0 comments/ 12985 views/ 0 favorites Cruel To Be Kind By: egamar Desiree stepped out of her morning shower squeaky clean, steamed pink and still a little drowsy – no matter what they say on the soap commercials, a hot shower in the morning only makes you want to crawl back into bed and doze off again, warm and clean. She strode down the hall toward the bedroom, naked, still toweling her hair, when she was startled into sudden and painful wakefulness by the snap of a towel on her exposed backside. The pain, as intense as it was sudden, mingled with her shouted expletive – "Shiiiiiiiit!" And beneath her shout was Dennis's laughter. "Dammit Dennis, why do you do stuff like that? That hurt," she said, but he had already disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the water for his own shower. Bitterly, she rubbed the spot on her butt where the towel struck. Already it was an angry red and swelling into a good-sized welt. Dennis always did things like that – he was not purposely mean, but he had never lost that adolescent, casual cruelty he thought of simply as "grab-assing." Even his literal "grab-assing" was more fervent than Des found comfortable, and many times his playful pinches and swats on the butt left bruises or the red outline of his hand. She talked to him about it frequently, but he would forget and then – as this morning – do something again that genuinely hurt. Angry, she dressed for work and left without saying good-bye, still too irate to even look at him. She fumed all the way to work and most of the morning, her mood apparent to her co-workers. Her friend Jill finally asked her what was wrong. "Oh, it's that damn Dennis," she huffed. "This morning when I got out of the shower, he snapped with a towel really hard." Taking a quick look around to make sure they were not being observed, Desiree lifted her skirt and peeled down her hose enough to show Jill the colorful welt. "Jeez, Des, that's nasty," Jill said. "Why does he do things like that? I know you've talked to him about that crap before, so why does he still do it?" "To him it's just horseplay. He doesn't mean anything by it, but it's so damn annoying." "Yeah, well, when I was in school you got spanked for 'horseplay.' Too bad you can't find someone big enough to spank the immature little shit for you," Jill said with a chuckle. "Yeah, too bad," said Desiree, her voice trailing off and her eyes suddenly distant, as though a thought had just occurred to her. That evening Dennis came home from his construction job sore and tired as usual on a Friday. Des fixed him a stiff drink and plopped down beside him on the couch. "Man, that pneumatic hammer is a shoulder killer," he groused, taking a big gulp of the scotch-and-soda Des offered him. "I feel like I'm one big knot." She reached over and began to gently massage the muscles at the back of his neck, then said with enthusiastic brightness, "Tell you what – after dinner, why don't you take a nice hot bath, then we'll smoke a little bit and I'll give you a back rub. Sound good?" "Sounds great," he answered with a weary smile. "You're too good to me, hon." "Usually," she said, returning his smile. They ordered Chinese food, and while they waited for the delivery boy Dennis downed two more hefty drinks, then drained a beer with his dinner. When they finished eating, Dennis went up to the bathroom to run a hot bath, while Des quietly slipped outside, fetching some items from her trunk that she'd purchased that afternoon. When she returned, Dennis was stretched out in the big claw-footed tub, luxuriant, steam enclosing him in a soft haze. Des went into the bedroom to prepare. When he Dennis came into the bedroom 20 minutes later, naked and lethargic from the drinks and the bath, he was surprised to find Des lying on her side of the bed, bare but for a tiny red silk thong, several candles casting her alluring form into soft shadows. "Wow," he said, stretching out beside her and running his hand over the stirring swell of her hip. "I take it you have more than a back rub on your mind tonight." "Definitely," she answered, certain that the gleam of mischief in her eye would be construed as simple lust. "But first things first." She reached over to the bedside table and picked up a joint, knowing his eyes were fastened on her delicately swaying breasts as she bent over a candle to light it. She exhaled a small cloud of the sweet smoke and handed the joint to him. "So, what did you have planned?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding in the smoke. "We better get to it, whatever it is, because I'm bone-tired." "Your bone doesn't look too tired." She was right. He had begun to grow at the first sight of her stretched out on the bed, and while she had not touched him yet, he was almost fully erect. They finished the joint, talking quietly as they passed it back and forth, and as soon as he snuffed it out he reached for her. "Not yet," she teased. "You've got a back rub coming first." "Hey, twist my arm," he said, adding "But be careful – I'm so relaxed right now you might put me to sleep." "Well, if you fall asleep, I'm pretty sure I can think of a way to wake you up." "I bet you can," he replied, giving her a sly smile as he rolled over onto his stomach. Des poured some scented oil into her palm, rubbed her hands together and began to work Dennis's tense and knotted muscles. She