BDSM Library - A Demonstration of Power

A DEMONSTRATION OF POWER

By Velvetglove

Introduction

For reasons explained in my true story ‘Stranger than Fiction’, I have not been posting for a while. However, during August 2009 I began writing fiction again, including the first few chapters of ‘A Demonstration of Power’. I intend to continue posting both these stories concurrently reflecting the two sides of my persona: the velvet glove and the iron fist.

This story is, of course, fiction and it is dedicated to all those brave protestors around the world who demonstrate against the power of an authoritarian state. My thanks to SMCyber for his input.

Disclaimer

‘A Demonstration of Power’ is an original work of fiction and fantasy. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality. Any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. Please do not read further if imaginary scenes of non-consensual sex, humiliation and cruelty offend you.

This account is © Velvetglove and no commercial use whatsoever is authorised without prior permission.

Please note codes: F/m, MF/mf, M+/f+, F+/m+, F/mf, non-consensual, heavy, serious, rape, torture, BDSM, SM, slavery, bondage, humiliation, blackmail, forced, modification, pregnant, fisting, tit torture, water sports, enema, cbt, chastity belt.

PART ONE

DEMONS AND DRAGONS

You are distractedly watching the monitors when you sit bolt upright.

That face ! You hit the rewind button excitedly, view the footage again in slow motion.

Sure enough, it really is her.

You twiddle the replay dial another time, studying each single frame, hitting the printer icon several times, making hard copies.

You smile inwardly, already feeling heat between your thighs.

You are sat alone in your small office. It’s barely more than a booth really, windowless and dark. But it is your own, private space. You have your desk, your chair, an identical guest chair, a couch by the wall and a filing cabinet in the corner.

On your desk there are four viewing monitors. They are imported, 20 inch flat screens controlled by a single keyboard. Aside from the phone and intercom, an angle-poise lamp, and a neat stack of buff files, there is nothing else.

You do not like clutter.

You study the demonstration now with renewed interest. There are several thousand of them on the streets; chanting, marching, waving their stupid, futile banners.

The faces are mostly middle class, professional; the urban elite who desire political change. Attractive faces mostly, good looking, 20s and 30s, pretty women and handsome men. Only a few have been sensible enough to wear headbands, even the occasional facemask with eyeholes. Most are bareheaded and they will be easily identified by VRS: Visual Recognition Software.

Their banners and placards say it all really; ‘Democracy’, Justice’, ‘Freedom’, ‘Individual Rights’, ‘Womens Rights’.

Above all, ‘Power to the People’.

You rock back on your wooden chair and hitch up your leather skirt. The pungent scent of unwashed sex assaults your nostrils. Musky, strong, fishy.

Your fingers descend to your greedy, already wet slit.

The only reminder of home is a framed photo standing on the filing cabinet. Your two children smile out at you. Innocent cherubs. Observing. You smile back at them as they watch their mother, your lips widening into an ‘o’ of eager anticipation.

You are only 24 years old; but you have already served 6 years in the State Police. You were recently promoted to Shift Supervisor in the Surveillance Division. It is a position in which you have demonstrated a particular aptitude.

You are dedicated, diligent, observant, motivated.

You love your authority.

To demonstrate your power.

Demonstrate.

Demons.

In the streets, Topaz felt so proud. The people really were rising as one. Even the Authorities would have to take notice this time. She chanted in unison with her colleagues, marching towards Central Square.

‘Power to the People. Power to the People’.

Topaz was a student journalist, in her final year before graduation. She was wedged amongst her favourite people in the world; her fiancé Jorjo, her best friends Silky and Danno. But they were surrounded by others, to their left and right, ahead and behind, a huge throng demonstrating, peaceful but united, orderly yet determined.

She smiled. To her these were not just slogans. She really believed the world could be made a better place. If power was shared with the people, if individuals truly were allowed to be individuals …

These were the best days of her life. Thrilling and intense. Everything was slotting into place; academically, romantically and nationally. She would have a career, a husband, and their children would grow up in a better country.

Jorjo steadied her as she stumbled.

She looked up at him gratefully. He was so strong, so protective. She always felt totally safe with him. He was 2 years older than her, 6’ 4” and strapping. She looked into his chocolate eyes, admiring his firm, stubbled jaw, his even features.

They had only been engaged for two weeks and she had obviously not made love to him. But the previous evening they had kissed and embraced for the first time, and she had felt his hardness, pressing against her body, her own nipples responding. Soon they would be married and she would finally discover what it was like.

She glanced across at Silky.

Silky was not only Topaz’s best friend, she was the nicest person you could ever meet and undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women in the entire country. Her profile was just so perfect; chin, nose, cheekbones, forehead, all in classical alignment, the archer’s bow of her two lips, yellow blonde hair rustling like silk thread as she walked and chanted.

And Danno, Silky’s husband, Jorjo’s best mate. What a neat square. Two female best friends married to two male best mates. Danno was shorter than Jorjo and less swarthy, less manly in her view, although she couldn’t deny that her friend’s husband was pretty good looking too.

Topaz was envious of her married friends. At 24, she was one of the last of her circle to stay single. Still a virgin.

For too long now she had relied on her fingers for release. Masturbation was a shameful, unspoken sin, and she felt terrible guilt every time she had succumbed to her juvenile appetites.

But at last she was about to taste the fruits of womanhood. Her pangs of impatience were nearly over. All her friends had waited too. Like Silky for example, who’d married Danno six months earlier, and was still sparkle-eyed about it, hinting lasciviously to Topaz about the carnal duties that awaited her.

Only one girl she had ever known had disobeyed the cardinal rule.

Only one girl from their school had gone with boys before marriage.

A girl named Elka.

You steady yourself before entering Interrogation Room 13.

You hear your mother’s stern voice in your ear as you always do:

‘An entrance, Elka, a woman should always make an entrance.’

You adjust your jacket: draw a deep breath. Today, you’re wearing your black State Police uniform; buttoned up leather jacket, white cotton shirt, tight black pants, leather boots. Your breasts are prominent and your waist is cinched tight. But underneath you wear no underwear; no bra, no panties.

No need.

Prisoner 13902 stares wide-eyed as you gently close the heavy door.

Immediate recognition ? Oh yes. Delightful.

She cannot speak. Her eyes move, clocking you. A pitiful moan escapes her distorted lips. Your two assistants have left her stretched, inert on the workbench. A steel spider gag holds her jaws wide apart. She is rendered immobile by shiny red leather straps round her forehead, neck, waist, wrists and ankles.

Her head cannot move. Her limbs cannot move.

But you pretend not to recognise her. You feign disinterest.

What’s she to you ? Just one more number to be processed.

You walk over to the table and pick up her file. There are two mug shots; straight-on facial and side-on profile, with 13902 superimposed in the bottom right corner. And there is one full length photo, naked but for her underwear.

It is the start of what will become a large photographic collection.

The form contains basic details you mostly know; her name, date and place of birth, height, vital stats, identity card number, parentage, relatives, education, a few other titbits.

There is a water cooler. Your pour yourself a paper cup, sip it, relishing the cold liquid as it calms you, still avoiding her pleading gaze.

Finally you turn in one smooth movement and survey her nakedness, making sure she can see the slight curl of your lip, the amusement in your feral grin. You want her to know, to feel it.

Yes - you recognise her.

No - you will not help.

She is not quite naked. Yet. Your assistants have left her simple white bra and functional cotton panties on. She clearly wasn’t planning to entertain today. Her nut-brown eyes gaze up at you, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

Her tits are splendid. Her figure has all the contours of a delicate vase; jutting hip bones either side of deep valleys that flare up to a plump mons, evident under her skimpy cotton panties. Her tummy is concave, untouched by childbirth.

You smirk. Her slim waist is one of those that makes you wonder quite where a big dick is going to fit !

Her prim cotton bra still manages to present her cleavage like a fruit stall; oversized, inviting breasts that rise up like volcanoes from the flatlands of her taut ribcage.

The kind of body that only the luckiest, most undeserving girls seem to get. Her skin is a subtle shade of olive, neither dark nor pale.

Its colour contrasts beautifully with the glossy scarlet leather of the rack. The leather is perfect, oiled, ready. Her face is framed by a matching scarlet leather U block that holds her head completely still.

You stand close to the rack, inhaling her thrilling fear.

Demons dance impatiently within your talons.

You place your hands on the leather either side of her waist and lower your head to just above her bra. Then you, ever so slowly, sweep your face down her body, sniffing, studying every inch and curve, every mole and hair, the goose bumps and the olive perfection. You inhale her belly button, panties, knees, feet, toes, then travel back up her legs, hips, armpits, neck and finally her gag-stretched, petrified face.

Terror really does have its very own scent.

“Oh dear.” You eventually murmur, ever so sadly. You tut-tut your teeth. “Topaz, isn’t it ?”

Her eyes blink, nostrils open. Such a pretty, helpless face.

You smile and nod into her eyes.

“I’ll answer for you, shall I ?”

But she so wants to speak, gnashing her pretty teeth against the cold steel of the gag.

“Shh ! Topaz. You’ll hurt your mouth. These gags aren’t just kinky toys. Keep still and listen.”

Oh but this is even better than you imagined. You want to go slowly, to savour this, but it’s so hard to control yourself. It’s like those stories you read online, on illicit Western websites. You have to stop your eyes scanning the text, leaping impatiently to the rude words, the crude action.

You reach out and brush her skin, just below the neck. Something like a bolt of electricity rushes along your arm, into your body, under your ribs, to the lava bubbling inside you.

She moves frantically. Less than a millimetre !

Despite desperately trying to resist, flee, jerk her head away in anger, her forehead and neck remain static.

Only her eyes can move, flicking this way and that like a tennis spectator. Her nostrils flare and her tongue flaps inside her gaping jaws. A tiny blue vein throbs in her temple with effort, disappearing under the edge of the tight strap buckled over her forehead.

You stand up and stretch. Take a deep breath. Such a simple thing. Something people do every minute of every day. Stand, stretch, inhale.

You put your hands on your hips, adopting a more businesslike pose.

It’s difficult to tell in her stressed state, but she seems prettier than you remember. Her face has matured, cheekbones refined, all hints of puppy fat gone. Above her neckline, her skin has tanned slightly darker. From marching, demonstrating, face exposed to the sun, a gentle golden glow, highlighting the white of her eyes and teeth.

“You have been arrested. For interrogation. For immediate sentence.”

You pat your jacket pocket and her eyes follow your hand.

“In here is a piece of paper already signed by the Ministry of Justice. Your punishment and its duration have been left blank.”

You give her your best gloat.

