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Description
Stroke
By Rohana

Solstice Rozenberg rose bolt upright atop her bound, heaving boyfriend, her Semite-dark eyes blinking madly, her long hair a black swirl. She gasped.
She was certain she'd just suffered a minor stroke.
She splayed her fingers across her boyfriend's heaving chest, the cross-banded hemplines buffing her palms, ignoring both the dying rattles of her own juicy orgasm and the hot flush of his fluids jetting into her.
Somehow she knew her stroke was a reality. Something in her exotically proportioned head, behind her midnight eyes and beaked-nose, had changed.
As if she were an erring computer, she scanned her data for missing gaps.
Solstice Rozenberg – age twenty-seven. The boy bound hard and fast beneath her was Todd…. Somebody (this wasn't the effects of the stroke, she noted. She clearly remembered luring him out of a bar and into her 'Mystery Machine' van, of binding him up, of bringing him home. That had been two months ago. And for the record, her sharp mind could remember every tie she'd placed him in, every torment she'd inflicted on him, every orgasm she'd forced from him). So that was good.
Solstice's parents were both dead, her father having suffered one debilitating stroke years ago, and a more recent one that killed him (so maybe this was related?). Her mother had died of a broken heart soon after. They'd left her this rambling house and thickly-foliaged grounds. She recalled the address, the phone number, her social security number, her healthy bank account numbers. All there.
Todd began to groan in post-coital rapture. She squeezed his nipple between thumb and forefinger. He stiffed with a gasp. She felt him harden within her. Even with all her concerns, she found this development to her advantage and maintained her grip, slowly working him up again as she reviewed her life.
The early memories as a tiny darkly exotic child playing jump rope, she remembered (especially how she tied up little boys with it, finding odd pleasure in their struggling helplessness). She remembered her Barbie doll, and how she always kept Ken tied up with string in the dark back room of her doll house. She wasn't sure what Barbie would eventually do with her trussed playmate, only that the figure's sea-green eyes seemed confidently assured, something Solstice found intriguing. And then there were the childhood games, Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers. Solstice would take command in every one, arranging it so the little girls always took the little boys prisoners. Over long lazy school vacations, she usually had two or three simultaneous games running in adjacent neighborhoods, and would race from game to game on her bike, checking on the various captives, tightening their bonds, coming up with new torments.
Her best game came when she turned thirteen – Slaver. Here, she and her three girlfriends tracked boys (who were not even aware they were in the game). Woe to the boy who found themselves knocked to the ground, looking up the coltish legs that surrounded him to the wickedly grinning girls, Solstice predominate. They would see the ropes, the pole. They might whine or fight or cry – it made no difference. Solstice, the head cannibal/Zulu warrior/Yankee slaver, would order the boy's wrists and ankles bound. With the pole passed into the loops formed, he'd be lifted atop their sharp shoulders, to be borne amid their giggles and chipper chatter to their secret clubhouse. Here they would join the other boys already captured and tied so tightly. Once the girls had a half dozen, Solstice suggested they change the game to Inquisitor. And so off went the shoes, out came the feathers, the ice-cubes, and the deviously cruel nature of the mocking girls. In the end, they lipsticked and eye-shadowed the lot of them (with items borrowed from their mothers – ("Mooom. We've got Timmy tied up ever so tight in our clubhouse and want to make him up like a girl. Can I borrow your makeup?" And the bored housewife would consider the image, smile broadly and agree)).
Solstice smiled at the innocence of her childhood games, decided those memories were intact, moved along to college. It had been a time of experimentation for the budding Jewish girl. Without access to a boyfriend, she took to kidnapping and tying her female roommates, sometimes for days at a stretch. She also experimented sexually with her bound partners, leaning how to read (and coax) others, and what payoffs her own body had. It was a nice time, those college days (and nights), cuddled in a nest of sweaty sheets with some bound debutante, checking the taunt ropes, tracing a finger along trembling flesh, thumbing the industrial vibrator active, watching the tearing eyes widen with the realization that another orgasm was being demanded. In all, four of her roommates dropped out, three were institutionalized, two changed majors to sexual studies, one joined a convent, and one became a porn start (specializing in lesbian bondage videos). Solstice graduated with a distracted GPA (she'd gotten high marks on her phys-ed classes, particularly in field of martial arts, wrestling and hand-to-hand skills, where she'd truly applied herself) and retired to the house her parents had willed her, capturing a long string of boyfriends (or stinging captured boyfriends, whichever). She enjoyed the sight of hard-bound maleflesh, the long process of domination, and especially the sex – three times a day if she was lucky. And Solstice was very, very lucky.
As she was now. Her absent-minded nipple-pinchings had brought Todd to a boil. He hummed through his gag, twisting in his ropes, his heels digging furrows in the wrinkled bedsheets. Solstice sighed and allowed herself to be distracted from her medical concerns, falling into an easy hip-grinding cadence with her hemp-lashed sex-slave. Placing her hands flat on his belly, she rose up, modest breasts pointing, thighs tight around his hips and toes pointing, purring in contentment. Her orgasm cracked out, matched with Todd's dry-pump shuddering. She tipped back her head and sighed. Niiiiceeee….
After cleaning herself and Todd up (her household went through a prodigious amount of hand-wipes every week), she rolled her semiconscious boytoy onto his belly and traced him up into a secure hogtie. Perhaps she'd have another serving of his captive carnality after dinner.
Impishly naked, she descended the main stairs into the front hall, ribbons of sunlight painting her taunt little body with golden brushstrokes. She was pondering how her stroke might have changed her when she saw letters drop through the front door's mail slot. The postman was here. Without a thought, she padded across the cool wooden floor and flung open the door. The postman, a wiry, nervous middle-aged fellow, stood in shocked amazement at the slender woman who'd appeared as suddenly as a dayfantasy before him. She reached out, grabbed his nipples through his thin shirt with both hands, turned and flung him into her hall. He was still sliding as she stepped over him, scooping up his post bag, unclipping its leather shoulder-strap. As if settling delicately on a tea-room chair, she sat on his buttocks, her twat warm and wet against the poor civil-servant's rucked-up shorts. His hands she neatly captured, lashing them up with the creaking leather strap. Into his mouth she stuffed a wad of junk mail, binding it fast with his ID card neckhanger. Grasping his arms, she lugged him across the polished floor, tossing him into the small elevator installed for her disabled father and punched the basement button, bracing the whining man against the floor with a bare foot planted neatly into his back.
The basement of the manor was ancient, subdivided with storerooms which Solstice had had cleaned out and latch-locked with an eye towards cell-house fantasies. They came in handy now. She dragged the poor man down the long hall, rolling him into one small cell. From one of many strategically-placed hooks, she pulled down rope, reinforcing his captivity with export cross-lines and square knots. In the end, the man lay in a tight bundle on the hard floor, eyes wide over his Memorial-day sale gag. To comfort him in the only way she knew, she leaned forward, yanked down his zipper, taking his swelling member (still sweaty from his long hot route) easily in her mouth. Sucking and gnawing, she brought him quickly to a boil, bracing hands on his hips as he shuddered in his first service to her. Between his ropes, her bracing hands and skillful mouth, there was no way he could prevent the white explosion which followed. Wiping her lips, she stood and smiled down welcomingly to him, then turned and left, latching the door behind her. She was halfway to the stairs when the odd nature of what just happened struck her.
