PickUp

Pick-Up by Jurgen von Stuka ISBN: 978-1-942331-32-2 A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication Copyright © 2015, All rights reserved With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers. For information contact: Pink Flamingo Publications www.pinkflamingo.com P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Author’s note: There are some references in this book to another von Stuka novel, BONDAGE BROKERS, also from Pink Flamingo Publishers. While the reference may be useful in better understanding Ellen’s past, the reader will not need to read that story in order to enjoy this one. For Chris, who has never read a word of my work, but is as kinky as I am. Escape The young woman, wearing a black knit cap, nylon windbreaker, black tights and knee boots, ran through the deep woods at a jogger’s pace, panting heavily because she could only breathe through her nose. Her mouth was jammed full of cloth packing held in place by three separate retaining bonds: a tightly tied narrow band of red cloth that held the packing in place, then another flat, square pack the filled the narrow space between her teeth and then several meters of stretched adhesive tape that formed an air and sound proof seal. Yet she still ran, somewhat haphazardly, until she realized she was perhaps now in deeper trouble than she was before she escaped from the crazy, sadistic b***h who kept her locked in the cellar. Her first concern was that she was lost – terribly lost. Her small window of opportunity to flee had been complicated by her lack of any real knowledge of the wooded area behind the house and she ran blindly, with no intention other than to get as far away from her mad keeper as she could, as quickly as possible. Her second problem was that she was overheating badly and had no way to control that except to slow down and try to cool off, despite the many meters of clear monofilament fishing line wrapped around her body. The strong fishing line was cunningly placed in such a way that as she moved the line cut into her n*****s and crotch, digging deeper with every breath. Above and below her braless, youthful breasts, many meters of line pressed the nearby skin into deep crevasses, framing the breast and forcing the n*****s outward only to have them cruelly bisected by a single strand of line that was centered over each jutting tit. No matter how she twisted and shook, the cutting single strands only dug deeper. The same was true of the multiple strands that wound through her crotch, anchored snugly by the torturous waist belt of dozens more strands of nylon line. The fishing line crotch cutters were symmetrically arranged with four or five strands on each side of her pouting s*x lips and there were another half dozen strands of the brutal line slicing through the center of her s*x, neatly framing her clit. One strand, deeply dug in, like the one on her t**s, was at the center of her cunt, perfectly aligned to bisect the c******s and to provide her with endless waves of alternate discomfort and erotic excitement as the thin cords pummeled the tiny s*x pinnacle and made any movement a mix of disconcerting arousal and frustration. Her cotton shirt and panties were soaked in sweat and as she slowed down to try to figure out where she was, the bitter wind and below freezing temperature bit into her body as cruelly as the securing nylon line Third, although she stopped several times to rub against what looked like a promising tree trunk or old fence post, she still had not been able to free her hands or arms from the tight and limb-numbing constriction of the thin and cutting line that wound around her arms from elbows to wrists and bound each finger and thumb to the opposite one on each hand. One old fence post seemed to offer salvation with a sharp, rusted metal projection that looked like it should cut the monofilament, but as soon as she rubbed against it, the rotted post collapsed and she toppled over with it, crying with pain and frustration as the line dug deeper into her clit and t**s. Her greatest fear remained that she would be caught and dragged back to the cellar where she had spent so many days and weeks, subjugated to the whims and will of her captor. She shivered with a curious mixture of fear and anticipation, thinking about the punishments she would have to endure if she was captured. As she rounded yet another sharp turn in the old and overgrown forest path, she suddenly realized that she had been there before. She was running in desperate circles.