Handbasket
by Peter Loaf



Charlie is an inventive devil. He is a real died in the wool stinker. His inventions are always simple, innocent looking and diabolical.

He calls this one a handbasket. Sounds innocent, doesnít it? Sounds like something youíd carry, packed full of goodies.

Well its full of something . . . Me, or my crossed wrists at any rate. Charlie says Iím his goodie.

He had the handbasket made to order at that damned specialty blacksmith, the one that does most of Charlieís inventions.

I wonder if that blacksmith has our address.

I wish Charlie had let me take off my clothes first. This sweater dress was expensive and it shows off my figure better even than my little black dress with the low neckline and the short skirt.

I might as well kiss it goodbye, I guess. With my wrists crossed behind my back I wonít be able to stop him from cutting it to shreds when he wants it out of his way.

To keep me from trying to fight him, he put me into a slaverís helmet, blinding me and stuffing my mouth with inflated rubber. Pressed into my ears are a pair of white noise generators that all but deafen me, covering all but the loudest noises.

My ankles are hobbled in irons to a two-inch step, preventing any thought of flight. All of this makes me so horny I could scream, if I could scream.

I feel him taking possession of me, his knowing hands on and in my body. I melt inside becoming his plaything, his sex slave.

Behind my back I strain against the handbasket, trying to withdraw one of my hands. Not that I think escape is possible, I strain because I want to feel how helpless I am, how vulnerable, how enslaved.

Gripping my big breast, his hand up under the sweater, he takes my long nipple between thumb and forefinger and softly pinches, not hard enough to hurt, but with the promise of hurt in the near future.

I feel my pussy gob a dollop of pheromone laden fuck me froth, soaking my panties.

I smell his musky response and rejoice inside. Outside I continue to resist, twisting away and trying to deprive him of his property, his rights, his nookie.

I wonder how long he will make me wait.

Iím glad I took a leak just before he got home. I learned to do that early in our relationship. It saves cleanup afterwards.

My heart is hammering against my ribs. I wonder if he can hear it.

He makes me hobble, one hand gripping the handbasket to guide me. He takes me on a long shuffling walk, stopping me several times and making me turn around and around to keep me from knowing where we are going. I hope its the bedroom, fear it will be the basement dungeon.

At one point he takes me over his shoulder and climbs the stairs.

Bedroom. Yes! I think, at the same time regretting that it isnít the dungeon.

He carries me back downstairs, as if heís changed his mind. He takes me out to the garden, stands me against the high stone wall and fastens a cold metal collar around my throat. I quickly discover Iím closely tethered by a chain. I feel the warmth of the sun. I sweat from far more than the heat inside the helmet. My body gushes pheromones, hoping to incite him to action.

It works, the dress succumbs to his straight razor, split from hem to collar and then up each arm. Then away goes my bra, followed by my panties. I shudder in anticipation. I welcome whatever he chooses to do to me. For I know that his goal is my pleasure, in the end.

The end justifies the means. I feel the first swat from the nettles. It leaves a swath of stinging flesh across my boobies, a lighting flash behind my blinkered eyes. I dance in silent agony, rejoicing in my pain, feeling the passion rising within. The second slash is across my lower belly, spreading the flames. The third comes from below, painting my swollen pussy with stinging fire.

Before I recover, I feel chains being attached to my ankle shackles. I feel the hobble link being removed and my legs drawn out wide, tightening the collar so that I cannot wiggle.

Behind my back, the handbasket pushes my hips forward, as if I am offering my pussy for sacrifice.

His rubber gloved fingers come and fiddle with my extended clit, my burning labia. I cry out, the helmet reducing it to a distant humming that I canít even hear.

The fingers know me, know my likes and dislikes, my turn ons and offs. He holds the key to my need. The slave girl is restrained and oh so ready.

Suddenly there is a gunshot, close by my leather-covered ear. I feel the burning gunpowder sting my breasts, I feel his fingers stiffen then slip out of me. I feel him fall against me and down to the floor before me.

I feel my ankles being released, then my throat. I am hustled back into the house and down the stairs to the garage. I am helped into a van and strapped into a seat. I am driven away, helpless, naked and terrified.

I sniff the air but can find no trace of my lover.

The air inside the van is loaded with male pheromones. I feel like a chicken in a fox cage.

Someone fastens my ankles up and out, exposing my pussy.

Hands and lips come and play with my helpless body, squeezing my breasts, tickling and suckling my clit, shoving a thumb up my bum.

Passion born of fear, flight impossible, I succumb to a buzzing wand pressed to my clit combined with a big cock hammering the gates of my womb.

The night is long and arduous. I see nothing, hear nothing, feel everything, smell everything. I service at least four of them, some twice. I come and I come, on demand, as if they had me on a switch.

It is morning when I am un-hooded. We are back in my own garage, along with my lover and three of his best buddies.

It is only when my lover shows me the large and handsome check that I find out I starred in a porno.

Oh God how I love him, the devil.

Handbasket

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