The Freshman

The sound of feet skipping down the stairs caught my attention. It could only be one person. Five o'clock on the Friday before spring break and the exodus was complete. Well, all except for the five girls who were staying - and the woman. I had heard the footsteps three floors up and there was only one tenant on that floor: Morgan Trent, 24, freshman.

Sound was followed by feet, legs, heavy-ish thighs, bouncing tits, a perky ponytail.

"Excuse me?"

She turned.

"Are you staying next week?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I need you to sign this," I said holding up the clipboard.

She walked over to the desk. I slid a piece of paper toward her.

"Security rules. Mostly the same old, but we'll be keeping all the doors locked. We ask that you use only the main entrance. And that if you have any guests, that they sign in."

She signed her name.

"Morgan? Ah, I'm Ken."

I held out my hand. She shook it.

"I'm the fill-in dorm dad. Clara is spending the week out at p-town with her niece."

"Oh." She frowned.

"Know where that is?"

"No. No, I don't. Sounds familiar."

"Big arts/gay/tourist community out at the end of Cape Cod. Right at the tip of the peninsula."

Morgan nodded.

"Listen, please be just a bit more vigilant. It's usually safer with the doors locked and not so many people coming and going, but you never know. One of the other girls likes to tape the latch on the outside door near her room, feels it's her private entrance."

"Yeah, okay."

She turned to leave.

"Where are you headed?"

She turned back.

"The Organic Monkey, pick up a few things for the weekend."

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry, just make sure you have your key. I'll be locking up shortly."

She patted her bag. "Got it."

She turned away and I decided she wasn't fat at all, just full-bottomed like most mature women. A nice change from the little boy butts on so many of the girls here. I also decided that she filled out her jeans in the most delightful way. Wouldn't mind spanking that ass, that's for sure.

The gray Honda pulled out of the lot. The Organic Monkey is a health food store on the other side of town. Figure fifteen minutes to, fifteen back, a bit of shopping. I took the stairs two at a time and let myself into her room. It's the first room on the right on the third floor of the north wing, right across from the common bathroom. It's a single, one of only two in the wing.

The room was neither a mess, nor tidy. The books on the shelf showed that not only was she taking the required freshman courses, but that her interests lay in art and business. I opened her PC, booted it.

I fished through the dresser drawers. Nothing of interest there; mostly socks, underwear, Ts, a few sweaters. Most of it utilitarian, though she had a few pretty things. There was a shoe box and boot box in the bottom draw.

The closet was barely full. I fingered through the clothes. For an artist, she was definitely not a slave to fashion - but I did like the scent. It was something a bit musky, but light, not quite sandalwood.

In the closet were a couple of boxes, those cardboard types used for copy paper. The first held books, mostly art books. The second one seemed full of mementos. There was a paper bag. I opened it, pulled out a book, a diary, last year's diary. I went in search of this year's.

I found it under her pillow (Where else?), flipped through it. Stopped at the sketch of a naked woman stretched out on a bed, hands cuffed to the headboard, ankles spread. Something was lodged between her legs. She had a ball gag and blindfold and what looked like an ear bud with a wire running off to the side.

The writing was small and difficult to read, but the gist of it was that she'd found a way to secure herself to the bedframe, the handcuff key dangling from a eye in the ceiling, the end of the string attached to a solenoid and timer. At some set time, the key would drop into her hands.

It was definitely her in the sketch and not just some fantasy - I found the chains locked to the bedframe.

I flipped through the diary, found more sketches, some nude, most vanilla, the occasional gagged mouth or bound wrists.

The last entry was intriguing.

"I finished Oasis. The end is rough, but I'm in a dark mood. Dark enough for me to work on The Jester? Probably. Hell it can only go downhill from here. We'll see how I feel after the show. They're doing an Indiana Jones marathon tonight, three back to back. Should get me out of my funk. Still, I've been putting off Jester for so long."

And next - "I am so out of here. I can't stand the girls, I can't stand heads up their butt, so called art teachers, even the business courses have no relationship with reality. Hate to waste the money. maybe I'll just stop taking classes and just live here. I paid for it."

The entry was dated today and there was, in fact, a three-fer showing at Hutchins tonight.

I went back through her things looking for her kinky stash. Found it in the shoe box: three sets of handcuffs, ball gag, leather blindfold, a roll of duct tape, two vibrators, one of those butterfly vibrators (a nice one with adjustable straps), a small butt plug, and a couple sets of clamps. Interesting.

I opened the boot box.

