Everywhere Denise looked, there was darkness. Open or shut, her eyes could fathom no difference. It was as if she were submerged in a sea of black ink. Not the slightest shimmer of light entered the subterranean tomb in which she knelt, her hands bound above her, her mouth rudely gagged. No sound either, other than the slight echo from her muffled moans or the faint clinking of the chains that held her arms together suspended in the air.
She had been kneeling for what seemed like hours. The man had beaten her, whipped her skin raw, abused her, raped her mouth and then left her here to suffer, alone in the dismal darkness. Her knees, affixed to a ring in the floor, were being rubbed raw by the rough concrete beneath them. Only by pulling on her chain with her bound arms could she alleviate the pain of the abrasions on her skin. But then her arms would begin to ache, extended to their extreme, not really strong enough to bear her weight. The silenced woman tried to maintain a desperate equilibrium between the pain in her arms and her knees. As time wore on, this became more and more difficult, the pain more and more excruciating.
The lithe, young blond woman, naked but for her collar and her leather bracelets, had been condemned to muteness since she had awoken a prisoner in the Turk's estate house. Except for the purposes of eating, hygiene or to caress the Turk's rigid manhood with her lips and tongue, she had worn a leather mask over the lower portion of her face. The mask was attached to a long, thick plug that filled her mouth and reduced all but the most violent moans and cries to mere whimpers. Her arms, when not confined as they were now for purposes of abuse or affixed to the headboard of a bed, were kept locked behind her back.
Everything was done for her. She had no right to any volitional activity. A short, rotund old woman, strong as a peasant's wife, was her keeper; washing her, feeding her, wiping clean her intimate parts and, most importantly, making sure that she was available for the pleasure of the master of the estate. She did not know his name, only that he had kidnapped her 24 hours ago from her sister's apartment in New York City. She had been there to investigate her sister's disappearance and had by now surmised that the man who was her captor was responsible for her kidnapping as well.
The only other person that Denise had seen upstairs in the living areas of the mansion was an old man, apparently the old woman's husband. He had not spoken to her except once, a murmuring in some foreign tongue as he caressed her breast. She had been kneeling, chained to the 'family' dinner table, awaiting her master's pleasure. It was a gentle touch, almost kindly, but laced with a tinge of lust.
Her tormentor was a person known to his milieu only as 'the Turk'. He was a tall, broad shouldered, well muscled man. His face was scarred and cruel. His jet black hair and dark brooding eyes had greeted many a young woman about to be condemned to sexual slavery. It was his business, his specialty. He had engaged in many of the various industries of crime throughout his life: assault, murder, theft and mayhem. If no drug dealer himself, he had killed for drug dealers or protected them from death. But it was the art of sexual enslavement that truly engaged him. He loved to see the frantic eyes widen as his broad bladed knife traced a thin line beneath their chins. He loved to hear the muzzled pleas to be spared after he had shoved a stifling gag into their mouths. He relished their tender, intimate flesh as he stripped them of their clothes and their dignities.
But Turk had made a serious mistake. He had indeed kidnapped Denise's sister, Cheryl, months ago. He had sold her to the highest bidder after a forced strip show, web-cast by him to buyers all over the world. He had earned six figures for Cheryl, but he would return it now, in an instant,