The Diaries of Syra Bond Read online

  Title Page

  THE DIARIES OF SYRA BOND

  By Syra Bond

  Publisher Information

  The Diaries of Syra Bond first published in 2002 by

  Chimera Books Ltd. Published as an eBook in 2011

  by Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital Edition Converted and Published by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Syra Bond. The right of Syra Bond to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex

  Chapter 1

  At first I could not write it down; it was all too embarrassing and I was ashamed. When he came to see how much I had written and realised I had done nothing, he bound my ankles even more firmly. He did not speak, but I could sense his impatience as he pulled the thin ribbon tight and I knew he would not tolerate any more delay. He nodded, and I knelt obediently down on all fours. He faced my feet, wrapped his left arm around my waist to lift me slightly off the floor, and laid the flat of his right hand against my taut buttocks. The warmth of his palm against my skin as he caressed it made me moan in anticipation of my punishment. As he drew his hand away, and brought it back down with a stinging smack, I clenched my teeth and swallowed a scream.

  When he finished spanking me until my bottom was a flaming red, he let me slip from his crooked arm and I lay on the floor, panting. He looked into my eyes as though trying to see if I was containing my pain, but I did not feel any pain. I knew he could see nothing in my eyes except eagerness for more. I thought of asking him for a brighter light, but I did not dare. He would be angry if I spoke without being given permission, and it would be obvious to him I was trying to put off doing what he told me to do. Already he knows me too well. No, I will make do with the light I have been given. Just before he closed the door I thought of trying to slacken the rope around my ankles, and as I squirmed my legs against its tension I felt a twinge of pain that was strangely comforting. The quick, penetrating jab of sensation against my skin reminded me of what I have been trying to forget. It reminded me of what I have to write...

  I cannot remember exactly when it all began. It does not really matter, I suppose. It all began about a year ago, I think, although it seems longer. So much has happened since I first met him, it is as though a whole lifetime has been squeezed into a few months. Since he found me - because that is what happened, he found me - events have become confused in my mind. But I will try to get it right, as I dare not do otherwise. He says he will check on my work every day from now on and if it is not up to his standards - and I know how high they are - he will punish me. Sometimes I wonder if I can stand another beating. It was different in the beginning; the mere thought of a cane’s cruel lick or of a hand’s hot smack sent me into a delirium of anticipation. It was a beautiful relief, the deep inner sensation of pain and the engulfing waves of humiliation accompanying it, but now I really do not feel anything any more...

  I was a postgraduate student in psychology and getting on well with my research. My main interest was sensory deprivation and the recent work of Professor Rivero Lange of the University of Seville. His studies concentrated on the individual’s response to fear and how it ties in with sexuality and sensory deprivation. I was reading something he had written about how far we can push ourselves into danger against our better judgement; how far we dare go even in the face of our darkest fears. He undertook close analysis of his test subjects, their limits and their breaking points. It seemed exciting work and I wanted to know more. I wrote to him and told him about some of my own ideas along the same lines, but he never replied.

  Then one day my supervisor, Dr Max Baal, a well known psychologist and an expert on the treatment of people who have been brainwashed, told me I looked tired and suggested I take a week off. He was right. I felt jaded and needed some sunshine. He said he had a friend who owned a small apartment on the Costa del Sol, and before I had time to think about it he arranged for me to stay there.

  When I arrived in Spain it was hot, too hot. I had not expected the intense sunlight, and before I even got to the apartment I felt faint. A craggy-faced old woman met me at the door. She was cloaked in black and jangled a heavy bunch of keys in her bony hand. It was a ground floor flat; part of an old house squeezed into a jumble of white, thick-walled buildings, but inside it was spacious and cool.

  The old woman shook the handle of a door leading from the hall that was padlocked. ‘Locked,’ she said emphatically. ‘Doctor not here. Locked.’

  I shrugged as she handed me a single key, pointed to the bathroom, and left.