She turned to look back to the thick door with its captive postal worker. Then she shrugged and traipsed up the stairs.
She'd just stuffed his bag into the back of a hidden closet (next to Todd's old clothing) when her dark head came up, her eyes focused. Distantly, lawn mowers hummed across the summer air. An idea came to her altered brain. Without pausing to even dress herself, she slipped out the backdoor and into the trackless woodbreaks (to which she knew all the tracks). Like a sexually-hungry druid, she slipped through the woods between scattered grassy lawns, the scattered columns of sun painting her pink body in brilliant leopard spots.
A group of men, mostly Hispanic, likely illegal, were tending the large lawn of one of the manors. One fellow, a tall, dark and lanky hunk, moved along the tree line, his weed whacker humming in his hand. Up until now, his only concern had been to not whack his orange extension cord and shut off his unit or electrocute himself. But, still, the unit went dead in his hands. Eh?
In tired confusion, he turned to see why he'd lost power. The shock he received had nothing to do with anything electrical. A naked woman stood a short distance behind him, her body creamy white, the hair framing her face and cradled betwixt her thighs silky and black. In her hands she held his unplugged extension cord, twirling it in a lazy loop. On her face, a wide slutty smile.
So taken was he that he did not move when she easily tossed the loop over his shoulders, around his arms. This was followed by loop after loop, all dropped with unerring accuracy around his lean brown body, each tugged tight. Before he knew quite what was happening, his arms were locked to his sides and this woman, this angel, was stepping closer. She tipped back that long nose, smiled up into his sun-browned face, then pulled his forehead bandanna down, ramming and tying it into his mouth. Instantly he could taste his own hot sweat.
But already her fingers were flying down his body, an erotic distraction, knotting up his power cord, looping the lower loose ends around his wrists, binding them up to his thighs (which jammed his pants up around his swelling member). Then, with a sweet expression, she looped a finger around his neck-loop and led him, stumbling, confused and aroused, into the trees.
They won't miss him, Solstice thought as she towed her latest acquisition through the leafy paths, once again playing the slaver game. And since he's illegal, they won't report it.
Of course, she anticipated his mesmerization with the odd event of being bound up and led off by a nude woman would eventually end. He started to whine through his gag and tried to plant his feet. Time for his first lesson. Easily, she shoved him up against a tree, her fist pinning him by his throat-cord. Her other hand, her sneaky hand, wrenched open the fly of his pants and hand-jobbed him, a relentless pulling and squeezing that had him whimpering into his cloth and swelling in her fist. She worked him methodically, pumping him, going up on tiptoe to peer into his face with rapt concentration, leering. Within her fingers she felt his pulse, knew what was coming (literally). Just was he started letting go, she stepped neatly back, raised his stiff unit and spattered him up his chest and across his face. Her captive, an element of a machismo society, had never been handled in such a way by a woman. He blinked through his own tacky juices, aroused and appalled simultaneously. She simply gave him a confirming shake and then led him along once again.
But she knew his kind – he'd keep finding his balls, would keep resisting. It was a step-by-step process, one she was well versed in (having broken so many boys and men). Without delay, she dragged him down into the cellar complex, putting him into his own cell where she threw him to the ground and lashed up his feet with thick stout ropes. He could only grunt protests through his spit-soaked bandana as she ran down the pulley hook and clipped it in behind his heels. Then up he went, slowly spinning as she winched him up the ceiling beam, suspending him in tightly-coiled discomfort. She gave his still-exposed chestnuts a final rippling grope before closing the door on him. An hour or so of throbbing suspension, feeling his own spatter drying across his chest and face, would take the starch out of his shorts.
She looked in at the pathetic postal worker, still huddled in his ropes and leather wrist-strapping on the floor of his cell. So sad. She placed her bare, dirty foot into his crotch and casually tread him, bringing him to hardness, perhaps a little beyond. He closed his eyes and moaned as she toe-worked him, timing her thrusts to his hammering pulse. Goodness – it was like stepping on a rolling-pin. And there she stopped, leaving him panting and heaving and helpless. Casting him a wicked grin, she turned and walked from the room. His frustrated wail was cut off by his cell door.
And Todd. She found him where she'd left him, a sight of hogtied helplessness that perked up her nipples (all ready aroused from manipulation her other guests). She wasn't going to let him go nor make things easier for him – heavens, no. But she did give him that hope, seating herself on the bed, pillowing his head on her thighs, smiling down through her spill of dark hair as she unknotted his gag. He licked his lips and looked up at her.
"Please, Solstice, I'm so hot for you…"
"Shhh-shhh-shhh," she told him, reaching over to fetch a maniacal harness gag, one festooned with dangling straps, a squat penis head mounted on the back of its leather face-strap. The flash of his expression raised a rueful smile to her lips. Men designed such gags to humiliate women with. But when it was a man naked and hogtied, without a safeword or his partner's sympathy, then the humiliation was multiplied. Cupping his chin with her fingers, she brought the bulbous head against his lips, rolling it this way and that, lubing it with his own spit. He realized, looking up into her dilating eyes, that she was raping him with this gag, rubbing and coaxing his vagina-like lips with its artificial head, delaying the thrust to come. He tried to plead, if only for the erotic hopelessness he would enjoy from it, and she played her end, not giving him any leeway. Eventually she forced the knobby head between his teeth, letting the artificial organ fill his mouth with volume and his psyche with shame. She ignored his low moans as she buckled each strap home, making another pass to tighten them to absolute tension around his skull. For good measure, she added pressure-clips to his nipples, looping their chain through a chest rope. And thus she left him, on his side in her rumpled bed, his hard-on raging, his eyes rolling. That would keep him for a few hours.
While she'd foot-fondled the letter-carrier, she'd realized a critical chore she had to attend to. Slipping on some baggy jeans and t-shirt, she located his van, went through his cargo and removed the bundles for his next few stops (placing them in her forfeiture closet). Then she hopped aboard the vehicle and drove it a short distance away to a less-than-reputable neighborhood. Having set her false clues, she walked back towards her house. The stroll gave her time to think.
