TRAPPED BY THE MAN-BEAR

TRAPPED BY THE MAN-BEAR
By JENNIFER JAMES

The following short story is part of the MAN-BEAR SAGA, a series of adventures dealing with MARKHAN, the most ancient and powerful member of a race of mysterious, shape-shifting beings who live in the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest and the various young women who fall under his domination and control, both physically, emotionally, and sexually over the course of many decades.

This story, taking place in the early days of World War II, follows the adventures of DARCY WINSTON, a young girl whose burgeoning submissive and masochistic tendencies begin to awaken first under the harsh hand of her domineering Boss and later achieve their ultimate expression when she finds herself trapped in the Lost Valley of the Man-Bear.

Darcy came slowly back to consciousness. Everything was confusing at first. Where was she? She didn’t know. There was something heavy, almost suffocating, pressing down on top of her. Her head ached. A sharp pain on one side as if she’d been hit by something. She tried opening her eyes. There was only darkness. What the heck was going on?

She tried to focus. Her body was lying in some odd position, her back pressed up against something hard, curved, with sharp ridges at intervals. Something jagged jammed up just below her shoulder blades. She couldn’t make sense of it.

Why couldn’t she remember?

She had a familiar taste in her mouth—the sour taste of semen. Well, that should tell her something. She’d only ever had the cock of one man in her mouth. That man was her boss, Mister Hendricks (funny, even as she thought about sucking his cock, she never thought of him as anything other than “Mister Hendricks”). In fact, she’d been quite a prude before she’d started working for him at the airplane plant…

Airplane.

Why did that make her think of something? Something important. Very important.

If only her head would stop pounding, if only she could shift this suffocating weight off of her, Darcy was sure all the pieces would come together. She tried moving and found that she could shift her legs slightly. She’d lost one of her shoes. She scraped her nylon clad heel along the floor, but still couldn’t tell just what it was. Her arms were pinned by whatever it was that was stretched across the upper part of her body. She had the sense that it was something soft.

What was the last thing she remembered? Try to think. Something having to do with an airplane? Well, that could be almost anything. The company she worked, Hendricks Machine Parts, made airplane parts, propellers and bearings and things like that, for the fighters and bombers that were rolling off countless assembly lines and heading off to Europe and Japan.

So pretty much everything she did had to do with airplanes—take a memo, Miss Winston, write this up with two carbons, Miss Winston, read back the minutes of yesterday’s meeting, Miss Winston, close the door and tug your skirt up above your waist, Miss Winston. Now unsnap your nylons and push them down your legs…
Well, maybe that last bit didn’t have anything to do with airplanes.

Of course, Darcy hadn’t thought of herself as one of “those” girls when she went to work at the plant. Not one of those girls that other girls talked about, those girls who slept around, who slept with their bosses, the kind of girls at high school who had a bad reputation. She wasn’t what you’d call a movie star. She didn’t have those Marilyn Monroe poster-girl measurements. She was tall and skinny with reddish blonde hair, small breasts, small hips, a dusting of freckles across a pretty face.
That’s what everyone called her—pretty. Never sexy. Nobody knew how much she hated being called pretty.

She’d still be a virgin (well, she’d like to think so) if she hadn’t slept with her boyfriend Bobby, and she’d only done that because he’d joined the army and was going off to basic training the next morning and he’d promised, or sort of promised, that they’d get married when he got back. So he’d really proposed which meant they’d been engaged.

Sort of.

Before that, she’d barely let him go to second base, but it all seemed so important to let him go all the way that night in the back of his Dad’s old Ford. He’d been so eager he’d scratched her thighs tugging her panties down. It had been strange how thrilling she had found that feeling, the sudden sharp pain of his fingernails running down the outsides of her thighs, how that, more than anything that had come before, had stimulated that warm flow of moisture, had made the delicate lips of her pussy part at Bobby’s awkward fumbling fingers.

In the breathless moments that followed, she found that she didn’t care about all of the objections that she knew she was supposed to be making. She didn’t care about his breathless proclamations of love and faithfulness and how he’d come back and marry her as he clambered up on top of her.

No. What she cared about, she realized with a sudden shock, was that terrifying sensation as she felt the broad head of his prick as it pushed inside her. She’d realize later that she hadn’t been ready, hadn’t been quite wet enough, but at the time all she knew was that it hurt as he pushed desperately into her in short sharp jabs, as she felt herself being spread, filling up.

It hurt terribly—and she didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t want the pain to stop.

And then there was a deeper, sharper pain. She felt something give, felt him going in deeper.

That was it, she thought, an almost passing thought—my cherry.

“Hurts…” she’d gasped.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby had replied. For an instant, Darcy was afraid that he was going to pull out. She fumbled around, wrapping her legs around him.

“No,” she’d replied urgently, “Keep going. Harder. Harder. Keep going. Keep—keep hurting me…”

She’d felt something weird, a strange sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t quite believed that she’d said it. It was as if someone else was speaking. But whoever had said it, Bobby had responded, thrusting into her harder and faster.

She was well-lubricated now, not only from her own juices but, she realized, from the blood from her broken hymen. But the friction of Bobby’s cock as it rubbed against the raw edges of her torn cherry, mixed pain with pleasure in some way she’d never imagined.

She’d reached her hands down to her firm apple breasts, feeling for her erect nipples, pinching them in time to his thrusts.

Darcy had never masturbated, nothing beyond a bit of furtive rubbing against a pillow between her legs. She’d never brought herself to climax—and while the secretive whispers amongst her friends at high school that passed for sex education (since she and her Mom had never had “that talk”) had taught her about boys and how they “came,” her largely uninformed girl friends had simply never covered even the idea of a girl achieving climax.

But she knew that something was happening, a tension building like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Bobby’s cock thrusting in and out, winding her tighter and tighter. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. She was pinching her nipples harder and harder. Tighter and tighter. Yes, something was coming. Darcy felt as if she could hardly breathe. What was happening?

Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Almost there.

“Yes, yes, yes, do it, do it, come on, hurt me, hurt me, harder!” she heard herself gasping.

And then suddenly, Bobby wasn’t thrusting any more. He’d pushed himself forward all the way. He was groaning and Darcy could feel a flood of wetness inside her. He let out a great gasp of pleasure.

Meanwhile, Darcy could feel that sensation, previously growing toward some indefinable explosion, dribbling away, like a sneeze that didn’t happen.

She pushed up against him, trying to bring whatever it was back to life, but Bobby was already withdrawing, his prick softening. She felt him slip out of her.
He bent down, kissing her lightly on the lips.

“I love you,” he’d whispered.

She hesitated, swallowed, hoping the darkness in the back seat of the car would hide the look of disappointment that she knew was on her face.

“I love you, too,” she’d answered.

Later that night, alone in the bathroom, Darcy had slipped into the tub to wash away the traces of her defloration. Undressing in front of the bathroom mirror, she’d been shocked to see quite how much she’d bled. Her panties were a total loss and would have to be carefully discarded (she’d briefly considered blaming the blood on her period only to reject the idea—her Mother kept track of such things and would swoop down on the advent of a phantom period like a vulture).

Once in the tub, she used her fingers to brush away the blood from her inner thighs, then from around the swollen lips of her pussy. They were still sensitive. She dragged her fingernails lightly across the delicate tissues then up across the light red-furred pubic mound, across the curve of her belly.

She reached up with her free hand, finding her nipples already erect. She took one between her thumb and index finger. It was slippery in the soapy water. She caught it between her thumb and fingernail, pinched it, feeling the pain rush like an electric shock down through her body, right through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing—the same muscles, she now realized, that had been gripping Bobby’s cock when it was thrusting up inside her.

She pinched harder, then moved her hand to the other nipple, pinched that one as well. She realized suddenly that she was rubbing herself between her legs and that her pussy had flowered open in response.

She began to rub herself up and down, pinching her nipple as she did.

Darcy realized that that feeling was coming back again, that growing tension, only now she was in control of it.

Her breath came faster as she stroked herself. She lifted one leg up, bracing it against the side of the tub. As she did so, she could feel her pussy opening up wide.

She hesitated as she rubbed her hand against the delicate pale coral lips, now flushed a deeper red, but finally she slipped her index finger down, reaching in between them.

Deeper. Still deeper, moving in and out. She could feel that tension growing. But something wasn’t quite right. Then she slipped her middle finger in as well, pushing them both in deep.

She had to bite her lip to keep from groaning out loud as the two thrusting fingers spread the still-delicate internal tissues. The sharp tips of her fingernails were scraping against those bruised pussy walls. It was agony. It was ecstasy.

She thought about Bobby’s cock—or anyone’s cock, it really didn’t matter—thrusting into her, filling her. Some man’s rough hands, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, picking her up as if she were a doll, spreading her legs, his cock filling her, hurting her…

She thrust into herself faster and faster, twisting and pulling on her nipple, arching her hips up against her fingers. The water began to splash out, down onto the bathroom floor, down around the clawed feet of the bathtub.

There was that tension, building, building toward something…

And then that “something” hit her like an electric shock, like waves of explosive pleasure coursing through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing her fingers, milking them. She kept pushing in, drawing fresh waves of pleasure.

She shoved her fist into her mouth and bit down hard to keep from screaming as she arched her hips up out of the water, her whole body quivering in pleasure.
Finally, breathless, she slipped back under the water, letting her fingers slip from her aching pussy.

She spent a lot more time in the bath after that night. Sometimes she’d think about Bobby, who wrote her frequently from Basic Training somewhere down South. Sometimes she’d think about some movie star. Stewart Granger was a particular favorite, though she wasn’t sure why—she didn’t even like his movies. Maybe it was something about that distinguished older man look, though she wasn’t really sure just how old he was.

Three months after Darcy lost her cherry, Bobby went overseas. A month later, she graduated high school.