There was a manuscript laying on top: The Oasis. I thumbed through it, set it aside. There was a stack of paperback book covers banded together. They were all BDSM themed with pictures of women in various states of bondage and distress. The Jester was there. It had been torn apart and the pages banded together likewise. And there were CDs.

I stepped over to the computer. The screen saver was bouncing around, I swiped the pad. I snooped around a bit, found her personal folder. Didn't find anything related to the discs and manuscript I'd found. On a whim I changed the properties of the folder to show hidden files and, bing!, a folder appeared that said simply "work." I clicked on it.

There were several sub folders, one for each book. I recognized several of the titles from the covers in the box, including Oasis and The Jester. I clicked on Oasis. More folders. One contained scanned images of the book's pages, another text files, and the third audio files. I clicked the audio.

I finished the last three miles in good time-

I clicked on the first image file.

Jennifer finished the last three miles in good time-

I pulled out my key ring, slipped my thumb drive into the USB, clicked copy. I retrieved the Oasis manuscript.

I finished the last three miles in good time, at least it felt good. I hit the corner and checked my watch. Not slow, but not fast either. I walked up the hill.

The black stretch limo pulled up to the curb. The rear window rolled down. A man appeared.

"Excuse me, miss. We're trying to find the dean's house and we seem to have become lost."

I stepped closer. The man was handsome in a swarthy kind of way with thick black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. I could see he was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and a mottled green, trendy tie.

"Not hard to do," I laughed.

"Perhaps you could aid us?"

"Sure. Just head up three blocks, turn left, take an immediate right-"

"Perhaps, miss, if you would be so kind," he said, opening the door, "as to guide us. My driver will deliver you back to your dorm promptly."

I stepped toward the car, the man slid back inside. I slid in after him and pulled the door shut. He extended his hand, I took it.

"My name is Petre."

"Morgan. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

The car pulled away from the curb.

"Well, like I said, if you-"

"Perhaps if you could tell Bruno. It would be easier."

"Sure."

I leaned forward. The driver was a gorilla. He filled up nearly half of the front seat.

"Go straight two more blocks, turn left, then immediately-OW! What the..."

I turned back. Petre held something in his hand, a small bulb of some kind.

"What ..." I collapsed onto the floor.

Petre hoisted me half up on to the seat. He pulled off my T and jog bra. He hefted me the rest of the way and worked my shorts and panties down over my shoes. He pulled them off, too.

I sat, slouched staring at the roof of the car. Petre brushed his hand over my eyelids and my world went dark.

I couldn't move. I could hear and if my eyes were open I would be able to see, but otherwise I was totally paralyzed. I tried to scream, but I had lost my voice.

"Angeline? A bit of serendipity. A girl. According to her driver's license she is Morgan Trent, age 24, 5'4", 125 #, hair brown, eyes brown. Caught her after she'd been jogging. A nice fit little animal. Listen, I have her school ID also. The number is 109976-234. Run it and get our friend to clean out her things, say there was a death in the family and she had to leave suddenly. We'll meet you at the airport."

The car rolled along for quite a while. I sat there while Petre groped me, squeezed my tits, fingered my pussy. He rolled me onto his lap and swatted my butt a few times, squeezed my cheeks and swatted some more.

"Nice. Very nice. Hey, Bruno. Quite the bit of luck, eh?"

The limo came to a stop. There was the sound of a door opening, the trunk opening, the rear door opening. Something tossed onto the floor. I was pulled from the seat as easily as if I'd been a doll. Must be the gorilla. He lay me on my side, folded my arms and legs, fiddled with me a bit, then something landed on my shoulder. There was the sound of a zipper. Then I was sitting upright, then swinging in space, but a moment later I was settled back on my side with a thump and the trunk lid slammed.

I checked my watch. "Shit!" I'd been in her room almost an hour. I retrieved my drive, hid the folder again, put everything back the way I found it, and bounded down the stairs -just as the gray Honda pulled into the lot.

Morgan stood outside the door, fumbling with her key. I ran over, pushed the door open.

"Hey."

"Hi. Thanks."

I followed that lovely ass into the lobby.

"Uh, Morgan," I said pointing at one of her bags.

She turned.

"No alcohol in the dorm. I know you're of age, but most of the girls aren't and it's easier to not allow it than to keep up with who can and who can't drink. Plus it cuts down on the supply."

She nodded.

"Okay, so much for the official lecture. I don't really give a fat rat's ass. Just be discreet, okay?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Hold on a second."

I ducked behind the desk into Clara's apartment, took a key from the hook on the wall.

"Come on."

We walked up the stairs making small talk. At her wing I pulled the door open.

"Can't lock this. Safety issues, you know. But you're the only one up here. I'll check the other rooms, but here's a key to the bathroom. Just let me check it."

