Trapped By The Man-Bear

The following short story is part of the MAN-BEAR SAGA, a series of adventures dealing with MARKHAN, the most ancient and powerful member of a race of mysterious, shape-shifting beings who live in the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest and the various young women who fall under his domination and control, both physically, emotionally, and sexually over the course of many decades.

This story, taking place in the early days of World War II, follows the adventures of DARCY WINSTON, a young girl whose burgeoning submissive and masochistic tendencies begin to awaken first under the harsh hand of her domineering Boss and later achieve their ultimate expression when she finds herself trapped in the Lost Valley of the Man-Bear.

Darcy came slowly back to consciousness. Everything was confusing at first. Where was she? She didn't know. There was something heavy, almost suffocating, pressing down on top of her. Her head ached. A sharp pain on one side as if she'd been hit by something. She tried opening her eyes. There was only darkness. What the heck was going on?

She tried to focus. Her body was lying in some odd position, her back pressed up against something hard, curved, with sharp ridges at intervals. Something jagged jammed up just below her shoulder blades. She couldn't make sense of it.

Why couldn't she remember?

She had a familiar taste in her mouth—the sour taste of semen. Well, that should tell her something. She'd only ever had the cock of one man in her mouth. That man was her boss, Mister Hendricks (funny, even as she thought about sucking his cock, she never thought of him as anything other than "Mister Hendricks"). In fact, she'd been quite a prude before she'd started working for him at the airplane plant...

Airplane.

Why did that make her think of something? Something important. Very important.

If only her head would stop pounding, if only she could shift this suffocating weight off of her, Darcy was sure all the pieces would come together. She tried moving and found that she could shift her legs slightly. She'd lost one of her shoes. She scraped her nylon clad heel along the floor, but still couldn't tell just what it was. Her arms were pinned by whatever it was that was stretched across the upper part of her body. She had the sense that it was something soft.

What was the last thing she remembered? Try to think. Something having to do with an airplane? Well, that could be almost anything. The company she worked, Hendricks Machine Parts, made airplane parts, propellers and bearings and things like that, for the fighters and bombers that were rolling off countless assembly lines and heading off to Europe and Japan.

So pretty much everything she did had to do with airplanes—take a memo, Miss Winston, write this up with two carbons, Miss Winston, read back the minutes of yesterday's meeting, Miss Winston, close the door and tug your skirt up above your waist, Miss Winston. Now unsnap your nylons and push them down your legs...

Well, maybe that last bit didn't have anything to do with airplanes.

Of course, Darcy hadn't thought of herself as one of "those" girls when she went to work at the plant. Not one of those girls that other girls talked about, those girls who slept around, who slept with their bosses, the kind of girls at high school who had a bad reputation. She wasn't what you'd call a movie star. She didn't have those Marilyn Monroe poster-girl measurements. She was tall and skinny with reddish blonde hair, small breasts, small hips, a dusting of freckles across a pretty face.

That's what everyone called her—pretty. Never sexy. Nobody knew how much she hated being called pretty.

She'd still be a virgin (well, she'd like to think so) if she hadn't slept with her boyfriend Bobby, and she'd only done that because he'd joined the army and was going off to basic training the next morning and he'd promised, or sort of promised, that they'd get married when he got back. So he'd really proposed which meant they'd been engaged.

Sort of.

Before that, she'd barely let him go to second base, but it all seemed so important to let him go all the way that night in the back of his Dad's old Ford. He'd been so eager he'd scratched her thighs tugging her panties down. It had been strange how thrilling she had found that feeling, the sudden sharp pain of his fingernails running down the outsides of her thighs, how that, more than anything that had come before, had stimulated that warm flow of moisture, had made the delicate lips of her pussy part at Bobby's awkward fumbling fingers.

In the breathless moments that followed, she found that she didn't care about all of the objections that she knew she was supposed to be making. She didn't care about his breathless proclamations of love and faithfulness and how he'd come back and marry her as he clambered up on top of her.