Before summer was over, Bobby’s parents had gotten the telegram from the war department, telling them that he’d died. It hadn’t even been in combat. He’d been killed in some training exercise. Practice for the real thing.

They’d buried him overseas but his parents had a memorial service and she’d attended. The whole thing had seemed like something out of a dream. It was like she could see the whole thing from up above—everybody gathered in the church, the Reverend giving the eulogy, Bobby’s family in the front row. There she was, dressed in black, her pale face, eyes wet with tears, surrounded by her family, near the front of the church.

Almost the whole town was there. Bobby had been the first, the first one they’d lost to the war. But there’d be others.

A short time later, Darcy’s Dad got her a job working as a clerk for a local company that made ball-bearings. After a year, she became a secretary. She found herself fending off passes from a lot of the guys at the office.

By this time, even her interest in self-stimulation had faded and whatever it was that the sweat-stained lotharios at the ball-bearing plant were offering, well, that didn’t strike her as all that interesting either.

It proved relatively easy to deflect those advances. All she had to do was talk about her late “fiancé” (though Bobby had never really made it official)—the one who’d died in the war. She found that there was no more effective splash of ice water on a would-be come-on artist that the memory of a dead war hero.

She was still living at home, working long hours, not seeing anyone. Drifting.

Then she met Mister Hendricks. Well, “met” wasn’t quite right. She was bringing some files into Mr. Burrows’ office and saw him there. He was seated in the big padded chair, leaning back, his legs crossed. An older man, maybe in late fifties, well-dressed, wearing an expensive suit. Gray hair, neatly cut. After giving the files to Mr. Burrows she happened to glance over at him and realized that he was looking at her. Blue eyes. Eagle eyes.

Normally, when someone’s looking at you and you notice, they’ll get embarrassed, turn away. But he didn’t. He met her stare, kept right on looking . A trace of a sardonic grin on his lips.

In the end, it was Darcy that turned away, as she headed out the door, flustered.

As she headed back to her desk, she realized she wasn’t just flustered. She could feel her nipples scraping against the inside of her brassiere. Not just that. For the first time in a while, she could feel a dampness down between her legs. How bizarre that simply having a man look at you could do that.

Toward the end of the day she’d been transcribing some notes when a shadow fell across her. Darcy looked up and saw the gray-haired man staring down at her, almost examining her. She felt the same queasy excited feeling. She went back to her work.

Then she paused as she realized that the stranger had picked up her note pad and flipped it open. He was casually paging through it.

He spoke without looking up, “You take short hand?”

“Excuse me, sir,” she replied, as she reached up and took the note pad from his hand, “This is private.”

The man looked her straight in the eye. Again that sardonic grin, “Is it really, little lady? I don’t suppose you know who I am.”

“I’m sorry, no. But without…”

The older man looked around. His eyes came to rest on Darcy’s Supervisor, chatting with some men on the other side of the office.

“Jeff? Jeff!”

Darcy had never heard her Supervisor referred to by his first name—she didn’t even know it. But as soon as “Jeff” heard his name called and realized who had called him he jumped up and hurried over.

“Yes, Mr. Hendricks, what can I do for you?”

“Would you mind introducing us?”

A moment of confusion as Darcy’s Supervisor looked from Mister Hendricks to Darcy and back again. His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, errr. Of Course. Mister Hendricks, this is Darcy Winston. One of our secretaries.”

“Yes, and would you tell Miss Winston just who I am.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Please tell the little lady who I am.”

“Oh. Well, Darcy, Mister Hendricks, that is he owns—you own, I mean to say, your company—Darcy, Mister Hendricks’ company owns our company.”

“That’s right. Thank you, Jeff.”

“Would there be anything— ”

“No, that’s all. Thank you.”

Jeff nodded and, after a brief and not terribly friendly glance toward Darcy, he headed back to his colleagues.

Mister Hendricks went back to paging through Darcy’s notebook.

“So, Miss Winston, do you take shorthand? I mean, is this yours?”

“Yes, Mister Hendricks.”

“Where did you learn?”

“I taught myself.”

“How fast do you type?”

“120 words a minute.”

Hendricks scanned her desk, dug through some carbons, checked one.

“Had any college?”

“No sir.”

“You graduate High School?”

“Yes sir.”

“How long have you been here?” Darcy told him.

“How much does Barney pay you?” Darcy told him.

“How’d you like to move to Seattle and work for me? I’ll give you a twenty-percent raise.”

“No thank you, sir.”

“That was awfully fast. Why not?”

“Well, sir. I live at home. I don’t have to pay rent. If I move to Seattle…”

“All right, all right. I’ll bump it to forty percent. That should cover the cost of a modest apartment for a young lady.”

“Mister Hendricks, may I…”

“Little lady, I’m going to be in town until the end of the week. I’ve made you an offer. If you’re interested—”

He took her pad and scrawled something in it. He handed it to her. It was a phone number written in short hand.

“—call that number before Friday. You’ll have a job. If not, best of luck here with Barney and his—ball bearings. That’s all. Good evening.”

And again he stared at her. She could feel herself melting inside. The same hardening of her nipples. The same wetness between her legs.

That night, for the first time in a long time, when she took a bath her questing fingers found the delicate lips of her pussy open, waiting for the rough thrusting, her nipples eager for the sharp pinches that sent her soaring climax and which experience told her would leave them sore all the next day.

But it wasn’t the phantom Bobby she thought about as she drove herself to climax, or some movie star. Not even Stewart Granger, who Mister Hendricks didn’t resemble hardly at all, even though he projected that same sense of self-confident masculinity—even though he was old, his hair gray, he didn’t seem fat at all. She thought he was probably muscular under that expensive suit. And she couldn’t help but wonder about the hair around his prick. Was that gray too, or still black, or maybe a bit of both?
She didn’t wait until Friday to agree to the move. She’d expected a scene when she told her parents, but they seemed to accept it without much comment. Apparently they’d known for a while that it was time for her to go.

Seattle wasn’t a big city by “big city” standards but it was plenty big enough by the standards of Darcy’s small town. The plant where she worked employed over three thousand men. She found herself one of over two hundred secretaries.

For the first few months she was lost in the “secretarial pool”—one girl in a row of desks with other girls, doing typing, filing, taking notes for whoever wanted them. Every so often, she’d catch a glimpse of Mister Hendricks passing by.

He never even looked in her direction.

She’d go out for lunch with some of the other girls, talk about movies and the radio and gossip about this executive and that and talk about the War. Always the war.
Then she’d take the bus to her little apartment near the plant. Just a room above a Corner Candy Store. She’d warm something up on a hot plate and listen to the radio and go to sleep dreaming about Mister Hendricks.

Of course, her Mom had given her all the standard warnings about the dangers of big cities and men not buying the cow if they could get the milk for free (little did Mom know that that cow had gotten out the barn door a long time ago) and about Bosses who chased their secretaries around the desk.

Darcy didn’t worry about Mister Hendricks chasing her around any desk. He wouldn’t have to chase her, not for a minute.

She’d all but given up hope when the summons finally came toward the end of the day one Friday. Miss Garner, the Office Manager, a dour older woman in her forties, strode up to her desk, looking more pinch-faced than ever.

“Mister Hendricks wants to see you,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Go on. Hurry up.”

“But see me about what?”

“How should I know? Get going, Winston.”

Instinctively, Darcy tucked her pencil behind one ear and shoved her notepad into the back of her narrow skirt. She scrambled down the long row of desks, climbed the long stairs to the executive offices, down another long row of desks, toward the door to Mr. Hendricks’ Executive Office.

She knocked. A buzz admitted her to the Outer Office where the terrifying Barbara, Mr. Hendricks’ receptionist, guarded the way.

Darcy was about to speak but Barbara spoke first.

“Mr. Hendricks is waiting for you. Go on in.”

She pressed another button. Something buzzed. Barbara gestured toward the large double doors.

Darcy pushed her way through.

Mister Hendricks’ office was large but plain. Old wood floors. Big floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the plant. Pictures of airplanes on the wall. A big propeller mounted behind his massive oak desk. That desk seemed very far away.

Behind it, Mister Hendricks was looking at some blue prints or something. He didn’t look up as she came in.

Darcy closed the doors behind her, crossed slowly toward him, feeling her knees tighten. She had the feeling that she was walking funny as she approached the desk.
She stood by the front of the desk, waiting.

For a long time.

He knows I’m here, she thought. He just wants to see if I’ll say something. If I’ll interrupt him.

She just kept standing, waiting.

Finally, he spoke, still not looking up.

“Did you bring your pad, Miss Winston?”

“Yes sir,” she replied, taking out her pad and pencil.

“Take this down,” he said, and began to dictate a long and complicated memorandum. He spoke quickly, listing volumes, measurements, delivery dates, referring to papers and plans as he spoke. Darcy marked it all down.

Finally, he finished. The standard, “Sincerely, etc.”

At last he looked up.

“Did you get all that?”

“Yes sir.”

Hendricks stared at her for a few seconds. She could feel her heart racing. He held his hand out. She passed him the note pad. He began to page through it. Finally, he handed it back to her.

“All right. Write that up. Three carbons. Get it to Barbara by tomorrow at nine A.M. That’s all.”

“Yes sir.”

Darcy turned to go, trying to keep her breathing under control. Was that all? She was almost to the door when she heard his voice again.

“Oh, Miss Winston.”

She stopped. A thrill ran through her as she turned back.

“Yes sir?”

He made a slight gesture with one hand. She walked calmly (at least on the outside) back to the big oak desk.

“Is there something else, sir?” she asked.

Hendricks reached out and pressed a button on his intercom. She’d learn later that that was the button he pressed to tell Barbara that he wasn’t to be disturbed—no calls, no visitors.

He stood and came around the desk, leaned casually against it.

“You know my regular secretary, Nancy, just quit. She went off and got married.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“I suppose you’re on the look-out for a husband too.”

