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The Victim (Paula S Erikson)

The Victim by Paula S Erikson

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Colin knelt, his tongue probing the Princess’s clit. He thought back to his walk over the Derbyshire moors, when two policewomen arrested him. He protested, then argued. They gagged him, with their panties. The start of his problems.

He was shackled in a stall, an Arabian woman came to gaze at him, naked. That night he was loaded into a crate, and onto a wagon, bound for Arabia.

An ogre made him obedient, and capable of completing his tasks, as the Princess’s hand maiden, and bed partner.

To train someone in bedroom etiquette, you take them to bed, then punish their dicks when they fail. To train a slave to kneel, you hit the soles of their feet, until they cannot walk. To teach a new language, you fasten their hands palm up, and use the cane on them. His backside was for general mistakes, as were his breasts.

A new Princess took him, who wanted him to satisfy her slaves, all forty two of them, and howl in pain, to please her demented desires.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 8 / 2015

No. words: 139403

Style: HAREMS AND SLAVES, Bondage/BDSM and Horror, Fem Dom - F/M

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1 - Capture

July in England is a month when you can expect the best of weather, and today was no exception. The temperature had soared to a high of thirty one degrees. This also meant that the humidity was high, and I was sweating under the glare of the sun.
It was a clear, blue sky, with the odd fluffy cloud scurrying high overhead. Here, up on the top of the moors, there was a pleasant, cool breeze, which kept me cool and ruffled my hair. It had been a long, cold winter, and now I was enjoying the summer sunshine.
I had decided to walk across the moors from my isolated farm cottage. I lived alone after my divorce. The walk took me over the tops, as the moors were called locally, to the larger town, on the far side of the moors. This town was where I did most of my shopping and drinking, not that I drank that much, these days.
I reflected on the events of the last six months, from my divorce to now, and my pleasant, solitary life style. My ex-wife accepted the blame for her adultery and gave me a divorce. This also freed me from the constraints and claustrophobic atmosphere of city life. I don’t knock it; it suits some people, but not me. I liked the open country side, the fresh air, and ok yes, I suppose the frost and being snowed in, in the winter. Even being snowed in had its interesting and exciting elements to it.
I had worked hard and been successful, putting away quite a substantial amount of cash, from my fees as an investment broker. If it wasn’t good enough for me, then it wasn’t good enough for my clients; those were my watch words. I invested smaller amounts of my own money, but in the same investments I had recommended to my clients. I was successful, so they were as well. Putting some of my profits into an offshore account and reinvesting the principle.
My ex-wife could spend for the country, I had allowed her to, but I was cleaver. I invested my money separately, and after the divorce she got half of what she thought I had, which wasn’t nearly half of what I did have. She took twenty five thousand, and the house worth another quarter of a million. I left with twenty five thousand in cash and my investments, about a quarter of a million, but that amount did not include the million, I had stashed away, off shore.
I was well set up, and with my investments I rented a cottage up in the moors. The rental again was not as it seemed, it wasn’t actually rented. I managed to persuade the owner, a farmer, who didn’t want to pay capital gains, to sell it to me privately. The rent actually was the mortgage payments. I paid twenty thousand from my secreted monies, and then rented the cottage on a ten year lease. With a proviso that, after the specified period, I could buy the cottage for another five thousand pounds. The rent he declared, but the twenty thousand he did not declare, a nice bonus, for him. He was extremely happy with the undeclared sums, which he had the use of, and I was happy. I had bought the cottage on the cheap, a good deal all around. Retired and free of debts, but if anything did go wrong, I had the cash in my off shore account to clear, the mortgage.
I also still dabbled in the stock markets, which actually increased my, offshore monies, which meant that I hadn’t a care in the world, I was very comfortably off.
It was so hot that day that I took my shirt off, and allowed my pseudo tattoo to see the light of day, it wasn’t permanent. It was just a painted one, to see if I liked it before making the tattoo permanent. I suppose it was the rebel in me, which I was reluctant to allow to surface that stopped me from having one, without this dare I say, trial period.
As I strolled down the lane, sweat glistened off my skin from the heat and humidity, but that didn’t bother me, I was in my heaven. I strolled along nonchalantly enjoying the walk, and the smells of the country side. The smell of the new mown hay and the hedgerow flowers, now in full bloom. The insects were a nuisance, but also a joy, as they buzzed from flower to flower supping the sap, and spreading the pollen. This, was the life I had dreamed of.
