Stepsister pain | Plaything 1 | bdsm stories

FROM THE OMO SECRET FILE

Name: Tyler

Address: no fixed

Height: 183 centimeters

Weight: 76 kilograms

Identifying marks: a crescent-shaped scar beside his left eye Languages: English, French, Spanish, Arabic, Japanese, Chinese (Mandarin and Cantonese), Russian; proficient though perhaps not fluent in Italian, German, and Swedish

Vices: Women; does not smoke or drink Comments: All-around athlete, expert pistol shot, knife thrower (throwing blade in scabbard at base of neck), does not use disguises. Almost always armed with cane with silver-plated lead ball-crown. In general, fights with tenacity and has a high tolerance of pain. Uses a tranquilizing mixture called Nirvana in nasal spray containers, pump bottles, and occasionally, in aerosol cans. He had worked for the OMO for two decades before turning renegade.

The fact that he entered the White Slavery Network as OMO's "Number One," a rank he held until his chosen retirement, is a measure of his worth.

Conclusion: Must be eliminated.

ADDENDUM

OMO: Old Man's Organization, the most powerful and influential "recruiter" of high quality females for the WSN (White Slavery Network). Since then, the withdrawal of the Old Man, creator and head of the organization for almost sixty years, the OMO has lost its meaning and has become, simply, the OMO.

Enemies: A hunter known only as A.B. out to destroy the WSN, with seemingly bottomless financial backing; an escaped recruit known only as the Mouse, who also seeks to destroy the WSN while tending a female child home of an OMO

"rape-in-transit."

Allies: An arms dealer code-named Frakie, who was once a feared Vietnam assassin; a Wall Street analyst code-named Snoot, with access to a spectacular Cornputer system.

Associates: A supplier of medium and low quality "females to the WSN code-naked Swank; a feared, anonymous supplier of all quality males to the WSN, code-named the Voice; a doctor code-named Sawbones; and a safe-house specialist named Michael MacCurdy, nicknamed the Crimson Mick.

Editor: Geoffrey Merrick, personally chosen by Tyler to publicly disclose the ex-white slaver's experiences, which are written by Tyler while on the run.

CYNDI ROWLAND LOOKED LIKE AN ANGEL. HER HAIR was golden-yellow blond-and fell on

either side of her oval face like fine silk curtains. The strands whispered across her shapely neck to the very top of her chest. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. Her eyes were deep and dark blue, watching the world with serenity and concern. They were on either side of her straight nose, which was set above rosy lips, which were thin when she smiled, but just succulent enough at rest.

At rest, the lower lip always seemed to be at the point of trembling, and the upper lip was slightly curved-so her perfect white teeth could always be seen.

It gave her a tentative, suppliant look which never failed to attract. What her expressions lacked, her body more than made up for.

She was wonderfully lithe and shapely at the same time. She was just five foot-six in her stocking feet, with slim hips, a small waist, but a chest which held aloft two strong, round orbs, with tiny pink areolas and tiny brown nipples. That much was apparent beneath the ivory-colored silk nightgown which swept across her body like a breeze.

The outfit had been a gift from her father. The sleeves were dappled with lace inserts, which also stretched across the top of her hands to the knuckles. Lace also rippled across the deep V neckline, just keeping it from being too immodest. He had it specially made for her, from measurements taken at the private school she had just graduated from.

She wore it as a favor to him. She wore it as she looked out of the open french doors, across her room I s small balcony, and into the warm May night. The darkness held no peace for her. Her father was in his bedroom, down the hall, dying.

She tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts as t she looked for solace in the moonlit sky. Had she truly never forgiven him for remarrying after her mother died? Even the death of her stepmother hadn't seemed to diminish the hurt. But was what she had done so bad? He hadn't seemed to think so. He had accepted her actions-even seemed proud of her independence.

What shame there might have been didn't last long. Only a month at worst and a year at best. He could forgive and forget. He had seemed to. That was why she had run to his side when he had called for her.

Her stepmother's family didn't seem so happy to see her. Her stepsister Audrey and stepbrother Oswald were the worse for wear during her absence. Both were even bigger and wider than she last remembered them. Both were still working at the hospital. You w ould think her father was in good hands, but what did he need with an anesthesiologist and an orderly?

"Ms. January."

She spun around when she heard the words Across the long, handsomely appointed room, her step-relatives stood in the doorway. Cyndi caught her breath. In the gloom, they looked like a stern warder and headsman.

"Don't call me that," she snapped when she was able to speak again. She found her slim hand, with their short nails painted pink on her chest-unconsciously blocking any unnecessary view of her cleavage.

"Why not?" said Audrey, coming into the darkened room, letting the dim light from the hall spill in.

"That's what you are, isn't it?" "Not anymore," Cyndi maintained, standing straighter.

"What do you want us to call you?" sneered Oswald. "Cynthia? Cyndi?"

"Call me stepsister," she said firmly. "I don't care. What do you want?"

