paused to find the right word, "...appreciate." He chuckled at his choice of words, then sobered. "Yes," he said, "you will be the beneficiary of all those skills. You see, you're here because you ruined us for your own profit. Now it's our turn."

He looked at her as he ground out his cigarette on the floor. "Well," he said finally, "I need some dinner. I'm famished. It took you forever to find that key so I haven't eaten all day. I was beginning to lose hope."

At the mention of food, her stomach growled and she began to salivate; her saliva quickly seeping through the perforations of the gag and dribbling down her chin and between her breasts -- an image captured in close-up on the monitor in front of her.

Ignoring her obvious anger and shame, he went off to the side, out of her view. She heard a brief "whirring" noise then nothing for several minutes. The "whirring" returned and the savory aroma of beef stew flooded the dungeon.

She nearly fainted with hunger at the smell.

He returned pushing a cart with two bowls of stew, a plate of crusty bread chunks, and two glasses of beer.

Settling himself comfortably, he began to eat, only occasionally glancing in her direction. More often, he focused on several of the monitors and made some small adjustments on a control panel next to the chair.

She began whimpering and gibbering incoherently, the scent of the stew driving her mad.

"So," he said, mopping up the remnants of his stew with a piece of bread, "here's the deal. This is a new reality show -- very exclusive, very expensive, subscription only -- and you're the star. Oh yes, you are most certainly the star."

He waited a moment for his words to sink in then continued. "The teaser will be a couple weeks of humiliation and forced sex. By the way, the scenes of you crawling through the corn fields, drinking from the puddles, peeing in the field...those are priceless. Feeds and downloads of those alone have paid for this little extravaganza."

She struggled irrationally against the bonds. He had been watching. He had taped it all!

He stared at her over the rim of his beer glass. And, of course," he added, "at some point you will model your extensive collection of lingerie and finger your cunt for your devoted fans. Maybe we'll try some forced orgasms -- if you can manage them -- and, if you can't, I guess it's just clit and cunt torture."

He sipped his beer and looked at her pensively. "Maybe a weekend-long gang rape or two -- there are certainly enough volunteers for that. After that, we'll probably move on to some serious abuse: flogging, caning, whipping, mild torture -- that sort of thing. Some outdoor bondage and torture -- particularly after it snows. Chaining you naked in one of the horse stalls for a couple of days...maybe fitting you with a harness to pull a cart. Yes, I think that would be interesting. And we could charge for rides! Oh, and did I mention that we now have guard dogs? I'm sure they'll be amused by you as well. Then...well, then we'll have to see. Probably something more extreme -- it pretty much depends on what the subscribers want. But, oh, the times we'll have."

She felt a cold certainty that he was serious. But...more extreme? She couldn't imagine what he meant and refused to think about it.

"By the way, in case you're wondering, this farm is completely invisible to the outside world. As far as anyone knows, this is an empty field owned by a giant conglomerate that is just using it as a tax write-off. The farm house and buildings no longer exist even on Google Earth maps. The video feed goes out encrypted, bounces off two satellites and through a dozen or more servers in a constantly morphing network. In other words, it can't be traced. Ever. Which means no one is going to come rescue you. Ever."

He waited a moment then extinguished her last bit of hope. "But then, everyone will assume you ran off to avoid all the charges against you -- the Bar, the FBI, Treasury, DEA -- the list is fairly extensive. You see, we've created the same kind of lies about you that you created about us. You'd find them amusing if you could see them...you might even recognize some of them. And when they discover your clothes and valuables missing from your house, your bank accounts empty, and your car at the airport...well, let's just say they won't be looking for you anywhere around here.

"And, considering the charges against you, I doubt you're really want to be found. Prison would be no picnic for you. At least here, you're the star. And, in time, you might even grow to enjoy your role."

She was so numb with exhaustion and hunger the news didn't even shock her; she could think only of the stew on the cart in front of him.

He studied her lack of reaction for a moment.

"Okay, the deal is, you want to eat tonight, you suck my cock. And," he added, rising and bringing the bowl tantalizingly close, "you not only suck my cock, you give me the best blow job I've ever had."

Tears streamed down her face as she tried to nod her acceptance.

He walked around behind her and released the ball gag, pulling it roughly out of her mouth.

"Oh," he added, "you will also get down on your knees and beg for it."

It was less a matter of her compliance than it was of her legs giving way beneath her that brought her to her knees.

"Please," she said miserably, "let me suck your cock."

There was silence. She looked up at his silhouette looming over her. "That's it?" he asked incredulously. "That's the best you can beg?" He started to turn away.

