First Try

Where do I begin?

What do you say when someone you've loved your entire life does something like this? It's crazy and mean and spiteful! I can't believe she... I'm rambling, but... have to start somewhere. I only have so much time to get this done. I wish I could erase but I can't. I wasn't given an eraser. She told me not to cross anything out. I guess that's part of the plan. I don't know why. I wasn't given much instruction. All I know is that I have to write this story about my life... and about my sister.

The problem is I don't know much about her. Back in school, she was always kind of plain and quiet. She didn't say much and the boys didn't ask her out. She played basketball. I think she might have been pretty good. We fought a lot. She stayed in her room and read books, while I went out with boys. She hogged the bathroom a lot, even though she didn't have to worry about how she looked-I mean, it wasn't like she was going to go anywhere. We didn't run in the same circles.

That makes it hard to talk about her, but somehow, that's what I'm supposed to do. Teri said to just start writing. Even if I couldn't think of anything to say-just keep writing. I don't know how you do that and keep saying anything meaningful.

I'd erase all this, if I had an eraser.

My sister is almost two years younger than me. She has brown hair and dark eyes and a round face with a somewhat dark and oily completion. When she was younger she was cute. Now she's athletic, I guess.

I'm just the opposite. I have blonde hair that was almost white when I was younger, although I have to dye it to keep it that way now. My eyes are a striking shade of green and I have a pale completion that requires a lot of sunbathing to keep dark. When we were younger I was taller than she was, but now she's almost 6' tall, while I'm only 5' 7"

Fortunately, we don't get into fights any more.

I remember the first time I lost a fight. She was still a little chunky, because she hadn't lost her baby fat yet, and we were wrestling in front of the TV and she was on the bottom, like always, but then somehow she used my own momentum (just as I was sitting back on my butt to gloat) and somehow she rocked herself up and over-and suddenly she was on top of me. I was still a little bigger than her, but it was like she used my weight against me somehow. She was always good at sports. Since then she's lost her baby fat and it's all turned to tomboyish muscle. Now she weighs a lot more than me. Fortunately, we don't get in those kind of fights any more, like I said, but I remember the surprise I felt when my head hit the floor.

It hurt so much I cried. I've always been a little more delicate than her. I'm slender but shapely. People tell me I look like a model-but then sometimes boys will tell you anything. Maybe that's why Terry resents me enough to do this? I was always the popular one. But you can't make people like someone if they don't want to. Not that Terri and I were never close. I tried to be a good sister. But we were so different. We have different fathers, totally different personalities too; different tastes, different interests. Even the kind of friends we hung out with were different. I was always one of the more popular girls at school. What Terri calls the queen bee. She's always been a little jealous of me, I think. All the most popular boys asked me out; and I was always invited to all the parties-well, all the best parties anyway.

Two years before I graduated from high school, our mother died, so I spent my senior year in a foster home. I went through a rebellious phase, I suppose. But I dealt with it pretty well. After high school I got a job as a secretary in a doctor's office. I enjoy meeting new people, but mostly it was kind of boring.

Meanwhile, Terri was still in school. I think she did pretty good in her classes. She always was the smart one, even if she was a late bloomer and couldn't pronounce her sounds right until the fourth or fifth grade? Sometimes she sounded a bit slow, but I realize it wasn't her fault. She got a basketball scholarship that paid for her books and boarding. We talked occasionally, while she was away, but not very much. We sent Christmas cards. We used to call one another on our birthdays and she always calls on the anniversary of mom's death. We don't talk long.

When Terri got a job working out on the west coast the calls became less frequent. It stayed like that for about three or four years, I guess. And then one day, out of the blue, I get this call saying she's in town for a few days and she'd like to see me. And can I meet her at some out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall bar, because she has some important news she want to share. Like that's something we do. I was shocked. Glad to hear from her, of course. I didn't mind giving up my Friday-but it was definitely a surprise. We've never shared like that.

I guess I should have known something was up, but I couldn't say no without a good reason. And I have to admit I was curious. So we met at this country music place-her choice, not mine. And we had a drink and we sat at a table. After not saying much for a while, I finally asked what she wanted to see me about. "I can't tell you," she said cryptically, "I have to show you."

I wanted to know what, but she just said it was out in her van and she'd show me later. "Drink up," she said as she drained her glass. And then she went to buy us another round.

This wasn't like her at all, so I grabbed her arm and asked what was going on. I didn't want to sit around drinking all night and listening to bad music when I'd stood up Brad in order to be there. "Come on lighten up," she said. "This is a celebration."

So I downed my drink and a few moments later she brought back another.

If I were a little more cynical I might have noticed I was already feeling a little tipsy, but that's not the kind of thing I sit around thinking about.

By the time we went to see her big surprise, I was feeling pretty good, o when she opened the door and there was a man inside I didn't know what to think? Then I felt her hand clamping over my mouth with this smelly rag as she pushed me into the van. And something even stronger than alcohol began to smother my brain to darkness.

When I woke I was gagged, hogtied and lying on my side in the dark. I could feel the motion of the road and hear the muffled roar of the motor. Terri was lying beside me; asleep I think, so the man was driving. I tried to move and that's when I realized I wasn't wearing my clothes. They'd even taken my watch and my necklace-which is worth a few thousand dollars, by the way. My wrists were cuffed to my ankles so that they were almost touching. A rope around my waist ran between my legs and every time the van moved I could feel it rubbing between my lower lips. I obviously wasn't wearing my panties either.

With an effort, I turned over and tried to get a better look at the guy who was driving.

I just kept thinking, "Who is this guy and how did he trick my sister?"

And then Terri spoke.

"So," she said, and she was lying right beside me, "You've finally decided to wake up."

She rolled over kind of sleepily and wrapped her arm around my waist, propping her head against my stomach like a pillow. "You really should try to get some sleep. We've got a long way to go before I get you home. And there'll be lots to do when we get there. You should sleep while you can."

Even if I hadn't been gagged, I wouldn't have known what to say. I just lay there, trying to make sense out of her words, while Terri pressed her face against my belly.

I don't know how, but I fell asleep and the next time I woke it was daylight and Terri was driving. I didn't say anything for a long time, just observed the two of them, hoping they would say something that might give me some clue what was going on. Finally the guy looked over at me and said, "It looks like she's up." He leaned down, placed his hand on my breast and smiled as he squeezed.

Before he even said anything I knew what he wanted, but his words still took me by surprise. "You mind if I fuck your sister?"

Terri's words, however, surprised me even more. She didn't even look over her shoulder as she said, "I told you; that's what she's here for."

He slid off his seat and grabbed my legs, spreading them apart as I tried to roll away.

I was still stunned; unable to believe it. Apparently, this guy wasn't the one in control.

I remember he asked if the two of us were really sisters as he wedged his legs between mine to hold them open so he could work at the knots on my crotch rope undisturbed. It didn't take him long. Instead of just pulling down his pants, he stood up and began to take everything off, even his shoes. Apparently he planned to take his time. There was plenty of room in the back of the van, and no windows. There was even a little bed along the back wall, although I was still lying on the carpeted floor. I watching him strip as he clung to the hand rail that ran along the ceiling for balance. Then he stuffed his clothes in a sliding drawer that snapped when it closed.

I couldn't help looking up at that huge thing throbbing between his legs as he crouched over me. Then he raped me. Without releasing my hands from my feet, he pressed himself down and forced himself inside.