started with his neck, being thorough, working her way down to his shoulders, squeezing, pressing, then kneaded the broad muscles of his sculpted back. Within five minutes his breathing deepened, and he slept. She climbed off the bed and quietly went to the closet. The thong she wore clearly showed the red mark from his morning towel snap – she glimpsed the mark as she walked past the full-length mirror on the wall, but as mad as she'd been this morning, her plan was not just for revenge any more. She had to admit that, as she'd formulated her plan of retribution she found herself growing more and more aroused. It surprised her. Although she never really considered herself "that type," the more thought she put into her plan, the more lascivious she felt. Taking a large shopping bag from the closet, she rummaged through its contents on her way back to the bed, locating the items she needed first. Dennis snoozed on, his head resting on his hands. Slowly, with great care not to rouse him, she pulled his hands out from under his head. For an instant she feared he was waking up, but he just turned his head the other way and slept on. She slipped a leather manacle around one wrist, then looped the connected cord through the slats in the headboard and attached its mate to his other wrist. She repeated the process with another set of restraints, binding his ankles. There was enough play in the manacles to allow him to turn over, but that was it. He was ready, but was she? It was not without some embarrassment that Desiree had purchased the items. It was her first time in an "adult" store, and at first it was something of a shock. The walls of the shop were lined with sex toys of every description, some of which she heard of before, most shockingly foreign to her. Vibrators she had heard of – Jill had one she seemed to like better than her boyfriend – but even the different types, sizes and features of those were mind-boggling, to say nothing of the rest of the store's offerings. There were blow-up dolls ("Pathetic," she mumbled to herself when she saw them), and vials of Spanish Fly that had kept generations of teen-age boys surreptitious and hopeful. There were lubricants, flavored oils, exotic outfits – she grabbed the diminutive thong as soon as she spotted it from a rack of scandalous panties. A "Thai Basket Chair" hung from a hook on the ceiling, its various opening making its intended uses clear. A huge assortment of magazines and videos also were available, and she marveled at how much thought people of various kinky proclivities put into this aspect of their lives. At first she could not find what she wanted and almost left, thinking she simply could not bear to ask someone for help, but finally she spied what she sought in a tiny alcove given over completely to leather goods. She picked out two sets of soft leather manacles and one other item. Her face was as red as the wispy panties as she paid the bemused clerk and left the store. Now she pulled the other item out of the bag. It was a leather riding crop, thin and flexible, about two feet long. Testing it, she casually slapped it against her palm, satisfied by its snap, noting with satisfaction how much t sounded like a snapping towel when it struck. She walked over to the bed and contemplated Dennis's exposed and vulnerable (and, she had to admit, very appealing) buttocks. She pictured a cartoon devil on one shoulder, an angel on the other. "Two wrongs don't make a right," the angel scolded. The devil simply whispered "It's payback time." Hesitantly, she touched the business end of the crop to his rounded gluteals, brushing the rich leather in soft circles over them. By degrees, she realized she was losing her nerve. A look of determination came over her face, and she raised the crop. Dennis snapped into consciousness with a look of sheer panic on his face. The panic increased when he reached back to feel the area where he had been – what, stung by a bee? That's what it felt like – and he found he could down move his arm down more than a few inches. "What the hell!" he yelled. "What's going on? Des? Des! Where are you?" "Right here," she replied coolly, her voice coming from somewhere behind him. He couldn't see her, but she let him no where she was in no uncertain terms, once again bring the riding crop down on his vulnerable buttocks with a short, swift snap of her wrist. "Owwwwww!" he howled. "What the hell are you doing, Des? Why am I all tied up?" He sounded more frustrated than frightened, but there was an element of fear in his voice nevertheless. "Why are you doing this to me?" "Maybe you could answer that one yourself," she answered, hoping her own voice did not betray her timidity in acting in such a manner. "For example, why did you flick in on the ass with that towel this morning?" "I was just playing around, just grab-assing. C'mon, you know that." "I know I've asked you dozens of times to stop it. I know I rarely get through the week without you pinching my butt hard enough to leave a bruise, or slapping me on the ass hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. Look at this," she said, walking around to the side of the bed where he could see her and pointing at the vivid welt he made that morning. "Oh come on, it was just a little flick of a towel. It couldn't have hurt that much." At that, the crop cracked again, making