Stockholm Syndrome
Today is my twentieth birthday. I’ve been her servant for almost two years now. I doubt she’ll remember. Last year was celebrated with a well-deserved beating.
God, I love her.
When we first came here we were runaways who thought we knew it all. We knew she lived alone, was the heiress of a bakery fortune and that she lived alone and unguarded, close to the bad part of town. We never thought to ask why. So we pulled a home invasion, intent on robbing and probably killing her, but she turned the tables on us so easily. We were pathetic. One bottle of drugged wine and we woke up in the cages. She abused us ... call it what it was, she tortured us. But we were going to take everything from her, hurt her, rape her, probably kill her.
Who could blame her? But at least we always ate well. She was never cruel in that regard.
She forces my face into her cunt and the scent, so exotic, but so familiar to me now brings me erect immediately as I lick and tease her, parting her flesh with my tongue to find her clitoris, to gently massage it. She hasn’t bathed yet today and still smells of this morning’s pleasure, but it is fresh enough to be good and I taste her, all of her, compulsively. My hands strain at the chains that bite into my flesh, drawing my arms together behind my back, and she smiles.
“You would worship me with your hands, little boy?”
I nod dumbly, not breaking contact with her moist folds. I am frantic to hold her in my arms so I can force my face deeper into her delights.
She calls me “little boy” as she always has, and I suppose to someone of her age, I am. She must be in her late forties, early fifties, but age has magnified, not diminished, her loveliness. She is smooth and supple, her hair a subtle red only now beginning to show traces of silver, her skin a comforting softness, her eyes capable of such compassion and love, such cruelty and anger. Her shape is rounded curves, a sag here and there providing comfort and an all too human beauty.
She reaches behind me, careful not to disturb my attentions, and releases me, chains falling to the floor between my knees. My hands wrap around her thighs, caressing her warm flesh, drawing her close to me, and my face presses deeper into her, fresh nectar flowing from inside her, coating my chin. My tongue flicks down and brings to my mouth the essence of my Mistress. Every taste of her is a blessing; every touch from her is a gift. I embarrass myself as tears roll down my face.
Unlike the mother whose abuse caused me to run away, she stops me and kisses the tears from my face.
“Does my little boy love me?”
“Yes Mistress.”
How could I not love her? She has freed me.
Clothes are a prison that no longer confines me. I have worn none since the day she took me. Ignorance no longer enslaves me as she has taught me how to speak and how to think. What is freedom to die on the streets compared to the freedom of a life of love and service? Pain once scared me, but those bars are gone from my windows thanks to her and the lessons she has taught me. Now I know there is pleasure and there is ecstasy, and somewhere, far beyond where I once thought it dwelt, there is pain.
As I return to pleasing her she gently punctures the skin on my back with her sharpened nails. I moan, deep in my throat, and the twitching of my cock reveals my nearness to climax.
She pulls me to my feet and straps a ring around my cock and balls so tightly my eyes water. Now I’m free to love her without worrying as much about spending myself prematurely. That is love.
As I thrust into her, holding her gently as she sits on the bed’s edge, she brings her fingers, wet with my blood, to her mouth and tastes me. I am thankful for the ring as it’s all that keeps me from exploding inside her. The coppery scent of my blood mixes with the smell of autumn leaves, cinnamon and nutmeg that is her fragrance. My vision blurs as I lose myself in loving her. I feel her shudder, stiffen, and her nails sink deeper into my back.
I am freed of my humanity and have become an engine performing one simple function. Pleasing her is the center of all things and I am lost in my service. After some time, with a slash of nails down my back, she is coming again.
I feel the slow trickles of blood down my skin, and I think of my sister, the girl who is no more. When I ran from our mother, she ran from our father. We lived on the streets and then we broke in here. She didn’t understand, she never understood, the gift this woman was offering us. She fought and she raged, never allowing herself the sublime joy of submission. One morning her cage was empty. My Mistress and I don’t speak of her often.
My thrusting continues and I bring my Mistress to climax again. I know the exact moment because she bites me on my shoulder, her teeth sinking into me. I cry out, but it is joy not pain that gives me voice. She sucks on the wound, and for a time it feels as if I am nursing her. It is a sensation I live for. She takes pleasure from the taste of my flesh and blood, from the thrusting of my cock. I am fulfilled and time has no meaning, except in its brevity.
As she bandages me afterwards she asks “Would you like to ride the broom, little boy?” Her voice is a soft caress of velvet straight to the base of my cock.
“Yes please, Mistress,” I pant.
When I first “rode the broom” there was no love, only anger, no lubrication, only force. She shoved the broomstick in me, violating me, but I deserved it all and probably worse. I bled for days, and if I dripped anywhere I was made to lick it up. But I only was taken that way once, for it was a lesson I never forgot.
