Candy Among the Christians
Download 14.
Download Title, "Finale - Candice Triumphant"
A Long Chapter But An Ending Wherein All Loose Ends Are Tied Up, Evil Punished,
Good Rewarded, And Happiness Is Found By All (Well Almost All).
Mrs. Candice Butz
7:00 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Coffee With My Girls
What a difference a few days makes. Tuesday, drunk out of my mind, I buried my
billionaire bankrupt husband and faced the prospect of being thrown out on the
street within a day or so. Wednesday I was offered a teaching job that offered
a way out of my dilemma. But then I had the shit beaten out of me and was raped
in every orifice of my body that would admit a cock. Thursday I slept all day.
This morning I have a roof over my head, food on the table for my daughters and
a cup of coffee placed into my hand by Mrs. Broussard. Over the years I come to
realize that such is life.
"Girls, I want you to listen to your mother. This is the first chance I have
had to have a serious talk with you since your father died." That's how I begin
my speech to my daughters. "Kim and Ashley, with the death of your father we
are facing very uncertain times. Honestly, Alex and I have been very negligent
parents. Frankly we have let you grow up spoiled and wild, especially the last
couple of years." I could see that my words were having all the impact of a
battery-powered fan in a hurricane. "Hello, hello, Earth to Kim, Earth to
Ashley, come in please." I waved my hand at the two vacant faces staring at me
across the butcher block kitchen table. This elicited a response from the
thirteen year old Ashley, "Howcum we don't got any fuckin' TV. We have been
here since wen'day nite and no fuckin' TV. Wha is this a fuckin' jail or
sumthin?" she mumbled. Her older sister Kim was less verbal, just sitting there
and sullenly staring off into space. I don't think a single word I was saying
was registering on these adolescent minds. I tried a simpler approach. "Girls,
we have been here two days and you have to start learning the rules! If you
have not cleaned your room by the time I get back there will be all hell to
pay." They yawned and stumbled off to a room they now had to share.
I shifted my weight on the wooden chair and all hell erupted in my backside.
This was the first time I have sat in two days. My butt just reminded me that,
due to the beatings it had endured, it had seceded from the rest of my body. It
would support no contact with any surface whatsoever. It was noisily expressing
its discontent at the abuse I was heaping on it by sitting down. I spent all of
yesterday lying prone in bed. This didn't make my bruised breasts happy. I
tried to support them by placing one pillow and a forearm above my bosom and
another pillow and forearm below my bosom in an effort to keep my chest off the
bed. This was of minimal relief. I spent at least a couple of hours soaking in
tepid water in the tub in the morning, again in the afternoon and again in the
evening. Mrs. Brousard helped with her Aloe Re-Leaf ointment, ramen noodle soup
and Motrim. But I spent the entire day in quite a bit of pain. Today was
better but I still felt beaten-to-shit, which is exactly what I am. However,
today I need to meet with His Majesty, Rev. Max Payne at 9:00 AM. That is why I
am sitting here in my bathrobe snarfing up coffee in an attempt to get my shit
together and get over to the school.
Mrs. Broussard managed to make it out of our old house with two suitcases of my
stuff. And she made sure that the girls made it out each carrying two bags of
their stuff which they referred to as their shit. Some times they are so
expressive. Not much to show for a decade of life married to one of the richest
men in the world. But the vultures were remorseless. I realize that there are
bankruptcy laws designed to protect the personal effects of people overcome by
financial disaster. But try explaining that to a Federal judge who has just
lost half of his retirement account. Worse is the Sheriff's Deputy who has just
watched the fund he has been short selling on credit card money go into the
tank. Due process, RUBBISH! I am amazed that Mrs. Broussard got the girls out
alive through that mob. Well one advantage of us all being together at 2nd
Evangelical is that clothing requirements will be limited to the girl's uniforms
and my dark skirts and pastel blouses. No need for frantic back to school
shopping at the Galleria. Not that we could afford it on my income. Boy, oh
boy, oh boy are the girls unprepared for the change coming in their lifestyle.
Ashley was not far off in her "Prison" comment. We are in a debtors prison.
Luxurious compared to those of Dicken's day but still not far off. Seeking
sanctuary in a Fundamentalist prison for the financial insanities of our beloved
Alex.
Ms. Francine Belt
8:30 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
An Interview With Rev. Payne
My talk with Rev. Payne went just about as I expected. I have known him for
many years since I was a student at 2nd Evangelical. We had talked about
teaching many times while I was a student at Hometown Bible University. And
having been a student at 2nd Evangelical I knew about disciplinary procedures
having had my share of strappings from the teachers and even a few trips to the
basement for a "twitch with the switch". I do have to admit that I was a little
taken aback with the level of discipline currently being imposed on the teachers
which is more severe than that which the girls endure. As a student you always
think that the teachers have it so much better than you did. We girls knew
about the Treatment Room. But I traveled with what was a pious and prissy crowd
and none of us had ever been to the Treatment Room. It was more or less just a
distant dark threatening cloud that hung over all of us but which never rained
on any of my friends. Kind of like herpes, HIV, the IRS and gum disease. Girls
that had been there just didn't talk about it with us. I now realized that most
of the trips to the Treatment Room were made by adults - teachers and in the
last couple of years, mothers.
Mothers, that was the other shock. Five year ago we didn't have the current
"Maternal Responsibility Policy" wherein mothers get punished for the misdeeds
of their daughters. I can see a lot of advantages to this. Getting your ass
pounded along side your daughter will go a long way towards minimizing the
"Drive-By Parenting" that was so common when I was in high school. The girls in
the 'fast crowd' in those days had mothers that were totally wrapped up in their
social lives. It tended to be the fathers who were insistent that their
daughters go to 2nd Evangelical to get 'straightened out'. Subjecting the
mothers to corporal punishment will really get some maternal attention. But how
will I go about caning someone fifteen years older than me?