“It’s simply up to me to fill them in !”

You wallow and revel in your absolute power. You want her to see your enjoyment. It’s hard to tell with her face distorted by the gag, speechless, immobile. But you can see the jolt of stunned disbelief in her eyes, the dawning realisation that you’re not joking. Her eyes moisten.

Tears ! Already.

Of Hurt. Of Sadness. Of Shock. Of Frustration ?

Probably all of those things, and more.

But you feel no pity. Only rage. Anger with her, for sure.

And, yes. A little resentment that you are like this. Anger with yourself too. Why were you born like this ? What nature or nurture turned you into this ?

Regret ? Perhaps a little.

But guilt ? No.

You didn’t ask to be like you are, any more than a stupid person wants to be stupid, or an ugly person chooses ugliness.

Even now, deep down, you would prefer to be normal.

Nice and normal.

Nice and vanilla, preferring candlelit romance, satisfied with the love of one good man and weekly missionary sex in gentle darkness.

You remove your knife. A long handled, razor sharp switchblade.

The demon’s talon.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not going to cut you. Well … not yet.”

It is time for a change of pace.

Like the second movement of a Concerto; tempo accelerando.

“Right, let’s get started. Dim, dum, camel, dung !”

You whistle the rhyme from your childhood, dabbing the point of your knife in time to each word before selecting which side to start with.

Dim – dum – camel – dung.

You lean over and gently slice the spaghetti straps of her bra, then carve the centre where the cups are joined. You ease the cups away to reveal her magnificent tits. Even with her bra destroyed, they stand proud, so untouched, so delicious. Her nipples are soft, squashed, frightened. The label on her bra cup is a western 36D.

“Mhm.” You murmur appreciatively.

You chuckle straight into her panicky, damp eyes. You transfer your knife to your left and use your right hand to weigh her left tit. She pleads with you through her tears.

Please, even now, it’s not too late. Stop this. Pleeeease.

You squeeze it, like a melon at a market stall. Plump, firm but juicy. This variety will put up with plenty of manhandling. You knead it to and fro roughly, doing your best to let her read your evil mind.

These breasts will make a man very happy.

Columns of men, in fact.

But now not a single one of them will be her handsome fiancé !

Topaz sobbed in pain, misery, distress and futility as the uniformed woman molested her, mauling her breast.

It was Elka.

She and the other children at school had nicknamed Elka behind her back as ‘Petals’; Elka was considered to be like one of those finished roses, overblown, wet from the rain, burst petals lying on the ground.

It was a snide, local nickname used for girls who went with boys.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not going to cut you. Well … not yet.”

The words terrified her.

Now Elka had moved and was standing between her thighs, smiling down. The mechanical table Topaz was strapped onto was modern, made of sturdy steel and red leather, with dreadful buckles, knobs, motors. Her perspiring skin felt damp against the oiled leather. The lower half of the table whirred, parting like some birthing stool. She resisted but it easily pulled her bound ankles wide apart.

Elka brandished the glistening blade again and sliced. Topaz felt fabric being tugged away and then humid air on her bare pubic mound.

“Look at me.”

Topaz blinked back salty tears. Her jaws were in agony now, drool running into the back of her throat, choking her. Elka was watching her with one eye, her other examining the sliced innards of white cotton, smirking at a slight mark she’d found.

“You’ve been such a silly girl all this time.”

Then the cold tip of the knife pricked Topaz. Down there. She felt the blade nuzzling between her private lips, sliding between them. She winced but could barely move, helpless against this invasion, this further indignity.

“I mean, saving this for one man. When you could have been using it to have a good time with lots of boys at school and university.”

Topaz moaned a strangled gasp as the steel tip skated over her flesh, lower, even more humiliating, probing in between her buttocks.

“But now ?”

You have handpicked them.

The State Police keeps several duty rape squads on the premises 24/7. But for this job there was only one team. The elite.

The Dragons.

Your favourites from the entire roster. It won’t take long.

Six men troop into the Interrogation Room; a cross section of the worst of male humanity. Even the most raddled, impoverished, has-been hooker would baulk at any of these guys, certainly charge double or treble.

To a virgin their physical appeal is naturally unimaginable.

You watch and, as always, admire their technique. Professionals at work. Their victims never forget but, just in case, cameras and microphones project live recordings on monitors. The grunts, slaps, swearwords and jeers are preserved forever. Sadly the stench of body odour and visceral sex will go unrecorded but it would be equally memorable.

You love the sights, smells and sounds of fucking. Watching another woman, listening to her, choosing her partners for her.

Above all, rape. Even the word thrills you. In your own language, of course, but also in English and other languages: viol, raub, violacion, violenza, panc. Like other kids learn to count to ten in foreign tongues, you learn the words for sexual violence.

Gang rape. A feast for the senses. One is not enough. The floodgates must open, the city must be properly ransacked. It is like watching a movie; the pitiful screams, open mouths as the helpless villagers try to run from the marauding invaders, trapped down blind alleys, their fates inevitable.

Each dragon has his own USP:

There is Giant, over 7 ft tall. He won the toss and takes her cherry: some rough foreplay, pleading female sobs, a brutal thrust, an agonised wail, a chorus of pitiless laughter, the job is done. The fire-breathing dragon tattooed on his enormous back rears up and dives in time with his fucking.

Next there is Dwarf, his swollen head and genitals out of all proportion to the rest of his wizened body.

Then comes the one they know as Whale, monstrously overweight, so amply girthed and unfit that he can only perform on the most beautiful victims and on a double dose of Viagra. The violent red and green sea monster drawings on his body are half buried amongst his folds of his blubbery flesh.

And Surfer; a super-fit marathon runner at 77. His full head of silver hair, slim wrinkled body and proud erection make him appear no more than 65 when he’s atop a pretty young woman.

There is T-Bird; an ebony skinned immigrant. He is like a smooth, sleek, glistening black car, chosen because of the immense size of his steering column. Even going fifth, a lady notices him reaching new parts of her garage.

And last, but by no means least, your absolute favourite. Komodo himself. He is simply the ugliest man you’ve ever seen. Every facial disfigurement, every skin blemish, every wart and pustule imaginable, every belch and stink, casts him as a sexual leper. He is always last in line simply because no other member of his squad will knowingly follow him.

Half an hour later, you are left alone with Topaz again.

An average of five minutes per man is all it took to break her in nicely.

You stand between her thighs and enjoy the river of gelatinous semen flowing out of her yawning beaver. Hers will never look quite the same again. Yes, all cunts are remarkably resilient and they recover from immense stretching and mistreatment, but a gang raped virgin pussy loses just that little je ne sais quoi forever.

The ravaged pink folds sag open and her lush untrimmed pubic hairs are sodden. Her hips are red and bruised, her big tits mottled and scratched, with a livid bite mark round one nipple.

What a spectacular way to lose your treasured virginity.

You have subjected several women to gang rape before now, but this was your masterpiece. Only the second movement in a whole concerto, but a tour de force nonetheless, full of frantic violins, rumbling bass, crashing cymbals and the percussive thud of the timpani drums.

Her eyes are shut but they fly open as you nuzzle a finger through the stream oozing steadily down into the cleft of her buttocks.

“What an enjoyable performance, my dear. Thank you. Memorable. And digitally preserved forever, for editing and enjoyment. Very few women have the chance to relive their first time. And I expect your darling Jorjo and dear friend Silky will both want to see how you finally became a woman ?!”

You burrow your index finger suggestively into her virgin anus.

“Don’t worry, my dear.” You chortle. “We haven’t forgotten this hole either. Or that mouth. We’ll bring them all into play soon enough.”

Perhaps you should remove her gag soon ? You don’t want to bust her chops permanently.

“I expect you’re thirsty after that little workout ?”

You walk over to the cabinet and remove the special funnel and a glass decanter you prepared yesterday. While the arrest warrant was being signed and the magicians were briefed, you did a little planning of your own.

The contents are dark-gold, cloudy, unctuous, like a sweet Sauternes wine. But it is anything but sweet.

You screw the funnel into the steel gag. It has a one-way valve that ensures whatever goes in, stays in. You hold the decanter close to her face so she can appreciate the sloshing nectar.

The State’s ‘magicians’ make people disappear.

Troublesome people like Topaz.

People who then reappear, naked and thirsty, on red leather worktops.

“I want you to know what you’re drinking.” You tell her. “Just open your throat and let it trickle down the hatch. You can’t stop it so don’t try. It’s piss.”

Her eyes bug as her fears are confirmed. You love that look of total disgust.

“Mostly mine.” You chuckle. “A taste I promise that you’ll get to know well.”

You swirl the contents, releasing the ammoniac vapours. Time to pour.

“Bottoms up.” You giggle. “Oops. Maybe that later.”

You can smell its sharp odour as you ever-so-slowly tip the decanter.

Mmm. Drinking piss will seem likes child’s play to her soon enough, but for now it produces the reaction you want. Her almond eyes burst like garden sprinklers with bitter tears running down her temples and into her dark hair.

You smile, allowing her a little time to recover, letting her glimpse your delight. You linger, holding back while she gasps and swallows, then tip some more.

Bit by bit by bitter drop.

No rush.

There will be so much more like this. Long days of fun. Trying new ideas. New torments and humiliations, stretching beyond the horizon like an endless scorched desert.

The best part is that there are no comebacks. Topaz is yours.

You have the full protection of the State. Above all, the Chief of Police, and his half-brother the Justice Minister.

You can do just as you like. No limits. For as long as you like.

And within a few weeks Topaz will realise that. Know that. In her soul. But she will never accept it.

And that knowledge will drive her stark-staring mad.

Topaz belched a plume of acidic air up through her gag as a trickle of recycled vomit burned back down her throat, making her choke yet again.

Every time she retched the bile erupted out of her and splashed against the regulator in the funnel. Nothing escaped and gravity drove the bitter fluid into her mouth again. Each time she swallowed a little more.

She wanted to shout, to scream, to throw her body about, to keen with grief, shame, and a million other scrambled emotions.

But all she could see was Elka’s grin.

The curl of her lip, the whiteness of her teeth, that confident, bullying snarl. Elka had been pretty at school. In an overt, Western-actress way. But now she looked like a cinema poster of Lady Dracula outside the local fleapit.

Exhausted, she watched out of the corner of her eye, totally shattered, as Elka carefully put the funnel and empty decanter away, humming a tune, then returned and stood in the gap between her legs, hands on hips, grinning.

Topaz felt fingers exploring her disgusting, soiled vagina, a fingernail pinching her labia, tugging the flap open.

Then she heard her mocking voice again.

