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Needing The Whip: Tales of Female Surrender by Reese Gabriel Paperback Ordering Ebook ordering Cover Image Courtesy of Powershotz www.powershotz.com Read The Review!

No Hope For Escape by Reese Gabriel, M/f bdsm
Aliya has no choice but to obey her captors when, on reading her private journal, they discover her desires for sexual submission.

Copyrighted © 2008 by Reese Gabriel, all rights reserved.

Aliya crouched terrified in the back of the walk-in closet, her eyes trained on the door knob for the slightest sign of motion. She was barefoot, her lithe, thirty three year old body clad in sweat pants and a tee shirt. Her freshly painted nails clutched at the scissors she had grabbed from the bathroom. Not much of a weapon, but it was the best she’d been able to manage on such short notice.

The invaders had come from everywhere at once, multiple windows breaking simultaneously. They must have figured out some way to cut the alarm. God, how could this be happening? John had promised she would be safe until he got back.

What she had to do now was hold her breath, make herself so very silent and invisible that they would never know she was here. Please, she thought, let them take the jewelry or whatever else they wanted and go. It wasn’t as if there was much. As large and ostentatious as the place might be, it was still a glorified cabin, meant for vacations and retreats.

She was supposed to be sharing just such a vacation with John right now but an important client at the firm had called him away, something about anti-trust litigation. He had offered to take her back home on his way. Why, oh why had she been hell bent on staying here? It was her martyr’s complex, she supposed, her stubborn wifely streak, wanting to keep the place ready for him when he returned, hearth burning, a drink ready, her at his feet ready with a massage.

John’s affections were not something she took for granted. At forty three he was just coming into his prime. Already one of his partners had left his first wife for a twenty something paralegal.

Erica kept her body in exquisite shape to compensate for her age. She made denial a way of life, forcing herself on long jogs to be finished off with minimum meals of fruit and cottage cheese.

Her nerves hadn’t stood up well to the physical assaults. There had been trips to the doctor, the special pills. Another reason for her to show John she could be strong, staying on her own a few days.

Oh, no, someone was climbing the stairs. What an idiot she was grabbing scissors instead of the cell phone. She could have called 911 alerting the sheriff.

Her heart skipped a beat as she heard the creaking of the bedroom door hinges. She tried to picture the invader, almost certainly male. Right now he was looking at the dressers, the mirror and the bed, the four post antique she and John had picked up at an estate sale last spring.

A chill went through her as she thought of the panties she had so carelessly flung over one of the posts. If he wanted he could touch them, smell them. Aliya raged in her helplessness. She would kill if she had to. On the other hand there was something so surreal about the situation that left her paralyzed. Had it been just last week she had written in her journal the fantasy of masked men coming to take her, holding her prisoner and raping her over and over?

The invader was quite close now. She heard him opening the nightstand drawer.

Where she kept her vibrator.

And her journal.

Damn. The journal.

Aliya suppressed a scream.

The knob was turning. Light poured in, cruelly dissolving her protective cocoon of semi-darkness.

“Well, well,” said the man in the doorway, tall, wide shouldered and muscle bound. “What have we here? Looks like a little bonus.”

Aliya looked into his eyes, too petrified to speak.

A single thought passed through her mind.

He isn’t masked, I have seen his face and he will never let me go.

“I can pay you money,” the words spilled out. “My husband is rich.”

“Money’s not what we need right now, sweetheart.” He leered at her, his lips and mouth cruel, his eyes small and close together for such a large head. His nose had probably been broken a time or two. He was pure thug, the worst kind of nightmare for a trapped female.

“If you touch me, I’ll kill you,” she exclaimed brandishing the scissors.

The man laughed, his scorn doing more to sap her strength than anything so far. “A wildcat, huh? Good, you’ll help us pass the time.”

Aliya’s heart sank at the mention of time. Weren’t they in a hurry? They were breaking and entering, after all.

Taking two steps forward, the man leaned over and grabbed one of her ankles. He held it easily in his hand, his grip like steel. Aliya sprang forward in response and thrust down with the scissor blades as hard as she could.

“Mother fucker!” he screamed, holding his bloodied hand. “Oh, you’ll pay for that, baby, trust me.”

“I just want you gone,” Aliya said, sensing his wrath. “I promise I won’t report you to the police.”

“That’s right,” he said, seizing her wrist and bending it back savagely. “You won’t.”