Well, now is the time for my meeting with Dr. Strikt. As a student she always
scared the beejeezus out of me. Once I graduated and went to HBU she seemed
much less formidable and when I decided to major in education she became almost
friendly. It was while talking with her that I decided to give teaching a 2nd
Evangelical a try. Well, now she is going to show me the ropes. Speaking of
ropes and other matters! My major concern is the twenty-five pounds I put on
while at HBU. I known what sticklers both Rev. Payne and Dr. Strikt are about
fat. You can bet every last stroke of the switch that she will dedicate a
certain amount of her attention to getting me to slim down. And I know what her
solution is to every problem.
Mrs. Candice Butz
9:00 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Another Interview With Rev. Payne
Same office, same receptionist as two days ago. But this time I am punctual to
the tick of the clock. And this time dressed a little differently. Rather than
a hot pink miniskirt and a low cut blouse under a tight jacket, I am dressed in
the modest fashion expected of a 2nd Evangelical teacher. Well sort of. I have
on a fully-buttoned-up, French blue, long-sleeved, oxford cloth blouse with a
dark blue paisley scarf under the collar. My navy blue pencil skirt reaches
well below my knee. The fabric is a mix of synthetics that has a bit more give
than is probably appropriate for this place but I like to show off my curves.
My skirt is just a tiny little bit snug but it is still loose enough that it
slides easily over my half slip. And a light weight, loose, flowing medium blue
blousy jacket with padded shoulders. Almost like a caftan, it is long enough so
that it reaches about to mid thigh. My glorious blond hair is pulled back into
a rather severe bun. Thank God for Mrs. Broussard. While I lay in bed on
Thursday recuperating, she went out and got me some clothes suitable for this
job. Actually, this is an outfit that would have induced severe nausea in Mrs.
Candy Genron, "TACKY, UGLY, BARF". But Mrs. Genron is dead and I am Mrs.
Candice Butz. And I am not wearing a bra. My breasts are so swollen that they
don't easily fit into any of my existing bras. And my boobies are so bruised
and painful that trying to stuff them into a tight bra is not even worth
contemplating. Ditto for the buns. The very thought of wearing panties is too
agonizing to contemplate. My perineum is so bruised that it is still painful to
pee. Even my bruised thighs protested against wearing thigh-hi's. Fortunately,
the skirt was long enough so that I could wear knee-hi nylons. And the shoes,
oh yes, the shoes. After having been strung up on my toes for so long on Wens,
about the only thing I could get into in the way of a dress shoe was a total
flat. A Bass Wejun. Boy oh boy I must really look like shit. This morning the
bags under my eyes were still so severe that I could barely cover them up with
makeup. Well, at least you can say that I do not resemble the slut that
everybody says I truly am. I doubt that today I could turn on a horny horned
toad.
Rev. Maximilian Payne
9:05 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
The Beautiful Mrs. Butz
Oh my Lord. She was a beautiful sight when she strode into my office. Candy
had been transformed into Candice. Her clothes just flowed over her. That
jacket tries to conceal her charms but I can see the sexy way that her breasts
and ass move under the light cloth. I notice that she is not wearing a bra and
her breasts jiggle provocatively with every step she takes. She gives me an
instant erection. After Francine, that lump of pig fat that Dr. Strikt insists
on hiring, Candice is a fawn in the forest.
I inquire as to how she is faring after being subjected to Dr. Strikt's tender
attention on Wednesday. She says that it was hard to bear but that anything can
be endured when the goal is 2nd Evangelical. I tell her that she doesn't have
to sit if she doesn't want to. She gratefully remains standing. I request to
see how bad an effect the punishment was. She daintily removes her jacket,
skirt and half slip and folds them over a chair. Walking over directly to where
I am sitting she turns around and lifts up the tail of her blouse. The cuts and
bruises indicate the enthusiasm with which Dr. Strikt always applies to any
disciplinary task. I say that it looks as if it will be several weeks before
Mrs. Butz will be able to sit with comfort and she agrees. I enquire as to how
the rest of her is faring. She turns around and unbuttons her blouse. The
sight of her bruised breasts and lacerated nipples is almost more than I can
bear. Tears run down from my eyes. This is partially from my sympathy with her
battered condition. And partially because my erection, the largest I have had
in almost a decade, is caught in the leg hole of my jockey shorts. Then she
notes that I am uncomfortable and asks if there is anything she can do to help.
What happened over the next hour and a half beggars my abilities to describe.
The houris of Islam were probably trained by Candice Butz. She knelt down and
unbuckled my belt with her hands while she unbuttoned my pants and lowered my
zipper with her teeth. I will never know how she did that. Then she fished out
my penis and began to kiss the tip, retracting the foreskin with her mouth while
her fingers tickled my testicles. With her tongue she cleaned the last particle
of smegma from in back of the glans. Then she did things to the head and the
area of the shaft covered by the retracted foreskin with her mouth that I didn't
think possible. I just remember teeth, tongue, lips, the space underneath the
tongue, cheeks, and her uvula. I can't remember exactly what she was doing with
them but I recall that she used every part of her oral anatomy on me. All the
while she was massaging my prostate with her right hand and massaging the
follicles of my scrotum with the other hand. Then she was rubbing the shaft of
my penis between her breasts while kissing the tip of the glans and somehow
inserting her tongue into my urethral meatus. I didn't think that that was
anatomically possible. But she found a way. Then the deep throating! She went
on like this for what had to be a half an hour, backing off whenever I started
coming close to a climax. I knew it was at least a half an hour because Patty
called me at 9:30. Ordinarily, she knows better than to interrupt me when I am
interviewing a lady, but she said it was of the highest urgency. I told her
that unless God called, I was not to be disturbed until I told her it was OK.