Teri says she wants lots of details, but I don't know what more to say.

It was humiliating. It's not like I'm a virgin, but... I suppose it could have been worse. He wasn't entirely brutish about it. He guided himself into me gently and began slowly, but I was still hogtied, with my legs and arms tucked uncomfortably beneath me so I had to arch my back to keep the cuffs from digging into my skin. The cuffs were padded, but I could still feel the metal digging into my flesh. They tugged painfully every time his weight pressed down on me. I was dry and it hurt. I couldn't keep the tears from running down my cheeks. It seemed to go on forever. After a while I loosen up a little, and it wasn't quite so bad.

After he was done and his weight was still on top of me, he whispered, "God, you're one hellaceously fine fuck! No wonder your sister hates you so much." As he snuggled I moaned against my gag and tears ran down my cheeks, and he said not to worry because he was going to take real good care of me. "Oh yeah," he said, "I'm going to fuck you seven ways till Sunday," like he was doing me some kind of favor or something.

After that he fell asleep, right where he was on top of me, his wilted member still inside and his weight pressing down, like something dead. It was hard to breath.

I'm not sure when I noticed that we were driving into the mountains. I could tell by the angle of the van. But I remember the exact moment when we left the main roads and started bumping over gravel. It occurred to me then that wherever we were going it was going to be somewhere very secluded. That terrified me-and it still does. I don't think Terri ever plans to let me go. And I can't help wondered, just how long she was planning all this.

Anyway, from the steepness of the mountains and the slow progress over the bumpy road I expected to see maybe a small cabin. I was quite surprised when I caught my first glimpse of my new home. The guy pressed a button on his garage door opener and we drove right into a large underground garage.

I suddenly realized that someone had lots of money. This wasn't a scheme that was quickly put together. There were security cameras and bars on the window that clearly weren't just for show. That was about all the time I had before Terri opened the van's sliding door and the guy picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like a fifty pound sack of flour. The cuffs tugged painfully at my wrists again, intensifying every time he took a step and the curve of his shoulder dug into my belly.

I felt more exposed in the wide open space of the garage. I kept expecting to hear the voices of other people and I was very aware of my nakedness, even though I didn't see anyone else. He carried me through long, cold halls but the small room he finally took me to was warm enough. Apparently they'd been heating it while they were away so I'd be comfortable when they got back, even without clothes. In the middle of the room there was a twin size bed, with a new mattress. The bed frame was made of thick, solid wood. It had four plain, square pillars-sanded but unvarnished-with several metal rings deeply embedded at various places.

Without a word, he flopped me onto my belly and released me from the hog-tie position; then he turned me over and retied me spread eagle on the bed. He left me like that and closed the door. I don't know how long I lay there. It felt like several hours, but I drifted off so I can't be sure.

The door clanged as it opened and Terri carried in a tray of food: half a sandwich, a small cup of minestrone soup, a few slices of apple and one of those boxes of juice with a straw.

She propped a pillow under my head and feed me by hand, without bothering to untie me. When I was done, she set the tray on the floor and gagged me with a stubby little phallus gag. Then she pulled out a hypodermic needle with a syringe. I tried to scream in protest, but the gag kept me fairly quiet. It wasn't one of those little needles either. This one was thick enough to pierce an elephant's skin. But all I could do was watch as she removed the rubber cap. I pulled against my bonds, but it was no use. Then she pinched my nipple between her fingernails and pulled my breast out so she could poke a hole right through. It hurt, but not quite as much as I expected. Apparently, the needle was razor sharp, and despite its size there was only a little more pain than a normal-sized needle. The real pain didn't start until she used the needle to tug at the wound, pulling it open to make room for this fat metal ring. She pushed it through the hole with a wet little plunk before pulling the needle back out.

I've never seen anything quite like this metal ring. It has two metal half-circles connected by an all but invisible hinge in the middle. When she pressed the open ends together they clicked into place so perfectly that looking down at the newly formed ring I wouldn't have been able to tell you where the joint was. My sister repeated the process on my other nipple; then she moved down between my legs and gave me another on each of my labia.

I could still feel their weight hanging from my flesh after she'd left.

About an hour later the same guy as before came into the room again and began whipping me across my breast and belly. At first it didn't hurt all that much, because he wasn't really hitting me all that hard. But he kept hitting and hitting. After a while it was like my skin was on fire and each new stroke made it burst anew with stinging nettles. My skin was turning bright red. I was sobbing and begging him to stop, but he wouldn't. Then he went to the foot of the bed so that he could focus between my legs and that was even worse. Each time the whip hit one of the newly pierced metal rings it was as if I could feel the wound being pulled open. And the whip was making my private parts burn. Sometime it would hit just the wrong spot and it was like a sliver of ice was shooting up the back of my spine, all the way from between my legs to the tips of my nipples.

After what seemed like hours, he raped me again. Then he whipped me some more before he finally left.

I slept fitfully; and I had the weirdest dreams. I kept waking when I tried to turn over and was pulled up short-and it felt like I had a fever. The air seemed cool, even though I knew it had been warm enough before, but my skin still felt warm and damp. I kept sweating, and the drops of sweat stung my skin. A few times a little trickle would break and roll across my body.

The last time I woke Terri was placing a tray of food on a small stand with wheels that normally stayed in a corner. She fed me, and I was as hungry as I've ever been but the meal wasn't very generous. When I was done, she picked up a manila envelope, which she had apparently tossed on the bed while I was still asleep.

"What's this?" I asked.

But she just lay the envelope down with one corner on my chin and the other on my breasts then said, "Open it up."

I glared at her, but she didn't seem to care how difficult this would be with my hands still cuffed. I finally managed to work the folder's metal clip open with my tongue. Then I gripped a corner with my teeth and tried to shake the papers from inside. It didn't work, so Terri finally took pity on me and held of the papers with her fingers while I pulled on the envelope. Inside, along with the lined paper, there was a mechanical pencil and a case of lead refills.

When I asked her what it was for she just shook her head and told me I'd always been an idiot. "What do you think writing materials are for?" she said sarcastically. "I want you to write a story."

She didn't say anything more, she just moved towards the closet. Apparently it was a rather large, walk-in closet because she brought out one of these desks, like we used back in high school.

"What kind of story," I wanted to know.

She said I was to write an account-past tense, sort of like a story-telling all the important events that I remembered from my life. In particular she wanted me to compare the way our parents and other people treated the two of us; and the way I treated her. She said to concentrate on the points where our lives touched as we were growing up; the memories I have of her, and how I feel about her. And what I think other people think about her. And all sorts of crap like that. I've never thought about stuff like that before, but she said, "Be completely honest; and try to be interesting, because you're going to be staying in this room until you get it right."

I still don't know what she wanted, but she said I couldn't refer to her in second person. And the story had to be long enough to tell everything that needed to be told, whatever that means.

I don't like reading novels, and I don't like trying to write one-but she said I'd be sorry if I didn't try and I believed her. She said not to skimp on details and that she'd be back in three hours; and that if I hadn't finished there would be hell to pay.

I told her, "I can't believe you're not going to give me anything more specific to go on?" But she just started walking to the door. I asked if she wanted me to justify all the terrible things she must think that I've done to her, and explain why I did them.

