THE LIBRARY: Model Prisoner Part 2

Model2MODEL PRISONER Part 2 {Continued From Here}

{This story originally appeared on BDSMARTWORK and features some amazing art by Agnes. We thank them for letting us share it with you here}  

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The local gendarmes stopped him just as he hustled the Bitch into the back of their sedan. It was parked a few miles out of town, in a gravel commuter’s lot. The officials had the van and car encircled in seconds, their guns at the ready.

“Please do not move,” said the lead man, a tall, broad-shouldered, thin detective with a mustache, who held up his identification. “We are investigating a disappearance.”

“A disappearance?” the man echoed. “I’m just driving my sister to an appointment. We were coming back to get the truck afterwards....”

“Really?” replied the man as the others held their positions. “Are you sure you were not going to take move something from the van to the car...or someone?”

The man just stared at him as the mustached policeman signaled for them to search the van. They pulled the doors open.

It was empty.

The policeman turned to stare at the other man, blinking. “But...we saw you drive in....” Then he became curtly professional again. “Please open your car trunk, monsieur....”

It, too, was empty.

The policeman flushed, the expression on his face saying that he had made a terrible mistake that, even now, might be costing a young girl’s life. “Pardon, monsieur,’ he said tightly. “Madame....” The woman in the car nodded to him.

Then all the cops drove away in a cloud of dust, dirt, and gravel. The man waited until the sounds of their cars was gone before entering the car, opening his “sister’s” coat, slipping his hand beneath the dress there and squeezing Michelle Mureau’s right jug like a cow’s udder.

That was wonderful,” the Bitch said from the floor of the back seat, her clothing and makeup expertly blending in to the dark seat and carpet there. “So simple, yet so perfect!”

“Yes,” he grunted, watching in hardening appreciation as Michelle’s heavily made up face reacted to his molesting even under the Hollywood special effect latex and heavy sedation. “There was a reason we did all the research, all this planning....”

“Watching her try to wake up...try to talk...even after I wrapped the strap around her neck...delicious!”

The man looked carefully. It was still there, around Michelle’s throat, holding her to the seat back.

All The Bitch had to do was push her head with a gloved hand to make her appear to nod through the thick, tinted window....

“Come on,” he growled, starting the car. “Get that shit off her. I want her to look like her when I nail her.”

Michelle’s eyes were filled with sky. Her cunt was filled with his cock.

They lay in a field outside of town, naked, hidden in the tall grass. He had pulled off the coat and torn away her dress as if they were made of tissue paper.

His hand was over her filled mouth and glued lips...

...her arms were still tied behind her with clear tape and plastic pull-ties. They had wrapped her ankles...

...with plastic pull-ties and staked them into the ground with plastic tent spikes, so her widened legs couldn’t kick, revealing their location.

And he was raping her with violent abandon, unable to wait until they left the country.

“I’m inside now, see?” he whispered harshly, plunging powerfully again and again. “Now, even if, by some miracle, we’re stopped, you’re still fucked. You hear me, missy, you’re fucked!”
Michelle’s body jerked as he rammed again, her brain trying to make sense of what was happening. She couldn’t resist, couldn’t scream, could hardly think, yet she felt every sensation as his cock scraped deep inside her warm, wet walls -- her biology belying her revulsion.

She couldn’t understand what drove this man to abuse her. Desire her, yes. But to her culture, sex was natural, as was beauty and nudity. It did not drive them to attack, imprison, and defile....

Yet here she was, in the middle of a field, hundreds of people searching for her, silenced, stilled, being violated.

His other hand clamped her full, buoyant, left butterball -- feeling its rich creaminess, its round, cafe au lait aureole and nub nipple -- clawing it spasmodically as he thrust. Drool and saliva poured out of his mouth, splattering her face and chest, each drop making her cringe and gasp, each breath dizzying her.

Her eyes rolled as he came, her body stretching and shuddering as if in death. Quickly emerging from her, he slid up to her stomach, plopping his still wet erection between her creamy mounds, and gave himself a surging tit-fuck. Just as Michelle was becoming aware of this further fouling, his cum spurted into her nose and eyes.

As she shook in shock, he undid her ankles, retied them with a pull-tie handle between her ankles, and dragged her back to the car. Practically hurling her inside, he returned to the driver’s seat as The Bitch, up until then serving as lookout, gathered Michelle up onto her lap and muffled her lips even more by tying her torn dress over her working, cum-smeared lips.

“Sorry about the clothes,” he grunted, the car moving back onto the road.

“No problem,” the Bitch said, reaching into a cloth sack and coming out gripping wet-look black nylon/lycra spandex cire. “I went shopping in her catalog...!”

TO BE CONTINUED

 

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