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Fantasy Fulfilled
Horace was last off the helicopter, there in the waste of
the desert. There were a zillion stars, but there was no glow in
the sky from the lights of Las Vegas; they must be miles from
anywhere. The cabin attendant, a sexy blonde who had served
drinks, led them across the sand for a hundred yards or so, to
what looked like an outcropping of rock. In fact, there was a
concealed door, and an elevator.
In the reception lounge, far underground, Horace waited his
turn to process in, enjoying another scotch and watching the
others -- two Japanese businessmen, a woman who might be a bull
dyke, a yuppie, and a teen-ager, who confided to Horace that this
trip was a graduation present from his divorced father.
Horace was excited. He'd spent every penny he had saved,
working hard, for this one chance to live out his secret fantasy.
His wife, Rose, had the money, paid the bills, and she made him
work for his pocket money. $98,700 was a lot of pocket money.
But he had waited a long time, filed papers, supplied dozens of
color photos, and he waited until his wife went on her vacation -
- they took separate vacations -- just so the experience would be
close to perfection. Finally, the hostess, totally naked, got
to him.
In an alcoholic haze, he signed some more papers. "You
understand," she said, "the terms of the contract. You get
forty-eight hours with a woman who is surgically altered to your
specification. If she does not meet your specifications, you
have five minutes to complain. Otherwise, you have rented her."
"Yeah, I understand."
"You can do anything you want, except permanent injury. If
you damage the goods, you will have to pay extra."
"Yeah, yeah," replied Horace, anxious to fulfill his
fantasy.
"And we have ways of making you pay."
"Yeah."
She led him past several doors, which she had to unlock, and
finally showed him his room, #14.
The room was in two halves. One half was an exact duplicate
of his wife's bedroom, same drapes, same wall paper, same four
poster bed, same night stand, same little lamp on the stand.
Lying on the bed, in a robe just like Rose's favorite, was a
woman who looked very much like his wife, the same black hair,
the same long nose and thin lips. Only she was different, where
it counted. She was an inch shorter than Horace, about five-
seven, not a towering six feet. She got up to greet him,
slipping out of the robe and saying, "Hello, Horace. I'm Rose,
and I'm hot for your body." Rose wouldn't say a thing like that.
Actually, the voice didn't even sound right. Where did they get
these women, Latin America? But the most important specification
was right on. Instead of flat, pendulous breasts, that hung on
her chest like empty moneybags, this Rose had gorgeous, high-
standing globes, spherical breasts (style "G-16" in the catalog),
which met in the middle, forming a vee-shaped cleavage, and
bulged out at the sides, half covering her upper arms.
Horace loosened his belt and flopped on the bed. He unzipped
his fly and said, "Suck my cock." Rose, his wife, seldom invited
him into her bedroom, and, when she did, they did things her way.
She wouldn't even touch, never mind suck, his cock.
This Rose got on her knees between his knees and openned
his fly. "May I?" she asked, as she began to remove his pants.
He raised his hips to let her undress him. She even took off his
his shirt. Shit, the real Rose wouldn't do that. Then she went
down on him.
It was great, but too quick. The thrill of having his
"wife" do that for the first time was just so... He came before
he got a chance to savor the joy of it. No matter, he still had
forty-seven and a half hours to play.
Horace looked at the other half of the room. There was a
wet bar, several cabinets, a toilet, etc., and a combination
gymnasium and torture chamber. Horace helped himself to another
drink, while the woman stood watching. Then he checked out the
contents of the cabinets. There was a whole sex shop, everything
from leather to lotion, from whips to wipes, cuffs to clamps.
He selected four heavy leather bondage cuffs and buckled
them on Rose. She just stood there, looking a little frightened,
which made things better. Then Horace suspended her from some of
the several available ropes, so that she hung from her upraised
arms. He fixed her ankle cuffs to ropes from the floor, and
tightened them, spreading her legs until she winced in pain. But
she did not complain.
He spent an hour or so, torturing her tits. He put clamps
on her nipples -- the springs seemed weak. He bound her
beautiful globes with ropes, pricked her between the ropes with
his pocket knife. Rose bore it all. Jesus, how much of the
$98,000 must they pay her, to go through that? Unless, of
course, they had kidnapped her somewhere.
Next, he shoved a big vibrator/dildo up her ass -- it came
with a tube of lubricant, or he'd never have got it in. He let
that buzz in her ass while he went to work on her cunt.
"Rose," he said, remembering is frigid wife, "here comes the
good part." First, he carefully shaved her pussy hairs -- razors
and shaving creme were provided. He would have liked to yank 'em
out, or burn them off, but is objective was to deprive his wife
of the bush she was so proud of, without destroying the playpen
underneath. When she was completely denuded, her hairless vulva
looking like a child's, he parted the outer lips and started to
explore with his fingers.
Rose, hanging there, was quiet, as Horace explored with his
fingers, reaching in so far he could feel the neck of her womb.
He pulled on her inner labia, played with her clitoris. He
wanted to make her come and come, and she came, over and over.
