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Introduction:

well, ya'll this is my first story. I've been reading and my wife wanted me to make a romantic story for her involving a rescue from a dungeon and a nice bathrooom. Funny, huh?
His Italian shoes made soft splashing sounds on the damp concrete, which was flooded with puddles. On either side of the two men, medium sized stalls, made of barbed wire, stretched to the end of the barn. In each cage cowered a shivering girl or woman, all of varying ages, from under ten to over forty.

The two men contrasted wildly. The younger was impeccably dressed, with a black Armani suit with the white dress shirt underneath turned up at the sleeves and collar. His eyes were piercing blue with curly black hair, and he looked to be about thirty. The older man was nearly sixty, with white hair and a big beer belly. His teeth were tobacco stained and yellow in color, and he had large damp patches under each arm. The older man hitched up his pants and spat at the nearest girl.

"Aw, shut the fuck up, slut!" He snarled, then slapped the cage wire, making a loud shaking noise. Then he laughed and spat again. "Take yer pick, Mister Fisher. Yer Paw and I go way back, so take any one yah want free o' charge." The young man's nostrils flared.

"You treat your stock like animals." His voice was low and soft, almost menacing. The older man laughed and kicked the nearest cage.
"That's 'cause they are animals, Mister Fisher. Sluts and bitches, the whole lot of 'em." The young man's sharp ears caught a noise.
"What's behind that door?" He asked, quickening his pace. The old man spat another glob of tobacco.
"Punishment chambers. Yah don't wanna go in there, trust me, sonny." The young man opened the door and revealed a sickening sight.

A beautiful young girl was strapped in an X formation to a large metal machine. Two masked associates were taking turns beating her perky breasts, laughing as they did so. The young man, without missing a beat, withdrew a throwing knife and flung it at the belt.

Zzzzzziiiippp!

The throwing knife impaled the belt and pinned it to the wooden stretcher rack. Both men stopped laughing and stared at this audacious man who had dared to interrupt their fun. He went over to the girl, who looked about to pass out, and took out another knife. He looked in her weary blue eyes, and saw a weary, pleading kind of relief, like she was saying, "Please. Just end it."

He sliced the bonds off her wrists and ankles, and the girl collapsed into his arms. She was shivering, and the bruises were already forming on her body. He picked her up easily, carrying her light weight over to the door. She moaned, her eyelids fluttering.

"Your disgusting. I cannot believe my father thought you were a decent man." His voice was contemptuous. "I'll take this one." Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

*****
The girl woke slowly. She half-expected to wake up in her filthy stall, and finding that it had been all a dream. But instead she awoke in soft satin sheets, in a full sized bed, with thick fluffy pillows and soft blankets. She sat up, wincing at the pain all over her body. She was wearing a flannel nightgown, and the room she had been sleeping in was warm and well furnished.

Over on the white dresser, there was a note taped to her mirror. She got up slowly, careful not to accidentally bump her sore hips against the chair back. The note was printed in a clear, firm hand:

I don't know your name, otherwise I would address this note to you.

I will not be here today, but I hope you find your quarters comfortable. If you have any requests or needs, please ask Sandy, the head nurse.
There is a bathroom down the hall, first door on your right. I hope you find it to your satisfaction. I had it stocked with anything you might need.
If you are feeling better by this evening, please consider joining me for dinner. Your closet and dresser are filled with clothes, so you may take your pick.
Sincerely,
James Fisher.

The girl padded slowly down the hall, and nearly fainted with pleasure. The bathroom was all white marble and tile, with a huge whirlpool tub in the corner, the three sunken steps leading down into the black marble tub. The spigots were all gold dragon heads, and there was a chrome caddy stocked with shampoo, conditioner, razors, washcloths and bars of soap. There was a towel rack on the left wall, which was plugged discreetly into the wall, so she guessed it was a heated towel rack. The bathroom mat was thick and soft, so she stood on this and undressed. She shucked the nightgown and turned on the hot water, testing it with her wrist.

She looked in the mirror and examined her bruises. Luckily, Mr. Fisher had stopped the men before there were too many bruises, so her breasts were not as sore as they might have been. Still, there were blue and purple stripes criss-crossing her chest and stomach. The beautiful bathroom was slowly filling with steam, so she tested the water again and eased herself into the water.

