Chapter 8
I should have known that a capitalist like Uncle Roy Dean would never murder anyone until he'd exhausted their potential. It was clear that if the Air Force liked my body, a lot of other paying customers would too. Only when my appeal had dissipated would he seriously consider scratching me.
However, if I was going to be an asset in his stable of whores, obviously Uncle Roy had to teach me a lesson in absolute obedience. Not only did I accept the fact that I was going to be brutally disciplined, I felt like such a fool for being captured while fucking a dog that I believed I probably deserved it.
The cuffs to the side of my head and the swift kicks in my rump, as Uncle Roy moved me down the corridor, seemed fully apt. In his commanding presence I felt like a worthless piece of female trash. It's a power some extraordinarily macho men have over women.
Eventually we came to another one of the Comstock's labeled doors. This one, considerably less playfully than the others, was marked "Torture Garden."
By now the dog had been given a milk-bone as a reward and sent off to roam again for stray hookers. It was just Uncle Roy and myself stepping inside the ominously-named room. When it came to dishing out the hard-stuff, the big man apparently didn't trust any surrogates for his cruelty.
Not to keep you in suspense any longer, Uncle Roy's Torture Garden more than lived up to its name. It was a dimly lighted cave of a room, filled with every device of torment imaginable. The laboratory of a sadist.
However, one item caught my eye more than any of the others. Right in the middle of the room stood a human-size cross. Apparently Uncle Roy wasn't adverse to crucifying his victims.
"Do, do you expect me to climb up on that thing?" I stuttered with fright.
"Don't you want to?" he leered. "Can you think of any more appropriate way to pay for your sins?"
"No," I agreed. He had me in such a trance of self-loathing that the atrocity he was proposing seemed perfectly reasonable.
"Good girl. You can use that step-ladder over there to get yourself up there," he replied matter-of-factly. He took my acquiescence to my own torture for granted.
Even more incredibly, so did I.
Like a robot, I walked over to the stepladder put it in place, and began climbing up on the cross. When I was on the top rung, I turned around facing Dean and automatically spread my arms. I didn't have to be told it was a perfect fit.
To my surprise he didn't use the proverbial nails to tack me up with. However, I quickly understood the reason for the alternative leather straps at my wrists and ankles. Uncle Roy explained that I wouldn't be able to walk for days if he nailed me to the cross. "And there aren't enough paying customers who like to fuck cripples," he summed it up. "Got to keep my money-makers on their feet."
Well, in any case, the leather straps were certainly painful enough in themselves. I presumed that they had been specially designed by some mail order house dealing with an invisible nation of sadists and masochists. Having my limbs set in concrete would not have immobilized them as efficiently.
When I was finally hanging there by my own weight-literally crucified-I looked down from the cross at what Uncle Roy was up to. He was uncoiling a whip.
"I promise you this is going to hurt," he said when he noticed my bug-eyed attention. "And I'm the type of fella that always likes to keep his promises."
The whip suddenly danced in mid-air from his flicking grip. Then, its tip reared back before it shot across the room like a bullet and incised the soft flesh of one of my exposed breasts. Even as the blood began leaking from the welt on my tit, the crack of the lash was still reverberating in the dungeon-like room.
When he whipped me again, the cutting edge extended across both of my breasts. The nipple of one felt like it was hanging on only by the merest shred of flesh.
When the blood started to cover my chest, Uncle Roy decided to shift his attention to my cunt. Wide-open between my forcibly splayed legs, it was a perfect target for the surgically precise tip of thee lash.
Crack! He snapped the whip back. Crack! He propelled it forward again.
"Arrrrggggghhhh!" I screamed as my pussy was suddenly set on fire with pain. The tip of the whip had caught my clitoris.
No woman has ever known anything beyond the pain that I knew then. Suddenly, my clitoris, the most sensitive organ of my body, was split and bleeding. I could feel every throb of pain as though some fiend were driving a railroad spike into my crotch.
Crack! Crack! The whip did an encore. Only this time it laid itself across my pussy lips. It felt like my groin was being branded. There were several more lashings. But now the bloody welts were crisscrossing all the way down my thighs.
Through it all Uncle Roy Dean maintained a steady chuckle of amusement. Watching me suffer put him in a very good mood.
"You like it, don't you?" he asked when he stopped flogging me to rest. "The pain feels good."
I should have spit in his eye in defiance. After all, what did I have to lose? He was going to have his way with me no matter what I did.
But I didn't. At first I told myself that I was too weak to waste my breath. However, when Dean reiterated how good I must hurt, I realized my passive acceptance of sexual torture had an entirely different motivation.
I liked it. Through all the agony, the excruciating anguish, the suffering, I liked it.
Women are built for pain. Born martyrs, they feel it to their soul. A woman's most memorable lover is almost always her most sadistic tormentor.
You don't consciously want it to start happening. However, when the brutality comes, a woman can't resist being hurt more and more.
"Whip me!" I cast aside the last of my inhibitions and shamelessly begged. "Cut the lash into my tits and cunt!"
"Good girl," Dean chortled smugly, and then began cracking the whip like a lion-tamer in a circus. It sounded like there was lightning in the room.
At the end of the carnage I must have resembled a side of beef. The remains of the rubber corset had been shredded to the floor so that my total nudity ran red with blood.
Oh yes, one more thing. My pussy was dripping with hot juice. The pain had given me a sopping orgasm. I'd been driven over the brink of sensual sanity.
"My cunt is on fire," I passionately informed him of the obvious. "Do something terrible to it."
"I intend to," he promised me. Then he came up with a dildo with a brass head the size of a door-knob at the end of it.
The thing was well over a foot long. When he strapped it around his waist, even with all his clothes on it was more erotic than if he'd pulled out his real dick. I wanted something in my pussy big enough to really hurt-and this was guaranteed to do the job.
