American Woman

Brennan is kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery. Guess who buys her?

NC-17, BDSM Domination/submission themes, super-dooper hardcore

Disclaimer: Do these really matter? Oh, ok. I DISCLAIM.

Author's note: I'd say this story is not for the faint of heart. Nothing squicky or really perverse, but the idea of sexual slavery might bother some of you. If it does, don't read the story. I abhor as much as the next decent person the reality of sexual trafficking, but this is fantasy. And fantasy, especially sexual fantasies, are not bound by morality at all. In fact, I'd say, morality stifles it. Or at least for a big perv like myself. If you are inclined towards stories of sexual domination and submission, then you are in the right place. We are kindred souls. Kindred, kinky souls.

Additional author's note: You'll be happy to note that the entire story is written, so I'll be posting in a more timely manner than the last story. I'm just editing as I go along, so look for one chapter a week, which translates to two weeks in my reality.


Chapter 1

It wasn't a place she ever expected to find herself: blindfolded, gagged, naked, and shackled to a post while everyday a dozen hands ran over her body inspecting every crevice. The nightmare had been going for over a week and the only thing she had to be thankful for was that nothing other than fingers ever found their way into any of her more intimate parts.

During the day she stood, chained to the wall, or knelt with her arms chained behind her back. At night she was collared and a chain kept her secure to a bolt in the wall. The cell was made entirely of rough, damp stone whose chill slowly permeated the floor and gradually seeped into her bones as she slept.

As she lay there each night shivering from cold and terror, it was the only time she allowed herself to cry. The big gulps of air she took in expelled itself in rage-filled cries. She tried to be silent the first few days, unwilling to let the guards or whomever witness to her turmoil, but by the third day her wails broke through her lips and the walls of the cell she was in. It didn't matter anymore who heard her.

During the day, she was either bored out of her mind or terrified out of her body. With every click of the lock and sound of the gates swinging open, she was sure this would be it. She'd be raped, beaten, or both. She has already endured a brutal beating when they kidnapped her. But she didn't go down without a fight, she thought proudly. She grimaced. It was a fight she ultimately lost.

She heard voices in and out of the cell through the day, most of them in Middle Eastern dialects, with some North African thrown in as well. Occasionally she heard Western voices, like French and German, which she could understand but they were so far away she couldn't make out any of the particulars of the conversations. By the myriad of languages it seemed the operation was global in scope. That scared her more than anything. It would be that much more sophisticated and therefore more difficult to escape.

She tried get a handle on her surroundings. Through a crack in the bottom of her blindfold, she could detect a small amount of natural light. Unfortunately it wasn't a large amount of light, indicating the window or source was on the small, inescapable side. The slam of the iron gate and the clang of the lock that kept her in each night began to sound like the gong of finality. The cell, as far as she could tell, was a fortress. There would be no easy escape.

Not that there seemed like there would be a way to escape, not the way they had her body locked up like Fort Knox. And without her sight, she was unable to even plot and escape effectively.

The sensory deprivation of being blindfolded for so long made her dizzy. When they hauled her to her feet each morning she nearly fell over, her inner ear having no bearings. The crack at the bottom of the blindfold allowed her only to see her own bare feet and the shoes of her kidnappers. Shoes she longed to spit on if she could. That, however, wasn't possible as she was gagged tightly.

The ball gag she wore was removed at night and replaced each morning. It had a small amount of stretch to it that allowed her to swallow, but the ball itself kept her mouth in an uncomfortably open position all day. That had to be the thing she hated the most. Forget being shackled, forget being naked in front of strange men. It was complete humiliation and she knew they knew it from the chuckles and bits of conversation they had in front of her while they tapped it like a hard-boiled egg. After the tapping, there might be a nipple tweak, rough, calloused fingers twisting them until she nearly cried out. Or a slap on the bottom. Thankfully, most of the time that was it. It seemed not everyone was allowed to touch her intimately. Those times when it did happen, seemed rushed and surreptitious, a finger shoved quickly up her pussy or a fat belly rubbing against her.

Other times she felt hands touching her that were almost clinical. She was plundered by hands in latex gloves that explored her pussy and, eliciting a gasp from her, her ass. She'd had anal sex before. so it wasn't excruciating pain, but it made her very tender afterwards and close to bursting into tears. This was a part of her body that was very soon going to be abused, violated. Why it was so much worse than the violations that would occur in any other part of her body, she couldn't tell you. But it just was.

While few were allowed to touch her that didn't stop the parade of men escorted in, who, upon watching her in a variety of poses, masturbated in front of her. She could hear their pathetic gasps as they orgasmed, hear their grunts as they spilled their seed on the stone tiles. It didn't matter if they weren't having sex with her, she definitely felt violated. This was one instance where being blindfolded had it's advantages.

