Damsel is the expanded epic that was once called The Girl Next Door (though she was never really the girl next door ... the "girl across the street," maybe, but I digress). Whatever it's called, it stands as one of my most "loved" sagas, which, in its original, shorter, less detailed, form, has inspired and stimulated readers and artists throughout the world -- Geoff
PREFACE This is the story of an extraordinary girl. She was extraordinary in every conceivable way: genetically, physically, and mentally. If the heterosexual key to attraction is a series of interlocking facial features with symmetrical body shapes, hair condition, skin radiance, and an energetic perception of a positive attitude, she won the jackpot … but lost the war. Although she was as physically perfect as a female could seem to be, her thought process precluded her from seeing the danger of her attractiveness. It also, thankfully, kept her from becoming spoiled, selfish, or self-worshipping. But when she was finally targeted by a nameless, obsessed predator, her kindness prevented her from perceiving his hunt … until it was too late. As you will read, the convergence of fates seemed to conspire against her. Once this extraordinary beauty was forced into an extraordinary captivity, the twists and turns of her story became equally extraordinary – as if reality could not allow nature to take its usual course with her. For years, I thought she was a myth. I would hear of her mythos: an innocent, strong-willed, beautiful girl who could elicit desire to an extraordinary degree without reflecting it. A girl who could create an overwhelming yearning in others to capture and conceal her, no matter how consistent her attempts to escape. But I didn’t believe it. How could I? She would be held here, then confined there, then stashed everywhere. A girl like that couldn’t exist. No actual woman could survive what it was said she survived. But her legend wouldn’t die. As I fought more and more maniacs, found more and more captives, and freed more and more victims, her ever more elaborate tale would be told by more and more White Slavery Networkers. Eventually even I began to sense a grain of possibility in her saga. After all, I had already experienced ample evidence of the apparently bottomless depravity of the repressed-obsessed and the seemingly boundless strength of their survivors. Could her story actually be real? So, on my travels and during my battles, I started paying attention to the bits and scraps that she, and her possessors, had left behind. And this is the start of what I found. ONE He glanced into the back of the van as he drove through the suburban night, past quiet residential homes filled with people completely unaware that an incredibly attractive girl lay on the van floor. He got yet another thrill looking at her. He knew she had lovely purple/green eyes in a remarkably sweet face, even though they were presently closed and covered with squares of silver duct tape. He also knew that she had slim, but sweet, eminently gaggable, lips – even though now they were stretched around a big oblong red pad wedged behind her perfect white teeth, holding down her tongue, filling her cheeks, and covered by an asterisk, then a nostril-to-chin panel, of black, cement polymer tape — itself covered by a tight, thick swath of muffling cloth tied tightly beneath her lustrous, thick, mane of auburn brown hair. She had been wearing what he had dubbed her “usual uniform” – a red cotton turtleneck and form-fitting black jeans, but now it looked as if she was wearing a torn red cotton turtleneck micro-minidress. Her beautiful, big breasts were bulging against the cloth even more now that ropes had been tightened above and below them, keeping her upper arms tight against her back, and her lower arms lying side by side in the curvature of her back. He could see her elegant (but presently flaccid) hands on either side of her remarkably slim waist. He saw her short, unpainted finger and toe nails, and knew she wore virtually no make-up — she didn’t need it — save some light blush and lipstick. 38DD-22-34 he had guessed (then corroborated after searching her apartment.) But those double-dees were the most extraordinary breasts he had ever seen: strong, firm, round, high on her chest. He couldn’t wait to find out if they looked as good out of the shirt. He had to drag his eyes off them, and took a moment to admire her long, slim, smooth, shapely legs, undiminished by the fact that they were now bent back with her ankles bound to her upper thighs and her knees cinched. He had taken her favorite suede ankle boots off, along with the jeans. Her chest swelled as she breathed deeply in her unconsciousness, out-lining her button-like, erect nipples against the red turtleneck. He turned quickly back to concentrate on the residential neighborhood's roads. After all these months secretly stalking her, he didn't want to lose her now to an accident or traffic stop. Kate Lipton had volunteered at the library, tutored English at the community center, and worked at a local florist. He had first glimpsed her at the library, in starched shirt and pleated skirt, as she reached for a book on a top shelf. He found himself holding his breath as her profile was outlined by her reach, and her studious expression became intent. He casually watched her for the rest of her library stay, nonchalantly hovering about the area. He sealed the image of her lustrous hair, charming face, full chest, round rear, and long legs into his mind’s eye. Luckily she didn’t look at him once. He was that kind of guy. But even then her fate wasn’t sealed. That happened when, by total coincidence, she came striding into his favorite book shop. She was quiet, careful, and unobtrusive, but there was no missing her. She, however, behaved with studied disingenuousness. She patently refused to notice anyone noticing her, therefore, to her mind, no one did. He decided that she was obviously ill at ease with her showgirl-like body. That cemented it. He decided then and there that he didn't want to get to know her; he wanted to take her, to have her, to use what she obviously had no use for. That’s when he decided to see what would