“Now, how about another six ?”

Round Two is more leisurely.

A second rape team, much younger and more high-spirited than the first.

In this country it is hard for unmarried lads in their late teens and early twenties, lustful but single, to sow a few wild oats. Only very scarce ‘petals’ like you, and a few rancid overpriced hookers authorised by the State, are prepared to put out without attaining the exalted status of ‘wife’.

These boys have no shame or embarrassment. They are excited and proud of their hard, oiled bodies when they walk into the room, shoulders back, six-pack abdomens, veined erections jutting and bobbing like batons.

They pose first for a pre-match team photo. Topaz will be admired and masturbated over second and third hand by their friends, posted furtively on networking sites, her image lost into the ether.

“Okay guys, shoot !”

They aren’t fussy about the state she’s in, even though fucking her cunt is increasingly like stirring porridge.

Her tits gyrate on her chest as the lads hammer away, but like spinning tops they always seem to bounce up and right themselves with the firmness of youth.

You mechanically adjust the rack, lowering her shoulders and head, raising her hips, parting and elevating her legs as far as humanly possible, so they can deeply penetrate her. There is a puddle on the concrete floor beneath her now; glutinous sperm and streaks of blood mingle with the final traces of her lost innocence.

Then you switch on the responsiveness program. The rack bucks violently once each second, bouncing her hips up and down, driving her cunt to answer their equally savage thrusts in a brutal rhythm. It’s remarkable, really. All those years of inactive virginity and all of a sudden a cunt just starts working.

A healthy young woman can take a lot of physical sex. Provided men support most of their own weight, the female body is designed to provide hours of fun. You know that it’s really only the mental part of sex they have a problem with. Give them one partner in the first flush of a relationship and they will happily fuck him for an hour.

But give them a dozen strangers for five minutes each and they won’t be happy about that same hour at all.

Silly, when you think about it. Illogical.

Her eyes are red, open but unseeing, and her face is flecked with foam. She is simply a bouncing cum receptacle. The sixth boy is finishing, his frantic thrustings and urgent grunts signalling the end of the second round.

You adjust the rack so her right leg is stretched high in the air, the left lowered, so he can shoot his wad at a new angle. Another lad leans in to film his mate’s cock pounding her close up, recording the twitching of his balls as he unloads into her cesspit.

They all pose for a similar ‘after-photo’ holding their rejuvenating glasses of fruit juice, wearing big sheepish grins and absolutely nothing else.

“Bye, Topaz. Nice meeting ya.”

“I’m going to jack myself off for weeks thinking about you darling.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Jorjo and tell him how great his fiancé is.”

“I hope we can do that again some time.”

“Of course you can.” You reassure them with a laugh, seeing them out.

After they’ve left, you stand behind her head, where she can’t see you, and finger yourself through your opened zip. Her destruction has turned you on to the point you can no longer wait. Your climax explodes within a few, gasping seconds.

In a couple of days time, you’ll ride her face of course, her nose your pommel and her tongue your saddle, but for now a hurried, silent, dextrous release is all you require.

You peer down over the top of the red U block framing her red, glistening face.

“Good news. I think that’s about it for your first day.”

You unlock, unclip and slowly remove her steel gag. Her jaws stay fixed, wide open, seemingly dislocated. There is blood on her teeth and gums. Very slowly she starts moving her chin fractionally, grimacing in pain.

“Don’t try to talk yet.” You tell her, planting your finger over her mouth.

“Just listen to me. I’m going to leave you alone for a while. To rest.”

You remove your hand slowly.

“And to think. You see, you have just experienced the best afternoon of the rest of your life.”

You smile down, waiting for her to absorb your words. Your face is upside down to her. She blinks, stares, eyes trying to focus. You look for recognition, comprehension.

The best afternoon of the rest of her life.

You want her to understand that it’s downhill from here ! A dozen men and a bellyful of piss are just a barrel of laughs.

A mere demonstration of demonic possibilities.

You make sure she hears your generous tone.

“But …”

This is your killer offer. The least of evils.

“ … you can …”

You linger on the word, suggesting hope.

“… save yourself the worst.”

Her eyes widen, her cracked lower lip trembles as if trying to speak.

“Ssh. Later will be fine. I want you to think of ten names. Ten of your best friends and family who plot and agitate alongside you. And I would like your confession that you, and they, are all guilty.”

She looks transfixed, head still motionless, but her eyes dart about. You know she has understood. It is a delicious moment.

“Tch … b …” she utters a few sounds.

“Don’t worry.” You smile kindly. “We know who they all are anyway. But …,” you shrug, “… after all, you know, a bit of extra evidence never goes amiss.”

Another few tears somehow appear in her mad, red-rimmed eyes.

You smile, raising your head, leaving her, giving one final bit of advice.

“If I don’t have ten names tomorrow morning, then I will happily demonstrate to you just how terrible your future will be.”

END OF PART ONE

velvetglove@googlemail.com

A DEMONSTRATION OF POWER

By Velvetglove

PART TWO

SWEAT AND TEARS

Neither Topaz nor Jorjo was aware of it, but at that exact moment, her fiancé was also lying on an identical red leather rack, two storeys below, in the underground cells.

Like her, he had been rendered totally immobile by tight straps round his wrists, forehead, neck, waist and ankles. Like her, he couldn’t speak due to the steel spider-gag brutally forcing his jaws apart. His 6’ 4” frame was speechless, helpless and naked. The leg extensions of the rack were opened into a wide ‘v’ and tilted upwards, knees in the air, as if he were about to undergo a gynaecological examination.

Which, in a way, he was.

A grey haired, white-coated, male medic perched on a stool between Jorjo’s thighs, adjusting an overhead spotlight so it shone directly onto his groin. The effeminate medic looked to be in his fifties but he manoeuvred himself about on the stool nimbly, pushing its castors along with his feet.

There was a whirring sound and Jorjo grimaced helplessly as he felt the padded leather shifting below him. Pain shot through his shoulders as his arms were stretched tighter and hips were raised higher towards the medic’s face and the bright light. A ridge in the leather pushed the small of his back up even further. He wanted to shout, argue, but only unintelligible ‘mwuh’ sounds gurgled out of the gag.

One moment he’d been walking round to Silky’s house to meet up with her and Topaz and Danno to discuss the demo, the next he’d felt a sharp prick in his thigh and … blackness.

Then it began.

For the next half an hour or so, the medic silently and methodically inspected, measured, prodded and scrutinized every millimetre of Jorjo’s muscled body. From the tips of his toes up to the top of his head, but with most attention paid to his pectorals and, ending where he’d started, his genitals.

The medic calmly wheeled up a camera on a tripod and fired up a computer on a trolley. He positioned the camera carefully.

Jorjo edged his eyes sideways and saw his own penis and balls projected soft and shrivelled on the colour monitor. He felt sick with shame and fear.

The image on the screen sharpened as the medic focused the lens and then adjusted the angle, bringing Jorjo’s tense buttocks into view, below his hairy anus and dangling scrotum.

He felt and saw the medic’s fingers fiddling with his penis, stretching the tip then letting it fall.

He groaned through the gag as a hand tightened round one of his testicles and squeezed hard. His eyes watered, blurring the screen.

Then fingernails pinched agonisingly at the soft skin between his balls and his bottom. He roared out pain as best he could through his mouth.

The medic spoke, finally. “Look at the screen.” His accent was strange; clipped, fluent but foreign.

Jorjo strained, turned his eyes again, blinked, stared.

Without warning, his guts flipped and he felt an involuntary jet of liquid fear squirting from his bowels.

In that second, he realised what was going to happen to him.

You arrive home at 8.30 p.m.

Your meal is on the table. Your children tucked in bed. You kiss them and shut their bedroom doors. They are 3 years and 18 months old, a beautiful girl and a lovely boy.

Meek serves you a drink. You smile and kiss him. He is your husband, babysitter and houseboy. You are the wife, breadwinner and pants-wearer.

“Good day ?” he asks.

You shrug. He knows some, but not all, about what you do. You spare him many of the details. You stroke behind the ears of Turok, your mongrel hound.

“And you ? Were they good ?”

“As always.” He smiles. “Like their mother.”

You make a face. You chose Meek a couple of years ago. You love him. Whatever else, you love him. Most men in your country would never marry a woman who was not a virgin. Almost none would even talk to an unmarried woman with a child. The fact that Meek was not only attracted to you, but even accepted that society would be aware of the tangible evidence of your lack of virginity, had been the initial spark in your relationship.

“Are you hungry ?”

You shake your head. It is his way of commenting on your late return home. He will never come out and say it, although you are home most evenings by seven. You haven’t phoned tonight and he is not allowed to call you. His coal-black eyes gaze at you in reverence.

“But my feet are sore.”

He silently tugs off one boot, then the other, then each sock. A sharp bouquet of leather and sweat wafts upwards. His strong hands caress your right foot, easing your arch, stretching your toes out one by one.

You sip your drink, let your head fall back onto the armchair and shut your eyes. Your mind wanders to your new toys; Topaz, Jorjo, Silky and Danno. Each settled down uncomfortably for the night !

Meek’s lips brush your foot. He loves to pamper you, please you.

“Mmm …” you sigh appreciatively, rewarding his efforts.

Many people take work home at night. This is how you do it.

Meek wears a steel chastity tube. It is not a commercially available toy, but the real thing; state of the art, made of polished steel. The State imports them from Europe for use on maximum security prisoners. Your superior, Horne, your Chief of Police, managed to obtain one for you.

Your husband now wears it full time, 24/7, tending your children, keeping house, awaiting your return. It makes you deliriously happy that a man could make such a sacrifice for you, place such trust in you.

“That’s good, darling. The other foot.”

You are strict with him. But you are not a sadist. Not to him. You treat him like just another child. With love, affection, firmness and control. For his own good. This is how you both want to live your lives.

You are still in your white shirt and pants. The key to his tube hangs on a gold chain round your neck, safe amongst your cleavage. Your nipples poke through the soft cotton. You still have no underwear on. But you decide to satisfy another appetite first.

“Hold on.” You snatch your foot away. “Let’s eat.”

Topaz lay curled in the foetal position on the concrete floor of her cell.

Her body had closed down. She was naked, filthy and too exhausted to cry. Too traumatized, her mind numb and her pain anaesthetized.

She had never felt so absolutely alone in her life. Although she could hear breathing and sniffles, occasional sobs and wails from women in nearby cells, she was completely isolated.

Names and faces drifted like ghosts through what remained of her brain.

One moment she’d been walking round to Silky’s house to meet up with everybody and the next she’d felt an abrupt pain in her bottom and then … blackness.