Aliya whimpered, dropping the scissors. How had he moved so fast?

“Out,” he commanded, dragging her like a rag doll from the closet.

She looked in misery at the bed. The vibrator was there and the journal, too. It was still closed. If he read it, she was doomed.

“Yeah, I found your little toy,” he gloated, releasing her wrist only to seize her hair in his fist. “Starved for cock, are you? We got just the ticket.”

Aliya winced as he yanked savagely at the roots.

“Maybe you can show us later how you use that vibrator, bitch. For now let’s get you into something a little sexier, shall we?”

She was already hating his habit of putting things in question form. This was the least of her worries, of course.

“How about you give me a little tour of your drawers?”

Aliya staggered under his power as he took her over to the dressers. Opening the top one he found her bras and panties. “Fuck,” he drawled, running his fingers over the colored silks and satins, top of the line, designed to turn a man to putty. “You really are a slut, aren’t you?”

She flushed red as he held up a pair of crotch-less panties, the red ones she had worn for John last Valentine’s Day.

“I ought to make you wear these.”

Aliya shivered as he rubbed them over her face. “Please, they are something private between me and my husband.”

All of the lingerie was for John, part of her campaign to keep him interested. If only he didn’t have to be at work so much.

The man’s beady eyes went stone cold. “You think you’ll keep anything private from me when it’s all said and done?”

Aliya did not know if he wanted an answer. “Y—you’re hurting me,” she said meekly.

“Just your pride.” The man let her go, pushing her backwards out of his way.

She stumbled a little but stayed on her feet. Now what? Aliya’s heart slammed in her chest, she looked at the open bedroom door and then at him. He was rifling through the other drawers, his back turned.

“Go on,” he read her mind. “Make a run for it. Might as well figure out up front you ain’t going nowhere unless we let you.”

Aliya couldn’t move. She hated herself for standing there, too afraid to make a stand. Or was there something else, too? That familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach: danger mixed with desire. It was how she felt when she wrote her journal entries, but it was hardly how she should be feeling in real life. This was survival.

“This ought to do the trick, what do you think?” The man held up a purple nightie with his good hand. It had spaghetti straps. It was so short it barely covered her thighs.

Aliya’s knees went weak. Dressed like that she would be sending out an invitation to be raped. “Please, don’t make me wear it.”

The man promptly brandished two fingers. “You need to understand, sweetheart, there are two choices you have from now on. You can do what we say the easy way or the hard way. Now what’s it going to be?”

Aliya knew she was not up to fighting. She must save her strength for another battle, one she would have to fight and win once she knew exactly what she was up against.

“May I change in the bathroom?” she asked timidly.

The man studied her for a moment as if trying to read her real state of mind. “Sure,” he said at last. “What the hell. It’s not like you can escape. Just make it snappy, sweet cakes.”

His use of terms of endearment was another sticking point. It was revolting. Almost like having him thrust his tongue down her throat in some sick simulation of affection. She would rather be called cunt or bitch. That way the lines of distinction would be nice and clear between them. No possibilities for confusion, no danger of her own body betraying her.

Aliya looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was still in shock, eyes blank, face expressionless. Her mind was registering facts but none of it felt real, not yet. The terrible thing was that she knew it was just beginning and that the situation was bound to get so much worse before it got better.

If it ever did.

The man had told her she had no hope of escape. The window had a two story drop. She would land with a broken leg at best. What about finding some new weapon? Looking through the medicine cabinet she came up with nothing.

Numbly, she pulled off the tee shirt, consigned to obeying orders, for now at least. She had a cotton bra underneath. She had been thankful for the protection, but all that was about to change big-time.

Her new costume would have no underwear for modesty. It would be outrageous, a violation of everything decent. What else did lingerie say on a shapely female but fuck me, use me for your pleasure?

As a wife she should give that message to one man only, her husband.

Aliya’s breath caught in her throat as she unhooked the front clasp of the bra and let the panels fall away from her respectably sized mounds.

Aliya had erect nipples.

Instinctively she covered herself. It was fear that caused the response but surely her captor would read it as something else. Putting it together with the evidence of the vibrator he would think her a loose, desperate woman, a hungry cunt looking to be filled with hard, brutal man meat.

God, she told herself, please, don’t let him look at the journal. …

 “Hurry it up in there!”

Aliya jolted as the man pounded on the door.