I wasn’t lonely, just alone, and with no money cares, I was carefree and loving it. I still dabbled on the markets with my off shore money, so that I kept my hand in, and the profits were a bonus. My colleagues said that I had the ‘Midas Touch’. I suppose I did, a poor month for me was when I only doubled the money I had invested, buying and selling, stocks and shares. I tried futures, but didn’t like it, so stuck to the more stable, share markets, where as I said, I did exceptionally well.
Up ahead I saw a police car parked by the side of the road, as I drew closer, I could see that it was occupied by, two officers. I could see from the reflection in the wing mirror that they were, female officers. The driver had a plastic cup in one hand from the local takeaway, and was tipping the last drops out onto the road, I presumed that it was the end of their break.
Usually I would have put my shirt on if I saw a female, out of respect. But the sun was so enjoyable that I decided not to, and continued to stroll up to them with my shirt over my shoulder.
I thought back to the day I had, had the painted tattoo done, which was on my upper arm. It had been painted on, a temporary one, which would be visible to them, as I passed. I thought about the man who entered the tattoo salon, as they were completing, my design. He also wanted the same tattoo in the same place, on his upper left arm, a red rose for Lancashire, encircled in laurel leaves. The tattooist had been busy completing my tattoo design, when he entered, and he had to wait for the second booth. That was a few days ago now, and the weather hadn’t been kind enough for me to remove my shirt, since then.
It wasn’t that we both wanted the same tattoo; or that we both wanted a false tattoo, to try it out first. It was the fact that the receptionist had asked me if I had a brother, a twin brother. I had told her that I didn’t, she just smiled, and went back to her desk. She was dealing with a client, who had just walked in, and I smiled back politely and started to put my coat and raincoat on, as usual, it was raining hard, that day.
When he came out of the booth, a few moments after me, I realised that she was correct; he could, have been my twin. We looked at each other, smiled, and then he started to put his coat and overcoat on, and I left.
On the reception desk, as I passed, was the artist’s drawing of his tattoo, it was identical to the one I was trying out. I walked out and decided to wait for him, we both commented on the likeness, and the fact that the receptionist, had commented on it, to us both, and that we were having an identical tattoo. I remembered telling him about the walk over the tops I was looking forward to; adding glibly that it would be when the sun, at long last, decided to shine.
By now I was almost upon the police car and I could see the women clearly, as I got nearer they moved to get out. I smiled at them and nodded my head in greeting as I walked past, the one nearest to me, stopped me. The other one came around behind me, and told me to lean against the car and spread my legs.
I looked at them in amazement, “This some kind of joke?” I asked, confused looking from one to the other.
“No Sir. Please, lean against the car and spread your legs. Unless you would like us to take you down to the police station and do a full, body search,” she said again, now in an officious tone, more of an order.
“I do object, and very strongly,” I said with feeling, “I was just out for a little walk in this glorious sunshine and minding my own business. I saw you, I smiled politely, and now, you want me to lean against the car and spread my legs. What the hell, is this?” I asked angrily.
“Sir,” she said even more forcefully, pulling the gun she wore out of its holster, “I have asked you politely and requested your assistance. Now I am telling you, to do it. Or I will arrest you for obstructing a police officer in the execution of her duty, and that, carries a mandatory six months, in prison. Now, you choose. Do as I say, or, you will go to prison,” she said forcefully.
I looked at her, then at the gun, it was now pointed at me, and I was shocked that she had pulled, the gun. I did know that some officers had been armed because of several armed robberies in the area, but I never expected them to be female, and way out here, and definitely not, pointing their guns at me. I had done nothing wrong.
I was alone with these policewomen, and in the middle of nowhere. I felt I had no option and I did, as told. Whilst she held the gun on me, the other officer frisked me down, rather roughly and personally I thought, as she grabbed my balls, but I wasn’t in any position to object, especially with the gun pointed, at me.
The officer that had frisked me down placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled my arm up my back, she put a hand cuff on my wrist. She then took the other arm and cuffed that one, as well. Cuffing my hands, behind my back. I didn’t stop her, or object, I decided to wait till we were in the police station, and then, I would demand, to see the Inspector and make my complaint, formally.
“What, what’s the charge? This is an outrage. This is not America, pointing a gun at me. I have done nothing wrong. I will report this to your senior officer, and make a formal complaint, about the treatment,” I protested, but she just continued to handcuff me.
I was pushed into the back of the police car; they both got in the front. She threw my shirt in beside me on the back seat, which had fallen off my shoulder. The office who had frisked me had removed my wallet from my back pocket, inside it she found my driver’s licence and looked at it, and then frowned.
She turned around and looked at me, and then back at the licence. “What do you reckon?” she said, handing it to her colleague.
