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Review This Story || Author: Nicksam

Getting away

Part 2

The tiny house on Fieldings campus that the school had given Chrissy and her daughter underscored, to her eyes anyway, just how tenuous a position she had on the faculty.


It was a tiny four-room place on the far rear corner of the square-shaped rolling campus with a copse of trees and a clearly manmade hump-like hill keeping it hidden from view of the rest of the campus. It was accessible by a tiny stone path and had an unfinished stone basement, a triangle-shaped attic that reeked of dust, had almost no lights and an inverted v for a roof, and it was kitty-corner on the half-acre property to the campus dog kennel, with a high wooden fence painted gray wrapped around both buildings like a stockade. It was given to new faculty members as both a savings her rent was minimal an excuse for her below-average salary and, she was sure, as both a message and incentive to her that she had to do better to survive at the private academy for boys. Her living quarters furnishings were obviously plain hand-me-downs or garage sale pickups collected at random, unmatching, strictly for utility.


The kennel, it had been explained to her, rather unapologetically she thought, was the occasional home of some of the richer students and patrons pets whenever their parents visited, and part of her job as untenured faculty was to care for the pets whenever any were in residence. That was why she was carrying a large bag of dog food to a trough where two dogs, an English mastiff and a german shepherd, quietly awaited their dinner.


“Here you go, boys,” she said, pouring the food in the feeding room, a far corner of the three-room kennel. It figures, she thought wryly when she first saw the place. Young dogs rate for three rooms at Fieldings. Young, single, and female teacher plus daughter rates for four. It was all part of the subtle air of patronization that seemed to hover over Fieldings and her role in it, one that she resented, accepted and resolved to overcome in equal measure.


The dogs had commenced to their meal and were eating quietly when Chrissy heard a click and saw one of the dogs, the mastiff, look up and perk an ear toward the front door. She wondered, is someone there?


“Hello?” she called out. “Im back here.”


A minute passed as she held herself still, dry dog food in hand, and listened. More? A rustling sound? She heard a gentle bang, wood on wood, and a creaking sound, and decided that the shutter to one of the front windows had come loose again. With a sigh, Chrissy put the dog food back into its cupboard and, noticing that the dog had gone back to eating, closed and locked the cupboard door. She grabbed the neatly coiled hose near the sink and refreshed the dogs water bowls, careful not to leak too much water onto the sloped cement floor. She reached down and cleared the drain of a few odd clumps of dog hair, made a mental note that the dogs were beginning to smell ripe does dog bathing count toward tenure? she wondered and wrapped the hose back around its stand and shut off the water.


Making sure the dogs kennel doors were open, she walked to the doorway, turned off the light, said, “goodnight, boys,” to the dogs and closed the door behind her. A second later, the light in the small hallway connecting the kennels to the other two maintenance rooms went out, with every other light in the house. Chrissy wondered whether a fuse had been blown.


“Shit!” she said, fumbling her way through the room.


The main maintenance room, which was next, connected to a short front hallway and front door. It had a long wooden bench bolted into the floor at both ends. The bench ran running down the center of the room and several banks of lockers lined the walls for maintenance workers, she had always supposed. Chrissy felt her way with her right hand along the bench quietly in the pitch dark, bent over slightly as she edged toward the door.


She had made it about halfway to the door when she felt a hand clamp on her right wrist with painful sureness and roll it suddenly, pitching her forward so that her left shin banged painfully into the side of the bench before she landed on her chest. With her arm pinned behind her, she struggled and screamed until another hand clamped over her face and two flashlights shone on her face blindingly. She looked around wildly and kicked, trying too to bite the hand crushing down on her mouth, as her captors there must be several, though she couldnt see any details in her terror quickly jerked her hands behind her back and one grabbed her hair and yanked it hard to get her attention.


“Stop it!” she heard one voice say. “Stop struggling or we twist off an arm!”


She immediately stopped. Her breath came in painfully fast gasps around the hand clamped over her mouth as she stared wildly into the darkness and flashlights that strobed as their bearers swung them wildly, the beams silhouetting the bodies that held her down. She felt herself lifted and deposited on her back and began squealing and struggling again until a fist probably from the hand that had bruised her lips -- crashed into her abdomen just hard enough to cause her to gasp and groan audibly. Someone held down her legs as another person a man, she knew flashed the light straight into her eyes blinding her as her hands were bound together by handcuffs under the bench plank.


The click of the handcuffs and the sharp pain of them digging into her wrists immediately caused her to stop struggling and crying out.


“Good,” came the voice. “You are learning.”


“Please,” she said. “What do you want?”


“You know what we want,” the voice replied, and for a minute she thought the voice was that of a teen or young man trying to sound older.


She felt the first of many tears fall from her eyes as she fought to control her trembling. Her sweater was jerked up over her breasts and instinctively she sat still. She felt a leather hood tug down hard over her hairline. She lifted her head to let it slip over the back of her head down to her neck where it hung tightly. She gasped and cried out helplessly, realizing that its eyelets were taped over and that only two small nostril holes and a tight mouthhole allowed her to breathe.


“No, no no” she said until an abrupt slap to the side of her head caused her to shut up.


Her tears fell silently, then, as the several people around her began to laugh and relax. They knew she was going nowhere. She tried to remember what time it was. Eight? Eight thirty? Nine p.m.? Where is Danica? She thought. Then she remembered. Danica was sleeping over a friends.


“My daughter,” she began to say.


“We know where your daughter is,” another voice answered. “She will be safe if you cooperate.”


Chrissy felt her skirt lifted and tugged awkwardly until it gave way and her thick buttocks bounced down on the bench.


“You can be here a really long time,” yet another muffled voice said, “or a very short time. Which do you want?”