a sharp, satisfying report as it connected. "Ow, SHIT, you bitch," he spat, but with a note of desperation in his voice. Stop it right now, god dammit!" "Excuse me, but you aren't calling the shots here Dennis. And what did you call me?" Again the merciless crop bit into his ass. A stream of epithets spewed from his mouth, and when they petered out, she brought the vicious leather device down again, surprised at how she relished the way he tensed when it struck, enjoying the faint purple-red marks that rose with each blow. Somewhat chastened, he tried another tact. Look, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Honey, please let me up." "Oh, you're sorry are you?" she asked, not bothering to mask the sarcasm. "Is his little bottom sore? Does he want mommy to kiss it and make it all better?" She climbed onto the bed and straddled his knees. Leaning forward, she planted soft kisses on each crop mark, cooing to him derisively. Cruel, she knew, just as she knew she was justified in reaping a little vengeance. She also knew she was more turned on than ever before. He calmed down a little as she kissed his backside, perhaps thinking she'd made her point and would soon let him go. He knew he probably deserved what she'd done and despite the throbbing in his ass, her gentle kisses felt good. He grew calmer still when she climbed off of him. That lasted until the hot candle wax dripped onto the crop marks. The already sensitive flesh was seared by intense, though short-lived, heat. "Owwwwwww!" he shrieked. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…" he chanted in a clipped litany of pain. "Don worry sweetie, just grab-assing," she taunted. She dipped the candle again, let another drop of hot wax plop onto another red mark. He squawked again, and now began to literally plead beg her to stop. "Please Des, stop it," he almost sobbed. "You made your point, now pleeeeeeease let me go." "And how do I know you won't do something to me?" she asked. "I won't, I swear on my mother's grave. You win I won't ever snap a towel at you again." "Your mother isn't dead." "Then I'll kill her, but please, please baby let me go." Maybe it had gone far enough Des thought. The faint marks on his butt had turned dark and angry-looking, two of them with bright red splotches of candle wax on them. While she thought it over, she delicately peeled of the solidified wax, tracing the outline of the marks gently with her finger. Finally, she decided to let him go. "All right, turn over, I'll undo the restraints," she said reluctantly, not really wanting to stop this odd game that had her so worked up. But he'd had enough, and to continue was just mean, she reasoned. He turned over, and suddenly Des knew his torment was not quite as acute as he let on. Dennis was hugely, impossibly erect, his penis straining upward and curving tautly back toward his belly. She had never seen him so large. "My, my, my," she murmured, "What have we here?" She touched him lightly, traced a small circle on the glans with her fingertip, smiling when his cock jumped at her touch, amazed at how hot it was, feverishly hot. "Hey, quit it, untie me," he said. "You said you would." "Yes, but this makes things a little different. I didn't know you were actually enjoying yourself." "I'm not, so untie me. NOW!" he insisted. "I don't like you're tone, and you're in no position to issue demands." "Dammit Des, I mean it. Untie me right now." Des picked up the crop again and struck him a sharp – but not hard – blow on his right nipple. He yowled, but she noted with satisfaction that his tumescent member twitched with the blow. It seemed to swell even more, if such a thing were possible. Again he demanded to be untied, earning a smack on his left nipple. He raised his voice, cursing, demanding to be freed RIGHT NOW. Yet his painfully erect penis flagged not a bit, not even when, in response to his loud and menacing orders, she brought the candle into play again, dripping hot wax over his already sore nipples. The abuse continued to stream from his mouth, until she reached down and cock and gave it a hard squeeze. "Shut up," she said simply, her iron grip not loosening. He shut up. She let go of him, then stepped back from the bed. She realized her own nipples were warm as well, and she touched them, squeezing them between thumbs and forefingers. That wasn't all – her little thong was drenched, the brilliant red silk now a dark burgundy where her unbidden desire had soaked through. Quickly she stripped it off, stepping out of them and then directly onto the bed, picking up the crop as she went. She stood over him, straddling him at the waist, towering over him. "I mean it Dennis, just shut up," she said. "If you don't…" She smartly cracked the crop into her palm to punctuate her meaning. "But," he began, but got no farther before she bent slightly at the knees and, reaching backwards, smacked the side of his thigh with the crop. He gave a shrill yelp, then went silent. Des locked eyes with him – she felt fierce, in control when she saw the submission that abruptly replaced the defiance in his face. Slowly she sank to her knees, placing the riding crop beside her on the bed, her hot and dripping center almost touching his excruciating stiffness. Still looking him in the eyes, she touched her clitoris ever so slightly to his burning cock. Barely moving her