I ducked into the room, did a lap. Back outside I locked the door and handed her the key.

"Thanks."

"Uh, listen, if you don't have plans, can I buy you a glass of wine?" (Of course I knew she had plans. It was a set up.)

"Oh, uh, I was going to go to the movies."

"Oh, the Indy three-fer."

She nodded.

"Well, how 'bout this. You buy me a glass of wine and I won't report you for having it."

She gave me a look. I smiled. She smiled back.

"Sure."

Later she waved as she passed through the lobby. I ran up the stairs again, let myself into her room. I grabbed the diary from under the pillow and ran back downstairs.

In the tiny office that occupies a corner of Clara's apartment is a scanner, a damn fast one. Clara may be old, but there no rust in her gears, that's for sure. When I'd finished scanning the diary, I ran it back up to Morgan's room, slid it under the pillow. There is power in knowledge.

Back downstairs I settled in with a drink and the Oasis manuscript. Morgan had scanned all these BDSM books, obviously run them through some kind of OCR, edited them so that she would be the heroin/victim, then recorded them. She'd lock herself to the bed, vibrator buzzing between her legs and listen to her own voice describing the unspeakable perils "she'd" experienced.

The basic premise of Oasis is that Petre was an importer/exporter. Most of his activities were illegal and none had to do with women per se. He had an oasis out in the middle of the desert, far from prying eyes, complete with runway and hanger. While most of is Arab neighbors trained horses, Petre trained women. Sold them to his neighbors, exported some to select clients around the world. Sure booze and babes are against Islamic law, but apparently some Arabs are above the law.

In the end, he decided to keep Morgan as his personal pet. In ways too numerous to tally and too sick to relate, Morgan was broken, reduced to an animal on a leash, barely a slave, just something owned and enjoyed by her owner. Yet there was a part of Morgan that had resisted, even as she obeyed. There was a part of Morgan, the American college student, still there, somewhere. But all that changed on that last morning.

I woke as I always did, a few moments before Petre left his bed. Something about his early, pre-waking movements seeped into my sleeping brain. I crawled to the end of my cage and knelt.

Something shifted.

Something deep within my psyche, my world, the very core of my being changed. In that instant I was no longer Morgan, the chained college girl, I was simply property, Petre's property. There was no Morgan, no ...

There was a creak as Petre left the bed. He flipped the rug off the front end of the cage, unlocked the door and swung it open. The thing that used to be Morgan crawled out.

He left the bedroom, she crawled after him into the toilet and knelt by the commode. He fished around in a drawer, brought out the ropes and o-ring gag.

"Those won't be necessary, Master."

The thing that once was once Morgan tipped her head back, closed her eyes. She opened her mouth. And she was true to her word, the restraints were no longer necessary.

"Whoa!"

I sipped my drink, pondered the situation, contemplated the possibilities (One of which could easily get me arrested.).

Morgan rewrote BDSM porn with herself as the victim, recorded it, then chained herself to the bed, vibe buzzing between her legs, while she listened to herself tell tales of pain and perversion in which she was the "star."

I'd had a plan, a plan for Lucy. Spoiled little rich bitch - a junior - I'd put up with her crap for three years. Such a brat that her parents sent her half way across country to go to school. Don't call us, we'll call you. I'd like to feel sorry for her if she wasn't such a bitch. She had given me a ton of grief. Well, her daddy and his money had when I enforced school rules.

I knew she'd mess with the lock, probably bring some guy (or guys) she met at a bar back to the dorm. Who's to say that one of them wasn't a sicko perv.

But now I had Morgan.

I headed across campus, let myself into the science building. I had keys. I had keys to damn near everything. Part of my job as fill-in dorm dad was to do room inspections while the girls were away during spring break. I had the time and it saved maintenance a lot of work. Of course I didn't limit myself to the official checklist.

Many of the girls had gigs as lab assistants or clerical assistants, and they all had keys. I made copies of those keys. Eventually I hit the jackpot and had keys to the dean's office and, with his key, to the master key locker. I also had the master key to the facility management office and a whole 'nother treasure trove of keys. From there it was all down hill, or up hill depending on your viewpoint.

I let myself into a lab, a storage closet, a small glass cabinet. I pulled out a bottle. One of many, it wouldn't be missed.

The athletic building was an empty tomb. Every little sound I made echoed. I treaded softly to the training director's office and through it into the main storage room. I hefted a box, then two in my arms and made my way back to my truck, set them in the bed, went back and relocked doors.

Back at the dorm I went into the service elevator, hit 3, rode up three flights from the basement. When the doors opened, I set the emergency switch.