“No sir.”

“No? You already got yourself a fella?”

“No sir.”

“Just not interested in men?”

“Just not interested in marriage. Sir.”

Mister Hendricks stared at her in that same way that made her knees wobbly and her pussy grow damp. The silence started to grow longer. She felt the urge to fill it.

“You see, my fiancé died in the— ”

“I didn’t ask for your life story.”

“I’m sorry, sir. “

“You want the job? As my personal secretary?”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t want another Nancy. Forget about a personal life. I want you to be available whenever I need you. You want to know the job – I say do it, you say, it’s already done, Mr. Hendricks.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do we understand one another, little lady?”

He stood up, walked toward her. She never realized quite how tall he was. She could smell his aftershave, feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

“Yes sir.”

“Are you gonna play games with me? I don’t play games. If you’re gonna go that way, you can go right back to the typing pool. “

“No sir. No games.”

“Back up a bit. Let me get a good look at you.”

Darcy took a few steps back and stood up straight.

“How tall are you?”

“Five foot, eight.”

“In your bare feet?”

“Yes sir.”

“Take your shoes off. Let me see.”

Darcy kicked off her pumps. Hendricks looked her up and down.

“Turn around.”

Darcy spun slowly in a circle.

“No, turn around so I can see you from behind.”

Darcy spun around again, stopping so that Mister Hendricks could get a look at her backside. Not for the first time she found herself wishing that she had a bit more back there. A bit more in the hips department, in the ass department, in the tits department. But no. She was nothing but a pale skinny girl with a pretty face. There was that hateful word again—pretty.

She heard Mister Hendricks moving, looked up to see him crossing to a large leather chair over against one wall. He gestured for her to follow.

He sat himself down in the big chair, lying back in it, his feet stretched out. Darcy stood in front of him, facing him.

“Sit down,” he said.

Darcy looked around. There weren’t any chairs nearby.

“No,” he said, “On the floor.”

Darcy stared at him for less than a second before she went down onto the floor, sitting down on her knees, her behind resting back on her calves.

“Not like that.”

Darcy hesitated, then uncurled herself. As she swung her legs around toward him, she casually tugged her skirt up around her waist and thrust her legs straight out in front of her, spreading them slightly.

She was only wearing plain cotton panties under her skirt and cotton stockings that came up around her ankles—nylons weren’t to be had these days thanks to the war.
Not too glamorous she thought, as she leaned back , supporting herself on both hands. Cotton stockings, cotton panties, and bare legs. At least her skin was smooth.

She’d never had to shave her legs.

Hendricks stared at her, his eyes focused down between her legs.

“Do you play with yourself?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes sir,” he corrected.

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“Well, go ahead and do it. The way you usually do.”

Darcy could feel the flush of heat turning her face bright red. Not a blush of embarrassment, but the flush of growing passion. As she unbuttoned her blouse she struggled to keep her fingers from trembling. She tugged it off and let it fall. Her nipples were swollen painfully hard inside her brassiere. She quickly unsnapped it and pulled it free.
She pinched the erect nipple buds hard with both fingers, digging her fingernails in, feeling the painful sting as it rushed down into her pussy, already dripping wet. She wondered if Mister Hendricks could see the wetness staining her panties.

She reached down with one hand, rubbing herself between her legs on the outside of her cotton panties. Yes, they were damp. She pushed the fabric up against the moist parted lips of her pussy, massaging them with the tips of her fingers. She let out a low ragged groan.

She lay down flat, arching her hips as she unfastened her skirt and shoved it down over the curve of her narrow hips. She tossed it aside and then grabbed her panties around the elastic edge and shoved them down as well. She fumbled with them as she pushed them down around her knees, finally kicking them free.
Darcy leaned back again, finally spreading her legs. She could feel the cool air from the overhead fan brushing against the little nest of her reddish blonde pussy fur, making a shivering coolness against the dampness of her pussy flesh.

One hand returned to her swollen nipples while the other slipped down toward the now exposed lips of her pussy. Her fingers sought out the tiny glistening pearl of sensitive flesh at the crest of her love lips. It had already slipped out of its sheath, swollen with passion. Darcy had never heard the word clit or clitoris. Her sexual education, such as it was, all she really knew about a girl’s body, beyond her limited experiences with Bobby, she’d learned through her own personal secret investigations.

She plucked at the tiny bead of flesh with her fingernails, feeling the thrilling jabs of pain and pleasure in time to the pinching of her nipple. She knew that her sex lips were spreading, that the sticky milky juice was forming inside her, trickling out.

Darcy grabbed her pubic hair, tugging on it hard, twisting it. She groaned, bit her hand to suppress the sound.

“Don’t worry. Nobody can hear you but me,” Mister Hendricks said.

She pulled her hand from her mouth, returning it to her aching swollen nipple. She twisted it, let out a low groan. She pinched with her fingernails, yanked harder on her pubic hair.

She dug her heals into the hard floor, arching her hips up, spreading herself wide open toward Mister Hendricks as she let out a scream of passion.

She thrust her middle and index fingers down past the sensitive nub and into her sopping interior, fucking herself as she arched up to meet her plunging fingers.

When Mister Hendricks had first utter the words, “Play with yourself,” she’d had a brief qualm, wondering whether she’d be able to do it in front of another person, but she should have known better. The hard cold floor beneath her head, under her ass, the equally hard, cold gaze of the gray-haired man lying back in his chair, watching her, transformed this from a simple act of self-gratification into something else. A sex performance? An act of—of what? Surrender? Humiliation?

Whatever it was, it was driving her to heights of passion she’d never experienced before. Her fingers, even her whole hand, was soaking wet with her juices. She could hear the wet, sticky sounds as she thrust in, now faster and faster. She was sure that Mister Hendricks could hear the sound too.

Excited as she was, it wasn’t taking her long to bring herself to that supreme moment. Her toes were curling and arching inside her stockings. Her breath coming in short, sharp audible gasps.

As she came closer those gasps turned into moans, then high-pitched cries. In the past, alone in her thin-walled apartment she’d always have to stifle the sounds that she’d make as she climbed toward climax. But now she simply let it all out.

Soon she was literally screaming as she thrust her hips up toward her thrusting fingers. She dug her fingernails into her bruised nipple, twisting it, pulling it away from her body.

Almost there. Almost—

And then Darcy came, her whole body shaking uncontrollably from the force of her climax. She thrust her fingers in all the way, feeling her internal muscles clench and spasm. She felt herself rolling up into the fetal position, pulling her legs up, her fingers still buried inside her, trembling uncontrollable, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Finally, as the spasms passed, she slipped her fingers out from inside. They made a wet sticky sound as they came out. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly cold.

Then she heard his voice.

“Sit up,” he said.

Still shaking, she sat back up. A moment of fumbling as she decided on a position. She finally thrust her legs straight out, slightly spread, showing her pussy, her arms behind her to support her.

It didn’t seem as if Mister Hendricks had moved an inch. She stared at his lap, trying to see if he had an erection, but it was impossible to tell.

“You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?”

It took her just a second before she replied.

“Yes sir.”

“You have a lot of experience playing with yourself. How often do you do it?”

“Four or five times a week.”

“Didn’t your mother tell you that that was wrong?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did someone fuck you? Is that how you lost your cherry?”

“Yes sir. My—”

“I told you. I’m not interested in your life history. Just answer my questions.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Have you ever had sex with a woman?”

“What? No, no sir. I’ve never had— I’m sorry. No sir.”

“So you fuck men and you play with yourself. And you show yourself off, carrying on like a whore in front of men. That above cover it?”

“Yes sir.”

“What do you think we should do about it?”

Darcy thought for a moment.

“Whatever you think best, Mister Hendricks.”

“When was the last time you had a spanking, young lady?”

The breath caught in Darcy’s throat. That was a question she hadn’t expected.

“Um—I’m not sure. Not since I was a little girl. Sir.”

“Well, little lady, I think there’s the problem right there. Don’t you agree?”

Darcy could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

“Yes sir.”

“Stand up and come on over here.”

Darcy swallowed and came unsteadily up to her feet. She started toward him.

“Take off those silly stockings.”

“Y-yes sir.”

She stopped, bent down and tugged off her socks, doing her best to keep her balance.

Now, completely naked, she crossed to Mister Hendricks, stood over him.

“Don’t stand over me,” he said.

Without a word, she got down on her knees.

He stared down at her, then slid forward on the big chair so that his knees were sticking out over the edge. He patted his lap. Darcy knew what he expected her to do.

Darcy climbed up over his lap, backside up. She slid forward, steadying herself by putting her hands down onto the floor. Her feet dangled in mid-air, her ass neatly positioned across one of his knees. As he shifted, she no longer had any doubts as to whether or not he had an erection. She could feel it pressing up against her. The hardness of it sent a thrill through her body.

He put his hand across her back. It felt dry and hot. He moved it back along the smooth curve of her ass cheek, down into the damp groove in between. He slipped his fingers briefly into that moist area, exploring the hairy slick tissues, then moved on down, feeling the firm flesh of her lower thighs.

He squeezed her thigh just below the curve of her ass.

“How many spanks do you deserve, little lady?”

Darcy was breathing fast. Despite her recent climax, she knew that her pussy juices were flowing again.

She took a deep breath before she finally spoke.

“More than I can stand! Sir!”

She couldn’t see him raise his hand high in the air or see his broad hand come flying down, but she felt the first sharp impact as he laid it across one of her pale white ass cheeks.

She screamed. Her legs kicked up. The next impact followed almost immediately on her other cheek, faster than she’d expected. Too fast for her to draw enough breath to scream again. Instead a shocked gasp sputtered out.