No. What she cared about, she realized with a sudden shock, was that terrifying sensation as she felt the broad head of his prick as it pushed inside her. She'd realize later that she hadn't been ready, hadn't been quite wet enough, but at the time all she knew was that it hurt as he pushed desperately into her in short sharp jabs, as she felt herself being spread, filling up.

It hurt terribly—and she didn't want it to stop. She didn't want the pain to stop.

And then there was a deeper, sharper pain. She felt something give, felt him going in deeper.

That was it, she thought, an almost passing thought—my cherry.

"Hurts..." she'd gasped.

"I'm sorry," Bobby had replied. For an instant, Darcy was afraid that he was going to pull out. She fumbled around, wrapping her legs around him.

"No," she'd replied urgently, "Keep going. Harder. Harder. Keep going. Keep—keep hurting me..."

She'd felt something weird, a strange sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn't quite believed that she'd said it. It was as if someone else was speaking. But whoever had said it, Bobby had responded, thrusting into her harder and faster.

She was well-lubricated now, not only from her own juices but, she realized, from the blood from her broken hymen. But the friction of Bobby's cock as it rubbed against the raw edges of her torn cherry, mixed pain with pleasure in some way she'd never imagined.

She'd reached her hands down to her firm apple breasts, feeling for her erect nipples, pinching them in time to his thrusts.

Darcy had never masturbated, nothing beyond a bit of furtive rubbing against a pillow between her legs. She'd never brought herself to climax—and while the secretive whispers amongst her friends at high school that passed for sex education (since she and her Mom had never had "that talk") had taught her about boys and how they "came," her largely uninformed girl friends had simply never covered even the idea of a girl achieving climax.

But she knew that something was happening, a tension building like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Bobby's cock thrusting in and out, winding her tighter and tighter. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. She was pinching her nipples harder and harder. Tighter and tighter. Yes, something was coming. Darcy felt as if she could hardly breathe. What was happening?

Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Almost there.

"Yes, yes, yes, do it, do it, come on, hurt me, hurt me, harder!" she heard herself gasping.

And then suddenly, Bobby wasn't thrusting any more. He'd pushed himself forward all the way. He was groaning and Darcy could feel a flood of wetness inside her. He let out a great gasp of pleasure.

Meanwhile, Darcy could feel that sensation, previously growing toward some indefinable explosion, dribbling away, like a sneeze that didn't happen.

She pushed up against him, trying to bring whatever it was back to life, but Bobby was already withdrawing, his prick softening. She felt him slip out of her.

He bent down, kissing her lightly on the lips.

"I love you," he'd whispered.

She hesitated, swallowed, hoping the darkness in the back seat of the car would hide the look of disappointment that she knew was on her face.

"I love you, too," she'd answered.

Later that night, alone in the bathroom, Darcy had slipped into the tub to wash away the traces of her defloration. Undressing in front of the bathroom mirror, she'd been shocked to see quite how much she'd bled. Her panties were a total loss and would have to be carefully discarded (she'd briefly considered blaming the blood on her period only to reject the idea—her Mother kept track of such things and would swoop down on the advent of a phantom period like a vulture).

Once in the tub, she used her fingers to brush away the blood from her inner thighs, then from around the swollen lips of her pussy. They were still sensitive. She dragged her fingernails lightly across the delicate tissues then up across the light red-furred pubic mound, across the curve of her belly.

She reached up with her free hand, finding her nipples already erect. She took one between her thumb and index finger. It was slippery in the soapy water. She caught it between her thumb and fingernail, pinched it, feeling the pain rush like an electric shock down through her body, right through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing—the same muscles, she now realized, that had been gripping Bobby's cock when it was thrusting up inside her.

She pinched harder, then moved her hand to the other nipple, pinched that one as well. She realized suddenly that she was rubbing herself between her legs and that her pussy had flowered open in response.

She began to rub herself up and down, pinching her nipple as she did.

Darcy realized that that feeling was coming back again, that growing tension, only now she was in control of it.

Her breath came faster as she stroked herself. She lifted one leg up, bracing it against the side of the tub. As she did so, she could feel her pussy opening up wide.

She hesitated as she rubbed her hand against the delicate pale coral lips, now flushed a deeper red, but finally she slipped her index finger down, reaching in between them.

