Fred's Slut

by Abe

Tiffani stepped out of the car without waiting for

Fred to open the door for her.  He seemed to be in a

strange mood, dissatisfied with her, somehow.

When they had decided on a romantic dinner to

discuss the matter, Fred had insisted on this strange,

distant restaurant, which was so crowded that they

had to park way in the back in the dark.  Still, it

was always fun to show off at a restaurant.  Wobbling a

bit on her highest heels, she struggled to pull the

hem of her tight black dress down to the point of

decency.  It was then that she felt a sack being

pulled over her head.  She had only a moment to

scream, "Fred!," before the sack was over her head

and shoulders and down to her hips, effectively

confining her arms.  She struggled as best she

could, but someone was putting ropes or straps over

the sack, pinning her arms to her side and

effectively gagging her by pressing the burlap

between her lips.  Her shoes fell off as she was

lifted and carried several feet, then plopped onto the

seat of a van (it had a sliding door) and belted in.

Her dress had a zipper all down the front.  The

lower part could be opened to make a suggestive

slit in front, and the top could be opened to reveal

as much cleavage as needed.  For walking into a

restaurant, she had elected maximum closure and

maximum tightness.  Now, she felt someone

unzipping her skirt right up to the bottom of the

sack, at her waist, and lifting her skirt out from

under her so that her bare buttocks (she wore thong

panties to avoid lines in the tight skirt) rested

against the cool leather of the seat.  She imagined,

for a moment, telling the police," I don't know

what kind of van it was, but it had leather seats."  A

hand pulled at the waist of her panties and slid a

golf ball down between her legs, positioning it right

at the bottom of her vulva where her weight would

bear on it.  Her abductor tightened the seat belt

more, so she was trapped, sitting on the ball which

pressed it way between her outer labia.

Miles later, the van stopped.  Tiffani  had not paid

much attention to the route taken, when they turned

or what sort of surface they were on or possible

audible clues to their location, like a low‑flying

airplane or something.  She had been utterly

distracted by the pressure of the ball between her

legs.  For several minutes, all she could think of

was that strange pressure, pressing the very

entrance to her vagina, shifting slightly when the

van went over a bump or she squirmed in her seat.

Her preoccupation with the ball made her hornier

and hornier; she felt she had to reach a climax, but

she couldn't.  Finally, she found that with extra

effort she could rock her hips, could move enough

in her lap belt to bring herself to an orgasm, and

then another, and then a real earth‑shaking orgasm

when her vaginal exertions coincided with some big

bumps (railroad crossing?) that drove the ball

deeper into her soggy sheath.

She was carried into a building and made to stand.

The floor was concrete, suggesting a garage or

industrial building.  It was bright inside; the light

filtered through the coarse weave of the sack, but

she could see nothing.  The strap around her waist

was loosened and strong masculine hands extracted

her wrists and bound them together.  Then the sack

was further loosened, gathered up around her neck,

so her wrists could be raised.  She heard the click‑

click of some sort of winch as she was hauled aloft,

until she was on tip‑toe.  Then the lights went out,

and the sack was taken off  her head.  Immediately,

someone put wide duct tape over her eyes, so she

was totally blind.  Her dress was completely

unzipped, so it fell away from her taut body, but it

still hung from her shoulders.  Well, it did until

someone cut from armhole to collar on each side

and the dress fell away entirely.  She was now

clothed only in her black thong panties and a little

black strapless push‑up bra.  Her vaginal muscles

tightened, quite unconsciously, and the golf ball

slipped out and fell to the floor.  "Jesus Christ, you

fucking bastard, what the fuck do you think you are

doing?" she yelled.

A deep male voice said, quite calmly, "It looks like

a slut and it sounds like a slut.  It must be a slut.

Lately, you have been flirting and talking dirty and

shaking your tits and ass at every guy you met.  I

don't suppose you had sex with all of them, not

with me, anyway, but you sure put on the tease.