Just take a message. In fact, if God called, He was only to be put through if
He was announcing that the end of the world was 15 minutes away. Have you ever
been on the brink of an orgasm for half an hour?
Then she took me into her pussy. Actually I recall that my boner, swollen to a
size larger than it had ever been in my life, was sucked into her. She must
have had rollers in her cunt because I swear they were rolling up my cock, from
the base to the head. And she had one hand up my ass massaging my prostate
while the other fondled my balls. I have been treated like that only once
before in my life. Her name was Cunagonde. It was almost thirty years ago. I
was young and full of spunk and vinegar. I was an itinerant preacher doings
revivals up and down US 59 throughout East Texas. She was young, and she was
beautiful and I have never fucked anything like that before or since. I wonder
what became of her. All at once I was twenty years old again. As I ejaculated
I screamed "CUNAGONDE" and I shot jism as I haven't done in decades. I must
have blown a quart into Candice. As she felt me climaxing she squeezed my
prostate and milked something somewhere deep inside my pelvis that drained every
drop of cum out of me. If you put the knowledge of my Urologist together with
the finger of my Proctologist you couldn't do to me what Candice did. I know
that I screamed for about three or four minutes and then I fainted. When I came
to I was muttering, "Candice, Cunagonde, Candice, Cunagonde, Candice,
Cunagonde."
Mr. Alex Genron
9:30 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Interview With A Couple of Whores
I lay there on a bed, in a bordello, in the Barrio, of Bogota. One whore was
blowing the finest snow coke that my boys make up my nose through a cocktail
straw. Another whore was fucking me. She had the most educated pussy I have
ever encountered. Excepting my Candy who has the greatest pussy in the world.
I miss Candy dearly, she was better than the finest Russian whore. She was
better than the finest Lebanese or Egyptian or Indian or Thai whore. She was
better than the finest Latina whore. She was even better than this whore. A
third whore was pulling these Japanese ping pong balls on a string out of my
asshole and was sucking my balls while the second whore was fucking me. What a
team. I was also drunk.
I was trying to get through to Max. But he wouldn't take my call. Imagine
that. He wouldn't take my call. Who the hell was he with that he wouldn't take
my call. Must be God to be that important. Max always has time for my calls.
Shit. Things are working out. I am so lucky that the HPD crime lab is so
inept. They can't do DNA matching to save their asses. A little bit of fix and
they prove to a one in a billion probability that the bozo in the Bentley who
ate the end of the 9 mm and blew away his face is Alex Genron, the universally
reviled failed financier. Yup, a one in a billion match. No doubt. No shit.
OOOOHHH BABY, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT.
Elsbeth Strikt, Ph.D.
9:35 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Weight Watchers From Hell
"OK Francine. We have seen the office you will share with Mrs. Butz. Now we
get around to the tough part of your orientation." We went through the door
marked "Faculty" and through the one marked "Humanities" and, not surprisingly,
Francine looked puzzled. They always do the first time around. At least
Francine was a former student and I have a strong suspicion that she knows what
is coming. We reached a locker with her name on it, next to Mrs. Butz's locker.
I opened the locker and looked her in the eyes, "OK, Francine, you know the
drill, clothes go in the locker, everything but the hose and shoes." Her gulp
was audible. As she disrobed and hung up her clothes she said, "I guess we are
going to the Treatment Room." She could see the door marked "B167, Treatment
Room" at the far end of the locker room. I nodded in affirmation. Once
Francine had stripped to her bra and panties her obesity was far more apparent.
She must have been fifty pounds overweight. She said, "This may be a bit hard
for me. I don't know what you are going to do to me but I never had to undress
completely for chastisement when I was a student. I guess that this is going to
me a bit more severe than I am used to." I nodded again. When she took off her
bra her massive breasts flopped down disgustingly. She covered them with her
forearms and said "I guess I am a little bit scared. Are you going to hurt me
bad?" She had the look of a frightened animal in her eyes. Hard to tell what
kind of an animal, she was so obese. Too fat for a pig. Maybe a hippo. I
firmly told her to stop stalling and get her panties off. As she walked toward
that dreaded door, covering her breasts and mons with her hands, the roll of fat
around her waist, her protuberant buttocks and massive thighs jiggled. As we
passed through the door into the brilliantly illuminated white Treatment Room I
said to her, "we are going to begin your weight loss program".
Barbara Robinson and Mrs. Anne Robinson were waiting for us in the Treatment
Room. Barbara was dressed demurely as always in a chambray shirt and a long
denim A line skirt that buttoned down the front revealing lower calves and
ankles covered in dark blue stocking. Her brown hair was done up in a bun.
Mrs. Robinson was stunning but unrecognizable. First, she was naked and
therefore she was without the chic and sexy clothing that was her hallmark.
