In Progress Untitled - Rated R

Note: RATED-R; THIS IS A VERY MATURE STORY. Later parts will involve sexual acts and various tortures. Do not read if you can't handle it.


It was only noon when Iris arrived in Hay-on-Wye. She stopped in the small town for petrol and a quick lunch, but she was quickly distracted by all of the used bookstores and antique shops all over the town. She walked into one particularly large shop and was sucked into the scents of elderly books piled high on shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. She peered through every shelf and glanced through many books, getting lost among the pages.

Not too far away, a gentleman who was very well-known in town was in the shop, looking through a stack of new arrivals. He stood well over six feet, very heavy, yet had the muscular arms and tan skin of a farmer. Iris took little notice of him, other than to marvel at the man's size. She had yet to see someone so large in Great Britain, honestly.

Iris found a prize among the stacks of books: Perfect Victim: The True Story of "The Girl in the Box", a book Iris had been looking for for a very long time. She was a psychology major in the United States, working towards a Ph.D in forensic psychology. She had studied the case of the "girl in the box" and it fascinated her to no end. She could not even imagine what it would be like to be treated as a sex slave for any amount of time, let alone seven whole years.

She bought the book stepped past the large man as she exited the store. He nodded to her as she past, and she smiled politely. "Good afternoon," he said to her, making her stop. "New in town?" He had an American accent, which really surprised her.

"Just passing through," she told him.

"Visiting the country, are you?"

"Yes, I'm on vacation."

"Hope you're enjoying yourself." He made a gesture, like he tipped an imaginary hat, and continued on into the back of the store. Iris walked on out of the store cheerfully, although wondering about the large man. She did figure he wasn't European.

A few hours of excursions among the bookstores and antique shops of Hay-on-Wye had brought Iris to a nice little antique shop on the edge of town. Inside were fun little trinkets, a very nice-looking silver dagger that her boyfriend, Aaron, would have loved, and other various fun things. She saw among the tourist information a little town just a few miles outside of Hay-on-Wye in which the stores there, all of which were also bookshops, had sales. Excited, Iris got into her rentle car and drove out to the town, Corrindale.
Corrindale was a small farming town, so small, if one blinked while passing through, they'd miss it. There was a post office, a small coffee shop and three shops. Iris parked her Miata and walked into the first bookshop she saw, The Keeper.

The shop was very small, much smaller than the shops in Hay-on-Wye, but already bosted many great jems: first editions and rarities that one could find no where else. The shopkeeper, a slight man with short, dark hair and dark eyes, sat behind the counter, working away on a very old yet efficient computer. "Good afternoon," he called to her when she walked in, but said nothing else.

Iris dove into the books, looking at everything, even the strange romance novels in the back. One that caught her attention was a very strange novel in which the girl in the story was kidnapped and held hostage by a very horny man. Although the plot was a bit twisted, Iris decided to buy it. She held onto it as she glanced over every other book in the store. She was in fact so emersed in her little world that she did not notice the delivery man pull up and block the entrance until she decided to leave.

"Just head out the back," the shopkeeper said after ringing up her purchase. He had a nice Welsh accent, but it wasn't very strong. Iris, for reasons unknown to herself, very much enjoyed thick Welsh accents, and that was precisely she had decided to take her vacation in Wales, even if it meant she had to be away from her boyfriend for two weeks, as he couldn't get the time off work. Just before she left, they had gotten into an argument about her going, which left her in a foul mood until they spoke on the phone a few nights later.

As she walked out, she didn't notice the man waiting just outside the door. He was the same large man from Hay-on-Wye, and he had been following Iris all day. Now, in the dim light of dusk, in the back of a small bookshop, he approached her, called to her. She turned, and just as she did, she was met in the face with a fruity scent, but then fell into black unconsciousness.

Re: Untitled

Ah...interesting. Hopefully, Iris gets out of this mess. I noticed foreshadowing, good job.

When Iris reawoke, she couldn't move. Her vision was blurry, she felt disorientated. Something was on her, something warm. She tried to push it off of her, but it didn't budge. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear her vision futilly. "W-what's going on?" she murmured, more to herself.

"Good morning."

She jumped, but was held down by strong arms. She blinked a few times and registered the thing on her was a person, someone holding her down.

"Who are you? What's going on?" she asked frantically, panic setting in. She felt a big, warm hand on her thigh and tried to pull away, but couldn't move. Slowly her vision cleared and she could see the person on her clearly.

It was the big man from the bookshop.

He was shirtless, his dark, shoulder-length hair down and in his face, covering all of his features except his dark eyes, which were hard to see anyway in the dark room. She didn't recognize him by face but more by his size and his voice. "W-what's going on?" she choked out. Her throat was dry and it felt on fire. She felt warm fingers on her cheek and tried to pull away, but he held the back of her head hard and prevented her from moving.