She’d woken in that dreadful place, stripped, photographed, fastened to that leather rack. And then Elka had walked in.

Where was Jorjo ? Surely he’d come looking for her soon. Her wonderful, strong man would find her. She felt a tiny surge of relief at the thought, of what Jorjo would do to Elka, to all of them, when he came.

Then her hope died as she inched her naked body nearer the cold wall.

Jorjo wouldn’t want her. Not now. Not now she’d been used by other men. Her life was ruined. Jorjo would leave her and nobody else would want her. And she could never give herself to a man now anyway. How she regretted not giving herself earlier to Jorjo, so that at least he could have been her first. Her mind was so confused, so bewildered.

She saw faces.

Each one ugly, leering, taunting her. A sea of men and boys, dwarves and giants, dark and pale, ugly and hideous, each one hard and stabbing her body and her soul and filling her with their foul pollution.

She thought of Elka, tasted her in her mouth.

How could somebody be so cruel to another human being ? Another woman ? What was Elka doing now ? Maybe she was sat at home enjoying herself ? Maybe she had a boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband of her own ? Surely Elka would feel some compassion tomorrow ?

You smile down at the top of your lovely husband’s head as he gives you another orgasm. They all blur into each other and yet each one is different.

There are the self-induced ones, rocking back in your chair, skirt pulled up, unsatisfying but necessary, like a snack, a shot of sugar or caffeine to get you through the day.

There are conquering triumphs; riding faces and lashing thighs, a satisfying midday club sandwich eaten at the office with lashings of mayonnaise.

There are also climaxes, your lusty lover feeding your insatiable appetite, his hot juices filling you, giving and taking from each other, a 3-course dinner with wine.

And finally there are these. Your husband. A gentle relax. Like him serving you a camomile or peppermint tea at the end of your tiring day.

You will shower now. Temporarily sated. To sleep, perchance to dream.

His lips mop your sodden thighs, your matted unkempt bush.

“Look.” You say.

He stares up at you, bites his lower lip, gentle eyes blinking as he winces. The steel gives him no mercy. He asks no quarter and you offer none. His frustration will soften in time and eventually allow him to asleep.

The rancid stink of your body overwhelms you both now. That distinct aroma of sex and sweat; the fishy tang of stale semen and sour body odour. Most women choose to bathe before receiving oral sex, embarrassed by the natural fragrance of the secretions and perspiration in their crevices.

But you prefer to wash afterwards instead.

You only shower away the evidence of your day at journey’s end, after sharing your power trip with your darling husband.

“What did you do today, dear ?” his tongue politely enquires.

Well, darling. The first load was planted inside me at a 10 o’clock meeting. Just me and the Chief of Police, over a cup of coffee. All day I could feel his brew festering and leaking, moistening the lining of my uniform. You know how I love that feeling, don’t you ? The wanton slut. An all day reminder. But oooh, now his second load was a much more leisurely event this evening. We had a bit of fun with one of his prisoners. Over champagne and caviar in his office. And then we fucked. Well, sucked then fucked. He loves a bit of head first. You know how much he enjoys the fact I’m married. It makes our sex together seem so raw, kinky, fun. I prefer that he’s married too. It’s no wonder he’s hot for me when you see that dull, dumpy wife of his. While we fucked I had a couple of big ‘o’s. Thought of you briefly when I came, darling. How much I love you. And then he filled me up for my journey home. You told the children mommy was working late.

“So that’s what I did with my day dear.” Your cunt responds. “And you ?”

His slurping tongue, lips, and eyes reply.

I did housework, minded the kids, prepared supper, thought of you.

You never perform for Meek. The idea of him watching doesn’t turn you on. Besides, home is for the kids, your husband, family-time.

But you hide nothing from him either. The idea of him knowing most of what you’ve been up to each day excites you immensely. You flaunt the evidence. The blood, sweat and tears.

So he knows the story.

Just not the whole story.

Two orderlies came for Topaz after dawn.

They dragged her barely alive carcass from the cell to the same room. Interrogation Room 13.

They buckled her forehead, neck, waist, wrists and ankles back into the straps, but they didn’t gag her this time. Her knees were raised and wide apart.

A fat, female orderly stood between her thighs and probed her with a steel speculum. The metal felt cold and sharp.

A male orderly pinched her breasts, thumbed her nipples impatiently, suggestively. He was in his thirties, pallid, thin.

“Okay. Hurry.” The woman said.

The man’s mouth twitched. He changed position with the woman and started unbuttoning his white coat.

“No … please … not …”

“Shut up !” The woman slapped Topaz. “Don’t be stupid. Your cunt is already used and filthy. What’s one more before we clean you up ?”

“Aah … no … you …”

Her tear ducts had replenished and she began to sob pitifully, helplessly.

It made no difference. The man entered her. It hurt. He began moving in and out. The woman smiled down, as if she was watching a display. Her chubby fingers handled Topaz’s skin like meat.

“You silly girl. What did you hope to achieve, marching in the streets like that ? Demonstrating against the State ? Greedy for more freedom ?”

“Nooo …”

“Yes ! Well you’d better be greedy now. For cock. For punishment !”

The man was listening, smiling, saliva flecking his lip. His hands were clutching Topaz’s thighs as he casually rutted her body.

“Anybody can use you here.” The woman continued. “Us. Policemen. Guards. Visiting politicians and bureaucrats.”

The man accelerated, grunted and let out a long sigh. Topaz felt his warm fluid being planted amongst the cold slime and filth. He buttoned up his coat.

The female orderly fetched a sponge on a plastic stick and a saucer of green gel.

“This may itch.” She sniggered.

The slippery wet hand-mop slid easily between Topaz’s labia. The woman pushed and pulled, burrowing deeper each time. In seconds the agony came, similar to a series of insect bites, and then a rapid escalation like the scald of savage stinging nettles inside her.

“Nah … oh … ahh … no …”

“Don’t worry, it only lasts an hour. But it gets you nice and clean and disinfected and ready for another day of fun.”

Topaz managed to scream.

They simply chuckled and closed the door.

You feel good this morning. Great, in fact. You spend an hour with your children; washing and dressing them, giving them breakfast. Outside the sky is blue and the temperature is already climbing.

On TV, the morning news is that the demonstrators will be back again today. But in depleted numbers. The Justice Minister gives an interview stating that small minorities are obviously free to protest their misguided views. After all, that’s democracy. Rumours of arrests are totally unfounded. An official government-sponsored poll records over 95% disapproval of the demonstration. Several of its violent organisers have gone underground. There’s footage of yesterday’s march on Central Square, the ugly chanting and provocative banners.

You kiss your children goodbye and leave them with Meek.

“Bye dear.”

His freshly shaved chin and lips are soft against your skin, his breath minty. You pat the hard steel knot under his day robe and smile encouragingly.

“Be good.”

You have two cars; the State manufactured family ‘box’, and your imported 2-seater. You put the electric roof down and drive to work with the hot breeze drying your showered hair, flirting at the lights with a young bureaucrat in his smart saloon.

The State Security Tower appears like an ugly 20-storey concrete building. But like an iceberg, only a part is visible. Below ground a warren of cellars, dungeons and rooms burrow deep underground. The building stands in the centre of a walled compound protected by razor wire and gun towers.

But the building seems beautiful to you.

You flash your pass at the security gates and park in the underground lot. It is just after nine. The overnight shift is leaving and you wave at a colleague.

There’s a black coffee waiting on your desk, with today’s newspapers, and a small mound of new files, correspondence, printed emails. You sip from your steaming mug and do 15 minutes reading, jotting notes, work.

You take ‘The Truth’, your favourite paper, to the Ladies bathroom and sit in a cubicle. The pan fills with your fragrant waste. You finish the leading article about the demonstration and then wipe yourself.

Just one sheet. No need to do a thorough job.

You smile, flush, and watch it gurgle down the bend.

In the Public Area of the State Security Compound, crowds have gathered. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, friends and colleagues have come to register the sudden disappearance of loved ones. The atmosphere is tense, nervous, the temperature humid and hot. There is no air conditioning in this part of the complex.

A series of immense lines are forming. The relatives are given long, complicated forms to fill in, told to take their position patiently. Those who eventually get to the front are often sent to the back of a line for even the tiniest errors with their forms. If an official considers just one letter or number illegible, he will rip up the form and tell them to start again.

Amongst the teeming throng are a man and woman in their late-forties. CCTV cameras monitor all the faces, the Recognition Software flashing names and ID numbers to a main database.

The couple stand nervously, answering the endless questions in pencil; about themselves and about their daughter Topaz.

You ride Silky’s face.

You’re not as interested in her as Topaz. So there is no point dragging out the fun. Cut straight to the action.

She’s the opposite of her friend across in Room 13. For a start she’s blonde. Light skins and butter-yellow hair are rare in your country and most come from the Northern Province. She has aquamarine eyes, an extraordinary pale blue, and a pouting, rosebud mouth.

Her tongue and lips feel good in your holes; mopping, cleaning, kissing, vacuuming. She has no lesbian experience but the skill is innate in every female.

However hard your darling Meek tries, no man can perform analingus as well as a woman. And you have found that no other woman can tongue an asshole like a terrified, newly arrested bitch.

While she works beneath you, trying to save herself and her husband from a worse fate, you survey her body; lithe, coltish limbs, not curvy enough for your taste. She has a tiny tuft of flaxen pubic hair - matching collar and cuffs.

Her tits are better than you’d expect on a woman of her lissom build, a decent handful, but nothing compared to the luscious jellies in Room 13.

Unlike Topaz, you are inclined to allow Silky to return to undergo an abbreviated ‘education’. After which, if she’s lucky, she and her husband may be returned to the community as reformed, model citizens.

A little older, and much, much, much wiser for their new experiences.

“That’s it. There.” Her tongue slithers in and out of your chute.

On the table is the handwritten list of ten names Silky has rushed to provide. Addresses, ages, and what she knows about their activities. Danno, her own husband tops the list. Topaz and Jorjo are on it too. She’s even volunteered her two sisters, Suri and Samanta.

Women as weak as Silky don’t present you with any challenge.

You pinch her nipple, tugging it. She mewls, her ragged breath hot in your buttocks. Her tongue burrows even deeper, if that’s possible.

You study her chin, elegant neck, her throat bobbing, her spine arched with effort.

You love this. Power.

A complete demonstration of power.

You haven’t even decided precisely what to do with her yet. Perhaps she’ll escape with just a stern warning, after all ? Just one unpleasant night, a little lesbian action, maybe a blowjob or two.

