It's Best to Cooperate by Imogen Edwards, M/f Capture
As she lies chained to the floor in a crude basement, Cressida realizes that her whole life is about to change.

Cressida heard the door being unlocked. It was Billy coming down the stairs. The guy who kidnapped her, brought her to this horrible house and chained her to the mattress in the basement, leaving her for the night.

 “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said. “It’s your big day today.”

“What’s going to happen to me? Please tell me,” Cressida pleaded.

He grinned. “It’s a surprise,” he said.

“Are you going to rape me?” Cressida asked bravely, looking him in the eye. He was so young that she thought she might shame him.

“It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“Look,” she said urgently, “I can get you money. I know people who will pay you to let me go.”

“They couldn’t afford you, darling,” he said contemptuously. “Professors don’t have money.”

So he knew she was from the university, thought Cressida. What else did they know about her?

“We can get a lot more for you than they could pay, take it from me.”

With that Billy, grabbed her once more by the hair and led her to the stairs. Awkwardly Cressida shuffled up them, her shackles heavy on her feet. Billy led her down the hallway and through a door into a kitchen. Harold sat at the table drinking coffee. He glanced up at her, and then lowered his eyes to the newspaper he was reading. Billy pushed Cressida down into a chair.

“Tina?” he yelled.

A door at the side opened and a girl came in. She was thin and pale, dressed only in a cotton shirt that reached just below her hips, and a pair of sandals. She too had shackles on her ankles.

“Get her something to eat,” Billy said to the girl. “And hurry up.”

The girl turned without a word and went out again. Cressida saw that the backs of her thighs were criss–crossed with ugly red welts, the signs of a recent beating. Soon the girl came back with some buttered toast and set it in front of Cressida. Billy poured her some coffee from a pot on the table.

Cressida couldn’t understand why they were waiting. Why did they need to feed her first? She ate some of the toast. Tina busied herself clearing up some cups and plates. If only, Cressida thought, she’d tell me what’s going on. But she dared not open her mouth with Billy watching.

As Cressida sipped her coffee she heard what sounded like a car in the distance. It drew nearer and seemed to pass right in front of the house. On an impulse Cressida rushed to the window and stared out. She couldn’t see the car but it must be close and, she started to scream at the top of her voice.

Billy grabbed her by the hair and swung her round, striking her a violent blow in the face. Cressida dropped to her knees, holding her mouth. She could taste blood.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid little cunt,” he shouted. “There’s nobody there to help you.”

He pulled her to her feet and dragged her out into the hall. A man was coming in through the front door. Cressida could see his car parked outside. Her screams had been in vain; clearly, he was expected. The man looked about forty, well–built, wearing a suit. His hair was black and glossy, swept back. He was handsome in a saturnine way.

“So this is her,” he said. He took hold of Cressida’s chin and lifted it. “She’s a looker, isn’t she? But who gave her a split lip?”

“She was screaming, boss, I had to control her.” Billy’s voice had taken on a whining note.

“You stupid little prick,” the man said. “Haven’t I told you before, we can’t sell damaged goods? The next time you mark her, I’ll fucking well mark you too.”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts,” Billy said. Cressida could see he was afraid.

“Bring her into the front room,” said Mr. Roberts. “And get that little slut Tina to bring coffee, with some brandy. It’s fucking cold out there.”

Billy pushed her into the room at the front of the house. Cressida was glad to see it was warm, with a log fire burning in the grate. What did they mean about selling her? To who? What for? It would explain why they hadn’t violated her yet. But it only left her with more questions.

Mr. Roberts settled into an armchair while Billy stood holding Cressida. Tina came in with the coffee and brandy. She poured some for Mr. Roberts, glancing at him anxiously, then left.

“Okay,” said Mr. Roberts. “Let’s have a look at her. Take the dress off.”

Cressida instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking away from Billy. He tried to grab her, fumbling for the zip at the back of her dress.

“Hurt her,” said Mr. Roberts. There was coldness, an indifference to her suffering in his voice. Billy twisted Cressida’s arm up behind her back, so hard she feared it might break. She cried out in pain.

“All right,” she whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Billy unzipped her dress and pulled it down and Cressida stepped out of it. The men looked her up and down. Mr. Roberts made a gesture and Billy pulled her bra up to expose her breasts. Cressida tried to put her hands across to cover them, but Billy pulled them away.

