False Closure

Her name isn’t important.  Let’s simply say that she was a rising star in the university world, a newly-minted tenure-track assistant professor in an Ivy League English department.  29 years old, straight out of a Stanford PhD.

I heard her speak at the 2013 Modern Language Association convention in Seattle: a panel on ‘false closure in medieval literature’.  She was talking about Chaucer’s Nun’s Priest’s Tale - not that I was paying much attention to her paper, or to Chaucer.  Instead I was sitting in the back row admiring her flowing auburn hair, her slim waist, her swelling hips, her breasts pressing beneath the jacket of her elegant black suit with white trim.  Slender legs in the sheerest beige pantyhose, expensive-looking black-and-white open-toe pumps with metal stiletto heels at least 4 inches high.  Skirt tight and well above the knee, so rather shorter than what conservative academics would recommend - but why should she care?  Even crusty English dons can appreciate the finer things, and it never does any harm to be the center of everyone’s gaze.

Or so she thought.

The wonderful thing about the MLA is that with thousands of people milling around, it takes no more than a badge (in a false name) to make me inconspicuous.  The second wonderful thing about the MLA is that if someone were, say, to disappear one evening after giving her paper, it can take a long time for anyone else to notice.  Even if she had an arrangement to meet someone - and as it turned out she didn’t - the other person would be unlikely to think anything of it.  Arrangements are regularly broken without a second’s thought amid the round of panels, parties, and general opportunities for mingling with the great and good of academia.

Thanks to a judicious piece of hacking into the hotel’s reservation system prior to the convention, I had secured for us rooms at the far end of a corridor, on a low floor next to the service staircase.  It was simply a matter of watching and waiting for her to return to her room, tired but triumphant after her post-paper celebrations.  Then a quick Tazer blast to render her helpless, so that I could pull her into my room.  An dose of low-strength etorphine turned that to unconsciousness.  (The Tazer made her piss in her panties: I observed with interest the liquid slipping down her thigh and soaking her hose.)  Then a wait in the room, readministering the drug as necessary; and finally a pre-dawn descent to the parking garage and a measured departure in a van suitably equipped with restraints and blacked-out windows.  At that time of night my country home is no more than an hour’s drive away from Seattle, a house set far back and out of earshot of prying neighbors.  She was still barely conscious as I pulled her into the cellar.

Now to the main business.  I removed her jacket but otherwise left her fully clothed; I tied her hands carefully behind her, and attached a nice long rope to the wrists (you’ll find out why later); a ring gag kept her mouth nicely open.  I secured her ankles with shackles attached to two chains in opposite corners of the ceiling.  Then I started winching the chains up.  I stopped only when her head was hanging three feet from the ground and her legs were pulled agonizingly wide.  Then I waited.

My cellar has no natural light - why let your guest know what time of day it is?  She was suspended upside-down right in the middle of the room, the only light a bright spotlight shining on her from above.  On the opposite wall is a full-length mirror, so she could see herself when she woke up.  (I said she liked being the center of attention, after all.)  The cellar is otherwise bare and dank.  Her long auburn hair hung down; her spreading legs rucked her tight skirt over her waist, exposing her panties beneath the fine sheer pantyhose - black lace, I saw with pleasure though without surprise.  At one point I noticed that she was drooling through the ring gag, so I considerately stuffed a dirty rag into her mouth to stop her from choking on her own saliva.  Then I set a video camera running in one corner of the room, and a regular camera on a tripod with a closer focus on her face, timed to photograph her every 15 seconds.  Then I placed my mask over my head and sat in an armchair in a dark corner, waiting for her to wake up.

Consciousness returned to her gradually, and equally gradually she grew to appreciate her position.  Her eyes open and close, as she groaned - apart from the obvious strain on her legs, I imagine she must have had something of a headache.  Then blinking, as she started to pull uncomprehendingly on her arms.  And then at last the series of desperate jerkings of her whole body, combined with repeated and increasingly vocal yelps beneath the gag, which showed me that she had finally come to terms with where she was, and what the image in the mirror before her was showing.  Only then did I step forward.