But it should be more, really. A week or two at least. In a cell. Gang rapes, a dollop of torture, fucked in every hole and mentally scarred for life. Her husband a witness, emotionally emasculated, destroyed.

Your mind goes back to your schooldays. The snide looks, the muttered whispers. Silky hadn’t really been that bad compared with some of them. But then she hadn’t stood up for you either.

So how about the whole nine yards ?

You adjust your hips forwards. Her nose brushes your dripping labia and you consider whether to cum.

Then you make your final decision; judge and jury.

You will keep her husband in prison a while but send Silky home. Home to their bedroom where a succession of visitors will fuck her and eventually breed her. Many dark-skinned immigrants will plant their seeds in her blonde snatch and when the offspring is born everybody will know the child is not her husband’s. And wherever they go, society will frown on her.

Just like it does on you.

You reluctantly climb off her glistening face. You don’t want to cum yet.

You prefer instead to go wish Topaz a good morning.

Topaz stubbornly moved her eyes from side to side.

Her reply was negative.

She could barely move her head at all. Not enough to shake it. But it was quite clear what she meant.

The man who had introduced himself simply as ‘The Electrician’ looked delighted by her response. His bullet head and acne-ridden face shone red and purple under the bright camera lights.

“A brave one ? I like that.”

There was a trolley on castors parked next to the rack.

On the trolley stood a black box generator with blue, red, yellow and green wires, steel clips and various metal containers.

He picked up some clear, plastic gloves and tugged them onto his hands, snapping each finger fully into place. He scooped a blob of white cream onto his index finger and smeared it onto each of Topaz’s plump, bare breasts.

She tried to meet his hard gaze, as he sneered, toying with her nipples. The cream stung and her nipples grew and erected.

“Nice tits.” He dug his fingernails into the meat, hurting her. “For now.”

She watched, helplessly, as he picked up a copper hoop about the size of a necklace. An alligator clip on a thin wire dangled from it, connected to a coiled cable.

He eased the hoop around the base of her perspiring right breast and cinched it tight, then waved the serrated jaws of the clip in front of her eyes.

“The saline cream helps conduct the juice.”

She wailed in agony as tiny sharp teeth bit into her nipple.

“Nnaaagh … pl … nah …”

He chuckled. “No changing your mind now.”

He swayed a second hoop hypnotically in her face and tightened it around her other breast, then sunk the steel teeth into her left teat.

Her body bucked. Or tried to. But the straps held her head and torso firm. Her eyes and neck muscles bulged with effort.

Topaz screamed, loud and long.

The door opened and a smiling face peered inside.

“Not too late am I ?”

Elka breezed in, patting the Electrician on his back.

“What a lovely sight. I take it she didn’t give us any names.”

“Not yet.”

“I … ah … d … ah …” Topaz panted, breathing against the pain in her nipples.

Elka simply laughed.

“Mmm. The next bit’s my favorite.”

Topaz forced her eyes open as the man leaned over a metal container and lifted out a blue cylinder as bright as a tropical sea.

Its turquoise silicone shone under the bright lights as he held it up to the camera lens. Three cables of extending electrical coils hung down from its handle.

The cylinder was the length and thickness of a man’s forearm.

He brandished it close up to her face. Along its phallic length there were concentric circles of raised plastic ridges. Tiny bands of brown copper conducting wire stuck out at various points. The whole thing had been dipped in sea salt and chunky white grains were encrusted onto the dry smooth shaft.

“Time for a little demonstration.”

“No … just … I’ll g … give you …”

“Shh !” Topaz’s lower lip hurt as Elka rammed her finger hard into it.

The man positioned himself between Topaz’s thighs and winked.

She felt his slick fingers opening her up. This time yesterday she’d been a virgin. She cringed as he thumbed her sore, gang-raped lips apart, then felt his digit pushing into her. The itchy gel the female orderly had sluiced inside her earlier had cleaned her out and closed her labia.

“Aggh !”

They both laughed.

“Only a finger, my dear.”

She felt it wiggle about inside her for a few moments. Tears of humiliation blurred her eyes, thankfully obscuring their horrendous faces.

“Aaaggghhh !”

Without any warning, a huge invasion popped her vaginal entrance. She tried to push it out, gurgling with effort, hearing them guffaw.

She grunted as she felt one ridge forced into her, then another, a third.

Elka’s head was next to hers. A wet tongue licked her earlobe.

“That’s only four inches so far.” A faraway voice whispered. “Eight to go.”

She couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Whatever they wanted to know. She’d been so stupid, thinking she could resist them. She hated them so much, dreaded what they’d do to her. To her family. Her friends.

But she would tell them anything. Anything at all.

Her parents. Jorjo. Anybody. Anything to take away the pain.

But it didn’t stop. Didn’t go away. The relentless stretching, tearing assault.

END OF PART TWO

A DEMONSTRATION OF POWER

By Velvetglove

PART THREE

PERCUSSION AND GUITAR

You love to look into their eyes.

Windows to the soul.

The Electrician uses masking tape to seal the monstrous vibrator-probe in place, sticking a black criss-cross X across Topaz’s plump mons.

Now it’s show time.

He holds the commercial sized salt cellar above her naked body and turns the handle. He has already covered the vibrator with grains of salt. Now, a fine rain of sea salt granules falls onto her flesh, seasoning her like chicken on a barbecue.

But you don’t watch him. You study her instead.

There is a whirr, the tic of a flicked switch. The machine emits a high voltage hum, a hiss and a crack.

Volts plough simultaneously through her breasts and cunt. Her taut, rigid body strains anew against the leather straps. But she cannot move. Only her tit-flesh and pubic mound quiver. Her eyes almost burst their sockets and her mouth gapes open in one long silent wail.

The ‘tic’ of the switch being turned off is accompanied by steam rising from the sweat on her body, a tiny plume above her cunt.

All rapes will be wonderfully painful from now on. The raw, broiled inside of her womanhood will feel every lacerating thrust one hundred times worse than yesterday.

The chunky sea salt will mop up every droplet of natural moisture she produces, condemning her to ‘dry fucking’.

Little cuts will open in her vaginal walls. Then, later, you will treat her internal sores with your special lemon-and-chilli laced antiseptic cream !

You smile down into her face.

The straps hold her down on the meat rack. It is an A-shaped metal frame with steel rods, like a large triangular griddle. Her head is secured to the narrow end and the Electrician stands at the other end between her knees.

Five times the Electrician flicks the switch. Five surges of low but increasing power. Five times her body seizes, eyes popping, foam bubbling round her mouth, hair frazzled, her screams, gasps and begging providing a percussive soundtrack between the electric guitar solos.

Now the Electrician decides she’s had enough voltage and he flicks another dial. The huge vibrator itself starts to hum and churn inside her like a cement mixer.

Her expression explodes into a scarlet mask of grief. You see her trying to focus her eyes but failing. Every sinew of her body is taut and straining.

He rips the masking tape from her cunt lips and takes the dildo’s handle. He pushes, pulls, pushes, pulling it until there are only three inches inside her, then rams its entire length until the rounded crown will bash no further against her cervix.

Dryness prevents him fucking her with smooth motions. Instead, each thrust and cut is jerky and uneven. Trickles of bright red blood seep down her bouncing tits from the gator teeth in her nipples.

You lean down casually and lick a speck of salt from her temple.

“Hi.” You whisper in her ear. “Petals here. How’s it going ?”

Her red eyes look at you but don’t see you. She is going crazy.

It is hard to describe how wonderful you feel. Your nipples are hard, your thighs hot. But this is more erotic than your usual arousal. It is revenge on all those girls and boys who looked down on you, who mocked and frowned on your sexuality and behaviour, sniggering behind their hands.

Well, who’s laughing now ?

And Topaz is just the first. She and Silky will serve others up to you. Their lists with names and evidence. Then days, weeks, months of administering justice.

Revenge.

No limits, no comebacks.

Suffer you stupid bitch. If you are not prepared to let your tits and cunt be used to give you pleasure, they may as well be used to inflict pain.

You grin across at the perspiring face of the Electrician.

You enjoy working with him. He is a pleasant colleague. Although he’s nothing to look at, you and he make a good duo.

Sweat drips from the end of his nose. His features are plagued by dreadful acne scars and fresh yellow zits as he gazes down at Topaz’s ravaged labia. There is a small dark patch on the groin of his denim overalls. His dick is pushing out the front like a tent pole.

He needs relief as much as you do.

“How would you like to be first in her asshole ?”

He grins back, needing no further invitation.

Meanwhile, Silky could move slightly but she couldn’t resist them.

She was wearing a kind of weightlifter’s belt around her waist. It was made of scuffed red leather, polished but well used. The leather was 4 inches wide with chrome rings and a shiny central buckle, with chrome eyelets either side of it.

There were also leather loops stitched onto on either side of the belt. Her ankles were buckled into the pair of hoops behind her buttocks.

The backs of her heels touched her buttocks and her knees were akimbo like a small jockey riding a large racehorse.

Her wrists were fastened into loops at her hips, her fingers flapping and clutching pathetically at thin air.

Five men in uniforms were introducing her to PCB; ‘the Police Coffee Break’; it took just 20 minutes during a mid-morning pause in their normal duties for Silky’s life never to be the same again.

Atop a fucking table, on her back, knees in the air, she was mounted, trussed, being stuffed like a roast bird.

Already she was doing as they told her, as best she was able, to avoid further pain. While one man fucked her, she turned her head and sucked another’s cock. The three others jeered her, tugged her yellow hair, caressed their drooling erections over her pert tits and elegant neck.

“Hurry up mate. Shoot your load.”

“Hey man ! I’ve only had a couple of minutes.”

Her ragged breath accompanied their crude comments as she gasped and grunted onto the cock between her drooling lips.

“Yep. O boy, this bitch as got me right on the fucking edge … Oh … shit … yesssss !”

The penis in her mouth pulsed and spat surprisingly hot jets of cloying bitterness into the roof of her mouth, the back of her throat. Danno had never even hinted at such a thing. It was the first time in her life she had ever tasted semen.

She choked and blearily saw his triumphant glowering.

“Guzzle that down, fuckface. Mmm …”

She gulped and screwed up her face at the taste and horror as she felt the penis in her vagina throbbing next, the shame of its slime sullying her, men other than her husband leaving their mark on her forever.

Both men winked at her as they pulled back.

“Out the fucking way.”

Two new, angry erections replaced the glistening, spent penises.

One man took his place by her head and another stood between her helplessly splayed thighs.

Silky groaned but accepted the stinking, unwashed, purple invasion of her bruised mouth. She managed to focus on the leering face of the man. And felt his bony fingers coiling her hair.

