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First try failed, I ddin't see the 1 in 1066 so got returned to me. So here we go again with the correct e mail I hope!
Looking forward to reading the enema story on library site soon! Hope lots of pain for recipient!! Anal fucking too, MMMMMM!
Let me know if this one goes thru ok.
Keep writing that torture stories please, you do pain real well!
Hope to play the g grandmother torture to death scenario with my elderlyfriend soon. SHe's all hot about it & says I'll never break her either & she'll die in agony but her family will be safe & that's all that matters to her. One thing that really turns us bothoninthe story is how when the rebels tear off her gown, she never even tries to cover herself! Just stands there naked & defiant knowing she is a dead woman & wondering howmuch pain they'll make her suffer before death comes as a welcome friend. My friend assures me she won't try to cover herself either, she's been naked in from of too many men & women in her life to worry about it now!!
I'll send details fo the impalement deaths for you to maybe create a story around for me & my friend. Let me know if this gets to you ok. Thanks, later,
Jo
Date: Tue, 8 May 2012 10:32:51 -0500
Subject: Re: Story idea
From: esbuck@gmail.com
To: jo36c@hotmail.com
For Jo
by Abe
(a great-grandmother is tortured to death)
El Presidente was awake and dressed when his wife was wakened by the sound of a shot. He looked out the bedroom window. Half a dozen bullets from an AK47 splatted against the bullet resistant glass. There was a burst of machine gun fire from palace guards on the roof. "I'll go for the grandchildren," he said, "and get them down to the escape tunnel. Get dressed as soon as you can and meet me there." He ran toward the children's rooms. She realized she had left her glasses and dentures in the bathroom and went, barefoot to get them. She could hear the roar of a tank engine. The rebels must have turned the local garrison.
There was a bang, and the bathroom was filled with white smoke. A cannon shell filled with white phosphorous and gone off in the bedroom, filling it with flaming material that would either burn or suffocate anyone there. Choking, she staggered through the smoke into a hallway and made her way toward the stairs at the far end. Another shell, high explosive this time, blew in the walls behind her. The small arms fire was continuous, like static on an AM radio. She made it to the ground floor, half blind, toothless, barefoot, and dressed only in a pink nightdress. Actually, there were three escape tunnels, but she assumed her grandchildren and great-grandchildren would go for the one concealed in the wine cellar. It was two kilometers long and had a concealed exit under a bridge by the river. They would have to hide in the tunnel until dark. Fire alarms were going off, but her husband and children would be safe, if they could make it into the tunnel.
As she made her way toward the wine cellar, the sound of firing decreased, except to periodic cannon shots. The rebels were winning. Real smoke made her cough, and as it gathered near the ceiling, she had to crawl. Then, to make things worse, she smelled tear gas, too. The door to the wine cellar was unlocked, a good sign, but when she made her way down the stairs she saw the floor was flooded with wine and covered with broken bottles. Perhaps that was to cover her husband's tracks, but, barefoot, there was no way she could make her way to the entrance to the tunnel, and, even if she did, she might give away the location to the rebels. She turned, went up the stairs, and closed the door behind her. She needed to get away from the smoke and gas, so she crawled toward the back of the palace.
She saw soldiers, with gas masks, and called out to them for help. Oops! They wore red arm bands; they were rebels, and she was caught. A soldier grasped her wispy white hair and pulled her face close to his. "Where is El Presidente?"
"I don't know." He slapped her face. "If I knew, I'd be with him."
"There must be a safe room or an escape route. Where is it?" He put his hands over her ears and pressed his thumbs over her tearing eyes. "Tell me, or I'll pop your eyes like grapes!"
"Stop!" said a sergeant. "Don't spoil her face. We may have to show her on TV. There are other ways to make her talk."
They took her to one of the palace garages and tore away her nightdress, leaving her naked. In seconds, they bound her thumbs together with wire and wrapped wires around her big toes. They pulled her feet far apart and tied them to heavy table legs. Then they raised her up by her thumbs, with the wire over an overhead beam, so her arms were over her head and she was hanging by her thumbs. It was a time-honored torture, but she bore the pain in silence. At least the tear gas was gone, and she could see. She looked down between her pendulous breasts, still a C cup but hanging like saddle bags. Her convex tummy hid her view of her pubic hair, but she knew she was obscenely displayed, her legs so widespread that her cunt must be gaping open. They asked her again where El Presidente might be. She resolved to stay silent. If she could holdout until nightfall, her family might get away.