Back in Clara's apartment, I checked the clock: 12:47. Morgan wasn't back yet, which meant she'd stayed for all three Indy flicks. I tossed back my drink. A bit of Dutch courage?

"Fuck it. No guts, no glory."

I pushed myself from the chair and headed back upstairs, made room in Morgan's closet, settled in.

I didn't have to wait long.

There was the sound of a key in a lock, the widening wedge of bright light. Morgan flicked on the room light and stepped over to the bed, tossed her purse on it. I sprang.

I caught her high, bending her across the bed. I clamped the chemical soaked cloth across her face. She struggled. She was strong. It was touch and go there for a while. She hooked a foot under the bed frame and nearly threw me off, but I used the movement to wrench her around. She landed with an "oomph" under me and little by little, slowly her struggles faded. It's not like in the movies, it takes a minute or so for the stuff to work. Look at a clock and count sixty seconds. It's quite a while.

Having said that, holding a squirming Morgan for a full two minutes was a delightful experience. I stripped her and hauled her up onto the bed.

She looked good. Tits big enough that they sagged a bit as she lay on her back. I rolled her over. Her butt was nice and full. Soft. But her skin was smooth, all the way down her thighs. I had the urge to spank her, imagined holding her squirming form across my lap - except she wasn't squirming. I got to work.

I retrieved the boxes from the elevator, slit them open, and pulled out a roll of tape. I wrapped her ankles. It wasn't easy holding her legs up. We're talking dead weight here. But I managed. I propped her legs against my shoulder and wrapped her all the way from ankle to butt. I wrapped her feet.

I sat her up and worked my way down and around her chest, covering those lovely tits, pinning her arms to her sides, covering her hands and fingers. I eased her back down onto the bed.

I wrapped her head.

I left her mouth exposed because sometimes the drug has a bad affect, barfing is not unheard of. I sat in her guest chair and waited. It took a while. Finally, she stirred.

I watched for any signs of heaving. There were none. I waited a while longer while she squealed and squirmed. I hoped we were safe from any gastronomic mishaps, when  none came I sealed her mouth. She struggled and squealed some more, but at last she settled down and I grabbed her shoulders, hauled her to her feet. There was a bit more squealing and squirming. I released her and she fell, screeching, down onto the bed. I hauled her back. Eventually she got the message and settled down. I finished the wrap. I worked the tape from ankle to head three more times. I lay her back on the bed and wrapped her ankles and feet three times. I have this thing for threes.

Soon she was nothing more than a vaguely human mass of white. Only her nostrils (flaring, I might add) were exposed.

I cinched a length of rope to the bedframe, wrapped it round Morgan's ankles and tied it off on the other side. I did the same with her thighs, waist and chest.

I packed up the boxes, closed and locked her door, rode the elevator down, and dumped everything in the trash.

Now what?

I had a plan with Lucy, something involving a lot of sex and violence, but Morgan. Yes, she had dark yearnings, and she also had experience in these things. At least she had deeply explored the possibilities. How could I provide a real experience for her that matched her fantasy?

And how could I strip her of her humanity, turn her into the chained thing she craved and I lusted for, the pet, the ... I wasn't sure what.

I checked the dorm. All the doors were secure except Lucy's "personal" entrance - surprise, surprise. I peeled off the tape and pulled it shut.

I headed across the lot to Medrow Hall, a men's dorm. I was responsible for that, too, but none of the guys were there.

As I did the rounds I made my way into a corridor in the basement that ran under the row of dorm rooms. It was a series of storage rooms. Some were for the students' use to store luggage, foot lockers, and what not. Some held excess furnishings. I flashed back to Halloween night, years ago, when I took Sally's cherry on a mattress in one of these very rooms.

I let myself into the boiler room.

Just as I stepped through the door the boiler roared to life like a beast from hell. Startled me - and inspired me.

I went back upstairs, crossed the lot, sat in Clara's lounger, sipped a drink or three.

The next morning, after making my rounds, I climbed into my truck and headed for the home improvement store. I had the wooden lattice cut to size, found the hardware I wanted, and loaded everything in the truck. Back at the boiler room, I assembled Morgan's cage.

It was as described in her story, a rectangular box, roughly 6x3. I assembled the box, reinforced the wood, bolted on the ends, the hinges and locks, made a gate. It was a pleasant way to spend a Saturday.

Up in Morgan's room I held the straw to her lips.

"Sip!" I barked.

Morgan sipped, sipped some more.

"Please," she whispered.

I sealed her mouth with a strip of tape.