Then the next impact came and the next, following just as fast. It seemed hard to believe that a man’s hand could rise and fall so fast, hit so hard. At each impact her ass cheeks clenched, her pussy clenched, her whole body seized up, her whole body twitching as if multiple shocks were being sent through her, through her ass, through her pussy, through her nipples, down through her toes and all the way back up.

At first he’d alternate—left cheek, right cheek, left cheek. But soon his hand seemed to fall at random. She’d never know where it would fall. Right, right, left, left, left, right, left, right right—he even began to bring his hand lower down on the exquisitely sensitive flesh of her lower thighs.

“Harder,” she gasped, “Harder, harder…”

He responded, bringing his hand down even harder, drawing louder screams from her. Tears of agony were running down her face.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. She lay sobbing across his lap.

“That was a hundred. That’s enough for now. Get off.”

Shaking, she slipped down off of his lap. Back onto her knees. As she leaned back, her ass came to rest on the backs of her heels. She hissed in pain at the touch.
He stood up, looking down at her.

“Wipe your face off. You look like a mess.”

She looked around, saw her discarded panties. She used them to wipe her eyes and nose clean. She realized, even as she was wiping her face, that her panties were damp with her own juices. Having done her best to dry her face, Darcy tossed them aside.

“Unfasten my pants and take out my cock.”

“Y-yes sir.”

She leaned forward, unfastened his shiny black leather belt and then unbuttoned his pants. She unzipped them, exposing his shorts. She had a brief moment of indecision. Did he want her to tug them down or try to wrestle his organ out through the little opening?

“Pull them both down,” he said.

“Yes sir.”

She tugged his pants down around his broad thighs (muscular thighs, she noticed). The bulge in his shorts was huge, jutting out. She grabbed his shorts and tugged. For a moment, they became entangled on his cock. She had to pull them forward to free the organ.

It sprang free, bobbing out and swinging toward her as she pulled his shorts down.

The only cock she had ever seen had been Bobby’s so that had been the sole standard for the size and shape of the male sex organ. But now those standards had been completely upended.

Bobby’s cock wasn’t quite six inches long fully erect and not much thicker around than a broomstick. But what stood out in front of her face now was over eight inches long and looked to be around an inch and a half thick or more, emerging from a thick nest of salt and pepper hair that covered Mister Hendricks whole belly. A thick ball sack descended beneath it. It was hairy too. The massive thickly veined organ had a broad mushroom head with a tiny mouth-like piss slit at the top.

She could smell the scent of the organ. Something like sweat, something like musk, something like something else that she’d smelled when she was making out with Bobby and that one time they’d had sex. Prick smell, she guessed. The same way that pussy had its own smell.

As she stared at it, it twitched, jerking up. The heavy ball sack also twitched and wobbled.

“Take it in your hands.”

Darcy reached out and wrapped her hands around it. She realized with a weird thrill that her fingers, wrapping around it, didn’t come meet on the far side. The organ was hot, hard like gristle, but the skin itself was amazingly soft. She could feel the blood moving beneath the skin.

“Kiss the head.”

Darcy stared at the organ for a second, then moved her lips forward and pressed them against the broad head of Mister Hendricks’ cock. Without thinking she slipped her tongue out and caressed the soft spongy head. If she was going to kiss the tip of someone’s cock, she thought, it might as well be a French kiss.

As she pulled away she felt the thick shaft twitch. The tiny slit parted and a tiny droplet of pale milky liquid oozed out.

She stared at it for a few seconds then extended her tongue and licked it. It tasted vaguely salty. The shaft tensed in her fist, moving upward. She held it harder, pressing her lips against the cock head, rolling her tongue over it.

Suddenly she felt Mister Hendricks leaning over, his hands reaching forward, grabbing her under her arms.

In the next instant Darcy felt herself lifted up into the air. He held her up, staring at her, his face flushed, hard. Then he tossed her roughly onto the leather chair.
In the next instant, Mister Hendricks kicked off his shoes, pants and shorts. His cock stood out like a pale club, jutting out from under his shirt. As he turned and took the couple steps back to the chair, Darcy could see it bob and sway as he walked. The big ball sack also swayed beneath it.

He came around to the side of the chair, leaned over and grabbed her. Darcy felt a strange thrill, feeling his physical strength, feeling herself lifted and turned as if she were no more than a rag doll.

He could break me in half if he wanted, she thought. The thought was strangely thrilling.

Mister Hendricks dragged her agonizingly tender ass up over the thickly padded arm of the couch and then flipped her over onto her stomach. Her legs hung over the side of the chair, presenting her up-thrust backside to his rutting cock.

He reached down and tugged her spank-reddened thighs apart, exposing the moist inlet of her pussy, matted with the down of her juice-soaked pale pubic fur.
She braced herself, holding her breath as he spread her pussy lips with his fingers, reaching up inside her. A few seconds later she felt the broad head of his cock rubbing up against her. He stroked his cock head up and down across her damp pussy lips as she gasped in pleasure and then he pressed in.

Darcy felt herself being spread like never before as Mister Hendricks’ cock pushed deep inside. Her internal muscles squeezed reflexively as the shaft penetrated three inches, four inches – as far as her fingers ever reached. Then five inches, six inches.

She let out a gasp as he pulled himself out almost all the way, leaving only the head of his cock just inside the portals of her inner lips. Then he grabbed her around the hips and rammed forward. Darcy screamed as she felt herself impaled, filled up beyond anything she’d ever known. His hips slapped up against her red, spanked ass. The steel-wool mass of his pubic hair ground against her pussy lips as he reached the very limits of her clenching passage.

He didn’t give her any time to get used to his presence inside her. He pulled out at once, almost all the way, and thrust back in, Darcy let out a high-pitched squeal of pain.
He began to fuck her the way he’d spanked her—hard, relentlessly, with all of his might, pistoning his powerful cock to the very depths of her quivering pussy channel, his huge ball sack slapping hard against her love lips at each inward thrust.

Darcy felt the thrusting like a relentless piston, like the machines she’d seen on the factory floor, hard, relentless, mechanical, thrusting hard up inside her body, over and over, stretching her insides, churning up pain and pleasure in ways that she’d never imagined before. Everything that she’d done with Bobby, her first time with him, all the countless times that she’d played with herself, bringing herself to climax using her fingers, using the handle of a hairbrush, it all now seemed like a prelude to this—
The real thing. Real fucking by a real man. Darcy felt utterly helpless—no, she was utterly helpless. He can do anything he wants to me, she thought, and the thought sent shivers of fear and of sexual delight coursing through her trembling body.

Bracing herself against the arm of the chair with one elbow she lifted herself up slightly and reached for one of her breasts with her free hand. Her tits were wobbling back and forth at each powerful thrust. She had to fumble to find the erect nipple. She started pinching it.

Suddenly, she felt Mister Hendricks’ hand tangle in her hair, arching her back, pulling her body up toward him. She could feel her hair pins go flying as she felt herself slip back slightly on the arm of the chair, impaling herself even deeper on his up-thrusting cock. She let out a shriek of pain and delight.

He reached around, swatting her hand away from her breast. An instant later she felt his calloused thumb and forefinger close around her nipple, squeezing it, flattening it, twisting it like a vice, pinching it harder than she’d ever felt.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!!! Harder, harder, harder. Hurt me harder. Harder. The other one, the other one, sir, please, sir! Harder! Hurt me, hurt! Ahhhh!!!”

He’d let go of her hair and taken her other nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing them both at once, twisting them both, pinching and pulling on the flesh of her nipples as if he were trying to squeeze them off, sending spasms of pain coursing through her body, down to her pussy, where her internal muscles grabbed at the thrusting cock, urging it to ram into her all the harder.

And then she felt herself pushed over the edge into climax, her whole body shaking wildly. She flung her legs back around his hips, pulling herself against his thrusting cock as her pussy went into wild spasms of delight.

But even as she felt the overwhelming wave of passion fade, Mister Hendricks kept fucking her, relentlessly, his thrusting now an even greater agony of overwhelming seething sensations.

“No, no, wait, wait, wait, I can’t—I can’t, I can’t stand it—Oh, God, Oh God—“

He let go of her nipples and she fell flat across the chair but he didn’t stop fucking her. He grabbed her around the hips and started yanking her ass back hard against his cock. She could hear the wet sticky sound of his hard thrusting member as she struggling for breath.

He started to pinch her hips and spank-reddened ass as he fucked her, digging his fingernails in hard, then moving his fingers down toward the sensitive flesh of her lower thighs, drawing fresh screams of pain from her, working her relentlessly until she achieved her second screaming climax.

And still he wasn’t through. How long could he continue? How long had he been fucking her? An hour? A day? Forever? Her whole exhausted body was dripping with sweat. A tendril of spittle dripped from her open gasping mouth. And she know that her own pussy juices must be trickling from her the other gaping mouth of her pussy, the mouth that was now spread wider than it had ever been before, as it swallowed and disgorged that huge impaling organ.

Then his big hands moved back across her sore reddened ass cheeks, moving down across them, squeezing them, spreading them. She winced in pain, though it was minor compared to what had come before.

Then Darcy felt his fingers moving down between her ass cheeks, felt one of Mister Hendricks’ fingers pressing against the twitching bud of her asshole.
Before she knew what was happening, he had pushed the tip of his finger up inside her asshole. And he didn’t stop. He kept pushing, even as her anal muscles clenched down in reflex, trying to push the intruding digit out.

She squirmed, shocked, not knowing quite what to do. This was something she’d literally never imagined, had never even been part of her wildest fantasies of pain and pleasure and humiliation.

