Cruise to Nowhere

Cruise to Nowhere

by Abe

(for Jo:  Mother and daughters face interminable torture at sea aboard the Motor Ship de Sade. The Republic of Nauru is real.  The Nauru Navy is pure fantasy, and no offense is intended.)

Part 1, a death sentence

It was some time around midnight.  The two-lane road across the desert was straight and level.  There was no moon, but the sky was ablaze with a zillion stars, as there was no town nearby, no light pollution.  Nora was driving 85 or 90 mph; she didn't look at the speedometer much.  The radio was off, so as not to disturb her daughters, who were sleeping.  She was able to think.

They had been to the funeral of her sister, in Colorado, and they were trying to make it back to LA.  Nora was an Assistant Professor at a small college.  At 57, she still looked good, a blue-eyed, bleached and dyed blonde, about five feet eight and still pretty trim, thanks to bicycling around campus.  Yes her breasts sagged a bit, and her tummy was convex, but she was happy with her appearance.  She was still dressed for the funeral, a black jacket, a straight black skirt, and an expensive white silk blouse.  She was doing alright, considering the breaks in her career for the mommy track.

Carol, her older daughter, was 27, two inches taller and several pounds lighter.  She was a natural blonde and, Nora thought, stunning. She was wearing a “little black dress”, with a square neck which showed a bit of cleavage, and a black sweater for modesty or warmth, as might be required. She was a certified aerobics instructor and a certified yoga instructor, which kept her trim, but her real job was in public relations and marketing, planning her company's displays at trade shows and looking beautiful next to the merchandise.   Nora had married Alfred  Otto fairly late in life, after she had earned her PhD., and Carol had come along promptly.  After Carol was in school and Nora had her teaching job, the marriage had deteriorated, but  Alfred was sure another child, a son, would fix things, and Bree was born, eight years after Carol.  Not long after, Alfred discovered a fertile twenty-something who got pregnant with his son, so there was a divorce, and Nora went back to her  maiden name, Nora Twitchel.   Bree Otto didn't see much of her father and not a lot of her working mother, so Bree was socialized by day care centers and her peers at school.  Bree shared the coloring of her mother and sister and was as tall as Nora but weighed much less.  Nora thought she looked emaciated, almost unhealthy, with her thin, straight, untapered legs.  When she wore a bikini, taut across her hips, there was a gap between the fabric and her belly.  One could almost count her ribs, and she didn't need a bra, though she always wore one, with gel inserts.  Bree, of course, thought it was wonderful to look like a fashion model and told her mother not to be jealous of her daughter's good looks.  She was in college, now, and she never seemed to agree with her mother or her older sister.  Recently she had come to Jesus and taken a vow of chastity until marriage.  She was asleep in the back seat, wearing a black turtleneck and  tight, narrow legged black slacks.  Bree Otto wasn't all Nora might have hoped for, but she would probably grow out of it.

Suddenly Nora saw flashing red lights ahead of her on the  previously empty road, and then flashing lights behind her, too.  She braked to a stop, which wakened her daughters.  A uniformed man, but not a State Trooper, came to the window, which Nora lowered.  “License and registration, please,” he said. Nora produced the documents.  He looked them over, matched her face to the photo on the license, and said, “Get out of the car.  All of you.  Leave the keys.  You are under arrest.”  He handcuffed Nora's arms behind her back.  Carol and Bree were also handcuffed.

“Officer”, she said, “I admit I was speeding, but wouldn't a ticket do?”

“You were driving in a manner to cause a threat to life.  Under the law, any activity which threatens life can be a terrorist act.  You will be charged as a terrorist.”  The cops put hoods on the three women, so they could not see.  They were bundled into the back of  an unmarked  police car.  After a long, bumpy ride, the car stopped, and the women were extracted.  Though she could not see, from the sounds and smells and heat, Nora figured they were in a large building, something like an aircraft hanger.

Nora, still hooded and cuffed, was pushed into a room and the door was closed behind her.  In the darkness, unable to feel around with her hands, she felt she had no choice but to stand still and wait.  It was uncomfortably warm. Sound was muffled by the walls, but she thought she heard shouting, cries of protest, and then, after a minute or so, ungodly screams of pain, then silence.  After a few minutes, she supposed, for stress causes the perception of time to play tricks, she again heard muffled protesting, and then screams of agony.  She was sure the first screams came from Bree, the second ones from Nora.  She shivered with anxiety.  What was happening to her daughters?  She was soon to find out.

Nora heard the door open.  The hood came off and the handcuffs too.  She saw that she was in a small room with concrete block walls.  The only furniture was a small table.  There were four men in black uniforms and a short, stout woman with dyed red hair, also in uniform but with more rank, who said,  “OK, time for a strip search.  Bitch, take off your clothes, shoes and stockings, too.”

Nora said, “I want a lawyer.”

“Terrorists don't get lawyers.” The woman grasped  the collar of Nora's blouse and pulled, popping three buttons off and exposing Nora's push-up bra.

“OK!” yelled Nora.  “I paid over five hundred dollars for this outfit.”  She carefully took off her black tailored jacket, torn blouse, and fitted skirt, all new for the funeral, and she folded them and placed them on the table.  Slowly, Nora took off her high heeled shoes, matching black.  The woman was impatient.  She ripped Nora's panties off, then cut the straps of her expensive bra.  “Don't.  What will I wear?” said Nora.

“You won't need underwear. Open your mouth.”  The woman put on latex gloves and examined Nora's mouth.  “Bend over that table and press your tits on the top.”  Nora complied.  With her long legs, her butt was raised higher than the table.  “Spread 'em,” ordered the woman, kicking Nora's ankles apart.  Nora felt two fingers exploring her vagina, poking her cervix.  When she complained that that hurt, the woman used four fingers and caused even more pain.  Then, with sleight of hand, the woman produced a small bottle of white powder, like talcum powder.  “Gentlemen, witness that a container of probable anthrax spores was found concealed in her vagina.”  Then Nora's anus was penetrated, and the woman raped her ass.  The men watched Nora's humiliation and just smiled.

They allowed Nora to stand up.  The woman pushed Nora's clothes onto the floor and put down several sheets of blank paper.  “Sign the papers at the bottom,” ordered the woman.

“I can't sign blank papers!” protested Nora.

“Don't worry, we'll fill them in. You will confess to transporting a weapon of mass destruction, part of a terrorist conspiracy to introduce anthrax spores into the ventilation system during the Academy Award presentation ceremonies.  You will list the names of your daughters and other conspirators.  That gives us a legal basis for getting search warrants and making more arrests.  Promotion depends on productivity, and real terrorists are kind of scarce, now, so we have to have a growing list of suspects.  Like with you, once we arrest them, they provide us with more.”

“No.  I'll never sign,” shouted Nora.

“All  right boys,” said the woman, “Interrogation position.”  With practiced efficiency the men put Nora on her back on the table, her arms  held down and her legs spread and pointing at the ceiling, her  female parts upturned and fully exposed.  The woman brought in a device which looked like a small tank-type domestic vacuum cleaner.  There was a cylinder with a power cord on one end and a hose on the other, the hose ending with a tube with a flared end, like a curtain cleaning wand attachment for a vacuum.  When plugged in, a fan came on, softly.  “Last chance.  Will you sign the confessions?”  Nora shook her head.  “Now comes the fun part, but I'll let the boys do that. This is not a vacuum cleaner.  It's a microwave transmitter, the same principle as a microwave oven, but at higher power and higher frequency.”  The woman handed the wand to one of the men, while the other three held Nora.

The man started at the top of Nora's pubic hair, drawing the wand down across her bush. Nora screamed, as she felt the worst burn she had ever experienced.  Her brain  could do nothing purposeful; the screams came automatically.  As the man moved the wand over her pubes, it was like painting pain, excruciating pain.  The searing pain had reached her labia, and during a very brief pause Nora somehow managed to yell, “I'll sign!”, before she relapsed into mindless  screaming. The man paused for a moment and said, “Once I start, cunt, I finish the job.”  He carefully slid the flared end over each lower lip and even pushed back toward Nora's anus.  The pain was intense, and screaming and writhing didn't help a bit.  The the man paused a moment, ran his finger over her  tortured flesh and touched the wand to three more spots he had missed.  “There,” he said, stepping back, “not a hair left, anywhere.”

Nora was sobbing, but she managed to ask, “You've burned off my pubic hair?”

“Yup, you are smooth as a baby's bottom.”

“I'm horribly burned.  You must take me to a hospital.”

“Nah, you're not burned.  It just feels that way.  High frequency microwaves won't penetrate far into the skin.  A regular microwave oven, that would have cooked your cunt like overdone bar-B-Q, but these babies don't penetrate much past your hair follicles.  They are cooked.  You'll never grow hair down there again, and the nerves in your skin have been electromagnetically stimulated in an extreme way, but your skin isn't badly burned. It's like a sunburn. Now,you can sign those papers.  If you don't, we'll do your tits next.”

Nora signed the papers.  The woman came in and looked over the signed papers.  “You boys want to fuck her?”

“I don't think we could get it up right now,” replied one man, “after doing the daughters.”

“OK,” she said, giving Nora an injection, “You can pack this one for shipment.”

“Where are you sending us?”

“Extraordinary rendition, shipment to a country where U.S. law doesn't apply.”

“That's illegal, unconstitutional,” replied Nora.

“Bitch, that could be a lethal injection, because you are marked for death.  It's legal.  In 1933, after the Reichstag fire, Hitler was given extraordinary powers, which included the authority to designate people to be killed without a trial: political enemies, communists, queers, Jews.  After 9/11, the U.S. President obtained the same powers, and as his agent, Homeland Security, I can sentence any terrorist to death.”

Nora's mind was getting foggy.  She wondered, am I dying?  Should I pray or what?  Then she lost consciousness.

Part 2, the ship

Nora  wakened when someone injected something into her arm.. She opened her eyes to find that she was naked, more or less,  lying on her back on a comfortable bed.  A black man in what looked like a naval uniform was wielding the needle.  She reached with her free arm to touch her burned cunt.  Dead skin had sloughed off, leaving smooth, sensitive, pink new skin.  The hair was missing, but it didn't hurt.  She noted that she had a heavy metal collar and heavy metal cuffs on her wrists and ankles.  “Where am I?” she asked.

“On a  naval vessel of the Republic of Nauru, the M.S. de Sade,” said the dark skinned officer, Melanesian, perhaps.

“Where are my daughters?”

“Somewhere near, still asleep.”

Nora lifted her head to look down, to confirm with her eyes that her cunt had not been cooked black.  It hadn't, but, below her navel, she had a tattoo, 937, still a bit sore and, from the feel of it, another tattoo on her back.  The officer saw her confusion.  “You arrived here with no clothes or identification, but attached was a sum of money and a tag, sentencing you to death.  So, under the laws of the Republic of Nauru, you have been enrolled as prisoner 937.  This is a floating prison.  The younger women who arrived with you are 938 and 939.”

“Do I get a uniform?” she asked.

“You are wearing it.  No one will be offended by your nudity.”

“So what is to become of us, me and my daughters?”

“You will never set foot on land again.  Ultimately, you will go over the side, food for the sharks, but when that happens depends on you.  As long as you are making money for us, you can live.  Let me explain, though I am not obligated to do so.  Nauru used to be called Pleasant Island, a twelve mile long paradise, until the white men discovered it was a mountain of phosphate, valuable as fertilizer.  For a while, we were rich, until the miners removed almost everything above sea level, leaving us with  very little to live on.  We tried to diversify, fishing, investing in Australian real estate, even funding the production of a movie, but our investments were not profitable.  We knew we would be dependent on tourism, but, frankly, why would tourists want to visit a flattened mine site near the equator in the Pacific Ocean?  How to attract rich tourists?  We found this old cruise ship, about to be scrapped, and we bought it to convert into a special  tourist attraction.  With a ship, we can take our unique Nauru attractions to where the rich folks are.  Right now, we are miles off the Mexican west coast.  Rich Americans and others who want what we have can board a fast boat at Cabo San Lucas and be here in hours, staying for as long as their money holds out, if they want to.”

“Why would they want to?  What is the attraction of an old cruise ship?”

“You, and the other prisoners.  As you might guess from the name of the ship, we cater to  tourists with an interest in bdsm: bondage, discipline, sadism, masochism.  The men or women  passengers are cruel.  They want to inflict pain and humiliation and sexual degradation.  They can do things to you on board this ship which would send them to jail in any other jurisdiction.  As long as you keep them entertained, you live.  If you can't take the pain, you can probably throw yourself over the side.  The heavy cuffs you wear will assure you drown promptly, and there will be no need to launch a rescue boat.  But I can sense that you will want to live, and  you will  permit our guests to have their way with you, because the alternative is death, usually death by torture.  Otherwise useless prisoners are auctioned off to those who want the pleasure of killing a human being.”  Nora had trouble comprehending the awfulness of her predicament.  This was worse than the Nazi death camps!  “Can you stand?” asked the officer.  Nora stood up, and the man drew her hands behind her back, linking her cuffs together with a spring hook. “One of our crew members  will introduce you to the routine.”