That's not right for a married woman.  So some of

us decided you need a lesson you won't forget, sort

of vigilante justice.  Behave yourself, and we'll take

you back to Fred more or less undamaged, sadder

but wiser, as they say.  Give us a hard time, and you

may not live through the night.  Your choice."

Tiffani tried to stay calm and figure things out.  It

was warm and humid, no air conditioning.  She

could feel some radiant warmth on her skin,

probably bright lights.  There was a bit of

reverberation, echoes of the voices, so it was

probably a big room with hard walls, not just a

residential garage.  It was quiet, with no

background sounds, like traffic, so it was either

downtown, which was dead at night, or maybe out

in the country.  She felt the hooks of her strapless

bra being released.  It fell off, leaving her breasts,

lifted by her raised arms, perky and public.

Someone squeezed them, and she gritted her teeth

in annoyance.  Her skimpy panties slid down her

legs in seconds and lay on her toes.  However, her

feet were lifted and the panties removed.  One

ankle, and then the other, was hauled up and tied at

the level of  her wrists, but to the side, so she

found herself doubled up, with her knees by her shoulders,

her feet perhaps three feet apart,  and her still wet

vulva nicely displayed for her abductors.  She tried

not to imagine what they might do to her.

"First of all," said the man with the deep voice.  She

didn't know his name, so she thought of him as

Fucking Bastard.  "First of all, I think we should

address the business of shaking your tits and ass at

other men.  This should remind you not to do that."

She felt the mouth of a small beer bottle being

pressed against her anus.  She contracted her anal

muscles to keep it out.  "Oh, well, I guess I need to

lubricate it."  There was a few seconds of respite

while he rubbed something on the empty bottle.

Then he placed the mouth of the bottle against her

anus and gave the bottom of the bottle a sharp blow.

The slippery neck slid in, right up to the shoulder of

the bottle.

"Oh, God, it burns!" Tiffani screamed.  "What is

that?"

"Tiger Balm, a heat rub for sore muscles.

You brought it on yourself, Tiffani."  She felt his

hand on her back as he pushed hard on the bottle,

and her anus slowly stretched until the widest part

of the bottle was inside her.  The burning and

cramping was like nothing she had experienced.  It

felt as if she had to shit, but she couldn't.

Chuckling, F.B. added, "That's a treatment for the

condition known as tight ass.  And this corrects for

wiggling hips and shaking ass."  A searing blow,

from a cane or fish pole or something, cut

horizontally across her taut ass cheeks.

"Yeeoowww!" she screamed, as the sharp initial

pain gave way to the slower ache.  She was just

getting her breath when he struck again, and again.

She screamed and begged him to stop, writhing as

he systematically raised welts across her bottom.

Sometimes he would strike low and upward.  The

cane would strike the bottom of the bottle, and the

tip would whip around and hurt even more, while

simultaneously the bottle would jolt in her rectum,

transmitting the force of the blow to her insides.

For a while he worked his way up the backs of her

thighs, each blow a half an inch higher, until the

cane hit her perky, outstanding tits, bringing

especially loud shrieks of pain.  When he changed

from horizontal blows, slashing downward to catch

the nipples which protruded beyond her folded up

thighs or when he let the tip strike her labia, she

wondered why she didn't faint from the pain, or

have a heart attack.  She was sure she couldn't

stand another blow to her tits or cunt when,

miraculously, the caning stopped. "You are going to

stop flaunting your tits and ass in public, aren't

you?"

"Yes! Yes!  I'll wear loose clothes and stand

very still."

"There is still a problem about your teasing cunt.