Second she had an exceptionally tight black leather hood over her head. It
covered her eyes thereby occluding her vision. It also tightly bound her mouth,
preventing anything more than a mumble. The mask tightly pressed her ears up
against her head and not a wisp of hair escaped the mask which extended all the
way down her neck. The only thing not tightly covered with black leather was
her nose which protruded obscenely from a hole in the front. Mrs. Robinson's
hands and forearms were done up in shiny black leather gloves that laced up all
the way past her elbows. Her wrists and elbows were fastened together behind
her back by straps with the wrists further secured by straps to the back of the
hood at the back of the neck. It looked like a very painful bondage and it made
Mrs. Robinson's breasts stick out. Those breasts were covered by bruises and
cuts that were just beginning to heal. For that matter so was most of the rest
of her body. Probably the most spectacularly abused parts were her buttocks and
thighs. There probably wasn't an untouched single square inch of skin. Over
large areas the outer skin was simply peeled off. The better looking portions
were covered in deep purple bruise. Her lower back, flanks, stomach and pubes
were covered with cuts and bruises but not to the degree of her backside. Mrs.
Robinson was kneeling with her knees spread apart to an unnatural degree and her
lower extremities were clad in black leather high heeled boots that laced up
well above the knees. Closer examination revealed that her knees and ankles
were secured with padlocks to staples in the white tiled floor.
Francine stood just inside the Treatment Room and took in the bizarre scene. At
first she focused on the spectacle that Mrs. Robinson presented. She shuddered
and you could see the fat woman's eyes bulge out. She muttered to herself, "I
don't believe I'm seeing this". Then she began to notice other details in the
blazingly white room. Next to Mrs. Robinson was a puzzling apparatus. It
looked like the mangle from an ancient manual washing machine with two white
rubber rollers mounted about three feet off the ground in a white enamel iron
frame that was attached to a black wrought iron "prie dieu". There was a large
winged adjustment nut on the top of the enamel iron assemblage and a crank
handle on the right side. At first the juxtaposition of a laundry implement on
top of a piece of ecclesiastic furniture made little sense. Then Francine
caught an image of the lady in bondage leathers kneeling on the "prie diu" with
her prominent breasts just at the level of the rollers. Having had a mammogram
four days earlier, Francine started shaking. Then she looked over at the other
side of the room where Barbara was standing. There stood a wooden pillory with
a central hole for the neck and two lateral holes for the wrists. The holes
were about thirty inches up off the ground which meant that anyone secured in
the pillory would be bent over at a very uncomfortable angle. Then Francine
heard me close the door behind her and lock the deadbolt. At that point she may
have noticed that Barbara had a six-thong whip in her right hand because she
turned to me and inquired "is that for me?" I nodded. Then she really started
to shake. I told her, "Ms. Belt, over the next few months you are going to
start taking weight loss very seriously. The penalty for failing to lose weight
here is very severe". Francine then fell to her knees and vomited all over the
floor.
Mrs. Candice Butz
9:50 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Revelations
What a pathetic old man. I manipulated him like a sixteen year old on his first
trip to a whorehouse. I doubt that he had ever had a really sophisticated
sexual experience before in his life. Using all my skills I managed to get his
withered penis reasonably stiff and after about a half an hour of stimulation he
finally got it into me. When it comes to contracting the muscles of the pelvic
floor I have few equals. I managed to get my "magic wave" going. That's where
I first contract the muscles low down in my vagina, just above the fourchette.
Then I contract muscles progressively higher up along the vaginal wall. I don't
really know how I do it but it drives men nuts. Their eyes glaze and drool runs
out of the corners of their mouths. In particular it causes geezers to dream of
the sexual exploits of their youth that they never actually had. When Max
finally ejaculated a feeble spurt he started moaning "Cunegonda" over and over
again. Now I have had many men call out a lot of different names while their
shot their wad but never "Cunegonda". Now I was sore as all hell but as we lay
on his couch in post-coital somnolence I let him fondle my battered breasts and
bruised pussy and pretended that I had multiple orgasms. Meanwhile, I turned
over and over in my mind the word, Cunegonda.
After a while he began to get chatty. Men are so predictable. They get laid,
they get sleepy, and then they want to talk. It's a good idea to listen to them
because you learn the most interesting things. Unfortunately, Rev. Payne wanted
to do more than talk. He wanted to sing to me.
"You've been a fool and so have I,
But come and be my wife,
And let us try before we die
To make some sense of life.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good;
We'll do the best we know,
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
And make our garden grow."
Off key, hell, he's tone deaf. No sense of rhythm either. I finally recognized
the tune. "Candide", the finale. The first opera I ever saw. Back when Alex
and I were first dating. Alex wanted to impress me. Figure that all women
loved opera. Well as they say. "I've been beaten and whipped and repeatedly
stripped, I've been forced into all sorts of whoredom, but I'm finding of late
that the very worst fate is to perish of comfort and boredom." Well, I've had
the beatings and whippings and strippings and whoredom so I guess I could do
with a little bit of comfort and boredom. Being sung to by a love stricken
geezer fundamentalist sadist preacher. What would my mother think.
Ms. Barbara Robinson
10:00 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Beat the Teacher
She was one really fat disaster area, Ms. Francine Belt, our new English
teacher. Since two years ago when the new teacher disciplinary code was
started, we have had a number of teachers leave. Mostly older ones. I guess
they didn't like being subjected to the same sort of disciplinary code as the
students. I have a hunch, that Dr. Strikt was also using chastisements to drive
out any teachers who didn't see eye to eye with her. It probably didn't take
more than a couple of trips to the Treatment Room to convince a middle aged
teacher that just about any high school was more comfortable than 2nd
Evangelical. Most of the new teachers were coming in right out of college.
None too bright and none too good and all serious fundamentalist evangelicals.