A big black man with a  short blue skirt, lava lava, whatever, came into the room.  He was barefoot and shirtless.  There was some sort of insignia on his uniform.  He led Nora down a corridor which was lined, both sides, with steel mesh cages, about three feet wide and just big enough to hold a canvas bunk.  Some were unoccupied, while others contained naked women prisoners, motionless on their bunks.  At an empty cage, the man pushed her up against the door.  “Don't make any noise.  Don't wake up the other prisoners.”  He played with her breasts and slipped a finger into her cunt.  “You have to understand.  Anyone, any time, can have sex with you.  I'd fuck you right now, except I just fucked another prisoner, and I don't think I can get it up quite yet.  Now, here is the routine.  You sleep quietly in your cage until two blasts of the horn.  Then you will get up and go down the corridor to the showers and breakfast.  You will wait there in the prisoners' common room until a crew member inspects you and takes you to the theater.  This morning the male prisoners will be going first, so you will have to wait a while.  Tomorrow, different.  At the theater you will be displayed to the passengers and given a very public enema, to make sure you are ready to provide whatever sexual services they may desire.   You will be auctioned off to the passengers who choose you.  If you are not chosen, you will be, shall we say, displayed in various places around the ship to amuse the passengers and give them an opportunity to appreciate how well you suffer.  If, after several auctions, you just are not earning your keep, you will sold to someone who wants to kill you.  So, make yourself attractive to the passengers, if you want to live.  Before the midday meal, there will be signals.  You will return to the women's common room for food, while the passengers eat in the dining room.  From time to time, you may be sent to help the waiters in the dining room, or to entertain the diners.  Otherwise, you wait in the common room.  Then the process repeats.  You will be auctioned off again, to serve the passengers until the evening meal.  After the passengers have eaten, most of them will go to the theater, so, unless you are needed, you can stay below decks.  You can watch what goes on in the theater on channel twelve.  You must be in your cage by midnight and stay there until the morning signal.  There is a bucket under your bunk, if you need it. You will address guests as Master or Mistress or whatever they want.  Officers and crew are Sir or Ma'am.  Understood?”

“Yes.”

He slapped her face.  “Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.  May I ask a question?”  The crewman gave permission.  “How do you get so many prisoners.  Are they all here by extraordinary rendition?”

“People, various people, pay us to accept prisoners on condition that the prisoners are never seen again.  We use them as long as they are popular with the guests.  When they wear out or get too old, they go over the side.  If you want to die, just jump.  If you want to live, stay sexy.  Some prisoners, mostly men, are delivered by foreign government agencies.  Some women have dishonored their families.  Honor killings are no longer tolerated in India or Pakistan, but for a price we'll do the job.  Sometimes a divorce is inconvenient,  but a  romantic cruise for two may end up a cruise for one.   A few prisoners were simply unfortunate to offend  powerful people.  For example, we have a Gay prisoner who offended the ultra-conservatives in his home town in Texas.   They had a special collection to 'buy him a ticket out of town', and they paid us to make sure he will never return.  The Mexican drug cartels often kidnap people and kill them, but a few end up here.  I suppose, to the parents of a kidnapped girl, it is a fate worse than death.  The women are more in demand for the passengers to torture, so the men usually don't live long.  It's all a matter of money.  We are equal opportunity executioners.”  The crewman released  Nora's  hands and pushed her into her cage with a pat on the ass, saying, “You will get used to it.  Remember the old saying, when rape is inevitable you might as well enjoy it.”

The morning horn woke Nora, and she let herself out of the cage.  It wasn't locked.  She and the other women prisoners made their way to the common room, which was a wide spot in the corridor where the walls of inside cabins had been removed.  Some of the plumbing fixtures, toilets and wash bowls remained, right out in the open with no privacy. The women walked through a shower which was actuated by their weight on the floor.  Nora followed, first getting  powerful sprays of soapy water from head to foot and then she went few steps further where there was a similar rinse.  The whole “car wash” experience couldn't have lasted 30 seconds.  She tried to wring out her long hair as she walked on to the feeding stations.  There was a large flat screen TV which displayed, every six seconds, a view from one of  many surveillance cameras.  She saw a long view down the cages, six seconds of women on the toilets, and then a view of herself, looking at the TV.  She looked away and searched for her daughters.

Bree came dripping wet out of the showers and ran to her mother, beating her with her fists and  crying, “Look what you got us into, Mother.  I hate you!”

Nora enfolded Bree in her arms, and Bree relaxed.  “It was awful.  They raped me.”

“The woman with the rubber glove?”

“Those Homeland Security men.  The put their penises into me and made me bleed,  One even raped my rear.”

Nora replied, “Let's hear it for our democratic government. The rich get anything.  The poor get fucked.  Bree, you will be alright.  They can only take your virginity once.  I'm afraid you will get raped again and again here.  Try to come to terms with it.  We are prisoners, and we have no rights.”

Bree said, sobbing, “I know.  I got the lecture.  Keep the passengers happy, if you want to live.  It's not fair.”

Nora tried to arrange Bree's short wet blonde hair.  She noted that Bree was number 939, front and back. “Apparently it's legal.  Try to adjust to it.”

Carol came up to them, as pink and hairless below as Nora was and with a 938 below her navel. “Did you sleep well, family?” she said cheerily.  Neither Nora nor Bree replied.  “Have you noticed how we are supposed to eat?”  She pointed to several women who were on their knees, sucking on rubber penises, which were actually large nipples dispensing liquid food.  It was a sort of puree of last night's dinner for the passengers. The leftovers and plate scrapings: meat, potatoes, vegetables, even ice cream, were blended together into a liquid which could be consumed  without the use of hands or tableware.  Nora and Carol took their turns, but Bree declined, saying she would puke if she had to put a rubber penis in her mouth.

The three of them watched the other prisoners, who did not seem to be inclined to talk much, and they watched the big screen.  There were views of the promenade deck, underneath the lifeboats.  White curtains blocked the view of the sea, so no passing ship or surveillance drone could see what was going on.  Passengers were going along the deck, going to or from breakfast.  There were mostly older, reflecting, Nora supposed, the population of people who could afford  such a cruise.  Many were dressed casually.  A few were naked.  Some wore outlandish costumes.  Most wore  masks.  Nora supposed it was a case of what happens here stays here, or perhaps the mask aided the sadist in playing that role.  Several of the camera scans revealed empty lounge spaces, and cameras in the theater showed it slowly filling with passengers.

An ugly old woman with a cigar approached the three blondes.  Her body was potato shaped, no waist at all, and folds of belly fat hung down like an apron.  Below the fat, her hairless outer labia were perforated by dozens of heavy  metal rings, and her red inner labia hung down like curtains, weighted with more metal ornaments.  Her clitoris looked like a large grape.  Her buttocks were huge, like balloons, and her legs were fleshy.  She wore a huge butt plug.  The part visible between her buttocks looked larger than a beverage can. Her breasts stuck out like giant sausages.  Bands embedded in the flesh squeezed them into that elongated shape, and the nipples were like thumbs.  Her face was adorned with piercings and shiny jewelry, barbells and rings, in eyebrows, nose, cheeks, lips.  She had no teeth.  Her scalp was hairless.  Everywhere below her face were scars, some like white lace, others raised and fierce looking keloids.  Her tattooed numbers were unreadable, covered with scars.  She attempted a grin and said, “Hello, newcomers, I'm 37, the senior prisoner here.  Anything I can do to help you?”

“I'm Nora.  Can you answer some questions, please?”

“No, you are 937.  Forget your past.  Go ahead and ask”

“How old are you?” interrupted Bree.

“Seventy-four or seventy-five. I'm not sure.”

Nora asked, “How have you survived so long?”

“I give them what other prisoners can't.  They can do anything to me, and still I won't jump over the rail.  All the sensitive parts are long gone and I can turn off my mind, just ignore pain, so they can't really hurt me.  My fat protects me from broken bones.  My teeth are long gone.  My scars are relatively insensitive to pain.  No one wants sex with me, except oral sex.  My asshole is too slack and scarred to be fun, and my cunt, quite literally, has teeth in it, metal implants that some bastard thought would be fun.  I think the cruise director keeps me alive as a sort of trophy.  Passengers seldom pay for me anymore, but she puts me on display and uses me for bizarre sports that other prisoners couldn't stand.  Actually, I've become a pain slut.  I sometimes have orgasms when they torture me.  A bit of advice: if pain is inevitable, learn to enjoy it.”

Carol spoke up: “Cruise director?”

“She's the ship's officer who is in charge of  entertaining the guests and managing the prisoners for maximum profit.  You will see her in a moment, when she auctions off the male prisoners, and then it will be your turn.” She inhaled her cigar.

“Auction?  How does that work?” persisted Carol, as if she were looking at a new career in marketing.

“Every passenger,” said 37, toothlessly slurring her words, “has a sort of smart phone, usually worn around the neck.  It serves as room key and credit card, and if they don't speak English it provides simultaneous translation.  When a prisoner is displayed for sale,  the passengers can text their bids, silently and anonymously, except of course the auctioneer knows who they are. They bid in points. Every passenger is assigned points for simply being on the ship, but they can buy additional points.  Rather than pay extra,passengers will often form a syndicate,  pool their points to place a winning bid and then share the prisoner.  939,there, will be in great demand.  Likely six or eight or ten men, or maybe women, will combine their points to bid for her and then take turns fucking her all morning.  After lunch, the same thing.  Don't smile like that, 938.  You will be in demand, too.  Sometimes, the passengers will use their phones to make suggestions or vote on a procedure.  For instance, these boobs are the shape they are as the result of a vote by the passengers.  They might have been beach balls or udders or even cut off, but for some reason a plurality of voters wanted to see how much they could be stretched in length.  There, on the screen, is the cruise director now.”

The cruise director was a coal black woman of indeterminate age. She wore black boots and black tights and a gleaming white shirt, loose and long sleeved, but open to the navel, the better to display the cleavage of her great round black breasts.  She carried a microphone, but it wasn't clear what she was saying.  The passengers all listened to their smart phones.

A lot of ten male prisoners was marched onto the stage.  Their hands were cuffed behind their backs.  They stood in front of a trough backed by a plastic curtain.  Hanging from the ceiling were ropes and hoses.  The ropes could be attached to the cuffs and raised to force the prisoner to bend over, as for strappado.  Predesignated passengers, mostly nude or wearing a bathing suit, came out to administer enemas.  All of the prisoners knew the drill, and they bent over on cue.  Only two passengers, one a woman, used the rope, probably to demonstrate their power.  Clearly, the prisoners were empty before they arrived.  A single shot of maybe two quarts spurted out clean, hitting the curtain and running into the trough, demonstrating that the ass was ready for fucking.  The two who were roped got three flushes each.  The woman clearly got off on that.

“You might want to clean out before you get on stage,” said 37.  “There are enema hoses by the toilets.”  The three blondes raced to empty themselves and missed the next part of the show.  The empty males stepped forward and stood at attention, while another ten presented themselves for enemas. The cruise director pointed to the first.  He was a sturdy, well muscled, hunk, and  it seemed to take some time to conclude a sale.  The next was a slender guy whose penis stood out about 10 inches and was permanently erect, no doubt the result of surgery.  Several female passengers wanted to examine the monster.  Number three had a tiny penis and no visible balls, but he had beautiful breasts.  The cruise director said something about forced lactation.  The remainder of that lot were your run of the mill males, probably in their twenties, from some underdeveloped countries, likely thieves, jihadists, or just unfortunate victims.

Three male prisoners, obviously gay, came into the common room to prepare the women for auction.  Nora, Carol, and Bree got their hair blow-dried and combed, and the gays insisted they have lipstick and a bit of eye shadow and a touch of rouge on the nipples.

As the male auction was winding up, the women had their hands cuffed behind them and were lined up in the corridor.  They marched down the corridor, toward the bow, and then were taken ten at a time in an elevator to the level of the theater stage.  Bree went first, Carol second, Nora third, followed by various pretty women of various races.

The enema drill was, of course, humiliating, in front of  hundreds of passengers, but it wasn't particularly painful.  The man who flushed out Nora handled her breasts and put a shot of water toward her twat, but otherwise it was all according to the proper procedure.  When the women lined up, Bree was first.  The cruise director said, “This new arrival, 939, will surely interest you.  We do not know her age, but judging from the lack of pubic hair and the tiny breasts she may be only twelve or thirteen, probably quite innocent and submissive.”  The bids were over in about twenty seconds, and Bree was led off to one side.  Eight male passengers got up and left.  Nora was next, gorgeous with her mane of  blonde hair  and her aerobics instructor body.  She struck a pose and managed to jiggle her C-cup boobs, accentuated by the touch of rouge.  Apparently two or more groups were competing, for it took most of a minute before the bidding stopped, when two syndicates combined.  Four women and seven men got up to go.

Nora was very aware that she was no competition for the likes of Carol or even pretty young Mexican or Indian prisoners.  There was no denying that her boobs drooped.  The auction took a while, while Nora wondered if there was even a bid.  Then she was led away by a crewman.   Outside the theater she was turned over to a woman passenger.  The woman wore a mask and a pretty, youthful sun dress, but she was probably Carol's age.  The woman led Nora up to her room and let them in with her phone.  There she told 937 to sit on the bed, her back to the headboard, while the woman got undressed and took off her mask.  Nora could see out the cabin window, could see the almost calm sea, looking east, with no land in sight.  The ship was moving slowly, toward the north. Then the woman climbed onto Nora's lap and started sucking her nipples, not erotically but as a suckling child might do.  Nora, of course, had no milk, but the woman persevered, occasionally coming up for air and murmuring things like, “Mommy, I've missed you so much.”  Nora actually felt sorry for her and wanted to cooperate as much as possible, and after a while she realized it felt good.  Then the woman sucked Nora's toes.  Nora had walked around barefoot; her feet weren't very clean, but the woman didn't seem to mind, sucking each toe in turn, but the big toes especially, almost as if they were nipples.  From there she worked her way upward, kissing and licking feet, ankles, calves, thighs.  That began to excite Nora.  Nora found herself on her back on the bed with the woman licking her hairless labia.  That was a bit much; no one had done that since Alfred got drunk on their honeymoon.  Then the woman's mouth found Nora's clitoris and things got more lively.  Gasping, Nora had an orgasm better than any she had had in years.  The woman raised her head and wiped Nora's juices from her face.  “I'm sorry, Mommy.  I should be punished.  Spank me, Mommy.”