He looked a similar age to her, the lower buttons of his shirt undone, his groin, stomach and chest covered in coarse black hair. His genitals stank of stale, garlicky sweat. He thrust into the back of her throat making her gag.

She just wanted it to be over.

So they wouldn’t hurt her any more than they were doing now, with their lust, sweat and jeers. If they reached their orgasms quickly, they might go away and leave her.

Between her thighs, she felt meaty lunges, in and out. Fingers forced their way under her bottom, prising open her buttocks. A thumb wriggled at the entrance to her anus. She glanced up at the sneering face. This man was much older than her. Unshaven jowls and brown teeth. As he exhaled she smelt tobacco on his foul breath.

She squirmed as his damp fingers probed and a sharp fingernail burrowed into her sphincter.

“She doesn’t like it round the back.”

“Nope. Never been used back there. Both she and her husband confirmed it during separate interrogations.”

“Hey, the boss doesn’t want us to do her ass yet ? You’ve gotta feel this baby’s chute.”

“Not this morning. Just cunt and mouth today.”

“Sheesh. Her cunt’s already fucking leaking like a sieve.”

“Shut the fuck up and fill her up. Coffee break’s nearly up.”

A camcorder lens was pointing directly at Silky’s face. Her stare was vacant as the policeman bobbed her head up and down like a basketball between his two hands.

“Smile, lady. Looky at the camera but keep that dick in your mouth.”

Somehow you will manage to hold off until the Electrician has finished.

You need to cum so bad already.

But sometimes a short dose of frustration is wickedly exciting. You love tease, but hate denial. Denying yourself, that is.

You watch him unzip and roll a very special condom onto his glistening erection. It’s the latest SMC2009 double-layered ‘Girth Enhancer’. The specially developed, thick rubber ridges along the shaft are chunky enough to add an extra inch to a penis’s girth.

But the gaps between the ridges, and the crown of the condom, are all made of the thinnest rubber, thus allowing most of the sensation and warmth to be enjoyed by the wearer. The Enhancer postpones, but doesn’t prevent, male orgasm.

In days to come, Topaz will usually be given lubricating enemas before anal rapes. But today it’s straight down to action and the Electrician doesn’t want to risk bare-backing her unwashed shithole.

She howls like a stuck pig as he seesaws the rubber invader into her asshole inch by inch. Each ridge pops her sphincter muscle producing a bawl of protest. He uses brute force to wedge the entire length into her until his balls eventually slam against her buttocks.

Even you draw the line at anal sex. You experimented once with a particularly handsome lad. He was desperate to try it. He was the first boy ever to lick your asshole, proper tongue right up your poop-chute. In the end you let that boyfriend prepare you, lube you, and gently manoeuvre his cock inside you.

Shite. Even when he reached round and fingered your clit, you had only noticed the ache, not the pleasure. You love a tongue, even a pinkie, in your butt, but a raging cock is just too damn big. Never again.

And now it sure looks as though Topaz would offer the same opinion, if she were consulted. Her puce face is crumpled in a kind of constipated scowl.

Despite the Girth Enhancer, the Electrician doesn’t hold out more than a couple of minutes. A bit of a disappointment, but what the heck. There’ll be many more opportunities.

He snorts, pumping like a maniac, snot dribbling from his nose.

You press the tit gators open and release them from her nipples, smiling at how such a merciful act elicits a new crescendo of keening from her. Blood pumps into her shocked nubbins and out again into her engorged tits. The Electrician’s hands circle them and squeeze the broiled meat as he injects his serum into the condom.

Topaz has screwed her eyes shut. You chuckle, patting her on the shoulder, wondering what wicked thoughts are ricocheting around inside her pretty little head.

You glance at your watch.

My, the morning is racing by.

Silky lay stifling sobs while a white-coated nurse prodded her leaking, inflamed vagina.

“So, tell us, how long have you two been married ?”

Silky’s wrists and ankles were still strapped to her hips. Her thighs were splayed wide open so that the female nurse could look and delve.

“Er, almost three years.”

The moment her gangbang had ended, Silky’s husband Danno had been wheeled into the room on a mobile X-frame to join her in the interrogation suite.

He had been mercilessly confronted - without a hint of warning - with the vision of his freshly raped wife and he had broken down blubbering into his gag.

Just sobs of helpless anguish.

He too was naked and gagged, standing crucified with his wrists and ankles chained to a vertical wooden X. The mobile frame and cross were made of solid unmovable oak with steel nuts and bolts.

“Aaah. Let’s see if we can’t make you feel a little happier.”

His body had eventually been unable to resist the skilled ministrations and sympathetic clucks of the nurses. Their licking of his ears and nipples, gloved and oiled hands fondling his genitals, had eventually caused his reluctant penis to stiffen in full view of his ravaged darling.

The second nurse continued softly teasing his erection in her fingers, just keeping him hard in front of his wife, toying with his scrotum.

“Husband your first ? Virgin when you married ? Him too ?”

“Yes.” Silky replied with a snivel. “We both were.”

The nurses were an experienced team; late-20s, both pretty with dark curls, exchanging knowing smiles like a lesbian couple.

“And how often did your husband fuck you ? Every day ? Even more than that ?”

Silky shook her head, screaming inside, “N … no.”

“Less ? Really ? Five times a week ?”

Silky couldn’t help glancing over at her husband, her lower lip trembling, cheeks scarlet, and nodded.

The second nurse reached behind Danno’s head and unfastened the ball gag. She jerked it out and laid it down in a foil ashtray.

“That really true ?” she asked him, running the tip of her fingernail up the underside of his jutting shaft. “True ?” she repeated.

Danno worked his jaw, trying to moisten his lips. He shrugged sullenly.

“P .. probably. I … guess.”

The nurse pouted. “Is that all this teensy soldier could manage ? Look at him standing to attention ! Five times a week. Is that really all ?”

“M … more in the f … first year.” Danno managed to snap indignantly.

Both nurses smiled, apparently pleased at the upward revision. They handled both their victims’ genitalia like kids toying with modelling clay. The sickly aroma of second hand sex filled the room.

“And you pretty much stuck to missionary sex, right ?”

“Yes.”

Both nurses began masturbating their victims, one pumping Danno’s penis hurriedly and roughly, the other skilfully manipulating Silky’s clitoris.

“Did you ever fantasise about another guy fucking your wife ?”

“No.”

“What about you ? Didn’t you ever wonder what it would be like to fuck one of your husband’s friends ?”

“N … nah.” Silky gasped.

In the background, a huge screen was silently replaying the recording of Silky’s gang rape.

“Hey, I love this bit.”

The nurse stopped touching Silky and picked up the remote to turn up the volume.

Jeers, cheers and rape-noises filled the room. On the screen, a young policeman pulled his shining penis from Silky’s lips and pumped himself bukkake-style all over her face.

The other nurse turned to stare into Danno’s red rimmed eyes. She took her hand away from his penis, leaving it twitching.

“Did you ever hose her face ? Or is that a first for her ?”

He merely ground his teeth in fury, making both nurses giggle.

On screen, there was an auto-slow-motion repeat of the facial hosing. The address of an overseas website was now superimposed on the footage. It was ready for uploading. Studied close up, the volley of pearly gobbets was impressive, smearing Silky’s eyelids, nostrils, cheeks and lips. Her face was clearly visible, ready for surfers worldwide to admire and enjoy.

The nurse clicked the remote again, muting the sound. She returned the conversation to the frequency of the victims’ sex life.

“So, remind me. Five missionary fucks a week. Yes ?”

“Yessss.” Danno hissed angrily.

“But a teensy bit more energetic in your first year together, yes ?”

He nodded.

The nurse turned to Silky with a lascivious wink. She picked up a red marker pen and a clipboard.

“Okay, that’s five times a week multiplied by fifty two. Call it 150 times a year.”

She wrote 150 on the page and then x 3.

“So, 450 times in 3 years plus say an extra 50 in the first year ? Yes ?”

Like a schoolmistress, she wrote = 450 + 50 in red on the line below.

Silky gawped up at her, confused by the math at a moment like this. It felt so disgusting even having a conversation about such a thing, let alone in front of Danno. The other nurse had begun fiddling with her husband’s penis again.

“Yes. Probably … wh …why ?” she replied.

The nurse gave a wry smile. “Just doing our research. I’ll put down 500.”

At that moment, the door opened and Elka strode into the interrogation room. She stood in her black uniform and boots, arms folded.

The nurses tensed in the supervisor’s presence but didn’t move. Their heads merely nodded in a type of salute.

“So.” Elka said, beaming.

She inclined her head briefly to acknowledge the nurses.

“And how are things proceeding in here ?”

“Fine, Ma’am. As you instructed.”

Elka grinned down at Silky and across at Danno, over to the TV screen.

“I see you’re enjoying the unedited rushes.”

“Yes, Ma’am. They are.” The second nurse responded.

As if to illustrate the point, she removed her fingers from Danno’s erection, leaving it bobbing in midair. “He’s turned on by the show.”

Elka’s lips curled. Her smile was like a snake surveying its prey.

“Mmm. Phew, it reeks of sex in here.”

She stood facing Danno, letting her eyes scan up and down his nakedness. Hunky. One day, Elka mused, years ago, she might have fucked him.

Too late now. He’d missed his chance.

Way too late.

“Well, you’ll get plenty of chances to watch similar movies.”

“Please.” His face crumpled. “I beg you. Just let us go. We’ll tell nobody. And we’ll never march or demonstrate again. Ever.”

Elka nodded kindly, reaching up to touch his jaw. “Mmm. I bet you won’t.”

It was such a lovely sight. The handsome naked husband spreadeagled on an x cross opposite his cute nude, turkey-trussed wife.

Of course, as Chairman Mao said, every journey begins with a single step. And today was just the first modest footstep of a truly exciting trek for Silky and Danno.

Elka turned to the other nurse. “How many ?”

“Five hundred. In three years, Ma’am.” The nurse held up her clipboard.

“Five hundred ? A nice round number. And how’s her cunt ?”

The nurse shifted out of the way so Elka could see. Both women peered down at the bright red, plundered maw.

“The usual. A bit puffy, swollen, a mess. But otherwise fine.”

“What do you reckon then ?”

The nurse shrugged casually. She absentmindedly tugged open a flap of Silky’s labia.

“I think a minimum ten a day, seven days a week.”

Elka nodded equally nonchalantly. “Okay. And 1% daily interest.”

The nurse smiled and jerked her head.

“And what about him ?”

“Naturally, he can stay here until she’s repaid in full.”

“Absolutely, Ma’am.”