happen if he made a study to see if it was possible. It was. She lived alone in a first floor apartment off a residential house, and, incredibly, had no close friends. He watched her for weeks with high-tech binoculars from the safety of his nondescript van, even able to catch glimpses of her dressing and undressing through a bent bulge in her bedroom window shade. That's when he first saw her magnificent 5'7" curves, her flat stomach, her firm rear, and her ample, strong, tits with their pink aureoles and button nipples. For weeks, he jacked off to his memories of her, then to the pictures he had taken of her walking, driving, eating, working, dressing, and undressing. Finally, he realized that taking her was possible. He stalked her for months more, finding that she liked to fill her days and nights with routine, but no heavy socializing. Sure, she’d have a drink or meal with some work friends, but eschewed the bar scene. He could just imagine how resentful her mother must have been of her beauty and poise (and how henpecked her father must have been) to create such a stand-offish, almost isolated, bombshell. One night, he followed her car to the nearest library just before closing time, parked beside her driver's seat after she went inside to return some books, and waited. Everything had been prepped for weeks, just waiting for the right time. This was it. Kate Lipton came out, leaned down, and started to unlock her car door. He casually placed the zapper against her neck and thumbed the trigger as he slapped a padded cushion over her mouth. There was a crackle, and then the striking brunette made a surprised, gurking sound into the padding as she jerked back into his arms. Her eyes were wide, her hands were fluttering, her chest heaved, and her hair billowed as he grabbed her. With a simple turn, his arms under hers, he spun her to the van's padded floor. His pants nearly erupted as she shuddered on the dark grey padding, as if orgasming, but in reality, she was already losing consciousness. He quickly pushed her back door closed, slid the van's side door shut, and hopped back into the van’s driver’s seat. Trying to remain calm, he checked the rearview mirrors to see if anyone in the library or nearby had noticed anything. Not a creature was stirring as far as he could see. He started the engine and slowly drove away. That simple. Driving slowly back to her place, he parked at the curb by her door, and spent the early evening stringently binding, and thoroughly gagging, her. Kneeling above her spectacular sleeping body, he was tempted to ravage her right away, but he didn't want the van's rocking to alert anyone. But he couldn’t resist unleashing her chest, mauling it until he nearly ejaculated, then turning his attention to her pants. It was like peeling rubber cement off her, and he found himself holding his breath as her leg flesh was slowly revealed … as well as a matching pair of tan, nearly translucent, string panties. The jeans had been tight enough to nearly create a camel-toe, but the underwear left no doubt. His hand, almost as if with a will of its own, cupped the triangle, his thumb resting between her lower lip. She let out a low, pained, moan in her stupor, which sent him scurrying to the duffel bag on the passenger seat. From then on, he concerned himself only with stuffing and sealing her mouth, as well as affixing her limbs. When he was certain she couldn’t run, kick, punch, slap, claw, flail, scream, or shout, he stared at the remarkable bound, gagged, and blindfolded shape.He wanted to grab, squeeze, lick, suckle, and spoon the shape, but resisted, breathing shallowly. He had done it. He had kidnapped Katherine Lipton. She was his now, and no one knew. So there would be time for it all, but for now, he just wanted to – had to – take it all in. So that’s what he did – for minutes that could have been hours … for hours that could’ve been minutes. Besides, he didn’t want to wake her up. It wouldn’t do to have her squealing and writhing while he finished the job. Only when he was sure the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep did he quietly emerge with the keys he had taken from her pants pocket in one hand, and an empty laundry bag in the other. He soon stood inside her four-room apartment. He left the lights out. There was enough illumination from the moon and street lamps that he could see that her furnishings were as simple and stately as her demeanor and fashion. He took in the kitchen, bath, and living room as he went into the bedroom. It was small, but pristinely organized. Much to his amazement and excitement, her lingerie drawer was as neatly ordered as a cadet’s foot locker. But instead of military gear, there were demi-bras, panties, and camisoles from the best specialty shops, in an array of colors. When Katherine Lipton found lingerie that fit, she got one in almost every primary color. He stuffed those into the bag and moved onto the closet. As he expected from the drawers’ evidence, she had lined up her shirts and skirts. He had no great interest in the sweaters and slacks. As he had seen, her taste lent toward classic librarian or teacher-wear. What they lacked in cleavage, they made up for in fit. Besides, nothing wrong with them that an opened button or scissors couldn’t fix. The one place she failed him was in the shoe department. She had plenty, and some were quite nice, but none had heels higher than three inches. No matter. There were plenty of catalogs and malls for that. He beat a hasty, quiet retreat, tossed the now full bag into the passenger seat and started the van. He took a close look at her still form, then drove back to the now closed library. He gave her another dose of the zapper, again reveling in the way her shape danced. Then, making sure no one was around, he drove her car halfway back to her house, walked back to the van, drove to the parked car, then finished the trip, parking her car in its usual spot by the curb. When he returned to the van, she was right where he had left her and no police car was patrolling the area. Again, the temptation was to celebrate, on her, but to avoid the patrol car, which could be just around the corner, he purposefully