Nora put the woman over her lap and spanked her bottom with her right hand.  After a dozen spanks, which reddened the woman's buttocks, Nora paused.  “More, Mommy,” the woman said, almost in a whisper.   Nora resumed her spanking, watching the buttocks jiggle as she slapped them, right, left, right, left.  The woman lay quietly on Nora's lap, pleading for more whenever Nora slackened in her efforts. Nora's arm was getting tired, and her hand smarted, but the woman seemed insatiable.  Without really thinking it through, Nora slid her hand between the rosy cheeks and rubbed the woman's hairy cunt.  She spread her legs.  Nora spanked the labia, and the woman squirmed on Nora's lap.  Nora noted in increase in moisture, so she slipped a finger between the labia.  “More, Mommy,” pleaded the woman.

Nora said, with her teeth clenched, “Naughty girl!  Spanking isn't enough punishment.”  With that, Nora thrust her fingers into the woman's vagina and moved them in and out, then swirled them in circles, remembering what the Homeland Security bitch had done to  her.  The woman writhed with pleasure, and Nora fucked her cunt with more vigor, finally slipping her hand, fingers together, into the slippery vagina, stretching it until she was in up to her wrist.  Then she curled her fingers into a fist.  The woman gasped and groaned and arched her back, her legs kicking the bed.  Then she relaxed and said, “Thank you, Mommy.  I'll be good now.”  They spent the rest of the morning with the woman curled up next to Nora, being hugged and cuddled like a child.

Back in the women's common room, Nora washed her hands and slurped some liquid food.  Carol came in and went immediately to the toilet facilities, where she washed her face and lower body.  “I need a drink,” she said to Nora. “I've sprayed so much pussy juice I must be dehydrated.  Can you imagine?  Seven guys, over and over, and then four  furious lesbians intent on convincing me that women are more fun than guys.  In all my 27 years, I never had so many orgasms as I did this morning.  I hope I can make it through the afternoon without dying of pleasure.”

Bree came in and showered.  Then she sat down, as if worn out.  “Mother, it was awful. They held me down on the deck and took turns raping me, and with people watching and laughing when I pleaded with them to stop.  Then they made me lick their sticky things clean and two of them actually ejaculated in my mouth and made me swallow.  Ick!  And then they went at it again, and two of them put grease on my ass and stuck their things in there.  Then they raped me again, and complained that I didn't like it.  So, for the rest of the morning, they tortured me by rubbing my boobs and fingering my cunt. God! I'm sore.”

“Well, now that you have tasted hard cocks, you should be able to eat here without puking,” said Nora.

“Mother!” screamed  Bree.  “I'm going to my cage to pray for relief.”

Apart from sucking lunch, Nora and Carol sat and watched the big screen, which was showing “highlights” of the morning's activities.  Not many of the prisoners were in private sessions.  Most the activities were open to spectators and were video recorded.  Passengers were strictly forbidden to have recording devices, to prevent evidence falling into the hands of others, but they could sit and watch their own activities, or those of others, on the dozens of channels available on the ship, essentially hard core porn of any sort, 24/7.  The lunching prisoners got to see excerpts of  Bree's rape and oral sex.  Carol saw herself being fucked from behind and eaten out by a lesbian.  Every time the scene changed, one of the prisoners would cry out or, perhaps, leave the room as she saw herself doing what she had to do to stay alive. They skipped over the Gay men.  It seemed the ship's public spaces, the piano bar, the “crow's nest lounge,” and so forth had been converted into a selection of torture chambers,, complete with enough  equipment to conduct a replay of the  Spanish Inquisition.   Female prisoners were suspended from the ceiling, put into stocks, placed astride the wooden pony, stretched on a rack, subjected to water torture, and on and on, all accompanied by beatings and electroshock torments.  Always, mostly out of sight, there was a crewman to make sure things did not get out of hand.  For example, when one young woman was in the strappado, her arms behind her back, lifted by her wrists, a crewman intervened before her shoulder joints were actually dislocated.  Pain is OK, maiming is not, unless you pay a lot extra.

Part 3, Nora learns to smoke

The afternoon auction was much like the first, but minus the ceremonial enemas.  Again Bree went first, to a syndicate of  six men.  Carol was sold to another syndicate.  Nora was bought by  a smaller group.  When she was delivered to them, they went looking for a suitable place to conduct their business.  They finally decided on a place by the swimming pool.  For a second Nora worried that she might get sunburned, but the pool was covered. 

One man had a  small female prisoner, probably a Latina, in the pool with him, and he was holding her head under water until she nearly drowned, then letting her get a breath and doing it again.  No one seemed to pay any attention or tried to stop it.  Another man had a small female prisoner on his lap and was finger fucking her, on and on, while she giggled and cooed at him in Spanish.  A nude woman, overweight and over forty, was being serviced, orally, by a male prisoner, who was on a short leash between her thighs.

The leader of the syndicate was a tall, middle aged white man, probably American, in a bathrobe and hat. “Do you speak English?” he asked.  Nora replied, in English, that she did. “I haven't seen you around, before, cunt.”

“I'm new, Sir, uh, Master.”

“You look like you have been around a while.  How long have you been shaving your pubic hair?”

“I didn't shave it.  It was removed for me, against my will.”

He smiled.  “I like blondes.  My ex-wife was a blonde.”

“It's mostly gray,” replied Nora.

“Me too.”  He lifted his hat to reveal a shock of white hair. He lighted two cigarettes, kept one and handed the other to her.

“I don't smoke, Master,” she said.

“You do now, cunt.  Smoke it.  That's an order.”  She tried to smoke it, mimicking the way girls smoked in the old movies and only choking a little.  “Keep smoking,” he said.  He turned to a uniformed bar tender.  “Single malt on the rocks.”   Then he turned to Nora.  “One for you?”

“No, thank you. I don't feel like drinking.” 

“You probably will, before we are finished.  You know, on this ship once you pay everything is free, toys, sex, booze, anything, even postage stamps. I think we'll do it here. ” 

Two men, one nude and the other in a mask and black cape, and a woman, in the tiniest bikini, syndicate members, had followed them.  “You are going to fuck me right here, in public Master?”

“Fuck you, cunt?  No.  At my age, my plumbing doesn't work well, even with the blue pill.  No, I'm just going to play with you, do things my wife divorced me for.”  He walked to a full length door and opened the closet, removing several items, including a new pack of cigarettes and a couple of Bic lighters.  “Almost anything one needs, right at hand.  You really are new here?”  She nodded.  “You aren't used to the scene?”  She shook her head.  “Probably aren't disciplined enough to hold still.  Shall we  tie her down?”  The three others  all approved that.  The woman sat  Nora on a chair which, conveniently, had eyes on it for restraining prisoners.  She unhooked Nora's wrist cuffs and reattached then to either side of the seat, so Nora could not rise from the chair.

The American took the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it against her naked mons veneris, making her scream in pain.  “Here, start another.”  He handed her a freshly lighted cigarette and watched her smoke.  “You should learn to inhale.  Go ahead, breathe it in.”  She tried and coughed, letting the cigarette fly across the deck.  He picked it up and replaced it in her mouth.  She had to smoke as he arranged her, her knees spread, ankles clipped to the legs of the chair.  She could not hold the cigarette but had to keep it between her lips.   The woman took a roll of black rubber sticky tape, like electricians use, and began to wrap, tightly, around the base of one of Nora's breasts.  She continued, keeping the rubber tape stretched as she wrapped in a close spiral until the breast looked like a black cucumber, with  areola and nipple upstanding, light brown, not pink, since Nora had children.  The naked man admired her technique, and he repeated the job on the other breast, having to renew Nora's cigarette as he worked.

“I know how to teach you to inhale,” the American said brightly, as if he had just thought of it.  From the closet he took a swimmer's nose clip and pinched off her nose, so she had to breathe through her mouth, smoke and air mixed. The syndicate members found it amusing that she couldn't help coughing, her party balloon boobs heaving, as she tried to breathe without losing the cigarette.  The American squeezed a dollop of alcohol-based hand sanitizer on one nipple and rubbed it in, then did the other.  Before she could realize his intention, he had thrust a long needle vertically up through her nipple, so it stood like a flag pole about two inches upward.  It was so quick that she couldn't cry out, but she started to whine when she saw him with a second needle.  He turned to the man with the black mask.  “Care to do the honors?”  The masked man slowly drove the needle upward through the other nipple, prolonging the pain, while Nora, cigarette still in her mouth, tried to stifle her urge to cry out.  “Much better, cunt,” said her lead tormentor.

He took the cigarette from her mouth and slid it down over one needle, so it stood up like a candle on its candlestick, still burning.  He took his own cigarette and placed it on the other needle.  He lighted another for himself, another for her, and still another which he placed  with the butt between her outer labia, so it also stood up like a candle, but not quite vertically. “Now, Cunt,” he said, “let's see if you can finish your cigarette before any of these other three burn down and burn you.”

Sitting in the chair, Nora could see the three smoking, glowing “candles” getting shorter.  She tried to smoke as fast as she could, but in a coughing fit her cigarette fell from her lips and rolled across her chest.  The man picked it up and gave her another, telling her to start over.  With her previous cigarette in his hand, he held it close to one nipple, toasting, if not burning it.  As the cigarettes on the needles burned down, they heated the metal needles, and Nora was in great distress.  “Learn to keep quiet, cunt, or we'll repeat the entire lesson.”  She tried to smoke and clench her teeth at the same time, impossible to do.  A groan leaked out of her, as, a fraction of an inch from her nipple, one of the cigarettes crumbled and spilled hot ashes across her tit.  The second was close behind, the needle discolored by the heat, and it slid down the upright needle, so the burning tobacco slid over the pinkness of her nipple, as Nora screamed.  The noise had attracted  spectators, and everyone tried to be quiet as they watched the lower cigarette burn between the plump labia which cradled it.  With a desperate heave, Nora rocked her pelvis and dislodged the burning butt, which slid down the crack between her cunt and her inner thigh which, with her knees spread, did not trap it, so it fell between the slats of the chair and landed, still smoking, on the deck.  Some of the spectators clapped.  Two booed. 

“Well, you are a beginner,” said the white haired man.  He released Nora from her  chair, fixed her arms behind her again, then sat in an ordinary chair and opened his robe, exposing his flaccid penis.  “Let's see if you can make it stiff with your mouth, cunt,” he said.  “Come on, on your knees, right here.”  He pointed to the deck between his knees.  Nora was feeling sick from nicotine poisoning and had never participated in oral sex, but she knew that, quite literally, her life depended on pleasing the man, so she opened her mouth and tentatively put her lips around the circumcised tip of the dangling prick.  The woman in the bikini lighted a cigar for herself and offered helpful hints, sliding the cigar in and and out of her mouth.  Before long the penis stiffened a bit.  Nora's head bobbed up and down, and her tongue swirled, but the penis showed no sign of ejaculating.  Twenty minutes passed, and Nora's jaws were sore, but everyone kept telling her to work harder.

After another ten minutes, the woman lighted a cigarette and slipped the butt into Nora's asshole.  “Perhaps that will motivate the cunt to work harder,” remarked the woman, absentmindedly fingering her own crotch.  As the cigarette burned down between the ass cheeks, Nora furiously sucked and slurped in an attempt to get the guy off before her anus was burned.  The heat became more intense, and her ass bobbed up and down as she moaned/hummed around the meat in her mouth.

“Enough, cunt,” said the man.  As it slipped from Nora's mouth, his penis immediately  began to soften, and Nora farted, blowing the cigarette and a long, blue flame from her ass.  The spectators clapped or booed or laughed.  Whatever, she was thankful her anus wasn't burned badly.

“You done with her?” asked the woman.  The man nodded in the affirmative, gathering his robe around him and wandering off.  The woman removed her somewhat damp bikini bottom.  “OK, cunt, my turn.”  When the woman was satisfied, she removed the tape and needles from Nora's breasts and allowed her to wipe the pussy juice from her face.

The man in the mask put Nora over his lap.  He spanked her ass cheeks several times and then fingered her cunt.  “Shit, she's dry,”  he announced to whoever might listen.  Then he returned to spanking and fingering until he decided she was actually responding to his attention.  From behind, he slipped his thumb and half his hand into her vagina, feeling for the rough patch inside below her pubic bone.  Satisfied that she had a G-spot, he intently worked on her, determined that she should have an orgasm.  Nora had not had sex for years, no longer had monthly periods, did not expect she would have an orgasm, but she felt the man would never quit until she did.  And, to her surprise, between the G-spot, the stretching of the vestibule of her vagina, and a finger rubbing her clit, the sensations built up and she lost control of her body.  Crying out, shaking, she embraced the hand in her cunt and  gushed vaginal secretions until his arm and her thighs were wet and gleaming.  The woman, who had replaced her bikini bottom, clapped in appreciation.   The last man in the syndicate fucked Nora doggy style, pulling out after a few seconds, spurting his cum on her back, leaving her only half way to another orgasm.

The woman and the naked man fixed Nora's hands behind her and attached her cuffs to an overhead rope.  There seemed to be ropes everywhere.  The hauled up until Nora was bend over in the strappado position, her arms raised behind her, which forced her to bend over with her breasts hanging down..  The woman had got two medieval looking “breast rippers”,  tongs with teeth on them which, if this were truly the Inquisition, would pierce Nora's breasts and, when weights were added, they would shred them.  In this case, the teeth were dulled, so they only dug into the soft breast flesh and, when weighted, stretched them downward.

The original master returned with a clear plastic air pump, the kind one might use to inflate an air mattress.  He gave Nora a new cigarette to smoke and placed another lighted cigarette in a special holder at the intake to the pump.  The exhaust nozzle went in Nora's anus.  With each stroke of the pump, hot cigarette smoke filled the pump, and then it was pumped into her rectum.  It caused Nora painful cramps, and as the quantity and pressure of smoke increased, her tummy began to swell and she felt decidedly sick with nicotine poisoning.  The woman, who tugged from time to time on the breast rippers, started fingering Nora's exposed cunt, pushing more and more fingers into her sodden slit until, at last, Nora had an orgasm.  The man eased the pump nozzle from Nora's anus, letting her fart smoke as it she were a steam locomotive blowing off steam.  Then the various syndicate members took turns, keeping Nora full of smoke and even inflating her vagina with smoke.  Nora felt even sicker.  Finally, they released her stretched breasts and  painfully wrenched arms and allowed a crew member to lead Nora back to the common room.