Clearly it had been a strange day. Instead of the usual routine, that of binding Todd up and molesting him through the lazy day, she'd taken on boarders. Perhaps this was the effect of her suspected stroke? She'd been diagnosed years back (following an incident in her freshman year – how could she have been so sloppy with her knots and let her roomie get away?) with a compulsive dominant disorder and severe nymphomania. She'd always though that had been a little much – after all, why wouldn't she want to keep a partner on hand and in ropes for instant sexual gratification, day or night? Who could fault her for such a thing? Shouldn't everyone feel this way? She'd told the analyst that it was he, not her, with repression issues. The entire thing nearly got her thrown off campus, forcing her to subdue her basic instincts and not engage in her passions. And she'd gone cold turkey for a long time – nearly a week! How nice it was when she finally got her new roomy, a pretty pug-nosed blonde, all wrapped up and put away. And how quickly the girl adapted to her new situation. She'd known how to gnaw nipples so very well…
So perhaps that was it – her tendencies were now magnified. Now she seemed to want to tie up every man she saw. Walking down the sidewalk, her sandals scuffing along in the tent of her bell-bottoms, she eyed each passing car. You, sir, in your BMW, I'd truss in cheap scratchy rope and stake you out in that mudhole at the bottom of our property. And you, in that neo-beetle, I'd tie up into an excruciating ball and rub your rod until you cried, just to show you how cruel the world could be. And you on the motorcycle, with your fake biker t-shirt and goatee; I'd show you what real raunch was – especially once I got you bound flat to a plank and made you tongue me out. Oh yes…
By the time Solstice got back to her own street, she was fairly aroused, her nipples standing and her crotch smoldering. Which of my guests should I vent my lusts on? Should I screw Todd in his hogtie? Or lower lawnmowerman down and invert-fuck him, just like that scene from Spider Man? Or the postal guy? I could tear into him like an animal, and right before we both cocked-off, I'd nibble his ear and tell him what I'd done, how I'd moved his van and altered the paper trail, how there was no hope of rescue and how he'd better get used to a life of bondage sex. Oh yessss….
"Pardon me? Miss?"
Solstice half-turned, half-groaned. A young man, early-twenties with a white shirt and tie, overtook her. A missionary. He fell into step with her, asking her pleasant questions, not listening to her answers, trying not to look at her nigh-exposed breasts and their perking nipples.
`"…and so you should consider what our congregation can offer you," he babbled on, his eyes darting sinfully to her breasts. "I'm sure He will forgive you for the actions of your people."
"What, the Rozenbergs?" she laughed. He explained that his meaning was broader, following her up her walk like a dog on a leash. She skipped up the stairs, opened her front door invitingly, standing in succulent profile, her dark eyes begging, her little finger gesturing.
"Wouldn't you like something sweet?" she offered.
This holy-roller didn't know a Jezebel when he saw one.
She was proud that it only took her ten minutes to get the bashful lad into his own little cell, bound tightly to a heavy wooden chair, his thighs and forearms bulging around his ropes, his face beet-red in humiliation, his eyes tearing, his bleats desperate behind the big black ballgag.
"Relax," she told him as she pulled off her shirt, her breasts spilling out, his eyes following her bouncing boobs. "I'm just going to screw you silly over the next few months. Bondage all day and sex every couple of hours. It will make a new man out of you."
But he didn't want to be a new man, not even when she unzipped his fly and his hot throbbing rod spilled out, betraying him with its erect obviousness. His tearing puppy-dog eyes found pity in her heart – she fetched a leather hood and laced it around his head so he wouldn't have to watch the debaucheries she was about to inflict. Patting his smooth encased head, she ran her fingers along his throbbing shaft. He shuddered at her touch, flinging his head back and forth. He was probably a virgin.
That was about to change.
It always amazed her how neatly lovers (or, in this case, a bound lamb and a succubus) fitted together. She'd slipped out of her jeans (leaving on her leather sandals so she'd feel a little kinky), and lowered her trembling body into his lap, her long legs folding back like a cricket's. Facing him, her breasts rubbing across his chest, his neat little tie aggravating her nipples, she felt her box lathering his column, their shared heat basting their sex organs. His initial efforts were like a dieseling engine, thrusting and banging. Fearing he'd literally throw a shaft in his conflictions, she allowed her highly trained vagina muscles to rhythmically work him, pulsing him, feeding him her rhythms. Inside his hood came muffled chants, but be they scripture or cooking recipes, it made no different to Solstice Rozenberg now – you couldn't pry her off a man with a crowbar once she got her groove in its groove. She wrapped sunbrown arms around his leather-bulb head, her long tongue licking slug-trails down the straining leather. Her sandal heals clicked together across his knees, her crotch fully pressing into him. They were linked now, thrusting as one. His ballgagged cries were fully incoherent. She played him, delayed him, led him, and finally released him. With a thrust that nearly upset the chair (not that Solstice's leach-like twat would have come loose), her missionary suffered a titanic epiphany, shuddering and quaking, his aftershocks a nappy little pleasure for the girl riding his lap. Finally he was still, hood down, moaning. She pulled off him with a near-pop, stepped away from his steaming body, closed the door, shuddered a sigh. The kid had talent. And he had a lot of backed-up sex drive to tap. She'd ride him again real soon.
Fortunately there was a hose in the basement to rinse herself off with. What a mess. It was like she'd rolled in flypaper.
Once she was dabbed dry and reclothed in shorts and a t, she considered her situation.
She had four men bound tight as bedbugs under her roof. Nobody knew they were here – she could rotate through them for days at a time. Even when she was not in the mood, she could always re-tie them in new, creative ways (which always put her back in the mood).
She had a harem. Stroke or not, she didn't need any more men.
Five minutes later she was backing the Mystery Machine out of the garage, ropes hissing in their coils like expectant snakes, buckles jingling, going out to look for more men.
The Mystery Machine was a van fully equipped for slaving. The cargo area behind those bland white walls was equipped with arrays of hooks, perfect for anything from loops of ready ropes to leash-anchorpoints. She'd gotten the idea years back, reading some Australian bondage site story. Unlike the story's Winnebago, she didn't have room for a full leather bed or a cross frame or anything like that. But a girl on the road, maybe with a girlfriend to help with the pinning and rigging, could have a high old time with whatever boys they could carry off. But she'd never gone on that road trip, having become somewhat of a homebody since graduation, content to sit before the roaring fire, her feet up on a leather-bagged moaning male, her flame-lit eyes reflecting the sexual furnace of her soul.
But now her new sexual drive made her want to take as many men as she could. She wanted to surround herself with struggling, gagged, belted, bolted, wide-staked, ball-tied, unbelieving uncomprehending unfulfilled men.
By just after six in the evening, she returned with a respectable haul. Three fellas were looped up in back, their necks locked up in collars chaining them to the walls. One was a cyclist she'd found on the side of the road fixing a tire. His greyhound body still had its colorful clothing and he still had his helmet. She'd bound him with his own spare tubes, hand and foot, so that his struggles where squeaky. Really, she liked what that lycra did for his taunt ass.
The second was a hitch-hiker with a "SOUTH TO STATE COLLEGE" sign who she'd tied with snug traditional cotton ropes. She'd was going south all right, but south in terms of his body and the places she'd play with. Looked like he'd be taking a semester or two off for… sexual studies.