After the initial blast of heat, she relaxed and started soaping herself up. It felt wonderful to scrub the weeks of caked dirt off of herself. Her long red hair was soon soft and silky again, thanks to the shampoo. She looked at the razors for a while, wondering. When she had been in "The Kennels" as they were called, she would have given anything for a razor to slit her throat. But now, she wanted to feel pretty again. So she took the razor and started shaving her legs, careful not to make a nick or a cut.

When she got out of the bathroom, the maids all started buzzing about her. The dirty, battered looking girl who had went in came out with soft, creamy colored skin, big blue eyes, and silky red hair. Her breasts were a healthy size, and they jiggled as she walked. Her plump ass swayed with every move, and her legs went straight up to her chin. What a difference a bath could make!

She went to her closet and sorted through the clothes, pleasantly surprised. No bunny suits, kitty costumes, or leather suits. No dog collars, leashes, dildos, or anything. Just normal looking clothes. She examined her dresser and picked out a pair of stonewashed jeans and a tank top. The underwear and bras there came in matching sets, so she chose a pink lacy pair. Once she put on her jeans and soft pink tank top, she discovered a little drawer filled with makeup. Delighted, she started applying some mascara and eyeliner. After putting on some pink lip gloss, she looked like a knockout. She took her towel and nightgown and went to find Sandy.

Sandy was a plump, motherly looking woman with bobbed gray hair and a sweet smile. "Oh yeah, thanks. I'll just throw those down in the laundry. Master Fisher said you can roam around, entertain yourself for this afternoon. If your hungry, just come into the kitchen, okay? I'll knock you up something to eat."
"Ok, thanks." She said. Sandy looked at her quizzically.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" The girl smiled.
"Ten-twenty -eight." She recited with a sad smile on her face. Sandy frowned.
"What does-" she started to ask.
"It's my number. See?" The girl unbuttoned her jeans and showed a tattoo on her hip, the number 1028.

"No, poor thing, your given name." said Sandy sympathetically.
"Oh. Sophie, but nobody's called me that in at least six years." Sandy patted her arm.
"Well, Sophie, you just make yourself at home. All right? When I make lunch, I'll call you down." Sandy waddled off with the laundry.

Sophie started up the marble staircase. It was chilly on her bare feet and she wished she had thought to put some socks on at least. But when she started opening the doors and looking around, she forgot her cold feet. There was a game room, with a leather couch and a foosball table, a ping pong table, a wet bar, and a wall mounted TV. There was a guest room, with a king sized bed and another wet bar. She discovered another bathroom, smaller then the other one but just as handsome, and then she found the library.

It was a gigantic library, with a cathedral ceiling and wall to wall shelves filled with books. The bookshelves were cherry oak, and the carpet was plush and blood-red. At the back of this huge room were several squat chairs that looked very comfortable. There was a small coffee table with an ashtray and a little dish of candy and another little dish of dried fruit. Sophie hadn't read anything in years, so she picked out a book at random and sat down to read.


*****

The book was very good, and she lost track of the time until Sandy poked her head around the door. "There you are. Lunch is ready, dear. Come down from the drafty room." Sophie took the book with her and followed Sandy downstairs.

The kitchen was huge, all shining chrome and stainless steel. There was a large black granite table with a crimson runner on it, but Sandy had set her place at a large butcher block table, which was about the size of a normal table. Sandy had prepared a roast beef sandwich, with several good handfuls of potato chips next to it. There was ginger ale in a bottle next to her, and she poured herself a generous helping.

After devouring the sandwich while reading the book (which was Hounds of the Baskervilles), the majestic clocked chimed two o'clock in the kitchen. There was a sound of a door opening somewhere, and James Fisher entered the room.

Sophie was struck at how handsome he was. His eyes were so blue they looked black, and he wore a crisp dress shirt rolled up to the elbow. His hair was slightly tousled, giving him a gung-ho, daredevil look. James gazed at his guest, the corners of his mouth twitching. She was twisting a napkin between her hands, cringing slightly. He knew she expected him to march over and demand her to get on all fours in the presence of her master, but he didn't. Instead, he leaned against the butcher-block table and ate a potato chip.