Deeper. Still deeper, moving in and out. She could feel that tension growing. But something wasn't quite right. Then she slipped her middle finger in as well, pushing them both in deep.

She had to bite her lip to keep from groaning out loud as the two thrusting fingers spread the still-delicate internal tissues. The sharp tips of her fingernails were scraping against those bruised pussy walls. It was agony. It was ecstasy.

She thought about Bobby's cock—or anyone's cock, it really didn't matter—thrusting into her, filling her. Some man's rough hands, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, picking her up as if she were a doll, spreading her legs, his cock filling her, hurting her...

She thrust into herself faster and faster, twisting and pulling on her nipple, arching her hips up against her fingers. The water began to splash out, down onto the bathroom floor, down around the clawed feet of the bathtub.

There was that tension, building, building toward something...

And then that "something" hit her like an electric shock, like waves of explosive pleasure coursing through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing her fingers, milking them. She kept pushing in, drawing fresh waves of pleasure.

She shoved her fist into her mouth and bit down hard to keep from screaming as she arched her hips up out of the water, her whole body quivering in pleasure.

Finally, breathless, she slipped back under the water, letting her fingers slip from her aching pussy.

She spent a lot more time in the bath after that night. Sometimes she'd think about Bobby, who wrote her frequently from Basic Training somewhere down South. Sometimes she'd think about some movie star. Stewart Granger was a particular favorite, though she wasn't sure why—she didn't even like his movies. Maybe it was something about that distinguished older man look, though she wasn't really sure just how old he was.

Three months after Darcy lost her cherry, Bobby went overseas. A month later, she graduated high school.

Before summer was over, Bobby's parents had gotten the telegram from the war department, telling them that he'd died. It hadn't even been in combat. He'd been killed in some training exercise. Practice for the real thing.

They'd buried him overseas but his parents had a memorial service and she'd attended. The whole thing had seemed like something out of a dream. It was like she could see the whole thing from up above—everybody gathered in the church, the Reverend giving the eulogy, Bobby's family in the front row. There she was, dressed in black, her pale face, eyes wet with tears, surrounded by her family, near the front of the church.

Almost the whole town was there. Bobby had been the first, the first one they'd lost to the war. But there'd be others.

A short time later, Darcy's Dad got her a job working as a clerk for a local company that made ball-bearings. After a year, she became a secretary. She found herself fending off passes from a lot of the guys at the office.

By this time, even her interest in self-stimulation had faded and whatever it was that the sweat-stained lotharios at the ball-bearing plant were offering, well, that didn't strike her as all that interesting either.

It proved relatively easy to deflect those advances. All she had to do was talk about her late "fiancé" (though Bobby had never really made it official)—the one who'd died in the war. She found that there was no more effective splash of ice water on a would-be come-on artist that the memory of a dead war hero.

She was still living at home, working long hours, not seeing anyone. Drifting.

Then she met Mister Hendricks. Well, "met" wasn't quite right. She was bringing some files into Mr. Burrows' office and saw him there. He was seated in the big padded chair, leaning back, his legs crossed. An older man, maybe in late fifties, well-dressed, wearing an expensive suit. Gray hair, neatly cut. After giving the files to Mr. Burrows she happened to glance over at him and realized that he was looking at her. Blue eyes. Eagle eyes.

Normally, when someone's looking at you and you notice, they'll get embarrassed, turn away. But he didn't. He met her stare, kept right on looking . A trace of a sardonic grin on his lips.

In the end, it was Darcy that turned away, as she headed out the door, flustered.

As she headed back to her desk, she realized she wasn't just flustered. She could feel her nipples scraping against the inside of her brassiere. Not just that. For the first time in a while, she could feel a dampness down between her legs. How bizarre that simply having a man look at you could do that.

Toward the end of the day she'd been transcribing some notes when a shadow fell across her. Darcy looked up and saw the gray-haired man staring down at her, almost examining her. She felt the same queasy excited feeling. She went back to her work.

Then she paused as she realized that the stranger had picked up her note pad and flipped it open. He was casually paging through it.

He spoke without looking up, "You take short hand?"