She looked terrified at the sight of me - no surprise there.  The mask makes me look pretty scary; the large knife I was carrying more so, especially since she didn’t know I wasn’t planning to use it on her.  I hooked it under her blouse, and with a single rip tore it from her body, revealing her lacy white bra.  That was the next thing to go; without it, her tits hung down (or up) a bit, though they were firm enough that there wasn’t much distortion.  Then I cut off the skirt, starting at the waist.  Finally the panties and hose: for those, I inserted the point of the knife right into the part where she least wanted to feel it.  I was careful not to cut her skin, though I definitely wanted her to feel that I was within a millimeter of doing so.  The hose gave way first, and sprung away; the panties followed soon after, as I split them from the leg to the waist and threw them aside.  I then stood back to admire the sight.  Her dangling hair, her tearful eyes above (or below) her gagged mouth, her flawless breasts, firm enough that the nipples were still visible even in her hanging position, her flat belly, her hairy (but not too bushy) crotch - and you could see the strain, as her legs spread wide above it.

She seemed suitably traumatized, though of course I couldn’t understand a word she was trying to say.  For the first time she saw her life, the essence of her being, which she had thought had been bound up with her intellect, her achievements - everything was now reduced to the fact that she was a helpless, vulnerable female.

Or perhaps she always knew that somewhere at the back of her mind.  She knew it every time she crossed her legs politely the way her mother told her, so that men couldn’t see up her skirt.  She knew it every time she gritted her teeth as she walked past a jeering group of workmen.  She knew it every time she avoided a dark alley, or speeded up her step as she came near someone who looked suspicious - even though a man would not have given the same person a second thought.  She knew it every time she hesitated just that instant before going into a room alone with a male, however much she thought she could trust him.

And she knew it every time she read of a rape in the paper, and unconsciously pressed her thighs together and hurried to the next story without allowing herself to think of its implications.  But the next time she avoided that dark alley just that little more nervously, or speeded her step just that little faster, or hesitated just that instant longer before going into the room.

Plenty of men will tell you that they detest rape.  Some of them even believe it.  And sure, no one except a real psycho wants to think of his own wife or daughter getting it stuck to them.  But every male in America profits from the work of the rapists.  Even if some women manage to go through life without being raped (and that’s fewer of them than you might guess), every woman lives in its shadow.  And so they hold back just that little more, they hesitate, they don’t speak up as fast as they might.  And in a competitive world, that instant of hesitation is all it takes to push someone else - a man - to the front.  If you’ve ever wondered why, in a society that professes total equality, men still hold 90% of the top jobs, there you have your answer.  The rapists do it for all of us.

Not that I was doing what I was doing out of pure altruism, you understand.  I get off on doing it - just like you get off on reading about it.  I like bringing women to an awareness of their true position.  Not, I fear, that they are grateful to have their illusions (and much else) stripped from them.  My young lady here, for example - begging me wordlessly for - what?  Not to hurt her?  Or is it more abstract than simple pain - begging me to allow her to retain a sense that she is more than a mere bundle of female flesh?

She was still trying to speak, groaning and grunting through the gag.  I slapped her face.  “Shut up!”  I yelled.  She carried on mewling.  I slapped her harder.  “Shut up!!!”  This time she got the message, and the sounds stopped.

I now knelt down, so that my face was level with hers.  “Now, I’m going to take the gag out, and you’re going to answer some questions.  I don’t expect to hear anything else from you - not a plea, not a cry.  Anything I hear except an answer to my questions, I put the gag back in and then start working over your lovely body.  Do you understand?”

No answer.

“I’m going to ask you once more, and if you don’t nod, then I start the working-over process immediately.  Do you understand?”

A nod.

“Good.”  I took out the rag, then unbuckled the ring-gag from behind her head and worked it out from between her teeth.  She moved her mouth gingerly as she felt the tension in her jaws relax, but I was glad to see that she didn’t make a sound.

“So, as I said, I have some questions for you.  You were giving a lecture about ‘False Closure’.  What does that actually mean?”

She shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe what I was asking.

“Answer me, cunt!!!  What does ‘False Closure’ mean?”

“What - you’ve kidnaped me, you’ve stripped me, you’ve hung me like this, just to ask that?  Why are you doing this?”