This latest one is a disaster. Ms Belt was a graduate of 2nd Evangelical, Class
of '96. I had to look her up earlier in the yearbooks in the library because
she graduated before I arrived. A real loser. Obviously took her five years to
get through an EDU major at Hometown Bible University which is hardly in the
same category as Rice. She was chunky at 2nd Evangelical and put on even more
weight in college. When she walked into the Treatment Room she was shaky.
After she took in the sight of my mother in leather bondage next to the
tittilator and then caught the sight of me next to the pillory she lost it. She
dropped to her knees, barfed all over the floor, pissed herself and fainted.
Gross!
First Dr. Strikt and I tried hauling her over to the pillory. Forget it.
Francine must have weighed way over 200 lbs. Try dragging two hundred pounds of
limp deadweight over a tile floor some day. Finally we sat her up and revived
her with the old ammonia soaked cotton swab up the nose trick. After
applications to both nostrils, sticking it way up and twirling it, she started
gagging and coming around. Of course the first thing she did was vomit all over
herself. Gross! I never knew someone that had that much vomit in them. She
must have pigged out this morning at a breakfast buffet. Then while I held her
sitting up, Dr. Strikt got the hose and hosed her down, fortunately not
splattering me too badly in the process. Next I got the mop and bucket and we
made her clean up the mess she had made. I think that my mother was fascinated
by what was going on. Mom couldn't see anything because of the mask/hood over
her head and I suspect she couldn't even hear too well but I'll bet she could
smell the puke and the piss. I could see her craning her head around trying to
figure out what was coming off. Well when Francine starts screaming I suspect
that sound will penetrate. Finally we got the new teacher over to the pillory.
She struggled a bit as we forced her neck into the wooden frame but once that
was secured she stopped fighting us and we were able to fit her wrists into the
hand holes without too much trouble. Francine was bent over ninety degrees at
the waist by the pillory, an angle that with her big stomach must have been very
uncomfortable. Given how readily she passed out I wondered what we were going
to do with her if she went unconscious while under the whip. Would she be left
dangling from the pillory? Wouldn't she strangle? Then Dr. Strikt pulled out
the weirdest looking pole I had ever seen and suddenly I understood. It looked
like a thirty inch long prop with a couple of fingers from a black rubber glove
and a squeeze bulb on one end. As she positioned the stick in between
Francine's legs it hit me. The two big fingers went into her! One finger went
up her ass while the other finger went up her snatch! Francine didn't like it
but there wasn't an awful lot she could do. It was tricky going but eventually
Dr. Strikt got it in. Then she started squeezing the rubber bulb and Francine
started screaming "NO! NO!". Dr. Strikt was obviously inflating the fingers to
hold them into Francine's nether orifices. Later I got to check her out and I
figure that each of those fingers inflated up to the size of large grapefruits.
Must have been painful as all hell. Now Francine had no choice but to keep her
ass up in the air. With one big bulb up her asshole, she couldn't shit. With a
second huge bulb up her pussy her urethra was compressed in such a way that she
couldn't pee. As her bladder slowly filled with urine over the next couple of
hours the pain must have been exquisite steadily increasing to an unbearable
agony. Francine later told me that the torture of an increasingly full bladder
was almost as bad as having most of the skin whipped off her commodious
backside. Securing the fat lady's ankles to a couple of staples in the floor
completed the bondage. I was awestruck at the brilliance of the arrangement -
the biggest ass I have ever seen hoisted up on an inflatable double dildo.
Now it was my turn to have fun. Late Wednesday night (actually early Thursday
morning), I had my first taste of wielding the scourge when I used the knotted
Norcod whip on my mom. Francine was to get less of a battering, after all
classes started in two weeks and she had girls to teach. So she got a Norcod
whip without knots. Very painful but less actual damage to the skin. Still six
strands of sixteen gauge plastic coated wire is nothing to sneeze at. Earlier
that morning Dr. Strikt had given me six of her best with that very whip on my
bare behind so that I would know what it felt like. It was raise your skirts,
set your feet apart, hold your ankles and here it comes. Although it turned me
on to an excellent degree it was also extremely painful. Dr. Strikt was
skillful enough so that I had no cuts and afterwards she was kind enough to
finger me to a marvelous climax as I was bent over and spread. But I sure that
I would not like the full Mosaic dose while bound in the bent over position. It
wouldn't be worth the orgasm. Fortunately for Francine, her thighs are so fat
that I wouldn't have been able to get the knotless whip to thrash her pussy even
if she wasn't impaled on the "prop", So there goes the fun of it. It will be
the full Mosaic thirty-nine lashes without any hits on the perineum. I suspect
that by the time it is over, Francine will be bleeding pretty good.
Francine proved to be a weak sister. The fat woman screamed at the very first
blow which only encouraged me to hit her harder. She was hoarse and gasping by
the sixth lash. I was actually happy that her scream decreased because I loved
the whistling sound the whip made and the twack as it hit the skin. By the time
Francine passed out after the ninth strike her backside was covered with welts
but she wasn't bleeding. I have to admit that whipping her was even more erotic
than whipping my mother. My mom was already pretty messy when I started on her
and Dr. Strikt got to hit her half the time. Francine was unmarked when I
started, and fresh. Therefore I had the chance, so to speak, to paint on a
fresh canvas. And she had nowhere the self control of my mother. Talk about
screaming. It was so loud that it actually hurt my ears. I found it very
arousing. After six lashes, Dr. Strikt had me stop while she whispered in
Francine's ear. I used the pause to manipulate myself to orgasm. I was so
stimulated that I simply stood there upright and tweaked my love button until I
started to shake and shudder. Wild! Dr. Strikt must have been talking about
food and diets and something like that because as soon as I started up again,
Francine blew more chunks. We just let the vomit fall there on the other side
of the wooden pillory frame. Francine had to look at it for the rest of the
day. And the pile got bigger as we went along.