And then the third, an odd find that might still work. It was a scrawny middle-aged Indian she'd found working behind the counter of an interstate gas station. She's come into his store (her van rocking quietly in the corner of his parking lot), her handbag stuffed with ropes and gags, ready for deployment. Her lively dark eyes studied the surveillance coverage, noting just where she could take him down. And all the while she cased his coming captivity, he argued on the phone with his wife, telling her how he was the man of the family, how their lazy sons needed to work the store, etc. Solstice smiled, her mind made up. Perhaps a little… "time apart" would be good for husband and wife. He could show Solstice just how much of a man he was (bound wide open to a rack, with her lightly feathering his fat brown rod). His wife would learn how much she missed him (and get the advantage of a supersexed hubby when Solstice finally did release him). And the boys, of course, would have to work his store during his absence.
And Solstice would get to tie him several hundred times and torment him even more than that.
Everybody won.
And so he now shared the van, her copper eyes rolling, his mouth taped shut (once Solstice got him bound, it had been fun to sit on his chest and tape his mouth shut with a box-taping dispenser. And he'd been light enough to toss over her shoulder and carry out, which was a bit of a turn-on for her. It was all she could do to drive them straight home and not rape the lot of them, one-two-three, on the side of the highway. Still, at the stoplights, she'd look back at them with smoky black eyes.
So time had passed and now it was eleven. An exhausted Miss Rozenberg sat in her easy chair before the fire, the warmth pleasing her naked flesh, her legs tossed wide across the armrests, her crotch and inner-thighs white with baby power (oh, how chafed she was). In her hands was a small black book, one she would soon open, one which we will eventually discuss.
Against a nearby wall, a suit of armor shimmered in the firelight. Closer examination would reveal hinges on one flank, padlocks long the other, denoting that this was more an iron maiden than a suit of armor. From the visor's grid gleamed a set of rolling eyes, the humming suggesting the application of a skin-tight gag. The cod-piece had recently been slid back into place, a tight fit considering the back pressure. Still, if one looked close, one could see the condensation which twice encircled the erect metal figure at hips and chest (as if some overheated person had clung to its midsection in great exertion, working into a frenzy of up-and-down motion). And thus was the current fate of the postal employee. Yet Solstice had many more fates in store for him.
Down in the basement, a gentleman of Latino extract hung now horizontally in his cell, still in his extension cord loopings but belted down the length of a suspension beam. His clothing lay shredded in the corner, cut clean away. To his genitals and nipples had been attached cruel puckering extractors. A small air pump occasionally started up, sucking him off in the most realistic fashion. Between the tightness of his dangling bondage and the distraction of his servicing, he would find no sleep this night. And so Solstice would break his fierce spirit and make him her lapdog (and she always needed someone to dog her lap).
In the next cell over, the dusky clerk was ironically facing his greatest fear, that of being sacked. But Solstice's sack was one of shiny leather and numerous belt buckles, locking him into a darkness greater and tighter than his most depraved fantasies (though, at Solstice's eventual prodding, these would be expanded). His experience thus far had been nothing more than long periods of lying in locked solitary; then would come the fumbling around his hips, the cool air across his exposed (and expanding) penis, followed by the steamy ingestion of said member into what he could only assume was his young captor's sopping sex. While this should have angered and shamed him, he actually loved it. When it happened, he found himself imagining his plump Indian wife sitting in some nearby wicker chair, smiling beatifically at his hapless usury, fingering herself in arousal at the pulpy scene. He wondered if he would ever be set free. But more to the point, he wondered when his shadowy seductress would next be back. The thought of her caused his meat, locked below strata of leather, belts and strapping, to harden in throbbing anticipation.
Poor Todd. Originally he'd been the center of Solstice's attention, as sexually-eroding as that could be. Now he was regulated to the floor of a darkened spare bedroom. She'd trussed him fore and aft, tight ropes that followed the curves of his body, bulging his flesh and locking him tight. Between his cheeks, the butt-end of a vibrator hummed away, its batteries still holding hours of charge. With such stimulation, it is no surprise that the carpet under him was stained with bursts of seamen. Tomorrow his mistress would pretend great anger with him over his "accidents" and roll him up tightly in the soiled floor covering, his plug still inside him, occasionally thrumming as its final electrons ran out.
The college boy was lashed up to her bedroom bedpost, head to toe. Like the knight in the den's corner, she'd scaled him a while ago and jacked him like a monkey-woman, ooking in delight. Now he hung in his firm ropings, thinking maybe it was over. What he didn't realize was that he was in her "maple syrup tie", his jutting dispenser ready for her nocturnal sex-flashes. Maybe she'd handjob him for something to put atop her pancakes tomorrow. The thought made the lazing Solstice smile like a wicked girl in her cozy chair.
The bicyclist still maintained his skin-tight colorful clothing because Solstice thought he looked so sexy that way. He also maintained his rubber-tube bindings of wrists and ankles. But Solstice had escalated his bondage, wrapping his body ever so tight with shimmering electrical tape. Before she'd left him in his lonely little cell, she looped black cotton rope around his shoulders and ankles, drawing them up to high hooks, leaving the cyclist resting fully on his rock-hard butt-cheeks. Hours of this would eventually make him very compliant. No doubt he wished that the helmet still clipped to his head had been placed on his ass. In his solidary darkness, he moaned in his Rozenbergian torment.
And the missionary, rest his soul, had lost every shred of clothing and dignity, bound flat on his back on the dining room table like a pagan sacrifice (which was precisely why wicked Solstice had done it). Unprotected and wide open, he could not stop the limber girl from assaulting his midsection with her juicy purse, pumping him for all he was worth. With time on his hands (and ropes on his wrists and ankles) the poor proselytizer would not help but notice the framework of the chandelier overhead, which to the elder Rozenbergs had looked like a Star of David, but he mistook it for a pentagram. And having suffered such abuses (with promises of more to come) from that sultry dark succubus, its presence turned him on all the more. He found himself fearing (yet hoping) for her slinking, tuna-reeking return.
Such was the state of the Rozenberg mansion that night, with every man bound fast and sucked dry, and the mistress of the house fanning her powdered pussy, hopeful her heat-rash would diminish in time for more play tomorrow. And so we return to that little black book in her long fingers, one she flipped through, page by page. It was her old address book with phone numbers for all her old roomies. Simply put, she realized she was not woman enough to service all these men, not day after day. And once their milkings and humpings fell off, they'd put their energies into escape. So she pondered each name in her book, thinking of each girl she'd captured and cajoled over long weeks. Certainly some of them would scream at her when she called them. But many of them had been imprinted with her lusts, craving sexual domination, giving as much as receiving. After her, how dull their lives had probably become in their vanilla worlds. If out of these many, many names of abused damsels, three or four could be convinced to come work for her, for room and board and as much sex as they could vagina, she could manage all her pets in grand style. As it was not too late on the west coast, she picked up the phone and dialed.
If this worked, if she assembled some sister-slavers, all her problems would be solved.
And maybe she could collect even more men.
The thought made her run a long finger along the line of her tender twat.
"Hello, Judy? Yes, it's Solstice Rozenberg. How nice that you haven't forgotten me. It's been too long. Listen, I have a little proposition for you. Oh, no, not you this time. No, see, I have these men…."