Bit she just looked at me and said, "If that's the way you see it, then that's the way you should write it. Just be truthful. Give as complete and honest a presentation as you can. Don't pull any punches to make yourself look better."

"And what about making you look better..."

Oh no, I hear footsteps. Someone's coming.

I hope this is good enough, I really have tried.


Second Try

Apparently, what I wrote last time wasn't good enough.

I don't think I'll do a very good job this time either. I still don't know what to say, but apparently one of the things I did wrong last time was that I spent too much time thinking.

Since the last time I've received 1 lash for every second of dead time I spent thinking instead of writing. Apparently they're watching me. Everything I do is being videotaped. I don't know who they're showing the tapes to-but when I asked her how she knew how many lashes to give me, Terri said, "I timed it to the last second and you won't received one stroke more or less; because the last stoke will determine when we try again."

Sometimes she likes to speak like that: in the royal WE, as if everything that I do is something that she has to do too. And everything that she does to me is something that I'm forcing her to do to herself. I remember when I was younger, how I used to do that sometimes when I wanted Terri to do something I knew she didn't want to do. It was childish and manipulative back then too.

Anyway, she wants me to make it sound more like a story this time.

She spent a lot of time reading back to me what I wrote and telling me what I did wrong; and how it could have been better. "I had to do a lot of editing," she complained.

And I suppose she did. She let me reread what I'd written after she finished reformatting it, and it didn't even read like the same thing. Not that I think she changed anything, but she put quotation marks around things, added punctuation that I left out-I received another 10 lashes for every punctuation mark that wasn't right. I get 100 in the morning and another 100 before bed. And then during the day they do other things to me. Sometimes I have to do chores. I wear this skimpy little outfit that doesn't cover anything, but it has a thin little strap that rubs against my clit when I walk.

Notice I said the word clit. Terri said, "I don't want you using any more sissy words." So no more euphemisms, I'm only supposed to use what she calls 'real' words. "You're an adult now," she said, "You can talk about your body parts without getting embarrassed. And when you describe your tortures I want you to be more specific. Use better descriptions and go into detail. After all, this is supposed to be interesting to read."

Anyway, the outfit's little strap is painful, especially when I have to bend over. So, of course, they had me climbing stairs with boxes that I had to pick up and set down, just so the strap would rub when I moved. Or they had me planting things in the greenhouse. They put this pile of tiny little plants on a tall tray, so I'd have to stand up each time I wanted to get one. Then I had to kneel back down to stick it in the ground.

There's a fat leather belt that they cinch tightly around my waist, and three leather straps. The two on the outside push my mound together and make my pussy lips stick out; and they often hang weights from the rings in my nipples and labia. Terri thinks I should say 'pussy lips' but I told her, "Labia is a perfectly adult name for that part of the body."

She'll probably be putting more weight on my rings for saying that-she does that sometimes when I've been bad, which I try not to be. But it isn't easy to remember all their stupid rules. I'll probably get another one-ounce sinker for an hour. They time how long they put the weights on me, because if they put on too much (for too long) my nipples literally become numb from the pain. Sometimes they use nipple clamps too. That hurts the most since my holes still haven't entirely healed. Not that they bleed any more, but those weights keep them tender since the rings keep pulling at the edges where the holes are trying to heal.

They put that needle through the septum in my nose and sometimes they use the nose ring to lead me around by a leash. The weight of leash hanging from my nose makes my eyes water with pain, especially when they decide I need to be punished and use a thick chain instead of that lighter braid made of silk.

They put leg and arm bands on be too-not tight enough to cut off my blood circulation, but tight enough that they wont slide down over my elbows or knees. Little cuffs lock them in place so I can't take them off, and each one has several metal rings, so when they want they can attach me to things. Terri likes to use my elbow rings to pull my arms together behind my back. My shoulders ache after my arms have been like that for awhile, but Jeff-that's the name of the guy who helped Terri bring me here-he said, "The more your arms are together like that the more you'll get used to it."

I'm not sure I believe him. I think they use that as an excuse so they can keep doing it to me without feeling guilty. The most embarrassing thing, however, is when I have to go to the potty, and they wipe my ass. They won't even let me do that for myself when my hands are tied. Terri still won't let me feed myself either-not that the typical meals have gotten any better. They've finally started to feed me more but, but it's mostly fruits and vegetables and other crunchy things I don't really like.

I wear leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists almost all the time now-even when I'm not actually being bound. No more of those metal, police cuffs, at least. Sometimes I'll forget I'm wearing the cuffs now and hit myself in the face with those flaps that are just a little too long, because they use the same cuffs for both my wrists and my ankles.

Hitting myself in the face isn't possible right now. This damned chair makes it so hard to concentrate. Terri calls it a bondage chair-but it's more like a torture chair. Not that I don't deserve it, I'm sure I was a terrible sister. I... I have a shorter time limit this time; and I have to keep writing. I can't stop to think. This whole thing has to be finished within two hour, but I don't know if I can stand this chair for two whole hours. Terri said, "If you don't keep writing constantly I'll have to keep you in this chair for six hours instead of two."

I didn't believe her. "You wouldn't," I said.

But she just smiled that 'try me' smile of hers and said, "Oh yes I would, little sister."

She likes to call me that now. I think it's some kind of veiled insult because I'm so much smaller than her now. Or maybe it's her way of reminding me how easy it is for her to pick me up and spin me around when she's tying me up.

So I have to keep writing. I have to retell my story, but I keep typing so fast that I can't stop to gather my thoughts. Terri says I can't use any of the same incidents or memories that I used in my first attempt, unless it's to admit that I lied. Then I can tell the truth. If I repeat anything else from my first attempt, I get 20 lashes. If I pause without writing or fail to use proper punctuation I get double what I got last time. "And the next time you write for me you'll get double what you get this time. I expect you to keep improving-or you will suffer the consequences."

I don't know how I lied last time, but Terri says I did. "I can't tell you how," she said, "That's what you're here to find out."

But I guess I have to admit that I wasn't totally honest last time. I tried to be, but it's hard not to skew things a little when you're telling all the most intimate details of your life. "That's what I want," Terri said, "All of the things you're most embarrassed about. The things you're ashamed to speak out loud. Until you give me that you'll find yourself back in this chair! Again and again." Those were her exact words, I think.

It's just that it's so fucking hard to concentrate. All I can think about is what's happening to me right now and how it's making me feel. There are sharp spikes on the seat that are digging into my backside-I mean my ass. Damn I wish I could erase. I keep wanting to use those damned fucking pussy words.

"Using less euphemistic words will help free you of your inhibitions," Terri says. "That's why there's a time limit, too." It's supposed to keep me from thinking too much about what I'm writing. I guess it's working, but...Anyway, I'm strapped to this spiked chair. The whole seat is covered, except for a small hole that's just large enough for two dildos. These are attached to a machine that is constantly fucking me which, as you can imagine, makes it harder to write.

