 |
|||
|
|
“This new proposal for acquisition is…intriguing, Charles, I’ll give you that,” Forrester Davison hummed pleasantly, gazing through the pair of high-powered binoculars he was holding. “Ah yes, I seem to remember her now. Parents were Noreen and Karl?”
“Indeed, my lord,” came the quick response from the older gentlemen, who was clothed in a black formal topcoat, silver vest, and white gloves. Charlie Burkholter slowly stirred the thick, hand-churned cream into his boss’ Wedgewood coffee cup, bringing the froth gently to the surface, just as his master liked. “Ian Wannamaker, the gardener’s son, thought she might be a welcome addition to your…ah…collection.”
Davison gave his valet a vaguely annoyed grunt and swung the gold-capped riding crop he was gripping impatiently at the glass. “Since when does the gardener’s son ordain who or what is invited onto this property, Charles? You are aware, I am sure, that my business here must be kept under wraps? Quite discreet, what?”
“Of course, Master,” Charlie quickly replied, bowing down on one knee to the wealthy man and lowering his head, deliberately taking a position that he knew his cantankerous employer could not resist. “It is, as everything, subject to your approval.”
Davison raised his eyebrows in a gesture of apathy, but could not help but grin slightly at the subservient posture of his man servant.
There was not much he could quibble with, when it came to Charles Burkholter. Ever since Forrester had returned home, a wayward scion taking rightful ownership of the property that had been left him by his deceased father, he had found the man invaluable.
Forrester had known Charles for years --- while he was growing up, the man had been the chief of police in Bigelow for some time, where he worked hand in glove with Forrester’s father, Tyler Davison, “smoothing out the rough edges” as his father often said, ensuring the family absolute rule over the small but populous county of Mulvane.
Before taking him into his employ, Forrester had incurred great expense to make the man over, from a somewhat roguish vulgarian, into a classically trained gentlemen’s gentlemen. If the truth were told, Forrester would confess that he indeed felt a great deal of affection for the man, and he was sure the feeling was reciprocated. Charles had regarded his father as a god, and at least in Forrester’s eyes, this respect had carried over to him --- and not only filial respect, but a base respect that his father had never shown to Forrester himself, as a boy. He found it ironic that he had always been “Master” to Charles, both then, and now.
“So, when can I expect to indoctrinate this…unexpected little tidbit?” Forrester laughed, gently caressing his ascot and purring with a silky baritone that he thought made him sound especially evil.
“Tomorrow soon enough, my lord?” Charles postulated, a pleased smile warming his tired, ruddy features.
Davison’s face was aglow with contented anticipation. “Tomorrow then,” he replied, nodding curtly at his servant and dismissing him.
“Goddamn it, Ian, get your scummy hands off me,” Carlotta Northrup barked, pushing the young man away roughly. “Just because I let you pork me once a month, doesn’t mean I have to stick around for any of your fucking lame-ass pillow talk. I’m late as it is.”
Ian Wannamaker rolled his eyes, sat up in bed, and lit a cigarette. “Won’t you at least think about it, baby?” he asked. “Seems to me like you could use the cash, seein’ as you’re so bent on gettin’ outta here.”
“The only one who’s bent is that cocksucker Davison,” Carlotta grumbled. “I cannot believe what that prissy little fuck is doing to this town. All for what? Someone called him a fag? Put chewing gum in his shoes? Get a life….”
Ian drew slowly on his cigarette, puffing little smoke rings toward the open window of the equipment shed where the old mattress was concealed. “Seems to me that the man wants to give away some money. And I do believe you’re in need of that very thing, darlin’. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Carlotta stopped tugging at her stockings for a minute and stared at him. “Oh yeah, Forrester fucking Davison is giving money away. That’s a goddamn laugh. He’s taking it away from people, is what he’s doing. Ain’t you noticed how many people have just up and left town lately, Ian? D’you listen to people talk?”
“People’r always talkin’ in this piss-ant little burg, that’s the problem,” the boy replied. “Not doin’ nothin’…jes’ talkin’. Meanwhile other people are makin’ the money.”
Carlotta snapped on her sequined cocktail waitress skirt and removed a compact from her leather jacket. Ian watched her as she put her lipstick on, still bare-chested. Her tits were firm, generous, and milky white. They barely moved as she quickly applied her makeup. She put up with a lot of boob-job jokes, Ian knew, though everyone in town was well aware that Carlotta could barely afford the payments on her used Camaro, much less plastic surgery. Both her parents had been killed by a drunk driver last year --- no insurance --- and she had to struggle to buy even a steady diet of macaroni and cheese dinners.
She eyeballed Ian as she began to apply a thin coat of lip gloss to her mouth, which really didn’t need it, still glistening as it was from what she was sure Ian vainly thought was his recent deposit.
“Like you and your daddy, y’mean?” she replied mockingly. She bent down to strap on a pair of cheap red pumps. “He doesn’t shit without that fat bastard’s say-so. This town makes me sick. They bitch and moan about kissin’ Tyler Davison’s ass for forty some odd years, and his daddy before that. Then the little prince returns with open pockets, and here we all are --- lickin’ the boots of another Davison! It makes my skin crawl to even be on their property right now.” She hissed the last few words, snarling as her finger snagged the stocking covering one foot. “Motherfucker, I just bought those!” she yelled, collapsing on the torn bedding with a disgusted groan.
“Fifteen grand for a week’s work buys an awful lot of pantyhose,” Ian snickered, snuffing out his cigarette. He threw a fifty on the old milk crate where the ashtray sat. When he had fastened his jeans around his ripped, tanned abs, he sat down near Carlotta, who was now staring sullenly at the floor. He gently wrapped her curly blond tresses in one hand and gave them a gentle tug. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Features like a Greek statue. The girl has no idea what she’s got, he mused to himself.
“What do I have to do again?” she said.
Forrester Davison was in his glory.
His foot, sheathed in a soft, impeccably polished chestnut brown riding boot, was planted firmly on the bruised ass cheek of Toni Karl, the daughter of the Bigelow town mayor. Frank Karl had foolishly vetoed an ordinance that would permit construction of a new mini-mall on an area of wetlands that had been deemed off-limits for development --- construction spearheaded by Davison Magnafunds and its powerful CEO.
“I want you to look into that camera, pet, and tell your daddy how much you want to come home to him,” Forrester snarled, slashing the long black crop’s razor-studded tip down upon Toni’s ass, leaving a fresh gash of blood.
The girl whimpered and tried once more to move away, still on all fours. Forrester violently pulled back his gauntlet-gloved hand and the halter and bridle attached to Toni’s head grew tighter. The rubber bit in her mouth felt to the girl as if it might be forced down her throat and she began to make small choking noises.