“I told you, bitch, that your only job here is to answer my questions.  For the last time: what does ‘False Closure’ mean?”

I could see her gathering her thoughts, trying to get her mind back onto her subject.  “Well, do you know what ‘Closure’ means?  It’s about how you give a satisfactory ending to a book or a story or a play, so that the reader feels like everything has been rounded off in a satisfactory way.  ‘False Closure’ is where things look as if they have reached a satisfactory ending, but where the story isn’t actually finished yet - there’s more to come”.

I have to say that there is something extremely erotic about listening to an academic lecture where the lecturer is hanging upside down, with her legs spread, naked and terrified.  More universities should try it: it would certainly do a lot to reverse the decline in English or Classics majors that they keep complaining about.

“So, let me get this clear.  If I put the gag back into your mouth now, it’s certainly closed - so that’s closure?”

“No, no, you haven’t understood, it’s nothing to do with -“

I forged on.

“But if I just put the ring-gag in, and leave the rag out, your mouth isn’t really closed, but you still can’t talk, so is that false closure?”

“NO, no, no, don’t, this isn’t right, you’re mixing everything AEEEEEEE“

Her words degenerated into shrieks and grunts, as I gave a demonstration of what I meant, and forced the ring-gag back between her teeth, leaving her crying out noisily, but unable to make a coherent sound.

We had now reached the point where I felt I should make a little more practical use of having a naked woman hanging upside down from the ceiling.

I have been informed that the underside of the female breast is one of the most sensitive parts of their anatomy, and that sticking barbed needles into it is one of the most painful things you can do.  Admittedly, the person who informed me of this had an electrode attached to her clitoris at the time, but she assured me that she was telling the truth - indeed, she was quite insistent on the point - and her sister was able to confirm her reliability when I tried it out on her shortly afterwards.  Certainly my current associate was not at all happy when I showed her the needles; she was still less happy - screaming out her unhappiness, in fact - when I started pushing them into those pretty dangling boobs.  And when I started twisting and tugging on the inserted needles, well, you should have heard her as she yelled and wept and bucked and turned.  The barbs, of course, faced backwards, so they were not coming out without a lot of tit-flesh attached to them, something I imagine she was already starting to be all too aware of as she felt them sticking and pulling inside her.

Finally, I ran out of needles, and stepped back to admire her.  She was still whimpering and struggling, but seemed to be fading.  Hanging upside down for a long time can do that to a person; your blood pressure starts to rocket, and all sorts of nasty things can result.  I had a lot more plans for my cute guest, and I didn’t want her passing out on me.  So I needed to get her into a more comfortable position for the next stage.

Well, “comfortable” is a relative term, of course.  Remember that long rope attached to her wrists?  I got hold of it, and took it over to the ceiling behind her.  With my stepladder I climbed up, and threaded the rope through a pulley which was set in there.  I then brought the end down to the ground, where I attached it to a winch; I started to turn the handle.

The rope quickly tightened; it then started to pull up her arms behind her in a strappado position.  It wasn’t full-fledged strappado, since her feet were being supported separately by their chains, but her arms tautened, wrenched up by the rope behind her, until her upper body was forced to follow.  I carried on turning until her head was approximately level with the rest of her torso; her legs, still spread wide, were curled up behind her towards the ceiling, while her arms were agonizingly wrenched backwards and upright.

Her face was contorted, as she strained against the pain: her shoulders must have felt like they were being torn from their sockets.  But she was no longer in danger of having a stroke or whatever with blood pooling in her brain, and she was also in a more useful position for giving me some necessary relief.  I adjusted the cameras, so they focused on her new position; I then put the stepladder between her legs behind her, and climbed up to a suitable height.  The strain her body was under prevented her from turning her head, but she could hear me, even through her own moans.

“I wonder if you’ve considered what pregnancy would do to your promising career?” I remarked.

Despite her agonizing bondage, she started to buck a little at hearing that - maybe she wasn’t on the Pill, or maybe she was just inferring (correctly) that the rape was about to start.  Of course, I was just playing with her - even if it was true that she wasn’t on the Pill, she was unlikely to end up pregnant, given what I had planned for the rest of her stay with me.  But I liked her trying to move about - it made it a lot more pleasant around my cock - and so as to give her some extra encouragement, I placed my hands underneath her dangling bosom, and squeezed hard at exactly the same moment as I thrust myself into her dry cunt.  If the pain from the barbed needles had been bad before, it was ten times worse now.  She absolutely howled through the gag, and shook every inch of her body to try to get some traction away from me.  It didn’t take me long to come, under the circumstances, and I slowly withdrew.