They must have done something to her, hormone shots, or
something, because she was so juicy, so hot, he couldn't believe
it. "Oh, Horace," she cooed, carefully rehearsed, "I love it
when you do that." With considerable effort, he got most of his
hand in her and tried to fist-fuck her, while he teased her
clitoris with the other hand. He could feel the contractions in
her cunt: she was coming, all right, and she screamed, just as he
had specified, "Horace, you're the greatest! Oh, I'm coming.
I'm coming! Oh, do it harder, Horace."
Horace got up on a little stool, and he tried to get his
cock into her stretched, sopping wet, cunt, but it just wouldn't
stand up. Maybe it was too soon after the first time, or too
much alcohol in his system. He wanted to screw her, to feel her
vaginal contractions around his big cock, but he couldn't get it
stiff.
Frustrated, he loosened her ropes, so she could stand there,
her legs widespread, and bend over enough to suck him stiff. She
sucked and sucked, licked and licked, but he just couldn't
perform. Damn. Well, there were a lot of other things he'd like
to do to Rose.
He winched the ropes tight again, stretching her as if she
was on a medieval rack. Then Horace found another vibrator in
the cabinet and jammed it into her gaping cunt, fastening it with
straps to her legs. He turned it on and watched it chug inside
her, while her bound tits wobbled, the pinchers on her nipples
swinging. He took a whip from the cabinet, a cat'o nine tails
that looked like leather but was really soft rubber. All the
whips were "safe."
"Rose, you bitch, you've been castrating me for years," he
screamed, as he whipped her ass. "I can't get it up," he yelled,
lashing at her belly and breasts. One of the nipple clamps was
knocked off. He left it on the floor, continued whipping her --
the nipples which bulged from her breast bindings, her back and
belly and butt and all around her legs, until she was a rosy pink
from her neck to her knees.
At first, she called out, "Oh, you're the greatest, Horace.
Do it harder," but, when he bit her nipple, she swore at him in
Spanish.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he yelled as he beat her harder. His
wife loved to belittle him, to remind him that he couldn't fuck
her very well or very often -- "I can buy a better lover for
$19.99, batteries included." He'd show Rose.
"Rose" was in bad shape, her shoulders almost dislocated
from the way he had suspended her, her beautiful "G-16" breasts
disfigured by the ropes, her asshole and vagina stretched to the
limit and overstimulated by the continuous buzz of the vibrators,
and her body showing the marks of the whip.
Horace was in bad shape, too, tired from his exertions, with
a shrivelled penis which hung uselessly. He drank, too much,
from one of the whiskey bottles, and passed out, naked on the
bed, leaving Rose hanging there.
When Horace awoke, there was good news and bad news. The
good news was that his prick stood tall and hard. The bad news
was that he had to piss, and as soon as he emptied his bladder,
his tool went limp. Damn.
Rose lay on a mat, asleep. Someone had come in the room and
undone all his work of the night before, no stretched arms, no
vibrators, no breast bindings, only the cuffs left. The someone
had even put discrete little bandages where Horace had tormented
Rose with his pocket knife. There was a little folding table
with breakfast on a tray. There was also a note: THERE IS AN
ADDITIONAL CHARGE IF YOU DAMAGE THE GOODS.
Still, Horace's anger toward his wife and his frustration
about his impotence drove him on. He must find some way to hurt
Rose. He slapped her, which she seemed to shrug off -- all in a
day's work. He punched her with his fist. She scampered away,
jabbering in Spanish, and he finally apologized and held out his
open hands, fingers spread. He searched through the cabinet, but
he couldn't find anything that would really satisfy his desire to
make Rose suffer. Stuffing a vibrator in her cunt wouldn't make
her suffer; she'd probably have a dozen orgasms, the way she was
wired.
That gave Horace an idea. He got her to lie down on the
bed, and he attached her wrist and ankle cuffs to the four
bedposts. He talked soothingly, and caressed her body, played
with those glorious G-16s. His prick seemed to wake up a little.
Then, he took the lamp from the bedside table, removed the
shade, and walked over to the sink. A gentle tap, and the bulb
shattered, leaving two shiny wires sticking up. He went back to
the bed, plugged in the lamp, and held the two bare wires against
her skin, either side of her navel. The switch was in the cord,
easy to thumb on and off quickly.
Horace flicked on the current. Her whole belly contracted,
and he could smell burning skin. Off. She relaxed, started
complaining in Spanish. So he gagged her and continued his
experiments. Touch her leg, and her leg would convulse. Drag
the wires across her breast, and leave a line of very painful
little burns. Rose made muffled screaming noises through her
gag, and the more she screamed, the harder Horace's cock became.
He was beginning to anticipate how nice it would be to have her
cunt clamp down on him as he fucked her eyeballs out. But first,
to get it really hard, he needed to get more revenge, to hurt his
"wife."