Davison gestured impatiently to Tom Wannamaker, who was running the camera. “I believe she needs further persuasion, Tommy. Give me a moment, will you?” The fat little man beckoned two stable hands, boys just out of their teens, to come forth. “Hold my mount!” Forrester demanded. He chuckled as the young men gripped Toni’s shaking body, holding it in place, while their boss inserted a cigarette in a long holder and casually singed the end, inhaling slowly on the tip of the regal rod. He slowly approached the girl, his boots making soft crunching noises on the floor of the barn.
Without warning he quickly straddled Toni and dropped himself down on the girl’s slender back, slapping his hands across her tits as he did so, for balance. The immense weight of the obese man collapsing on top of her would have broken her back, had the lads not held her firmly. Davison moved himself back and forth atop Toni, chuckling sadistically and rubbing his erect cock lightly over her back. Even through the sheer white silk of his jodhpurs, she could feel the moist wetness of his prick stroking her teasingly, getting harder by the minute.
“Move bitch!” Davison thundered, digging his spurs deeply into Toni’s stomach, causing her to shriek beneath the gag. She tried to move, but the weight of her burden was too great. Forrester struck her again and again until finally she had no choice but to attempt to advance. “Good girl, good horsey,” Davison laughed maniacally. “Maybe I’ll give you an apple after we’re through with this, mmmmmm?”
Toni was crying uncontrollably, but still kept advancing. When she looked up finally, she saw a stinking pile of horse manure in front of her face.
“Well? Eat up! Horse Apples are apples, too” Forrester howled, smacking her repeatedly on opposite sides of her belly, until she moved toward the rancid pile of dung, red-rimmed mouth trembling with revulsion.
Davison straightened his immaculate black velvet riding habit, and took a contented drag from his holder, as his hysterically sobbing filly lowered her face into the stinking muck.
On her
“Clem, look, I’ll have the money for you next Tuesday, alright? I don’t get paid ‘till then. Devin has enough cash, no matter what he tells you. I know. I know he’s your boss. Just…wait…look, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Laurie snapped the phone closed and glanced over at Carlotta.
“Hey,” she said. “Carly, right? Want a cigarette?”
“Nah, I quit,” Carlotta replied, almost coyly. “Busy night behind the bar?”
Laurie had been bartending at the Rafters now for close to two months. She was an oddity for these parts --- a true oddity --- Carlotta thought. She had appeared out of nowhere one day, rolling into town on a battered Harley, her dirty blonde hair flapping wildly in the wind. After talking briefly with Bruno, the owner, she had started serving drinks the following night. Carlotta had only talked to her one other time, outside of giving her drink and app orders, and had found her to be pleasant enough, but a slight stand-off’ish.
“S’ok,” Laurie returned, lighting up.
“So…” Carlotta said, trying to sound casual, “hope I’m
not being too nosy…but what’s someone like you doin’
in
Laurie laughed, French-inhaled. “I’m asking myself
that some days. But y’know, it’s probably as good as
anywhere. I used to dance, professionally, and I needed a break from that shit.
I’m from up near
“
“Yeah,” Laurie said, “there’s another one?” She smirked, then immediately felt bad as she watched Carlotta’s face drop. “Hey, don’t mind me,” she said, waving her hand. “I’m a touch bitchy tonight. I’ve been hit on about fifteen times by toothless bubbas in the past hour, and now I’ve got Bruno on my ass because I’m not watering down the Jack and Cokes fast enough.” She sighed disgustedly and ground out her cigarette. “I gotta get on the road again…shit, you know….”
“I wish I did…” Carlotta murmured under her breath. “Listen, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, babe. Shoot,” Laurie said. She felt herself warming to Carly. The girl was a little dim, but maybe just inexperienced, she thought.
“When you danced, did you ever do anything else, for money? See, I’ve been…myself…and…I….?” Carlotta fumbled vainly for the right words, desperately not wanting to offend the girl, but found nothing but a blank stare in reply.
“You mean like…hooking?” Laurie said, suddenly giving her a small smile.
“Yeah, like that.”
“Well,” Laurie admitted, “I guess we’re all whores in one way or another, huh? Just depends on the offers we get and how desperate we are.” She smiled bitterly to herself and ground out her smoke.
Carlotta dropped her head and stared at the cracked concrete that was still baking even in the darkness of the summer’s day.
“I’ve got this proposal see, from this rich local guy. To work…one job. The money’s good. But I don’t know….” Carlotta looked at Laurie and saw no judgment in her brown eyes. Indeed, the girl seemed to be mulling her words over intently.
“How good?” she said.
The ride to Everest,
the
Laurie sat across from her. They were both dressed
in the best they had to offer, which Carlotta admitted, was not much. Two girls
she didn’t know rounded out the foursome in the rear compartment of the
late-model
“Well, gals, anyone up for a drink?” she asked, pointing at the elaborate barware that lined the sides of the car. The heavy crystal shimmered brightly under the soft lights that rose from beneath the glass. “The bar appears to be empty, but maybe the coolers have something…” She lifted the lid of the lacquered bin to the right of her seat, but found nothing inside. “Mmmm, is our host a twelve stepper?” she asked, a cock-eyed smile darting across her face.
No one said a word for a few minutes, and Laurie sighed, looking nonplussed.
“Excuse me,” one of the girls said. “You’re sure in a good mood,” she snapped.
“Hey, we’re strapped into the ride,” Laurie replied. “Why not enjoy it?”
Carlotta nervously found herself biting her nails and looking out the window.
“He’s…going to take our house away,” a fourth girl, full-figured but in a pretty way, piped suddenly, leaning forward and bursting into tears. Carlotta reached over and handed the girl a tissue from the wooden-inlaid container behind her, after the girl continued sobbing for several minutes. The atmosphere in the car had turned considerably darker, and Carlotta felt suddenly as if she was indeed trapped on a rollercoaster, one that was inching its way slowly toward a treacherous drop.
“Oh, cut it Cynthia,” the other girl said, irritable and seemingly embarrassed. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“He is…” Cynthia wailed. “I’ve heard people talk about it….”
“What the fuck’s going on?” Laurie demanded suddenly, looking straight at Carlotta. “What kind of shit have you got me messed up in?”
Cynthia continued to cry softly, and Carlotta leaned back in her seat, fixing her eyes on Laurie. “It’s $15,000. For one week of our lives.”
“So, is this guy some kind of whack-job or something?” Laurie asked sharply. “Not that I haven’t dealt with them before, but this is a fuckin’ week, Carly.”
Carlotta leaned forward, not wanting this conversation to go any further. She didn’t need more shit to feel nervous about at this point, she thought angrily.
“Look…my boyfriend said he’s just this rich old guy who likes to get off watching chicks do each other. No big deal, OK? Let’s all just chill out and suck it in.”