“I wonder if sticking my cock into you was real closure or false closure?”  I mused.  “Anyway, I’m going to leave now, so you can have a think about it”.  And I started to climb down the stepladder - but then, as I reached the bottom, I moved it around and climbed up once again, so that I could look at her beautiful face at close hand, staring her straight into the tear-clouded eyes.  I then held up my little toys in front of her - two giant binder clips - and as she realized what I planned, and shook her head in desperation, I opened them wide, and clipped them as high as I could onto her breasts.  They squeezed them as flat as any breasts could ever go, and of course these breasts already had barbed needles inside them ... My guess is that the needles broke, or something, but at any rate, she gave one scream, louder than any before, and then fainted.

I climbed down the ladder and left her hanging there.  She’d wake up, sooner or later - the pain in her shoulders would more or less guarantee that - and I wanted her to have a few hours awake to consider her position.  As for me - well, I was tired, and definitely needed a good long sleep before resuming.

I returned the following day.  Sure enough, she was awake.  Her eyes were glazed, her mouth (ring-gag and all) was dry, but she was definitely awake.  The first thing I did, after readjusting the cameras, was release the rope from the pulley; her arms collapsed, and her body fell back into its position upside down, suspended by her feet from the ceiling with her legs spread wide.  I kept a little traction on her hands, so that she couldn’t reach her groin with them from behind and interfere with my plans there, but it was probably an unnecessary precaution: with the strain the bondage had placed on her shoulders, I doubted if she would be able to move her arms for a week, if she even lasted that long.  I pushed the rag back into her mouth - she wasn’t drooling now, of course, but I didn’t want too much noise getting in the way of the next part of the entertainment.

“Now, darling, let’s get ready for part two.”

I took the candle I had prepared in advance, and showed it to her.  Then without preamble I stuffed it into her cunt.  It was around two inches in diameter, so large enough to hold its position and indeed stretch her into some discomfort, but not so large as to rip her apart.  I had greased it nicely, so it slipped into her without difficulty, despite her dryness.  I shoved it down until I felt that the bottom end was resting on her cervix, at which point perhaps two or three inches stood out from her lips.  I had made sure that it had a nice thick wick, which ensures a large flame and a good fast burn.

“Now, my dear,” I said.  “I’m not going to kill you, but this candle will do you a lot of damage.  It will burn into your outer sex lips, your inner sex lips, and I guess the top of your vagina before it finally extinguishes itself from lack of oxygen inside you.  The flame won’t be directly on your clitoris, but it will be close enough to it to give it some very nasty burns.  And if it catches on your pubic hair, then - well, whoosh.  You certainly won’t be enjoying sex in the near future - actually, I’d be surprised if you ever can enjoy sex again.”

She REALLY didn’t like the sound of this.  She whimpered and wailed into her gag; her body shook and jerked more and more violently.  I bent down and grabbed her by the hair, and looked her directly in the eyes.

“SHUT UP.  You’re supposed to be intelligent - well, there’s a way out.  Just shut up and listen.”

The wailing sounds stopped, though her eyes were still welling with tears.

“You can extinguish the flame.  All you have to do is piss on it at the right time.  The only question for you is - what is the right time?  Try and do it too early, and your piss won’t even reach it - I don’t know how far or accurately you can project piss vertically upwards, but I’m guessing not very far, or at least very accurately.  Wait until close to the end, and an awful lot of molten wax is going to be landing on your sensitive parts as the candle melts down - it won’t do as much damage as a direct flame, but it’s not going to do you much good either.  And there’s a pretty fair chance it will eventually clog up your piss-hole as well, so you’re going to have trouble watering the flame.  And judging by the fact that you emptied your bladder when I first caught you, and that you haven’t had anything to drink since, you’re only going to get at most one chance.

