Bondage story - The Phantom of the Roxy - 18

Alternative one, she told everyone she’d been kidnapped, tortured and raped. She’d have to report it to the police then, and they’d interrogate her for the details, and even if she tried to leave out the parts where she liked the whipping and begged for the raping, they’d be able to tell. Then they wouldn’t be able to press charges because she’d been willing, and the story would be in the papers, and everyone in the country would know she was some kind of pain slut pervert. Not much of an alternative.

Alternative two, she didn’t tell anyone, the show would go on, and she’d have to come to terms with the ordeal and what it had revealed about her in silence, with no one she could confde in. And the madman would go scott-free and continue to lurk about the theater with impunity. What’s worse, he had promised he was going to do it to her again! In fact, if no one stopped him, he might just keep on doing it to her whenever he got the itch! The thought of a future in which the Whisperer could put her through that again whenever he pleased flled her with horror! Yet, compared to alternative one, it seemed almost worth considering.

Neither alternative was acceptable, she realized at last. She had to come up with another alternative. She could leave New York and fee back to Los Angeles, but there’d be repercussions. If she broke her contract she’d have to pay back the money the Roxy had paid her, plus her air fare and rent. Worse, her agent would put her name on that list he kept of fakes and unreliables, and she’d probably never get work again. No, she couldn’t do that.

Perhaps there was some way she could deal with the situation herself, she thought, though she couldn’t imagine how. Still, what else was there? She’d have to come up with something.

She was still waiting for the shaking to stop when Sarah came in to see if she was all right. She told her from inside the stall that she was fne, and she’d be out in a few minutes, and Sarah went away satisfed.

When she felt steady enough, Jessica came out and washed her face in the sink. Patting her face dry with a paper towel, she took stock in the mirror. Her makeup was a complete write-off. She looked a little pale, and her long dark brown hair was a tangled mess. Other than that, she looked all right. The Whisperer had re-tied her tee-shirt under her breasts just the way she’d had it, and she didn’t see any welts or other marks on her bare midriff. Her nipples were still throbbing, and they remained swollen, as though they were still excited. They were visible through her sports bra and tee-shirt as fair-sized lumps, which, she had to admit, looked kind of sexy. Her backside was still aching, and sore to the touch. A quick peek beneath her leggings revealed a deep red mottling all over both cheeks, but no real bruising. The welts that had covered most of her body had faded to near invisibility already.

After fxing her make-up and brushing her hair, Jessica took a deep Yoga breath and walked back into the theater. She rejoined the others and worked with them for the rest of the afternoon as if nothing had happened. For the most part, she was able to put the “incident” out of her mind and not think about it. After all, she’d had a lot of practice not thinking about things like that.

That night, however, it all came rushing back to her in the semi-darkness of her room. The horror of it was rapidly overtaken by intense, burning shame of such magnitude that it made her cry. But as the tears subsided, she found another emotion rising. Desire. As she re-lived the scene over and over again in her mind, she found that the fear, the horror and the shame all seemed to blend in with the arousal, becoming one inseparable morass of rising need.

When she could no longer resist touching herself, she found that she was soaking wet. As she gently stroked her throbbing clit with one fnger, her other hand slipped beneath her tank-top and pinched her sore nipples, and the resulting pain seemed to feed her arousal, just as it had when she had been the Whisperer’s captive. Fantasizing that she was once more helpless beneath his cruel whip, she brought herself to a tremendously intense orgasm. Then, exhausted, with the aftermath of guilt and shame burning within her as always, she passed into sleep.