“We’ll be doin’ that, and more, sounds like,” Laurie said flatly. There was no humor in her voice, though.
The girls were escorted into a large room with one round table and five chairs. Seated at the table was Charlie Burkholter, wearing a dark military uniform with a few medals and bits of decoration here and there.
“Charlie, what’s with the get-up?” Carlotta teased
weakly. She had known the man all her life, and even though he ran in different
circles than her parents --- part of the country club set, for sure --- she
still had fond memories of him from when she had dated his son,
But the person who stared back at her with haughty raised eyebrows was no one that she knew. The jovial red-faced man who had manned the barbeque on many Fourth-of-Julys was now a humorless, stone-faced soldier, holding a small baton, no less.
“Sit down and shut up,” he said firmly, tapping the small stick slowly into his leathered palm, each syllable carrying a crispness of enunciation that was chilling in its finality. The gravity of the man’s tone was emphasized by two big men who stood behind Charlie, wearing matching uniforms, even more sparsely decorated.
“Ladies, you are selling a service today to the Master of Everest, his Excellency, Lord Forrester Davison. True, some of you are accepting methods of compensation other than cash,” --- here, he looked at Cynthia and the nameless girl --- “but you are still bartering your services, nonetheless. Once you sign these agreements,” --- he gestured to a number of forms that had been placed before the girls --- “you forfeit your freedom for the next seven days. During that period, you are Lord Davison’s property.” He looked around the table, unblinking. “Any questions?”
“Oh, this is too much…” Laurie immediately said, pushing back her chair and getting up. “I’m out of here.”
Charlie waved his baton and the two goons behind him moved threateningly toward Laurie.
“OK. I get it.” Laurie said, shooting Carly a death glare. “Look,” she said, smiling at Charlie and sitting down, “we’re not being held prisoners, here, I hope?”
Charlie smiled tightly. “Of course not, young lady. I meant what I said: you are selling your services. If you wish to not sell them, that is your choice. But once you sign these papers, your freedom ends for a week.”
“And how much are we selling our freedom for again?” she returned, lightly mocking the formality in the man’s manner.
“You’ll find that on the first page,” he said dully, giving the baton a brief twirl in his hand, seemingly bored with the exchange.
The girls perused the documents. All of the conditions seemed clear, if not a bit harsh. The offers danced tantalizingly, almost jumping from the paper. The final paragraph caught Laurie’s eye, in particular:
After leaving Everest, you will not discuss anything that has occurred during your week’s visit with anyone, especially with members of the law enforcement community.
Laurie stifled a laugh. “And how will you know, Mr. Burkholter, if we’ve ‘discussed’ things with anyone?”
Burkholter drew his lips back in an insinuating little smile. “We have our methods,” he said, quietly.
“They all signed. Every last one, Milord,” Charlie reported to Forrester, bowing deeply before the banker’s throne chair, which sat on a large dais at the back of Davison’s study.
Forrester cackled obscenely. “Good,” he crowed, rubbing his hands together lightly. “Poverty is a wonderful motivator, is it not, Charles?”
“It’s what keeps this country great, Master,” he replied, grinning. “Are you up for welcoming them now, your Grace?”
“No. I am feeling weary and will be resting soon. Anyway, it will serve to heighten their anxiety if I leave them to stew overnight,” Forrester laughed.
Another golden, early fall day was dawning. Shafts of light seeped through meager 5” square skylights, illuminating small dust devils that flitted around in scattershot prisms.
Peggy Billingsley slowly regained consciousness and found herself seated on a hard steel surface. She pushed herself to her feet and gave a small shriek as her body swayed precariously. She was locked in a small cage, no more than five foot square, suspended in pitch blackness --- at the top of what looked to be an immense chamber, like that in a king’s medieval palace. She froze, not wanting to rock her small prison anymore than she already had with the force of her weight. She stood paralyzed, arms clutching the bars, gazing into the sinister void. Some large object had been placed over her nose and she found that it limited her breathing substantially. She tried to pull at it, even bat at it with her fist, but only succeeded in making her eyes tear and giving herself pain. She could vaguely make out stone walls around the domed top of the cavernous room. At the peak of the chamber, a gaudy crest of a snarling griffin glowered over her, its ghastly wings lit from behind the ornamental stained glass. Beyond the skylights was deep cobalt blue, a cruelly cheerful touch to this wretched day, she thought.
“Peggy! Peggy, is that you?” Cynthia’s terror-stricken voice cut through the darkness, echoing across the cold room, augmented by odd clunking noises which sounded like a bucket being hit with a spoon.
“Cindy! Yes…I’m all right. In this cage…but not hurt. Are you…?”
There was only sobbing in return.
“What in the holy name of FUCK???” Laurie. Peggy recognized her smoky voice even as it was strained by a fierce blast of fury.
“Are you OK?” Carlotta. Voice fearful, but not as hysterical as Cynthia’s.
“Oh my GOD…I can’t believe this is happening!” Cynthia again, even more deranged than she had sounded previously. “We’re so high up….” She began to scream wildly for help. The clunking noise increased. “What is this thing…” she began.
“Oh shut the fuck up!” Laurie said harshly. “No one’s gonna hear you, you little twat. We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Stop shaking that --- whatever it is --- you’re annoying the piss outta me. Just chill the fuck out. Let’s think about this.”
“What’s to think about?” Peggy snapped. “And who are you to call her names? We’re all in this same situation.”
“No, she’s right,” Carlotta said calmly. “What we need to do is talk this out, instead of driving each other batty. There’s no good in that. It’s probably what this sick fuck wants.”
“Now, now, my puppy --- is that anyway to speak about your master?” The regal tones that only Carlotta recognized as belonging to Forrester Davison rang through their heads with insinuatingly softness, as if he were mere inches from their cages. All the hysteria in the room immediately ceased, replaced by an ominous silence.
A loud clanking noise shot into the room, seemingly in front of the girls, and a bright white light pierced the center of the chamber, emanating from what appeared to be a laser mounted in the ceiling. The four girls gaped as the disembodied upper half of Forrester Davison’s portly body appeared before them, slowly turning a full 360 degrees, leering at his victims with a crazed, satanic malevolence; fat lips parted lasciviously, almost drooling.
“It’s some sort of…” Peggy began.
“…hologram,” Carlotta finished, weakly.
“A live broadcast!” Forrester beamed wickedly, holding up a thickly gloved finger. The tyrant was cloaked in what looked to be a flowing black cape, his head shielded on three sides by a tall collar. “Through the wonders of technology, I can be with you, my lovelies, without being with you.” He smirked. “Alas, your prison is an ugly, uncomfortable, terrible place. No, I choose to supervise from quarters that are a bit more posh…” He began to laugh sadistically. “Ladies, take refuge in what sparse comfort those cages afford you. They’ll be the only place you’ll be relatively unscathed from my talons…over the next week, anyway!” His cackling grew more maniacal by the minute.