“So there it is.  I’ve heard you’re a genius, the cleverest thing in English Lit since Stanley Fish.  Put that brain of yours to some practical use for once, instead of messing it up with medieval rubbish.

I struck a match before her eyes, and then raised it to light the wick, which instantly caught fire.  Molten wax started puddling around the wick: before long it would begin to drip down the edge of the candle.  She watched herself in the mirror, eyes wide open.

“Of course,” I said, “we don’t want to make it too easy for you.”

I pulled from my pocket a blindfold, and as she yelped in protest, I secured it around her eyes.  I then made additionally certain by pulling a sack over her head, which I tied loosely around her neck.  She could breathe, but she couldn’t see how far the candle burned down.  She’d have to judge the right pissing moment by the pain on her pussy lips.

So I stood back and watched.  She hung there, upside down, her arms trapped behind her, her head in a sack and her tits pointing down, her legs agonizingly spread, still in the remnants of the pantyhose, her feet in those elegant and erotically high shoes.  And a burning candle stuck deep in her cunt, surrounded by its bush of auburn hair.

In just a few minutes she was already starting to whimper, shudder and shake, as the dripping wax slid down the candle edge and began to hit her.  The shaking changed the angle, and the wax dripped even more widely, and presumably hotter as well as the flame burned lower.  And in the end, she calculated that the flame must be low enough for her piss to extinguish it - or perhaps it was simply that she couldn’t stand it any more.  She let her bladder go, and pissed with all her might.

Well, the piss did go up a bit of a way - but unfortunately for her, it went nowhere near the flame.  She breathed hard after finishing, in the hope that the ordeal was over.  But then the wax carried on dripping, the heat and pain did not stop, and she realized that she had blown away her final chance.

And at that point she went wild.  Behind the sack she screamed into her gag, wordlessly pleading for help or mercy.  The whole of her upper body bucked and heaved, making her breasts bounce delightfully.  But bucking and heaving with your upper body doesn’t do you any good when the problem is stuck deep between your legs, and your legs are tied fast to opposite ends of the ceiling.  She fought insanely, but the bonds held firm.  She shook and rocked back and forth in order somehow to dislodge the candle, but it was stuck far too deep. All she succeeded in doing was to spatter the wax widely over her genitals, leading her to yelp and wail, fight and shake even more.  And all the while the flame burned ever closer to her cunt lips - the pain must have been frightful - until the moment came when the biggest shriek of all came from behind the sack and behind the gag - I would hardly have guessed it possible.  The flame had touched her outer lips.  And then it caught onto the hairs on the edge of her outer lips, and the whole thing went up like a Roman candle.  While I prefer women with their natural hair - why would one want a sexy girl to look like a baby? - she was probably regretting with all her might that she hadn’t kept herself nicely shaved.

The sack and blindfold had served their purpose, and I quickly removed them: I wanted to get some pictures of her face as the culminating moments came.  Her eyes were desperate, as were the incoherent sounds emerging from her mouth. 

I also wanted a closer look at what the candle was doing: I’ve always had a keen interest in the ins and outs (especially the ins) of the female anatomy.  But I thought that I might as well make the most of all my opportunities, so I pulled the rag from her mouth, and inserted my cock through the ring-gag and into her throat.  

“Get me off quickly, and I might put the candle out for you.”

It was hard to believe that she could even focus on what I was saying at this point, but she started to make a vague effort to move her head back and forward over my cock and to swirl her tongue around it.  I stayed as still as I could; I was in much less of a hurry than she was, and I wanted to savour every single instant of this.  The excitement of watching her cunt roasting was almost enough to bring me off all by itself, and I  didn’t want to finish before everything had reached its conclusion. 

As my pleasure in my groin grew, I watched what was happening to hers.  The flames had died down, leaving an angry red burn right across every place where the hairs had been.  The candle itself was still burning down, of course; molten wax was pooling everywhere within her outer labia, and dripping down to her clitoris and beyond - the clitoris was in fact already hidden by  the molten wax, and I imagined was toasting away nicely under there.   But best of all, best of all, best of all ...

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar swelling and spurting from my dick: my clever little friend, despite her pain, had managed to bring me to a most wonderful climax.