And now he was doing this thing, pushing his finger up inside her bottom, deeper, now up to the second knuckle, even as her body fought against it. Now, now it was all the way up inside her sensitive rectal passage, his finger wiggling around, his rough fingernail scratching her insides. It was the dirtiest thing she’d ever imagined. And it hurt so much, so much…

She wanted to scream for him to take it out, but she realized that it wouldn’t make any difference. Didn’t she remember? She was helpless. He could do whatever he wanted to her. If he wanted to spank her, he could do it. If he wanted to fuck her he could do it. If he wanted to put his finger up her ass, to degrade her or humiliate her or punish her in any way he might imagine, he could do it. And even as that awareness flowed over Darcy, it turned into a kind of terrified excitement, a longing, a hunger. She felt herself starting to build once again toward climax.

Yes, she thought, I am a bad girl. I’m a dirty girl who needs to be punished. And the more I’m punished the badder I get. Oh, please, she thought, punish me and make me bad. Make me a dirty girl…

Then Mister Hendricks pulled his finger almost all the way out—and then thrust it in again, the fingernail scraping her insides. He started pushing his finger in and out of her asshole. It was as if her were fucking her backside with his finger. And the muscles of her anus were squeezing his finger tight, gripping it as it moved in out, resisting the pain. The pain, the pleasure.

It was as if she were being fucked in both her pussy and her backside, two shafts of flesh moving in and out. The huge shaft now moving faster than ever before. The huge ball sack slapping hard against her at each inward thrust. And the finger, thrusting into her asshole in time with it.

Darcy bit down into the hard leather of the chair arm, sobbing now in an excess of passion and agony. The pounding of Mister Hendricks’ cock was coming so fast that the slapping against her ass made a sound like somebody whipping up frosting in a bowl. And she couldn’t help but think that the thrusting of his cock must be churning her own milky juice into froth deep in the pit of her pussy channel.

Suddenly, Mister Hendricks shoved her finger all the way to the root in her asshole and jammed his hips forward. He let out a low sharp groan. Darcy could feel the huge member twitch violently inside her, could feel the sudden heat as he shot his ejaculate deep up inside her in great spurts. He pulled out a bit and shoved in hard a second time, and then a third, shooting more and more inside her.

And as he came, Darcy joined him in her third climax, her pussy clenching, milking the gismic tribute from the thrusting cock. She suddenly realized that she was screaming, dragging her fingernails across her pale breasts as she thrashed wildly in the throes of overwhelming orgasmic bliss.
Darcy could feel his gism overflowing her clenching pussy, bubbling out around his shaft, trickling down her thighs. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably, waves of pleasure sending earthquake tremors coursing over her body.

Finally, the storm of passion gradually passed. The only sound was that heavy breathing.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

Finally, Mr. Hendricks pulled his finger out of her ass. Darcy let out a little squeal, twitching in agony. He leaned forward, resting his hands on her back, his gradually softening cock still inside her.

After a moment, Darcy felt it slip out and Mr. Hendricks stood up. Without a word he leaned over and picked her up. He calmly carried her to a nearby door and took her inside.

There was a full bathroom within. He calmly sat her down on the commode while he turned on the shower and undressed. There was a closet against one wall. He opened it and took out a clean suit, then stripped off his remaining clothes.

He glanced over at her.

“I assume you don’t want to get your hair wet. You can take a bath when I’m finished. There are hair pins and make up in the medicine cabinet.
He stepped into the shower, looked out at her.

“I’ll be at my desk when you’re finished.” He pulled the shower curtain shut.

Later, when she stepped out of the bathroom, hair and make-up back in place, wearing only a towel, Mister Hendricks was, indeed at his desk. He’d gone back to studying his plans.

He looked up.

“Before you get dressed, you can use that towel to clean up my chair and the floor.”

“Yes sir,” she replied.

She slipped off the towel and went to the chair, toweling off the stains—sweat, spittle, a mixture of cum and pussy juice. And on the floor in front of the chair—more pussy juice from when she played with herself and a neat pair of oval spots that marked the shape of her ass cheeks. She wiped them away. She gathered up all of the fallen hair pins she could find, picked up her discarded clothing, and returned to the bathroom to discard the towel and dress.

She came out again, doing her best to smooth the wrinkles in her blouse and skirt. She crossed to Mister Hendricks’ desk, her ass aching beneath her panties, her breasts sore beneath her brassiere and her asshole just plain hurting. She did her best not to show her discomfort as she walked.

She stood by the desk, waiting.

Finally, he spoke.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No sir.”

He looked up. “Don’t tell me you don’t drink.”

“I drink sir, but I don’t want to have a drink if I’m going to have to type up that memo for you by tomorrow morning.”

He let out a laugh that sounded like a little bark.

“All right. Those ugly stockings of yours. Is that the best you’ve got?”

“Yes sir.”

“No nylons?”

“Can’t get them. There’s a war on.”

“I’ll get them for you. And better-looking underwear. What you’ve got looks like something an old granny would wear. You’re working for me now. If I’m going to have you around, I need to dress you up a bit. Especially your scanties. Can’t stand a girl with ugly underwear. See Barbara about your new office. You’ll get more money, but you won’t have much time to spend it. That’s all.”

“Yes sir.”

She turned and left.

From that time on, her life was very different. Mister Hendricks was, if anything, even more demanding than he’d led her to believe. Often he worked seven days a week, sometimes eighteen or twenty hour days, sleeping in his office, expecting her to catch her sleep on a couch when he did (she took to keeping a change of clothes in his office along with extra underwear—lots of extra underwear).

His need for sex was just as demanding and arbitrary. She could never be sure when he’d suddenly hit that button on his desk and she’s find herself flung over the side of his desk or straddling his lap, or down on her knees, his rampant cock in her mouth. What she could be sure of was that his cock would need servicing at least twice a day. If there was trouble at the plant, he’d have to work off his tension with a third go-round or even more.

Of course there was also the spanking. That was an almost-daily ritual as well. Mostly he used his hand, but sometimes he also used the flat of his belt, or even a light cane—that was the most excruciating of all. Afterward, he’d always fuck her and she’d always cum the most furiously after being caned, even though it meant she’d have a hard time sitting.

Darcy found that she had a hard time sitting most of the time, but since she soon discovered that squirming around on her aching ass translated into a tingly moistening in her cunt, it didn’t really bother her.

Mister Hendricks knew a great deal about all sorts of things, from aluminum cowlings to the different shapes and varieties of women’s tits, cunts and assholes and when he’d had a few drinks he would happily expound on any one of those subjects, whether it was the efficiency of airplane wings of the enormous variety to be found in women’s cunts. He liked to use the word cunt—a word that Darcy had heard maybe twice in her life and always in the most vulgar school yard connotations. But since he used it, that was the word that she used, talking about her own cunt, when he decided to talk about her cunt, or cunts generally. She finally found out that the little bud of flesh was a clitoris, or clitty, or clit. She learned all the various terms from him. What cum was. What an orgasm was. What a hand job was. What a blow job was. What buggering was.

It didn’t take him long to educate her in the finer points of oral sex, how to use her hands and lips and tongue to bring him to orgasm, how to take his huge cock into her mouth, even down her throat without gagging. Sometimes he would like to cum into her mouth and watch while she swallowed it down. Other times he’d enjoy pulling out and shooting his gism across her pale lightly-freckled face, into her hair, into her open mouth, across her bright-red lipsticked lips, across her questing tongue.
After a couple months, he moved on to anal sex, telling her quite casually one evening that he intended to fuck her up the ass. The prospect was terrifying, even as he methodically lubricated her rectum, but the idea of refusing Mister Hendricks never even entered her mind. How could she possibly refuse him? He was Mister Hendricks. When he told her to do something, she was supposed to do it.

The first time feeling his huge cock up her ass was agonizing beyond anything she’d felt before. She was sure that he’d torn something inside her, that she might actually be dying. And yet even as he thrust his way to climax, he’d used his thumb up inside her sopping-wet cunt to bring her to a climax so intense that she saw stars in front of her eyes, briefly dancing on the edge of unconsciousness even as she felt his organ spurt deep up inside her rectum.

After that, he fucked her up the rear at least three or four times a week.

It almost seemed as if the two were inseparable, as if she were an extra limb. Yet he barely seemed to acknowledge her, whether others were around or not. Take a memo, Miss Winston. Get the Western Dynamics File for October, Miss Winston. Bend over and spread your ass, Little Lady. Those were the two modes of address. For business, it was almost always Miss Winston. For sex it was always Little Lady. She wasn’t sure if he even knee her first name was Darcy, or if he cared. As for his first name—come to think of it, she actually didn’t know it, and certainly wouldn’t have dared use it if she had.

Whether business or sex, it was always Mister Hendricks or Sir. Whether in the office, or down on the plant floor, or woken up in her apartment in the middle of the night to take a memo or get a file or because he was in the mood to have his cock sucked, or whether they were headed down to the little airfield to fly somewhere in his specially modified twin Beech…

Hold on. Wait a second. That’s it, Darcy thought, her head aching, shifting under that weight. We were going somewhere in Mister Hendricks’ twin Beech. We left this morning, heading north. It was some unplanned trip. They couldn’t find Bud, the co-pilot, so Mister Hendricks decided to take her up by himself. He often did that when it was just a “short hop.” It was just going to be a short hop. A few hundred miles North.

What happened then? Where were they? Where was Mister Hendricks?

That’s it. They were flying north. Bright blue skies above, a big rugged wilderness of woods and jagged peaks beneath them.

Mister Hendricks had invited her up to sit in the co-pilot’s seat. He’d been smiling. She’d looked down and seen that he’d unzipped his trousers, had his hard cock out. Well, it was sort of a cramped space but she’d done this sort of thing before when they’d been out driving—sucked his cock while he was driving down the road. This was sort of the same thing, she imagined.

So she’d squeezed herself down into the narrow space and taken his cock into her mouth. The thought of doing it so high up in the air, traveling at hundreds of miles an hour—or however fast a plane flew, was a bit strange, but other than that, it had seemed much like any other time she’d sucked Mister Hendricks’ cock.