You give the impression that you never get enough

sex.  We'll have to address that.  First, we'll see

just how much we can stuff it."  She felt something, not

much bigger than a Tampax, being slipped into her

vagina.  Then she heard the screech of a water

faucet and felt hot water entering her, inflating a

balloon which was up there by her cervix.  At first,

it wasn't painful; there aren't a lot of nerves

inside, as opposed to the very sensitive vestibule of the

vagina.  She could feel the heat, and the hose

entering her, but... but then things changed.  There

was a real stretching pressure.  Urine spurted from

her compressed bladder, and the beer bottle was

forced from her compressed rectum, to shatter on

the floor.  Finally, as if delivering a baby, she

screamed as the balloon stretched her cunt and

forced its way to freedom, plopping on the floor.

She panted, catching her breath, until a hand forced

its way into her gaping cunt and made a fist.

"Yeeoww!" she screamed as the fist ravaged her

vagina, and she had a mind‑boggling orgasm.,

fainting for a few seconds. As she recovered, she

realized that her vagina was now empty, but F. B.

was sliding a condom‑clad penis into her anus, still

slack from its stretching by the bottle.  He held her

with a hand on each hip as he pulled her down on

his penis.  It didn't take long before he came and

withdrew, pulling the receptacle end of the condom

out of her asshole with a little snapping noise.

"That's what's likely to happen when you wiggle

your ass at men.  Don't do it."

"I won't.  I'll never again wiggle my ass at a man."

"Well, not unless you want it from your husband."

Nothing happened for a few seconds.  "I've learned

my lesson.  Can I go now?"

F. B. chuckled.  She felt a big penis, a rubber penis,

sliding into her.  Suspended as she was, the tunnel

of her vagina was almost horizontal.  She heard a

growling sound, grunge‑grunge, like an old

fashioned washing machine, and the rubber penis

pushed into her, bumping her cervix and pushing

her backward, like a pendulum.  As it started to

withdraw, she swung foreward to follow it.  It

started to pull out and she to swing back, but then it

plunged into her again.  To make it worse, there

was some sort of extension on the thing that

bumped her clitoris.  She was wet enough it didn't

hurt, but she didn't like being violated by some sort

of machine with a prick twice the size of Fred's.

She'd sometimes wondered what it would be like to

be fucked by a real stud, some black guy with a

foot‑long dick.  Now she was finding out, and it

wasn't as good as she thought it might be.  Still, the

relentless fucking had an effect, and she finally

came, and then again, and then still again, until, in

her groggy, fucked senseless state, she couldn't

really count or keep track of time.

Then her ankles were lowered, and her hands, and

they made her kneel on the hard floor.  Her cunt felt

stretched and tired, and she flashed on the stories of

gang bangs, where women are raped repeatedly.

They must feel like that, worn out.  She had

sometimes wished Fred would last longer.  Now she

thought maybe once a night was enough.

She soon discovered why she was on her knees.

"Suck," she was ordered.  She had no choice, did

she?  Not like with Fred, when she always said no.

She thought of that old joke: why does a bride smile

at her wedding? It's because she'll never again have

to give head.  Now Tiffani had to give head, and she

licked and sucked and swallowed.  They've stuffed

all three holes, she thought, what more can they do?

"OK, Tiffani, you can get dressed now, but don't

touch the tape over your eyes."  Someone squeezed

her tits, and then put her bra back on.  Then they

had second thoughts and removed the bra.  She felt

each breast being wrapped tightly at the base with

stretchy rubber electrical tape.  She knew her boobs

must be swollen like balloons, and they felt so...

sensitive and... tingly.  Someone touched her

nipples, and they were much more sensitive.  When

they put her bra back on, further compressing her

swollen breasts, she was thoroughly distracted by

the sensations it produced.  Someone was slipping

her thong panties up her legs, and placing her feet

in her high heeled shoes.  "Stand still, Slut, and

don't wiggle your ass."  Someone pushed on the

small of her back and pulled back on her hips, so

she was standing sort of funny in her heels, her

chest stuck out and her ass behind.  They slipped a

smooth, heavy, kind of cool cylinder with rounded

ends, only maybe half an inch in diameter, past her

thong and deep into her vagina and taped her twat

tight with a piece of duct tape, so it couldn't fall

out.  "OK, Slut, time to go home.  Walk this way."