Now it is done with love as she takes me to the bedroom. She motions for me to get on the bed and tears of gratitude fill my eyes. I’m not often allowed to rest on the bed. She binds my arms behind me once again, so tightly that I wince with pleasure, flexing my arms just to feel the cold metal edges of the chain links bite into my skin. My chest is propped on pillows, and I kneel as she gently inserts the silicone toy that has replaced the broom and stabs me with it again and again. I feel her hand releasing the strap she placed around my cock and balls.
“You’ve been very good, boy. Come when you will.”
Do you wonder why I love her? And if you do, how can you be so blind?
She watches me, my face, my cock, as she pushes her toy in and out of me. If I could, I would stop her and bury my face in her cunt and worship her thankfully for the love she showers me with daily. She knows this. I’ve done it before. She’s bound my arms so I can’t, saving me from my weakness and the punishment that would follow. She loves me so much, sheltering me from my own failings.
So I relax, accepting her gift, so undeserved, and the beating of my heart matches the thrusting in my ass as she fills me, stretching me and expanding me. I cannot tighten down and prevent the orgasm that is coming. To do so would be tightening my sphincter as well, and I want nothing to impede her gift. The sensation of being filled and emptied, filled and emptied is like a siren’s song to my cock.
So at last I come, spraying over the sheet, struggling against the chains around my arms, crying out “I love you” in my ecstasy.
She strokes my hair. “I know you do, little boy. Now relax for a minute, then clean the sheets and prepare the bed.”
My arms released, I fall sideways off the pillows.
As soon as I’ve caught my breath, I’m sucking my seed from the sheets, before stripping them off and taking them to the laundry room.
Later, the bed made and the sheets in the dryer, I round a corner to be brought up short by my Mistress as she grips the bar through my nipple, a gift from her, and twists it savagely. The blood flows freely down my chest and she suckles from my wound for a time before forcing me to the floor. I follow her lead and sink to my knees in submission.
“Did you forget to clean my toy?” she asks, almost conversationally.
“My apologies, Mistress, I will attend to it immediately.”
And so I do, but that does not absolve me of my error or cancel my just punishment. She shows me such mercy and love by allowing me to pleasure her orally while she thrashes me with her rattan cane. The striking of it upon my back and ass bring me to climax again as I suck and kiss her labia. I smile, knowing my punishment has just increased, and I lick my seed from the floor and return to her moist cleft. The caning resumes. I taste my tears with her sweetness. As she stiffens and shakes, another orgasm takes her. The caning stops and she wraps her legs around me, her heels scraping across my raw and swollen back.
I scream with joy and worship her all the more. I fuck her with my tongue as she uses her legs to drive my face deeper into her. My cries are muffled by her body. She turns over and I’m allowed to tongue her ass. My tears dampen her soft ass cheeks as my tongue thrusts in and out through the tight muscles, worming its way deep into her. I caress her thighs and back with my hands, wishing I could stay like this forever.
When we are finished it’s time for me to feed the others. None of them have been stupid enough to throw their food at me more than once. She gets very angry when that happens. They’re all plumping up nicely. As always their words hurt me. They call me ‘slave’, ‘bitch’ and ‘traitor’, they say I serve her just to stay alive. They don’t understand and because they don’t understand, one day, after much pain and suffering, they’ll be gone.
The house alarms go off and I freeze, thinking her trap has caught someone and I’ll have to hide while the little drama plays out as it always does, but it’s just a neighborhood cat that likes to sun itself on one of the window ledges and no cause for worry.
When I return to the kitchen she favors me with a smile.
“You have come so far and adapted to your training so well this year, it’s been a pleasure to reward you with special treats on your birthday,” she says. “And now for the piece de resistance, choose what you’d like for supper.”
This is love. “Mistress, I think you know ... ”
“Yes, and I won’t be so cruel as to make you say it. Very well Hans, go and get a package of your sister Greta out of the freezer and start it thawing.”
How can anyone not understand why I love her so?
Copyright © 2005 by Jim Reader. All rights reserved.
I’m a Central Texas native, a 45 year-old househusband who lives with his wife and four goofy dogs near Austin. I started writing again earlier this year after an absence of almost twenty years due to the inspiration and encouragement of another erotica author whom I owe more thanks than I can ever express. My stories are posted at http://www.storiesonline.net and http://www.literotica.com. I love communicating with my readers.
The story itself was inspired by the thought that some fairy tales could, and should, go even further into the dark.
This story wouldn’t be possible without the invaluable aid of my proofer/editor, Kevin.
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