A woman, trapped, in more ways than one.

            Firstly, I just want to say—I’m a babe. 

            You can pretend this story was written by an ugly woman if it will make you feel better, but nothing could be further from the truth.  I have long, thick dark hair, pert breasts, and a flat stomach, all of which, when combined, make me certifiably sexy.  As luck would have it, though, I also have nice legs, a round little bottom, big bright eyes and what my best friend calls ‘blowjob lips’.  Add my year-round tan (a natural, non-orange tan—my mother was Egyptian) and my slightly husky voice (a trick I picked up from watching old movies, when I was 13 and still flat-chested and would have done anything to be noticed by boys) and, voila: sex on legs.

            Or, as it was in this instance—sex in a cage.

            I had locked myself into the cage on Wednesday evening, late enough that I could feel the nip in the air.  A bank holiday weekend was coming up, and I knew that hunters, fisherman, and the like would be crawling through the woods near my holiday rental by Thursday afternoon.  I also knew that after the best part of 24 hours spent naked, helpless, and just a little cold and frightened, I’d be desperate for a shag.  I was sure one, or several, of the lads would oblige me.

            They did.  At about 4 o’clock, I was disturbed from my uneasy dozing by the shaken enquiry of a middle-aged man with too much stubble and too little hair.

            “Miss?  I beg your pardon, Miss?” he said, his boarding school tones belying the faded jacket and worn fishing pole.  Lazily, I rolled over on my back and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d, my legs spreading slightly, my breasts heaving upward (as much as medium-sized, fabulously firm breasts like mine can heave).

            His breath caught audibly, as I murmured seductively, “My Master put me here; the key’s over there, near that tree, and somewhere nearby, there’s a hidden camera.  He wants to watch as someone fucks me, fucks me so hard I can’t take any more—will you?  Will you crawl into the cage, and fuck me?”

            Hands shaking, nearly drooling, he did just that.  I have to admit, I could actually have taken more, but he was excited and anyway, he was just the warm-up round.  I knew someone else would be along shortly. 

Afterwards, I asked him to place the key back by the base of the nearby oak (an area I could be sure of hitting, if I had to lock myself back up and fling the key through the bars again).  When he enquired what I’d do next, I said with a languid shrug and a little shake of my head that I’d wait, until ‘my Master’ let me out—I was chuckling to myself, at the thought of my ever allowing a man to do anything like this to me—and then I was touched, when he left me a thermos of hot, sweet tea and one of his tuna-and-cucumber sandwiches.

Sometimes they eat me, but they never feed me. 

I waved goodbye to him, blowing him a kiss for his thoughtfulness, and then I settled down for a marathon masturbation session.  After about an hour and a dozen orgasms, when my muscles were getting sore from spasming and I could feel wetness trickling between my legs, onto the wooden floor beneath, I rolled over, pillowed my face on my crossed arms, and dozed again, thinking that it had been a day of firsts.  I was looking forward to having some tea, when next I awoke.

“You there!  I say, madam, wake up!”  Good grief, had I picked the poshest holiday camp in the Southwest?  Where were the jovial, common tones of the Somerset farmer?  The distinctive drawl of Dorset?  The infamous Bristol ‘l’?  This one sounded as if he, too, had been educated at an all-boys’ boarding school; there, his similarities to my previous guest ended.

He was young, possibly younger than my 27 years, and he was pale, thin, and aristocratic-looking.  Flaxen hair (a ridiculous word, but apt, in this instance) was neatly styled in a rather short, rather spiky ‘do, his clothes were clean and probably starched, and his hands looked positively manicured.  Smiling by sultriest smile, I began my introduction—I couldn’t believe it when he cut me off, mid-word.

“Oh, I’ll bet a slut like you wants to be fucked; look at that nose, and those pathetic little tits.  You’d get much better on an English girl; haven’t you been able to find anyone to fuck you, you ugly little half-caste?”  At my shocked, horrified expression, he held up the key and smiled the nastiest smile I’ve ever seen.  “I found this nearby; I suppose it’s meant for those who want the dubious pleasure of a dirty, half-breed whore like yourself.”  So saying, he unlocked the cage door, and climbed inside.  “I suppose I’ll—what is the saying?—‘take one for the team,’” he added, as he locked himself in with me, pulled a roll of fishing wire out of his tidy trouser pocket, and bound my wrists to the bars above my head.

He took hours.  By the end I was crying, as he kept slapping me and telling me things like he wished I had tits, blonde hair, blue eyes, or that I was a white, a decent, a nice, girl.  When he rolled off me and left a small pocket knife in pristine condition, the key to the cage, and a BNP leaflet by my feet, I almost thanked him.  Then, he spat on me, and said, “I know whores like you enjoy being fucked like that; thank me for how well I’ve treated you, this evening,” and I did thank him.  Then, still crying, I waited until he’d sauntered off, let myself out of the cage, and ran back to my holiday home.

The shower could never get hot enough, my teeth could never be clean enough, and I knew I could never get drunk enough, to get all traces of him out of my system.  Even so, I scalded myself until the water ran cold, scrubbed my teeth until my gums bled, and drank the 2-and-a-half bottles of wine in the holiday let, before passing out on the sofa.  The next morning I woke up, surely not legal to drive, and sped back to my studio flat in the city.

The worst thing of all of this—the worst thing by far—is that the disgusting, hideous, scummy excuse for a man refused to wear a condom.  They always agree to wear a condom—it wouldn’t be safe, otherwise.  Now it’s been 6 weeks, and although I’ve shown no symptoms and all my STI checks have come back negative thus far, I know I’ll have to keep getting screened for years if I want to be sure he hasn’t given me something like HIV.  Underneath the budding hysteria, I feel bleakly amused that the greatest positives of this situation, are a string of negatives.  Of course, the reverse is also true.

The pregnancy test was positive.

The End

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