Tags: BDSM Fantasy, non-consensual, F/f, slavery, kidnapping, bondage.

“Excuse me, Miss Evers?”

Sandy Evers turned with a bright smile on her face. “Yes?”

The man before her looked a bit out of place. But just a tiny bit. His suit was plain and barer than most of the stylish, high-end cuts men were wearing. It was almost blank in comparison. He was almost nondescript, with the lone exception of his size. He was a big guy, and even through his suit it was easy to see that he was heavily muscled. Sandy was reminded of a secret service agent. Maybe he was someone’s bodyguard.

It hit her then that someone looking might mistakenly think he was her bodyguard. Sandy Evers was usually a fairly pretty woman, but today her fancy yellow dress was probably the nicest article of clothing she had ever worn, and her hair had been done by a professional stylist that had worked on Broadway. It would be easy for someone to take in the sight of her and this nondescript man and think she was some heiress. The thought tickled Sandy, and her smile grew a little brighter.

“I just wanted to ask; do you do portraits?”

Sandy’s smile brightened a little more. “Full body portraits? Yeah! Not so much lately, but I’ve done a few in the past. They’re actually one of my favorite kinds of paintings to do. Trying to capture a person is… it represents a unique challenge. And that challenge is actually pretty fun! Are you looking to commission one?”

The man’s smile was more reserved, but Sandy could see it was genuine. “I might be. No promises, but I have your agent’s number. If I decide I’d like one, I’ll see about contacting him.” He gave a polite nod and headed back to the front of the gallery. Sandy watched him go, still smiling.

Her agent. She actually had an agent, who people wanted to get into contact with. Sandy sighed happily. She’d come far in the last few years. Turning around, the twenty-seven-year-old woman marveled at the sight before her. An art show featuring nothing but her art. And it was busy! There were people milling about everywhere, examining her landscapes and her weird sense of what should be worked into a canvas. And not just the average joe along with family members there out of obligation (though both her younger siblings where there), but people with cash to burn. Rich folk. Celebrities. The smallest price tag here was more than Sandy used to earn in a year.

There weren’t a lot of celebrity artists these days. A famous name might creep in here and there, but the days of superstar painters were centuries gone. That didn’t mean one couldn’t become popular every once in a while. And right now, that one was Sandy Evers.

“Sandy!” Called out a familiar voice. Sandy turned to see her agent heading over. He was pulling someone—holy shit, he was on her fantasy football team!

Sandy’s life was amazing.

Three weeks later, Sandy Evers disappeared. It made national headlines for a little while. No one knew what happened to her. Not her agent, not her family, and not her commissioners. The football player she’d been dating for a few weeks was questioned by the police, but the shellshocked man had an airtight alibi. No one outside a few half-hearted gossip mongers and some of their crazier customers really believed he had anything to do with it. Had she gone into seclusion on an artist’s whim? Was she dead in some freak accident that hid or destroyed her body? Had she been kidnapped or taken hostage?

The answer was abduction. Sandy had been working late in her home. She wore loose jeans, fuzzy wool stocks, and a sweatshirt; all stained with various colors of paint. Music blasted in her headphones as she worked on a piece. It was part of her method. Perhaps might have been able to escape if she’d heard her kidnappers coming. Or perhaps not. They were professionals.

So they took her by surprise, snatching Sandy Evers off her feet and wrestling her to the ground. There they bound her, tied her hand and foot with leather cuffs that wouldn’t cause her any harm. Then they used a panel gag, and the thick ball at its center, to muzzle her. It was followed swiftly by the blindfold. It was quick, clean, and professional. Sandy didn’t have time to flail around, much less fight back. Still, the artist caught a glimpse of some of her assailants’ eyes right before they engulfed her in darkness. She was struck by a sense of familiarity. With an artist’s attention to detail, Sandy was sure she had seen them somewhere before. But she couldn’t place them. And hours after they stuffed her into a leather sack and whisked her away into the night, she gave up on trying.

Sandy didn’t know how long they traveled. Hours at least. They switched cars a couple of times, and then they shifted her into what felt like an airplane. She knew that with each passing minute, her chances of being found and rescued drew closer to zero. Eventually she had to sleep. The next few days passed in a blur of fear, boredom, and discomfort. They cut her out of her clothes and let her go naked for a while, sliding a leather sheath up her legs and encasing her arms in a matching armbinder. The gag would be removed to feed her, then immediately put back on. Her physical needs were taken care of, the only words spoken were instructions to behave.

Finally, Sandy was brought up from a basement and into a gallery. She was dressed in a shapeless t shirt and shorts. She blinked, surprised to see all these paintings in a facility for housing a kidnapped woman. Assuming it was really a facility. Leaving the basement revealed carpeted, richly furnished hallways and rooms. Were they in a house? A mansion?

Looking closely, the artist saw each painting was a portrait. Mostly women, but a few men too. They looked related. Each one looked progressively older than the last. Sandy guessed they were painted thirty or forty years apart, give or take. They went back centuries. Something tickled at Sandy’s mind. Something about painting portraits. But no clear memory came to mind.

“The first one was painted in 1518.”

Sandy whipped around. There stood a woman. She was of average height and a little plump. Her beautifully styled hair was a lively brown color, and her clothing was elegant. A gorgeous gown, red verging on orange, with gloves of a slightly darker shade. Rubies and other jewels glittered at her neck and ears. Sandy looked up to the woman’s eye—regarded Sandy with amusement—and saw they were a deep brown that matched her hair.