The End

Description
Stroke
By Rohana

Solstice Rozenberg rose bolt upright atop her bound, heaving boyfriend, her Semite-dark eyes blinking madly, her long hair a black swirl. She gasped.
She was certain she'd just suffered a minor stroke.
She splayed her fingers across her boyfriend's heaving chest, the cross-banded hemplines buffing her palms, ignoring both the dying rattles of her own juicy orgasm and the hot flush of his fluids jetting into her.
Somehow she knew her stroke was a reality. Something in her exotically proportioned head, behind her midnight eyes and beaked-nose, had changed.
As if she were an erring computer, she scanned her data for missing gaps.
Solstice Rozenberg – age twenty-seven. The boy bound hard and fast beneath her was Todd…. Somebody (this wasn't the effects of the stroke, she noted. She clearly remembered luring him out of a bar and into her 'Mystery Machine' van, of binding him up, of bringing him home. That had been two months ago. And for the record, her sharp mind could remember every tie she'd placed him in, every torment she'd inflicted on him, every orgasm she'd forced from him). So that was good.
Solstice's parents were both dead, her father having suffered one debilitating stroke years ago, and a more recent one that killed him (so maybe this was related?). Her mother had died of a broken heart soon after. They'd left her this rambling house and thickly-foliaged grounds. She recalled the address, the phone number, her social security number, her healthy bank account numbers. All there.
Todd began to groan in post-coital rapture. She squeezed his nipple between thumb and forefinger. He stiffed with a gasp. She felt him harden within her. Even with all her concerns, she found this development to her advantage and maintained her grip, slowly working him up again as she reviewed her life.
The early memories as a tiny darkly exotic child playing jump rope, she remembered (especially how she tied up little boys with it, finding odd pleasure in their struggling helplessness). She remembered her Barbie doll, and how she always kept Ken tied up with string in the dark back room of her doll house. She wasn't sure what Barbie would eventually do with her trussed playmate, only that the figure's sea-green eyes seemed confidently assured, something Solstice found intriguing. And then there were the childhood games, Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers. Solstice would take command in every one, arranging it so the little girls always took the little boys prisoners. Over long lazy school vacations, she usually had two or three simultaneous games running in adjacent neighborhoods, and would race from game to game on her bike, checking on the various captives, tightening their bonds, coming up with new torments.
Her best game came when she turned thirteen – Slaver. Here, she and her three girlfriends tracked boys (who were not even aware they were in the game). Woe to the boy who found themselves knocked to the ground, looking up the coltish legs that surrounded him to the wickedly grinning girls, Solstice predominate. They would see the ropes, the pole. They might whine or fight or cry – it made no difference. Solstice, the head cannibal/Zulu warrior/Yankee slaver, would order the boy's wrists and ankles bound. With the pole passed into the loops formed, he'd be lifted atop their sharp shoulders, to be borne amid their giggles and chipper chatter to their secret clubhouse. Here they would join the other boys already captured and tied so tightly. Once the girls had a half dozen, Solstice suggested they change the game to Inquisitor. And so off went the shoes, out came the feathers, the ice-cubes, and the deviously cruel nature of the mocking girls. In the end, they lipsticked and eye-shadowed the lot of them (with items borrowed from their mothers – ("Mooom. We've got Timmy tied up ever so tight in our clubhouse and want to make him up like a girl. Can I borrow your makeup?" And the bored housewife would consider the image, smile broadly and agree)).
Solstice smiled at the innocence of her childhood games, decided those memories were intact, moved along to college. It had been a time of experimentation for the budding Jewish girl. Without access to a boyfriend, she took to kidnapping and tying her female roommates, sometimes for days at a stretch. She also experimented sexually with her bound partners, leaning how to read (and coax) others, and what payoffs her own body had. It was a nice time, those college days (and nights), cuddled in a nest of sweaty sheets with some bound debutante, checking the taunt ropes, tracing a finger along trembling flesh, thumbing the industrial vibrator active, watching the tearing eyes widen with the realization that another orgasm was being demanded. In all, four of her roommates dropped out, three were institutionalized, two changed majors to sexual studies, one joined a convent, and one became a porn start (specializing in lesbian bondage videos). Solstice graduated with a distracted GPA (she'd gotten high marks on her phys-ed classes, particularly in field of martial arts, wrestling and hand-to-hand skills, where she'd truly applied herself) and retired to the house her parents had willed her, capturing a long string of boyfriends (or stinging captured boyfriends, whichever). She enjoyed the sight of hard-bound maleflesh, the long process of domination, and especially the sex – three times a day if she was lucky. And Solstice was very, very lucky.
As she was now. Her absent-minded nipple-pinchings had brought Todd to a boil. He hummed through his gag, twisting in his ropes, his heels digging furrows in the wrinkled bedsheets. Solstice sighed and allowed herself to be distracted from her medical concerns, falling into an easy hip-grinding cadence with her hemp-lashed sex-slave. Placing her hands flat on his belly, she rose up, modest breasts pointing, thighs tight around his hips and toes pointing, purring in contentment. Her orgasm cracked out, matched with Todd's dry-pump shuddering. She tipped back her head and sighed. Niiiiceeee….
After cleaning herself and Todd up (her household went through a prodigious amount of hand-wipes every week), she rolled her semiconscious boytoy onto his belly and traced him up into a secure hogtie. Perhaps she'd have another serving of his captive carnality after dinner.
Impishly naked, she descended the main stairs into the front hall, ribbons of sunlight painting her taunt little body with golden brushstrokes. She was pondering how her stroke might have changed her when she saw letters drop through the front door's mail slot. The postman was here. Without a thought, she padded across the cool wooden floor and flung open the door. The postman, a wiry, nervous middle-aged fellow, stood in shocked amazement at the slender woman who'd appeared as suddenly as a dayfantasy before him. She reached out, grabbed his nipples through his thin shirt with both hands, turned and flung him into her hall. He was still sliding as she stepped over him, scooping up his post bag, unclipping its leather shoulder-strap. As if settling delicately on a tea-room chair, she sat on his buttocks, her twat warm and wet against the poor civil-servant's rucked-up shorts. His hands she neatly captured, lashing them up with the creaking leather strap. Into his mouth she stuffed a wad of junk mail, binding it fast with his ID card neckhanger. Grasping his arms, she lugged him across the polished floor, tossing him into the small elevator installed for her disabled father and punched the basement button, bracing the whining man against the floor with a bare foot planted neatly into his back.
The basement of the manor was ancient, subdivided with storerooms which Solstice had had cleaned out and latch-locked with an eye towards cell-house fantasies. They came in handy now. She dragged the poor man down the long hall, rolling him into one small cell. From one of many strategically-placed hooks, she pulled down rope, reinforcing his captivity with export cross-lines and square knots. In the end, the man lay in a tight bundle on the hard floor, eyes wide over his Memorial-day sale gag. To comfort him in the only way she knew, she leaned forward, yanked down his zipper, taking his swelling member (still sweaty from his long hot route) easily in her mouth. Sucking and gnawing, she brought him quickly to a boil, bracing hands on his hips as he shuddered in his first service to her. Between his ropes, her bracing hands and skillful mouth, there was no way he could prevent the white explosion which followed. Wiping her lips, she stood and smiled down welcomingly to him, then turned and left, latching the door behind her. She was halfway to the stairs when the odd nature of what just happened struck her.