"I'm ready for it," I drooled. "I'm ready for your big cock in my cunt." I was talking about the dildo as though it were real.
He shoved it between my legs and then slammed the brass head between my pussy lips. The fuck-hole automatically widened as far as it could go, just in time for inch after inch of surging penetration.
When he stopped for a breather, and I glanced down, there seemed to be only about a third of the dildo still showing. That meant there were at least eight inches in my pussy. I was getting fucked.
But something was wrong, it felt too good.
"You're not hurting me enough," I wailed. "I can't come if you don't make me suffer."
My bizarre confession seemed to make him mean. Apparently working up hostility toward women was the man's role in this kind of sex. Just as it was inevitable that I, as a woman, would ultimately love being humiliated; it was just as natural that the sadism inherent in a man would rage to the surface.
Sadomasochistic sex seemed a distillation of the basic relationship between men and women to me. I was crucified, with my body bleeding from the lash of the whip, my cunt ripping at the corners with thick dildo, but I still wanted more. I finally realized with absolute certainty why God had put two sexes on earth.
It was all really very simple. Men were born to give it-women were born to take it. A woman's submission to a man's will was what made the world go around.
"That's right," I told Dean, "get mean. Get good and mean. Tear me to pieces, you mother-fucking son of a bitch!"
"You filthy whore!" he raged, his innate scorn for women building by the second. Still fucking me with the dildo, he began slapping me. Then he began using his fists.
My jaw rocked one way, and then the other. My tongue kept getting caught between my grinding teeth and was soon like a piece of fresh round steak.
My eyes were slammed shut. My ears were cauliflowered. I must have looked like a female Rocky at the end of a fight.
Somehow I hung on to my consciousness and withstood the attack. That permitted me to experience the thrilling pain when he lowered his fists and began pummeling my breasts.
"Beat my tits!" I frantically urged him. "Bet them black and blue!"
The stark pain was exquisite. After every howl of agony, I moaned with pleasure.
Now he dropped to my belly. Just a single punch there. A slamming blow to my solar plexus.
My stomach collapsed, the rearrangement of my guts squeezing my lungs like a bellows. The breath whooshed from my gaping mouth. My senses entered the twilight zone.
But I hung on. I wanted to be there for the whole thing. Every glorious spasm of horribly wonderful pain.
By the time I'd recovered enough to concentrate on something beyond remaining conscious, Dean had turned all of his hostile attention to the essence of my femininity-my crotch.
The way the dildo split my pussy wasn't enough for him now. He'd grabbed my pussy lips and was pulling them apart-no, ripping them apart.
The dildo surged forward in my twat far beyond the eight inches of its initial thrust. I estimated ten inches, eleven, twelve-a foot.
Thirteen. Thirteen inches!
"Oooommmppphh!" Dean grunted with perspiring exertion.
Fourteen!
I looked down. There was no more dildo to be seen. It was in me to the hilt.
I was being fucked with fourteen inches of cock. Fourteen fucking inches!
"Split me in two!" I begged him.
But he had something better up his sleeve. Or, should I say, dangling from the gun belt he wore as Chief of Police.
Pulling his pistol from the holster, he brutally shoved the barrel up my ass. The sight tore into my tender rectal lining like a sharp nail.
"Russian roulette," I picked up on the action as though gun-fucking a woman's ass was the most orthodox sexual practice around. "Fuck me with my life!"
The chamber clicked open and fell to its side. Five bullets rattled to the floor. Then he closed the gun and twirled the remaining slug into an unknown position.
He pulled the hammer back and squeezed the trigger. There was no explosion of gunpowder, but the steel barrel did surge much further up my anal fuck-hole upon the failure to blast my ass.
He pulled and squeezed again. Another failure. Another surge of cold metal up my ass.
Pull and squeeze. Another hollow cock. Another thrust. The sight was now in my colon and reaming me out.
Through meaningless separating tissue, I could feel the pumping gun-barrel colliding with the brass knob of the dildo. Something that felt like hemorrhaging was beginning within me.
Now, after an ominous pause, the hammer of the pistol was being pulled back a fourth time. I only had a one in three chance on this one.
Clink. Another miss. The gun barrel shoved even higher in my screeching bowels.
Only one chance in two. Even money that I'd be blown away when Dean yanked back the hammer for the fifth time.
Cling. The last empty chamber.
As the hammer squeaked back for the half-dozenth time, I realized that I was now dealing with certainty.
The blast was deafening. A stick of dynamite couldn't be any louder than the explosion of gunpowder up close. My ears rang with the reverberation.
But why, it occurred to me, were my ears able to ring. I should have been oblivious to any echo of the gunfire.
I should have been dead.
"A blank," Uncle Roy grinned mischievously. "I'm just trying to scare the piss out of you, not ruin my investment."
Looking down I saw that my crotch was black with carbon. My pubic hair was singed to a stubble.
I should have been grateful to be alive. Instead, I disappointedly whimpered, "Are, are we through? Are you done with me?"
"Except for one last reminder who's the king," he sneered.
To my dismay he pulled the dildo and pistol out of my cunt and ass respectively. Then he unfastened the straps at my ankles and wrists, completely freeing me.
I fell from the cross like a sack of garbage. When I splatted to the floor, Dean began kicking me into a corner. When I was cowering there, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his real cock for the first time in the torture session.
He started stroking his tool with quick efficiency, masturbating with no frills. His face was etched with contempt.
He quickly got results. Before a minute was up, his cum was showering all over my cringing body.
Then, when he was through ejaculating, he pissed on me. Writhing under the golden shower, I reveled in the sewer of total degradation. I only hoped he'd shit on me to make his contempt complete.