I fed her twice more over the weekend. Sunday night I dragged her into the service elevator, pressed B.

She was weak and disoriented when I cut off the tape, but she fought me. It was no contest. She had peed herself and a small puddle collected under the discarded wrap. I cuffed her wrists behind her back, cuffed her ankles, connecting two to make a short hobble. I used her own cuffs. I locked a length of chain to the ankle cuffs and dragged her, feet first, back into the box/cage. I swung the door shut and locked it.

"Please. Oh, God please," she whispered.

I killed the lights, flicked the power switch. The boiler roared to life, hellish orange phantoms danced on the walls, Morgan screamed.

I'm sure she screamed several times that night. I didn't know. I sat in Clara's lounge, channel surfing, trying to distract myself from the thought of the vey beautiful, and very, very helpless Morgan trapped downstairs.

The following morning, Monday, I entered the boiler room, flicked on a bare, white bulb. Morgan lay quietly in the cage. I opened the door, wrapped a chain around her neck, locked it. I released her ankles and drew Morgan, crawling on her knees, out onto the cold concrete floor. I pulled her to her feet and led her, stumbling, out of the room.

Connected to the boiler room was the super's room, from a time when each dorm had a live-in attendant. It was dirty. An iron bed with filthy mattress was tucked in one corner. The toilet stood in the other corner. There was a shower stall of sorts. It was filled with miscellany. I had dumped the trash, but hadn't cleaned the shower. I shoved her in, turned on the water, enjoyed her squeals beneath the icy stream.

I opened a can of dog food, dumped the contents into a bowl, shoved her face into it. Morgan ate.

Truth be told it was beef stew that I'd poured into an empty dog food can, but that's our little secret.

I set a pan of water on the floor and Morgan drank, lapping like a dog.

When she finished I asked, "Do you have to shit?"

She shook her head, no.

I started to drag her from the room.

"Wait. Please. I ... yes," she nodded.

I sat her on the commode. Minutes passed. She lowered her head and sobbed.

"Please, I ..."

"Shit or get off the pot, girl."

Several more minutes passed. The room was filled with grunting noises. She was wracked with sobs. But eventually there came the unmistakable sounds, and smells, of business being done. I wiped her crotch roughly, dragged her back into the boiler room, back into her cage.

I fucked her on Wednesday.

After almost three days in the cage, I flopped the dirty mattress onto the floor. I locked her neck chain to a pipe. After dinner and another cold shower, I dragged her back to the mattress and fucked her.

Felt good. Maybe a bit better than I'd hoped. Her cunt was snug and slick, very, very slick. Whether from fear or excitement, I didn't care. When I came I grabbed her hair, yanked her head around, shoved my cock into her mouth. She sucked and swallowed. I never had the chance to go soft. She sucked like a starving baby. I fucked her again.

Friday morning rolled around. Soon the girls would come straggling in in dribs and drabs over the weekend. Clara was supposed to return tomorrow.

I hauled Morgan into the super's room, gave her a shower, a warm one this time. I handed her a bowl and spoon and allowed her to feed herself.

Back on the mattress, after a brief fuck, I held her. It was decision time - my turn to shit or get off the pot

I released her neck chain from the pipe, dragged her, crawling back into the box, locked the door.

I backed my truck up to the loading dock, loaded the crate onto a dolly, rolled the crate into the truck bed, closed the tailgate.

It took a bit of tugging, but I got the crate out of the truck. I hauled it up the stairs, set it on a piece of carpet. I dragged the cage into the bedroom and covered it with a blanket. I went back to the dorm and cleaned out her room. I told Clara that Morgan had just up and disappeared, packed her things and left, no note, no nothing.

"I'm not surprised," she'd said. "She never seemed really happy here."

It's a bit over a month later. Morgan, no longer Morgan, is kneeling, naked at my feet. She's wearing the crude, iron ring of a collar. I whip her most days, ten or a dozen lashes, hard enough to make her cry, but not leave any serious bruises. She's never asked me to stop. She bears it making little gasping grunts.

I feed her "dog food" from a bowl on the floor. She crawls. Hasn't stood since I don't know when. She's lovely on her hands and knees, tits swaying with each step, that lovely, full, round ass in the air. The brown rosette of her asshole has stretched nicely. Fucking her ass is almost as easy as fucking her cunt. I've discovered that she's highly sexed, so I often use the former, not the latter, lest she have too much fun. Although, on the other hand, sodomy seems to satisfy something deep inside of her. She always behaves a bit more pet-like after a good ass fucking.

I haven't pissed in her mouth yet, but I may. When I feel the time is right, I just may.

 

18.01.12