Each time Francine passes out we took a break. Some times we went over and
worked on my mother. Mom's backside was too ripped up for any more flogging and
she had been raped so badly that we had to leave her vagina and rectum alone.
That left her breasts and we had a lot of fun playing titty in the wringer with
her that morning. But some times while Francine was recovering we played with
each other. I got Dr. Strikt to climax three times that day and she got me off
twice. We worked straight through without lunch not finishing until three
o'clock.
Well back to Francine. I gave her ten through twenty-one slowly, switching
sides after every three. The first always went to the outside, curling around
her side. Sometimes I got a good enough curl that the ends of the strands
actually struck the front of the thighs or the stomach. The second blow of the
triad was aimed so that the end of the cords struck in the middle. That way I
could get maximum curl into her crack or inner thigh. Her fatness and the prop
unfortunately prevented curling the tips right onto her pussy or asshole. Well
every method has its shortcomings. The third blow was once again always to the
outside but I always tried to angle this one so that it gave a crossing pattern
with the others. Then I would wait for at least five minutes before I crossed
over and gave another three from the opposite side. Using this method I managed
to get twelve in before she fainted the second time. By about the nineteenth
cumulative lash Francine had screamed herself hoarse. For most of this second
cycle of whipping, the thongs were coming down upon already welted skin. When
the whip cords struck skin that already had a wheal, blood blisters formed. I
tried to spread my strikes evenly, but with six strands in this whip by the
twenty-first blow I was breaking blood blisters. When Francine passed out for
the second time in the pillory we decided to give her a half hour break.
After half an hour we brought Francine around by sponging down her wounds with
the same mixture of saturated salt in white vinegar that we used the other night
on my mother. The combination of salt and acid on cut flesh really elicits a
howl. I had thought earlier that Francine had lost her voice but I was proved
wrong. Half an hour's respite and the searing agony of the acetic brine brought
out her full voice. I was then struck by an idea. In her bent over position
her breasts dangled down like the udder of a cow. By now I was getting pretty
handy with my whip. How about swinging the whip with an underhand stroke as if
I was pitching a softball and striking the hanging jugs from below? Dr. Strikt
granted me permission. I started off standing to Francine's right and aiming
the tip of the lash to strike her right breast. The experiment was a success
and I cleanly landed three on her massive right boob. Then I switched over to
her left side and landed three on her left boob. Francine really hated having
her titties beaten and she reacted with howling and bucking up and down.
However, her front end was secured by the sturdy wooden pillory and all she
succeeded in accomplishing was to jump her rear end up and down a little. Since
she was impaled both anally and vaginally she was only causing herself more
grief. Eventually she realized that she was accomplishing nothing more than
ripping up two of the most sensitive parts of her body and she stopped the
hopping. Little trickles of blood started running down the inner aspects of her
cellulite studded thighs from where she tore her vaginal and rectal openings on
the inflated plugs. Getting back to my tit whipping, I switched back to the
right side. I tried to lay one all the way across, hitting the left breast with
the tips of the whip and the right breast with the mid-portion. By the third
stroke I was succeeding. So then it was back to the left side and aim for the
right breast. I have to admit that I was highly pleased at the skill I was
developing. I cannot say that Francine was equally pleased. But her
protestations ceased when she passed out at the thirty-third cumulative stroke.
I could see that she had numerous blood blisters on her breasts. Any more blows
and she would start bleeding profusely.
Dr. Strikt pointed out that Francine had probably taken enough mammary
chastisement and suggested that I confine my final efforts to her behind. Since
most of my blows to her thighs and buttocks had come from the sides she
suggested that I try standing all the way up by the pillory on her left side,
holding the whip in my right hand and striking down from up above. This would
land the strands of the last six blows across the buttocks in a caudad to a
cephalad direction producing a checkerboard pattern. I was so taken with the
idea that after only a ten minute frigging break I went back to work reviving
the fat lady. First came an ammonia swab up each nostril. Then I twisted and
pinched each nipple - a suggestion for revival from Dr. Strikt which seemed to
work quite well. Then I sponged down Francine's buttocks with the briney
vinegar and lastly I even went to work with the sponge on her breasts. I knew
she was ready for the last part of her flogging when she cursed me soundly. The
six lash checkerboard worked fabulously. Six lashes with the cords of a six
thonged whip yields thirty six strikes. Even with as broad a butt as Francine,
this works out to a spacing of one cord strike per less than one inch! Oh what
a pattern. I delivered the blows in relatively rapid order in my excitement. I
have to admit that Francine was probably unconscious for the last two hits. But
it was a lot of fun and her lacerated butt bled like the proverbial stuck pig.
I really believe that today I have made a huge step toward becoming an expert
with the whip.
Mrs. Robinson
10:00 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Titties in the Wringer
They let me recover on Thursday, those demons from hell, Dr. Strikt and my
daughter Barbara. Yes she was getting back at me for what she perceived to be
years of neglect. It was just that as a baby I never warmed to her and as she
went her way, I went mine. Well, she certainly has it in for me. Along with my
husband and these fundamentalist fiends. Just see what being a modern woman
nets you. Kidnapped, beaten, raped, sodomized, fisted, flogged. I guess they
let me rest on Thursday because I was too weak to be much fun to torture. I
have no idea where they kept me because when they took me there I was too dazed
to figure things out. Thursday was spent naked, handcuffed hand and foot to a
single bed in a bare white painted room. The window was covered by closed
miniblinds. And on the interior side of the miniblinds there was the kind of
strong wire mesh that they have over the windows on a psych ward. I guess that
they were taking no chances. On Friday they took me out before dawn. I was
asleep when they came for me and the first thing I knew they had a blind fold on
me. Then came the prick of a needle and the next thing I knew I was waking up,
blindfolded and naked. Before long I figured out that I was back in that damned
Treatment Room.