He dragged the wires over her hairless cunt lips, which
caused her great pain but didn't really satisfy Horace. He
retrieved his pocket knife, turned off the lamp, and cut the cord
from the lamp base. Stripping back the insulation, Horace wound
the stranded copper wires around two metal nipple clamps. One
clamp, he pushed into her ass hole. The other he stuffed deep
into her cunt. He really liked seeing the wire leading into that
pink tunnel, disappearing in its depths.
This time, when he flicked the switch, her entire body
jerked, and her cunt clamped closed in a fantastic spasm, as the
current flowing through her body tightened every muscle in her
belly. The tetany was so severe that she could not even cry out,
until he shut off the current. The wild, absolutely terrified
look in her eyes made his tool stiffen more.
"Rose, you frigid bitch, take this." He thumbed the switch,
and "Rose", not his real wife, suffered for his real wife. Her
vaginal muscles clamped down, hard, until Horace turned off the
switch. He thought he could actually smell the smoke from her
cunt, as he tortured Rose again and again and again, to the point
of physical exhaustion and to the edge of her sanity. With his
free hand, he would stroke his prick, feeling it grow harder, the
more Rose suffered.
At last it was time to enjoy the delicious feeling of Rose's
cunt clamping in an orgasmic spasm around Horace's imbedded rod.
He pulled the wire and the clamp from her cunt and plunged his
prick into the tortured tunnel. Gleefully, he bucked his hips,
but nothing happened.
"Come on, squeeze, and tell me how good it feels," he said
to Rose, but Rose was too utterly exhausted to do anything but
lie there and be fucked. The muscles of her vaginal sheath had
been convulsed so many times that there was no elasticity, no
strength left. She could no more squeeze his dick than a
marathon winner could run another 26 miles.
"Rose, just one more time," he pleaded, pumping in an out of
her slack vagina, which had all the resilience of whipped cream.
"Squeeze, Rose. I can't feel you!" pleaded Horace, but
Rose, spreadeagled on the bed, couldn't move a muscle. In
desperation, Horace took the loose clamp, which had been in her
vagina, and he clipped it to one nipple. Pumping furiously at
her slack slot, he thumbed the switch.
He felt her vaginal muscles clamp down on his prick in a
violent, electrically induced, spasm, as Rose screamed through
her gag. Horace came, at last, pumping his seed into her. He
turned off the current.
Horace lay, finally spent, with his limp prick still buried
in Rose's cunt, and her glorious "style G-16" breasts pressing
against the bare skin of his chest. He closed his eyes, happy.
The door opened, and three figures came in, the
receptionist, now wearing a don't-touch-me white coverall, and
two male orderlies. One pushed Horace off the G-16s, and the
woman put a stethoscope to Rose's chest.
"What's the matter?" said Horace.
The woman said, "Horace, you've been screwing a corpse."
"But I felt her squeeze my prick!"
"Horace, it's clear what happened. The current went through
her breast and through her vaginal muscles and through the wire
in her rectum. And her muscles tightened, as even a dead woman's
would. But between her breast and her vagina, the current also
went through her heart, and when a heart clamps down, like her
constricted cunt, it can't work. You killed her."
Horace was stunned. He couldn't quite comprehend what he
had done. But he pulled his penis out of the corpse.
"You've damaged the goods in a really major way. You've
given us an expensive disposal problem. It's going to cost you,
Horace," she said.
"I'm broke," said Horace. "I sold my BMW, even hocked my
Rolex and my office desk, to raise the 98 thousand dollars."
"I told you we have ways of collecting, Horace. You know.
If you can't pay your restaurant bill, you wash dishes. We'll
find work for you, until you pay -- let's say, about half a
million dollars."
Horace panicked, bolted for the door, but he never made it.
One orderly held him; the other injected a drug.
Horace woke up. He was naked, but for wrist and ankle
cuffs, and he was spreadeagled, as he had bound Rose, on Rose's
bed, in room 14. Everything was the same, except the bedside
lamp was repaired, and some really terrifying instruments of
torture were displayed in the other half of the room. An
electric charcoal lighter was even plugged in, and it glowed red
hot!
Horace knew he had been drugged for days and days. He dimly
remembered being strapped to a bed, remembered needles in his
arms, bright operating room lights, being made to work out on
exercise machines. He knew he was different, now. Where he had
been flabby, he was now lean, muscular, tanned, in the peak of
health. He looked down in amazement at his huge penis, inches
longer than he remembered, which stood like the Washington
Monument, rising out of his groin. It seemed to throb with
tension, craving cunt, but he knew, somehow, that it would never
be satisfied, would never go limp again. The thought of spending
the rest of his life with an erection boggled his mind.
But he didn't have long to think about it. The door to room
14 opened and a woman entered. She was very tall -- black hair,
long nose, thin lips. She wore over-the-knee black boots with
stiletto heels. She wore a black, leather, push-up bra, with her
flabby breasts bulging out the top. She wore nothing else but
her luxuriant bush of pubic curls. And she carried a wicked
leather whip.
"Hello, Rose. I'm Horace," he said.
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