hips, scarcely touching him, she brushed her drenched, silky lips down the length of him, reveling in the agonizing-yet-exquisite feeling. She slid down him, then back up. When she reached the sensitive spot just below the tip, he flinched. Without thinking, she reached down and pinched one of his nipples, eliciting a yelp. "You don't move a thing until I say," she said, still moving slowly over him. "But…" he began, but another pinch silenced him. She reached down and gripped him, placing the head of his cock at her opening. Languidly she let her self drop down onto him until the head was inside her. Dennis raised his buttocks almost imperceptibly, wanting to be farther inside her, but she picked up the crop and struck his shoulder with delicate cruelty – she was getting used to the crop, learning how it could be effective without being brutal. "Don't - Move - A - Muscle," she enunciated. She moved down farther. Letting another inch of him into her, slowly, then another. There was no sound except their breathing. Small beads of perspiration formed on Dennis's forehead as he struggled to remain still and quiet. Soon he was completely inside her. She made small circles with her hips, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, watching the rapt expression steal over his features. "Ooooooh," he whispered, almost inaudibly. Abruptly she raised up and broke the contact. "You just can't seem to learn that 'quiet' means 'silent,' as in 'no sound whatsoever,'" she said. "I guess there's only one way to shut you up." Standing, she moved forward until she was over his face. She sank once more to her knees, until her satin seam was almost touching his lips. "Kiss me," was all she said. Dennis raised his head a fraction of an inch and kissed her plump lips, tasting he need, amazed by her wetness, agonized by his own frustrated penis. He kissed her. He licked her delicately from her opening to the sensitive apex of her clit. He sucked it into his mouth, gripping her with his lips, his tongue gradually moving harder and harder against the swollen button. She ground herself against him, moving faster, faster, her leg muscles quivering as her orgasm approached. Suddenly she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head hard up against her as the muscles in her stomach tightened – she held him there, riding his mouth, as waves of pleasure broke over her. Almost desperately she let go of him and scrambled down until she could stuff his cock inside her. She began to come again immediately as she fiercely thrust against his straining manhood, the contractions of her pussy milking him, forcing a stirring moan from his throat as he let go, his convulsing dick exploding so violently she felt his come striking her inner walls. When their breathing returned to normal, Des leaned forward and tenderly kissed Dennis, favoring him with a contented smile that he readily returned. She quickly loosened the straps, and the exhausted lovers fell into each other's arms. Soon, the were asleep. Some time later, Des woke up, a sly smile spreading across her face as she drifted back toward consciousness. She rolled toward Dennis, and was surprised to find him gone. She was also surprised that she did not seem to be able to lower her arms or raise her legs – and then she realized the leather restraints cuffed her own wrists and ankles. Dennis came into the room. "Sleep well," he inquired pleasantly. "Yeeeeeessss," she replied uncertainly. "Good you'll need your energy," he said, smiling. That was when she noticed he carried the riding crop in one hand – and a wet towel in the other. Cruel to be Kind Larissa doesn't know where she is. She wakes up in total darkness, groggy and disoriented. Sensations trickle in a few at a time as her brain slowly begins to process information--with sight gone, she notices the sensations of touch first. She feels a strain at her shoulders, and pressure at her wrists and ankles. She realizes she's been suspended upright before she figures out that she's been drugged. The drug must be wearing off now; Larissa can feel the lingering throb of a headache that she's very glad she slept through, and she notices a trace of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She tries to penetrate the fog of confusion the drugs have left behind and think back to her last memory, but her brain still feels sluggish and distracted. Instead of figuring out where she was, she figures out why she can't see. There's a hood over her head. Larissa tries to shake it off, but it's got elastic sewn into the lining to make it snug against her neck without cutting off her oxygen supply...and shaking her head rapidly makes her stomach do unpleasant flip-flops that she doesn't want to encourage, not with a hood over her head that she can't remove. So instead, Larissa holds still for a moment and tries to think. What was she doing before this? Where had she been? Who-- She suddenly feels tiny leather cords trailing along the skin of her back, and she flinches, both at the sensation and the sudden realization that she's naked. "Wh-who's there?" she asks, her voice only slightly muffled by the hood. The leather moves away abruptly, then smacks back against her with a dull thud. Larissa jerks sharply at the pain, but the bonds around her wrists and ankles don't give even a little. "Please, I--" The flogger slaps into her