The bright light from the hologram of Forrester was enough to dully illuminate the four cages, each positioned at equal distances around the perimeter of the rounded chamber. As their captor continued his irritating laugh, the girls took in the sight of their fellow prisoners --- almost mirror images of their own mounting insanity. It didn’t take long for them to notice the various modifications that had been performed to their bodies.
“You goddamned psycho! What is this shit?” Laurie demanded, shaking the bars of her cage violently.
Davison calmed himself down, dabbing away tears of mirth from his eyes with a bold multi-colored silk hankie. “Laurie the lynx!” he boomed proudly. “Just look at her, girls. What an exotic specimen! Not just an ordinary cat, no --- much, much more seductive….”
They all watched as the cage where Laurie stood became lit in a spotlight. She had been outfitted with two cat ears that jutted pointedly from her head, and her face was marked up to resemble a feline’s. A long tail had been fastened to her rear, which she now tried to violently rip from her body. But when she attempted this, she only howled in shock and pain --- the appendage had been sewn into her flesh! She bellowed with fury at the gloating iridescent image of her torturer.
“You maniac! You’ve ruined my body! I’ll…I’ll sue you, you fat son-of-a-bitch!”
“Now, dear puss, you will have plenty of time to pursue fruitless legal battles,” Forrester chortled, “providing that you live, of course! For now, though, the only laws you will must concern yourself with are those made by me!”
The torpid air in the chamber was now heavy with fear, as Carlotta absorbed the wicked villain’s words, especially his sinister condition. Did he indeed plan to kill them all? What further tortures had he planned for them in this hell hole? What did he have to gain from this, besides sadistic pleasure? The fact that none of these questions had clear answers only escalated the dread she felt.
“Not so talkative now, eh, Laurie? Cat got your tongue?” Davison taunted meanly. Instantly, Laurie’s cell collapsed into blackness and the spotlight shown brightly over Cynthia.
“Ah, Cynthia the cow!” Forrester preened, clapping his plump hands together in mocking applause. “You’re definitely as fat as a cow, that’s for sure,” Forrester jeered. “Those teats of yours will be marvelous to suck on at some point, though they may be slightly smaller before the week is up.” As the light poured over the girl, she scanned her body and found large black patches painted all over it, making her into an absurdist rendering of a Jersey cow, complete with a large cowbell attached to a leather collar that was locked tightly around her neck. She tried in vain to rub the markings off, with moisture from her tongue, but they appeared to have been stenciled with some sort of indelible marker.
As she examined her ruined flesh, Cynthia became more and more crazed, ringing the bell louder and louder with each shake of her head. A piercing crack of voltage speared the dark and Cynthia’s cage was electrified. Her cries increased in volume, and the cowbell was rendered mute by her stunned posture.
“SILENCE!” Forrester thundered, waving a golden scepter in the air imperiously. “Cows are very stupid animals, girls. They react only to the most brutal stimuli. They’re essentially prey animals, and if you haven’t guessed by now, the rest of you will become Cynthia’s predators,” he tittered.
The spotlight was instantly moved to Peggy.
“Peggy the pig,” Davison intoned, laughing at the
large snout attached to the girl’s nose. “Like your sister, you too are a
somewhat ordinary barnyard workhorse. Not exotic or special at all, like Laurie
or Carlotta. No, your family has been one of the poorest in
“I’m not a pig, and my family are not failures,” Peggy countered evenly. “We’ve worked this land. We may not have made money hand over fist like you, Mr. Davison, bullying, torturing, robbing, and killing people, but we can go to bed at night honest.”
Davison’s visage stared at her blankly, as if she had suddenly begun speaking in a foreign language. “Denial of one’s own nature can be dangerous, my sweet,” he said finally, speaking softly and slowly. “True, my father and grandfather were robber barons, but we never pretended to be anything else. Pigs are crafty creatures, they can deceive other animals by appearing to be slow and stupid, when in fact they are quite cagey, if you pardon the pun.” He giggled lightly. “Take your dear brother, Jackie, for instance. Is he still playing the part of the hulking jock? Or just the pathetic small-town high school has-been?”
“So that’s what this is about!” Peggy declared. “That stupid prank! For God’s sake, Forrester, hang it up! We got it…you’re the boss of us all, you’ve won! Just leave us alone.”
Davison’s face twisted with fury. “You dare to call me by name, you little sow?” Forrester bellowed, his face going red. He shook the scepter in the air and a whoosh was heard in the space over Peggy’s cage. A torrent of mud and shit hit the girl like a tidal wave from above. The stench rolled into the room from the foul splattering liquid like a wet blanket.
Forrester smiled sweetly, the epitome of smugness, as Peggy stood shaking, humiliated and silent. When she opened her eyes, she looked like a fugitive from a minstrel show.
Finally, the spotlight hit Carlotta.
“And of course, our stalwart, Carlotta the chow-chow. Girls, you may be distressed to know that Carlotta here was paid quite handsomely to lure you all into my clutches. Yes, the chow is a highly intelligent little breed of doggie, and when well cared for, can provide hours of amusement.” Several gasps were heard around the room, followed by a stunned silence. “They’re also extremely devoted to their masters, even killing for them if commanded.”
“You fucking cunt,” Laurie said, but her voice was hollow and dead, reeking of defeat.
“Unfortunately, Carlotta has a lot at stake here as well. All of you do. None of you gets a free ride…no, you all will suffer. However, only one of you will be sane a week from now --- relatively speaking --- and it is you who will determine who that will be, not I. No, I will merely provide you with the stimulus to wreak havoc upon each other! Ponder that for a while. What, oh what, can I have up my silken sleeve?” He laughed fiendishly. “The game will begin shortly. Rest up. You’ll need your strength.”
Forrester took a long drag on his cigar, blew out a noxious cloud that all but obscured his face, and within seconds his image, along with the beam transmitting it, had vanished into the ceiling.
Charlie Burkholter broke an ammonia vial under Cynthia’s nostrils, and the slightly overweight girl found herself staring into his dark, uncaring eyes. She was suspended from the ceiling of a stark white room that looked like an operating theater in a hospital. A large sling carefully supported her belly while her hands and feet had been bound tightly together with wire. She was at least six feet from the ground.
Cynthia continued to take in the terrible sight of her torturer, still dressed in his crisp black military uniform, as he slowly filled a syringe with a whitish-looking liquid. The needle alone was nothing short of barbaric, over six inches in length. She wanted to shake and writhe, but her system was still sluggish from whatever drug she had been given. With no explanation, he advanced slowly toward her, his tall jackboots crunching menacingly, fat lips pursed together prissily. He gripped her left boob the way a butcher would fondle a roast he is about to trim and dandled the needle’s tip inches from her nipple with cruel enticement.
