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A Tape
Part Two
By Razor7826 (Copyright 2008)
The police arrived to notify me of my daughter’s disappearance two days later. When asked if I knew where she went, I lied, believing the kidnapper’s threats; they were perverted and disturbed monsters, and I knew they told the truth.
My tears were dismissed away as those of a distraught mother, learning that her daughter had gone missing. I wanted to tell them everything, to scream about my daughter’s sad fate and her captor’s perverse demands. I wanted to beg for help.
I wanted mercy.
I wanted my daughter back.
However, I kept that knowledge to myself and thanked the police for notifying me.
That weekend was the worst weekend of my life. No matter how much I tried to do work or have fun, my thoughts returned to the tape and the horrors it contained. Time dragged by as I waited for news that would not come.
Monday, I returned to work. The news of my daughter’s disappearance had gone public. My coworkers never ceased their parade of good wishes, continually salting the wound of my forced silence, driving me deeper and deeper into depression. The stack of insurance claims in my inbox barely diminished that day.
Just as I was about to leave, my boss called me into her office.
“Janine, have a seat.”
“Sorry, I have to get going,” I said, not wanting to defy the day’s instructions.
“Please, Janine, this will be quick.”
I sat in front of her desk in an uncomfortable chair.
“I can only imagine what you’re going through right now, Janine. You should take some time off. Don’t worry, they won’t count as personal days.”
“No,” I responded quickly, realizing that taking a vacation would violate the captors’ rules. “Please, I need this. Don’t throw me away.”
My boss leaned forward onto her desk, supporting her with her elbows. “Are you absolutely positive you’re up for this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. Just remember that you can take as much time off as you want if you need it.”
“Thank you Sarah.” I left the office and drove home.
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Another tape sat on the hall floor, leaning against my apartment door. I felt satisfied, despite knowing the unspeakable horrors that would be portrayed on that tape.
I setup my laptop beside me on the couch and checked my email account. A new message was waiting, sent less than a minute ago.
Start the video and await further instructions.
Once again, the tape started with a ceiling mounted perspective of an empty room, but not the same room from the previous tape. The walls were of the same dull and windowless concrete construct shown in the previous video, though the room contained a gynecologists chair instead of a mattress.
A man walked in the room tugging on a leash behind him. At its end stumbled my daughter, naked except for a tiny red band encircling her neck. Her hair still dangled in pigtails behind her, but her hair had clearly not been washed in several days; the video was, at the very least, a few days newer than the first.
“Sit,” commanded the man. He was not the same as the man that had raped her days earlier.
Monica hesitated and looked the man in the eyes before crouching onto the floor.
“Not there, you dumb cunt. In the chair.”
She stood and sat in the gynecologist’s chair.
“Legs up.”
Once again, she hesitated, but eventually spread her legs apart and placed them into the stirrups. Her pussy had been shaved since the last video, and her lips were red and swollen from whatever the men had done in the intervening days.
Her naked body filled me with awe. For the first time, I noticed how beautiful my daughter had grown. Her reticent and studious nature kept her focused on school work throughout her adolescent years, and despite my advice she never managed to land a boyfriend. I finally saw that it was all by choice. However, her beauty scared me, as it would undoubtedly fuel even more perverse fantasies inside her captors’ dark and cruel hearts.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
The man slapped her in response. “No talking.” He strapped her legs into place and bound her arms with sets of leather straps and exited off screen for a few minutes.
Monica’s lithe body shook in the man’s absence, undoubtedly fearful of what he had planned for her. My fear mirrored hers as I awaited the next atrocity that I would have to witness.
The man returned with cardboard box. He placed it on the floor between Monica’s legs and rifled through it, pulling various toys from the bin.
He held up a dildo in his left hand a weighted nipple clip in his other. “Here we go. The Mister and Misses felt this would be a good next step.”
Mister and Misses? For the first time, I gleaned insight into who had ordered the abduction of my daughter, useless as it may be.
When the man shoved the dildos into my daughter’s ass and pussy, I cringed and looked away from the television, unable to look at my daughter’s sexual torture.
My laptop beeped. An email had arrived.
Watch the video, or else…
I turned my eyes back towards the television. Monica was shaking and screaming, trying to loose the invading rods. My laptop beeped again.
Finger yourself.
My stomach dropped. Did he mean what I thought he meant?
I looked back at my daughter. There was nothing at all erotic about her tortured screams. However, I had to patronize their wishes to spare her life. I slipped my right hand down the hem of my skirt and placed it against the middle of my panties.
Not good enough. Take your skirt off so we can see if you’re faking.
I cursed underneath by breath as I stood and undid the zipper of my black skirt. It dropped to the floor, revealing my white cotton panties and pantyhose.
I reclined comfortably back on the couch and took in the gravity of what the men were asking of me; in front of my eyes but in the past was my daughter, sexually abused for the perverse pleasure of our unknown captors. They were watching me constantly, their cameras tucked away all over my apartment, for God knows how long prior to Monica’s abduction, and they wanted me to fondle myself in the midst of it all.
I had no choice. My body would be theirs as long as they held my daughter.
I slid my right down my panties and beneath the pantyhose and rested my palm on my clit. Shamefully, it was pleasurable; self-pleasure was an art and hobby which I had long ago given up. I had let my sexuality wither away in the five years since Eric’s death, but the touch of my hand against my clit felt instantly familiar.
My daughter screamed as the man pushed the dildo further inside.
I lost my composure and began to cry. Calling out “Monica… forgive me,” beneath my breath, I began to rub at my clit.
The effect was immediately noticeable as I felt true physical pleasure for the first time in ages. My thoughts strayed from the horrific acts upon my daughter and turned to myself as I caressed my clit, first gently, but soon vigorously. It felt good.
And then it hit me. I lost myself in the pleasure, and nothing else mattered. Not my solitude, not my job, and not the horrific plight of my only daughter,
Everything around me faded into nothingness as I reached my climax. It was pure bliss, and for a brief instant I completely forgot the hellhole that my life had become.
My body jerked. Juices flowed from my pussy and soiled my panties. I didn’t care about the mess.
Good. We will contact you next week. The same rules apply.
What had I done? How could I enjoy myself when my daughter was being raped and tortured by psychopaths? I was never more ashamed in my entire life.
That night, as I lay alone in bed, scared of the world around me, I fingered myself. The skill had never faded, and I soon remembered why I was such a sex addict before marrying Eric.
I fell asleep in a daze of oblivious happiness, as if my problems were a far away dream.
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