Every morning she was awoken by a pair of hands washing her all over, pouring warm water over her hair, massaging her scalp. If she wasn't chained up and freaked out about being abducted, it might have been pleasant, relaxing. The hands that washed her were female, stocky and rough. She knew it was just some poor, local woman paid to take care of the "girls" as she heard them referred to in broken English. While the hair washing was pleasant, the shaving was not. After her hair was washed, the same woman laid her out on the stone floor and shaved every inch of hair from her body, spreading her legs and carefully tending to places where she didn't even know she had hair.

She was being primed and plumped for something and she hoped like hell it wasn't what she thought it was.


It was.

On what Brennan counted as Sunday, the 8th day of her captivity, she was unchained and felt something being snapped around her neck. As she felt herself being pulled along she realized it was a dog collar. She tripped and stumbled, bouncing off the walls and tripping over her feet. She could hear a chorus of male laughter behind her followed by what she assumed were lewd comments. Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

She felt the chain being yanked abruptly and she stopped. A hand on her shoulder pushed her down to her knees. Then pushed her further till she was sitting back on her heels.

She heard several men begin speaking. About her, presumably. God, why didn't she take Arabic in school? Knowing half a dozen ancient languages wasn't helping her in this particular predicament. She could catch a word here and there, the ubiquitous, untranslatable "blowjob" of course, but she also heard the word "virgin" then loud laughter. Well, yeah, she thought. I'm 30 years old. Not exactly fresh as a bunch of daisies. She wondered if this meant they would let her go, or maybe just kill her. Or maybe put her to work in some third-world brothel with advertisements like "Come Bang the American Whore." They might get her addicted to drugs, or sell her to someone sadistic who would use her and throw her off a boat in the middle of the...Heart thumping, she stopped herself from going any further with her thoughts. Truthfully there were no good scenarios. The most she could hope for would be to get in a position to escape.

She wished she could talk to Booth. She squeezed her eyes shut behind the blindfold, her heart clinching. Thinking of him, and the idea of never seeing him again, made her hurt in a way that impending sexual slave hood never could. It had been a really stupid idea to run away like she did. They were just getting close and she up and decides to take a two week vacation to North Africa without telling him or Angela or anyone exactly where she would be. She was paying for her mistakes, from wondering why she made them in the first place, to not being able to go back and apologize. Her blood begin to boil. She was going to die in this stupid God-forsaken who-knows-where country and she'd never get a chance to tell him.

To tell him what?

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard someone say in clear English, "Tonight, 8 PM."

The chain was yanked up and she was led out into the corridor, back to her cell, she assumed. Instead, she was taken to a room with a wood floor and laid out on a hard bed and handcuffed to the headboard. She heard a female voice say in English, "Sleep," as a pillow, an honest to God pillow, was tucked under her head. Perpetual fear gave way to the rough comforts of how she remembered home. Immediately her eyes started to drift shut despite of what 8 PM meant.


At six she was woken up and buffed and waxed some more. Her hair was washed again, dried, and styled and she felt her finger and toe nails being painted. She wondered how people got into the business of styling women for slave auctions. She assumed that was what was happening to her. They wouldn't bother with shaving her ass if they were going to kill her, right? She was going to be sold to some rich asshole who was going to do God knows what to her. Don't think about that, she thought with a grimace. Think of it as chance to escape. She kept repeating that mantra in her head.

As the time neared, the dog collar was re-affixed to her neck and she was led out of the holding room down a series of overlapping passages so byzantine that it made her dizzy. She was led into a room that had cold stone floors like her cell, and was made to sit kneeling for over an hour as she heard men murmuring about her from the doorway. Occasionally she could feel them come closer and walk around her, but no one touched her. She was relieved. It was bad enough what was coming, she'd hate to think she was going to be groped beforehand. The ball gag was removed, and she felt her mouth being opened wide and told in halting English to stick out her tongue. She did so, trying not to think of why she might be asked to do such a thing. They probably weren't checking for cavities. As the inspection continued she began wishing with a desperate desire that if she just had her hands free she'd snap all the motherfuckers' necks in two.

The ball gag was replaced and the ritual continued. Sometimes she was asked to go through the series of poses she had learned, presumably so her goods could be checked out. With every passing moment she wasn't sure if she would be able to get through it without freaking out and trying to run, taking down as many as she could. But she already tried that when she was first abducted, didn't she? She was sure the bruises were still visible all over her body. She wondered if this made her more or less attractive to "buyers." More of the "Hey look, she can take a beating," or "She's trouble and will need to be beaten regularly, sort of thing. Whatever it was, it was making her sick and she was moments from hurling on the next man who stood in front of her and breathed down her neck.

Her stomach flipped and jerked and she felt bile rising in her throat as she fought to contain her panic. Her stomach was going, she was sure of it. She was about to throw up on the man's shoes who was now standing in front of her, suffering consequences that would be severe and maybe even deadly.

She squeezed her eyes shut trying to get control over herself. Then her eyes flew open and she looked down. From the crack in the bottom of the blindfold she saw shoes that looked exactly like Booth's.