She turned to look back to the thick door with its captive postal worker. Then she shrugged and traipsed up the stairs.
She'd just stuffed his bag into the back of a hidden closet (next to Todd's old clothing) when her dark head came up, her eyes focused. Distantly, lawn mowers hummed across the summer air. An idea came to her altered brain. Without pausing to even dress herself, she slipped out the backdoor and into the trackless woodbreaks (to which she knew all the tracks). Like a sexually-hungry druid, she slipped through the woods between scattered grassy lawns, the scattered columns of sun painting her pink body in brilliant leopard spots.
A group of men, mostly Hispanic, likely illegal, were tending the large lawn of one of the manors. One fellow, a tall, dark and lanky hunk, moved along the tree line, his weed whacker humming in his hand. Up until now, his only concern had been to not whack his orange extension cord and shut off his unit or electrocute himself. But, still, the unit went dead in his hands. Eh?
In tired confusion, he turned to see why he'd lost power. The shock he received had nothing to do with anything electrical. A naked woman stood a short distance behind him, her body creamy white, the hair framing her face and cradled betwixt her thighs silky and black. In her hands she held his unplugged extension cord, twirling it in a lazy loop. On her face, a wide slutty smile.
So taken was he that he did not move when she easily tossed the loop over his shoulders, around his arms. This was followed by loop after loop, all dropped with unerring accuracy around his lean brown body, each tugged tight. Before he knew quite what was happening, his arms were locked to his sides and this woman, this angel, was stepping closer. She tipped back that long nose, smiled up into his sun-browned face, then pulled his forehead bandanna down, ramming and tying it into his mouth. Instantly he could taste his own hot sweat.
But already her fingers were flying down his body, an erotic distraction, knotting up his power cord, looping the lower loose ends around his wrists, binding them up to his thighs (which jammed his pants up around his swelling member). Then, with a sweet expression, she looped a finger around his neck-loop and led him, stumbling, confused and aroused, into the trees.
They won't miss him, Solstice thought as she towed her latest acquisition through the leafy paths, once again playing the slaver game. And since he's illegal, they won't report it.
Of course, she anticipated his mesmerization with the odd event of being bound up and led off by a nude woman would eventually end. He started to whine through his gag and tried to plant his feet. Time for his first lesson. Easily, she shoved him up against a tree, her fist pinning him by his throat-cord. Her other hand, her sneaky hand, wrenched open the fly of his pants and hand-jobbed him, a relentless pulling and squeezing that had him whimpering into his cloth and swelling in her fist. She worked him methodically, pumping him, going up on tiptoe to peer into his face with rapt concentration, leering. Within her fingers she felt his pulse, knew what was coming (literally). Just was he started letting go, she stepped neatly back, raised his stiff unit and spattered him up his chest and across his face. Her captive, an element of a machismo society, had never been handled in such a way by a woman. He blinked through his own tacky juices, aroused and appalled simultaneously. She simply gave him a confirming shake and then led him along once again.
But she knew his kind – he'd keep finding his balls, would keep resisting. It was a step-by-step process, one she was well versed in (having broken so many boys and men). Without delay, she dragged him down into the cellar complex, putting him into his own cell where she threw him to the ground and lashed up his feet with thick stout ropes. He could only grunt protests through his spit-soaked bandana as she ran down the pulley hook and clipped it in behind his heels. Then up he went, slowly spinning as she winched him up the ceiling beam, suspending him in tightly-coiled discomfort. She gave his still-exposed chestnuts a final rippling grope before closing the door on him. An hour or so of throbbing suspension, feeling his own spatter drying across his chest and face, would take the starch out of his shorts.
She looked in at the pathetic postal worker, still huddled in his ropes and leather wrist-strapping on the floor of his cell. So sad. She placed her bare, dirty foot into his crotch and casually tread him, bringing him to hardness, perhaps a little beyond. He closed his eyes and moaned as she toe-worked him, timing her thrusts to his hammering pulse. Goodness – it was like stepping on a rolling-pin. And there she stopped, leaving him panting and heaving and helpless. Casting him a wicked grin, she turned and walked from the room. His frustrated wail was cut off by his cell door.
And Todd. She found him where she'd left him, a sight of hogtied helplessness that perked up her nipples (all ready aroused from manipulation her other guests). She wasn't going to let him go nor make things easier for him – heavens, no. But she did give him that hope, seating herself on the bed, pillowing his head on her thighs, smiling down through her spill of dark hair as she unknotted his gag. He licked his lips and looked up at her.
"Please, Solstice, I'm so hot for you…"
"Shhh-shhh-shhh," she told him, reaching over to fetch a maniacal harness gag, one festooned with dangling straps, a squat penis head mounted on the back of its leather face-strap. The flash of his expression raised a rueful smile to her lips. Men designed such gags to humiliate women with. But when it was a man naked and hogtied, without a safeword or his partner's sympathy, then the humiliation was multiplied. Cupping his chin with her fingers, she brought the bulbous head against his lips, rolling it this way and that, lubing it with his own spit. He realized, looking up into her dilating eyes, that she was raping him with this gag, rubbing and coaxing his vagina-like lips with its artificial head, delaying the thrust to come. He tried to plead, if only for the erotic hopelessness he would enjoy from it, and she played her end, not giving him any leeway. Eventually she forced the knobby head between his teeth, letting the artificial organ fill his mouth with volume and his psyche with shame. She ignored his low moans as she buckled each strap home, making another pass to tighten them to absolute tension around his skull. For good measure, she added pressure-clips to his nipples, looping their chain through a chest rope. And thus she left him, on his side in her rumpled bed, his hard-on raging, his eyes rolling. That would keep him for a few hours.
While she'd foot-fondled the letter-carrier, she'd realized a critical chore she had to attend to. Slipping on some baggy jeans and t-shirt, she located his van, went through his cargo and removed the bundles for his next few stops (placing them in her forfeiture closet). Then she hopped aboard the vehicle and drove it a short distance away to a less-than-reputable neighborhood. Having set her false clues, she walked back towards her house. The stroll gave her time to think.