  I threw my bag down on the bed, opened the French doors and stepped out into a small, high-walled garden. A stone bench with flowers growing at its base sat against one wall, and opposite it a large grey wooden door was set into the bleached bricks. A terracotta pot with bright red flowers decorated a small metal table in the centre of the garden. I do not have to close my eyes to see it again, the scene is so vivid. I could feel the breeze drifting up from the sea, wafting through the tight rows of whitewashed houses in soft, billowing waves and bathing me in its humid warmth. I sat on one of the flimsy metal chairs beside the table and opened my legs wide. My thin cotton panties were damp with perspiration. I love the feeling of salty moisture wetting the gusset of my panties, the way the material tugs gently at my pussy whenever I move, and the way the sticky tension parts my labia and exposes my delicate inner flesh. Without thinking, I prized the edges of the flimsy fabric away and felt the warmth of my flesh against my fingertips. I looked around me, and suddenly saw a man standing on a balcony in one of the cluster of adjoining houses. He was wearing a bright red and white Hawaiian shirt, and the contrast of the bold, jumbled pattern against the whitewashed buildings was intensified by the bright sunshine as he leaned over the black ornamental railing. I knew he realised I had seen him and I felt excited by his penetrating stare.

  I lowered my head and rested my chin against the top of my chest. I tried to look shy, as though I was going to remove my hand from between my legs, get up and walk away, but I was really concentrating on the glistening pinkness of my flesh where I had pulled my panties aside. I stared at my labia and felt the touch of the man’s eyes. I was not embarrassed, I was only aware of being careful not to rush and disappoint him. I knew I was being watched, and it was as though his prying eyes were a gift; his presence forced me to take my time and very slowly and gently press my fingertips against my clitoris. Then I slipped two fingers into the warm depths of my rosy slit. Such delicate moisture, such satiny wetness, so silky it let my fingers slip with ease between my soft flesh as I sat back and opened my legs even wider.

  I would recognise again that figure on the balcony by his garish shirt and his shock of black hair, but once I had seen him I always recognised him the same way I know my own fingers and pussy. Did it matter that I spread my thighs wide that afternoon and pulled the edges of my white panties away from my sex? Of course it did. I know I should never
have leaned back and stiffened my legs and brought them together as I pulled my panties down around my thighs. I should never have twisted the material into a thin, cutting rope and rolled it slowly across the tops of my thighs as though binding myself. I should not have moaned so loudly as the heat of the sun against my perspiring skin made my labia swell and throb against my fingertips. I should not have opened my mouth as I felt the surge of tension making me stretch my toes out in an uncontrollable spasm and forcing my ankles out so straight they ached. I should never have lifted my hips as high as I could so the man on the balcony could clearly see the blooming lips of my vulva responding to his scrutiny.

  But I did.

  I opened myself to him; I showed him my pussy in all its glory while sitting in that sunlit garden as though it was just another innocent flower. I showed him how I brought myself close to orgasm and then held back so I could start all over again, writhing on the chair as I teased myself, holding on to those moments of delectable anticipation. Then, when I finally let go, I stretched myself out for him, my whole body jerking and quivering while I looked up at him as though it was he driving me past the brink.

  No, I should never have done those things. If I had not done them, then I would not have felt the way I did later when I wandered down to a nearby cafe for a drink. I would not have felt so electrified, so aroused, so available, and perhaps, just perhaps, he would not have been able to capture me so easily.

  The first time I saw him he was with his other pet. I call her the pet because that is how he used to refer to me as well. ‘Syra, my pet,’ he would say whenever he came up behind me and squeezed my neck. ‘Syra, my pet,’ he would say when he was instructing me and wanted me to stand with my arms by my side and listen carefully. ‘Syra, my pet,’ he would say when he thought I had disobeyed him and he needed to reprimand me. Even so, I believe I always thought of her as the pet even before I heard him call me that. She was taller than me and very slender. She was beautiful, I suppose, though I could never have admitted it at the time. Yes, she was beautiful and I was jealous of her straightaway. I can see her now just as I saw her that first time - a haughty pampered bitch, a dark poodle prancing along with her nose in the air and her leash dangling loosely from the collar around her throat. She was like a poodle, so obedient she did not have to be restrained.