She went to her bunk and collapsed, hardly able to move, with no interest in food or video.  The doctor came by and checked her out, examining her badly bruised breasts, putting antiseptic on her nipples and antibiotic ointment on her burns.  The worst burn, on her mons, got a sticky bandage.  “A tobacco enema can do that to you,” he said.  “They used to think a tobacco enema could raise the dead. You should be fine in the morning.”  However, she was not, and the doctor returned to evaluate her.  “I should have thought,” he said, putting on a rubber glove.  He inserted a finger into her vagina and explored until he was able to extract a cigar butt about three inches long.  “I'll help you to an enema station.  You need to be cleaned out, front and back.  In future,  clean yourself before you go to bed.  You are lucky you didn't get a lethal dose of nicotine, which is  entirely possible, if they leave one or two cigars inside you, or the equivalent of smokeless tobacco.”  He gave her an injection in her buttock.  “I'll tell them to let you have the morning off.”

As Nora regained her senses after a short nap, she had nothing to do for a while except watch TV.  She saw Carol being reamed by a woman with a dildo, who also squeezed her tits and pinched her nipples.  When the woman tired of that, a series of male guests took turns fucking the big blonde, remarking how blondes were unique on the ship and a welcome change from the  little brown cunts who turned up from India and Sri Lanka.  Carol had not been sexually active back in the U.S.  In her work in public relations, or as an instructor in aerobics, she had to remain at a professional distance from those she met. Here, her role was to be a fuck toy, and her body responded to the requirement.  After more orgasms than she could count, they left her, exhausted, on the deck.

After flicking through several channels,  Nora found Bree on the TV.  She was bound on her back, with her knees up by her shoulders, so her  cunt and ass were both accessible.  Man after man fucked her in one hole or the other, while others massaged her tiny tits and pulled on the nipples.  The look of utter disgust on Bree's face moved Nora to cry.

The cruise director interviewed some of the prisoners on TV.  One was a slight, effeminate man, perhaps 130 pounds.  He wore a large butt plug, and his front teeth had been extracted, the better to suck cock.  It also turned out he had been castrated by the Texans who had bought him a berth on the ship.  He was fairly philosophical about it, saying that his services were in demand, and it suited him not to have to troll the Gay bars for action.  Another male prisoner was a muscular specimen who could have played the part of Rambo.  His wife had paid his fare, so to speak, and he had been surgically altered on board, at her request.  His prick was eternally erect, eight inches long and fatter than usual, with little implants under the skin to make the shaft bumpy and increase the stimulation of his partner's hole, whichever that might be.  His wife had laughed and thought it was only justice that he could fuck all day and never go soft.  He said he liked it that way, and some of the women on board assured him he had a long career ahead of him.  A tiny Indian woman explained in her sing-song accent that her mother-in-law had paid for her imprisonment on the ship.  The man she married, who she had not met until her arranged wedding day, was repulsive.  The man next door was not.  The result was  “instant divorce” under the laws of Nauru.  She counted herself lucky, in a way, as unsatisfactory  Indian wives are sometimes disposed of by burning them alive and blaming it on an accident with the kerosene kitchen stove.  Every day on the ship, fulfilling or not, was another day of life, and when it was her turn to go over the side, she might look forward to reincarnation in a happier life.   Meanwhile, her tight little cunt made men happy, several a day, and her round little bottom attracted spanks and whippings which, while not so nice, kept her in demand and alive.

Nora lit a cigarette.

Part 4, snuff in the theater

One of the gay hair dressers came in and beautified Nora.  Then he fitted her with a net bra which served to elevate her breasts while her now erect nipples stuck out through holes in the mesh.  He gave her a short pleated skirt which rode low, below her tattoo and just above her mons, and ended just inches below her  hairless cunt.  High heeled shoes completed the outfit.  Nora was to help in the dining room.  The room was large and airy, with tall windows.  She could see that the two fast boats were returning to the ship with supplies and new passengers.  Later,they would be hoisted aboard.  She received minimal instruction.  The waiters, all male Nauruan crew members, would take orders and speak to the passengers.  Nora should not speak.  She should refill water glasses, remove empty plates, and follow instructions from their waiter.

She was serving a table of twelve guests, four of them women.  One of the women   flicked up the hem of Nora's skirt, several times, to examine her naked cunt or firm ass cheeks.  One of the men seemed especially interested in Nora's breasts.  The bra made them them stand tall, bulging upward, almost touching in the middle.  Finally the man spoke to the waiter who, after some convincing, loosened Nora's bra strap enough to lift the net upward and let her breasts hang free.  The man looked at the pendulous, bruised, bags and looked away, while the waiter, with some difficulty, got Nora's breasts back into their packaging. Nora could feel her self esteem melting away.

That afternoon it was her fate to be bought by a man and a woman who had her on tip toes, more or less hanging from her wrist cuffs, while they tormented her.  They put short stools under her feet and then moved the stools apart, so she had to stand with her legs spread.  If she stepped off the stools, she would fall and  hang from her wrists.  The man was into flogging, swinging  a big nine-tailed whip and covering her back and butt and legs with red abrasions.  The woman was into  more “womanly” torments.  For example, she had a battery powered drill with a miniature whip in the chuck.  She would set the tails spinning and  then hold the drill between Nora's spread thighs, lashing her labia with the strands of the whip, not unlike using a “weed whacker” to trim grass.  She did the same to Nora's breasts, lashing them to a bright pink and, when she worked on the sensitive nipples, reducing Nora to blubbering incoherence.  When the man with the whip took a rest break, the woman directed  her whirling whip to the crack between Nora's buttocks.  She also had a wire brush which, when rubbed on tender skin, made hundreds of  microscopic scratches, not visible, not bleeding, but if hot sauce or alcohol or other irritants were applied, the pain was incredible.  Before the woman was through, Nora's cunt and butt and breasts were burning as the woman brushed and then painted them.  Nora had tried to be strong and not scream in pain, but her will cracked, and she made so much noise that a crowd gathered around to watch.  Someone gagged Nora, and then the spectators took turns whipping her or using a cane on her butt and breasts.  Finally, two crew members took her downstairs to the common room.

The doctor checked her out and said there was no real harm done, that she would heal overnight.  Then he drew a pint of blood and gave her some more shots.  The blood, he said, would be used later when, at the request of a passenger who had seen her breasts, they modified her body to suit his desires.  “The golden rule applies,” he said. “He who has the gold makes the rules.”

Nora lighted a cigarette.

A crewman handed Nora a cup of swill and told her to take it to 946, in a cage near to her own.  Nora tried the barred door. It was locked, but there was a pass through opening.  She held the cup through the opening.  There was a small  female, young, curled up in the corner.  946 did not move to get the food.  “Here's your food,” said Nora.  There was no response.  “Do you speak English?”

“Of course I do,” the girl replied. “I was born in Detroit.” 

“Don't you want some food?”

“No, it's haram,” said 946.

“Muslims are allowed to eat food prepared by Jews or Christians,” argued Nora.

“Not when it contains pork.”

“How did you get here?  Why?”

936 shifted to sit against the wall, her legs drawn up to conceal her sex.  “My parents sent me to Egypt to marry a cousin.  He and I were both arrested, and he was tortured for information.  So was I, except that I knew nothing to tell them.  They raped me in front of my husband, but it didn't move him to cooperate.  Instead he said 'I divorce you' three times and then said that, since I was no longer his wife, it made no difference how they abused me.  When my parents tried to get the American State Department to find me, the police sent us both here.  We disappeared.”  Nora shrugged and took the cup back to the mess area.  Some crew members came for 946 and took her away.

After the dinner hour, some of the prisoners were sent off to guests' cabins, where some would spend the night.  Carol and Bree were led away.  Most remained in the common room.  Most, it seemed, smoked, and cigarettes were provided.  Nora had one.  She wondered why they seemed so addictive, especially since nicotine had nearly killed her.  They watched channel 12, which would show the  goings on in the theater, so those not present, guests or prisoners, could see what the entertainment for tonight was.

Then crewmen brought in two platforms on casters, easy to move around.  Each had a telescoping post in the middle.  The Muslim woman, 946, and a man, 945, presumably her former husband, had their wrist cuffs clipped to the collar behind the neck, so their arms were raised and the elbows stuck out either side of the head.  A dildo was fitted to the top of each post, and the post was extended until it entered  his or her asshole,  fixing the prisoner to the platform, standing, fully exposed for torture.  Even if the prisoners stood on tiptoe, they could not get off the penetrating dildo.  The crewmen rolled their prisoners to center stage in the theater in the forward part of the ship.  The men pushed on pedals which kept the platforms from rolling if the ship should roll, but of course it didn't.

The passengers came in from the dining room, probably most of them, though some had other things to do.  Most of the guests had dressed for dinner.  Nora noted one elegant couple, he in a tuxedo and she in a spectacular dress of iridescent material, probably some sort of holographic effect.   Her floor length pleated skirt cascaded down from the waistband, full but filmy, showing her form whenever there was a light behind her and clinging between her thighs as she walked.  Above the waist, her back was bare, and the the silky fabric went up in two pleated strips from the waistband to the back of her neck, leaving bare skin from her chin to her waist.  Her breasts, while covered, more or less, swayed from side to side as she walked, and the pleated fabric over them shimmered as it followed their motion.  Nora thought she had never seen anything so sexy.  The man, somewhat older, reminded Nora of James Bond.

Most cruise ships have casinos and theaters, and guests who don't gamble can see acrobats, dancers, musicians, comedians, and lectures for their entertainment.  On the MS de Sade, the casino and the theater were there, but the entertainment was  unusual, for the cruise industry.  The cruise director, greeted the guests in English.   She wore her customary  black high heeled boots over tight, shiny, black tights.  A bright white, even fluorescent, long sleeved blouse contrasted with her very dark Nauru skin. “First, let me remind you once again that absolutely no photography or recording is allowed.  You can review the entertainment in your cabin in channel 12 any time you wish.”  She shifted her stance and gestured toward the platforms with their captive trainees.  “You note,” said the director, “that we have  new arrivals for your entertainment, and we will have a special exhibition after we deal with them.  The first, 945, is useless, we believe, because he tests HIV positive, and, when it comes painful fun and games, he's no fun.”  945, skewered on his pole, glared at the guests.  His body was covered with scabs and scars.  His penis was misshapen and a strange color, as was his scrotum, which resembled a baseball.  Clearly, he had been severely tortured.  “Please vote.  Is there any reason to keep him alive?”  She waited about thirty seconds while guests fingered their phones.  She evidently was waiting for the results of the vote to be communicated to her via an earpiece.  “The majority,” she announced, “vote no, as we expected.”

935 said nothing as they lifted him off his pole and  placed him in a small wire cage, bent over on his knees.  They opened a door in the ship's side and placed the cage, open end out, in the doorway.  The man was on his knees, his hands still behind his neck, looking out at the water.  The cruise director motioned to the man in the tuxedo, and he came forward.  “I expect 935 will commit suicide,” she said.  A crewman rolled out a small air compressor which sat atop a storage tank.  It was the sort one might keep to fill tires.  When it was plugged in, the compressor went pockety-pock as it pumped air into the tank.  From the tank led a hose, with a tapered nozzle, much like the enema hose which Nora had become so familiar with.  The man in the tuxedo took the nozzle and, between the wires of the cage, inserted it into 945's anus which was, after all, already loosened by the pole as he was transported to the theater.  “James Bond” pressed a lever on the hose, and air hissed into the victim's rectum.

“Allahu Akbar!” called the captive, as his belly bulged from the compressed air inside him.  Then only incoherent noises came from his mouth as his body inflated.

“I think his intestines are ruptured,” noted the cruise director.  Suddenly his stomach contents spewed from his mouth, followed by frothy filth.  “The pressure in his body cavity is pressing on his diaphram.  He can hardly breathe,” she added.  A noise like a fart came from the victim's throat.  His belly was distended as if he was pregnant.  “The pain is intense.”  Suddenly, 935 sprang from the cage and disappeared over the side into the sea.  James Bond stepped back and dropped the air hose.  “It will be recorded that 945 committed suicide by leaping overboard of his own accord.” she said, as the crewmen removed the cage and compressor and closed the door.

946, the former wife of 935, was next.  She was clearly humiliated, shamed, to be displayed in front of all these guests, her breasts thrust out and her asshole distended by the dildo impaling her.  As with so many Muslimas, her pubic hair had been removed,  The cruise director pointed to her bare labia and then spread them a bit more. “You will note the old scar tissue.”  She held a small TV camera close, so a hugely magnified view was shown  on a big screen behind her.  “One can see that all signs of her clitoris and its hood and most of her inner labia were surgically removed when she reached puberty, probably with a razor blade and no anesthetic.  In spite of being married and later raped repeatedly, it is likely that she has never had an orgasm.  Any suggestions from the guests?”  Again, there was a pause to count the votes.  “Well, you seem to want to keep her and to see if  she can't learn to have an orgasm.  And then, several of you suggest, she should be conditioned to come when she is whipped.”  There was an expression of terror on 646's face as the crewmen lifted her off the transport pole and placed her on a rather more elaborate platform which had a box at the base of the pole and a  banana shaped  device on the end.  They injected some jelly into her vagina. As they  raised the banana she gasped in horror, and all could see that the thing was stretching her inside with her labia widely parted.  The cruise director manipulated wireless controls, and the  banana began to rotate, off center, scrubbing the walls of her vagina and forcing her pelvis to follow the off center  rotation, so her hips went in circles, like some weird belly dance, and her cute breasts bobbed as she tried to keep her balance.  The cruise director personally attached little bells to the nipples, and they tinkled as 946 shuddered in frustration as she was reamed out worse, no doubt, than any rapist had done.  After a few minutes, when it was evident that it might take a while to get results,  attention was directed to four more young women who were rolled in on platforms with poles.   Three were dark skinned.  One stood out like a fluorescent light, Bree.