“What…IS that?” Cynthia squeaked out, then without waiting for the reply: “Don’t…please…I’ll do anything….”
Charlie only laughed --- a cruel bellowing basso that shook the room. “My dear Ms. Billingsley, while you were still unconscious, you were given a series of hormonal injections designed to induce your breasts to lactate. This serum will serve to complete the process and will render you suitable for milking by the Master.”
Cynthia’s eyes were wide with revulsion. “M-m-milking?” she shrieked. “Y-y-you’re insane!”
“No, my lovely, we’re n-n-not,” Burkholter scoffed, still laughing. “However, you certainly may be, after his Excellency is finished with you. I must caution you to remain still while I complete this, though. Thrashing about may cause the serum to be deposited in other parts of your mammary, where it may have ill effects.” A psychopathic grin obliterated any signs of humanity that may have once existed in the old man’s leering face.
He plunged the glittering needle into Cynthia’s heaving breast. She clenched her eyes and gritted her teeth, pain ripping into her chest with the force of a taser gun. With a fox’s speed and cunning, Burkholter removed the needle almost as quickly as he had forced it in. He stood back, gloating, as her tortured tit began to swell painfully. Unrepentantly, he dutifully went to work on her other glistening globe.
After Cynthia has been properly prepared, Burkholter retrieved a riding crop that hung in a sheath attached to his belt and waved it grandly at two of the uniformed guards near the door. “Bring her in!” he bellowed.
Cynthia’s sister Peggy was led into the room and guided to a chair directly in front of her poor sibling’s bobbling, helpless form. The grotesque little seat looked like something out of an execution chamber. It was made entirely of black metal and sported small indentations all over the arms, back, seat, and front of the chair. A small hole was evident in the seat bottom. Burkholter gestured impatiently at his thugs while Peggy was strapped into the monstrosity, and then snapped his fingers. A third henchman wheeled in a small cart decked with an elaborate console filled with dials and switches. He positioned it next to Peggy and plugged a thick cord protruding from the machine into a wall outlet. A heinous metal cock was attached to the torture machine and plunged into the girl’s exposed pussy.
Peggy began to cry as Cynthia took in the entire display with a look of crazed agony. Cynthia looked just as they had intended, she thought grimly…an obscenely trussed up cow, tits curiously distended, nipples long and hard. Burkholter made soft tutting sounds with his tongue as he patiently watched, obviously enjoying himself, letting his victims come to their own wretched conclusions about the nightmare they were to endure.
The thought that she might be tortured with electricity had occurred to Peggy, given her sister’s wanton punishment in the cage. This new terror, however, looked to be far worse. She shuddered at the strength with which the straps restrained her, and knew she would be offered absolutely no respite from the current when it was finally unleashed into her sweat-drenched flesh.
A small metallic sound was suddenly heard, and the smell of a burning cigarette slowly filtered around them. Burkholder smirked knowingly as his Master’s sweet musical laugh, almost feminine in its lilting tone, drifted from above. Lights were lit and Forrester Davison was revealed in the balcony, perched regally in a large throne chair, puffing indolently on a cigarette in a foot-long ebony holder. The fat man was arrayed in the gaudy trappings of a third-world dictator: elephantine epaulettes, shiny medals and badges of numerous size and color, sweeping braid. A wide blood-red satin sash cut a neat diagonal over the coal black of his tunic. His hands were sheathed delicately in spotless white leather gloves extending to his forearms, and his feet were carefully protected with knee-high jet black riding boots, decorated with fanciful golden spur straps. His scalp --- previously sporting sparse blond hair --- was now bare, polished and shining, in the soft lighting. He looked very smug.
“So, you think I’ll be content with pumping a few thousand volts into you, piggy?” he laughed at Peggy. “How little imagination you must think I possess, little one. No, what I’m going to do to you is far more evil, I’m afraid. BRING IN THE SOW’S FODDER!” he shouted suddenly.
The henchman who had wired Peggy brought over a large tray supporting a silver dome. He lifted it, and revealed a platter heaping with slightly undercooked corn.
“You like, piggy?” the dictator chuckled indulgently, as a large funnel was forced into Peggy’s mouth. “I actually prefer bacon myself,” he tittered, patting his big belly with contentment.
Handfuls of corn were thrust into the funnel and jammed into Peggy’s screaming mouth with the end of a long wooden spoon. “Eat up, cunt!” Burkholter ordered, shaking his crop at her.
After Peggy had eaten what had been forced into her, another handful of the crunchy meal was inserted into the funnel. The woman shook uncontrollably. “NO! STOP!” she tried to cry, but all that was heard was muffled grunts and groans. As predicted, she soon stopped trying to ingest the food.
“Did I tell you to stop eating?” Davison roared.
Charlie brought the crop down sharply on her thigh. “You have the audacity to refuse the Master’s offer of nourishment?” he demanded.
The funnel was removed and Peggy’s mouth was mercifully clear once more. “You’re the fucking pig, Davison!” she shrieked, suddenly alive with hatred and rage for the petty little tyrant. “You can degrade and torture me all you want…I will never let you control me like a puppet --- the way you do these others!”
Davison regarded her stonily with a raised eyebrow, and then made a small gesture with his gloved pinky finger.
A horrible crackling sound engulfed the room and electricity slowly began to pulse through Peggy. Her body became animated with small tremors that quickly wrought great gripping waves of agony. She threw her head back and screamed with all her might, causing a pleasant spate of laughter from both Burkholter and Davison. Finally, the electric cock inside of her was activated, throwing her violently into the rough metal chair back. It felt as if a candle, unable to be extinguished, was being forced up into her body. She began to smell a sweet, sick aroma that she was sure was her own flesh being slowly cooked. Suddenly, she was aware that Cynthia was writhing as well. Her sister’s wire bonds had been attached to electrodes that protruded from Peggy’s torture chair!
“STOP! P-please!” she finally yelled. As if she had decreed it, the power was shut off. Waves of hysteria rushed over Peggy and she screamed frantically. Forrester looked amused.
“What was that again, about not being my puppet? I didn’t quite catch it,” he taunted. He lit a fresh cigarette, inhaling effetely on the holder.
“You…you’ve won,” Peggy said, with deep despair. “Whatever you want, you can have…just…just let us go.”
“Wrong, pig. The game hasn’t even begun. Let me explain the rules to you.” Davison continued to smoke, reveling in his flagrant display of unbridled power, huffing smoke rings into the air obnoxiously. “You will first be given an extremely powerful laxative. However, you will not void your bowels until Colonel Burkholter gives the order! I must warn you, this will be exceptionally painful…quite, quite uncomfortable,” he laughed, sinking into the velvet-cushioned back of his fancy chair. “If you do as I order, both your sister and you will go free, and your family’s home will be yours. The loan will be paid in full! BUT…if you fail to obey, which you most certainly will after receiving enough pain…your sister will face something even more re-volting, pardon the pun.” He covered his mouth and cackled softly at his bad joke. Peggy’s mind reeled at what could possibly be worse.