Clearly it had been a strange day. Instead of the usual routine, that of binding Todd up and molesting him through the lazy day, she'd taken on boarders. Perhaps this was the effect of her suspected stroke? She'd been diagnosed years back (following an incident in her freshman year – how could she have been so sloppy with her knots and let her roomie get away?) with a compulsive dominant disorder and severe nymphomania. She'd always though that had been a little much – after all, why wouldn't she want to keep a partner on hand and in ropes for instant sexual gratification, day or night? Who could fault her for such a thing? Shouldn't everyone feel this way? She'd told the analyst that it was he, not her, with repression issues. The entire thing nearly got her thrown off campus, forcing her to subdue her basic instincts and not engage in her passions. And she'd gone cold turkey for a long time – nearly a week! How nice it was when she finally got her new roomy, a pretty pug-nosed blonde, all wrapped up and put away. And how quickly the girl adapted to her new situation. She'd known how to gnaw nipples so very well…
So perhaps that was it – her tendencies were now magnified. Now she seemed to want to tie up every man she saw. Walking down the sidewalk, her sandals scuffing along in the tent of her bell-bottoms, she eyed each passing car. You, sir, in your BMW, I'd truss in cheap scratchy rope and stake you out in that mudhole at the bottom of our property. And you, in that neo-beetle, I'd tie up into an excruciating ball and rub your rod until you cried, just to show you how cruel the world could be. And you on the motorcycle, with your fake biker t-shirt and goatee; I'd show you what real raunch was – especially once I got you bound flat to a plank and made you tongue me out. Oh yes…
By the time Solstice got back to her own street, she was fairly aroused, her nipples standing and her crotch smoldering. Which of my guests should I vent my lusts on? Should I screw Todd in his hogtie? Or lower lawnmowerman down and invert-fuck him, just like that scene from Spider Man? Or the postal guy? I could tear into him like an animal, and right before we both cocked-off, I'd nibble his ear and tell him what I'd done, how I'd moved his van and altered the paper trail, how there was no hope of rescue and how he'd better get used to a life of bondage sex. Oh yessss….
"Pardon me? Miss?"
Solstice half-turned, half-groaned. A young man, early-twenties with a white shirt and tie, overtook her. A missionary. He fell into step with her, asking her pleasant questions, not listening to her answers, trying not to look at her nigh-exposed breasts and their perking nipples.
`"…and so you should consider what our congregation can offer you," he babbled on, his eyes darting sinfully to her breasts. "I'm sure He will forgive you for the actions of your people."
"What, the Rozenbergs?" she laughed. He explained that his meaning was broader, following her up her walk like a dog on a leash. She skipped up the stairs, opened her front door invitingly, standing in succulent profile, her dark eyes begging, her little finger gesturing.
"Wouldn't you like something sweet?" she offered.
This holy-roller didn't know a Jezebel when he saw one.
She was proud that it only took her ten minutes to get the bashful lad into his own little cell, bound tightly to a heavy wooden chair, his thighs and forearms bulging around his ropes, his face beet-red in humiliation, his eyes tearing, his bleats desperate behind the big black ballgag.
"Relax," she told him as she pulled off her shirt, her breasts spilling out, his eyes following her bouncing boobs. "I'm just going to screw you silly over the next few months. Bondage all day and sex every couple of hours. It will make a new man out of you."
But he didn't want to be a new man, not even when she unzipped his fly and his hot throbbing rod spilled out, betraying him with its erect obviousness. His tearing puppy-dog eyes found pity in her heart – she fetched a leather hood and laced it around his head so he wouldn't have to watch the debaucheries she was about to inflict. Patting his smooth encased head, she ran her fingers along his throbbing shaft. He shuddered at her touch, flinging his head back and forth. He was probably a virgin.
That was about to change.
It always amazed her how neatly lovers (or, in this case, a bound lamb and a succubus) fitted together. She'd slipped out of her jeans (leaving on her leather sandals so she'd feel a little kinky), and lowered her trembling body into his lap, her long legs folding back like a cricket's. Facing him, her breasts rubbing across his chest, his neat little tie aggravating her nipples, she felt her box lathering his column, their shared heat basting their sex organs. His initial efforts were like a dieseling engine, thrusting and banging. Fearing he'd literally throw a shaft in his conflictions, she allowed her highly trained vagina muscles to rhythmically work him, pulsing him, feeding him her rhythms. Inside his hood came muffled chants, but be they scripture or cooking recipes, it made no different to Solstice Rozenberg now – you couldn't pry her off a man with a crowbar once she got her groove in its groove. She wrapped sunbrown arms around his leather-bulb head, her long tongue licking slug-trails down the straining leather. Her sandal heals clicked together across his knees, her crotch fully pressing into him. They were linked now, thrusting as one. His ballgagged cries were fully incoherent. She played him, delayed him, led him, and finally released him. With a thrust that nearly upset the chair (not that Solstice's leach-like twat would have come loose), her missionary suffered a titanic epiphany, shuddering and quaking, his aftershocks a nappy little pleasure for the girl riding his lap. Finally he was still, hood down, moaning. She pulled off him with a near-pop, stepped away from his steaming body, closed the door, shuddered a sigh. The kid had talent. And he had a lot of backed-up sex drive to tap. She'd ride him again real soon.
Fortunately there was a hose in the basement to rinse herself off with. What a mess. It was like she'd rolled in flypaper.
Once she was dabbed dry and reclothed in shorts and a t, she considered her situation.
She had four men bound tight as bedbugs under her roof. Nobody knew they were here – she could rotate through them for days at a time. Even when she was not in the mood, she could always re-tie them in new, creative ways (which always put her back in the mood).
She had a harem. Stroke or not, she didn't need any more men.
Five minutes later she was backing the Mystery Machine out of the garage, ropes hissing in their coils like expectant snakes, buckles jingling, going out to look for more men.
The Mystery Machine was a van fully equipped for slaving. The cargo area behind those bland white walls was equipped with arrays of hooks, perfect for anything from loops of ready ropes to leash-anchorpoints. She'd gotten the idea years back, reading some Australian bondage site story. Unlike the story's Winnebago, she didn't have room for a full leather bed or a cross frame or anything like that. But a girl on the road, maybe with a girlfriend to help with the pinning and rigging, could have a high old time with whatever boys they could carry off. But she'd never gone on that road trip, having become somewhat of a homebody since graduation, content to sit before the roaring fire, her feet up on a leather-bagged moaning male, her flame-lit eyes reflecting the sexual furnace of her soul.
But now her new sexual drive made her want to take as many men as she could. She wanted to surround herself with struggling, gagged, belted, bolted, wide-staked, ball-tied, unbelieving uncomprehending unfulfilled men.
By just after six in the evening, she returned with a respectable haul. Three fellas were looped up in back, their necks locked up in collars chaining them to the walls. One was a cyclist she'd found on the side of the road fixing a tire. His greyhound body still had its colorful clothing and he still had his helmet. She'd bound him with his own spare tubes, hand and foot, so that his struggles where squeaky. Really, she liked what that lycra did for his taunt ass.
The second was a hitch-hiker with a "SOUTH TO STATE COLLEGE" sign who she'd tied with snug traditional cotton ropes. She'd was going south all right, but south in terms of his body and the places she'd play with. Looked like he'd be taking a semester or two off for… sexual studies.