While being fucked is not as unpleasant as the spikes, it is almost as distracting-and the weights hanging from my nipple rings don't help much either. The machine must be set on some kind of timer because the speed varies. Sometimes it goes too fast. Sometimes it slows almost to a stop, but it never quite does. The constant motion forces me to move just enough that the spikes keep digging deeper into my skin. They're not quite sharp enough to cut, and they're only about half an inch long, but they feel like they're three inches. I can't stop moving. If I could, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. But the dildos are large enough that they don't go in and out very easily. The lubricant Terri used to get them started has dried out-and I'm a little too distracted trying to think about what to write to get very excited-if that were even possible. So the dildos tug at the edges of my holes, and sometimes they try to pull the labia rings inside me; which hurts more than anything. Sometimes something down there seems to give me a little squirt and things loosen up for a while, but I can't stand up. Even if my feet were touching the floor-which they're not-there's a thick leather belt around my waist. Terri pulled the buckle as tight as she could, and I can hardly breathe. I'm grateful to her, however. If it weren't for the belt it would be that much harder to write legibly. The machine moves so fast at times that it shakes my whole body. On either side of my waist belt there's a metal ring, and a lengths of rope runs from each one. These ropes run to a couple of pulleys attached to the arms of the chair, then down to my ankle cuffs, which are pulled up towards my thighs, so the weight of my legs constricts the waist belt even tighter. At first it was difficult not to push down with my legs when things hurt, because it seemed like that would raise me up. But it just pinches my waist tighter.

The cuffs on my wrists are attached to the ends of the armrest by short lengths of chain-just long enough to let me reach a computer keyboard with my fingers. No more paper and pencil this time. Still no erasing thought: the [backspace] and [delete] keys have been pulled right off; I still can't go back. To make matter worse I never learned to type, so here I am hunting and pecking and I'm making a lot of errors. Terri said I wouldn't be punished for typos this time, just for bad grammar and forgetting or misusing punctuation. Typing like this is slower than writing by hand, which is why I can't afford to waste time-but Terri said, "You can start taking those computerized typing lessons, for next time. That should speed things up."

I think maybe she'll like what I just wrote about the chair. She likes to tell me when I've done a good job, as well as when I fall short. Last time she said, "You did a good when you talked about things in the present, or in the recent past." She wasn't too thrilled about the rest; said I was lying; that I didn't go into enough detail and my thoughts were cluttered and jumbled.

I don't think she'll be any more pleased with me this time.

I asked her, "How can I talk about things, when I don't know what you want me to talk about."

But she just leaned closer and pierced me with those dark, angry eyes and said, "I want you to tell the truth! I want you to entertain me; I want you to tell the whole story that needs to be told."

"And how will you know when I've done that? How will you know when I'm telling the truth."

"I'll know," she said.

The absolute certainty in her voice and eyes was downright scary.

Sometimes I don't think she ever plans to set me free.

But when I told her that she just smiled, and said, "You'll have an opportunity to leave as soon as I see exactly what I need to see."

"Then why don't you just tell me what you want to see?"

"That would defeat the purpose. The whole point is for you to tell me. And if I don't see it when you're finished this time, you'll get a long and hard punishment session in addition to your morning and nightly whippings. And I can promise that I won't go as easy on you this time."

Easy?

I'm not sure I'd call what she's done to me so far easy.

Oh my God! I just thought of something.

She should like this.

Back when we were in school-maybe fifth or sixth grade. I was still about the same size as Terri was, maybe even a little bigger. Anyway, Terri and this older girl got into an argument, and Terri wouldn't back down. She's always been really stubborn that way. It's the one thing I've always admired about her. Even when the other girl was older and bigger, she just wouldn't back down. Even the bullies seem to respect her for that and most of the time they left her alone. But this time things didn't stop with a little name calling and shoving. And then the older girl really started trouncing her. I mean she punched Terri right in the face and knocked her down. Then she pounced on her back, and started shoving her face in the ground, making her eat dirt.

I was standing there just watching everything.

I should have gone over and tried to help her, but at that moment I was suddenly ashamed that she was my sister. I kept looking around the crowd wondering when someone would look over at me and say, "Isn't that your geeky little sister? Let's kick her ass too?" So I just stood there watching as they gave her a pretty good pounding. Even when the older girl finally got off her, I just turned away, along with everyone else, and went back to my classes while she was lying there in the dirt crying.

I wish I had gone to her. Part of me wanted to. I should have told her that everything would be alright. But something kept me frozen in place. Even when Terri turned to me with those big, fat tears in her eyes. I just frowned and turned away. She was pleading with me silently and I just turned away.

That's not something I'm proud of.

Maybe that's why she's doing all this. I guess there were times when I wasn't the best sister in the world. It's just that we were always so different. I mean, why did she have to get in that fight anyway? I'm not a fighter. All I would have done is get myself beaten up too. Still, I should have done something. I didn't even go to her later and apologized. I just pretended like it never happened. But that's how we were with each other; we didn't get involved in...

Oh good. Terri is finally coming.

I hope she likes what I've written this time.


Third Try

In all fairness, I must admit that I was a terrible sister! I remember doing (or not doing) horrible things.

One time Terri and I were sitting on the school bus. Terri was please because no one was sitting in the seat above the wheel hub. She always loved that seat because she liked to ride with her knees up, so it was easier to work on her homework. But the problem was, that seat 'belonged' to some of the older boys. They always sat in that seat and none of the other kids were bold enough (or stupid enough) to ever try to take it. Apparently Terri didn't realize that-and I wasn't inclined to tell her. But I did make sure that I had a seat that wasn't too far way, so I could be sure to enjoy the show.

And sure enough, when the boys got on the bus, they walked over and told her to move. And like usual, she was too stubborn to do it. The boys threatened and blustered for a while, but Terri wouldn't give up the seat. "You can sit with me if you want," she said, "But I was here first and I'm not moving."

As if to show their displeasure the boys sat all around her-two boys in the seat in front of her; two boys in the seat behind her, and one boy right beside her. She just kept working on her homework and ignored them, like she usually did.

Most of the ride home was relatively uneventful. The boys kept pestering her, flicking her ears or asking her pointless questions, just to interrupt her work.

After a while one of the boys came over, sat in a chair next to mine and whispered kind of conspiratorially, "Your sister's kind of a bitch, isn't she?"

"She was there first," I said kind of noncommittally.

"Every body knows that's our seat. We've sat in the same place every single day for more than a year."

"Well," I said, "If you don't want her there I guess you're just going to have to make her move."

He just gave me this speculative look and said, "Maybe we will." Then he went back and sat with his friends. I didn't think too much about it, but a few minutes later the boys in the seat behind her had grabbed Terri and were dragging her backwards across the seat. She struggled so hard that one of her shoes fell off, but she was no match for the two older boys. And now, the boy sitting on her seat was helping too. He grabbed her legs to keep her from kicking, while one of the two in the other seat held her arms behind her back-then the third guy starting working at her belt. "Think you're going to fuck with us," he said softly. ""Well maybe we'll just fuck with you."

I figured for sure that he's stop then; or that maybe the bus driver would do something. I could see him eyeing the back to see what was happening, but by now a lot of the kids were standing up and I guess he couldn't see anything. So the boy kept going. He had the belt buckle undone and he was working at the snap to her pants-by now I think Terri realized that they weren't just playing, and she began to struggle a little harder. The boy holding her arms pulled her head down a little further, to keep the bus driver from seeing what they were doing-which forced her to arch her back. And her shirt was riding up around her waist, getting closer to her breasts than her belt buckle. Then, despite her struggles, the boy managed to get her snap through the eyelet on her pants. He started to unzip them.

And I thought, "Oh my God, this is really going to happen!"

Only then the bus driver slammed on the brakes and the boys let go of her.