She soon got her answer as two metal milk buckets were brought over and positioned strategically under Cynthia’s painfully ballooning tits. Jerking her head around at the sound of something rolling toward her, Peggy watched as a small machine was placed next to her sister. Two large clear plastic tubes were clamped into position over the rotund girl’s now cylindrically-shaped nipples. A switch was thrown on the machine and a sharp intake of air pierced the room, replaced by a soft humming noise. Cynthia wailed insanely as her formerly pert little nips were sucked cruelly into the two flexible expanding tubes and rendered erect by the flowing air.
“Each time you fail,” Davison said, shaking his holder threateningly at the poor girl, “my milking machine will grip your sister’s teats, squeezing the sweetest concoction of man-made dairy product ever made into those buckets. Too bad the buckets themselves are attached to your electro-torture device, Piggy! When the fluid makes contact with the buckets, your chair will be activated, pumping an extreme amount of power into your lovely body, and also propelling the spikes concealed within that chair to slowly begin piercing your succulent skin….” Davison was ecstatic, howling with sadistic joy as both girls screamed in horror at the thought of being made into each other’s tormentor for the madman’s sick delight. “Yes, indeed. You’ll cry like the proverbial stuck pig!” he finished gleefully.
Charlie sighed with admiration at his boss’ unabashed villainy and stared lustfully into Peggy’s eyes. “Your only relief will be provided if Cynthia brings me pleasure,” Burkholter rejoined, randily caressing his cock, which jutted hideously from the unzipped fly of his black silk riding breeches. “If she comes for me, we will stop the milking machine and return to the task of evacuating your bowels. In order to avert the pain from yourself once more, Peggy, all you have to do is shit yourself! So, you see, you are both equally in control of your fates in a twisted sort of way! The only question will be who to save…your sis, or yourself?” He smiled evilly as Davison laughed raucously.
“Only one of you will escape from this room,” Forrester cooed. “The other…well, in the past, losers have escaped alive, but were sadly rendered insane due to the trauma inflicted. Boys,” the fat man callously ordered, “give Piggy her laxative….”
Davison vanished into the darkness, leaving only his sinister rumbling laugh which continued to pollute the torture room for several minutes following his exit.
“On your knees before his Excellency, the most high Celestial One, Lord Forrester V. Davison III!”
Carlotta collapsed on the cold marble floor of Davison’s garish throne room in a heap, just as commanded: hands and knees planted on the expensive stone, head bowed submissively. A nauseating cloud of cigarette smoke descended upon her and she had to fight to keep from gagging. She knew he loved humiliating her and wasn’t about to let him know he was succeeding.
“She does resemble the fair Noreen, does she not, Charles?” Davison remarked; more of a statement than a question.
“Like looking in a mirror, milord,” came Burkholter’s deferential response.
“I had the pleasure of watching Daddy do that sad silly bitch so many times!” the tyrant giggled. “She had the sweetest, most musical scream I’ve ever heard…kind of like….” Davison brought a thick hand-braided riding crop down savagely, swiping at Carlotta’s tits. She screamed, exactly as he wished.
Carlotta’s head snapped up. “In your dreams, you son-of-a-bitch! You’re not worthy to even speak about my mother!”
Burkholter’s bully boys quickly descended upon Carlotta, pushing her to the ground on her belly. “Twenty lashes for her insolence to the Celestial One!” Charlie commanded.
Davison merely laughed and waved a gloved hand haughtily. “Let her be. Her spirit amuses me. Allow her to feast her eyes upon my royal person for a bit,” he said.
The two thugs yanked Carlotta’s head up by her hair and she stared defiantly at the monster before her. It unnerved her how much Davison looked like his father, particularly with that sinister bald pate and the gleaming monocle perched pretentiously over his left eye, magnifying it so that it appeared as if he was inspecting her under a microscope. He smirked and flicked an ash from his cigarette into her hair, which she shook disgustedly in response.
“My condolences for your loss,” Forrester purred mockingly, his voice anything but sincere. “Killed by a drunk, eh? I’ve been told they weren’t able to identify the man. Not from these parts, I’d guess. What a mystery. Oh, well. These things happen!” He laughed sadistically and lit another cigarette.
Carlotta gritted her teeth, refusing to take his bait, leaving Davison with a look of sullen disappointment. Still, she began to wonder --- for the first time, shockingly --- if this maniac had engineered her parent’s deaths. Even though he was definitely capable of it, she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
“Enough pleasantries!” Forrester suddenly crowed. “Time for business. Carly, you are going to be instrumental in breaking these other bitches for me. Very soon, a winner will emerge from the little battle of wills that’s occurring as I speak. Whomever that may be --- Peggy or Cynthia --- will be Laurie’s opponent in my next round of remarkably cruel competition!” He chortled and puffed lazily on his cigarette, looking like a crafty old tomcat basking in the lap of luxury.
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Carlotta returned evenly. “I only agreed to bring them here….”
Her voice was quickly overcome by deafening laughter from all of the men in the room. When it had subsided, Davison rubbed his poshly protected hands together with glee.
“You stupid bitch! Did you really think those agreements were valid?” He guffawed loudly. “Charles, do you believe this? She actually thought she was leaving here…and with money, as well!” He began to laugh insanely as the others joined in once more.
Carlotta felt very weak, almost near collapse. Tears clung stubbornly to her eyes until she finally gave in and blinked them away, watching them fall upon the marble as she became yet another butt of Davison’s elaborate, sick joke.
“You will cooperate,” he declared arrogantly. “Boys,” he summoned, “give poochie here a manicure. Her nails appear to be a bit unwieldy for performing the tasks she will be assigned. Take her to the school room! She needs an obedience lesson.”
His words were instantly manifested as Carlotta felt herself being gripped by her armpits and hauled away from the smug, laughing dictator.
“Cindy, you goddamn bitch, come for god’s sake…you’re…KILLING me….!”
Peggy cringed as the tiny spikes inched further into her flesh. The relentless current being pumped into the medieval-looking torture chair was slowly turning her into an electric pincushion. Sweat poured from every inch of her nubile body as yet another crippling cramp gripped her bowels, forcing her to unleash yet another violent torrent of diarrhea.
Cynthia’s face was a mask of terror and pain as her ass was insistently jack hammered by one of Davison’s particularly savage goons, a big bruiser named Mike with tattoos decking both of his hairy forearms. The brute gripped the girl’s rear with crushing force and continued his primitive assault. Still, the girl was in too much sheer agony to become even remotely excited. Her tits were being maniacally massaged by Davison’s vile machine, and she was shedding plenty of milk by this time, keeping Peggy in constant agony.