Crewmen brought out four chairs.  Each had a conical enema nozzle on the seat.  The four women were removed from their impaling poles and seated with the nozzle in their ass.  Four stands were rolled out, each with a large clear plastic cylinder.  They connected each hose from the nozzle to its cylinder and filled the cylinders with water colored blue for visibility.  “Each can get up off the chair and terminate the session whenever she wishes, but she who gets  up first will be punished.  She who can withstand the greatest amount of water will be rewarded.”  The valves were released and the water levels in the cylinders dropped slowly.  Each woman got a strange look on her face, as she tried to withstand the increasing pressure and pain.  Their bellies began to grow, almost like a pregnancy.  Bree was the first to break.  She got to her feet, spewing blue water like a fire hose.  The others held on, watching to see what would happen to the loser.

Bree was taken to a more elaborate platform, like the one that was tormenting 946, whose vagina must have been getting sore by then, since she showed no signs of sexual arousal.  Bree's pole had a triple intruder, one for the asshole, one knobby penis for the vagina, and a third to rub the clitoris.  After Bree was installed, her toes barely touching the platform,  her wrists shackled to her collar, the cruise director started the machine.  As the machine jiggled up and down, raping two holes and rubbing her clit violently, Bree screamed in pain and frustration and began praying aloud for Jesus to save her.

Attention was diverted for a while toward 946, who, failing to orgasm, deserved a whipping or, in this case, a caning.  After her ass and tits were a basketwork of overlapping red welts, they let her down from her machine.  Cane in hand, the cruise director went over to Bree and told her to shut up and come like woman should.  Bree, of course, did neither, exhorting Jesus to save her from sinful desires. The cruise director seemed to seeth with anger, and she applied the cane to Bree's bottom with real gusto.  Surprisingly, even as Bree screamed in pain, she shuddered with an orgasm, gushing juices, convulsing on her pole, even expelling some more blue fluid as her guts spasmed with the orgasm.   It was a first for Bree, the first time in her life that she had experienced that essence of womanhood.  The audience cheered.  Back in the common room, Nora exhaled in relief, glad to see that Bree had finally got over her hangup about chastity.  Bree was released.  The enema contest was resolved and the contestants emptied.  It was time for the last show of the evening. 

The cruise director made another announcement.  “As a finale, we have a special performance for you, one which probably can never be repeated.”  The cruise director  gestured to one of the guests, who rose and walked to center stage, accompanied by a gentleman guest.  She was tall and thin, barefoot and dressed in a colorful caftan.  She was smoking a cigarette, which she removed from her mouth and held when she was handed a microphone and made a little speech:  “I am 74 years old, and I have cancer.  I  have enjoyed my life, but there is no joy in facing weeks, perhaps months, of pain and suffering, only to die  with no dignity, perhaps insane, certainly a wasted, dependent creature unable to do anything for herself.”  She took a drag on her cigarette, evidently enjoying it.  “Medicare will not pay for assisted suicide,  though they will spend vast sums of taxpayers' money to keep me suffering a little longer, to the profit of the medical industry.  My disease has already bankrupted me.  I could not afford to travel to Holland or Switzerland to achieve a humane death.  This gentleman graciously offered me a way out.  He paid my passage as a guest on this ship, and in return for perhaps an hour of pain and suffering at his hands, I will avoid weeks of pain and suffering at the hands of unfeeling doctors.  It's a win-win situation.  He gets to do something he has dreamed about for years.  I get to die at a time of my choosing.  You, the audience, get to watch.”

With that, she pulled her covering up over head, revealing her naked body.  Her wig also came off.  Her head was bald and her body hairless, perhaps the result of unsuccessful chemotherapy.  Her outer labia were thin and shapeless, while her inner lips hung down, ragged.  Her breasts hung down like saddle bags, with nipples an inch long, adorned with silver bar bells.  There was a rose tattoo on her left breast. Was she, perhaps, a 74 year old hippie?   They rolled out another  platform with the  upright telescoping post topped with a mechanical phallus.  The woman stepped up on the platform, smiling, and the man, her benefactor, elevated the phallus and guided it into her.  It was big and fat, but it was lubricated and she took it all without complaint.  They left her hands free, so she could continue smoking.  She had said she wanted to die smoking.

The man went over to a rolling table, a serving cart used by waiters.  From it he took a long needle, long as a pencil and about half the diameter.  On the end was a tire valve.   With a flourish, he held the needle beside her left breast, close to her arm.  The dildo within her seemed to inflate and increase its motion, as if to tear her cunt open.  After watching the effect on her stretched labia,  he slowly pushed the big needle  into her breast, inches, until the tip must have been close to the center of the glands.  She made no effort to stop him, although her arms were free.  She inhaled more smoke.  He took a can of instant flat fixer, a can of rubbery stuff and hydrocarbon propellant gasses intended to inflate a flat tire.  Applying the can to the tire valve on the needle, he rapidly inflated her breast.  It must have been incredibly painful, tearing apart the tissues within, but the woman only gasped, not crying out.  Her flabby breast inflated  like a balloon, until it resembled a basketball attached to her chest.  It seemed as if a bit of black goop oozed from the erect nipple.  She took another drag on her cigarette and looked down at the monstrosity that had been her breast.  He withdrew the needle and repeated the procedure on her right breast, until she looked like a cartoon, with enormous round tits.  Someone in the audience clapped and said that, when she went over the side, she would float.  The mechanical penis gave her an incredible ride, almost folding her labia  into her as it increased in size and ferocity of stroking.

That was the preliminary show.  The man approached her and stood as close in front of her  as her inflated boobs would allow.  Their eyes met as he put his hands around her neck, the thumbs over her windpipe.   She dropped her cigarette.  Manual strangulation has an advantage over using a ligature, apart from the intimacy of it, of course.  A noose or cord will compress the carotid arteries in the neck, thus reducing the blood flow to the brain.  The victim may lose consciousness promptly and thus not feel the terrors of asphyxia.  The man applied pressure to the windpipe, cutting off the air flow.  The humongous boobs heaved as she vainly tried to inhale.  Her mouth gaped.  Her tongue lolled.  Her eyes stared, but then closed, as she lost consciousness.  However, when the pressure was released, the boobs heaved and she inhaled again, the color returning to her skin.  This was truly torture, like water boarding, where the victim feels death is imminent, but it isn't.  Half a dozen times, the woman was strangled nearly to death, all without crying out, except for the rasping sounds of her gasping for air.  The audience was getting restless, and her ravaged cunt seemed to have torn and was bleeding. Finally, the man  maintained the pressure on her windpipe for fully two minutes. When he released her neck, her limp body, impaled on the phallus, did not recover. Two crewmen attached weighted chains to the body and opened the door to the outside. It took only seconds to lift the mutilated body off the bloody phallus and slip her over the side of the ship.

There was a slight disturbance in the theater audience.  A woman was caught using a tiny TV camera disguised as a cigarette lighter.  All the passengers and their luggage were inspected before embarkation on the fast boats, but this woman had concealed the camera in her vagina.  Swiftly, she was hustled out of sight.

The cruise director called the evening's festivities to a close and reminded the audience that replays of the performances would be on channel 12.

Part 5, Bree gets older; Nora gets younger

Bree was particularly annoyed with her mother, whom she blamed for her being so frequently raped but, worse in Bree's viewpoint, for having put her in a place where her innocence, her ignorance of lust, was so utterly violated.  Having experienced a glorious orgasm, she felt she was destined to go to hell.  Jesus had not answered her prayers for the strength to resist lust.

946, the Muslima, finally agreed to eat, when they assured her it was milk and oatmeal, with no pork.  Unlike Bree, 946 had not had an orgasm when mechanically raped and beaten.  How would that play out in the future?  If she was useless, she would be marked for death.

During the night, Nora heard  a helicopter land.  That was the usual means of arrival for prisoners.

In the morning, the new prisoners emerged from their cages.  Nora saw an elderly woman, 947, close to retirement age, anyway, and said, “Professor Adler?”

The woman looked at Nora and said, “You are...?”

“Nora Twitchel.  We have never actually met, but I recognize you from your web site, Pro-Life for Peace.  I mention it to my students.  I heartily agree: it's hypocritical for a politician to promise to pass laws to save the life of every fertilized egg and then vote for dropping bombs on women and children abroad, as if the only lives that count are those of potential voters.”

The older woman looked at Nora  with a look of disgust.  “I suppose you are a confessed terrorist?  And you fingered me to Homeland Security?”

“I didn't give them your name,” protested Nora.  “I didn't give up any names, just signed blank papers.”

“They told me a confessed terrorist had named me, and through me they got to my campus coordinators.”  She gestured at three college age prisoners, one of which had a bald pubic region.

Nora looked at Prof. Adler's  ample curly bush of gray pubic hairs.  “Well, they didn't have to torture you to make you give them up, did they?”

Prof. Adler turned away.  The prettiest of the three, 948, approached Nora and said, softly, “I’m Sarah.  Do you know what we went through?”

Nora looked down at Sarah's naked pubes. “I can guess. They burned off your pubic hair with microwaves.  Why not Prof. Adler?”

“They brought us in together and questioned me first. Prof. Adler and Alice and Margo saw what they did to me and agreed to cooperate, named more names and signed confessions.  Homeland Security has all her computer records, all her e-mails and cell phone calls.”

The morning auction was a bit unusual.  Alice and Margo didn't get the word about  pre-cleaning the colon, and during the enema phase they spewed shit all over the plastic curtain, which resulted in an impromptu punishment enema session,  repeatedly filling them until they looked pregnant and nearly lost their minds screaming in pain.  Then the three young new arrivals and Bree were displayed on the platforms with the telescopic poles, each held with a dildo up the butt and her wrist cuffs clipped to her collar, which tends to make the breasts lift a bit.  The cruise director said, “Bidders have complained in the past that  they have bought sexually unresponsive females.  There is no fun, they say, in fucking dead meat.  So, we are going to demonstrate the responsiveness of these new prisoners, and bidders can be better informed.”  Enema hoses were attached to the poles so that the water stream was directed at the vulva, powerful enough to part the lips and  penetrate the vagina as well as spraying across the clitoris.  The four hoses were started simultaneously.  Margo, 950, the least attractive of the college students, came in a matter of seconds.  Nora speculated that  Margo probably spent a  lot of “date nights” in her bathtub for lack of a man.  948, Sarah, squirmed on her pole and grimaced as the water raped her cunt.  It took her about two minutes to cum.  Alice, a flashy blonde, held out for six or seven minutes.  It wasn't certain when she came, but they decided she must have, as her ass tightened, her chest blushed, her nips jumped out, and her breathing was heavy.  After ten minutes, Bree was still talking to Jesus.  The cruise director personally caned Bree's ass and tits and underarms until she came, they supposed, but maybe she didn't.  The auction went on from there, with Bree exempted, saved for further treatment.  Nora was also exempted, sent to work in the dining room, cleaning up.

The ship was now north of Ensenada, Mexico, and another helicopter arrived shortly after the morning auction.  This was not a black Homeland Security helicopter.  It was a brightly painted commercial rental, and instead of sedated prisoners it brought seven  Hollywood types, which Nora could observe when they stopped for a late breakfast.  One, referred to by the staff as The Boss, behaved as if he owned the ship.  Perhaps he did, part of it at least.  He was accompanied by a young woman whose functions in life appeared to be looking beautiful and spending money.  It appeared, from her rings, that they were married.  One, a man of perhaps forty, looked familiar to Nora, a “leading man” actor, a heart throb, but she couldn't remember his name.  A woman, dressed in an expensive black pants suit with two strands of pearls, was about Carol's age and wore a mask, always.  Another man, greying at the temples, seemed to accompany her. Then there was a man called The Doctor, and his pretty assistant in a nurse's outfit.

An announcement was made, texting to all the passenger's phones, that the afternoon auction would be abbreviated, and a special presentation of cosmetic surgery and mind and body modification would be given in the theater.  Nora and Bree were taken to the theater.  The mutilated Muslima, 946, was also there.  They also brought in Sarah and Alice and Margo and Prof. Adler.  The prisoners were allowed to sit in the front row, not impaled on the moveable platforms. Nora was thankful she could enjoy a cigarette.  Prof. Adler seemed to be a smoker, too. The theater was at least half full of  passengers.

“Let me introduce myself,” said the Doctor, dressed in a lab coat as if selling some new pharmaceutical on TV.  “I am a successful cosmetic surgeon, well known among the stars, and you can easily find me if you can afford my services.  Today I am working for nothing, as my procedures are experimental and probably illegal in the USA.  Here, however, I am immune from prosecution or law suits, so I will be able to demonstrate some new techniques.”

As he spoke, his nurse was arranging 946 on a portable operating table.  The girl was only minimally restrained, so she could not fall off it she thrashed about.   Her legs were straight but separated, supported by extensions from the sides of the table.  The Doctor held up a sort of wand, a clear plastic tube fitted with LED lights and a TV camera, the images from which were displayed on a huge flat screen.  He pointed the wand at the girl's crotch as the nurse parted the lips and sprayed on some antiseptic.  “You will note the genital mutilation, pretty standard among African Muslims.  The labia minor are mostly removed. The clitoris and its hood have been excised.”  He touched the opening of her vagina, and she didn't flinch.  “The area is essentially numb, and I am told that all efforts to induce an orgasm by mechanical stimulation have failed.  Through the wisdom of the orient, acupuncture, and the technology of modern electronics, I believe we can restore to this unfortunate woman the joys of multiple orgasms.  The orgasm does not actually occur in the vagina.  It occurs in the spinal cord.  We know that, because even comatose women can have orgasms.  That nervous activity is then reflected in the familiar paroxysms in the pelvis and, of course, the sense of pleasure in the brain.  The pudendal nerve bundle, which exits from the sacrum, what you might think of as the tail bone, innervates the various organs of the pelvis, the same organs which respond to orgasms.  One branch, the perineal nerve, innervates the penis and scrotum in men and the labia et cetera in women.  It then extends down the inner thigh and ultimately goes to the foot.  It can be accessed through a well known accupuncture point, C9, here in the ankle.  We could use the traditional needle, but a conductive pad is easier.”  He taped two conductive gel pads to her ankles, with wires to a little black box.  “I can direct a current to the perineal nerve, varying the strength and waveform as needed.  There should be a resonance somewhere between 10 and 50 Hertz.  We can observe the effect visually, so.”  He gently inserted the wand into 946's vagina, and the screen showed the pink interior and, with a bit of adjustment, the cervix, like a pink gumdrop with a dimple in it.