And then the third, an odd find that might still work. It was a scrawny middle-aged Indian she'd found working behind the counter of an interstate gas station. She's come into his store (her van rocking quietly in the corner of his parking lot), her handbag stuffed with ropes and gags, ready for deployment. Her lively dark eyes studied the surveillance coverage, noting just where she could take him down. And all the while she cased his coming captivity, he argued on the phone with his wife, telling her how he was the man of the family, how their lazy sons needed to work the store, etc. Solstice smiled, her mind made up. Perhaps a little… "time apart" would be good for husband and wife. He could show Solstice just how much of a man he was (bound wide open to a rack, with her lightly feathering his fat brown rod). His wife would learn how much she missed him (and get the advantage of a supersexed hubby when Solstice finally did release him). And the boys, of course, would have to work his store during his absence.
And Solstice would get to tie him several hundred times and torment him even more than that.
Everybody won.
And so he now shared the van, her copper eyes rolling, his mouth taped shut (once Solstice got him bound, it had been fun to sit on his chest and tape his mouth shut with a box-taping dispenser. And he'd been light enough to toss over her shoulder and carry out, which was a bit of a turn-on for her. It was all she could do to drive them straight home and not rape the lot of them, one-two-three, on the side of the highway. Still, at the stoplights, she'd look back at them with smoky black eyes.
So time had passed and now it was eleven. An exhausted Miss Rozenberg sat in her easy chair before the fire, the warmth pleasing her naked flesh, her legs tossed wide across the armrests, her crotch and inner-thighs white with baby power (oh, how chafed she was). In her hands was a small black book, one she would soon open, one which we will eventually discuss.
Against a nearby wall, a suit of armor shimmered in the firelight. Closer examination would reveal hinges on one flank, padlocks long the other, denoting that this was more an iron maiden than a suit of armor. From the visor's grid gleamed a set of rolling eyes, the humming suggesting the application of a skin-tight gag. The cod-piece had recently been slid back into place, a tight fit considering the back pressure. Still, if one looked close, one could see the condensation which twice encircled the erect metal figure at hips and chest (as if some overheated person had clung to its midsection in great exertion, working into a frenzy of up-and-down motion). And thus was the current fate of the postal employee. Yet Solstice had many more fates in store for him.
Down in the basement, a gentleman of Latino extract hung now horizontally in his cell, still in his extension cord loopings but belted down the length of a suspension beam. His clothing lay shredded in the corner, cut clean away. To his genitals and nipples had been attached cruel puckering extractors. A small air pump occasionally started up, sucking him off in the most realistic fashion. Between the tightness of his dangling bondage and the distraction of his servicing, he would find no sleep this night. And so Solstice would break his fierce spirit and make him her lapdog (and she always needed someone to dog her lap).
In the next cell over, the dusky clerk was ironically facing his greatest fear, that of being sacked. But Solstice's sack was one of shiny leather and numerous belt buckles, locking him into a darkness greater and tighter than his most depraved fantasies (though, at Solstice's eventual prodding, these would be expanded). His experience thus far had been nothing more than long periods of lying in locked solitary; then would come the fumbling around his hips, the cool air across his exposed (and expanding) penis, followed by the steamy ingestion of said member into what he could only assume was his young captor's sopping sex. While this should have angered and shamed him, he actually loved it. When it happened, he found himself imagining his plump Indian wife sitting in some nearby wicker chair, smiling beatifically at his hapless usury, fingering herself in arousal at the pulpy scene. He wondered if he would ever be set free. But more to the point, he wondered when his shadowy seductress would next be back. The thought of her caused his meat, locked below strata of leather, belts and strapping, to harden in throbbing anticipation.
Poor Todd. Originally he'd been the center of Solstice's attention, as sexually-eroding as that could be. Now he was regulated to the floor of a darkened spare bedroom. She'd trussed him fore and aft, tight ropes that followed the curves of his body, bulging his flesh and locking him tight. Between his cheeks, the butt-end of a vibrator hummed away, its batteries still holding hours of charge. With such stimulation, it is no surprise that the carpet under him was stained with bursts of seamen. Tomorrow his mistress would pretend great anger with him over his "accidents" and roll him up tightly in the soiled floor covering, his plug still inside him, occasionally thrumming as its final electrons ran out.
The college boy was lashed up to her bedroom bedpost, head to toe. Like the knight in the den's corner, she'd scaled him a while ago and jacked him like a monkey-woman, ooking in delight. Now he hung in his firm ropings, thinking maybe it was over. What he didn't realize was that he was in her "maple syrup tie", his jutting dispenser ready for her nocturnal sex-flashes. Maybe she'd handjob him for something to put atop her pancakes tomorrow. The thought made the lazing Solstice smile like a wicked girl in her cozy chair.
The bicyclist still maintained his skin-tight colorful clothing because Solstice thought he looked so sexy that way. He also maintained his rubber-tube bindings of wrists and ankles. But Solstice had escalated his bondage, wrapping his body ever so tight with shimmering electrical tape. Before she'd left him in his lonely little cell, she looped black cotton rope around his shoulders and ankles, drawing them up to high hooks, leaving the cyclist resting fully on his rock-hard butt-cheeks. Hours of this would eventually make him very compliant. No doubt he wished that the helmet still clipped to his head had been placed on his ass. In his solidary darkness, he moaned in his Rozenbergian torment.
And the missionary, rest his soul, had lost every shred of clothing and dignity, bound flat on his back on the dining room table like a pagan sacrifice (which was precisely why wicked Solstice had done it). Unprotected and wide open, he could not stop the limber girl from assaulting his midsection with her juicy purse, pumping him for all he was worth. With time on his hands (and ropes on his wrists and ankles) the poor proselytizer would not help but notice the framework of the chandelier overhead, which to the elder Rozenbergs had looked like a Star of David, but he mistook it for a pentagram. And having suffered such abuses (with promises of more to come) from that sultry dark succubus, its presence turned him on all the more. He found himself fearing (yet hoping) for her slinking, tuna-reeking return.
Such was the state of the Rozenberg mansion that night, with every man bound fast and sucked dry, and the mistress of the house fanning her powdered pussy, hopeful her heat-rash would diminish in time for more play tomorrow. And so we return to that little black book in her long fingers, one she flipped through, page by page. It was her old address book with phone numbers for all her old roomies. Simply put, she realized she was not woman enough to service all these men, not day after day. And once their milkings and humpings fell off, they'd put their energies into escape. So she pondered each name in her book, thinking of each girl she'd captured and cajoled over long weeks. Certainly some of them would scream at her when she called them. But many of them had been imprinted with her lusts, craving sexual domination, giving as much as receiving. After her, how dull their lives had probably become in their vanilla worlds. If out of these many, many names of abused damsels, three or four could be convinced to come work for her, for room and board and as much sex as they could vagina, she could manage all her pets in grand style. As it was not too late on the west coast, she picked up the phone and dialed.
If this worked, if she assembled some sister-slavers, all her problems would be solved.
And maybe she could collect even more men.
The thought made her run a long finger along the line of her tender twat.
"Hello, Judy? Yes, it's Solstice Rozenberg. How nice that you haven't forgotten me. It's been too long. Listen, I have a little proposition for you. Oh, no, not you this time. No, see, I have these men…."

The End