Elka glanced down at Silky’s confused, shining face, then stroked the young woman’s flat stomach. She winked at her in a conspiratorial manner.

“And when this one is down to her final 200 men, phase out her contraception. I want her impregnated before it’s over.”

Silky’s mouth opened wide in a silent ‘o’ and Danno uttered a drawn out groan.

Elka chuckled and ran her hand proprietarily along the side of Silky’s body.

“Five hundred guys. Mmm. Makes me go weak at the knees. I almost envy you, my dear.”

Then she strode to the door. “Sorry, everybody, but I have an important meeting. I have to dash.”

The atmosphere changed the moment their Supervisor had shut the door. The two nurses relaxed again.

“So. The big five-o.”

“Five hundred’s chickenshit.” The nurse tending Danno seemed disappointed. “And only one per cent interest.”

The two women delighted in explaining to Silky and Danno how their sentence would unfold. They used the marker pen and clipboard.

Silky had to fuck 500 different men at a rate of at least 10 guys a day. Like a credit card, that was her absolute minimum payment. Of course, she could fuck more daily if she could manage it.

Then each evening a ‘charge’ of 1% would be added to whatever amount was her outstanding balance.

So, they clarified, starting at 500 and, if she fucked say only the minimum 10 on Day 1, her balance would be down to 490.

But then an interest charge of 4.9 would be added to her total, so her revised balance would be back up to 495.

If she managed only another 10 on Day 2, her balance would decrease to 485, but 4.8 of interest would be added to her total, so her revised balance at the start of Day 3 would be 490.

And so on.

A case of two steps forward, one step back.

“But that’s … how can you expect anybody to manage that ?”

The nurses sighed at Danno. “Oh, the State will help. We have a never-ending supply of policemen, soldiers, officials, volunteers, all ready to offer their services.”

Silky and Danno exchanged horrified looks.

“Each day your Probation Officer will organise a rota of men to come round to your home.”

“Our …” Silky gasped.

“Yes. CCTV will be installed and a tag fitted on you. This is a parole you can serve at home, in your marital bed.”

“Oh my … you’re truly evil. I can’t …” she burst into yet another bout of dry sobbing.

“Not evil, dear. Justice. It was wrong to demonstrate against the State. So you will now demonstrate your repentance of your crime. I can assure you that this is a mild punishment compared with some other offenders.”

“But people will know. They’ll talk.”

Despite his numb shock, Danno clung to some kind of rational hope.

“Absolutely. And as a result I think your neighbours and friends will decide not to demonstrate ! And when your wife’s pregnant and gives birth to a firstborn who looks nothing like you, it’ll be a constant reminder to you both and your neighbourhood.”

“Please … I can’t …”

“You can and you will.” Both nurses chimed.

“Noooo ! Danno won’t let them …”

One nurse cocked her head coyly at Danno. His erection had deflated below half mast. She reached up and pinched his cheek.

“I’m afraid he won’t be there to stop them. You see, he’ll remain here, until you have fucked 500 different guys plus all the accrued interest.”

“Noooo !”

“But the quicker you pay your debt, the quicker he’ll be free.”

“But that is so …” Silky’s voice trailed off into a sob, unable to finish.

“How lo… long ?” Danno stammered.

“Well, I think the record for 500 is 13 days. But that was some foreign whore. For a fresh and respectable national like your wife, I think 3 months is a reasonable target.”

“What about the men this morning ?” Silky blurted out in a wail.

The nurses burst out laughing, exchanging sly glances.

“This one’s a sharp negotiator I see ! No dear. Those five don’t count. Call them the, er, arrangement fee. And nor will we include any other gentlemen who use you before we send you home.”

There was a heavy thud on the door.

“Whoo !” The nurse opened her eyes wide in mock surprise.

“Speak of the devils !”

You pause outside his office.

The Chief of Police.

Horne.

Your boss.

Your mentor.

Your lover.

Outside a woman is waiting. She has been here since yesterday. She is in her early forties, brunette, well preserved, in a tight, low cut top that reveals way too much cleavage by your country’s standards. Certainly too much for a woman her age, with bosoms her size. She has dark, haunted eyes and appears totally dejected.

You wink at her, knock on his door and enter.

It never fails to surprise you how heavy the studded door is. How wonderfully intimidating it must be for those unfortunate enough to pass through on their nightmarish journeys.

Horne waves you in. He’s on the phone. His smile makes you catch your breath. You don’t love this man. But fuck, you do lust after him, like a girl longs for a movie star or rock singer. You want him inside you.

Now.

All morning you’ve wanted him, building up to this moment.

He pushes his chair back and blows you a silent kiss.

You lean over and press your lips to his forehead. He smells manly, vaguely of cigars, with his grey-flecked hair, charcoal eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw. He is 40, sixteen years older than you, but still in his prime. You like the age gap. It excites you. His experience and clout, allied to strength and dynamism.

He continues talking on the phone, tearing a strip off some middle-ranking officer. His left hand reaches for your bosoms.

Behind him, jutting out of the office wall like some hunting trophy, is a living pair of naked buttocks and splayed female legs.

The ankles are held apart by a steel leg-spreader bar.

The bottom is a bright hue of crimson, smarting with the demonstration of a very recent and severe thrashing.

The bald cunt and anus wink at you from between her bent over thighs.

There is a pool cue rack on the wall above her buttocks. Stacked neatly in the rack is an assortment of whips, canes, vibrators, chains and cuffs.

She has been there over 24 hours. She was your ‘entertainment’ accompanied by champagne and caviar yesterday evening. You know that on the other side of the wall, in Horne’s private ensuite bathroom, the same young lady’s head and hands stick out like lavatory fittings.

In the bathroom, the specially constructed, adjustable pillory holes for her neck and wrists are set at waist height, securing her head between Horne’s imported, western-style toilet pan and the luxurious gold-tapped basin.

You unbuckle your lover’s belt, shirt, ease open his shirt.

You hurriedly remove your own boots, uniform, unbutton your own shirt.

You lower his pants and slither onto him, easing his hardness inside you.

He is married. But you’re not jealous. Nor is he.

You both enjoyed the shared thrill.

“Yes.” He hisses, slamming down the phone, kissing you again. “Fuck me.”

“Ohh !”

You are already about to climax. After less than 30 seconds.

His penis is a perfect fit for you. Filling but not painful. It is not any longer than your husband’s weapon. You don’t fuck Horne or any other men because of Meek’s inadequacy.

But your lover is just that crucial bit thicker. And better. His pubic ridge smacks repeatedly against your aroused clitoris.

He smiles indulgently. “Cum for me, my horny bitch !”

You kick your heels down onto the floor, spinning his chair.

You ride him seamlessly through your first climax, letting your mind wander briefly, excitedly, to Meek, Topaz and Silky.

Then you’re accelerating directly into an encore.

He’s matching you stride for stride, thrust for thrust.

His hot fluid tips you over the edge again, creaming your pie.

You both sag into each other, sweating, gasping for breath.

Sideways on you find you are both admiring the ‘trophy’ on the wall.

“You must have had an exciting morning.” He murmurs, turning his face back to you.

“Mmm. It was fun !”

He chuckles, gesturing at the phone on his desk.. “I’ve been too busy dealing with incompetents.”

“I see you found time to warm up the buns of your latest trophy.”

He laughs, turning his head. “Yep. Just a limbering up.”

“For you, or for her ?”

You climb off him, lean and kiss him, then pad through to the bathroom.

You see that the young woman’s face doesn’t look as good as when you last saw her. She is the daughter of one of Horne’s competitors for the top police job.

Or rather an ex-competitor !

Her black curls are bedraggled and sodden, her mascara smudged, her eyes red and tearstained. There is a bluish yellow bruise on her forehead.

Since the previous evening, she has been ‘tarted up’; hints of glitter powder, scarlet lipstick, bright blusher, all applied in a juvenile manner.

But between her teeth she still doggedly presents the plastic handle of a toilet brush like a dog with a bone.

And in one open palm she proffers a bar of soap-on-a-rope.

In the other hand she holds a roll of white toilet tissue.

You wink at her miserable expression and pirouette to perch astride the toilet seat with your back to her. You can see her miserable reflection in the mirrored wall facing you.

Horne appears shuffling at the doorway, his engorged and glistening penis swinging freely between his legs, pants round his ankles.

You relax and enjoy the hiss of your own emptying bladder.

Horne smiles and walks over to stand next to you, discarding his pants in a pile. He lifts the toilet brush out of the girl’s mouth and props it on the floor.

“Sorry. Can’t wait any longer.” He apologises to you, not to her.

He lifts his dick between his fingers and aims it at her face.

“Eyes and mouth open, bitch.”

You twist around on the seat, amused, and watch as his yellow trickle turns into a golden torrent. His piss drenches her hair, face, bubbles out of her mouth, splashes her blinking eyes.

You reach for the toilet tissue and delicately pat at the droplets of urine between your thighs. You are careful not to wipe away Horne’s load. Some will slowly dribble out of you, leaving the residue to fester nicely for Meek.

“Her mom’s still waiting outside your office.” You tell him.

He winks. His piss has formed a spreading puddle on the floor tiles. It trickles slowly down a specially built gutter under the girl’s head.

“Yes. I bet her imagination is running riot about what’s happening to her daughter in here.”

“What’s her name again ?”

He shakes off his dick into the girl’s face.

“Sofi. And her daughter here is Sofelina.”

“And how’s he ?” You refer to the woman’s husband, this girl’s father.

Horne takes your hands as you climb off the toilet seat.

“Still helping us with enquiries.”

He winks again, ensuring that Sofelina sees.

You press the flush, grin at her, as she listens to her parents being discussed like villains in a bad movie. On an impulse, you slide your finger between your wet labia and scoop up a glob. You paint her forehead, dabbing a pearly bindi between her eyes.

Horne changes the topic, picking up the toilet brush and popping it back between the girl’s teeth.

“How’s that husband of yours ?”

“Fine.” You smile. “Horny, I’m certain. But let’s face it. He’s the lucky one. I have a few new male prisoners who would soon do anything to swap places with my hub.”

He chuckles as you walk out the bathroom together.

“Nevertheless, I hope you intend to keep your darling horny.”

He hands you a cane. It is the length of a pool cue, made of light but vicious yellow bamboo.

You swish it through the air in a practise strike. The whoosh makes your skin tingle.

Horne stands back admiringly like one golfer watching another. You plant your feet and stare at the crimson sweet spot on the girl’s buttocks.

You take aim and thwack it three times across the target, hearing her cacophony of screams through the doorway.