"How do you feel?" He asked. His voice was soft and rich, with a trace of an accent, but Sophie couldn't identify what kind.
"F-fine, sir." she said, not looking at him. He smiled a little, and tipped her chin with his knuckle, so they were face to face.
"Relax. I won't bite. What is your name?" She could hardly breathe, and her chest felt tight.
"S-sophie." He laughed a little.
"Didn't I just say relax? I'm not going to hurt you, child. How old are you?" Sophie's forehead knotted a little, and she frowned.
"I'm...seventeen, I think. Yes, I'm seventeen." She was still twisting the napkin, but she seemed calmer.
"You look much better, Sophie. I suggest you take a nap, or continue reading that excellent book you chose." If he had not helped her out of her chair, she thought she might have stayed there for years.

He was so sweet, helping her up the stairs with his hand on her elbow. She was a little unsteady, and he was pleased that she seemed to like him. He tucked her into her bed, and sat down on the edge of it. Sophie seemed sleepy, but anxious.

"Why are you doing this to me?" She whispered. He stroked her hand gently.
"I hate seeing people mistreated. Besides, you’re a very beautiful woman. Now, get some sleep." She relaxed a little more, and he continued stroking her hand. Her eyes closed slowly, and soon her breathing was deep and slow. He crept silently out of the room, closing the door behind him.


That evening a crystal bell chimed when it struck six. James was waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase, and he watched her walk carefully down the steps. She was wearing a crimson taffeta gown, with a V neck that showed a hint of her cleavage. The back plunged down to the small of her back, and she had on black high-heeled shoes. Her hair was loosely braided, and a few auburn curls framed her face. James smiled, and held out his arm. She laughed nervously, and they went into the dining room.

The meal was delicious, roast duckling with stuffing, fluffy mashed potatoes, sweet squash, buttery rolls, and a heavenly cheesecake for dessert. Sophie ate light, conscious of the constrictions of her dress. James was very well educated, and Sophie loved to hear all of his stories. He was eloquent, handsome, and smart. Sophie had never liked any men, except her father, but there was a strange, tight feeling insider her chest, and it wasn't from the dress. Every time she heard him laugh her stomach wiggled a little.

Afterwards, James asked her to dance. She blushed scarlet.
"I don't know how." She giggled, the wine she had drank slowing her tongue a fraction.
"Here, I'll teach you. Put your hand here," He said, taking her hand and putting it on his shoulder. "And hold my other hand with your left."

She laughed again, her stomach flip-flopping as he put a hand around her waist. The dance was slow and easy, and they wound up by the fireplace, the fire casting flickering shadows on the stone hearth. James and Sophie's eyes locked, the pair of them lost in their own world.

When recounting afterwards, Sophie was never able to remember who kissed who. All she recalled was first they were dancing, and then they were kissing. His lips were warm and firm, and she parted her lips, allowing his tongue to dip into her mouth. Her arms were around his neck, and his hands were softly stroking her hips.

"Where?" She pleaded, breaking the kiss. He smiled at her, kissing her cheek.
"You need to go to bed, love. It's late." She pressed herself against him and pleaded again.
"Oh please, I need it. Please!" He put a finger on her lips, and she lowered her eyes.
"Not tonight, Sophie. I'm glad we got along so well, but you need rest. Your bruises have not healed, and your are too eager."

He escorted her upstairs, and they kissed again outside her bedroom door. She tried to tug him into her room, but he laughed again and kissed her hand. "Good night, Sophie."

*****

It had been four days since the romantic dinner, and since then Sophie's bruises had healed. Every day she explored more and more of the old house, and every night she masturbated feverishly to the thought of him making love to her. She had been out in the garden, wearing cutoff shorts and a tight t-shirt, when Sandy came out to greet her.

"Sophie, you better go see Master Fisher. He asked for you in his study." Her heart leapt, and she stood, brushing the dirt off of her hands. She hurried in the house, stripping off her gardening gloves and kicking off her sneakers. She raced up the stairs, two at a time, and found herself in front of the oak door that said, "JAMES FISHER" on it in gold lettering. Sophie knocked lightly.