"Please," she cried frantically, "pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let me suck your cock. Please." The last word but barely audible through her sobs.

He considered her plea then shrugged. "That'll do for now," he said, placing the bowl on the cart then walking over to her. He grabbed her head and rubbed her face against the coarse fabric of his pants. "Beg me again," he said.

"Please," she whimpered, "please?"

"Much better," he said, patting her head. "More genuine."

He unzipped his pants and pulled out his stiffening cock, positioning it just too far way for her mouth to reach it.

"Please?" she asked, confused.

"You're not even going to try?" he asked.

She strained against her bonds, stuck her tongue out and just barely managed to lick the tip of his cock which immediately twitched and jerked away. She tried again, getting just a bit more but again it twitched away as he reacted to the touch of her tongue.

He let her struggle to get his cock into her mouth for a moment before finally inching forward enough to allow the head to rest against her tongue. She licked diligently but even then it kept twitching and jumping away from her.

"Not the greatest blow job I've ever had," he observed sarcastically.

She howled in frustration. "Please," she begged. "Let me take it in my mouth. Let me have your cock all the way in my mouth."

"Now that," he observed approvingly, "sounded truly genuine."

He leaned forward and allowed her to take the head of his cock between her lips. She sucked and licked the head vigorously, doing her best to please him but he abruptly pulled it out.

"My God," he snapped, "you can't suck cock for shit!"

She howled in frustration, desperate for the stew and the bread and the beer. "You make it impossible! And no one ever complained...!" she began before a sharp slap silenced her.

"Of course no one ever complained you stupid cunt. No guy is ever going to complain about getting a bad blow job if he ever hopes to get sucked off again."

He stalked off, turned, then came back, his cock standing up hard and angry. "Then I'm just going to have to fuck your face. Open up!"

She barely had time to comply before he rammed his cock between her slightly parted lips and all the way to the back of her throat. Holding her head hard between his hands, he drove his cock into her mouth fast and hard.

"You will, of course, swallow," he grunted. "Anything drips out of your mouth and you'll have to lick it off the floor before you get anything else to put in it."

Pumping hard, he rammed her head back against the post with every thrust. She could barely breathe with is cock in the back of her mouth and her head slamming against the post. It felt as if it would go on forever, that she would pass out before he finished but, finally, he grunted, thrust hard and forced his cock into her throat and shot three large wads of semen down her throat.

He held her there until she began to twitch spastically for lack of air.

"Not bad," he said, pulling out and wiping his cock on her face and hair. "Not really all that bad. And," he added in amazement, "not a drop spilled. You really can swallow cum, can't you?" He grinned sadistically. "Now, let's see if you can swallow your pride."

"But..." she began and again a vicious slap silenced her.

"Here are the rules on what you can say: you can beg to be allowed to serve as a fuckhole or cum rag; you can tell me you're nothing but a worthless cunt; you can admit you're nothing but a hole for me to cum in; and you can tell me when you need to use the toilet. Anything else and I really will have to hurt you. A lot."

She bit her lip and hung her head to hide her rage and terror. He would hurt her, she knew. Hurt her in ways she didn't want to imagine. She knew she'd have to go along with the horror show until she could find a way to escape. Or kill him.

"So," he said, again cordial, "I promised you dinner. And," he added, "I always keep my promises." There was as much threat as assurance in that statement.

Freeing her from the post, he pulled her forward on her knees far enough to allow him to tug her blouse free before twisting her wrists behind her again and refastening her restraints.

She began to complain but instantly stifled the comment. She desperately needed to eat. She would play his game. She would be good. For now.

He grabbed her hair and made her crawl over to the front of the cart. He took the bowl of stew and put it on the floor in front of her. He tore up some of the bread chunks and dropped them into the bowl then took his own dirty bowl and poured her beer into it and placed that on the floor as well.

"Dinner," he said mockingly, "is served," before strolling off into the dark recesses at the back of the dungeon.

Hands bound behind her back, her dinner in bowls on the floor, she knew what he wanted. Let's see if you can swallow your pride he'd said. She didn't hesitate for a moment.

She tried not to think about the cameras carefully positioned to capture her humiliation for all posterity.

Curled up in a small cage in the dark dungeon; still clad only in her underwear, tattered stockings and ruined shoes; her wrists still bound behind her; listening to him snore somewhere in a distant, comfortable bed; she drifted towards sleep herself, all too aware of the cold eye of a video camera maintaining its vigil.

At least I'm warm, she told herself. At least I'm dry. And I've had something to eat and drink. And I'm still alive. That all has to count for something. Doesn't it?