She felt her underwear getting tugged down her legs and let it pass beyond her ankles. Someone took off her heeled shoes and through the small mouthhole she felt something pressing gently but persistently.


“Mmmmm. Mmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm,” she said as the finger slowly but persistently teased her lips and brushed against her front teeth.


She was careful not to bite it as she firmly clenched her teeth. The finger withdrew and the explosion of a sharp slap to the side of her head caused her to gasp and breathe hard.


“Whore. Lookit those tits,” some voice said and by now she had guessed that she had a half-dozen captors with her. Bunched around her neck, her sweater was carefully rolled over head and held her elbows bunched tightly but not uncomfortably together. Something snipped her bra away and she gasped as she felt her nipples stiffen in the cool air.


“No, no. Please,” she whispered and half-flinched. When no blow came, she continued. “It doesnt have to be this way. I will let you, if you dont hurt me.”

“Are you a whore?”


She said nothing.


A head slap. She kept quiet.


“Are you a whore?”


She kept silent. The second slap was harder, a warning.


“Yes,” she said.


"You have been one, haven't you?"


She felt one hand, and then another, pinch, pull and tease her nipples for several minutes. She clenched her eyes tightly and said nothing until the hand play stopped.


Then a finger reappeared at her lips. This time she did nothing as the finger slowly pried at her lips. She opened her mouth, and her teeth and accepted it like a cock.


“Your lips,” another voice said rather wonderingly. She couldnt recognize the voice.


“Surgery,” she answered, feeling even more humiliation. “Enhanced.”


She heard several snickers not quite fully suppressed as a hand teased her left nipple.


“Why?”


“My boyfriend,” she answered shamefully. “He insisted. It was for my work. I was a ... model.”


More snickers and then someone slapped one of her breasts, making it bounce.


“These too?”


“Yes,” she whispered.


Laughter and the sound of hands slapping together. High-fives? She wondered.


A voice, very close to her ear, whispering. “We arent going to have any trouble with you, are we?”


“No,” she said.


“You know what you are.”


“Yes,” she said. “Your whore.”


She felt a hand grip her left ankle and raise it until her knee was bent over her abdomen. Another hand did the same to her right ankle. Her cunt gaped as hands played across it.


“Please,” she said. “Gently.”


She sat stoically as the first cock plunged into her hard. She was dry and that caused her to flinch and groan as he pistoned into her. He pumped a half-dozen times before coming with a groan. She knew there were a half dozen males around her now and wondered if it would be like this with every one of them. She heard whispering and muffled laughter and the scraping of metal folding chairs being taken down from the walls and sat upon.


The cum from the third rapist had, she supposed, lubricated her enough so that she felt the almost-pleasant tugging and tapping on her clitoris. By now someone had unbound her hand and she instinctively knew why, bringing her fingers around a cock and starting the gentle caressing that he knew he wanted. Suddenly she was no longer a teacher but again became a twentysomething performing for her boyfriend in his apartment or in a film. She tried to imagine the film crew and male actors around her like it was just another day on a set.


She closed her eyes behind the hood and gently turned so that she was on all fours. The men around her seemed to expect this. They stopped.


“Up the ass,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want it up the ass. Please. Fuck me.”


Strong adult hands gripped her haunches and drove into her as she shook and wailed. She noticed the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights and thought she heard camera clicking as she flexed her ass cheeks in time with the cock punching into her. First her one hand, and then the other, grabbed, pinched and rolled her breasts as she arched her back. She felt a knee pressing against her forehead and she instinctively probed downward, finding a leather shoe and licking it lovingly through the small hole in her hood until she came, explosively, for the first time.


Soon she found a collar snapped around her neck and, in that daze she had known since her boyfriends first lost weekend with her of sex, humiliation, punishment and, most of all, training, she allowed herself to be led on hand and knee into the dog washroom where she was again fucked by several of her attackers and licked their shoes. All the while, she came explosively and repeatedly, even as they urinated on her.


It was the sex that she had matured with hard, mechanical, fast and equally punishing and exhilarating. Chrissy found herself in the cloudy world of only her body, her sensations, and the slavish devotion she felt to the stimuli that blocked every rational thought and wracked her every nerve ending with tortured bliss. In that place, blinded by the hood, she found herself guided only by her feelings and their words, doing everything the anonymous voices demanded and repeating the cruel self-degrading things her boyfriend had always liked to hear her say.


"Daddy, daddy, please daddy. Give me more. Let me be your little fuckdoll."


They had taken her back to that hard wooden bench and all sated themselves several times with their blinded, mumbling victim when she felt a stinging sensation on her buttock, like a needle. When she came to, it was hours later, she was cold, and the gray light of day was beginning to flood the horizon. Chrissy cried a few tears rather mechanically before slowly bringing herself to her feet and searching for what remained of her clothes. Her hood was gone and her hair was mashed flat for having worn it.


Half dressed and disdainfully shedding the collar, she dragged herself back to her house. Chrissy knew she should call the police, but she showered first, letting water as cold as she could stand wash over her as she furiously scrubbed herself clean of the nights wastes. Throwing on her white terrycloth bathrobe, she walked into the kitchen to the phone hanging on the wall and had grabbed the receiver when she noticed an envelope on the kitchen table.


In it, she saw a picture a photograph of herself, age 23, dancing on a pole in a strip joint in Los Angeles. That jolted her awake more than the shower as she almost fell into a kitchen chair. With the picture, there was a small, neatly typed note.


“We know who you are, who you have been, and what you are now, for us,” it read. “Who else needs to know?”


Beneath it was a strange symbol: like a bullseye but with a small dot in the lower right quadrant. She found herself gasping for a few seconds, her hand to her heart, and she somehow knew she had learned Fieldings Academys inmost secret, the reason behind the slight smiles and subtle contempt.


Review This Story || Author: Nicksam
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