“We had better ask the boss? The name is wrong, but it is the one we want. I’m sure it is, he is the same as the description, and he has the same tattoo. Where did you get this license?” the driver asked me, abruptly.
“The usual place, from the DVLC in Swansea,” I said in a brusque tone. “Why? What’s wrong with it?” I asked, I was now concerned about the licence.
“There appears to be nothing wrong with it. But I know that it is a forgery,” she replied, with a sarcastic smile.
“Pardon? I got that licence three years ago by filling in the form and sending the money to the DVLC. Now, if it is a forgery, then I want to know why? I also want to know why, I am being treated, like this? I have done nothing wrong, as I said before. This is an outrage,” I said angrily.
The driver started the car, and we drove off. We had covered about half a mile when I decided that they were going the wrong way, having passed the turning for the nearest town, with a police station.
“Which police station are you taking me to? You are going the wrong way, for the local station. What the hell, is going on? The nearest police,” I was saying, and she interrupted me.
“Shut the fuck up asshole, or I will gag you. Now shut it,” the officer who was in the passenger seat said, she then turned back to the front, ignoring me.
“No, I will not, shut up. I know my rights, you have not cautioned me, or read me my rights. Now I demand to know where, you are taking me? And why I am in handcuffs? I never gave you any reason to use them on me. I demand to speak to my solicitor as soon as we arrive, and you are going, the wrong way.
You do know the way to the nearest police station, don’t you? Women,” I said angrily. I was getting agitated and beginning to raise my voice, they looked at each other, and nodded.
The driver stopped the car after she had turned off the road into a side lane. The passenger got out first, and went to the back door on the near side. I was sat by the off side door, behind the driver. The driver got out, and opened the door by me. I looked at her, but out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the passenger pulling her knickers down.
“What is she doing? That is indecent. I will report you,” was as far as I got with my complaint.
The officer next to me put her stick into my mouth keeping it open, whilst the one who had removed her knickers now pushed them into, my mouth. The passenger, now held the stick, whilst the officer who was driving, removed her knickers, and pushed them in as well. They removed the stick and put a piece of tape over, my mouth.
“I told you to shut up, and you didn’t do as told. So we will make you shut the fuck up. As we have done, tasty, are they?” she said, laughed, and closed the car door.
I was now gagged and shackled in the back, locked in the car and unable to help myself. They were for the moment in control, but once we arrived at the police station; then they would be in, serious trouble.
This was an outrage, gagging a prisoner! Who the hell did they think, they were? My solicitor, would have a field day. I would get a million in compensation for this, the stupid bitches. Just because they were pretty and in uniform, they thought that they could do as they pleased, without, repercussions, I would show them.
Yes, they were pretty, both regulation height plus an inch say, long hair tied back, one had a pony tail the other had hers up in a bun. A trim waist and the uniform, well, that had always done things, for me. They wore ‘A’ line skirts, their jackets had been thrown in the back of the car, so they sat with just their blouses on.
It was a tight blouse, which emphasised a well-defined bust, the top button was undone and showing a deep cleavage, on both of them. Not what I would have called properly dressed, for police officers, but I hadn’t noticed that before. I was too busy being shocked and anxious by the sudden attack on my freedom. Now, as I looked at the back of them, I noticed some other things that were out of place.
I wondered why they hadn’t reported in, and why had the radio been silent? Usually, even if they were not actually speaking to the station, other officers were, and you got one side of the conversation or at least a crackling. Not that I ever understood what was being said through the static. They were driving with the radio on, and listening to a local station. It was quiet, the volume must have been low, but again, odd.
They hadn’t put their hats on when they had stopped me, not necessarily wrong, but usually, they did. I understood that it was a sign of them being, on duty, and finally, putting their worn knickers in my mouth. The acrid taste left me in no doubts that they had been worn for the better part of their shift, at least. They were damp, very damp, almost wet and very tasty, as they had said. I was sure that was against my rights, to have two pairs of used knickers stuffed in, my mouth.


Reading the excerpt was enough for me to decide not to buy this book. It has clearly not been checked for spelling or grammar - particularly the latter, because there are many, many commas where commas should not be. The story might well be good, but these faults would drive me crazy. 2 out of 5 (visitor)

  Author reply: Thank you for your comments, I appreciate them, to clarify one point, the excerpt is not edited, but the book is, correcting my faults.

Author Information

Born in 1949 in England, I worked in the food industry and recently began writting erotic novels.


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