No, there’d been something odd. He’d started to make some odd groaning noises. Usually, he was always quiet right up until the end. She didn’t know quite what it meant, whether he was enjoying it or not. Abruptly, she’d felt his cock spasm, spurt into her mouth and then—

And then, suddenly, he’d fallen forward on top of her, gone limp. His cock fell from her lips. She struggled out from under him as the airplane heeled over and started down.
As she pulled free she caught a sudden glance at Mister Hendricks’ face. Mouth hanging open, eyes rolled back.

She’d never seen a dead man, but she had a terrible feeling that she was seeing one now, a man who’d been alive just a moment before but wasn’t alive any more.
She barely had time to inanely shout, “Mister Hendricks!” before the plane spun full over, and she was flung up to the ceiling. She found herself staring through the cockpit window. Through it, she could see the oncoming floor of the forest below, spinning around, coming toward her hideously fast.

Darcy wanted to scream but somehow she couldn’t find the breath. And then—

Of course. Now she understood what had happened. The plane must have crashed But where was she now? Darcy heaved up against the weight that was pressing down on top of her. It moved slightly. She heaved again and something came loose and it slipped away with a heavy thud.

There wasn’t much light. It must have been night already and there was only moonlight filtering in from somewhere, but it was enough to show her what she had already suspected.

The weight that had been pressing down on top of her was the body of Mister Hendricks. She was glad that she couldn’t see it clearly in the half light, but she could see enough. The twisted limbs, the white of his open eyes, the dark hole of his open mouth, his pants still down around his waist.

The body was sprawled out next to her, lying on the roof (though now it was sort of the floor) of the now upside-down fuselage of the plane. She tried to sit up, groaned in pain as she did. Out through the shattered glass of the cockpit window nothing was visible except a tangle of branches.

She rose unsteadily. As she did, the whole cockpit shifted uneasily. Just where did they crash? There was probably a lantern or a flashlight or a radio or something somewhere that might help but she had no idea where any of it was. Her best hope, she figured, was to simply get out of the wreckage and make her way back to civilization.

Darcy paused, a sudden thought striking her. Mister Hendricks was dead. For most of the last year he’d been her entire life, the full subject of her every waking thought and action. And now he was dead. She tried to figure out what she felt but somehow there didn’t seem to be anything there. Grief? Sorrow? Worry?

No. Just a sort of vague emptiness and an urge to fill it by doing something—staying alive, for instance.

She tried to get the door open. It wouldn’t budge. And there was no way she could get out through the cockpit windows. The mass of branches was impenetrable.
Darcy had started searching for something to break open one of the windows when she heard the low growling sound coming from the front of the fuselage, then a rustling of leaves, a sound like something heavy moving through underbrush.

Darcy moved quickly toward the back of the fuselage, crouching down behind a pile of tumbled-down wreckage. She could see the heavy branches beyond the shattered cockpit windows shifting. Something moving just outside—a massive shadow. A foul smell drifted into the fuselage, a smell like rotten meat mixed with excrement and something else. A nasty musky animal smell.

Another growl, closer, and a great shadow humped its way up, blocking the light at the cockpit windows. Was it a bear? No, Darcy thought. It was too big. But if it wasn’t a bear, what else could it be?

As it pushed forward the whole plane shifted. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The moonlight gleamed off of massive claws, huge teeth.

It was a bear, but larger than any bear she’d ever heard of. That huge claw, ripping away a piece of the cockpit window—it was larger than a dinner plate.

There was a sudden massive sound of tearing metal and the whole fuselage shifted. Darcy fell over onto her side. Trembling, she pulled herself up and looked toward the front of the plane. It took her a moment to realize that it simply wasn’t there anymore.

The giant bear had simply torn it away. She could hear a sound like wreckage crashing and falling, growing softer with distance, then stopping suddenly, as if hitting the ground.

For the first time she wondered just where the plane had crashed. She’d naturally assumed that it had come to rest on the ground. Now it occurred to her that she might be wrong.

But there were more immediate concerns. The bear was now inside the plane, its huge bulk virtually filling the whole inverted fuselage from top to bottom. The whole fuselage shifted alarmingly as it moved.

It was sniffing around, searching.

It didn’t take long to find what it was looking for—Mister Hendricks’ fallen body. The bear nuzzled it, inspecting it for a few seconds, then casually picked it up in its huge jaws (Darcy could hear bones crunching as it bit down) and backed out of the plane.

The plane filled with moonlight as the bear withdrew. She could hear the sound of it moving away. Her heart was pounding. Now, she realized, now was the time. It would be busy with Mister Hendricks’s body, at least for a while. It wouldn’t bother about her while it was feeding.

Now was the time to go.

She got up and scrambled to the front of the plane and pulled herself out through the gap left by the bear.

She stepped out onto a thick tree branch and leaned out. As she did, she gasped, grabbing onto the branch and holding tight.

Now she finally realized where the plane had crashed.

It had come down in the upper branches of a tree and while she couldn’t make out the ground in the darkness below, she could see that the branch on which she was balancing had at least a hundred feet of tangled limbs beneath it. And somewhere in the midst of those tangled limbs, somewhere below her, in the darkness, feeding on the body of her late boss, was the Bear.

But what else could she do? She didn’t dare wait until morning. She had to try.

Darcy looked down. She still had on one of her pumps. Heaven only knew where the other one was. She kicked the remaining one off. Bare feet would make for tough going once she reached the ground (if she reached the ground) , but there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

“Don’t look down,” she’d heard someone say – but how could you climb down without looking down? And the tree limbs were slick with mold and dew. She’d barely descended a dozen yards when her foot slipped, sending her scraping down the limb, grabbing desperately for anything, screaming in panic. At last she came to a hard stop, scraped and bloody, snagged in a mass of branches lower down.

And then she heard the Voice coming from below. The words were human but there was something about the voice that wasn’t. It was harsh, the words strangely distorted, as if coming from a throat and a mouth that wasn’t quite human.

“Stay where you are,” it said, “I won’t hurt you. I’ll come for you soon.”

Breathing fast, Darcy leaned forward, calling down into the darkness, “Who are you?”

“I am the one who tore open your flying house. I will come for you when I have fed. I won’t hurt you. If you try to climb down, you’ll fall. Stay where you are.”

Darcy lay back against the hard trunk of the tree. I must be dreaming, she thought.

But no. She remembered her dreams too well. Dreams didn’t have smells, didn’t have tastes, didn’t have pain in them unless they leaked in from the waking world. And this half-shadowed world was full of tastes and smells and especially pain.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t a dream. Maybe she was going crazy. Giant talking bears and going crazy? That seemed just about right. After all, she had hit her head.
Then she heard the creaking rustling sound. Something big was moving through the branches, climbing toward her. If she was crazy and none of this was real, why was she so damned scared?

The sounds came closer and she could feel the branches around her shifting as something massive moved them.

Then one of those huge dinner-plate sized paws came looming up into view—and it grabbed onto a branch. Grabbed onto it not the way a bear’s claw would, but holding it the way a human hand would, with a huge clawed thumb on one side and equally massive clawed fingers (or whatever you’d call them) on the other. Like the massive furry hand of some kind of giant.

It hauled itself up into view, grabbing on with its other huge man-like front paw. Coming close, the giant bear looked even bigger than when she’d seen it in the half-shadows of the fuselage. Though she couldn’t see it all, it had to be at least twelve feet long. And closer now, its smell was worse.

It leaned in, staring at her with hard black eyes.

Then it spoke, but its voice wasn’t the same as she’d heard before. This was more guttural, harder to understand, “I –onnnt –urrt ooo…”

Darcy shivered at the smell of the giant bear’s breath, sickening with decay and the smell of blood. But more terrified still at the cold fact of a voice coming out of the gigantic nightmare shape.

The bear stared at her, sniffing the air around her.

Then the next impossible thing happened. It reared up on its hind legs, balancing on the thick limbs on either side of her. Darcy let out a squeal of terror, convinced that it was about to come crashing down on top of her.

But instead, Darcy heard a kind of strange wet crunching sound and the bear began to shrink in on itself, its body literally changing shape, torso contracting and changing shape, hind legs growing, forearms twisting around as the bear changed into something else.

When the change came to an end, what stood over her was something man-like but far from human. He stood erect, but over eight feet tall, his face more like a bear’s than a man’s, a jutting jaw lined with sharp teeth, black eyes and bear-like ears on the side of his head. His huge hands and feet were man-like but with huge claws and his whole body was covered with black fur. And Darcy couldn’t help but notice that his size carried over to the huge man-like cock that dangled between his legs. Even limp it must have been a foot long.

Darcy sat crouched at the creature’s feet, staring up at him, breathless.

Of course, she thought, it’s just like that horror movie with Lon Chaney. The Wolf Man. Half man, half wolf. That’s what this thing is. He can turn from a bear into a sort of half man, half bear. She wondered if he could change all the way into a human being or if this middle form was as far toward being human as he could go.

Suddenly, she was struck by how ridiculous this line of thought was. The Wolf Man? That was just a silly Hollywood movie. This was—what? Reality?

“Can you stand up?” the thing asked her. Yes, now he was speaking in that same voice that came up from the below.

“Yes sir…” she stopped. Did she really just call this monster sir?

“Yes.”

He extended a huge clawed hand toward her.

“Climb onto my back and I’ll carry you down.”

She stared up at the huge beast.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I am going to keep you.”

“Keep me? I don’t understand.”

“This is my country. Your Flying House fell into my country. All of this land, this valley and all the mountains around it and the river below, all of this is Markhan’s country. My country. I, I am Markhan. Everything in it and everything that comes into it belongs to me. I do with it what I will. I am of the race of the First Born and I have lived here a long time, from before the time of the Great Ice and the Great Fire. Many strangers have come into my country. For many hundreds of seasons there were only brown strangers but now also pale strangers like you. I have no use for the Man Strangers, except for meat. These I kill and they are my meat. The Woman Strangers, if they are fit, I keep them and I use them to breed my sons. You, I will keep.”