A few moments later Terri had gathered up her things and was walking down the isle, still buckling her pants up because we were finally at our stop-and not a moment too soon.

I think the whole sordid thing excited Terri. She didn't' say anything about it to mom, but she couldn't stop talking during dinner, and that's just wasn't like her. She kept leaning over when mother went into the kitchen for something and whispering things like, "Did you see what they almost did to me? God! I thought they were going to rape me right there on the bus!"

That night, I wrote about everything that had happened in my diary. I used to write in my diary all the time, but as I got older I kind of lost interest in that sort of thing.

Maybe that's why Terri thinks I should be able to write a story now. Writing in your diary, however, just isn't the same as writing a story. The diary is all about emotions, and how things make you feel. And the way you wish things would have gone instead of the way they did. Sometimes you wish things that happened to other people would have happened to you... or vice versa.

Anyway, I think I'm doing a much better job. Terri only gave me an hour this time, but my typing skill have improved a bit, and I think I know where she wants me to go with this now.

The last time, while we were reviewing what I'd written, Terri said I did a really good job with that last scene I wrote. I have to admit that right after I wrote it, I was so worried she would be angry. I was certain she would think of some special torment. "But that's what I want," she said. "Honest feelings about real events."

She's still reluctant to tell me what she's really after, but every so often she drops a little clue-and I think I have a better idea now.

I suppose I should talk a little about the present too.

All the same rules apply. I still can't take time to think about what I'm going to say-but at least this time she didn't put the plate of spikes on the seat of the chair before she tied me to it. In fact, our whole time together in general has been much more pleasant during this last intermission. I still get 100 lashes every morning and night. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to them, but it's getting easier to deal. I seem to have developed a sort of internal clock. And like Terri says, "That's how we know when it's time for the next writing session." When all my lashes are done, it's time to start again. She keeps track of each stroke (and all my other punishments for other infractions) in a little ledger. "Everything that happens to you is something that you've brought upon yourself," she said.

Like karma, I suppose. Terri is very wise like that. She's the one who suggested that I change the way I spell my name. Mother always used to call me Kally, like kahl-lee. I didn't like it. I seem to recall someone telling me that [cal] was the Spanish word for [shit] and it just seemed like every time they said my name they were calling me [shitty]. It's also the root for [calories], so it's a bit like they were calling me [fatty] too. But, for some reason, my mother liked it. She wouldn't let me change it. So Terri suggested that I change the way I spell my name, making it Kālly instead, like Kay-lee. It wasn't hard to get the teachers and kids at school to go along. My mom still called me Kally at home (I didn't even bother asking her) but it was a small enough change that she didn't seem to notice the new spelling.

Another difference this time is that Jeff has been gone a lot-some kind of business meeting has him flying out of town somewhere. I still don't know what he does, but whatever it is he seems to make a lot of money doing it. And he seems to love Terri very much. Sometimes I wonder if they're married or something, but I haven't found the right time to ask.

So... maybe she'll consider this asking?

Being away, Jeff hasn't been around to fuck me as much as he did last time. It doesn't seem to be a serious problem for Terri, as she's been more than willing to take up the slack. She has this wicked little strap-on that never seems to get tired and never goes limp. Truthfully, she doesn't fuck me as often as Jeff used to, but it lasts twice as long. She's also started training me to hold my breath while I deep throat her dildo.

"I want Jeff to be really impressed when he gets home," She said.

I'm sure he will be. The gag reflex is almost gone.

I'm sure I deserve it, for being such a terrible sister.

It's not that I hate my sister, I've just always been a little self-centered. Maybe that is because I was always the center of attention. Terri was always a little jealous, I think. But she shouldn't have been. Truthfully, I was always a little jealous of her. Despite being a bit of a nerdy jock, she had bigger breasts than me, even in grade school. I mean it's not natural for girls to develop firm and solid breasts that young. Of course, it wasn't so much that her breasts were any bigger than mine, they just developed earlier. Even being two years older, she was wearing a bra before me. That made me a little jealous too, so one day when I overheard some boys saying they thought her breast were fake, I went up to them and said, "The truth is they're implants, but I didn't tell you that."

All that year, boys would run up behind her and poke her in the breasts to see if they were real. I even told some of them, "Don't worry, she'll like it because she's really just a whore. Remember that time those boys almost raped her on the bus? You can ask them, but she was asking for it... and not only that, but deep down I think she liked it."

I don't know why my sister irritated me so much, but sometimes she really did. I mean, I loved her... I just... sometimes I didn't like her very much. I remember one time when she came into my room and started crying because I'd sent her away earlier when my friends were in my room. I felt kind of bad for making her cry, but instead of just letting me say I was sorry she wanted to know why I wouldn't let her come into my room.

"It's my room," I asked. "We all need a little privacy."

"I know," she sobbed, "But why can't you just let me play with you some times."

"Because you're a little brat," I wanted to tell her. Instead I asked, "Why can't you get your own damned friends."

"I don't want my own friends. I want to be able to play with you."

What do you say to that as a teenager with your hormones going crazy?

Come to think of it, I guess you could kind of say that she's finally gotten her wish, although I'm hoping this wasn't what she had in mind all along.

I didn't want to be her friend-we were nothing alike-but I think there was a part of me that didn't want her to have any friends of her own, either. I remember one time when Terri had this really big crush on a guy named Freddy. Remember him? He's the one that worked at the mall. Terri used to talk me into driving her, because I had my driver's license and she didn't. Mom said I had to drive her places if I wanted to keep using the car. So I had to tag along as she went to the pretzel stand where Freddy worked. Sometimes she'd buy four or five pretzels a night (throwing half of them away) just so she could talk to this jerk. She was too stupid to realize that he was giving eyes at me the whole time. After a while I just got tired of her mooning all over him, so I started smiling back when he rolled his eyes and smiling that 'do you have to put up with this crap all the time' grin.

Terri couldn't bring herself to ask, so she had me give the guy our number and I asked him to call her like she wanted. But I winked at him as I handed him the slip of paper.

Oh yeah, he'd be calling.

When he did, he asked to speak to me, of course; and Terri got all upset.

"You can't blame the guy," I told her, "he's more than a year older than you."

That meant he was also a year younger than me-which meant he was younger than the guys I normally dated. Still, it was worth seeing him for a few weeks just so I didn't have to drive her to the mall any more.

Another time Terri invited this boy named Bobby over to the house with the lame excuse that she needed math tutoring-as if she wasn't taking advanced math classes. But after a few hours, she had to go do something. I can't remember what, some kind of team meeting or something; probably picking up her basketball shorts. Anyway, I guess no one told her that you don't leave your date alone in the house with your older (and more attractive) sister. Figure that one. So, anyway, you can probably guess what happened. By the time she got back the boy and I were going steady. And he was a kind of cute one too. It's not my fault if boys don't stick. At least he lasted about a month... and I still remember his name-that ought to count for ...

I hear her; I think she's coming early this time.

Maybe I finally said the right things.


Fourth Try

Apparently, I'm a liar. I don't know how she knows, but... she's right. Everything I said last time was a lie. Well, not everything. The basic stories happened. I couldn't very well make that kind of stuff up out of whole cloth, so to speak, but... I don't get it, every time I DON'T tell the truth she knows.

I told her, "It's like you can read my mind."