"Come in!" said James's voice. She opened the door tentatively, and he was in front of his desk, leaning on the wall. He smiled at her, and she approached him, not sure of what was about to happen. He held her hands for a second, and then she melted into him. She loved the way he held her, so close and tender, and she looked up at his sharp blue eyes. They kissed again, but this time is was different. She was firmer, more persistent.

They wound on kneeling on the plush wool rug, and James unbuttoned her shorts. She slid them off, still kneeling on the rug, and threw them aside. She pulled her own t-shirt off, and James dexterously unclasped her bra with one hand. He slid his other hand into her panties, and found the silky dampness between her legs. Sophie shrugged off her bra, and James slowly pulled off her panties. He pushed her back on the rug with two fingers, and kissed her again. Then he knelt and started kissing her thighs, watching her quiver.

He took forever, teasing her, kissing all around her precious sex until she was pressing his head in between her thighs. He gently inserted a finger into her tight pussy, and suckled on her clit at the same time. Sophie was mauling her breasts with one hand, and with the other she was pushing James's face into her pussy. She was bucking her hips rapidly against his face, and then the orgasm hit her in a blinding, overwhelming wave of pleasure and an animalistic lust. Her bucking hips slowed, then she lay there, panting.

She finally noticed he was undressing himself, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding off his jeans. Her eyes grew as she watched his good-sized cock bounce as he pulled off his undershirt. It was at least 8 inches long, and decently thick. He nuzzled her neck, and slowly pushed himself, inch by inch, into her tight and amazingly warm pussy. He kept it there for a moment, allowing her pussy to get used to the intrusion, and then slowly started to withdraw. He pulled out half way then slid back in, working up a slow rythem.

She dug her fingernails into his back, pulling him closer and deeper, closing her eyes and panting. He felt her pussy muscles contract, but he held off until her second orgasm had thoroughly cleared her system out, and the exploded inside her, warm, sticky cum filling her most precious and secret hole.

They lay there, exhausted from their lovemaking, and finally drifted off to slumber.
6 comments

anonymous readerReport

2011-04-16 20:50:05
You write very, very well; especially pace. Enough, but not too much detail. One "major" ciriticism: I realise "it's just porn" but " Sophie's magical recovery" hits a MAJOR discord with me. Even one abusive encounter can scar a woman for life; Seven years of horrendous abuse isn't undone by a nice bath; especially when that abuse commences at age eleven, when the journey of sexual self discovery is just starting. Sophie would have more than likely concluded (more or less correctly) that all men are bastards (it's merely a matter of degree); and wanted NOTHING to do with her own sexuality thereafter... regarding the natural reactions of her own body as "traitorous". There's a difference between good fiction and fantasy. It's called verisimilitude... or believability. There's also a very good reason that there ARE nuns.

anonymous readerReport

2011-04-16 20:49:51
You write very, very well; especially pace. Enough, but not too much detail. One "major" ciriticism: I realise "it's just porn" but " Sophie's magical recovery" hits a MAJOR discord with me. Even one abusive encounter can scar a woman for life; Seven years of horrendous abuse isn't undone by a nice bath; especially when that abuse commences at age eleven, when the journey of sexual self discovery is just starting. Sophie would have more than likely concluded (more or less correctly) that all men are bastards (it's merely a matter of degree); and wanted NOTHING to do with her own sexuality thereafter... regarding the natural reactions of her own body as "traitorous". There's a difference between good fiction and fantasy. It's called verisimilitude... or believability. There's also a very good reason that there ARE nuns.

anonymous readerReport

2010-12-26 11:46:23
I absolutely loved it! Please write more! I'm rather horny. ;D

anonymous readerReport

2010-11-28 03:50:49
brilliant writing, loved James Fisher he's an extremely hot character

anonymous readerReport

2010-11-17 20:45:54
The sophistication of the house and how he made her wait was great, but then the story ended too quick. Rewrite it and add more detail to the final encounter and you will have a winner.

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