back again, right between the shoulder blades. Larissa cries out involuntarily, as much from the situation as the actual pain. "What is your name?" a man's voice asks. "I...I don't..." Larissa doesn't understand what's happening. She's not anybody important. She's nobody. Why would someone kidnap her? Why would they lock her up like this, whip her and question her? She doesn't get any answers. Instead, she gets another smack of the flogger against her back, then another immediately on the heels of the first. She gasps, but she doesn't even have time to exhale before she gasps again. "Where do you live?" the man asks. "Please, just...let me go, I don't know anything--" That must be the wrong answer, because the flogger thuds into her back again. Larissa can't help herself, she cries out again. "What is your name?" the man asks again, his voice perfectly neutral. He's not angry with her for failing to answer; he's just punishing her. "L-Larissa," she whimpers out. Maybe if she answers, it'll satisfy him and-- The flogger cracks down again. Then two more times. "What did you have for breakfast this morning?" "What?" Larissa asks before she can stop herself. The flogger answers her question, thudding against the exact same spot again and again and again. Larissa can picture the flesh of her back, now, an angry red where the leather cords have struck it. Each smack of the flogger reminds her of all the ones before it; the skin is sensitized by now from the multitude of blows. "Who was your first kiss?" the man asks. The questions don't make any sense to Larissa, and she's terrified of answering them wrong. She's terrified of everything right now. "My first, I..." She wracks her brains, trying to remember his name in the instants she has before the flogger comes down again, but then suddenly she feels a hand reach around and pinch her nipple sharply and she loses her train of thought. Instead, she arches her whole body in shock at the mix of pleasure and pain. "What is your name?" the man asks again, letting go of her breast. Larissa doesn't understand. She's already answered that one. "Larissa," she says, louder this time. "Larissa--" His hand smacks sharply against her ass, hard enough to make her sway in the restraints. "Please, I don't--" He spanks her again, this time smacking her other cheek. "I don't know what you want," she sobs out. Her eyes sting with tears. "Who owns you?" the man asks. Before she can even open her mouth to answer, he brings the flogger down on her ass where his hand just was, and Larissa thrashes in the restraints in a desperate attempt to pull free. "If you move too much, I might injure you," the man says calmly. "What did you have for breakfast this morning?" This morning seems like a lifetime ago, now, but Larissa strains to remember it. She knows that even if she does, she'll never manage to get out an answer before the flogger comes down, and she tenses up before the next blow comes. It lands squarely between her shoulder blades again, followed by what feels like a half-dozen more just like it. Larissa's not counting, though. She's shaking now, as the endorphins flow into her bloodstream and make her body tingle all over. He finishes off with another stroke against her ass, then speaks again. "Where did you go to school?" he asks. Larissa tries to answer, but she doesn't get out more than a whimper before the flogger slaps against her thighs, then her back, then her thighs again. It's almost as if he's punishing her for even trying to think; she wishes so badly that she could just shut down her mind now, let everything wash over her and stop trying to satisfy this impossible test. "What is your name?" he asks again. He still doesn't sound angry. He doesn't sound like he's upset with the answers he's getting. He sounds like he's willing to keep this up forever. "Larissa," she cries out, "Larissa Larissa Larissa--" The name begins to sound like a nonsense word, just like any word will if you repeat it often enough. He cuts her off with a series of blows on her ass, and she shivers as her body begins to overdose on the endorphins. The pain doesn't go away; it just gets overlaid with a buzz of pleasure that makes her light-headed and dizzy. "Who owns you?" he asks. "Y-you?" Larissa says hopefully. She doesn't really believe that, but if it's what he wants to hear, if it will get him to stop this torture, she'll happily say it. He rains more blows onto her back and thighs, but she doesn't know whether that means it was the wrong answer or not. He never corrects her, she realizes. He doesn't tell her what he wants to hear; he expects her to figure it out. She can't. She can barely think at all, as the exquisite pleasure of the endorphin rush mingles with the exquisite pain of the welts on her body to make her quiver in sensory overload. "When did you lose your virginity?" he asks. She knows that she should be offended by the question, but she doesn't care anymore. All she can do is try to respond, and pray it's what he wants to hear. "I was...I was twennnuhhh!" Larissa's words dissolve into a shuddering moan as she feels a thick rubber cock sliding up into her cunt. It's only then that she realizes her pussy is practically dripping with moisture; all the stimulation has made her body horny, even if her mind is almost shutting down in panic and confusion, and the fake cock slides in