"Let me go!" she demanded through clenched teeth. Her only reply was a soft chuckle before she felt his hand inbetween her thighs. She thrashed as much as she could under him, though her movements were severely restricted. He leaned more on her, putting just enough weight on her diaphragm to make breathing hard but not impossible. His hand felt over her light shorts slowly, carefully. Even through the fabric, she could feel his big, strong hand hitting sensitive areas, and she wimpered in fear and pleasure.

All of a sudden he got off her. She immediately sat up and looked around as quickly as she could before he pushed her down to the floor again. He straddled her, careful to position his weight so that she could not move. His big belly pressed against her abdomen and despite herself, Iris let out a small moan of pleasure. Big-bellied men were her weakness, a secret fetish that she had never told anyone, not even Aaron.

"Oh my, it seems you like this," he said, and Iris noticed there was something different about his voice. It had suddenly grown more fluid, a bit deeper, and he sounded southern, as if he had come from Mississippi or Misouri. She gazed up at his dark form in half confusion, wondering in the back of her mind if she had imagined the change yet at the same time not caring. She struggled some more, got a leg free, almost both legs, before he grabbed them and slammed them together.

"What do you want from me?!" she screamed at him, trying to make as much noise as possible, hoping neighbours would hear. She felt a hand carress her neck ever so gently, then tighten around her throat, but not hard enough to cut off her air.

"Quiet now," he murmured to her. "Or else." He let go of her throat and slowly began to unbutton her blouse. She struggled futilly again, grasped his big, hard arms, scratched him as much as she could before he snapped her wrists together in one large hand and held them above her head. Her blouse fell away, exposing her pink sports bra which he pushed up, leaving her breasts open.

"No, please!" she begged, tears starting to cloud her vision. This couldn't be happening to her - she was not going to end up like the girl in the box. It just couldn't happen. This had to be a nightmare, and soon she'd wake up safe in her little room at the inn. She closed her eyes and tried to wake up, only to realize how awake and in reality she really was when she felt his free hand grope one breast and his tongue run over the other. She shrieked, moaned and shivered, aroused, afraid, violated.

The hand on her breast moved down to her shorts. She felt his nimble fingers unbutton the garment and slide them down easily as he carefully got off of her. She kicked and thrashed some more, but he pinned her shins down with one large, heavy leg. She had no idea how long she had been fighting him, but she was feeling fatigued. The room was hot, and his warm body didn't help. She couldn't fight him much more, and he easily spread her legs and felt up her thigh.

Iris rarely wore underwear; they never felt comfortable to her. So the man had immediate access to areas that Iris had never wanted him to have access to. "Please, don't do this," she begged him. "Please." But her pleas fell on deaf ears, and soon she was moaning reluctantly as he ever so carefully fingered her clitoris. Feelings of pleasure surged throughout Iris' body, making every inch of her skin sensitive to touch. He released her arms, but she couldn't fight him any longer. His free hand explored her body as his other softly stimulated certain areas.

The man knew what he was doing. He suckled one breast lightly, then switched to the other randomly, always catching her off-guard. He pressed his belly into her, causing a gasp to escape from her lips. Weakly, she pressed her hand into his soft flesh and moaned again as another wave of pleasure overtook her. This wasn't right - this was against her will. She couldn't enjoy this, it was fucking rape! What was wrong with her?!

After what felt like a lifetime, the man finally got off her and let go of her. She turned onto her side and curled up into a defensive ball, her body still shaking in pleasure. Hot tears ran down her face. She felt his warm hand on her back slowly move down to her bottom and clench one of her cheeks. She gasped and twitched, but made no other movement.

A few moments of silence passed. She remained motionless, trying to overcome the strange feelings of her body, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her - what was happening to her. She turned her head to look at the man, gazed at his big, dark form. He was motionless, and she couldn't tell if he was looking at her or not. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling and cracking.

He leaned in close to her, his long, soft hair tickling her wet cheek. "You will call me Master," he told her.

"I will not," she told him, anger starting to settle in. All of a sudden, he pushed her down flat on the ground and straddled her again. She gasped as he put his big, muscular forearm to her neck, pressing down hard enough to make it hard to breathe. "Get off me!" she grunted.

"I don't know who you're talkin' to," he told her in his slow southern drawl.

"You!"

"And what do you call me?"

She sighed, feeling more tears roll down her cheeks. "Please get off me...Master."

She could hear his sadistic enjoyment in his voice. "Good girl." He felt her cheek, then kissed it slowly. "You've earned this. Good night." She saw him suddenly move his arm, felt a faint blow to her head, then was out cold once again.