  He - this unknown beautiful stranger - walked across the cafe with the pet hanging on his arm. He was so handsome everyone looked at him. There was something about him that drew people’s attention, just as it captured mine like a magnet. I immediately liked the shape of his nose, narrow and long, his golden tan, his long black hair and his muscular arms tipped with manicured fingernails. I smelled the pet’s perfume, a sharp, citrus-like scent, and wrinkled my nose to convey my contempt for her. She did not see me surreptitiously sneering at her, but I did not care.

  I felt nervous as they walked behind me. I should have known then, I suppose. That slight feeling of fear should have warned me. I felt him stop walking and knew he was looking at me; I could feel his eyes. I had draped my hair over my left shoulder and I could feel his stare on the nape of my neck. His regard was almost as hot as the sun’s and made me feel a delicious prickling between my shoulder blades.

  ‘Syra,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Sorry?’ I turned around in my chair. I should not have turned around. I know that now. It was the last time I had control of my life. That pathetic ‘sorry’ was the last word I uttered before I was enslaved.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’ he asked me very seriously. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I don’t know... nothing,’ I replied feebly. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is...’

  ‘Syra,’ he said emphatically. ‘You could be no one else but Syra. Syra, my pet, I am not confused. May we sit with you?’ He pulled a chair out for the pet and then sat down opposite me without waiting for my consent. The pet wriggled herself down onto the chrome strips of the shiny metal chair, and I inhaled her scent again.

  ‘Eve,’ she said in a low, even voice, grudgingly introducing herself to me.

  Suddenly there was a commotion and a waiter came rushing towards us waving a towel, flicking it wildly at the customers as though he had gone mad and was hallucinating a world full of threatening wasps. ‘Senor! Senor! Una bomba! Una bomba!’ he shouted. ‘Senor, una bomba! Darse prisa! Darse prisa!’

  I glanced at the pet. She was holding her hand in front of her mouth as though trying not to laugh.

  The beautiful man across from me smiled thinly, and without looking, he reached back and grabbed the waiter’s towel as it flicked behind his shoulder. The frenzied server stopped in his tracks, shocked by the arresting hand, his face red around his panting mouth. ‘Senor, darse prisa!’ he repeated urgently. ‘Darse prisa!’

  My new acquaintance held on to the towel and hauled the waiter in like a gasping mullet. He tipped his head back and spoke softly. ‘We do not want to leave,’ he said. ‘This bomb that terrifies you so much does not worry us. You may leave, and you may get everyone else to leave, but we will sit here until I decide otherwise.’

  The waiter opened his mouth as if to argue, but no words came out. When he was released he hesitated a moment, then he turned and began urging the rest of the customers out of their seats with maniacal efficiency. In seconds the cafe was empty and silent. I could almost hear the ticking of the bomb and imagine the explosion flinging tables into the air and throwing our bodies around like chaff.

  ‘See how they run,’ my handsome friend said disdainfully. ‘See how they fly from their hive like bees afraid of smoke? See how they scatter in a panic from the scent of impending doom? And yet they do not even see smoke and there is nothing for them to smell. There is no smoke, but they have been smoked out.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Smoked out by their fear like panicking bees buzzing from their lair.’ With a swift, excited movement of his head, he looked at me again. ‘Do you like my little joke, Syra? Did you enjoy the spectacle of fear I have arranged especially for you?’

  I looked at him, utterly confused.

  ‘Oh, my poor Syra, does it worry you? Do you think a bomb might blow us up at any second? Are you in fear of your life? Do not be afraid, Syra, it is only a hoax.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked breathlessly.