One of the privates beat her with a chain, from her arm pits to her knees, front and back. Each blow jerked her thumbs, but, thankfully, they were going numb. Her body and thighs were soon overlapping bruises, and she suspected a few ribs were cracked.
A medical officer came in and told the private to step back. "At this rate, you may beat her to death, and we may never find El Presidente. Beating with chains was a Roman method of execution. There are other ways to cause pain, ways less likely to kill her outright." He pulled up a stool and sat in front of her, his face about the level of her navel. He took out a lighter and flicked his Bic. He held the flame in front of her face and then lowered it, passing it slowly under her breast, broiling it until the skin blistered. She groaned but did not speak. He cooked the other breast, and blistered each nipple, but learned nothing. Then he ran the flame up and down the inner surfaces of her widespread thighs and burned away her pubic hair. She did not talk, even as the lighter ran out of fuel. He stood up and went to get an aluminum baseball bat. He put the big end against her reddened cunt and then slid the handle across the floor, forcing the bat into her vagina with the handle on the floor beneath her. Except when she had given birth, she had never felt so full and stretched. She moved her pelvis, and she realized that the movements of the bat within her had caused an orgasm. Endorphins flooded her brain, and her pains seemed abated.
He took a hose connected to a water tap, and produced a stream of water. He tipped her head back and directed the water up her nose. "The Americanos used the water cure in the Filipines, to get the Moros to reveal where their weapons were hidden. They must swallow the water or drown, and the stomach could not stand it for long. Very effective." His victim, however, by an act of pure will, inhaled the water and passed out. She regained consciousness sprawled flat on the floor, with someone pressing on her back. When it was clear she would live, they returned her to her former position, hanging by her thumbs with the bat up her cunt. The bat was her salvation; more orgasms, more endorphins, made the pain endurable. "We'll try the other end," he remarked. Against one wall was a stack of orange rubber traffic cones. He arranged the hose to go through a hole at the top of a cone. The hose went into her anus, and they lowered her so she was sitting on the cone. As the pressure of water inside her caused her anus to stretch and leak, the rubber cone was forced into her, reducing the leakage. Her belly swelled, and she groaned as her bowels were stretched. Meanwhile, the officer found a grease gun, used for lubricating the running gear of trucks, and he fitted to the nozzle a long needle, used to inflate footballs. With pliers, he pinched one tortured nipple and lifted her breast. He plunged the needle into it and started to pump orange grease into the tender tissues, tearing them apart. Her breast inflated like a balloon, with the skin so stretched that the bruises turned pale as the blood was forced out. "How's that feel, Madame Presidente? Tell us where your husband is or I'll do the other one." Obtaining no reply, he filled her other breast with grease, making her look like some sort of inflatable sex toy, with balloons for tits. By now the pressure of water in her bowels was so high it pressed the bat against her G-spot and produced almost continuous orgasms. Water sprayed out around the rubber cone.
The officer waited a few minutes, but she told him nothing. Frustrated, he pulled the bat out of her twat and swung it against her swollen belly, eliciting a cry of pain as the hose and cone burst loose and a torrent spewed from her ravaged asshole. Angry, he swung the bat against her left breast. The taut skin tore, and bloody orange grease splattered across her chest and soiled the officer's uniform. He treated the right breast even more violently, splitting it open and spilling blood, fatty tissue, and orange grease which soiled his uniform and slid in gobs down to the floor. In a rage, he swung the bat to break he shin bone, and then to break the other. Her incoherent cries still did not reveal the hiding place of El Presidente. Next he shattered her knees and then, with all his strength her brought the bat down across her mid-thigh. The femur broke with an audible crack, and his victim went limp.
It took him a moment to realize what he had done. He fetched a stethoscope from his medical bag and listened for a heartbeat. "Damn!" he said, "neurogenic shock. She's dead."
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