The nurse stood by the subject's head, holding her hand to comfort her, if need be.  The Doctor  adjusted the controls on the black box, and for a minute or two nothing seemed to happen.  Then the audience began to murmur, as the vaginal mucosa gleamed with secretions and began to change color.  The wand kept moving, as the vaginal walls seemed to expand and the cervix pulled back.  946 lay still, gritting her teeth, trying not to vocalize.  Then, suddenly, she started to writhe on the table, and she screamed, “Allahu Akbar!”, God is great.  The vaginal walls squeezed the wand, and the patient gave a long sigh and relaxed.  The audience clapped in appreciation.   The Doctor shut off the black box and said, “This woman has just experienced the first orgasm of her life, or at least the first since her genital mutilation.  We'll give her a chance to relax and then, later, we can experiment to optimize the treatment.  With modern science, any woman can have her orgasms.”

A hand went up in the audience.  “Even a post-menopausal woman?”  Several passengers were busy texting, wanting to buy such a black box.

“Yes.  Any woman.  If  she has a spinal injury, she might not feel it, might not be aware in her mind, but the pudendal nerve bundle will do its job if properly stimulated.  This prisoner looks to be post menopausal.  Shall we try her?”.  947, Professor Adler, was strapped down on another table, legs spread, hands above her head, and the nurse brought The Doctor another black box , wires, and pads.  There was only one TV wand, so the nurse  removed it from 946, disinfected it,  and gave it to The Doctor who used it first of all to display the prof's cunt.  “You see, all the parts are here, a bit dry and aged, but ready to be stimulated.”  He left it inside her.  “As I said, the perineal nerve innervates the labia, so we can use a more direct approach.  Her pubic hair will make it messy to use the gel pads, but” -– the nurse handed him two needless on the end of wires --- “needles should work fine.”  He thrust one needle into each of the outer labia, close by the clitoris.  “That didn't hurt much, did it?”  Prof. Adler didn't reply.

In five minutes the professor was writhing on the table, moaning, gasping, yelling “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”  The audience clapped again.  As she calmed down, she said, “That's the best I've had in years.  It beats the best vibrator in the world.”

The cruise director approached the Doctor.  “Would you mind if we deviate a bit from the plan?  We only have so many operating tables, and we had other things in mind for this prisoner.  The uh, microwave depilator.”

The Doctor smiled and nodded to his nurse, who brought in a device identical to the one that Homeland Security used to torture Nora.  He plugged in the power cord.  “I developed this device for the government, but civilians can buy them.  They cost about as much as a top of the line Mercedes car.”  He went into a short explanation about higher frequency microwaves and how they could only penetrate the skin enough to stimulate the nerves and kill the hair follicles.

The cruise director motioned to Sarah, who came forward.  The Doctor looked at Sarah’s pink hairless pubes and said, “And this young woman is familiar with the operation of this device?”  He handed it to Sarah.  Sarah took the waveguide wand and looked at Prof. Adler, who realized suddenly that her former campus coordinator resented being the only one to suffer the Homeland Security interrogation.  Sarah touched the wand to Prof. Adler’s mons.  The scream was incredibly loud.  Even in the back of the theater passengers covered their ears as their mouths dropped in disbelief.  Sarah was slow and thorough, slowly broiling the pubic triangle.  The Doctor mouthed the words “trache tube” to his nurse, who slipped a tube down the prof’s throat, effectively bypassing the voice box and reducing the screams to the hissing of air as the victim’s chest heaved and she struggled in her restraints.  Sarah depilated the labia and even used the wand to part them, so the clitoris, most well endowed with nerve endings of any part of the body, was broiled by microwaves.  The audience was entranced, and many were texting, wanting to get their hands on the device.  Sarah seemed to enjoy her work, for when all the pubic  hair was gone, she worked on the armpits.  Her victim suddenly went limp and stopped breathing.  The Doctor started manual chest compressions, and Professor Adler started breathing again.  Sarah was about to apply the wand to Prof. Adler's breasts when The Doctor took the wand from her.  The nurse removed the breathing tube from the trachea and wheeled her patient backstage.

“Well, to resume the planned program,” The Doctor said, “Let’s give 946 another orgasm, and then we’ll see if we can’t fix it so she can have many.”  With the black box turned on, the Muslima performed as expected.  They turned her over onto her tummy and strapped her down firmly.  “The Doctor took another needle and wire and inserted it into her perineum, just forward of the anus.  “As you would expect, the perineal nerve runs through the perineum, so, with her labia so damaged, let’s try stimulating here.”  The results were very satisfactory, with the mutilated girl screaming as her vaginal juices splashed on the table.  Then The Doctor replaced the black box with a  flexible device about the size and shape of a stick of chewing gum.  He bent it back and forth slowly.  There was only a slight twitch from the girl.  Then he placed the device on soft pad on the table and struck it with a cane.  946 jerked and gasped. He struck it repetitively, and after perhaps two dozen blows, 946 had another orgasm, screaming her approbation. “Well, our experiment seems successful, so far.  Time is limited, so I will perform the rest offstage.  The ‘stick of gum’ is a piezo-electric generator.  Piezo-electric crystals will produce a voltage when they are deformed, bent. Piezo is Greek for pressure. I will implant the P-E device in her right buttock, with a wire under the skin implanted in her perineum.  She will be able to sit and do ordinary activities, like walking, unaware of the implant.  However, if it is subjected to violent bending, real pressure, as from a fall on her bottom or a blow from a cane, the device will generate a current which will stimulate the perineal nerve.  As you have seen, a single jolt won’t have much effect, but a sound thrashing, including her right buttock, should produce endless orgasms for as long as the paddle is applied.  Of course, if  the object is pain without pleasure, simply apply the cane elsewhere, on the left buttock, perhaps.”  The Doctor removed the needle, and the nurse released 946, helping her, for her legs were wobbly, backstage.  Already, a passenger was texting a request to have Bree similarly fixed.

Nora was a bit surprised to find that she was the next act.  They strapped her down on her back on the same table that 946 had vacated   Her legs were strapped down far apart and her arms stretched over her head.  A belt around her waist pressed her against the table, pelvis upturned, even as it prevented her moving her chest, except to breathe.  “Here we have another post-menopausal woman.  She has been on a regimen of estrogen replacement therapy for the last few days, so she has no particular problem with achieving orgasm, and passengers report he vagina is well lubricated.  She is, however, well worn, showing her age, and a bit of restoration is in order, I think.  Breasts are the obvious candidates for fixing, but we may find other opportunities to tune her up.”  He pulled on a nipple, showing how flabby her sagging breasts had become.  “When it comes to breast augmentation, there are various methods and schools of thought.  The generally preferred and fashionable method is to surgically insert  a silicone bladder, a sort of balloon, behind the pectoral muscle of the chest, sometimes avoiding an obvious scar by making an incision in the navel or under the arm, which, of course, requires moving the implant under the skin and then under the muscle, a most expensive procedure.  With the implant in place, it is then filled with liquid silicone or, these days, saline solution, as the FDA is worried that the silicone could leak out.  This may take several repetitions to fill the implant, which slowly stretches the muscle and moves the chest wall outward.  People say that this results in the most natural looking breast.  Tell me, if you are going to pay all that much to make your breasts look fabulous, why would you want people to think they are natural?  The method described doesn’t make the breasts bigger; it simply pushes them out to a more prominent position.  No, if there is going to be an implant, it should be between the breast and the chest wall and shaped to enlarge and improve the breast.”  He hauled Nora’s sagging breast aloft again.  These should be much larger, round and upstanding, incredibly perfect, don’t you think?”  There was a murmur of assent from the audience.  “Silicone implant?  No. That is still an involved procedure which will then require weeks of recuperation, of healing.  We don’t have time, here on stage.”  The nurse was wheeling out a cart full of all sorts of things. “We could simply inject silicone fluid into the breast, without the balloon implant, but that is illegal in the USA, for the very good reason that the silicone may migrate through the circulatory system and cause all sorts of trouble, including possibly strokes and heart attacks.  One can use silicone which is less liquid.  It tends to harden with time, and connective tissue encapsulates it, which results in breasts which are hard and lumpy.  They are impressive to look at, but hardly fun to squeeze, and they do not change shape when she lies on her back.  Some like that, but I don’t.  Now, in some respects, this job is simple.  The woman will never be pregnant or breast feed, and her milk glands have probably atrophied, so we don’t have to worry about damaging her glands or clogging her ducts.  Since her breasts will be for ornament or for fondling, not functional mammary glands, we can fix them on the cheap.”

“First the nipples.  Big ones, don’t you think?  Actually easier that way, as we can use them as handles later on.”  He applied nipple suckers to Nora’s nips to draw them erect, and then he injected them, starting at the base and continuing toward the tip until they remained erect, even without suction.  “I’m using a mixture of hyaluronic acid and collagen, a mixture often used to make pouty lips or to lift wrinkles.  It’s probably painful, but she seems to be stoical and is saving us having to gag her.  While I’m at it, I can use it to tune up her sex organs.  Here, I’m injecting behind her clitoris.  That will elevate it, make it protrude a bit between her labia.”  He inserted a speculum and opened out her vagina.  With the lighted camera wand, he pointed out the anatomical points to the audience.  “Now, for those of you who wonder if the G-spot is real, here’s a view of hers.  See, the different texture.  Now, if I inject, so...  Hold still, woman, it only hurts for a second.  There, it is now elevated also, the more easily to be stimulated by a penis.  Now, back to the breasts.”  

He tried on different sized plastic hemispheres, like rigid bra cups, to find a size which would contain Nora’s floppy breasts with room to spare.  Having selected plastic domes, he tied a string around each nipple.  Each dome had a hole in the top about the size of Nora’s areola.  The Doctor passed the string through the hole and pulled, so the dome was tight against the chest and the nipple protruded through the hole.  He used a little wire cage to keep tension on the string with the nipple centered in the hole.  He displayed a container of viscous pink fluid.  “This is a hydrogel.  It’s about 95 per cent water.  The pink comes from some of her own blood and stem cells which, with some hormones and protein activators, will encourage her breast tissues to incorporate the gel, sending in blood vessels and connective tissue.  Her immune system will recognize her blood and will not reject the gel as a foreign substance.”  He filled a large syringe with the pink fluid and began to inject it, pushing the needle deep into her breast through the exposed areola.  As he continued, injecting all around the areola, the breast slowly filled, expanding to fill the plastic dome.  Nora breathed through clenched teeth, trying not to scream as the fluid tore the tissues of her tits.  In time, the formerly flabby breast was expanded into the plastic mold, a beautiful mold with the areola bulging outward and the nipple erect, like a joint of her little finger.  “This woman has been very brave, but the pain should subside, as I put a bit of anesthetic in the mix.  The result, as you can see, is a perfectly shaped breast, just like the Venus de Milo.”  He repeated the process on the other breast, so it matched the first, standing tall like the Capitol dome.  “The breast at this point is very soft and pliable, so the mold will have to remain in place for two or three days.  The hydrogel will set up like Jello, so they will retain their new form.”  The nurse taped the domes in place, having Nora sit up, so the nurse could continue fastening the domes in place, wrapping the tape around Nora’s body like bra straps.  “It would be best to avoid showering until it is time to remove the molds.”  Nora was allowed to return to her seat, where her mind was focused on her new bosom but distracted by the dull ache behind her G-spot and the novelty of having a visible clitoris, which tingled when she pressed her thighs together.  A cigarette helped to her to cope.

When Nora looked up, she saw that Bree was strapped to the table.  “This young woman may look as if she is twelve or thirteen, but she is in actuality nineteen years old.  She suffers from a sort of arrested puberty which I call the fashion model syndrome, the result, probably, of chronic malnutrition.  She had infrequent menstrual periods, and she  suffers from weak libido, little interest in sex and an inability to reach an orgasm with coitus.  Men have described sex with her as like fucking a corpse.  We’ll work on that.  Then of course, there is the obvious problem of tiny tits.  We’ll fix those first.”  He felt her breasts.  “She has the normal milk glands and duct work.  If she had a child, she could probably breast feed it.  What she lacks is the fat which gives a breast its shape.  In another woman, I could take fat from the belly or hips, where she would just as soon have less, and use that fat to expand the breasts.  That is the safest and most natural way to resculpt the breasts.  However, as you can see, this patient has no spare fat to transplant.  If her mother had brought her to me in my office in Beverly Hills, I would suggest hormones and a change of diet, to fatten her up a bit, and nature would probably produce a pretty pair, but, the cruise director tells me we don’t have time for that option.  They must be fixed today.”  He took a syringe and injected a blob into a bowl of water.  “This is a special polymer mix that I am experimenting with.  It is liquid when first mixed and kept warm.  It reacts with the water, or body fluids, and cools to body temperature.  Like cooling chocolate, it stiffens up.”  He took the blob from the water and threw it at the floor.  It bounced.  The nurse had cleaned Bree’s boobs and wiped them with antiseptic.  The Doctor applied the needle at the lower edge of Bree’s breast, which lay on her chest like half of an English muffin.  He injected some, under the glands, which made Bree’s breast swell up to an conical shape, not large, but attractive.  Bree tossed her head and moaned through clenched teeth, but The Doctor ignored her pain while he quickly injected the other breast.  Bree relaxed and looked down at her new tits.  They weren’t big, but she no longer looked like a child.  “From time to time,” The Doctor said, “additional material could be added, until they are as big as desired.?