The first thing they did was put my arms into some sort of bondage gear. Long
gloves were laced up and my elbows were fastened behind my back. I howled at
the pain of having my arms twisted up behind my back but they didn't care.
Sounded like my daughter Barbara and the Dark Lady. Then they put me into boots
with the heels from hell, must have been five inchers. Off came the blindfold.
Yes Barbara and Dr. Strikt. But I didn't get much of a chance to look at them
because on went a hood that cut off my vision while gagging me and making it
hard to hear. About the only thing I could easily do was breathe. How nice.
But before the hood when on I caught I glimpse of something that puzzled me.
Next to me was what looked like part of an old manual washing machine. One with
a wringer. I hadn't seen anything like that since the early 60's. Soon enough
I guess I will learn what that is all about. Later they brought another woman
into the Treatment Room. She must have barfed and peed because I could smell
the acrid, rancid odor or vomit and later the faintly pungent musk of urine.
Then after a while I could barely make out the all too familiar sound of a whip
whistling through the air followed by shrill, heart-rending screams. Someone
was being flogged. Then after what must have been a half an hour the woman
stopped screaming. All the while I was worried about what they were going to do
to me. What the hell is that wringer for? Then in a flash, a phrase too
obscene to even contemplate came into my mind "Don't get your titties in the
wringer".
Before too long I felt someone releasing the ties that bound me in place. They
grabbed my upper arms and got me on my feet. I was pretty damn unstable on
those heels. They drug me over no more than five or six feet and made me kneel
down on some sort of solid board. Then they pushed me forward until I made
contact with an apparatus at the height of my chest. It hit me, The Wringer! I
remembered those white, hard rubber rollers. They were going to put my titties
through the wringer. I tried to struggle but I was still weak from the beating
and abuse they had given me two days ago. They fastened my knees to the kneeler
with straps around the upper parts of the backs of my calves. Next some sort of
a belt was fastened around my waist holding me up against the cold metal of the
apparatus in front of me. Horrifyingly, the hard rubber of the two rollers of
the wringer chilled my breasts. They had previously adjusted the infernal
machine so that it was at exactly the right height. Now another strap was
fastened just at the level of my armpits further holding my chest up against the
machine. I tried to scream but all that came out was a muffled "gaaargh". I
struggled but the straps held me close. Then I felt it. My right nipple being
grasped between a finger and a thumb. The nails were digging deeply into flesh
that was still tender from being whipped on Wednesday. I attempted to scream
once again but screaming and struggling were useless. Then the left nipple was
also grabbed. I could feel them being dragged in between the upper and lower
rollers which must have been no more than an inch or so apart. I felt something
sharp being pressed up against the lower surface of my right nipple and then a
piercing pain. I think they just pierced my right nipple with some sort of pin
or needle. Now something sharp against my left nipple and, argh, the piecing.
My nipples are pinned, just on the other side of the rollers. Now I dimly hear
a "click, click, click" and I start to feel pressure on my breasts just behind
the nipples. Oh my God they must be tightening the rollers down. They are
getting ready to crush my breasts! NNOO!
Rev. Maximilian Payne
10:35 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Love
We lay on my couch. The two of us. Mostly undressed. Candice and me. I
haven't felt like this in years. No in decades. We are covered by a quilt
given to me by one of the ladies in the church. Nice body, but nothing like
Candice. We cuddle. I feel all warm. Then she does it to me. She is arousing
me again. I didn't know I had it in me. Oh God! Here we go again.
Afterwards I lie there half asleep. Earlier I was singing to her. I am not
much for classical music but there is one piece I really love. The first opera
I ever went to. Turns out it was also the first opera Candice ever went to.
She remembers another part of the song and sings it to me.
"I thought the world was sugarcake,
For so our master said;
But now I'll teach my hands to bake
Our loaf of daily bread.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good;
We'll do the best we know,
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
And make our garden grow."
When she looks at me that way I melt. She asks me why all the pain and beatings
and torment. I explain to her what sinful creatures we are and how only though
pain does redemption come. Fourteen Stations, that's what the papists believe.
Fourteen Stations of the Cross. Going from station to station reliving the
torment of Christ during his Passion. From being judged by Pilate through
carrying the Cross through the streets. Beatings, stumbling, strippings and
then the ultimate pain. Pain before the Resurrection.
And speaking of resurrection, she is causing me to resurrect again. I want to
pleasure her. We sixty-nine. I lick her genitals while she sucks my balls. I
stick my nose into her asshole while I blow into her pussy. I am going nuts.
She promises she will never hurt me. I tell her about Cunegonda. I love her.
Mrs. Candice Butz
10:45 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Love
What a sorry, twisted old man. Pain is all he knows. I wonder what made him
that way. He is mumbling on about fourteen Stations of Pain, the Stations of
the Cross. He must be nuts. There must be some sort of a twisted relationship
between him and Dr. Strikt. But that is none of my business. I need to get him
into the palm of my hand. And then from hand to mouth. And I think that we are
well on the road there.
Then it hits me. He starts talking again about Cunegonda, which is my mother's
name. As the dates and the places line up, the realization hits home. As he is
nuzzling my anal rosebud with his nose it becomes apparent that almost thirty
years ago he had a love affair with a blond lady in East Texas named Cunegonda.