smoothly despite its size. The feel of the dildo inside her adds yet another sensation to the mix that threatens to drown out her thoughts entirely. She feels him slide something around her waist that holds the dildo in place. "What did you have for breakfast this morning?" he asks, doing something as he speaks that makes the dildo throb and pulse inside her cunt. Larissa's head falls forward, then arches back as he spanks her ass again. "For...for breakfast, I..." She can't even form a coherent sentence anymore; even without his next lash of the flogger (on her back, then her thighs, then her back again) her mind is utterly overwhelmed. If she had time to calm down, to think, then she could maybe answer, but he won't give it to her. "Who owns you?" he asks again. The questions swirl around her head now in an endless spiral, melting down into confusion at its heart. Her only answer is a wordless moan, punctuated by tiny yelps as he uses a short riding crop on the sensitive flesh of her breasts. By the time he stops, she's forgotten the question. "What is your name?" he asks. Larissa flinches in anticipation of the next blow, but nothing happens for a long moment. She realizes he's actually waiting for an answer, and it surprises her just how hard it is to remember that answer. "Larissa," she pants out at last. There's another long moment of silence. Then an onslaught of sensation. The flogger thuds again and again against her back, her ass, her thighs, then swats against her pussy in a way that makes her cunt clench hard around the vibrator. She cries out, but she's not sure if that's why he uses the riding crop on her tits again or if that's just what he was planning to do anyway. By the time he pauses, she's shuddering in the restraints, her breath coming in gasps. Then he slides another vibrator, this one well-lubricated, into her ass, and the gasp becomes a sharp yelp. Then he turns that one on, too, and the shudders become quakes. Then he asks her another question. "Where do you live?" He reaches around and pinches her nipples sharply, twisting them back and forth in his hands. Her skin is so sensitive now from all the blows that she can actually feel his breath on her back. "What did you have for breakfast this morning?" She feels him attach buzzing, whirring, vibrating nipple clips to her tits. "How old are you?" He smacks the flogger into her again, no longer alternating between questions and blows but delivering both at once. "Who won the World Series this year?" Larissa can't help it, her hips buck as the overwhelming stimulation begins to get to her. "When was the Declaration of Independence signed?" The pain and pleasure mingle interchangeably now; Larissa can't tell them apart anymore. "Why does the caged bird sing? What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow? Who owns you? What is your name? Who owns you? What is your name? Who owns you?" "I don't know!" she cries out as she feels herself cum, everything blending together in an impossible mix of overwhelming sensation that shuts her mind down completely. All she can do now is feel, as all the feelings demand so much of her attention that she can no longer think about the questions, the situation, anything at all. She shakes and shudders in an endless, timeless orgasm, then finally sags in her bonds, utterly limp. The flogging stops. The vibrators shut off, then slide out. Finally, he removes the hood. She opens her eyes, then closes them again tightly as they adjust to the light. Then she opens them again, looking at the face of her tormentor. "Tim?" she asks hesitantly. "Laura?" he responds, his face concerned. She nods. "It's me," she says wearily, but a smile crosses her face when she says it. She says her name again, tasting the unfamiliar word in her mouth. "Laura." The look of relief on Tim's face is palpable. "Oh, thank God!" he sighs out. "I'm so sorry, honey, I know you must have been so frightened but I needed to totally overwhelm your conscious mind to break the conditioning. You needed to be confused about who was doing this to you, or you'd have stayed 'Larissa' no matter how long I..." He hangs his head slightly, and Laura knows what he must be feeling. It must have been hell for the soft, gentle man she married to torment his wife like that, even if he did know it was the only way to break the hold that 'Master' had over her. "It's okay, love," she says. She reaches out to caress his cheek instinctively, before realizing she's still cuffed to the frame in a spread-eagled position. "You did what you had to. You saved me. You love me." Tim kisses her gently. "I love you," he says. He reaches up and unlocks the restraints, and she sags into his arms with a sharp inhalation of pain. She's going to be sore for days, but it's worth it to have her free will back. She finds herself filled with questions--how did Tim get her out of there, what happened to the man who enslaved her, how long had she been 'Larissa'--but they'll have to wait. She's too exhausted right now to care. Laura feels like she could sleep for days. It must show on her face, because Tim leads her off towards the bedroom without her even needing to ask. Abruptly, a thought crosses her mind, and she's so tired and giddy that the words pop out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Tim...could we try that again sometime? Just for fun?" THE END