  ‘Because it is my hoax, my little experiment. I wanted to see fear around me and I wanted to treat you to the spectacle.’

  ‘But you didn’t know I...’

  His melodic laughter cut me off as he stretched his arm over the table. ‘Give me your hand, Syra.’

  I knew then that I should get up and go. I sensed I was in the presence of danger and knew I should not reach out and touch him. That was my fatal mistake. After that, there was no going back.

  He held the tip of one of my fingers between his thumb and forefinger. It was the same finger I had been using less than an hour before to probe my pussy. He held it up, looked at it, and then rested it close to his nostrils. He inhaled the scent of my skin and smiled knowingly. Then he turned my hand, held my finger to his mouth and licked it lightly with his tongue. I could not believe what was happening. His tongue felt warm and wet, and as it ran over the tip of my finger it set my whole body on fire.

  The pet giggled, a sort of throaty laugh that scarcely touched her lips, and I sensed her squirming and rubbing her buttocks against the metal seat. Then I felt her pushing the side of one of her feet against the front of my calf. For a second I tried to imagine it was a poodle pressing against me, but the image did not last and I could not resist the excitement growing inside me. This man, this stranger, licked my finger again, tasting the musky scent of my sex and further fanning the flames sweeping through me and burning away my self-control. I edged my leg forward slightly, wondering if she would pull away or if she would return the increased pressure. She pressed harder, and ea
sed herself lower in her chair to slide her leg against mine. I imagined her tight skirt riding up her thighs as they parted just far enough to enclose both my trembling knees.

  Suddenly, I heard a man’s voice shouting in Spanish. It sounded as though he was barking orders through a megaphone. The crackling electric sound reminded me of my fear and my stomach turned over anxiously.

  The beautiful man sitting before me licked my finger again and then slid it into his mouth. I felt the end of it running along the middle of his tongue and the warm saliva pooled there spreading across my knuckle. As he sucked on my digit I felt the blood throbbing at its end like an engorged cock, and as he pulled it slowly out from between his lips, I saw it glistening as though semen was running in a stream down its entire length. He held it in front of his eyes and looked at it closely. I saw how rigid it had become and for a second I felt embarrassed, but I did not relax it.

  I heard the pet’s high-heels click against the flagstones as she kicked them off, and then I felt the inside of her foot caressing the side of my calf. Excitement spread up my leg and flooded my stomach. I felt her toes clawing against the sensitised skin of my leg, and they seemed to crawl like probing fingers up to my knees. I felt the softness of the underside of her foot as it curled across my knee and continued up to my thigh. I imagined her own thighs spread wide and the edges of her pussy open as she stretched her foot forward, and I felt myself gaping breathlessly as I sensed her creeping, wriggling toes pushing between the soft lips of my sex.

  Again I heard the voice shouting through the megaphone. It sounded far away, as though it was coming from a distant horizon, yet its harshness brought back my sense of danger, thrilling me with a shock of fear and deliciously hardening my nipples.

  ‘Syra,’ the beautiful man said as he finally loosed his grip on my wet finger, ‘can you imagine what it is like to be overcome with sexual excitement and yet at the same time be isolated from the world? Can you imagine the thrill of being penetrated without penetration? Can you picture the warmth of your lover’s caress without feeling his arms about you? Can you imagine what it feels like to squeeze your buttocks around a big hard throbbing cock inside you and yet not have your legs wrapped around your lover’s hips? Can you imagine the heat of a spanking on your buttocks even before the punishing hand comes down? Can you feel yourself squirming from the stinging blow even before you sense the draft of wind preceding it? Yes, I can see in your eyes that you can. You can. I knew it. But although you have imagined it, and now I know you have, you have never done it, have you, my dear? You have never experienced that exquisite feeling of detachment at the moment of your highest ecstasy. You do not need to tell me. I can see it in your eyes. You have not done it, have you?’