And she just laughted like she thought that was hilarious and said, "I know."

Whatever that's supposed to mean!

I don't believe she can really read my mind, but there must be something. Maybe I gave myself away somehow. I must have had a tell; like when you're playing poker. Some people are supposed to be really good at noticing that sort of thing. However she knew, she was really, really mad at me this time. And I've been paying for it, trust me. Boy, have I been paying for it. One of my less unpleasant sessions involved face sitting. "I'm going to sit on your face," she said, "Until your memory starts to come back."

"But what if I don't ever remember?"

"Don't worry about that," she said, her face hovering over mine and her knees pinning my head to the bed between them. "I'm sure, after I've been sitting on your face for a while, you'll begin to remember all sorts of things you've forgotten."

"And if not?"

"Then I guess you'll just have to start making stuff up and hope I remember it the same way you do." She grinned at me then and asked, "How's that been working out for you so far?"

And then she scooted forward so her feet were where her knees had been and her knees were pressed against the sides of my breast-propping them up invitingly so she could grab hold of the little string that was tied to my nipples.

"Giddy up little horsy," she said, as she squeezed her knees together and pressed her pussy down over my mouth.

I probably shouldn't have said... She'll use it, again if she thinks I didn't like it.

Damn, I'm so used to writing quickly, without thinking, can't seem to censor anything anymore. Shit just pops right out-and I have to keep writing. I can't take it back. I have to keep writing or I earn more beatings. "Just tell the truth," she says, like that's the easiest thing in the world to do, but it's not. It's not easy to expose yourself like that. Our lies are what protect us from the ridicule of other. Our lies are what keep us from hurting the feelings of other people instead of just telling them, "No, you look ugly in that fucking dress." That's the truth. But the truth is cruel and ugly. The truth is an older boy that you have a crush on stealing your report card and laughing at you when he finds out that you got three D's and an F. The truth is a sister who thinks she's better than you are. The truth is... the truth is dangerous and ugly. And it's painful.

I don't know what's so great about the truth. The truest stories are the ones we make up anyway. But Terri will say, "Oh, I shouldn't be talking like this. And I guess I shouldn't. I should talk about something else. Anything else! But the only thing I can think of is all of the horrible things she's been doing to me. Where's the deep, mind-freeing truth in that. But at least that's a safer topic. I've earned enough lashes already. So from now on I will only talk about what's has happened to me since I wrote my last story. I'll tell all the things I liked best... I mean the things I didn't like the least... you know what I mean.

Actually the face sitting wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been for everyone else who was sitting around having a picnic. "Its part of breaking down your inhibitions," Terri said as she spread the blanket out on the ground. And then they staked me (spread eagle) right on top of it. There was this clever little rectangular table, with short but sturdy little legs shaped like spikes on the end. They pounded these legs into the ground so that the tray was right over my torso; and yet, when I squirmed, I couldn't upset the table. It was so sturdy that when Terri let go of my nipple after pulling on it, and my breasts fell back against the table, it didn't even wobble.

The worst part was that (the whole time they were just sitting around eating and talking like nothing was happening) Terri was ridding my face, and Jeff was fingering my pussy and ass, and the others-all three or four of them-were just sitting around talking about the weather, like it was the company picnic. And maybe it was. Maybe Jeff invited the hired help, just to make the experience that much more humiliating for me.

The most humiliating thing of all was that I came like I've never cum before. Jeff could tell too. "Deep down," he told Terri, "I think your sister is just a fucking slut."

I was so mortified-and yet I couldn't stop Cumming. I honestly don't think I've ever been so humiliated in my life. Even when the meal was over and Jeff let the other men take turns whipping my pussy, belly and legs-I couldn't stop. Terri was still riding my face, and seemed to be having a great time. While I was fighting for air and dribbling goo all down my legs.

I wish I could talk about something else.

I'm back in the spiked chair-it's making it difficult to concentrate. There's no dildo machine this time. Nothing so warm and fuzzy. Instead, there's a new contraption with an arm that has a paddle attached to it. About every ten seconds or so, a timer tells the motor it's time to smack my ass-and the damned thing is aimed right for my crack. Terri says it's timed for every twenty seconds, so if I count the number of smacks I can keep track of how long I've been here, but I couldn't keep track if I wanted to. I never know how hard it's going to hit me. Some times it's easy-and that's not so bad, but some times it really stings. Each time it rattles the rings in my pussy lips, but at least I'm not wearing the weights down there this time. The weights are back on my nipples though. And I'm wearing a head harness that has this small hook on an elastic band. The hook slips into my nostrils and pulls them up, so I look like I have a little pug nose. It's not very comfortable but it makes breathing a lot easier.

I'm thinking of asking if I can wear one to bed when I sleep. And no, Terri, that wasn't sarcastic-it really does make it easier to breath. I just wish it wasn't quite so tight.

I asked Terri what was wrong with the last story.

"I really thought I did a good job." I said.

But she just shook her head. "Your story was very entertaining," she admitted, "And it was incredibly brave of you to make such open admissions about what a terrible person you are. But unfortunately, not a single word of it was true."

I still don't know how she knew, but she said it meant I still hadn't learned a damned thing. "Perhaps I've been too easy on you."

Like I said, she's been making up for lost ground. One of her favorite torments lately has been finding various ways to make it difficult for me to walk. Sometimes it's a pair of punishment boots that force my toes down like I'm some kind of ballerina. It's hard to keep my balance when I'm walking around on two points.

I was actually surprised the boots didn't hurt more. When I was younger I wanted to be a ballerina and I tried walking on my toes like they do once. I hurt like hell. Of course, I wasn't wearing those cute little shoes they do either. Still, it's amazing how big a difference the right equipment can make. Not that the boots aren't uncomfortable, but apparently they were built right to the specifications of my feet. Now I guess I know what all that measuring was for when I first got here. Anyway, even though it doesn't look like it, the boots have a heel that's built right in. It supports my weight and they're tight enough that most of my weight is supported by the upper part of the boot. It's still uncomfortable having my foot forced into that position for so long, especially when I get a cramp.

God that hurts!

Another favorite is this humongous belt. It's got to be at least a foot wide, but instead of just going around my waist they force me to bend over so they can wrap it around my back and legs at the same time. It makes it very difficult to walk. Whenever I wear it, both she and Jeff like to call me Fanni, instead of kālly. I didn't understand why until they showed me a picture by a bondage artist named Bishop. He did this serial with a character named Fanni Hall. Anyway, there's this scene where she's wearing this belt exactly like mine-or am I wearing one like hers? Anyway, it was the exact same get up, right down to the leather strap pulled tight between my legs; the strap pulling my arms behind my back and securing my wrists to the collar around my neck; the strap joining the padded cuffs on my ankles, so that I can only take tiny, little steps. Even the thin, little leash to my nose ring is the same. "That's so anyone who wants to can lead you around the mansion," Jeff explained. And it seems like everyone does-every time they find an excuse to go get something, they seem to force me to tag along.

Terri thinks it's hilarious that she's given me the same first name as the Bishop character. Apparently she was inspired by that story. "In more ways than one," Terri told me.

Whatever that means!

