Chapter Eleven

This time, Turk did not take the opportunity to stroke and play with Cheryl’s sex, but went right down to business. He grabbed one cunt lip in his right hand, pulling it out, stretching it painfully. Cheryl let out a small gasp, but otherwise did not react. He clamped one earring to the left labial lip and then did the other to the right.

Cheryl grimaced in pain as the earrings were applied. She could not guess what weird desire had prompted these decorations, or the decorations to her breasts, but was more than willing to comply if it speeded up her hoped-for exit from the apartment. Turk ordered her to stand and took in his handiwork. Cheryl’s hands went automatically back to her head. The breast earrings were small, their red centers set off by a golden frame. In spite of the matching redness of the areolae, they stood out well, two blood red buttons on her breasts.

The earrings affixed to Cheryl’s cunt lips were longer, a series of red stones set in gold, dangling two inches below her pussy. “Now that’s what every well dressed cunt in the city should be wearing”, he thought. He made Cheryl pose lewdly as he took more photographs. Standing with her arms on her head, sitting on the bed with her legs spread, on all fours, from behind, with the ruby colored trinkets dangling from her cunt.

The Turk pointed out the clothing he had selected and ordered Cheryl to get dressed. He had selected a matching pair of black panties and bra. Cheryl stepped into them quickly, thankful for any covering. The panties were sheer and her light brown pubic hairs could easily be discerned beneath them. The dangling earrings rubbed against her as the panties pressed them into her cunt. The bra was scanty, lace trimmed, and pushed her breasts together and up, her areolae peeking above the tops. The earrings poked into the fabric of the bra creating two tiny points. She paused for more pictures.

Turk had selected, not a skirt and blouse ensemble, but a black cocktail dress, short hemmed, two thin straps supporting the bodice over her shoulders. She had bought the dress for the company’s annual Christmas party last year. It was held at an elegant uptown restaurant and all of the company’s best authors were invited. Cheryl had hoped to make an impression on her superiors and maybe a dashing young fiction writer who she had a crush on. She had made an impression. Two of the executives had asked her for blowjobs. The author never showed.

Turk perused the stunning figure before him. Something was missing. Of course, the nylons. He opened the dresser drawer behind him and pulled out a black pair of stockings, laced tops, with a band of elastic to hold them firmly against the thighs. This and the pair of shiny black pumps he had selected would complete the costume. He watched as Cheryl stretched one stocking onto her leg and then the other. Perfect. She donned the shoes and she was ready. He recorded her delightful presentation for posterity.

Grabbing her arm, Turk dragged Cheryl back to the living room. He ordered her to stand by as he rummaged through his bag. He produced a length of rope and ordered Cheryl to put her arms in front of her and to cross her wrists. She did so with trepidation. “How was she going to get away if she was tied?” she thought. The next action was of an even less reassuring nature.

She had not seen the steel hook Turk had installed earlier in the ceiling, but she saw it now. It was actually more of an eyelet than a hook and the Turk passed the loose end of the rope that was around her wrists through it. He pulled on it quickly and her arms followed the rope up towards the circle of steel. Turk tied off the loose end on her wrists.

Cheryl’s feet barely touched the floor as she was stretched to the limit of her height. Her arms were taut and began to ache immediately. Her eyes darted around the room as if seeking assistance from an imaginary rescuer.

Turk went over to the laptop and camera and made some adjustments. An image popped onto the screen and Cheryl could see herself dangling on her tip toes, her face compressed by her arms, the hem of the dress riding high on her thighs. It was not too long to begin with and another inch or so, her panties would be peeking out. Turk looked at his watch and nodded to himself. “Right on time.”

There was actually another fifteen minutes or so before the broadcast, but he liked to have a margin of error. This way he could relax a bit and go over his routine. He went back to the kitchen, choosing the Merlot this time and wandered back into the living room. He took some more pictures of the dangling beauty; close-ups of her contorted face, the ropes on her wrists, the teetering feet.

He walked over to the computer and downloaded the pictures to the hard drive. Then, after checking the workings of the video camera, adjusting the focus and the zoom, he turned to the forlorn woman.

“Now I am going to let you down and you are going to do exactly as I say. We are going to have a little interview and then you are going to put on a show. I don’t have time to edit this and so if you fuck it up I’m going to come down on you like a load of bricks. I’m going to remove your gag. If you holler or yell it will take me about four seconds to slit your throat.” As he said this, the Turk stepped closer to the woman and unsheathed his blade. He placed it under her chin and rubbed it back and forth. “If I slit your throat, it will take about twenty seconds for you to die. You will drown in your own blood and make a considerable mess on this nice floor. You will not, of course be able to call out because your wind pipe will be severed and anyway, there will be so much blood in your throat that you will not be able to make a sound other than a little gurgle. Got that?”

Cheryl got it all right. She nodded excitedly to show her earnestness.

Her wrists were released from the hook. Her feet ached as she was able to place her full weight on them again. The man took the gag from her mouth and smoothed her hair where it had been disturbed by the strap. He checked her makeup carefully. She was ready.

The Turk stepped back and stood next to the computer. The girl stood forlornly, hands at her sides, trembling with fear. Absent the hulking threat of a man before her, absent the evening of terror and degradation she had experienced, this could be any night. She was standing in her living room, facing away from the windows and towards the door. She had on her best dress and her sexiest underwear. But this was not any other night.

Before proceeding to the taping, the Turk gave the girl her lines and made her repeat them four or five times. He adjusted the dimmer for the living room lighting and made Cheryl move over a little to her left. “Something else,” he thought. “Oh, yea, the chair.”

He brought over the chair that had been the scene of Cheryl’s debasement earlier and had her sit in it. She would never think about this chair in the same way again. Showtime.

The Turk signaled Cheryl, “action” and she slowly began to speak. Her voice trembled as she directed her gaze to the camera as she had been instructed. “Hello, my name is Cheryl,” she said. “I’m going to put on a little show for you. I hope that you enjoy it.”