“Nice tits,” said Mr. Roberts. “Now the rest.”

“I need to take her shackles off to get her knickers off too,” said Billy.

“Just rip them,” Mr. Roberts said.

Billy took hold of Cressida’s black silk knickers and tore them, pulling them away from her hips. Cressida stood naked, her arms meekly at her sides. Mr. Roberts made another gesture and Billy turned her round.

“Cute ass,” said Mr. Roberts. “Just made for a whipping.”

It was clear now who had made the marks on the back of Tina’s thighs and Cressida. She shuddered inwardly, trying not to show her fear.

“Okay, Billy, you can leave us.”

“Are you sure, boss?” said Billy, clearly disappointed he might be missing something. Mr. Roberts waved his hand and Billy left the room. There was silence for a moment as Mr. Roberts looked Cressida up and down.

“You really are rather a dish,” he said. He had an educated voice, rather melodious but with a supercilious tone. “Did they tell you what this is all about?”

“No,” said Cressida. “But if you let me go I won’t press charges. We can forget all about it.”

Mr. Roberts smiled. “Oh, could we? I doubt that. But in any case, you are much too valuable a catch to throw back.”

“What are you going to do with me? If you want money, I know people who will pay,” Cressida pleaded. She thought she needed to sound defiant at all costs, even though inside she was quaking.

“I’ll explain, my dear,” said Mr. Roberts with exaggerated politeness. “We’ve kidnapped you. But not for ransom. For sale.”

“For sale?” Cressida echoed. “What do you mean? Sale to whom?”

“We don’t know yet. To the highest bidder, of course.”

“But what are they bidding for?” Cressida cried. It didn’t make much sense.

“For you, of course. The world is full of rich men. Some of them very rich indeed. When a man has that much money, he comes to believe everything can be purchased. Even human beings. Especially human beings. And what do most men want, in their heart of hearts? What do they want most?”

He paused, as if Cressida might supply an answer, and then continued.

“They want sexual pleasure. Pleasure untrammelled by considerations of morality or of decency or of compunction. I am speaking of men who wish to indulge themselves to the ultimate, through the ownership of another human being. A female human being, a beautiful female human being. Such as yourself.”

He paused again.

“You are going to sell me? As a sort of slave?” Cressida did not believe such things existed.

Mr. Roberts smiled. “Not a sort of slave,” he said. “A slave, no more any less.” He let his words sink in.

“You can’t get away with that,” Cressida said indignantly. “There are laws in this country.”

“Well, probably you won’t be in this country much longer,” Mr. Roberts answered. “All the big money for goods of this type comes from abroad.”

Goods? She was to be goods? It was just a bluff, she thought. Designed to threaten her, undermine her. She was still sure they meant to rape her. She almost wished they would get on with it. She was beginning to find Mr. Roberts creepy.

“But first,” Mr. Roberts said, “there will be an auction. The bidders need to see you. They need to get a proper look at you, at your physical charms, and also get an idea of what you are capable of. At these prices, nobody wants to buy a dummy that just lies there. Nor a wildcat. You’re not a wildcat, are you, dear?”

Mr. Roberts smiled sweetly. Cressida stared at him, hoping to project a defiance she did not feel confident of.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating a straight–backed chair close by.

Cressida shrugged her shoulders and sat down. She felt acutely self–conscious of her nakedness, though she knew it was a deliberate ploy to unsettle her. Wasn’t this what they did to prisoners to disorient them?

“Open your legs,” Mr. Roberts said.

Cressida stared at him, not moving. She’d be damned if she would co–operate in her own degradation. Mr. Roberts got out of his chair and stood over her. He took hold of her hair, the way Billy had, and twisted it fiercely. Cressida gasped; it was sore where Billy had done that earlier.

“If you don’t open your legs,” Mr. Roberts said, “I’m going to hit you. Very hard. And I’ll keep hitting you until you do.”

Cressida moved her thighs apart, as far as she could with the shackles round her ankles. Mr. Roberts let go of her and returned to his chair. He stared at Cressida’s crotch. She knew the pink lips of her vagina would be visible to him through the blonde curls of her pubic hair. She tried to look indifferent.