“My ancestor commissioned an Italian painter to cross Europe for it,” the woman continued. She turned fromm Sandy to regard the various portraits. “When he was done, she decided she wanted to keep him. Then after keeping him for awhile, she decided she wanted another man. This time a local. One thing led to another, and she developed a taste for keeping men and women for herself. She ended up becoming a purveyor of unwilling flesh to her peers. A slaver. My family has persisted in this business ever since.”

The woman drew close. Sandy took a step back. Then another. She kept going until she came up against a wall of muscle. One of the guards.

“And through it all we have maintained a tradition,” the woman said. “Each head of our ancestral business finds a painter to give us a portrait.” Now she was very close. Her hand reached up to cup Sandy’s cheek. The soft caress of her glove sent full body shivers down Sandy’s spine. “But not just any painter, Miss Evers. A young painter. Beautiful men and women. Whatever we want. Someone to keep for ourselves when the work is done.”

Eyes wide, and very much aware of the mountain of flesh at her back, Sandy could only shake her head side to side. The woman did not move her hand, and the soft material of her glove tickled ever so slightly.

The woman chuckled. “Yes, dear. That’s what you’re here for. I’m afraid your days of hosting art galleries are at an end. You belong to me now.”

Sandy’s head shook with more force. The woman kept her smile and gestured to the guard. The artist could do nothing as he grabbed her by the arms and frog marched her out of the gallery, down some hallways, and into a sitting room. A canvas was there, waiting for her, in front of a seat for the woman, which was soon occupied by the lady in the red dress. Sandy was plopped down in front of the canvas. The chains around her wrists were removed while her ankles were locked into a ring embedded in the floor. Then the guards moved to stand at attention near the door, ready to rush her in case she tried anything stupid.

It all hit Sandy at once. This woman was a slaver. She had abducted Sandy for her art, and apparently intended to keep her as a bedwarmer. Her breathing deepened. Her heartbeat grew quick. She shook her head frantically, without thought.

“Take as long as you need to, dear,” the woman said as if they were on some errand and she hadn’t abducted and enslaved Sandy. “But only that. We have time, but be aware that if you will be punished if you waste any of it.”  

Time passed and many threats were gently given before Sandy sat down to paint. She made shaky progress before the session ended. The next day she was brought back. Finishing the portrait took four sessions. Things changed the day after.

The guards dragged Sandy up as usual. At least until they reached their destination. Instead of the usual sitting room, they were in a dungeon. That was the only word Sandy could find for it. All kinds of kinky equipment was strewn about. Benches and crosses and bondage gear. She had just enough time to take in the sight before she was forced to the ground.

That day Sandy’s bonds the strictest yet. Leather bands frogtied her ankles to her thighs, then another bound her legs together. Her arms were cuffed together at the elbows, forcing her back straight and chest out as her wrists were locked to her ankles. The biggest, most viciously uncomfortable ballgag yet was stuffed into her mouth. Then came the (ice cold) nipple camps. Then for good measure a rough, scratchy rope was passed through her legs and pulled taught.

She wasn’t left like that for long before she heard a familiar voice.

“Your portrait was completely unsatisfactory.”

“uugggh oooo!”

There was a sharp, sudden pain on the side of Sandy’s bare ass. Sandy had glimpsed the leather crops her kidnappers liked to use. This was the first time she felt its sting for herself. It was followed swiftly by the second time. Then the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. Sandy cried out with each strike.

“Do you know many hours of my time you wasted with your half-hearted painting, slave? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ll spend three times that amount in this position as punishment.

Three times?! They’d spend four sessions together! It had been impossible for Sandy to tell how much time passed. How long would three times the amount be?  

“I see now that I have been too gentle with you, slave. You haven’t been giving me your best work. Understandable, really. I spoiled you a bit when you were first brought here.”

Spoiled?!

“mnn hnphch!”

“There, you see? You lack discipline, slave.” There was another smack of the crop, this time on the other side of Sandy’s hips. “I spared you the training new slaves typically receive. We need to fix that, so you can try again.” Another round of cropping followed. “However, I don’t want to waste any more time than I have, and a full set of training could take weeks. So, I will be using another tactic.

“Michelle and Bethany Evers.”

Sandy’s heart skipped a beat.

“Your younger sisters. Twins. Age twenty-three. They are specifically fraternal twins. Lucky for them, really. Identical twins are lucrative, and we would have acquired them along with you if that had been the case. Michelle graduated college three months ago with a degree in Business. Bethany will be graduating at the end of next semester, in Anthropology. Both are lovely young women. Bethany’s hair is the same shade of blonde as yours. A bit on the shorter side, but regularly exercises. Michelle is the tallest of your family. A bit chubby, to be honest. But that’s nothing a good fitness regimen can’t fix within a month or two. Assuming I don’t decide to fatten her up a bit. Larger women have their market, after all.”

Sandy’s throat was dry, and not just because of the drool leaking out of her mouth beneath the ball gag. She couldn’t speak. After hearing her sisters’ names, she could barely think!
The leather crop tapped at Sandy’s chin, then rested there. Sandy raised her head up until the crop remained still.

“You will preform to the absolute best of your ability, slave. Or your sisters will join you here. And if you fail a third time after that, they will be sold. And I will ensure their owners will not be kind. Am I understood?”

A long moment passed. Sandy desperately wished she could tell this bitch to go to hell without a gag in her mouth… But even if she physically could, she wouldn’t. Beth and Michell’s smiling faces passed through her mind. That wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.
Left with no other choice, Sandy nodded.

“Good.” The crop disappeared, and the slaver woman patted her cheek with an uncovered hand.

“We will begin again in two days, after you have recovered from your punishment. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”

“Mmph mn'nm.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sandy’s owner corrected.

Sandy took a deep breath. “mmph mnphphrmphph.”