Numbness gave way to panic as she yanked off her pants the rest of the way and shed her white cotton panties. A moment later she stood naked. A lump formed in her throat as she saw the nightie with brand new eyes. Talk about harsh realities. In a moment she would be wearing it, soft silk caressing her skin, worse than nude, her body revealed in the most tantalizing ways.

Aliya was nearly panting. Lifting her arms, transfixed by her own image, she let the garment slide over her head. Her skin seared at the contact. Damn it, why was she feeling this way? This was a crime going on and yet she felt a part of herself awakening, secretly reaching out to claim the very violation being imposed on her.

The man pounded the door again.

“Coming,” she croaked, instantly regretting her choice of words.

“I’ll bet you were,” he chuckled, grabbing her arm as soon as she opened the door.

“You should take care of that wound,” she said, noting the jagged cut, still dripping red.

She had spoken out of her long abandoned nurse’s training, an instinctive thing she couldn’t apparently shut off even when the victim was a mortal enemy.

What did she care if he bled to death? The sooner the better.

“I didn’t know you cared,” he said sarcastically. “Now move it.”

The man shoved her to the door then forced her to walk ahead of him barefoot down the stairs. She was painfully aware of him behind her, his firm thighs and that cock jutting against the crotch of his jeans.

A couple of times he bumped into her as if by accident.

She gasped as he took liberties, running his hand over her barely covered ass. She tried to block him only to receive a crisp smack with the flat of his hand.

“If I want to touch you, you don’t do shit,” he warned.

Aliya stung with the pain, mixed with something else, dark and dangerous.

“Holy fuck,” said a younger man waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Where did you dig her up?”

“Found her in the closet. Along with this.”

Aliya’s cheeks burned as he held up the vibrator. He must have stuffed it in his pocket when she was in the bathroom.

The young man grinned, his reaction much like the first man’s. “So she likes fucking, huh? I think we can accommodate.”

Aliya’s pulse raced as he moved his hands to his belt. She pegged him at nineteen or twenty, very lean, but hardly skinny. His hair was a little scruffy for her liking and she wasn’t fond of flannel shirts but overall he was a decent looking guy.

“Not yet, dickhead,” growled the first man, who must have outranked him. “I want to eat first. You hear that, baby? How about you cook us up something nice?”

The big man let go of her upper arm and just like that Aliya was free again. This on again off again confinement was getting to her. “What is it you want me to make?” she asked, arms crossed over her chest.

“Surprise us.” He gave her a wink.

Aliya headed for the kitchen, the balls of her feet padding over the wood floor. It might as well be someone else’s floor, someone else’s house and life, too, cooking for house breakers who insisted on treating their victims like fashion dolls, dressing them for pleasure.

None of this was on her to do list for the day, she thought, pulling the carton of eggs and the milk from the refrigerator. Being taken captive, dressed like a whore, forced to cook a nice meal to build up the strength of your rapists.

What if she poisoned the eggs?

It would have to be fast working, something they wouldn’t taste. But what if they made her taste it first? Too risky.

How about running out the back door?

Sure, a nice five mile run to the nearest sign of civilization wearing practically nothing with hardened criminals on her tail.

She cringed thinking what they would do to her if she tried to escape.

Fear turned quickly to anger. How dare they impose their will? She would show them an easy way and a hard way.

One by one she cracked the eggs into the bowl, imagining the worst sort of torture for the both of them.

“Got any beer?” It was the first man, all cruelty and muscles, breathing over her shoulder.

“On the second shelf of the fridge,” she replied, her voice barely audible.

He pressed his hard body against her. She felt his erection, scary large. “You making omelets?”

She nodded. “There’s bacon, too, if you want to get it out,” she added, desperate to get him off of her.

He stayed right where he was. “The only meat I need is right here.”

Aliya tried to wriggle free as he brushed his fingers along the side of her neck. “Planning on fighting, huh? Well good luck fooling anybody. I took a peek at that journal of yours.”

The bottom dropped out from Aliya’s world. When had he done that? Never mind when. Her secret was known now and with it her true identity. For as much as she liked to play the proper wife for John and good as she was at it there was another being inside her, a sexy, submissive beast. A slave, really.

“You—you won’t tell the others,” she said hopefully. “We can work something out?”

The man pushed her stomach hard against the counter, briefly cutting off her air. “Oh, I’m telling all right. Fear not, we are going to make your dreams come true.”