“Potential purchasers will want to see you. All of you. There’s no point in being modest. They will also want to see how you perform.”

He paused, waiting to see if she would respond but Cressida was silent.

“They want to know if you can fuck, my dear. Do you know how to fuck?”

Cressida coloured slightly. She knew he was trying to shock her, to intimidate her by his coarseness. She resolved to ignore it.

Mr. Roberts took a piece of paper from inside his jacket and unfolded it.

“It appears that you do,” he said. “At least your medical records say you are not a virgin.”

“Where did you get that?” Cressida demanded.

“We know a lot about you,” Mr. Roberts said. “In the second year of majoring in economics. So you know all about money. I wonder if you could predict how much you’ll be worth? We could run a little competition to see who guesses closest.”

He laughed at his little joke, then glanced down at the paper again.

“You were going to leave today, were you not? Going back east for Christmas? Going to get a job in a store?”

How could he know this, Cressida wondered. She planned to drive for three days.

“It’s a long drive. No one will know you’re missing for a while, will they?”

Cressida felt despair. It was true. She’d said her goodbyes. She didn’t plan to arrive at her aunt’s till the end of the week and if she didn’t phone they wouldn’t worry.

Mr. Roberts glanced at the paper again. “Six sexual partners,” he read. “Some would say that’s a lot for a young girl.”

Cressida coloured again. Only two of those had meant anything, she thought. It was hardly promiscuity.

“All men, I suppose?” Mr. Roberts said, raising an eyebrow. “Never gone to bat for the other side?”

Cressida ignored him.

“Well,” said Mr. Roberts, standing up, “Let me tell you what we’re going to do. I’ve got things to sort out now, but after lunch we’ll go to work. First thing, I shall give you a thorough beating, just so you know who’s in charge. So as to ensure your total co–operation.”

He grabbed her once more by the hair, lifting her from her seat and dragging her to a chest of drawers at the side of the room. Still holding her hair, he opened a drawer. Inside Cressida saw rows of whips, wooden paddles, riding crops, canes.

“We’re well–equipped, you see although I haven’t decided which one I’ll use yet.”

He pulled Cressida back to her chair and pushed her down. The feeling of dread had tightened to a hard knot of fear in her belly.

“Once I’ve got your attention, so to speak, we’ll put you through your paces. Show the rich gentlemen what you can do. I’m sure we can beat a little enthusiasm into you.”

He put his hand under Cressida’s chin and raised her head. She looked him in the eye with an air of defiance she didn’t feel.

“It’s best to co–operate,” he said quietly. “But we can do it the hard way if you like. In fact, I rather prefer it.” He smiled. “In the meantime we’ll get you tidied up. You’re a bit scruffy to show to the punters.”

Cressida prided herself on her immaculate turn–out. She had never been called scruffy in her life. But that’s the least of my worries, she said to herself.

“Follow me,” he said. He led the way down the hall to the kitchen. Cressida shuffled behind, naked but for her iron bonds. There seemed no point in resisting just yet. Tina was alone in the kitchen, clearing the table.

“Give her a bath,” Mr. Roberts snapped. “Make her look presentable. You know the drill. Put some make–up on her – see if you can hide that cut on her lip. Find her a blouse and a skirt.”

Tina said nothing, merely nodding assent. Mr. Roberts went out.

“Come,” said Tina.

 

Capturing Cressida by Imogen Edwards     Reviewed by Lancelot Knight, Copyright (c) 2006 Cressida is a somewhat naïve, certainly bored college student.  Her dull, unsatisfying life is turned upside down when she is kidnapped.  She falls into the clutches of three men who ultimately sell her to an oil-rich man.               Forced to obey, Cressida discovers fairly quickly that she is a natural submissive who not only acquiesces to serving men, but becomes aroused by it.       She becomes the pupil of the cold Sandhu, who teaches her the fine art of sexual pleasure—blowjobs, anal sex—to prepare her for serving the mysterious Ruslan.   I’ve not had the pleasure of reading Imogen Edwards’s fiction before.  If this is her first attempt at fiction, she no doubt has a bright future in the field.  Edwards has fashioned an excellent tale that will most definitely appeal to women submissives.  It is fast-paced and arousing and thoroughly entertaining, with a satisfying conclusion.