Her wails annoy you so you go and shut the bathroom door, before delivering a second trio of strokes. Through the door there is now just muted wailing. Her muscles clench and release as the six juicy new lines throb and glow.

You shrug, handing Horne back the cane, starting to dress yourself.

He takes your place, placing his hand on the girl’s globes, testing their heat. Then he takes up his best driving stance and lashes a 3-wood into unmarked skin at the top of her legs, below her overused buns.

“So ?” he asks. “About your husband ?”

You chuckle at his insistence.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

The half-dressed man hunkered over Silky’s face while she licked and tongued his sweaty, salty scrotum and the sagging curve of his butt.

He had kept his shirt and socks on but removed his boots and khakis. His body was exceptionally hairy and his balls hung down onto her chin like ripe coconuts.

He had been introduced as her ‘Probation Officer’.

“That’s the way.”

“Look, she’s got a pube stuck on her lip.”

Silky managed to spit out the invading hair with her tongue. They had now removed the leather belt securing her wrists and ankles. Because she couldn’t fight them anyway. She was lying with her head hanging backwards over the edge of the leather rack.

Meanwhile, the two nurses sat on stools either side of Danno, watching and commentating, whilst shaving her husband’s groin hairless. He was still crucified on the x-frame, unable to help either himself or her.

One soaped him and manoeuvred his erection out of the way while the other swept the razor to and fro efficiently.

“Well, she won’t catch any hairs from her husband for a while.”

Silky snatched an upside down glance across at Danno. He was baby bald from his pubic area up to his stomach. Meanwhile, the man who had introduced himself as Danno’s ‘Jailer’ was grinning, holding out a wine bucket of crushed ice.

“Okay, lady.”

Her Probation Officer cuffed her lightly and growled. “Tongue my shithole.”

Silky had no resistance left in her. She burrowed her face into the stagnant crevice and pushed her tongue up as far as it would go.

Did none of these people wash ?

This man was even more revolting than Elka.

She heard male and female laughter, crude comments.

“And now it’s time to lock our friend up.”

She stuck to her disgusting task but gathered that ice was being applied to poor Danno’s genitals. There were cheers and more laughter, then metallic sounds like a ratchet being turned.

She winced as her own hair was pulled.

“Take a peek at your husband !”

Danno’s eyes were staring, glazed over, red rimmed. He looked half-conscious, half-mad. She twisted her neck and saw a steel cage had been fastened around his chilled scrotum and penis. It was the size of a baseball, made of wire mesh, like two tealeaf strainers fixed together.

“Keep staring at your husband while you blow my dick.”

Five sets of eyes were fixed on her now; the two nurses, the Jailer, her Probation Officer.

And Danno’s.

She groaned as her blonde hair was pushed away from her face so everybody could get a good view of her slurping mouth.

“Yeah. Mmm …”

His fist bumped against her lips as he finished himself off. She tried to blank her mind, knowing what was coming. Yet more warm, spicy paste cloyed her tongue, gums, palate.

She gagged and tasted the acid of her own vomit coming up in the other direction, gulped, sucking the bitter glutinous bile back down her throat with his semen chaser.

“Hey man. Your bitch has potential.”

Without warning, the whole cocktail erupted up into her mouth again, acid burning her sinuses. He pulled his erection away and she pursed her lips shut to prevent the whole lot spewing onto the floor.

“Swallow it.”

She guzzled, somehow forcing her gag reflex to obey, tasting the slimy texture and sour tang as it splashed like a scummy wave of flotsam and jetsam crashing onto seaside rocks.

This time the tide receded down the plughole of her throat and somehow stayed there. The man wiped the stringy residue hanging from the wet tip of his penis over her nose and chin.

Four faces smiled at her.

One didn’t.

“I like oral, lady, but today I’m gonna fuck your cunny.”

Danno’s jailer had spoken. He stepped forward next, unbuckling his belt.

Silky screwed her eyes shut, listening to the sounds of his belt, his zipper. She felt his hands on her knees, swivelling her. Her back slid towards him on the shiny leather as he tugged her.

“Open your fucking eyes.”

She blinked at him. His hard penis sliced inside her easily, driving the air out of her lungs.

“And you.” She heard him shout at Danno. “Look at us and listen !”

She felt faint, their faces whirling, blurred, drifting in and out of focus.

She half-heard as her rapist calmly explained official State policy.

A Jailer needs to ‘get to know’ a male inmate’s wife or girlfriend thoroughly. It presents just one additional challenge for the prisoner to overcome.

To even qualify for the chance of parole, he must learn to humbly accept his jailer’s right to use freely whatever was once his.

Forever.

During a prison sentence, his jailer will keep in touch with an inmate’s wife on his behalf. He will not spare the details of his visits and the inmate must be enthusiastic and approving.

But many jailers continue to pay frequent and unannounced visits to their ex-prisoner’s homes, months and years after the prisoner’s release.

If a male prisoner shows any objection to his one time Jailer helping himself to food, drink, possessions or his wife, he is likely to be rearrested immediately.

“Cross your legs behind my back.” Silky heard the jailer order her.

She managed to lock her ankles, feeling him plunge deeper inside her.

“Make no mistake.” He grunted into her ear. “You and your old man are getting off lightly. Be a good girl and you can return to a relatively normal life in six months to a year’s time.”

She saw him smirk at Danno. “Yep, but even after you’ve served your time, this is a sight you’re going to get fucking used to.”

He slowed. She tried to focus on him hovering above her, staring down into her eyes, like a giant vampire bat.

“However, I can assure you that your friends Topaz and Jorjo would do anything to swap places with you !”

Silky wheezed then, mercifully, she passed out.

Topaz knelt on the cold concrete floor of the tiny cell.

Two steel bowls had been placed in front of her. She had sipped from the water, recoiling at its brackish, soapy taste and warm temperature. It was grey, scummy, used dishwater, with a slick of grease floating on the surface.

She gagged at the smell emanating from the second bowl.

It looked like pet food, gristly chunks in a glutinous gravy. Pearly gobs of white goo garnished the top. The grinning, gap-toothed guard who pushed the bowls through the bars had obviously added his own something to the recipe.

“Eat up, bitch. You’ve got five minutes or we drag you out and force feed ya.”

Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. She placed her lips over a chunk that was free of his trimmings and used her tongue and teeth to lift it into her mouth. She bit into the soft, slimy texture. It made her heave.

“Don’t worry, kid.” His voice taunted her. “It’s safe to eat.”

She shut her eyes and gulped, tasting the rancid meat, somehow forcing it down her gullet.

“Good. Now faster. I wanna see ya wolf the whole lot down.”

Nausea swirled around her head. She broke into a sweat. But she compelled herself to eat it. Not just to obey him, but because she had suddenly realised how hungry she was. She had to eat to survive.

“That’s it. And don’t waste my sauce.”

Topaz soon realised that the foul man’s semen was positively harmless compared to the other ingredients; gloopy giblets were mixed in with tough cubes and bony gristle in a fetid, viscous gravy.

Eventually though, at last, the steel bowls were both clean.

You grin at Silky.

The blonde looks surprisingly good, considering.

Freshly showered, hair brushed, dressed in her own clothes, makeup. For a fuckdoll who recently passed out unconscious, she looks relieved to be moving onto the next stage of her whore’s life.

"Would you like a final word with your husband before you leave ?"
She nods gratefully. Her makeup is heavy, sluttish, bright lipstick and red blush.

"Okay. That shouldn't be a problem.”

You rise from your seat, relishing the moment. “I think he's in here.”

You take a few steps and push open a heavy steel door.

Before you fully open it you turn to gloat.

"I'm sure he’ll be thrilled to be able to say goodbye.”

You open the creaking door and put a finger to your pursed lips in a ‘ssh’ sign. You gesture for her to follow.

The tableau is perfect.

Such a nice image for a wife to take home with her.

Danno hangs there, like the figurehead on the prow of an old ship. Background music plays gently on the room’s sound system, although you doubt Silky will pick up on your musical joke. ‘My Heart will go on’ sung by Celine Dion.

Percussion, guitar, big vocals.

Silky’s hand flies to her mouth and she gasps in shock horror.

Her initial view of her husband is in profile. The room is in darkness except for bright overhead pin-spots illuminating his head, body and the gleaming steel struts.

Danno is strapped tight to a sturdy metal frame. His back is arched like a bow and he can only stare straight ahead at a bank of empty TV screens. His legs are slightly parted with his knees bent at 90 degrees, the soles of his feet facing upwards, about three feet apart.

You chuckle approvingly at Silky, cocking your eyebrow.

Danno’s arms are pulled right back and locked together, from his elbows to his fingertips, inside a long, red leather bondage sleeve.

His head has been shaved completely bald. Its newly revealed dome glows with sweat and his face and body are pink and dripping under the heat of the spotlights.

His naked body is tied to the frame by leather straps that dig deeply into his flesh; they are too tight around his ankles, his calves, his thighs, his stomach, his chest and his wrists. His head is held completely immobile by a very taut strap circling his forehead and a final one round his neck.

“Nice, eh ?”

You very slowly start to swivel the frame on its castors towards you both.

“But …”

“Remember, the more men you fuck each day, the quicker he’ll be off this thing and back living a normal happy life beside you.”

Danno’s pink face swings into view. His mouth is plugged by a crimson ball gag. Drool runs in a slick down his chin. He blushes cutely.

“Who’s a pretty boy then ?”

A muffled groan escapes, flaring his nostrils.

The heavy steel penis tube hangs hypnotically between his thighs, swinging like a pendulum, as you turn the frame full on to face Silky.

She screws up her face, smudging her fresh makeup.

“Oh my … please … you can’t … he …”

“I can.” You reply calmly. “And he will.”

“But I …”

“And.” You interrupt her. “You can too.”

“Please. Look, we have money. Anything ?”

You appear indignant, horrified. Your hidden CCTV system is on, recording this scene. Offering bribes is a serious offence. After Silky has served out this sentence, she will now be vulnerable to face a new charge.

But all in good time.

“I have no interest in money.” You retort for her, and the camera.

Actually, that’s not quite true. A team has already searched their home, checked their accounts, valued every single possession and asset they own.

Silky sobs, reaching a hand up to cup her husband’s dribbling chin lovingly.

“Say goodbye.” You smile. “I’ll maybe let you visit him after your first hundred fucks. See how each other’s getting along.”

You slowly start to swivel the frame away from her. His eyes bug helplessly, as he tries to communicate some kind of message to his wife; of reassurance perhaps, of encouragement, of sorrow, whatever.

“Come on now, it’s time to get you on your way home.”

END OF PART THREE

A Demonstration of Power

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