This is a strange, short story that I wrote a long time ago, which is what it is – nothing will be added to it.  It’s much more gentle than the usual fare that I come up with, and is dedicated to a lovely woman I used to know named Beth.  Any comments, suggestions, feedback – postive, negative or otherwise – appreciated, to mothbrad@yahoo.com.au

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I have a secret.  A little hidden treasure that I keep locked away.  Nobody knows about it yet, because if they did, I never know what might happen.  The world might end, or I might lose everything I have, or, perhaps, nothing will happen at all.  I am telling you this, right now, because you don’t know who I am.  I am just another guy chatting to you on the internet.  Maybe this is all a lie, or a dream, or a scam.  Except I will never ask you for money – only time.

The secret I have – the treasure I hold – is too perfect, you see, for the rest of the world to look at or comprehend.  It is the only thing that has worth in the world – a beautiful woman.  They say that there is nothing quite as poetic as the death of a beautiful woman, but for me, it is not their death, but their life that fascinates me.  It is something that cannot ordinarily be contained.  And yet it is contained in my cellar.  In the form of this perfect object that is yet to be even more perfect.

Some men might have a woman they keep captive through a range of reasons.  Maybe they cannot get a woman through normal means.  Maybe they are hideous, and no woman will look at them.  Maybe they have revenge on their mind, that they have to get out.  For me – I do not know.  It may be all of those.  But the reason that I feel – the reason I know, is that there is only one thing more beautiful than a perfect woman, if such a thing is possible to comprehend.  This is the beautiful secret.

I know her name, but have not used it for so long that now I am not even sure of it.  I was scared for a long time ever to say the name, because it suggested so much to me.  So much of my life was tied up with this name, these letters.  I wanted her, I wanted her in secret, I wanted to be the holder of some special, magical item that would change both of our lives forever.  It would only work if it were a secret.  I would only find my true self if she was here, and nobody knew.

So why do I tell you?  Because a secret can be a heavy burden.  Some people might call me sick, or a pervert, or evil, but these words are irrelevant when put up against the power of the treasure, of the secret.  She might have once come willingly to me, but that would not have counted.  She needed to be made unwilling, made scared, made something other than human.  She might feel that she was being degraded, but really she was being upgraded – made greater through her presence in my life, in the same way that my life was made better through her presence.

Desire is a strange thing.  For some things – indeed, for some people – once we have an item, then we tire of it.  It is the chase that is the thrill.  I used to be like that, until my treasure came to me.  That chase was always tedious and frustrating, finding just the right time to attack her after she left work, getting the van with tinted windows organized, having the house ready for her to be permanently restrained in her new room – a room that would be the last room she ever saw, even if she lived to ninety nine.  It was not the chase that excited me, it was knowing that nobody else knew. 

How long would nobody know?  This was a question I could not answer, but every day is another adventure.  People go missing every day – in this country, life is cheap.  The police are just as likely to arrest a girl’s family for making too many complaints about a missing person, as they are to actually try to find her.  I knew the system was on my side – I worked for the state for ten years, and discovered that its greatest weakness was that it was just as ineffective as it was ostensibly benign.  Nobody would come to save the day.

That first day was not any more special than the others, but it stands out.  I had her seated in a small wooden chair – her hands tied behind her back, her feet tied to each of the front legs of the chair.  She looked up at me with hatred in her eyes – she did not yet realize what this was about.  I was going to talk to her first, but I could not think of the words.  Usually I am so verbose that people’s eyes glaze over.  But here, I was literally speechless.  I ripped open her shirt, to the predictable protests, but if I thought I had lost the power of speech seeing her clothed, I became like a child when I saw her with just a bra on, cuddling her lovely round breasts.  I could only look on.  Her words bounced around the room, off the walls, but I could not hear anything – it was as if all my senses were narrowed down to the object.  The world could have ended that minute and I would never have noticed.

I took a pair of scissors and started to cut through her skirt, so she was down to her underwear.  I was breathing so heavily that she started to get scared.  There was a look in her eyes that almost wondered if I was about to die of a heart attack and leave her here forever.  That was a strange fear – we depended on each other now.

The first word I ever spoke to her was the word ‘ONE’, as I took off my belt, held it doubled over in my hand, and brought it down hard across both her breasts.  They were slightly tanned, as if from a bout of topless sunbathing a few weeks ago, but now they had a red line across them.  She cried out in shock and pain, and looked up at me in disgust.  How?  Why?  Why me?  All of the words were lost in her throat as I brought the belt down again.  I looked down at her sore tits, and then at the belt, and almost laughed.  Why was I whipping her?  It seemed so quaint – like something out of a romantic story from the nineteenth century.

I stopped after three.  I did not have the heart for whipping.  I picked up my scissors again and cut through the delicate, white material of her bra, which immediately released her breasts fully.  I moved my hand over them, slowly (as if there was any other way to do it).  I was exploring, but even then, I was not sure what I was trying to find.  She complained, she gasped, she shivered, but none of that was what was bothering me.  I was simply trying to find the perfect way to touch them.  I had never known such pleasure just from the sense of touch with my hands.  She must have felt something strange too, because her nipples seemed to stiffen slightly (although this might be my memory playing tricks on me), but I could not have cared less.  My hands tried to move away from her breasts – I wanted to touch the rest of her as well, but they kept kneading, rubbing, sliding around.  I kept my gaze right at her eyes.  Sometimes she met it; sometimes she looked down or away.

When at last I could take my hands away from her tender breasts, I raised my right hand in front of her cheek, and brought it across her face, slapping her hard.  This was a new shock – tears started to form in her eyes.  But again, I was only thinking about the feeling of my hand across her face.  My palm stung slightly, so I imagined her face must have been quite sore.  I tried my left hand now on her other cheek, and her tears began to run down her face.  Right hand; left hand; right hand; left hand; until my hands were sore. 

I wanted her to cry, but I was not sure yet why.  Now of course, I know – it is one of the things that makes a beautiful face even more perfect.  Now she was involved.

I pulled out my cock, which had grown to its full length and stiffness.  She looked at it through her tears, I am sure, expecting that she was about to be raped.  But right then, I knew that I could not violate her that way.  It would be too much for me – I would fall forever into her spell, and I would also never be able to leave that room.  Maybe one day, I would be able to fuck her like that, but today, I would need to find other ways.

I picked up the belt again and gave her four more across her breasts, until she was crying out.  I think she begged me to stop, and probably asked me not to rape her as well.  My memory of the rest of that night is, like the way my senses worked earlier, totally focused on my own feelings, and what was right in front of me.  I started to rub my cock in front of her face, as it started to twitch.  She looked at it closely, deciding, I am sure, that if I was silly enough to put it anywhere near her mouth, that she would bite the thing off.  I kept on rubbing, and as I felt that tingle that meant that there were only moments to come, I began to slap her cheek, increasingly harder, over and over, until I was pummeling it, until I gave my last twitch and offloaded all over her heavenly face and body.

The only other thing I remember from that day is that as I left the room seconds later, I turned around to her and spoke again, albeit I what was becoming my typically brief way.  I said two little words and she began to cry again.

“Thank you.”