Darcy sat frozen, trying to take in what the giant—the “man-bear”—the being who’d called himself Markhan had just said. It was as if she’d just fallen off the edge of the earth and into the middle of some bizarre fairy tale. Beauty and Beast? Yes, if the Beast was an ancient ferocious man-killer and impregnator of captive women with a foot-long cock.

And how did she fit into this fairy tale? What was she supposed to do?

She stared up toward the huge man-beast, his massive muscles visible beneath the thick black fur, his cock, the flesh dark and gnarled, the dangling balls huge. She looked higher, into the dark, merciless eyes staring down at her.

Then she scrambled up onto her knees, moving close to the giant. The musky animal odor filled her nostrils. The huge head of Markhan’s dangling cock was just level with her head.

Trembling, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against the huge fist-sized head of his cock.

“Yes sir,” she said.

She rose and reached her arms up. Markhan grabbed her under her arms with one huge clawed hand, swept her up, and flipped her onto his back.

Markhan’s den was located high on the side of a sheer cliff that overlooked the valley. It had taken him most of the night and into the morning, running at full tilt to reach it. Darcy, exhausted, had almost fallen from his shoulders after a few hours, forcing him to carry her shoved under one huge arm.

Much later she woke to find herself in a huge cave, a space smelling of smoke and animal musk. It took her a moment, coming back to wakefulness, to realize all that had happened, to separate out dream from reality. The fact that she was lying completely naked on a bed of animal furs and that a huge man-bear was lying nearby, filling the air with the sound of his growly snores made it much easier to accept the reality of the current situation.

She rose, inspecting herself and was surprised to discover that she could find no traces of any injuries, not from the plane crash, nor from the fall down the side of the tree. She couldn’t find a scratch nor feel so much as a bruise anywhere on her body.

Then she heard Markhan’s deep voice coming from behind her.

“I healed you,” he said.

She turned to face him.

“I don’t understand.”

“From when your flying house fell. You were hurt. I healed you. My kind has the power to do this. Do you need to piss?”

Darcy swallowed. So the man-beast is also a healer. File that information away. And she did need to relieve herself.

“Yes sir.”

“Come.”

Markhan led her far back into the cave, casually revealing its mysterious interior on the way to a bottomless crevasse located at the rear of the cavern that served as Markhan’s latrine.

“What does this ‘sir’ mean? Why do you call me this?” he asked.

“It comes from “sire” I think. It means master.”

Markhan accepted this without comment.

Darcy continued, “My name is—”

“You have no name,” he interrupted, “Whatever names your fathers called you in the outside world, I throw these names away. Never speak them. Never think them again. Now you are without a name. When I have fucked you, when I put my seed in you, then I will know you and I will give you a name. “

“Yes sir,” she answered, “When will it please you to fuck me?”

“I go out hunting this morning. Last night I fed the Great Bear. Today I must feed this—“

He drummed his chest with his fist.

“Both the First Born and the Great Bear must eat. Last night, the Great Bear ate. Today, the First Born eats. There is food here also for you. You eat too. When I return, I will fuck you and give you your name.”

He left her some strips of dried meat. There was water in a spring farther back in the cave.

Darcy went to the broad mouth of the cave and watched as the huge dark figure rushed down the narrow cliff-side path leading down to the great virgin forest below.
Of course she could leave, but where would she go? Which way was civilization? Even if searchers managed to find the fallen plane—and given its location, stuck in the middle of a tree a hundred feet up in the air the chances of that happening were tiny—she had no idea where it was and nobody finding it would have any idea where she was.

Besides, Markhan had told her to stay and she now understood something quite clearly.

That empty feeling that she’d felt when Mister Hendricks had died—it was starting to fill up again. Maybe later that day when her new “sir” had fucked her with that terrifyingly huge cock and given her her new name…

She’d like to have a name. It was an odd feeling, she thought. Not having a name at all. Just being nobody at all.

After she’d eaten she tried to inspect herself in the still waters of a little spring-fed pool far back in the cave. She realized that she hadn’t simply been stripped naked. Her make-up had been scrubbed away and her hair-pins had also all been plucked out. Her hair now hung down loose around her shoulders.

Her skin, for the first time in as long as she could remember, was pristine. No bruises, no belt marks, no signs of spanking or pinching or the thin crisscross marks of the cane. Pale, perfect, virgin territory.

Sprawled out on the soft furs toward the front of the cave, the girl with no name spread her legs, feeling the softness of the fur beneath her work its way up between her ass cheeks. She rolled over, feeling the fur brush against her tits and belly.

She wondered if Markhan would object if she played with herself while she waited for him to return. What would he say if he came back and found her doing it? What would she say?

Well, she thought, as her let her fingers creep back along the curve of her ass and down into the soft furrow of her moistening cunt, she could always say that she was preparing herself for him.

She wondered whether Markhan called it a cunt or a pussy or maybe had some different name that he’d expect her to use. Where had he learned to speak English? Did he read minds or had he learned it from other captives? Other “pale women” that he’d taken captive and used to “breed sons?” And what had become of those women and those sons, she wondered? What did he do with them when he was finished with them?

She suddenly realized that she had already started to stroke the lips of her cunt, that her fingers, almost working on their own, had parted those well-lubricated lips and were slipping inside. She pushed her ass up to meet the thrusting fingers.

It had been a long time since she’d masturbated on her own, though she’d often done it in front of Mister Hendricks, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on his desk, sometimes using her fingers or one of the collection of dildos that he owned (it had been strange, both degrading and exciting, to think about how many other cunts those dildos had been thrust up inside by other girls putting on similar sex shows for Mister Hendricks before they’d been passed on to her—certainly none of them had been new).

But her fingers remembered their ritual, even in this impossible place. Soon they were thrusting wetly into her clenching hole while her other hand was tweaking and twisting her erect nipple fiercely in time to her thrusts.

She brought herself to climax quickly the first time, lying on her belly, then rolling over onto her back and pulling one leg up and to the side, she took her time the second time around, tugging on her pale pubic fur, working at her clit, even fingering the puckered rosette of her asshole as she worked herself slowly to a second trembling orgasm. And all the time, she couldn’t help but think about the man-beast’s enormous cock. Huge when limp, how much larger, how much thicker would it be when erect? She couldn’t possibly take the whole thing inside. She doubted any woman could and survive it.

But what would it be like, that huge cock spreading her, penetrating her? She slipped her fingers down, started to play with herself yet again.
As she did she sensed a shadow passing over her closed eyes. She opened them.

Markhan was staring down at her, watching her with his penetrating expressionless eyes. His thin dark lips parted slightly, showing rows of sharp white teeth.
Breathing fast, she reached down and pulled her legs wide, showing the damp, glistening lips of her open cunt.

“Sir…” she groaned.

Markhan bent low, grabbing her just below the breasts and sweeping her up into the air. He rolled over, seating himself against a wide heap of furs. He deposited her across his broad heaving chest. She clung there, holding onto his fur.

He grabbed her again, lifting her up to the level of his face. He inspected her closely, sniffing her. Then his huge tongue slipped out of his mouth. It wasn’t like a human tongue, it was thick, almost coming to a point at the tip, and incredibly long.

She felt the hot wet organ move slowly along the side of her throat and up under her chin as if tasting her. Markhan lifted and turned her slightly, moving his tongue down her body as he did. He lifted up one of her arms with his thumb and forefinger—she once again felt a sudden thrill of fear at his enormous strength. He could easily twist her arm off without so much as exerting himself. But now he simply licked his way down her arm and into the moist nook of her armpit, lingering there. She shivered, feeling the tip of his tongue exploring, tickling her, then moving across to her breasts, pressing against one, then the other.

He moved her closer, taking all of one breast into his huge ursine mouth. She could feel his huge sharp teeth pressing down into the flesh of her breast. For a terrifying instant she thought he was going to bite down, bite her breast off, but he simply pressed his huge teeth in just enough for her to feel the pain as his tongue and lips suctioned her nipple, then her entire breast with ferocious force.

She whimpered in pleasure as he repeated the process with her other breast, then lifted her up, moving his tongue down her body, across the curve of her stomach, probing her navel, and then down to the quivering opening of her cunt.

He lifted her up, propping her legs on his vast muscular shoulders, and she grabbed onto the thick furry expanse of his mighty head to steady herself as she felt him spreading her wide with his huge thumbs, pricking her inner thighs with the sharp tips of his claws as his thick hot tongue parted her cunt lips and push up inside her, probing her interior. It began to move in and out, reaching in to the depths of her channel, lapping her cunt juice, rubbing back and forth across the sensitized button of her clit with the rough friction of a huge cat’s tongue.

Flushed with passion, her breath was coming hard and fast under the effect of Markhan’s probing tongue. It plunged into her deeper and deeper. She could feel it reaching limits that she never knew she had, filling her up, expanding inside her.

Yes, that was what she wanted, to be stretched until it hurt. That pleasure-pain that pushed her beyond the limits.

“More, more, it hurts. Hurts, yes, yes…” she groaned, “Yes, stretch me, stretch me apart! Oh, oh, aahhhhhh!!!”

As she climaxed, she arched her hips against the man-beast’s thrusting tongue, felt an explosion of her own cunt juice pouring out. She reached out, grabbing him by the thick velvet-soft ears.

He snorted, tugging her away and pulling her down the length of his body.

In an instant he’d tossed her down onto the furs on her back. She gasped in terror as the huge eight-foot bulk rolled over on top of her, threatening to crush her.
But the giant suspended himself over her on elbows and knees just above her body. He slid back, grabbing her beneath the knees and bending her long lean legs all the way back above her head, spreading her as wide as she could possibly be spread.