Looking at the picture, you wouldn't think the position would be as strenuous as it is. Stairs look about as hard as they are, but why should just walking bent over make your muscles ache so much? Trust me, by the time I've finished walking from one end of Jeff's mansion to the other I'm exhausted. And when I don't walk fast enough they give the leash a bit of a flick and it's like a little explosion goes off in my head for a moment. It doesn't look that heavy, but when it's flipping against your nose it can really sting. The worst part about walking in that belt is that I never know when I'm just walking and when they're taking me to the next punishment session. Even after I messed up that first story, Terri wasn't as harsh with me as she has been this time.

"I'm not getting revenge for the stories you told," Terri assured me, "I'm punishing you because you're still not telling the truth."

She's been saying that over and over as she ties me up-usually before leaving me hanging in some new and diabolical position. Not a one of them is the least bit comfortable.

One time, they ran a leather strap from my collar, between my legs then up to a pulley and back down to the cuffs on my wrists. My arms were pulled so high behind my back that after a while my shoulders began to ache, but the only way to relieve the pressure was to bend over. And that puts more pressure on the strap between my legs since it was connected to my arms. If I stood on my toes, my legs just got tired faster and after a while they begin to ache. But if I rested my leg for a while it hurt even more everywhere else. No matter how much I squirmed and twisted, I just couldn't find a comfortable position.

Another time, Jeff tied me into a diabolical crotch rope arrangement. First he tied my ankles to some rings in the floor, so that my feet were a little more than shoulder width apart. Then he doubled up a medium length rope, wrapped it around my waist and put the loose end through the looped end to form a waist rope. The loose ends of the rope, he threaded between the lips of my pussy then stuffed them between the loose strands of the waist rope to form a snug little crotch rope. It was kind of clever the way he did it. By twisting the two strands of the waist rope several times, he managed to create a certain amount of tension on the rope between my legs-so when he tied a knot in it, the waist ropes prevented the crotch rope from coming loose again. Finally, he had me squat down so that he could tie the ends of the rope to a ring that was attached to a spring-loaded chain-sort of like those dog leases, where the leash gets shorter whenever the dog is close to its owner and longer when he wanders away. Only in this case, the further away from the floor the ring was pulled the more tension it built up and the harder it was to keep pulling. As long as I remained squatting my crotch rope remained under a snug, but not uncomfortable amount of tension-but as soon as I tried to stand up, the tension began to tear at my pussy.

So why did I stand up? Well, I can assure you it took a considerable amount of convincing with a whip, and Jeff's promise that it would only be for a short little while. At first, I couldn't even straighten my legs out completely, no matter how hard I ground the rope into my tender flesh, but then Jeff adjusted a little knob and the tension eased up enough to let me straighten my legs. It was quite painful, as the rope rubbed savagely against my clit.

"Just a moment longer," Jeff promised, as he pulled down what appeared to be a piece of string, measuring it to what appeared to be the height of my nipples.

"What are you going to do with that?' I said, feeling my knees give way as uncertainty set in.

I watched him for a while, as he tied little clips onto the ends of the strings hanging from the ceiling. He tugged on them, clearly demonstrating that these strings were highly elastic too. And with growing dread, I began to get an inkling of just what he had planned for me.

Standing as I was, with my knees bent to relieve the pressure on my pussy, I began to realize how fast leg muscles could begin to ache when forced to hold up the weight of your body. Normally a person stands with legs straight. The more the leg bend, the harder the muscles have to work to support the body's weight.

"No," I said, squatting down so the full weight of my thighs was resting on my calves and my nipples were as far away from those clips as I could get them. "You aren't really going to do that?" I pleaded with my eyes.

My arms were secured in a neat little square behind my back-each wrist cuff connected to another cuff on the opposite arm-so there was little more I could do to protest.

He pulled both of the elastic strings down at the same time and clipped them onto my nipple rings, and I was forced to stand back up before he could release the string to prevent the clamps from ripping off my nipples. Standing like that, everything hurt just a little. As the ropes tugged in opposite direction on my nipples and cunt, my leg muscles were forced to work hard to keep me centered as best they could. Before long I had to straighten my legs out to relieve the building discomfort, but that increased the pressure between my legs. So after I'd held that position as long as I could stand to, I would change positions. This time I squatted again, relieving the pressure on my crotch and legs but increasing the pressure exponentially on my nipples.

"That ought to do you for a while," Jeff said after he'd watched me for a while. "Now I'm going to go take a break. All this watching has worn me out. I expect I'll be back in about 10 to fifteen minutes, if you're lucky."

And I can tell you that was the longest fifteen minutes of my entire life. No matter where I stood, it quickly became unbearable, so I was constantly changing position. And by the time Jeff came back my legs felt like they were on fire. He tried to tell me that it had only been five minutes-but I'm not sure I believe him. I wouldn't have been surprised if had been an hour.

None of my other punishments have been as bad as that, thank God. But it does seem like everything they've done this time has concentrated primarily on my legs-well, not everything, but enough that my legs are starting to feel like I'm a tri-athlete. I have to admit I've toughened up a bit, but I don't think these things will ever become easy.

Another time, Jeff took me for a little walk in this clever little harness. "I designed and built it myself," he said, "Although I got the idea from a bondage picture."

All I can say is, he must have a lot of bondage pictures... and an extensive work station in his basement somewhere. He promised to take me there some time, "When your sister isn't quite so set on punishing you."

Anyway, his contraption starts with a fairly typical harness for my arms and chest: a square little pocket that holds my arms snuggly behind my back and straps with buckles that snug up around my breasts, making them stand out nicely. But what makes this harness different is the waist belt that has two little loops of leather on either side. These mini belts are designed to wrap around my legs just above the knees. They forced my legs up towards my chest, only spread wide and to the side, so that little bells can still be hung from my nipples without interfering with how they swing when I walk.

Yes, I said walk.

I know! I didn't think it would be possible either, but Jeff put this little collar around my neck, and when I start to topple backwards he gave it a little tug to keep me on my feet. There's not much I can do to keep from toppling forward, except lean back a little farther than I should and trust him to keep me upright.

The first time he took me for a walk Jeff left the legs strap kind of loose so there was more play in them. It's surprising how quickly you can learn to keep your balance, however, with just a little shift in the position of your head, or an arch in your back.

The first time we went walking Jeff said, "You're lucky you picked this up so fast. I invented a training wheel in case you couldn't quite get the knack of it."

He showed me the training wheel. The basic design starts with an interesting waist harness that holds a short stick in place. One end of the stick is attached to a wheel that touches the ground if I start to fall backwards and the other end is a dildo that slides up inside me whenever that happens. "The resistance of the dildo is designed to act sort of like a shock absorber," Jeff explained.

I think he's really eager to test it out. Each time he's taken me for a walk he's pulled the straps a little tighter-so it's that much harder to keep my balance. I wonder if it would be better to just let him use the thing and get it over with. Having that shaft inside me might even be kind of nice, if he would just promise not to make those damned leg straps quite so tight.

Anyway, when we get back from our little walks, before he sprays me off with the garden hose and I'm still sweaty and weary from the long walk, he likes to tip me onto my back and fucked me while I'm...

It's them. Terri and Jeff.

Funny how you can learn the sound of different people's feet.

I can't wait to see what they'll do to me next.


Fifth Try

I can't believe Terri stole my diary!

And if that wasn't bad enough, she picked ten minutes ago to tell me about it-just after Jeff had finished tying me up for my writing session. And now, I guess I'm supposed to talk about how I feel. In third-person! To a computer screen!