I spurted again and again into her mouth, and felt her stop moving over my cock in despairing relief.  I smiled down at her.

“I only said ‘might’”, I remarked.  And as she began to shriek and scream with the final realization, I held her firmly still, and picked up my train of thought.

As I was saying, the best thing of all was watching how, as the candle gradually burned its way down, the cunt, despite the stretching of her legs, gradually closed itself over it.  I’d always known that the female anatomy was elastic, and it was a great pleasure to see its very elasticity working against it.  As the candle went below the level of the outer labia, the lips moved in over the top of the flame, and you could see their inside parts roasting into a sort of charred brownness.  But her legs were stretching her outer labia far enough apart that they couldn’t close completely, so there was enough oxygen to feed the flame as it went down into the inner lips, to repeat the cycle there: the candle burning closer to them, the wax smothering them, but then melting away as the candle went down even further into the vagina.  Then the inner lips, too, started to grow black, as they drew together even as the flame of the candle disappeared beneath them.  It went down a further couple of inches into the vagina, and its light enabled me to see the vagina walls, too, turning red and then charring around it.

At last the vagina managed to close over the flame far enough that it ran out of air, and died.  The remaining molten wax slowly congealed.

All this had taken a good 45 minutes or more; my companion had long ago fainted and ceased to scream and struggle.  I’m not sure at exactly what point this happened, but I do have the video camera and the photographs, and they will be able to pinpoint the moment for me, I’m sure.

Now all I had to do was dispose of her.  I don’t actually like the idea of killing women myself (all too messy and final), but I didn’t see any particular way of getting her back to a hospital or anywhere else without putting myself at risk.  I unhooked her from the ceiling, and dragged her, still unconscious, to my van.  I drove two or three hours into the Washington forests, miles up dirt tracks where people only come at most once a year.  By the time we reached our destination, she was conscious again, moaning and struggling faintly.

I pushed her out of the van, then pulled her upright, and looped a noose around her neck - not to hang her with (though she didn’t know that), but simply to make it easier to take her along.   She tottered after me, though she seemed to have a lot of difficulty walking.  She was still wearing those cute high-heels, which had remained on her feet throughout her ordeal - they did have ankle-straps, after all - but which were definitely not made for forest hiking.  What is more, she seemed for some reason to have trouble keeping her legs close together, so was walking bow-legged, which was quite funny to watch.  She tripped rather a lot, but every time I hauled her back up and dragged her on.

It was slow progress, given the terrain and her inefficient walking, but after around 20 minutes we came to what seemed a convenient stopping point, half a mile or so deep in the forest away from where I had left the van.  It seemed a pity to let her go without a proper farewell, so I bent her over a fallen tree, eliciting a sharp cry as her still-clamped tits were pressed against the bark.  Her cunt was useless, of course, but there was still one hole that was untouched, even if rather raw outside from the flames.  I had brought some lubricant to make things easier for me, and I smeared it over my dick and then thrust in without any preamble.  She still had enough energy to struggle and shriek out through the ring-gag, but not enough to even come close to pushing me away.  I kept a nice steady pace, making sure that she felt it right up inside, and eventually came to a very satisfying climax as she grunted and moaned underneath me.

And there I left her, exactly as she was, naked (apart from the shoes), her cunt burned up, her ass leaking semen, her tits clamped and filled with barbed needles, her arms tied behind her with her shoulders all but dislocated, her mouth distended with a ring-gag.  She managed to get to her feet and tried to follow me back to the vehicle, but it was a useless endeavor in those shoes.  The last I saw of her, she had tripped and fallen flat on her face; I then disappeared from her sight into the bushes, made my way back to the van, and drove off home to review the films and pictures that I had taken as a pleasant record of my pretty little guest’s stay.

I did have a couple of anxious days, in case the one in a million chance should happen and she should be rescued, but I heard nothing, so I assume she wasn’t.  I don’t know exactly how she died - there are so many options, whether exposure, starvation, wild beasts, you name it - but I’m sure she must have done.  I haven’t even heard a report of the finding of her body.  I can’t decide whether that counts as closure, true or false.

Oh, and I forgot to say.  When her department came to replace her, they hired a man for the position.  It’s nice to know that I contributed to a happy ending.