Someone faced her toward what she supposed was

the door.

She got about two steps in her high heels when a

jolt of electricity caused her vaginal muscles to

contract violently.  "Argh!" she exclaimed,

staggering, until they held her  still again.

"Tiffani, you have to learn to walk without wiggling

your ass.  That thing has batteries in it, and a

little kind of pendulum switch.  If you wiggle your ass,

it's going to make contact.  Keep your vagina

upright and still, and it won't zap you.  Still, by

the time you get home, you should be nice and tight for

Fred."  Taking tiny steps, Tiffani made it to the van

with only a few more shocks.  They belted her in,

and she had to sit very stiffly.  If she slumped,

rotated her pelvis, her vagina would cramp

violently.  Distracted like that, she couldn't pay

much attention to the ride home, except that at one

point they stopped and someone got out.  It seemed

a long drive,  and bumps --- more railroad tracks? ‑‑‑

activated the shocker, forcing artificial orgasm‑like

contractions.

They got her out of the van.  "You're home.  Just

walk up the walk and knock on the door."  She

heard the van drive away.  She knew it must be

dark, so probably no one would see her.  She had on

a bra and panties, so she wasn't indecent.  She

reached up with her bound hands and pulled the

tape off her eyes, knowing her artificial lashes

would be pulled off too.  Slowly, carefully, she

went up the walk until she came to the step at the

door.  Very carefully, she climbed the step, fearful

of the shocker inside her.  She felt for the door

bell.

The door opened. "Tiffani," said Fred.  "I was so

worried!"  He pulled her into the room and closed

the door.  As he hugged her, she stiffened and

struggled and screamed, until he had to let go.

"Ah, ah, ah" screamed Tiffani, rolling on the floor.

"Fred, get that thing out of my cunt!"  She lay on

her back, her hips bucking, until Fred pulled away

her panties and ripped off the tape and found the

cylinder inside her.  When he had pulled it out, she

was able to talk.  "Fred, I was kidnaped.  They did

terrible tings to me.  Why didn't you call the police

and save me?"

"I was tied up.  I just now got loose and drove

home."

"You didn't call the police?"

"They said not to, or they'd hurt you.  Besides, what good

would it do?  What could I tell the police? Thank

God you are home safe, Tiffani."

"My tits, save my tits."  Fred removed her bra and

unwound the electrical tape from her swollen breasts.

"Oh, they are so sensitive, " she said, as he held them

in his hands and kissed her nipples.  "That feels good."

Finally, with some help from a kitchen knife, Fred

was able to release her hands.

After that awful night, there were subtle changes in

the marriage of Fred and Tiffani.  They didn't go

out so much, and she dressed more conservatively

and didn't talk so loudly.  She knew Fred still had

the shocker, and he had threatened to use it, if she

wasn't a good wife, but he never did.  Maybe it was

because whenever he seemed angry, a timely blow

job from Tiffani would defuse the situation.

A year later, Tiffani  was six months pregnant, had

given up her job, and had a nest‑building obsession.

The whole house would have to be neat and clean

for the baby.  She cleaned places she'd never seen

before.  And  then, in the back of the closet under

the stairs, she found a VHS tape cassette with no

label, but partially played.  Somehow, she couldn't

resist popping it in the player and seeing what it

was.  There she was, being fucked by a big dildo

attached to a pole attached to an old washing

machine agitator.  A tall, thin guy she didn't

recognize, that would be Fucking Bastard,  seemed

to be running the show, while someone else taped it

all.  And then she was on her knees and the tall guy

took the camera and took close‑ups as some other

guy raped her mouth.  And then the cameraman

zoomed back, and she could see the two of them,

herself, on her knees sucking like mad, and the guy,

grinning like mad.  It was Fred.