Well, alright, I'm embarrassed. Is that what you wanted?

Sorry, I know you'll punish me for that little slip-it's just...

I know it's silly after what I've been through these past few weeks. I mean the things I wrote in my diary almost look tame compared to what I've been writing here; what I've actually been through.

And maybe that was the point.

I still don't have the faintest clue-except I know that I don't have any secrets anymore. I wrote everything down in that diary. The terrible things I did and said; the terrible things I thought. The terrible things that happened to me and the terrible things I only fantasized about happened to me. I told that book everything.

But you knew that all along.

Even as you were wrapping that belt around my waist and hanging those weights from my nipples as I moaned in pained pleasure-you knew. You knew, each time you ran the ropes from my waist-belt, through the pulleys on the arm rests and down to my ankle cuffs. You knew, because that time when my apartment was broken into and everything was stolen-it was you.

You must have found the diary that one time you stayed over.

If the plan was to embarrass and humiliate me, it's working.

I can't pretend that somewhere inside of me there isn't a part that has loved every minute of this terrible adventure-a part of me that is getting wet just thinking about what you plan to do to me next. But the truth is that real-life is never the same as our fantasies. Sometimes I think that's why we have fantasies: to do the things we would never do in real-life. And yet, there are some people, like you, who do those things. They take the uptight, hateful sister by the nipples and they bring her to heel. And in being forced (I have to admit) there is something strangely fulfilling about having my fantasies brought to life.

I think Terri knew I could never do that for myself-sorry about the jump in person, but I think I've earned enough demerits for one session. Time to start obeying the rules again. I can't deny that my whole body is tingling with anticipation, thinking about all the punishment I've earned-but I'm not going to keep breaking more rules just so Terri will have cause.

It's strange. I feel calm. It feels really good that Terri knows my secrets. I don't have to hide the fact that my pussy tingles when I think of her; especially when I think of her coming to punish me for not telling a good story.

I was filled with intense shame when she first showed the diary to me. In fact, I think I would have suffered her tortures for a million years before ever admitting many of the things in that dreadful little book. Being forced wasn't as humiliating as admitting that I like it. Yet now that my secret is out, I feel free. I can admit things now that I've never even told my diary.

This was back before mom died. Remember Edward? Right, mom's old boyfriend.

And before you go there... no, I was not sexually abused, if that's what you're thinking. But I did have a bit of a crush on him. He always seemed to pay more attention to you-because you were the youngest, I suppose. But to me, back then, I just wanted his attention. I love it when he found a little time to play with me. He was also very fond of tickling me, and I loved that too. He would hold my arms above my head as he buzzed my underarms or pinned my wrists behind my back as he worked his magic fingers over my belly.

Then, one day, everything changed. I went into his room while he was out and found this book called The Kidnapped Bride, under his bed. I shouldn't have read it, but I did. The title and cover were just too intriguing. I was shocked and fascinated by the things the men in that story were doing to that poor, helpless girl. But they also made my heart race.

I was still reading it when Edward opened the door of his room and found me there. I quickly put the book down and tried to pretend that I had just been moving it from one spot to another, but he knew. And after that, we began to play a new game. Instead of just tickling me, he would tie me up first and then tickle me. Sometimes we would pretend that we were the characters in that book. I don't remember ever doing anything more than that, but I do remember times when he would pay me to play the game. At first he didn't have to; I was eager to play. But as I got older I began to sense that there might be something that wasn't quite right about what we were doing. It made me want to do it more and yet I was intensely ashamed by that fact.

I think mom may have had an idea about what was going on; I think that's why she dumped him.

Anyway, I just thought I should get that out in the open. You've read my diary, so you know that sometimes when I did things that seemed mean, it wasn't always my fault. Sometimes it was my fault-but not always. Like that time when I stole Bobby. It wasn't like I intended to steal him all along. I know I wrote it like that in my story-and even in my diary, but sometimes I liked to pretend that I was more in control of things than I really was. It really wasn't as malicious as I made it sound. We were watching TV. And that lead to a little horse play. And then, before I knew it, we were rolling around on the floor and he was trying to pin my hands behind my back while he tickled me. He tickled me so hard I almost creamed my pants; and I hoped desperately that if we got to know each other better he'd do that sort of thing more often. He didn't, but I would have given anything if he had. The point is: it wasn't that I was trying to hurt you; I just couldn't give him up. And then when I did hurt you I felt so guilty-not just about him but about the fact that I still wanted him.

I know that's not much of an ex ... I hear you coming; so I guess I'm done.

You can ask me about the rest, if you're interested. Not that it really matters anyway.


Sixth Try

This is the last story I'll ever have to write. I kind of like writing these little bits, now that I'm no longer afraid of what I might say. I think I'll write more, just for the fun of it. But as you said, it's the last story I HAVE to write.

Sorry. I stopped talking about you in third person, Terry. But you're the one who said I could say whatever I wanted this time. No time limits. No restraints. No punishments for misspeaking.

And this time I want to speak directly to you.

It's funny. I can take my time and think about what I really want to say-but strangely, after forcing myself to write so quickly for so long, I find that style suits me bests. When I was younger, I always thought twice before saying anything-afraid I'd make some stupid mistake. I may have been one of the more popular girls my senior year, but I never really felt like I deserve it. I always felt like I was right on the edge of loosing control; one stupid little move away from becoming the class clown.

"Just say whatever you want to say," you said. "It doesn't matter how short or how long. And then, when you're done, I think it will be time to go home."

So I've given what I wanted to say a lot of thought.

I thought perhaps I could try to remember more of the horrible things that we did to each other in our childhood. I'm not the only one with a few skeletons in my closet-and we haven't even scratched the surface of that book. Yet most of those stories are ones I've already forgotten or already written about in my diary. I could retell them with more honesty and less bitterness, but right now it just seems pointless.

I could regale my readers again with tales of whips and chains, this time telling not only about how much it hurt but also about how much I love the pain. But again, that doesn't seem very important to me either.

Instead, I thought I would write about what does seem important. And what seems important to me right now is how I imagine our goodbye scene will go in the not-to-distant future. I don't know what will actually happen; but here's what I hope happens:

I'll be in my room, packing my clothes. Or maybe I won't-all I came here with was that one dress and it was ruined a long time ago. So maybe you and Jeff will come to my room with a parting gift. You'll have bought me a new dress. You'll have that stupid necklace I was wearing that night when you first took me. Perhaps there will be another little present of some kind. A parting gift-you always were the one to remember birthdays and special occasions with a gift.

Jeff will unlock the door and stand in the hallway, while you walk inside and lean against the wall, just like you used to when we were younger... remember how you'd come into my room when I had girl friends over and lean against my wall like you were waiting for me to say something. And then I'd yell at you and tell you to get out... So you'll lean against the wall, just like that. Only this time you'll look at me with that down-turned little pout of yours and you'll say, "It's time to go home, Kālly."

And I'll look up at you with a smile and say, "I am home, Terri."

And, when I look over at Jeff he'll nod in agreement and say with his usual sarcastic humor, "The dungeon is yours for as long as you want it."

That's how I'm hoping our good-bye scene will go, Terri.

And I don't mind admitting that for the first time, as I write this imagined story-

For the first time, as I sit here waiting for you to read it, so I can hear what you'll say-

I am really and truly frightened.