Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl by Lizbeth Dusseau

man, but from his not so subtle glances she knew that it was just a matter of time.
    The Turk appeared dressed in thickly whaled, rust colored, corduroy pants and an Irish knit sweater. Tamara appeared with a large tureen of steaming soup. The Turk sat down at the end of the table next to where Denise knelt. She shivered in fear and shied away from him. Her movement caught his eye and he turned his head to look at her.
    “Spread your legs,” he commanded in a low but emphatic voice. Denise, who had been kneeling with her legs together, her buttocks resting on the back of her calves obeyed instantly. “Wider,” he said.
    The girl widened her thighs. She knelt now, open to him, her labia widened, the naked lips visible. Her spread legs forced her to kneel straighter, no longer having her calves under her. This, in turn, made her soft pale breasts more prominent. She was presented for her master.
    The trio ate mostly in silence. Denise could smell the aromatic aroma of the soup as it wafted through the room. She could not keep her eyes off of the strong, scarred hands of her tormentor, hands that had beaten her cruelly not much more than an hour ago. She felt the ghosts of those hands on her body as she knelt so clearly available for her owner’s whims.
    The trio ignored her as they finished their repast. The old man got up first and mumbling something under his breath, and walked from the room. The Turk got up next. He cast a sideways glance at the obedient girl and left, striding purposively. Tamara got up and began clearing the table. On her last trip, she led Denise into the kitchen where she permitted her to lap up her own portion of soup from a bowl in the corner. When she had filled herself, Denise knelt by her bowl in silence watching the old lady put away the remainder of the pots and pans.
    When Tamara had finished, she came over to Denise and picked up the bowl. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of chocolate. She proffered it to the bound girl, saying, “Eat, eat.”
    Denise seized the chocolate with her teeth and drew it into her mouth. The sweet flavor overwhelmed her. She looked up at the old lady with gratitude. As she chewed it, savoring every bit, she chided herself. How delightful a small sweet was to her now! What little it took to please her! She smiled at the old lady as Tamara approached her to replace the gag. She wanted to thank her for this little kindness, but knew the rules well. Her mouth was for fucking and not talking. She opened her mouth and received the gag obediently.
    The Turk had gone to the dock and released a canoe he kept there. It was his habit, when home, to explore the hills and forests that made up the huge state park that surrounded his mansion. He enjoyed the solitude, and trudging up and down the mountain trails kept him in shape. He rowed the canoe about five miles down the lake and pulled the canoe ashore. This was one of his favorite spots. Climbing the steep hill, he ascended the rocky crag that loomed out over the lake. An hour and a half later, he was at its top. From here he could see up and down the length of the lake. Forest and mountains loomed for miles. There was always a strong breeze, there being nothing to assuage the gusts that blew down the valley.
    The solitary figure sat still, brooding on his life. He had spent most of it full of hate. He had destroyed countless lives, ripping comely white females from their homes and condemning them to cruel, abysmal fates. Now he was in love or what he thought was love. And with a woman he had spent perhaps two hours with, had kissed only once. The memory haunted him. Like the prisoner, Denise, in his fortress home, he wondered where she was, what had happened to her. Was she dead? Was she cursing his soul somewhere as she was callously used by whatever cruel man or woman had claimed her? Would the torment of her memory ever leave him?
    While the Turk spent his afternoon wandering the verdant forests