My mother's name is extremely rare, she is the only Cunegonda I have ever heard
of. Apparently a child was on the way when he skipped town. He is crying now.
GOOD GOD, ITS DADDY! I am fucking and blowing my own father! My long lost
dad! This is so sick I can't believe it. But what choice do I have. Right now
I am being eaten out by papa. Well, as Joe E. Brown said in "Some Like It Hot",
'none of us are perfect'.
Elsbeth Strikt, Ph.D.
11:00 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Love
That was the high point of the day, when we, my new found lover Barbara and I,
fed Mrs. Robinson's tits into the wringer. I had purchased the wringer many
years ago with just this purpose in mind. But it sat in storage because it is
such a rare opportunity for someone to come along who is in need of such severe
chastisement. And who is available for such extreme discipline. But Mr.
Robinson wants his wife punished to just short of the ultimate. And I am
willing to comply.
Barbara and I spent all yesterday afternoon mounting the manual wringer on the
kneeler and checking it out. Barbara even insisted on being the "subject" of a
test run although we put negligible pressure on her breasts. It turned her on
to such an extreme degree that she had two orgasms while strapped to the
machine. And seeing her so stimulated caused me to become aroused to an extent
that I have seldom experienced without severe torture. There is a bond
developing between the two of us that I have never known before in my life. It
is a mixture of erotic attraction, a longing to be hurt and experience pain, and
the thrill of giving pain. I do believe that I have found the love of my life
in this girl. To think that I could be seduced by a high school senior.
Barbara seemed to find torturing her mother's breast the ultimate arousal. As
we fed her nipples though the hard white rubber rollers and fastened them with
aluminum shish kabob skewers, Barbara started shaking. I could see another
extreme orgasm coming on. Her shaking became worse as we tightened the knurled
tension adjustment knob on the top. As I began to move the crank that turned
the rollers and Anne's breasts began to feed into the machine, Barbara just
lifted up her skirts, sat on the floor and frigged herself into unconsciousness.
I have a feeling she never even noticed when her mother passed out.
And so we spent the morning. We would whip Ms. Belt until she passed out, take
a break, and run Mrs. Robinson's tits either in or out flattening and
compressing them a little bit more each time, have sex, take a break and then go
back to work on flogging Francine's behind. And then another cycle. By
noontime, we had removed most of the superficial layer of skin from Francine's
fat ass, Anne's tits were a one foot long, one inch thick, solid purple bruise
and Barbara and I were so climaxed out I doubt we will be able to have another
orgasm for a whole week. And a long as there is a female in need of
chastisement, Barbara and I will never lack for sexual gratification. For the
first time in a couple of decades I can say, "Life is Beautiful"! Late that
afternoon I described what is called "The Pear" to Barbara. I saw one in a
museum in Central Europe. This implement was used by the Spanish Inquisition to
painfully dilate the vagina or rectum of a victim. We should make a "Pair" for
Mrs. Robinson. After all, we will have her for at least another month. When we
are finished with her even Dr. Shinezall won't be able to "nip and tuck" her
back into shape.
Mr. Alex Genron
11:30 AM, Friday August 3rd, 2001
Finis
Still can't get through to Max. I am pretty well out of it by now. No more
coke. Too limp to even get blown let alone fuck. Sitting here nursing a bottle
of the local sugar cane brandy. My good friend Major Noriega walks in with a
pale teenager who is walking with a funny, wide stance shuffle. Says his name
is Benji and that a Mr. Robinson has had him flown in on a company plane. I
explain to the boy that I am a business associate of his friend Mr. Robinson and
that I will take care of him. We will protect him but he had better tow the
line. After all, we are not killers but Mr. Robinson, Major Noriega and I are
not men to be trifled with.
At that point all hell broke loose. A hand grenade came smashing through the
window and detonated. The last thing I remembered four men broke kicked open
the door to the hallway and sprayed the room with Glock fire. As I went for my
gun, I distinctly remember being hit four times. Then, the lights went out
forever.
Dr. Shinezall
12 Noon, Friday August 3rd, 2001
The Last Word
So the story of the wondrous adventures and trials and tribulation of that great
Texan heroine, Candy Butz, has come to an end. As we can see, everything that
happens is for the good in this best of all possible worlds. Though pain may
appear to rule the world it is only pleasure in disguise. Though perversion
seems rampant it is only virtue in another guise. And if you have the right
attitude, everyone has a chance to find happiness.
"Let dreamers dream what worlds they please;
Those Eden's can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good;
We'll do the best we know,
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
And make our garden grow."
Any Questions?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to extend the profoundest apologies to Voltaire, Terry
Southern and Leonard Bernstein for flagrant and perverse plagiarism. But they
are all dead and dead white males are accorded minimal respect in this
politically correct world. Considering that these three magnificent artists
spent their lives thumbing their collective noses at whatever establishment
happened to blight their decade, this collection of perversions can be
considered a tribute to them. I am sure that if they were alive today, Attorney
General Ashcroft would have agents at work investigating them.
This story could not have been possible without quoting and parodying the lyrics
of Richard Wilbur. In a day when the obscenities of rap fill our ears it should
be remembered that the greatest humor can oft be achieved with out resorting to
a single crudity. May his cleverness be remembered for another fifty years.
Or, as Richard's contemporary, Tom Lehrer said at about the same time Richard
was writing "Candide";
'For filth I'm glad to say is in the mind of the beholder.
When correctly viewed, everything is lewd.
I can tell you things about Peter Pan,
And the Wizard of OZ, there's a dirty old man.'