Burkholter entered the room and took in the scene with a pleased expression and throbbing hard-on. “How’s our cow-cow holding out?” he queried.
“Bitch won’t come!” Mike growled.
“How long have you been at it?”
“Ten, maybe twenty minutes,” the thug replied.
“You stupid fuck!” Burkholter thundered. “The Master doesn’t want that other bitch dead, for chrissakes!” He strode over to Cynthia’s gaping ass and pushed Mike out of the way. Davison’s lead henchman quickly retrieved a bottle of non-astringent disinfectant and splashed it liberally into Cynthia’s distended asshole, and then joined the party.
The horny old man jacked his fat rod strategically into the girl, delicately but firmly. Her screams became low, almost pleasant.
“Ya got to work it like this,” he said to Mike, as if he were teaching a sex seminar. “You lunkhead. I’m not paying you to have sex, I’m paying you to torture! Rape is a fine art form. You must simultaneously humiliate your victim and lord your power over them, yet make it stimulating as well!” He giggled lewdly. “She knows she’s being raped for fuck’s sake…but she doesn’t expect, or want, to enjoy it.” Burkholter motioned Mike closer. “Stick your fingers in her piss hole and start massaging. You’ll know when you hit the right place!” he laughed.
Cynthia’s wails became louder as she felt Mike’s meaty digits invading her mercilessly. The girl’s screams became louder, shorter, and more high-pitched, until a geyser of warmth was tapped.
“Good,” Burkholter barked. “Now, continue with the enema,” he ordered, pointing in Peggy’s direction with his crop.
Peggy steeled herself as much as she could as the goons walked slowly toward her. If she could only hold out for the full time period, she thought, all this would be over --- that is, if it were indeed a game and not another one of Davison’s sadistic traps. But, she thought miserably, she really had no choice. It was either that or enter another vicious cycle of pain between Cynthia and herself…and then there were the spikes. They were now nipping at her flesh and seemed to have grown longer…if she failed to endure, the electrocution might well finish her off this time.
Burkholter fondled the now dreadfully familiar red rubber enema bag in one hand, the soft squishing sounds from inside making her blood run cold. She began to cry. “Please…please…Mr. Burkholter….”
“COLONEL Burkholter, you stupid whore!” Mike corrected.
“C-colonel…how long…this t-time?” Peggy asked weakly.
The little martinet smiled meanly. “Only five minutes. But what I’ve added to the enema will make it seem much, much longer.” He tittered cruelly and attached the well worn hose. Before he inserted it, he leered into her face, laughing. “Don’t you want to know what’s in it this time?” he chuckled.
“N-n-no….” she shuddered, looking away. She had rapidly found ignorance to be preferable to knowledge with regards to the fiend’s tortures.
“I’ll give you a hint. People like to add it to oysters, in order to give them a special…kick!” He doubled over with laughter, almost dropping the bag.
Peggy understood what he meant when the first drop reached
her ravaged rectum. The spiteful animal had laced the enema with
Carlotta was stuffed into an uncomfortable wooden chair with a small desktop attached. It looked like a relic from some ancient classroom. Once Davison’s thugs had secured her ankles, calves, thighs, waist, arms, and chest to the diabolic looking seat, a thick piece of rubber that looked like a hockey puck was hung from her neck and a menacing steel clamp was locked over her throat, binding her snugly.
Two flat steel plates, shaped like human hands, were brought over to her with five indentations, or slots, each. Each slot was capped with three metal rings. A large lever, like that on a slot machine, was attached to each plate, along with numerous rusted alligator clips. She realized at once what their devilish purpose was, and tried moving her arms fruitlessly.
The lights were snapped off, and an old silent 8mm film began to play before her terrified eyes.
Her mother. In the exact same place that she now occupied.
Tyler Davison, decked out like the Hooded Claw in a flowing black opera cape, tuxedo, and top hat, spoke and made exaggerated gestures with white-gloved hands to the wretched clamps that bound her mother’s fingers, and then to his evil tool. He stepped back, swept his cape regally, and took a mocking bow. Her mother screamed something at him but he just laughed. Her father watched, bound and gagged, in a chair nearby.
Then, quite quickly, the film ran out and the lights came up.
“Did you find my little film instructional?” Davison hummed, as he waltzed into the repulsive room, resplendent in a cape and tux similar to the one his father had sported on film. He waddled around, patent-leather Gucci opera slippers squeaking on the wood floor, oozing opulence and irritating smugness. He stopped before a chalkboard in front of her, lit a cigarette, blew a few smoke rings, and looked at her expectantly, with raised brow.
“What do you want? Applause?” Carlotta asked sarcastically, hatred coursing through her veins for the unpleasant little man.
“Alas, I’m a sucker for flattery, but I can’t take credit for that, my sweet. My father was far more twisted than I can ever claim to be. But I’m working on it!” He let loose an exaggerated evil-villain laugh that hung in the air oppressively, alongside his cigarette smoke. He made a small gesture with a long black lacquered cane in his right hand, capped with a bulbous gold knob, and his thugs walked over to Carlotta. They began securing each of her fingers carefully in the slots of the plates.
“You want my cooperation. To torture and kill these poor girls….” she started, sick to her stomach at the words as well as what was being done to her.
“Who said anything about killing? Torture, yes, but killing….” He tapered the words off and paused to puff pleasantly, a wistful expression on his face. “When needed, I generally delegate such distasteful business to others, and besides…you are all far too precious to finish off that easily. No, I have more ambitious plans for you.” He flipped his hand negligently in the air. “I do so need your special assistance, poochie, and I believe this little ordeal will encourage you to provide it. It’s very, very, slow and very, very, uncomfortable….” He nodded his head again, and an alligator clip was attached to her left pinky finger.
“Too good to do your own dirty work, you fat thug?” Carlotta spat.
“I try to keep my hands as clean as I possibly can,” he smirked, inhaling deeply on his cigarette. “Father was a perfectionist. He preferred to perform his interrogations personally. I, on the other hand, am content to merely watch.” He walked over to a large velvet armchair, blood-red, and sank leisurely into it.
A button was pushed on the side of the left plate. Wire that connected the clip to the lever was drawn tight with a sickening snap.
“Are you sure you won’t agree to help me?” Davison crooned.
“Fuck you, you scumbag!” Carlotta screamed, now shaking at the sweat that was glistening from her nude form in the dank, windowless room.
Davison nodded and the rubber bit that hung from her neck was inserted into her mouth. “Don’t want you biting off that pretty pink tongue of yours. No, no, I will put that to other uses!” He fondled his crotch and broke into gales of foul laughter.