As he leaned back, she got her first look at his fully-erect cock. Her breath caught in her throat.

Fully erect, Markhan’s cock must have been eighteen inches long and thicker around than her forearm, its head like a mushroom-shaped fist.

Leaning back, pinning both of her legs above her head with one huge clawed hand, Markhan grabbed the huge organ with one clawed hand and leaned in, pushing the huge cock head against the gaping pink opening of her cunt.

Even spread wide and prepared as she was, she hissed in pain as she felt herself being spread beyond all imagination by the huge organ.
Markhan lifted himself up and bucked his huge hips forward and the thick cock head surged through the outer ring of her vaginal muscles. She squealed in agony, her whole body shaking as he penetrated her.

His cock didn’t stop but kept on sliding in. It was as if her whole body was being twisted apart from the inside as the huge impaling shaft pushed in.

Do to me whatever you want, she thought. Use me. Fuck me. Hurt me. You’re the Beast but I’m not Beauty. I’m just “Pretty.” A pretty thing you own. Own me. Fuck me. Hurt me. Hurt me.

At some point, the huge shaft began to move in and out, working its way even deeper as it did so. She could hear the slick wet, sounds of the cock frictioning in and out. The shaft filled her so thoroughly that even her own juices could only escape when the thrusting cock pulled out, and drew some of the overflowing juices with it.
“Deeper,” she groaned, “Give me more, give me more. Hurt me!”

“Be quiet, stupid girl,” Markhan snarled, as he cuffed her across the side of the face. It was the lightest of touches but it set her head ringing.

She put her hand in her mouth, biting down, as Markhan’s cock continued to pound into her, filling her, stretching her.

It no longer felt like a cock fucking her. It felt like a fist, pounding up inside her clenching cunt, punching her hard against the cervix, over and over. And every punch was bringing her closer to a soul-destroying orgasm.

Yes, she thought, as she bit her hand to keep from talking—harder, harder, hurt me, hurt me. Keep hurting me!

And then she felt her cunt explode, an orgasm so ferocious that she found that she literally couldn’t breath as the spasms shook her whole body. As Markhan’s cock continued to pound into her relentlessly it seemed to multiply the spasms, as if the initial orgasm continued to build, driving her to a still more powerful orgasm.
She wanted to scream but she couldn’t scream, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. Her vision was literally growing dark around the edges. She wanted to—

A moment later she woke, found herself gasping for breath, found herself still lying beneath the great man-beast, his cock still pounding into her aching, excruciatingly spread cunt.

She suddenly realized that she’d passed out from the force of her climax—even as she realized that Markhan’s cock was only just beginning to accelerate its thrusts, that it was, if anything, driving still deeper inside her, punching deeper inside her, driving her back up the sheer, hot, cunt-slippery slope toward that agonizing pain-triggered summit of orgasmic bliss.

This time she struggled to hold on. She could hear the man-beast’s hot animal breath coming faster, in short, hard grunts. If she’d learned anything from a year’s worth of fucking with Mister Hendricks’ she’d come to know the signs of his on-coming orgasm, the faster rhythm, the increased breathing. The groaning, the urgency, the hard slapping thrusts. Markhan’s climax was coming soon.

And this time, she wanted to cum at the same time. If only she could hold on. But the pain, the thrusts like fists punching into her insides, a pain that was driving her almost mad with agony and ecstasy. At every thrust she could feel her cunt muscles squeezing tight, holding onto the huge shaft like a wound holding onto a stabbing knife.

That’s what her cunt felt like, she realized, like a huge open wound into which Markhan’s gigantic cock was stabbing her. How many times? A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?

More, she thought. More. Almost there. Almost there. Almost…

She struggled to hold on, to keep from going over the top as the cock pulled back and punched in faster and faster. She couldn’t help but think of a boxer punching a punching back. That was what it was like, how the huge cock was ramming into her, like the fists of a boxer slamming into a punching bag. Was that what she was? What her cunt was? A punching bag?

Punch harder, she thought. Faster, harder, harder. Almost there…

And then the man-beast rammed his cock home and bellowed a terrifying animal roar.

She screamed at the same time, feeling his huge cock throb and twitch inside her as it spurted out vast jets of gism, filling her up to overflowing. Her cunt, responding with an overwhelming orgasm of its own, clenched fiercely around his shaft, milking it.

Markhan jammed forward once, twice, a third time, sending fresh jets of semen deep up into her womb, filling her, overfilling her. The overflow bubbled out of her cunt, dribbling down around his cock and down her thighs, trickling down over the twitching eye of her anus.

Markhan promptly sat back up and plucked his huge cock out of her cunt. She let out a scream of pain at the abrupt withdrawal. She rolled over, her whole body trembling, too shaken to stand, reaching down between her legs with both hands, shocked to feel how huge the opening still was.

As Markhan slid over onto the nearby furs, lying flat on his back, his cock, still erect, sticking straight up in the air, she rolled over onto her side, clutching her battered cunt, holding it tight as she felt the interior clenching, gradually resuming its more-or-less normal dimensions. She could feel the outer lips too begin to draw shut.

“Come here,” Markhan said.

“Yes sir,” she muttered, and began to crawl unsteadily toward the man-beast. She paused, too weak to move. He rolled over and grabbed her, laying her across his chest.
He spun her around so that her bruised cunt was turned toward his face. He pulled her up along the length of his body. She hissed as her sensitive nipples scraped against the coarse hair of his chest.

Then she felt him spread her legs, felt his hot breath on her aching cunt.

For once, she actually didn’t want any more sex play. No more agony. No more ecstasy. She’d had too much of both. She was simply worn out. Of course, she knew that she had no choice in the matter.

She felt the giant’s lips pressing up against her sex, the tongue probing. But it wasn’t like before. Something else was happening. There was a kind of honey warmth spreading up inside her. Not like sex. This was different. It seemed to flow up through the tissues of her cunt and as it did, all of the pain, the cramping, faded away, until only that honey warm feeling remained, spreading out until it filled her whole body.

Finally, he let go of her. She rolled over and sat up on his broad chest. She reached between her legs, feeling her cunt. Strange that she felt no embarrassment at all about inspecting herself in front of this creature. Well, she thought, why should I? I belong to him.

She slipped a finger inside the damp interior and realized with a sudden shock that she felt tight, not just as tight as she had before Markhan’s penetration, but as tight as she’d been before a year of steady fucking at the hand (rather the cock) of Mister Hendricks. She reached in further. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find an intact cherry. But no. She was open all the way. But her cunt was tight and firm, ready to be used again.

Ready to be used the way Markhan just used it, she thought, and she could feel the juices start to flow.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I healed you. Healed your cunt. But not your head. That’s still crooked. I can’t fix that.”

“My head? I don’t understand, sir.”

“This wanting to be hurt. This is a crooked thing in your head. I cannot fix it. It does not matter to me, that you want to be hurt, so long as you do as I tell you. All pale women are stupid and know nothing but most of them can be taught. But do not look to me to do this thing that you want. To feed this hunger to be hurt. If you deserve to be punished, I will punish you, but if you do wrong because you want me to hurt you, then I will drive you out and you will die in the forest and no one will remember your name. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“I will give you your name now.”

“Yes sir.”

Markhan placed a hand on her shoulder. She shivered at the weight of it, at the hotness of the dry palm, at the prick of the sharp claws.

“Your name will be Stick. Just Stick. Though you do not see it, I see a hardness in you, Stick, a dryness that holds out the world. I will try to teach you, but I think one day you may break.”

Stick swallowed, suddenly feeling tears stinging her eyes.

“Yes sir.”

“You are very thin and your hips are narrow, not very good for having sons, and you are also very stupid and you don’t know how to do anything, like all of you pale women but even so, I may be able to teach you and make something useful out of you. But this hardness in you, this I cannot heal. That which is born to someone, I cannot heal. And this hardness was born to you, Stick.”

“Yes sir.”

Stick slipped down under the weight of Markhan’s hand, lying flat on her stomach across his chest. There are different kinds of whips, she thought. The kind that stops at the skin and the kind that goes all the way through. Stick had never felt a whip that went all the way through—not until now. It was a different kind of hurt and she suddenly realized that she didn’t like this kind.

She looked back toward his cock, still standing erect, glistening with her juices, and his own cum.

She shivered. The whitish smears reached down a full ten inches or more on the huge dark, eighteen inch phallus. That much was up inside me, she thought. And soon will be again.

Next time, she thought, I’ll take more. That would be better, a more familiar comforting kind of pain.

Stick slid down across the broad expanse of his muscular hair-covered belly. His slow steady breathing lifted her slightly up and down as she moved.
She came close to his massive shaft, reached out for it. She hesitated.

“May I lick your cock, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir, Stick. My name means that I am master, just as your name means that you are mine.”

“Yes, Markhan. May I lick…”

“Yes, Stick.”

She slid down and wrapped her hand around the root of the huge shaft. She realized with a shiver than one of her hands barely went half way around it. She wrapped both of her hands around it, encompassing it, pressed her lips against the twitching puckered head.

She started to pump her fists up and down the smooth twitching shaft, slick with her own cream and gism, feeling the blood pulsing inside it, as she tongued Markhan’s broad cock head, opening her mouth as wide as she could—no it could never fit inside.

But she could lick the huge shaft and she did, moving her lips and tongue and down the huge shaft, cupping his enormous ball sack.

She could feel a low groan coming from deep inside the giant.

Stick no longer thought about the terrors of the previous day, the plane crash, the death of Mister Hendricks nor even about the whole of the last year. The girl named Darcy Winston, whoever she had been, whatever life she had lived, seemed like a distant forgotten dream.

Now there was only a slim naked girl named Stick, not lost in the wilderness but here where she belonged, in the den of her more-than-human Master, Markhan, serving him, serving his mighty cock.

She had found her way home at last.

THE END

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