put on his seat belt and drove slowly away. But the houses he passed seemed totally different now. Inside each one could be a beautiful, young girl, gagged to be kept from crying for help, bound so she couldn’t escape. He drove until he came to his house forty minutes away upstate. It had been given to him by friends who had moved to Europe. It was a nondescript colonial on the left turn of an L-shaped street filled with lower middle-class families in the shadow of a factory city. It was about 3AM when he got back. He parked in the driveway just a few inches alongside the side door which opened onto the landing between the kitchen and basement. He stepped back into the rear of the van and untied Kate's long legs. He found himself holding his breath as they stretched across the space. She was still breathing evenly and showing no signs of consciousness. He shrugged. With the tape squares over her eyes, the padding secured in her mouth, and the way her arms were locked behind her, it made little difference. He quickly opened the side door of the van, unlocked the house's side door without getting out, grabbed Kate by the upper arms, pulled her 111 pounds onto his back and hopped into his house. He quickly slid the van door shut and closed the house door. It had only taken a second and someone would have had to wedge their eye between the van and house wall to see anything. Kate Lipton was on his shoulder, in his house. He just stood there for a moment, grinning spasmodically at the thought that erupted into his head. “She ain’t heavy, she’s my sex slave.” He carried her downstairs over his shoulder, her long legs hanging down his front, her big breasts squishing on his back. Down there, in a pool of naked yellow light from the cellar ceiling light bulb, was a mattress. He kneeled on it and slowly lay her down. There was a soft thud as her head fell back, her hair fanned out, and her breasts jiggled. Once more, her magnificence was spread below him. Only this time, it was on his turf. "Kate?" he said quietly. "You awake?" No response. He leaned over her, putting his knees on one side of her magnificent torso, and his hands on the other. "Kate?" he repeated softly down into her covered face. "You up?" Still nothing. He slowly, breath-takingly, luxuriatingly, laid himself across her chest, placing his mouth directly against her ear. "Kate?" he whispered. "You up?" She shivered just before he filled her ear with his hot, wet, tongue. She was up. It was way too late. She tried screaming, but all that really happened was that her neck tendons stood out, sweat started beading from her forehead, and a distant, muffled groan emanated from behind the tape and cloth. She tried to pull away, but her bound arms gave her no ballast or balance, so her wonderful legs scissored , then fell back to the mattress. Her torso surged up into his, so he grabbed her head, and started fervidly slobbering into her ear, licking and nipping her ear lobes, yanking down her turtleneck, then moving his mouth to her neck. Kate continued to try to scream while struggling, but she was caught under his weight and weak from the assault and lack of air. He grabbed her right breast through the cotton and squeezed, turning it like a huge vault combination lock. The girl writhed on the mattress in the cellar in hysteria. It was everything he imagined it to be. He nipped, scratched and pulled at the cotton until he had torn it open — her amazing mounds erupting into view. He tugged back the openings so that the remarkable tits were thrust up and out. Kate tried to scream and screech, tears staining the tape squares. She twisted, his legs kicking, but she couldn't get far from the center of the mattress with his hands and body everywhere. He couldn’t care less how she struggled. He was mesmerized by her tits. They were everything he imagined them to be, and more. Big and round, but firm and even perky -- seemingly just about to become so large that they would start to sag, but not yet … not yet. The aureoles were pink and round, hugging the breasts’ face with the cute button nipples directly in the center of them. Kate kept trying to scream, and succeeded in wrenching her body, again, snapping him out of his chest trance long enough to remind him that it was time for her matching panties. He only let her go long enough to pull open his own shirt and tear down his pants. Then he was on her again, dragging her back to the center of the mattress, his foot kicking at her panty, his mouth on her face, and his hands filled with her magnificent chest. Her tits filled his hands and bulged through his fingers like a luxurious rising soufflé. It was eerie the way she fought against his assault but could make no effective sound or struggle. It was as if she was sealed inside her fabulous form, the only evidence of her anguish being the skin sheen, the bunched muscles, the depth of her collar bones, and her neck's bulging veins. He yanked down her panties with his toes, pushing it along the length of her smooth, kicking, legs. Then he started trying to jam his hips between them. She fought, but she was distracted because he was using her scrunched, bulging tits like push-up handles. Finally he was in place, her exhausted limbs sliding apart. He grabbed her well-defined hips and used them as a centering devise. His cock needed no encouragement and her vaginal muscles were no match. He slid and slammed home, pulling her rump off the mattress by her pelvis. Her muffled screams were choked off into a terrible whine, her breasts jiggling like water balloons. She started making "unh, unh, unh" sounds with each terrible thrust, her head jerking up and down the top of the mattress. Given his excitement, anticipation, and stimulation it didn't take long. His cum erupted into her within five endless minutes, and seemed to course into her for hours. She flopped like a decked fish, her breasts swinging around her chest like sacks of jello, the sound coming from beneath the tight, padded cloth like the wail of a falling bird. Finally he fell atop her again, his cock still all the way in her, and his right hand bulging with her left mammary. "Kate?" he hissed happily. "I'm up." Then it got worse.