“Nineteen hours. How is our little prisoner holding up?”

“Oh, she’s broken. Has been since late yesterday. At this point the only thing keeping her from babbling every secret we could possibly want is the gag in her mouth.”

“She certainly exhibits all the signs. Pupil dilation, rhythmic groaning, humping the toy like an animal. Has she been permitted to come yet?”

“She almost got there once, but we think we caught it in time. A bucket of ice water brought her back. No slip-ups since then. She’s been held at the edge so long she’s practically putty.”

“So do we plan to ask her any questions?”

“We ask plenty, we just don’t let her answer. Increases her desperation, plus we’re recording the whole thing to prove to her bosses that she hasn’t given away anything sensitive. She’s a much more valuable for barter if she hasn’t been unsealed, so to speak.”

“How long will it take to get the recording to them?”

“A few more days. And they’ll need a week to decide on terms after that.”

“Nineteen hours. I wonder what she’ll be like by the time she finally leaves.”

“If her predecessors are any indication, Ma’am, in her own mind she’ll never really leave at all.”


There wasn’t actually a bed in the house. The owners slept on a big slab of Ikea foam right on the floor, which was probably just as comfortable anyway, except that the lack of bedframe made it hard to tie someone down. That was the third complication the burglars faced. The second was that they hadn’t realized Cassie would be housesitting at all.

She’d been a couple days late–so what, the plants would be fine, she thought. Unfortunately, she timed her arrival while the three thieves were still in the house. They grabbed her before she could figure out what was happening, made it clear what would happen to her if she screamed for help, and improvised.

Tacks, hammer, scissors and an old nylon tie-down from the garage. Cassie found herself stripped quite efficiently and pinned down at twenty-four points, right in the middle of the living room where they could keep an eye on her. Then they went through her bag, and her misfortune doubled.

Cassie had planned on having a little time to herself at the house, so she’d brought her Hitachi, along with the rubber gag she liked to bite down on when she came. She hadn’t expected anyone to see them. She definitely hadn’t expected her captors to see her visible trembling or the flush that crept up her neck when they stuffed it in her mouth. She hadn’t expected them to figure out quite so fast what this situation was doing to her flooding cunt.

The owners would be back in five days or so. Nobody really expected to hear from Cassie in that time. Nobody would be coming by the house. The burglars had several days to do whatever they wanted to her taut and helpless body, and the nice thing about a Hitachi is that it doesn’t have batteries to exhaust.

Because the first complication they’d found–the one they were pretty sure Cassie could help them solve, once sufficiently persuaded–was the safe.

They had plenty of time to try combinations themselves, while they kept her pinned down and squirming, the vibrator thrumming against her aching pussy. They could hear it every time she came–the straining against the nylon, the squeaking of her teeth against the ball. Over a day of forced orgasms, well into the dozens, and Cassie was more than ready the combination–

If only she knew.

If only she could say so.

If only she wasn’t afraid of what would happen if they found out she lied…




“You’ll have cum enough for me when you’re too weak to arch off the table.”

I want to be forced to orgasm so many times I’m a mess on the floor, incapable of a single coherent though.

She’s slick with sweat, slippery enough that she’d probably be able to slip the ropes–if she could think clearly through the steps involved. Every few hours he jams a straw in her mouth and holds her nose until she drinks, some faintly sour electrolyte solution to keep her going, then snaps on a glove and lubes her holes with firm, thorough attention. And then he starts again.

He doesn’t use the Hitachi all the time, of course; on its high setting it tends to overwhelm her, make her go mercifully numb, which he discovered early on. First he’ll take the prod and wake her up, work her little breasts and belly until she’s squealing, and then dump a bucket of ice-cold water over her thrashing body. It’s almost a relief when he tightens the ropes on her legs, keeping her spread wide, and begins to work with the toys again.

The relief doesn’t last long. She used to be the kind of girl who didn’t always get off, the kind who took care and persistent attention; he’s broken her of that. He’s systematic, efficient, and relentless. He knows exactly when to ease off on the bullet against her clit and shift the heavy, thrumming weight up against her g-spot; when to start working the plug between her cheeks, and when to slowly draw it out.

She can’t form words but, she’s discovered, she can still cry out when she comes. She cries out at least every ten minutes, and if he’s found a new angle on her writhing body, she often cries out four or five times in a row.

They aren’t cries of pleasure. She remembers orgasm being pleasurable, once, when it was more than just a mechanical contraction of exhausted, aching muscles. Each one takes her a little farther from herself. Each one leaves a little less speech in her hazy mind.

Sometimes he’ll run his fingers lightly down her damp flanks, in the aftermath. Sometimes he’ll push something wide and heavy inside her, letting her cunt or ass try to squeeze it, intensifying each pulse. Sometimes he’ll just put the bar of his forearm against her throat, hold her down, and begin to spank her pussy until she screams.

When he decides this particular orgasm has been reinforced enough, he leans down and pulls her damp hair back from her ear. “What did you just do, girl?” he whispers.

She tries to remember the word, struggles, sobs for air through her trembling lips.

“What,” he says, reaching for the prod threateningly, “did you just do?”

“C-come,” she manages, a miracle every time. “Come! COME!”

He smiles, and picks up a clit pump this time, or a blunt steel hook, or maybe the Hitachi. She arches up again as soon as he touches her, a response trained so deeply now that she isn’t even aware of it. Only when he’s taken that final word from her mouth, when she can no longer remember the distinction between breath and pain and orgasm, will he even think about letting her rest.