“Real melons?” asked the cruise director.

“With care and patience, she could have gallon size jugs, though I think that would be ugly on so such a small frame as hers.  Now, it’s time to get to the bottom of things.” He chuckled at his own joke.  “I propose to wire her up for remote controlled orgasms.”  He placed his hand at the top of her cleft.  “The mons veneris is this fatty pad over the pubic bone.” He held up a disk about the diameter of a beer can and placed it over her mons. “This should fit. This is a radio antenna tuned to 2.4 gigaHertz, the frequency of microwave ovens and certain radio-controlled devices. The FCC does not regulate this frequency; no license is needed.” He took heated scalpel and made an incision horizontally just above Bree's pudendal cleft, a over the roots of her clitoris. The hot blade coagulated the blood.  Another hot tool slid under the skin of the mons and made a pocket in the fat. Bree was screeching through her teeth, but she did not lose control. The disk was inserted into the mons and two little barbed extensions were pressed down into the base of the clitoris.  With a few stitches and some “superglue”, the installation was complete.  “It will take a few days for the incision to heal and the stitches to be absorbed. The scar will be hardly noticeable, invisible if she still had pubic hair.  Now, let's test it.” The nurse handed him a box with the power cord plugged in. Atop the box was what looked like a flood lamp with a metalized reflector. “That is, actually, the transmitter antenna, not a light bulb. The insides of the box are mostly from a cheap microwave oven.”  He stood back about ten feet, pointed the “lamp” at Bree, and pushed a button.

Bree called out, “No! Jesus, stop it. No, I don't want to cum.” Then her pelvis jerked upward and she flushed and said, “Yes, yes, yes!” The Doctor, sadistically, held the button down, and Bree had rapid fire orgasms, just seconds apart, until The Doctor allowed the exhausted woman to rest.  The audience applauded.

A hand went up in the audience: “If I have sex with her, missionary style, won't the microwaves roast my balls?”

“An obvious question,” replied The Doctor. “From ten feet away, you would not feel the microwave radiation.  Closer, you might, but no harm would be done, except if it were right up against your scrotum, your sperm count might suffer.  However, if you insist on conventional sex, I plan to install the piezo-electric power source in her buttocks, as well, and some vigorous pelvic thrusts will probably make the P-E devices generate enough juice to make her come.  I'll install the P-Es tonight in the ship's hospital, when I do the other girl.”

The cruise director got Margo out of her seat and stood her in front of The Doctor. “In your professional opinion, what would make her more attractive to our passengers?”

“Well, it's a matter of taste, but many men might like her to lose weight.  She would be a good candidate for liposuction, with the fat removed being injected into her breasts.  That's a hospital type of procedure.  If you are thinking of making her more miserable, there are any number of things to do.  She seems to enjoy sex. You could fit her with a chastity belt, or numb her genitals, so she can't feel it when she is fucked.  A tight corset  would torment her some and maximize weight loss, since her stomach would be compressed.”

“And this one?” asked the cruise director, indicating Alice.

“What's to change?  Maybe some breast modification, but they look fine to me.  She is a bit slow in her sexual responses, but there are several things we can do about that.  The problem is, they mostly take a long time to heal.  A piercing of the clitoral hood might take weeks to heal.”

    

The Doctor and his nurse cleared his things from the stage, the audience dispersed, and Bree was escorted to the hospital.  Nora and Prof. Adler each started a new cigarette.

       

Just then, The Boss spoke up. 

Part 6, The Boss and his bitches

“Now hear this,” said The Boss.  “As of now, I want all male passengers, crew, and prisoners, to refrain from sex until further notice.  After dinner, I want every male in the theater.  Since there will be no sex for a while, I'm giving all female prisoners the rest of the day off. The males will report to the theater when the signal sounds.  As you enter the theater you will be given a random number.”

Bree and the Muslima were in the hospital, but Prof. Adler showed up in the common room, apparently ready to ignore, maybe even forgive, Sarah. The prof., the three college girls, Carol, and Nora smoked and watched the video recordings.  Like the Tommies in the trenches, it seemed nearly all the prisoners smoked.  Nora watched her G-spot being improved upon, something she could never see without the camera wand.  She saw her breasts being inflated and, seeing them as others would see them, decided she liked them.  They were worth the pain, and they were now only a dull ache.  She tentatively fingered her clit, which now stood out like a tiny penis, no longer entirely hidden behind the labia.  There would be no rapes or tortures tonight.  Nora took a deep drag and decided life wasn't so bad.

The viewers watched reruns like the transformation of Bree.  Her breasts were still less than a cupful, but they stood out as if they were trying to be breasts, and the effect was kind of cute, little pointy tits.  The installation of the microwave receiver was awe inspiring, and the change in Bree's response, from no-no to yes-yes encouraged Nora to think Bree would be alright.  Even Prof. Adler got in the spirit of things, wondering out loud whether The Doctor might rejuvenate her.  “I envy you, Nora, with your beautiful breasts, classic, like Venus.  Do you suppose I could get wired for easy orgasms?”

The women prisoners watched from the common room, as the theater was crammed full of men, and some of the women passengers.  The Boss took the stage.  “As you know, I carry a lot of weight around here, so bear with me as I direct the entertainment. As you probably know, I brought with me two women.  They are not prisoners, have no numbers, so I will introduce them by their names.  This beautiful young lady, dressed in a halter top, short shorts, and high heels, is my darling wife, Angie.  The other lady, in the black pants suit, high heels, and mask is an associate who is in disguise so as to maintain her anonymity. The gentleman with her is her manager. She is a masochist, and you may call her Shit. Angie, here, is not very bright. She thinks she can fuck my friends and her personal trainer and the parking attendant and the pizza delivery guy and then talk to a divorce lawyer in a community property state without my finding out.  Her friends think she is in Mexico, and soon a ransom note will be delivered from the drug lords.  Of course, they will never return her alive.”  A look of terror was on Angie's face, and she looked right and left as if looking to escape, but of course she couldn't.  The Boss fixed his gaze on her and said, “Angie, take off your clothes and show the people your beautiful body.”  Their eyes were locked for several seconds, but then Angie kicked off her heels and loosened her halter top. Naked, she was truly impressive with the best boobs money could buy.  Her pubic hair was trimmed to a neat triangle no larger than the panel of her thong, which came off with the shorts.  Having obeyed her husband, she looked expectantly at him while flaunting her body for the appreciative audience.  The Boss nodded to four crewmen, and in seconds she was in the strappado position, legs spread with a leg spreader bar, bent over with her arms raised behind her.  Nora had been in that position; she knew it was uncomfortable.

As Angie's breasts were hanging down, The Boss slipped a stainless steel aircraft type hose clamp around the base of her right breast and began to tighten it with a screwdriver. “Stop!” she cried, “you will ruin by beautiful breasts.”

“I paid for them,” he said. “They are my breasts, and I'll do what I want with them.”  He tightened the clamp, the circumference of the metal circle decreasing two millimeters with every turn of the worm screw.

“You goddam fucking bastard cheapskate son of a bitch sadist!” she screamed.  The Boss paused in his tit torture and fitted her with a brank, a medieval device which consisted of an iron cage around her head with adjustable metal pieces to hold her jaws apart and her tongue depressed.  She could no longer talk.  Then The Boss used a second clamp to squeeze the base of the second breast.  They were transformed from missile nose cones to soft balls in a sock, and they slowly turned purple.

“Every male on this ship will be required to fuck this slut who tried to fuck half the men in Los Angeles.  The captain of the ship was given number one, but he says he is busy on the bridge and will have to turn up later.  So who has number two?” That turned out to be a male deckhand who flipped up his lava lava and put his already stiff dick against Angie's dry cunt.  She screeched, but with some effort he got in and pumped her until he came, leaving her nice and slippery with his semen.  Shit was ordered to lick his dick clean, which she did, submissively. Number three was Shit's manager who needed a little help from Shit to reach a full erection.  He did his duty, and shit cleaned his tool with her lips. The parade went on, with Shit kept busy stiffening dicks and then slurping the cum off them. About one in four of the rapists chose to fuck Angie's ass, which made Shit's job shittier.  Most of the women prisoners watched, fascinated, but after the first dozen men, Nora went back to her bunk. 

She wasn't allowed to smoke in bed, but she was addicted by now, so she used smokeless tobacco, chewing tobacco.  She had discovered that, if she couldn't smoke, she could manage with a bit of smokeless tobacco in her vagina. She had to lie on her back, of course, with her tits enclosed in a rigid bra. She was getting used to the ache of her tits, but her exposed clitoris bothered her. She crossed her legs and tightened the muscles inside her thighs.  After a bit of a learning curve, she brought herself to a pretty good climax.  She did it again.  After a period to recover, she got up and went back to the common room and the spectacle of Angie's punishment. Angie's spread legs gleamed, and there was a pool of semen on the floor between them.  Her asshole was visibly dilated and dribbling cum.  Shit was half naked, without her shoes, her jacket, her blouse, and her pants.  Her bra was around her waist, leaving her breasts exposed, and the elastic of her panties was broken, so she had to hold them up with one hand to avoid their falling off as she fellated one man after another, before and after his fucking Angie.  Shit could not contain so much semen; she had puked on the floor.  Nora closed her eyes and tried not to watch.

Somewhat later, Angie's legs gave out, and her weight, twisting her arms upward, nearly dislocated her shoulder joints.  They released her hands, and they strapped her face down across a short bench, squashing her bulbous boobs against the bench.  With her legs spread by the spreader bar, her cunt and asshole were well displayed, and the serial fucking recommenced. By now, Shit was totally naked, but for the mask, but she worked hard cocksucking, seemingly enjoying her degradation. Nora took a walk up and down the corridor smoking and then spent some more time on her back on her bunk, repeating the clit squeezing exercise with her crossed legs.

At midnight, the screen went dark, and the female prisoners had to return to their cages.  Fewer than one hundred men had filled Angie's cunt or ass, but the effort continued.  In the morning, while Nora couldn't shower, when she did her enema she spent extra time cleansing her cunt, since, after several masturbatory efforts during the night, she had developed a smell, and she thought it inadvisable to leave a chew of tobacco inside her.

In the morning, after breakfast, the audience returned to the theater.  Angie was on her back with her knees up by her shoulders, so her upturned pelvis was maximally accessible.  Her labia were red and swollen, and in that position, when fucked full, the semen could slither down her ass crack to the floor.  She no longer wore the brank.  There was a bandage on her neck, and The Boss explained that  he had had her recurrent laryngeal nerve cut, paralyzing the vocal chords. She could no longer scream, only grunt.  Her breasts looked even worse than the day before.  Perhaps he had tightened the clamps some more.  The women watched intently as Angie was raped over and over, taking an almost professional interest in her ordeal.

“Professor Adler,” said Nora, “does it seem strange to you how so many people can watch this, as if it was a cricket match?  I estimate there are five or six hundred men on this ship, maybe more, and at the rate they are going, it will be two or even three days before every one has fucked her.  Can she last that long?”

“They say what women have doesn't wear out.”

Before the break for a noon meal, they hosed off Angie's pubic region. Her pubic hair was encrusted with dried semen, so, after it was washed, The Boss ordered up the microwave depilator.  Nora couldn't watch and fled to her bunk, but most of the women were entranced. Nora was told that they didn't simply remove Angie's pubic hair.  They removed all her body hair, including scalp and eyebrows, and then broiled her bloated breasts, until she went into shock from the pain. And, after dinner, the non-stop fucking resumed.

Professor Adler observed: “I would never have said this in class, but it seems that for thousands of years a human band or clan or tribe would make war with another group, and the winners would kill the men and enslave the women and children. And, like Patty Hearst when she was kidnapped, the captured women would go over to the enemy side and become part of their clan or tribe.  Women seem to have that capacity, a sort of survival of the fittest thing. When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.  Like the women watching in the Roman Colosseum, most of the women watching here are enjoying the spectacle, silently cheering on the men, with no empathy for Angie.  They have gone over to the enemy.”  Nora agreed it seemed they had, but she had not yet embraced the culture of the MS de Sade.

For three days the non-stop fucking went on until, late at night, almost every man had stuck his organ into Angie.  The heart throb actor wasn't very successful, even with Shit's help, and Nora supposed he was Gay and just couldn't come in a woman. It was said that the captain never did show up.  Some of the women passengers objected to their husbands fucking Angie, but those objections were overcome. It was time for the last desecration of Angie's beautiful body.

The boss inserted a vaginal speculum and opened Angie's worn out cunt wide.  The lighted camera wand showed her cervix.  The Boss had a stiff metal rod, about a foot long, which, a couple of inches from the end, was bent at an angle.  Next were a number of S-bends, like a snake, while the other end was straight.  As everyone watched on TV, he forced the angled end into Angie's cervix, which blushed red at the insult.  She grunted in pain, but that, pain, was the object of the exercise.  When the rod was inserted deep into her uterus, right up to the angle bend, The Boss withdrew the wand and replaced the speculum with a short hollow cylinder which enclosed the rod and fitted in the vaginal opening, stretching it as far as it would go without tearing.  The rod, of course, stuck out several inches. He poured in creamy plaster of Paris, which set quickly, filling the entire vaginal cavity.  Setting plaster, of course, gives off heat, and Angie grunted as her vagina was cooked.  When the plaster has fully set, the S-bends of the rod secured it in the vaginal plug.  The extension, straight down between her legs, meant that she could not sit without giving herself a painful hysterectomy, and even the slightest motion of the rod and it's plaster plug would painfully displace the cervix, which must have still been hurting from the dilation by the rod.  It seemed to Nora that his effective destruction of Angie's sexual organs was the ultimate humiliation.