The lever was gripped firmly by a thug and slowly pulled down. A harsh clicking sound filled the room, followed shortly by Carlotta’s wild screaming and her torturer’s mellifluous laugh.
Laurie awoke slowly as the cool autumn air blew softly over her exposed flesh. Her arms were the first parts of her body to regain any sort of vivid sensation. The pain was gradual, starting in her armpits and coursing upwards, until her arms seemed to be slowly detaching themselves from their sockets. Her eyes shot open only to be met with darkness. She tried to kick but only succeeded in spinning her body lazily in place. Attempts at crying out were also met with futility by the ball gag in her mouth.
Without warning, a cold gooey substance landed on her left tit, and she trembled with fear as it oozed slowly over her, trickling down the voluptuous body she had employed to earn the majority of her income in recent years. Whatever this liquid was, it had a sweet, fragrant scent that she couldn’t readily identify.
Laurie felt her hips being gripped by two gloved hands and a hot, wet tongue began to softly suckle her clit, gently lapping at whatever was dripping down her curvaceous form. Her breathing quickened.
“You’re so sweet, Laurie,” Carlotta’s voice piped, light and musical. “Your little twat is ever so tight, but I’m sure I can remedy that!”
Laurie began to scream behind the gag, rage wracking her body as she squirmed in place. A loud cracking noise, like that of a tree branch giving way, was heard directly over her head. She froze, and her gag and blindfold were removed.
She stared into Carly Northrup’s face, not believing what she was seeing. The girl was dressed like a dominatrix, clad in form-fitting black leather from head to toe, long leather gloves and shiny boots, brandishing a slender riding crop just inches from Laurie’s trembling twat.
“You twisted cunt!” Laurie screamed at her. “I’ll rip your fucking tits off!”
Carlotta threw back her head and laughed. “These?” she mocked, stroking her breasts with her hands. “You’ll never get close enough, you little whore!” She drew back the crop and brought it down harshly on Laurie’s cunt, causing the blonde’s body to jerk upwards once more. Another cracking sound cut through the air.
Laurie began to scream frantically, looking around at the groves of large apple trees that surrounded her for as far as she could see. Directly in front of her, a large camera, trailing cables leading to a parked van, was silently recording everything.
“Keep spazzing out, you stupid bitch. Every downward movement your body makes will result in dripping more of that luscious honey all over you! You’ll be covered with it in minutes, at the rate you’re going.” She laughed again as a huge dollop landed on Laurie’s forehead, all but obscuring her vision. The heady aroma of the bee nectar enveloped her stifilingly. “However, if you have enough strength, you might be able to break yourself free, since the only things supporting you are several large tree limbs. If only time weren’t a factor….” She sighed sweetly with mock regret, and gestured to the blacked-out windows of the van.
The van door opened and Peggy Billingsley shuffled slowly out, hands and feet in large shackles, prodded slowly toward Laurie by two of Davison’s uniformed goons, each carrying an Uzi.
Laurie instinctively began to tremble at the ghastly sight of the captive girl’s disfigured body. Another splintering of a branch was heard and an even larger gush of honey landed squarely on her right boob, shimmering slimily down her flat dancer’s belly. Every inch of Peggy’s once beautiful, buxom, farm-girl physique had been tarnished with red dots, some still oozing red-brown blood. Her face had a crazy expression, like a wax doll.
Suddenly, Peggy dropped to her knees in front of Carly, who stood over her like some demented Amazonian. “You don’t have to do this, Carlotta,” Peggy begged. “He’s preying off of our fear….”
“Shut the fuck up, pig!” Carly rebuked cruelly. “We all have our roles to play in the Master’s game, and I don’t intend to lose. Perhaps I’ll just string you up as well, and leave you hear to rot if you’re not interested in participating. You’ve won the first round, at the expense of your sister’s sanity. Now it’s up to you two to determine who gets to be my final challenger.”
“What did you do to her, you evil bitch?” Laurie shouted. “She looks like she’s been put on a waffle iron. Did you and that pig Davison enjoy yourselves, watching her suffer?”
“Silence!” Carly snapped, glaring at Laurie, but her eyes quickly darted away from the suspended girl, pausing to rest briefly on the wicked whip she was holding with a shaking hand.
“Her boss --- Burkholter --- tortured us. Cindy and I. She’s...she’s…OH GOD!” Peggy began sobbing hysterically, curling up into a small ball as the goons looked quizzically at Carly.
“I didn’t…” Carly said, her voice suddenly very different, softer, more herself. The charade of the costume and the attitude fell quickly away from her.
A crackle of voltage was heard, and Carly fell to her knees, clutching her crotch. “Oh...FUCK!” she screamed. She put her hands to her face and clawed herself, alive with anguish until suddenly she was still. For several moments, the leathered woman appeared unconscious, until she slowly pulled herself to her feet. When she arose, her demeanor was more like that of a heartless automaton than a slinky seductress.
“You,” she said, pointing dramatically at Peggy. “Suck her off. Make her come.” She waved the crop at Laurie. “You have five minutes. You fail, and you’re left here with her. Oh. I forgot one final treat.” Carly walked slowly to the van, opened the door, and donned a beekeeper’s bonnet, tying it primly over her face. The goons, also protected with mesh face masks and long gloves, brought forth two cylindrical devices that emitting an ominous, humming noise.
“No…no….” Laurie gasped, as the first bee flitted into the open orchard, toward the scent of succulent honey.
“Such a quandary,” Forrester Davison clucked licentiously, popping a Godiva truffle into his pudgy mouth and smacking loudly.
The little tyrant was sprawled out on a chaise lounge in front of a large monitor emblazoned with the sight of Laurie Goodyear, her gorgeous body shaking uncontrollably as Peggy Billingsley grasped her clit once more with her tongue and continued to crazily maul her. Both girls writhed wildly: Laurie to free herself from the branch and Peggy to accomplish her demented goal of bringing her reluctant partner to orgasm. The bees appeared to be the only winners, though, at least so far. Both girls’ skin were slowly turning into red, botchy relief maps.
A subtle beeping tone came from the console to Davison’s right, and he delicately tapped a button in response.
“Master, are you happy?” came Carlotta’s voice, cold and hard: an audible knife.
Davison laughed decadently and removed his cigarette case. “Very. If I wasn’t, you’d be feeling it,” he snickered evilly.
“Yes, Milord.”
“Any wagers on who will be the winner, poochie?” Davison asked superciliously, after a few more moments of indulging in the on-screen hijinks.
“I am the winner, Lord Davison,” came the mechanical, disembodied voice.
The rich tycoon paused to puff thickly on his cigarette holder, blowing a series of lazy smoke rings into the air around him. When he spoke, the admiration and desire he had for his new slave shone through his usually arrogant delivery.
“Yes, pet, I believe that you are,” he said.
*********************************************
|
|
|