Read Online Captives of Cheyner Close by Adriana Arden - Free Book Online

crinkled buds at rest but under handling swelled to plump rounded cones. The pubic hair between her thighs was as dark and thick as that on her head.
    Physically she was undeniably a pretty girl, Jim conceded, though when he had seen her in the past he thought there was something a shade calculating and aloof about her eyes. At this moment, however, her eyes communicated only discomfort, uncertainty and a wordless plea for mercy.
    Jim enjoyed the feeling that look gave him. For the first time in her life, however reluctantly, what he thought and felt mattered to Sian Llwellyn-Finch.
    As he fitted his devices to her he chatted cheerfully. The ball-gag stretching her lips into a helpless gape necessarily limited her responses.
    ‘I’ve always been good with my hands,’ he confided. ‘When I more or less retired I set myself up here the way I’d always wanted. I can make pretty well anything in wood or metal. I was really happy, you know …’ His mood darkened. ‘Then you and your friends started your nasty games. Remember the night you broke that window over there and sprayed everything you could reach with red paint? That ruined a really fine walnut-veneered table I’d been restoring. That wasn’t very nice, was it?’
    Sian shook her head while making small whines in the back of her throat.
    ‘Was that an apology?’
    Sian nodded vigorously.
    ‘You mean you did the spraying?’
    Desperate head shaking and what might have been a gurgled: ‘No, no …’
    ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You’re all going to get the same treatment, after all. I’ve got plenty of ideas I want to try out on you lot.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s going to be an interesting week.’
    Sian whimpered, dropping her chin to her chest. Jim caught her by the scruff of the neck and pulled her head back up so she looked him in the eye.
    ‘Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Well, can you really blame me for wanting a bit of revenge? And what better way than starting with you tidying up my workshop.’
    He unclipped her collar chain and bodily lifted her down onto the floor. She could not have climbed down herself. Jim walked round her, admiring his handiwork.
    Straps circled Sian’s upper thighs and ankles, making it impossible for her to straighten her legs and forcing her to remain in a squatting position. She did not fall over because she was sitting on the head of an old stiff-bristled yard broom with casters screwed to each end. All but a short section of its handle had been cut off and the remainder had then been encased in a sleeve of waterpipe insulating foam and bound with tape. This stump had then been forced into Sian’s tight little bottom hole and now, somewhat uncomfortably, plugged her rectum. Between her slim splayed thighs a large metal dustpan faced forward. Its handle, which Jim had bent upwards and also bound with foam and tape for grip, was buried in the depths of the pink cleft that peeped from Sian’s pubic bush. Wires secured through holes drilled in the rim of the pan ran up to Sian’s nipples, where the ends were twisted about the fleshy nubs, which seemed to remain swollen under their stimulus, much to their owner’s evident dismay.
    ‘Now do your job, my little sweeping machine,’ her told her.
    With a miserable whimper, Sian began shuffling forward on her intimately mounted casters as well as her doubled-up legs allowed, sweeping dust and woodshavings with her brush hand into her pan. A couple of times the leading edge of the pan caught in a crack between the floorboards, unexpectedly digging its handle deeper into her. Turning required a lot of awkward shuffling which, from the expressions that passed across her face, clearly worked the broom handle uncomfortably about inside her.
    When the pan was full Sian trundled over to the shallow cardboard box Jim had put out for rubbish. Getting as close as she could she bent her supple body backwards. The wires linking her small breasts to the pan grew taut,