The helicopter pad was right aft, the uppermost deck and extending out over the stern of the ship to provide an unobstructed approach for helicopters.  The next morning, after breakfast, a helicopter arrived, and the Hollywood group went up to board it.  Shit had cleaned up nicely and was wearing a blue skirted suit with two strands of pearls. The heart throb bid goodbye to his boyfriend.  The Doctor and his nurse reappeared.  The baggage was loaded on. The Boss looked happy.  Angie did not.  She was bald, everywhere, and her grotesque boobs seemed almost ready to rot and fall off.  She stood with her thighs apart, the rod between them, forever prevented from sitting down or having vaginal sex.  She was a prisoner now, wearing the heavy collar and cuffs. Below her navel and across her back was branded XXXX. The other five climbed aboard.  Then The Boss kissed Angie and boarded, leaving her on the helipad as the helicopter rose and set off to the northward.  Angie stood there for several seconds, mute, of course.  Then she walked aft, across the helipad, walking awkwardly, with her thighs apart.  She stood for a moment on the edge of the deck and then, as hundreds watched on TV, she performed a swan dive into the ship's wake.

Part 7, joining the enemy

With the departure of the helicopter, things returned to the previous routine. Bree and the Muslima, who now wanted to be called Detroit, for her faith had somehow faded, returned with only faint scars to show how they had been modified. At the morning auction, both were bought by syndicates who were anxious to cane their bottoms, to the delight of spectators.  By noon, both were sexually exhausted and brutally bruised on the buttocks.  Still, they seemed to take it philosophically, almost proud to have found a new, higher social status. In the afternoon, both were fucked several times, usually from behind, which made them cum when the buttocks were deformed, or from the front, standing up, with someone else caning the butt while their cunt was stuffed with meat.  Either way, their masters advertized how great it was to have them climax, with their vaginal contractions milking the penis over and over.

Nora found herself in demand, also, and no one wanted to torture her beautiful new tits.  Like Carol, her daughter, she was treated pretty well, as long as she behaved as if she loved getting fucked.  Halfway through the afternoon, she and Carol were brought together and made to fuck each other with a double-ended dildo. They managed to draw out the sex play for over an hour, entertaining the spectators while suffering no pain themselves.  Then some inventive sort made them fuck each other in the ass, on hands and knees with a huge double dildo between them, backing toward each other until, after much effort, their buttocks pressed each other and the huge thing was contained in their bowels.  The three college girls, new meat, were publicly fucked over and over, until they realized there was no point in resisting.  When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.  The “little brown girls” from Mexico and India and Sri Lanka and Indonesia and Pakistan and The Filipine Islands were subjected to the usual mix of sex and sadism.  By now they were used to it.

Nora began to appreciate that most of the passengers were not doing what they did for the pleasure of inflicting pain.  They wanted to be dominant, to be in control. Sometimes control meant bondage, immobilizing a prisoner with elaborate rope work or mechanical devices like the stocks or irons.  Butt plugs or vaginal plugs were popular, with or without vibrators. Inflicting pain was just a way to demonstrate power and control. They were satisfied if the prisoner was totally submissive.  Most often control had a sexual aspect to it, not just fucking, which is quick and easy, child's play, so to speak. A master or mistress would exercise control by either forcing sexual responses, as when Bree was caned, or by restricting sexual responses.  For example, a woman tied up Nora and then spent about an hour fondling her breasts and licking her nipples but always stopping before the stimulation brought her to an orgsam.  Then, upon command, with a little help from a finger on the clit, Nora gushed beautifully, and the woman was satisfied. Frequently vibrators were used in the sex play.  Two men tied up Nora, spreadeagled, and spent half an afternoon “torturing” her with feathers, stroking her naked labia and protruding clitoral hood. Nora more and more “got with the program”, acting the perfect submissive and playing along with her tormentors.  She enjoyed it when the passengers were pleased with her.

Not so nice but bearable were the torture sessions.  There was whipping and caning, of course, but torture chairs were popular, where the prisoner would have her cuffs clipped to the edges of the seat, and her weight on the seat tormented her. One chair had blunted nails, which hurt to sit on but did not draw blood. Other chairs had a piece of wood, like a broomstick, screwed to the seat.  If it was transverse, all the weight was concentrated on the contact of the stick and the bottom, usually the back of the thighs.  The constant pressure got more painful with time.  More popular was to have the stick longitudinal, so the pressure was on the perineum, between the legs and buttocks, like the classical wooden pony.  Like the big wooden ponies, the wood was radiused, so the pressure was somewhat distributed and nerve damage could be avoided. A variation on that used two parallel pieces of wood, forming a groove, and they would put golf balls in groove, so the prisoner was sitting on balls.  A certain amount of movement was possible, but the pressure was painful.  Carol, who was clever that way, would somehow get the balls to “get lost” in her vagina, thus reducing the pressure on her perineum.  There were all sorts of painful bondage positions, but nothing lasted long enough to do real damage. It was all for show.  The electrical tortures were all limited in current, generally a fraction of a milliAmpere, so it would tingle or even burn, but massive muscle contraction or, heaven forbid, a heart attack, would be avoided.  Compared to some jobs, like picking vegetables in the Central Valley, entertaining passengers for a few hours was not so bad.    

Prof. Adler was not bought at auction.  The cruise director put her on display in one of the hot tubs near the pool.  She had an octopus in her cunt.  They normally live in dark caves, and hers was the only cave available to the intelligent creature.  It would venture out to capture small fish and then retreat inside her to devour them.  Needless to say, having predator moving inside her was a distressing experience, much appreciated by the onlookers, who then arranged for her to have squids trapped in her flooded rectum, kept inside with an anal plug;  they lived inside her, swimming, for several hours.

The next day, the prof., Margo, Sarah, and Bree were made to pull chariots while passengers raced them around the promenade deck.  Each female was given a waist constricting corset which could be adjusted so they were about equally fast. A tighter corset makes breathing more difficult. Margo was to keep hers on for several days, as it helped her eat less and lose weight. From the front of the corset a strap would hang down between the legs and support the end of the tongue, a metal pole extending forward from the axle of the chariot. When the woman moved forward to propel the chariot the strap was pressed against the mons and labia, providing sexual stimulation but not, usually, enough for an orgasm.  The joke, however, was that Bree could never win, since, sometime in the last lap of the race, a spectator would turn on the microwave transmitter, and Bree would collapse in the throes of an involuntary orgasm.  When bettors camplained to the cruise director that the races were rigged, she had both Prof. Adler, Sarah, and Margo “wired” by a ship's doctor.  Instead of inserting the microwave receiving antenna under the skin of the mons, he simply glued it on the surface, with the electrical barbs inserted either side of the clitoris, a trivial wound. Margo, of course, had to be shaved first. Now, to everyone's enjoyment, any of the four “ponies” could be nobbled by a surreptitious shot of microwaves or, if they were running close together, all four might stop short to experience a quaking orgasm, and the winner would be the one who could recover first.  Again, the thrill was control.  What is more pleasing to a dominant than controlling a woman as if she were a radio-controlled model airplane, making her crash at will?  Even if they weren't racing, the wired women might be ambushed by a passenger with the microwave transmitter.

Nora was obsessed with wondering about the woman found with the forbidden TV recorder.  No one had seen her, it seemed, and rumors abounded.  She worked for one of Murdock's newspapers. No, it was a human rights organization. No, Interpol. They had pitched her over the side.  She had been tortured to the point of madness.  Brain surgery, to remove her memory.  It seemed the most credible one was this, overheard in the dining room:  A passenger waiting to embark on the fast boat from Cabo watched the incoming boat passengers disembark.  A woman got off who fit the description of the mystery woman and who appeared to be drunk.  She staggered about 50 meters along the pier and then fell in the water.  They hurried to fish her out, but she had drowned.  The local police ruled it an accident.  Nora knew rebellion would be futile.  The Nauru navy played for keeps.

Every night, it seemed, a passenger would pay to commit murder.  Redundant young men who didn't earn their keep would be dispatched by various painful ways.  A favorite method was to hang the man from his wrists and beat him to death with a baseball bat.  If the batsman or woman avoided breaking bones, he might last a long time.  Of course, it always started with blows to the genitals, but serious blows would break ribs or legs.  A broken femur almost always led to shock and unconsciousness, at which point it was over the side for the young man.  Sometimes he was simply disemboweled, drawn and quartered. Another method involved burning the victim, with hot irons or a torch, again, starting with the penis, until enough skin had been removed that the victim went into shock. With anywhere near fifty percent of the skin gone, death was inevitable, and it was only a matter of how long the victim would suffer.  It was an tradition that the victim would go over the side before the audience went to bed.

At one point it was decided that it was Prof. Adler's turn to go.  The murderer was the same woman who had appeared in the fabulous iridescent dress.  “James Bond” simply watched. That night she dressed in boots, black tights, and a minimal leather bra which supported her breasts from below without concealing anything.  Her rouged nipples reflected the  sexual thrill she got from killing a woman.

Prof. Adler had come to terms with her own death.  She was 67, with no family and no regrets.  She would die with as much dignity as she could manage. She wondered whether the woman would torture her breasts or mutilate her genitals.  When they wheeled her out on a platform with a dildo up her ass, they had not removed the microwave stimulator from her mons nor taken her cigarette from her.  She saw to her surprise that her murderer had the microwave transmitter.  The woman had two large steel angles, L shapes, plus some hardware.  With help from a crewman, she arranged Adler's breasts to lie upon the narrow horizontal portion of a steel angle, with the vertical portion below.  The second angle went on top of the breasts, with vertical steel extending upward. Bolts between them were tightened until the bases of the breasts were painfully compressed between the angles, perhaps only half an inch thick where they were crushed.  The result was several pounds of steel, supported by her breasts, with vertical steel plates from below her ribs to approximately her collar bone, except, of course, for the narrow slot containing the squashed breast tissue.

Prof. Adler was in pain, but she could not imagine that tit torture would result in death.  As Adler smoked a cigarette, the woman placed a device in Adler's vagina and secured it with a pin through the inner labia.  When the vaginal walls contracted, a light would come on.  It was a signal of an orgasm.  The woman stepped back and turned on the microwave transmitter.  It was far away, so the resultant orgasm would build up slowly.  Adler smoked as the tingles spread though her pelvis, leading to a big O.

As Prof. Adler stood there, immobilized by the pole up her ass, tortured by having her tits pressed tightly, and teased by a slowly building orgasm, it suddenly became clear what was to happen next.  The woman had a .22 automatic pistol, 12 rounds in the magazine, she said.  She pulled the slide back to chamber a round.  Adler welcomed the orgasm, but seconds later, the woman fired.  She was not a great shot. She had aimed for the navel, but the bullet smacked against the steel under Adler's tits, perhaps saving her life for a while, for it might have hit a vital organ. There was a period of calm, the microwaves off, a fresh cigarette, followed by another build up.  Now Adler was hoping to resist the orgasm, but that was a futile effort.  When the light came on, a bullet slammed into her left thigh.  She was determined to stay calm.  The pain of the wound was not that bad, but the certainty that the next orgasm would mean another bullet was awful.  Perhaps the transmitter was moved closer.  At any rate, Adler was helpless to prevent her pelvic organs from convulsing, and the light triggered another shot, which hit her right hip bone, rather more painfully than the earlier flesh wound.  Twelve rounds.  Adler counted the orgasms, orgasms she wished she could avoid, and the shots which followed them. Orgasm four, a shot just below the navel. Perforating her intestines. Five, left kneecap. Six, just above the left hip. Seven, in the right arm.  That caused her to drop her cigarette, but the woman gave her a fresh one in her left hand. For all the pain and mental concentration, Adler could not prevent the orgasms.  As they built up, there was the terrible anxiety as to when the light would come on and the bullet hit her body. Nine, in the gut, perhaps taking out a kidney.  Adler could feel her strength waning, probably from internal bleeding.  Ten, a bullet in the thigh again.  No major artery hit.  Still the eleventh orgasm built up, irresistible.  With a shudder, Adler came again, the light flickering on, the bullet hitting just above the microwave antenna.  With one bullet left, the woman walked up to Prof. Adler and looked her in the eye, noting the sweat on her face.  “You can't help it.  You are going to come again.”  Adler exhaled her smoke. The sexual shudders wracked Adler's pelvis, and the woman fired the last shot, between the metal plates, between the mashed breasts, straight to the heart.

Nora and her daughters and the campus coordinators were all depressed by Prof. Adler's death, but they were pretty sure that as long as they strove to be the best whores on the ship, as long as they could put up with gratuitous pain from playful sadists, they would stay alive longer.  Carol prided herself on her control of her vaginal muscles.  She could scoot along the floor, picking up golf balls in her cunt and then spitting them out again.  She could put a passenger on his back and ride his prick with exquisite skill, really giving him his money's worth.  Margo lost weight and, with her quick sexual response nd microwave vulnerability, had more orgasms than she could handle, sometimes returning to the common room worn out and still tingling down there.  Nora was thankful for her youthful tits; she could compete with Carol.  Bree was cheerful, for she could quite literally come from front and back simultaneously, and no caning or paddling of her butt was too painful when the harder the blows the more mind-blowing the orgasm.  Bree had a P-E device in each buttock, ether side of her tailbone, with the wire going in next to the tailbone, directly toward the pudendal nerve bundle.  Wired like that, Bree was never far from an orgasm, if someone else would generate the electricity.  Some nights, waiting for midnight, Bree would ask her mother to spank her, to make her come once more, so she could sleep.  Detroit remarked that martyrs went to heaven for the virgins, but anyone with money could buy paradise here.  Like Bree, she could come for the price of a spanking, or, better, a session with a well directed cane.

For a week, no helicopters arrived, and they were finally told why.  The Republic of Nauru had ratified a UN treaty, forbidding capital punishment for any crime.  Prof. Adler had been the last one to be executed.  The ship was out of the extraordinary rendition business.  The women and the remaining men no longer had to fear death by torture, even though, of course, their death sentences were commuted to life imprisonment on the ship. “We are not out of business entirely,“ the cruise director announced.  “We can still be the best floating whorehouse in the world.”  Nora decided she could live with that.