Audrey looked back at her brother, and they both shook their heads. Audrey tsked and looked lazily back at Cyndi. "It's your daddy," she drawled sarcastically.

"I think this is it. He's calling you."

The news hit Cyndi like a cold, wet washcloth. She jerked in place, her dark blue eyes widening. Then she started forward on the balls of her feet. "Why didn't you say so?" she breathed in disbelief. But then Audrey was blocking her way, her fingers squeezing Cyndi's forearm. The blond stopped short, looking across her wide, firm stepsister just inside the door.

"Because it wouldn't do any good," Audrey was saying. "You're not home tonight.

You're out with some dumb stud you picked up in a bar."

Cyndi couldn't believe her ears. She was dimly aware of her stepsister's grip getting harder and harder. "W-what?"

"Yeah," said Oswald. "He's probably fucking you in the back of his car by now."

Cyndi looked up at his smirking face, becoming numb. "What are you talking about?"

"You've changed, stepsister dear," Audrey said in a quiet sing-song, holding Cyndi back. "Ever since you hit the 'big time.' Now you're nothing but a stupid slut."

Cyndi felt her anger and saw red. She tried to wrench her arm out of Audrey's grip. "Get out of my way!" she cried, moving forward.

But all Audrey did was hold onto her wrist. As she passed, Audrey pulled the wrist back and swung it up.

Cyndi gasped in surprise as her feet slid and she started to bend from the pain.

She found herself between her step-relatives. She found herself looking at Oswald's feet.

But not for long. Just as she was becoming aware of the flaming pain at her wrist and shoulder, Oswald sunk his fingers into her hair over her brow and yanked up. Her head rose, her mouth opening to shriek in pain.

Oswald filled the tender hole. Cyndi heard her cry smothered and felt the soft hunk of material filling her mouth. Audrey's arm snaked around her neck and pulled her back.

Cynthia Rowland was standing on tiptoe, her back bent, her right arm twisted all the way up her back. Her free hand gripped her stepbrother's thick left wrist, which was holding her jaw open as he stuffed a wad of brown material into her straining mouth.

"Your stockings, stepsister dear," she heard Audrey hiss into her ear. "I took every one and turned them into the roundest, thickest ball you've ever seen. An absolutely perfect vocal plug. No one will ever hear you. No one will ever know you're here."

Cyndi tried to struggle, tried to kick, tried to scream. But each time she did, her toes would leave the floor, and her throat would sink deeper into Audrey's thick arm, choking her. Every time she did, her pinioned arm would rise higher up her back, the pain lightning through her. Every time she did, the silky stockings would tickle her throat, making her choke.

"Shush," said Oswald, clamping a meaty hand over her mouth, pressing himself against her. Her head was bent all the way back as she tried to escape them. She smelled them sandwiching her, driving her mad. "What a little fighter, eh?"

"She isn't going anywhere," Audrey grunted, holding her tight. "You can't know how long I waited for this, stepsister dear," she whispered, her wet lips nipping Cyndi's ear. "We've worked long and hard making sure your dear daddy knew all about your fucking around......

Cyndi bucked. What fucking around? she wondered in agony. She hadn't done any of that!

"We read him all sons of news clippings and letters as he lay in his sickbed,"

Audrey continued ominously, grunting with the effort of holding the slim girl still. "All the men you were seeing, all the money you were making, all the movies you took your clothes off in. . . .

What? What? Cyndi's mind cried. There was nothing like that in her letters or her life.

"No drugs, though," Oswald cooed, grabbing her free wrist and pulling it wide.

"We didn't want him feeling sorry for you....

Cyndi became perfectly still. She finally got it. As soon as her photos had appeared, her step-relatives had gone to work poisoning her father's mind against her. They had got her letters and "read" them to him. They had made up stories. They had relayed "her" answer to various invitations.... Why had they let her hear from him at all?

She started to struggle anew, but they only gripped and squeezed against her tighter. Down the hall was her father's bedroom, but just inside her door, two people whispered and another tried to move.

"But now it was time to prove it to him," Audrey said, licking Cyndi's ear.

"Just before he died. Just before he okayed a new will......"

Cyndi bucked so hard she thought her arm would snap off. All the tendons on her neck stood out. Her cheeks bulged over Oswald's hand. Sweat popped out of her pores and sunk into her nightgown. Her chest heaved, straining against the bodice. But all they heard was a long, wailing, drowning groan.

Oswald felt her nipples harden, like two buttons beneath the silk.

"God damn it!" they all heard. The door had opened a crack more, and Harold Ellsworth had appeared.

Cyndi slumped in her relatives' grip. Ellsworth was her father's lawyer. Now they had to let her go. Now they couldn't continue this monstrous deception.

Oswald and Audrey also stared at the welldressed lawyer, maintaining their grip on the beautiful girl.

"Haven't you secured her yet?" the attorney grunted. "Now he's asking where you are!"

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