Chapter 1

She was scared.

I could see it in her eyes. They were frozen and still and they stared at me like the shudder of silence.

But it wasn't just fear. There was something else. More. She was petrified.

"Stay ... stay away," she stammered, shrinking back into the darkness, her arms outstretched and her fingers exploring frantically for the crevices in the wall. "D ... don ... don't come any closer!"

The involuntary wobble of her jaw echoed through her shoulders towards her flattened breasts and belly, and then a gentle roll of her midriff and a shake of her hips whacked her fear down her legs to her feet.

Have you ever seen a bitch that's afraid? One that's shitting and crapping in her pants? If so, you'll know. This one was scared.

"Please!" she screeched. "Don't touch me!"

Her high-pitched squeals came as putty to my sad, decaying ears.

Who was she, I wondered, this troubled, colorful delusion? And why had she gate crashed so abruptly into my old forgotten life? Was she an angel of the Lord, come to escort me to paradise? Or the Mistress of the Devil, arrived to tempt me with her carnal allure?

I hoped for the latter. I hoped fervently, for I haven't been tempted by carnal desire for such a long time and now I'd awoken to find this magical creature cringing in my cave, and what was I to think?

I stared at her troubled physiognomy as I assembled my thoughts. She had a youthful expressive face, a gorgeous set of curves and a dark troubled pair of eyes. Her lineaments were even and her lips were like luscious cherries dripping with nectar. And she had a mischievous smell - quite pleasant, like summer flowers in a cottage garden, and maybe a whiff of sandalwood - and hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a long weeping willow. Best of all were her breasts. They were high and pronounced and were wrapped tightly in her dress, and they promised me rapture.

What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She couldn't be more. And she was slim!

"Who are you?" I wondered, stepping out from behind the shadows and rubbing the dirt from my hands. She was a lady, genteel, sophisticated. Her face was decorated with powders and there was a paste delineating her eyes.

Not only that, but she was strangely familiar in her features and I imagined that I'd known her.

"Christine," she trembled, retreating hesitantly from my advance. "My name is Christine!"

Frightened by that confession, she made a long despairing dash towards the door and pulled frantically upon the handle, hoping that it would turn; but it didn't, and I watched, bemused, slow witted and mystified as she smashed her fist at the unyielding obstruction.

Nothing happened.

So I sniffed the stale air, savoring her perfume and drawing it into my old decaying nostrils. She smelt so good - and I was horny and hungry.

When she'd finished with her beating and wailing, she shuddered in anguish and shrank, falling to her knees in a sequence of sobs.

"Oh my God!" she quivered, rolling around on her haunches like she was about to fit.

What was she doing? What was wrong? Was she praying?

"My name is Christine. Christine. Oh whatever have I done?"

I listened to her cries patiently in baffled astonishment with little idea of what she meant or why she was afraid.

"It doesn't open," I offered helpfully, pointing stoically towards the unyielding door and wanting to be gentlemanly and helpful, but lost as to how best to achieve it. "We're locked in. No way out. That's the exit."

This unwelcome news intensified and deepened her panic. "Oh my God..." she shrieked, climbing back onto her feet and side-stepping away - if that makes sense - but then somehow darting past me to the front.

"Keep away from me! Don't ... don't come any closer!"

I twisted round, adjusting to her movements, a tortoise in search of the hare, in pursuit of the dizzy and the impossible, but confused and bemused by her speed and insensitive to her fear.

Certainly, I was curious as to what she might look like under her clothes. And why not? Isn't it normal for a man to be interested in what a lady looks like when she's undressed: the shape and bounce of her breasts, the weight of her ass, the smile of her pussy? I admit that I was curious and that my curiosity was heightened by years of lustful imagining.

Unfortunately, my intentions weren't well disguised and she kept skipping around me; jigging her tits and wriggling her hips, fleeing each time I got close, desperate to stay clear of my clutches.

She used words like "ogre", "pervert" and "monster", words that she had no right to possess.

She stood in front of the wall without any idea as to whether she was coming or going - and I imagined squeezing her tits and testing their firmness, pinching her nipples. I imagined her fingers inside my trousers and fondling my dick, and it made me want to possess her: to rape her, humiliate her. And I reflected that maybe she was right about me being a monster.

"Does anyone know that you're here?" I asked doggedly, stepping towards her in pursuit of an idea.

"Mon dieu!" she squealed, retreating a half step towards the locked door. "Please! I beg you! Stay away from me!"

Behind that door was freedom. But freedom is an ephemeral fleeting possession, as transient as the crest of orgasm or the dandelion that floats on the breeze.

Freedom was separated from her by the thickness of a door, but she shouldn't yearn for it because it's toxic, sulphurous and rotten; and I should know. For all of its supposed attraction, freedom is foxgloves, nightshade and laburnum.

It's poison.

I know such freedom: cruel, misleading, misguided and fraudulent. Freedom is what gives a man the right to go hungry and be abused. Freedom is the world in which a man's wife is strapped to a table while mutinous soldiers in shabby uniforms take turns in unfastening her cottons and silks. That's freedom.

I know such freedom, and in the words of my tongue: j'accuse!

I know the freedom to watch a wife's humiliation, of enduring it, of watching dirty men's hands playing with her buttons, laces and zips, caressing her skin, their cocks exploding in her holes and pounding her pussy like canons. Clods of mortar fix my prison and layers of limestone protect it, unyielding and impermeable - and I'm glad. I cry out and shriek to the Gods - deny me my freedom!

What interest have I in watching strangers torturing my wife, striking her with whips and tearing at her skin, in hearing her cries and being unable to help her?

"Look at how he's enjoying it," they sneer, pressing their paws into the jaws of her sex. They tickle her slit. They kiss and lick and pinch her pearl with their nails. "Look at how his knob throbs for release! Look how purple and bulbous it stands! Let's thrust it into her mouth while we fuck her! Maybe she'll suck him and he'll cum!"

Oh God! Have mercy on this wretch and deny me my freedom!

What interest have I in glimpsing bold black eyes that cry to me with despair? They glare at me, and I feel the horror of my heart as the idiots push my dick between her lips, as I thrust it to the back of her throat.

I have the freedom to use her mouth or to refrain but miserable man that I am: I cannot resist. I cannot refuse her soft tongue, her lips, and so my penis pumps and thrusts. It convulses, sliding through her lips, in and out, in and out, and my dear woman gags and gasps. She swallows and coughs, and I feel her pain and her sense of betrayal as her saliva mixes with my fluids and she dribbles from the corners of her mouth.

She accuses. It's her eyes. They watch me. She knows what it means. She has ideals, a good upbringing and a bright shining hope.