Just as the sound of her mother’s car engine coming to life reached their ears, the lovely captive’s eyes cleared. Her glorious lips practically popped off her assaulter’s mouth and slobbered to get off an agonized howl, but Swanson was there, her bony claw thudding a thick washcloth over the scream.
Claire’s glorious body distended and quaked, every tendon stretched to the snapping point as Al brutally impaled her, crushing her left breast like a beer can, her dress splayed out beneath her like a butterfly’s pinned wings. She cried for her mother, her muffled face mashed between her sadistic teacher’s pressing hands.
As Mrs. Holden drove away, the delivery man came in her teenage daughter again.
Claire’s mother looked up to find the deliveryman on her porch. She didn’t react the way he did when she appeared without warning on his doorstep.
“Yes?” she said hopefully, “What is it?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading out on vacation,” he said, ignoring her fleeting expression of disappointment. “So I wanted to know if you wanted the picture of your daughter back.”
The woman looked down to see the picture of Claire in her dance recital outfit … as
Dotty looked at the girl herself, trembling before her in the back of the van, wearing a new, vicious, variation of the dance recital outfit.
It was pure white, yes, and more than form-fitting, but there the comparison really ended. For while the dance recital outfit was designed for freedom and modesty, this one was designed for exactly the opposite.
Made of white gloss metallic vinyl, it was both ridiculously short and absurdly low cut -- Claire’s beautiful rump displayed in all their just barely covered glory while her breasts all but erupted out of the bulging bodice, hardly held in by her bent nipples. Instead of tights, she had on white-lace thigh-high stockings, and, instead of ballet shoes, severe white five-inch ankle-strap pumps.
Instead of her arms and hands making lyrical patterns in the air, her wrists were crossed and affixed with white pull-ties and tape behind her as she hunched in the enclosure. And instead of the serene smile she had at the recital, her face was twisted in torment by a white, murderously tight, padded, prod gag.
Swanson, crouched in the girl’s way blocking the back door of the van. “Get the picture?” Claire tottered on the heels, staring in wet-eyed wonder at her ex-teacher when her eyes weren’t darting at the vehicle’s tinted windows. “If you can get past me, we’ll let you go,” Swanson sneered. “Yeah, yeah,” she continued, smirking at the girl’s expression of mournful disbelief. “But what’ve you got to lose? Would you rather just wait for Al to get back?”
That did it. Claire charged her, head down, fists balled, jamming the heels into the van’s cushioned floor.
Swanson laughed as she grabbed Holden’s silken hair and right tit and dragged her to the van’s left wall.
TO BE CONTINUED