"Excuse me, sir," she replied, as she reached up and took the note pad from his hand, "This is private."

The man looked her straight in the eye. Again that sardonic grin, "Is it really, little lady? I don't suppose you know who I am."

"I'm sorry, no. But without..."

The older man looked around. His eyes came to rest on Darcy's Supervisor, chatting with some men on the other side of the office.

"Jeff? Jeff!"

Darcy had never heard her Supervisor referred to by his first name—she didn't even know it. But as soon as "Jeff" heard his name called and realized who had called him he jumped up and hurried over.

"Yes, Mr. Hendricks, what can I do for you?"

"Would you mind introducing us?"

A moment of confusion as Darcy's Supervisor looked from Mister Hendricks to Darcy and back again. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, errr. Of Course. Mister Hendricks, this is Darcy Winston. One of our secretaries."

"Yes, and would you tell Miss Winston just who I am."

"I'm sorry?"

"Please tell the little lady who I am."

"Oh. Well, Darcy, Mister Hendricks, that is he owns—you own, I mean to say, your company—Darcy, Mister Hendricks' company owns our company."

"That's right. Thank you, Jeff."

"Would there be anything— "

"No, that's all. Thank you."

Jeff nodded and, after a brief and not terribly friendly glance toward Darcy, he headed back to his colleagues.

Mister Hendricks went back to paging through Darcy's notebook.

"So, Miss Winston, do you take shorthand? I mean, is this yours?"

"Yes, Mister Hendricks."

"Where did you learn?"

"I taught myself."

"How fast do you type?"

"120 words a minute."

Hendricks scanned her desk, dug through some carbons, checked one.

"Had any college?"

"No sir."

"You graduate High School?"

"Yes sir."
"How long have you been here?" Darcy told him.

"How much does Barney pay you?" Darcy told him.
"How'd you like to move to Seattle and work for me? I'll give you a twenty-percent raise."

"No thank you, sir."

"That was awfully fast. Why not?"

"Well, sir. I live at home. I don't have to pay rent. If I move to Seattle..."

"All right, all right. I'll bump it to forty percent. That should cover the cost of a modest apartment for a young lady."

"Mister Hendricks, may I..."

"Little lady, I'm going to be in town until the end of the week. I've made you an offer. If you're interested—"

He took her pad and scrawled something in it. He handed it to her. It was a phone number written in short hand.

"—call that number before Friday. You'll have a job. If not, best of luck here with Barney and his—ball bearings. That's all. Good evening."

And again he stared at her. She could feel herself melting inside. The same hardening of her nipples. The same wetness between her legs.

That night, for the first time in a long time, when she took a bath her questing fingers found the delicate lips of her pussy open, waiting for the rough thrusting, her nipples eager for the sharp pinches that sent her soaring climax and which experience told her would leave them sore all the next day.

But it wasn't the phantom Bobby she thought about as she drove herself to climax, or some movie star. Not even Stewart Granger, who Mister Hendricks didn't resemble hardly at all, even though he projected that same sense of self-confident masculinity—even though he was old, his hair gray, he didn't seem fat at all. She thought he was probably muscular under that expensive suit. And she couldn't help but wonder about the hair around his prick. Was that gray too, or still black, or maybe a bit of both?

She didn't wait until Friday to agree to the move. She'd expected a scene when she told her parents, but they seemed to accept it without much comment. Apparently they'd known for a while that it was time for her to go.

Seattle wasn't a big city by "big city" standards but it was plenty big enough by the standards of Darcy's small town. The plant where she worked employed over three thousand men. She found herself one of over two hundred secretaries.

For the first few months she was lost in the "secretarial pool"—one girl in a row of desks with other girls, doing typing, filing, taking notes for whoever wanted them. Every so often, she'd catch a glimpse of Mister Hendricks passing by.

He never even looked in her direction.

She'd go out for lunch with some of the other girls, talk about movies and the radio and gossip about this executive and that and talk about the War. Always the war.

Then she'd take the bus to her little apartment near the plant. Just a room above a Corner Candy Store. She'd warm something up on a hot plate and listen to the radio and go to sleep dreaming about Mister Hendricks.