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THE TRUCK
by V.P. Viddler
Part 1
Mrs. Hanningbolt was half-hanging, half-lying across the front of the
truck as it rolled slowly down the dusty, solitary street of the town. They had
tied her onto the tubular iron grill that projected from the high front of the
truck. The three of them had spread her out and lashed her wrists and ankles to
the thick bars. Her arms were pulled back, so that her upper body was half bent
backwards, her head hanging back and her long brown hair blowing in the air.
Her legs were wide apart. And Mrs. Hanningbolt was stark naked.
They had put her up there and then cut off her clothing. I had watched.
Mrs. Hanningbolt had screamed and struggled. She was still trying to scream,
but it was mostly crying. She was still trying to struggle, but it was no good.
They drove that truck down that hot street with the sun shining as it
always did, shining on the naked body of Mrs. Hanningbolt, and all the
townspeople came out to look, and they stared and stared. Mrs. Hanningbolt's
naked breasts, looking so big and round, stood out like headlights, bouncing
and rolling with the bumping and swaying of the truck. Her long naked curvy
legs strained and writhed, stretched so wide and so tightly, and the brown hair
at her crotch was glistening in the sun.
Mrs. Hanningbolt was beautiful that way.
I had always thought she was beautiful, always. A young widow was Mrs.
Hanningbolt, a beautiful young widow, who had come to stay in this ouback
region and study our wildlife. But when the hunters came, Mrs. Hanningbolt had
fought with them from the beginning. It had been conflict and turmoil, and
sparks had flown back and forth. Mrs. Hanningbolt fought the three hunters at
every turn, trying to guard the animals and wildlife. Until at last it got too
much for them. They paid Mrs. Hanningbolt a visit.
I was there, I saw it all. They had been drinking. I heard shouting and
threats, and finally an ominous quiet. And Mrs. Hanningbolt's voice, sounding
funny and scared. And then Mrs. Hanningbolt ran out of the house, running with
that long hair streaming, and the men came after her. Laughing. She ran and
they laughed. And they caught her. Laughing, they caught her and held her, and
then they didn't laugh, and Mrs. Hanningbolt was fighting and struggling, and
saying, No, no, but they didn't let her go.
That was when they tied her to the front of the truck. Bart gave an order
and the other two hoisted Mrs. Hanningbolt up and pulled back her arms and tied
them. And then spread her legs apart and roped her ankles. And she was fighting
and kicking and twisting around and shouting at them to stop, to let her go,
but nothing stopped them. I saw it all. God she was spread across that grill
and squirming and writhing and I couldn't stop watching.
And then they stood back and looked at her and suddenly it was very
still. Donal and Hitch looked at Bart.
"Damn!" Dona said. "Look at that pretty thing!"
"I want her," Hitch said, and I heard it all. "I want to fuck this bitch
now."
It was a long still waiting, and then Bart said, "Cut her clothes off."
Now Mrs. Hanningbolt began to plead. She was pleading and begging and she
started to cry. Hitch took out his long sharp hunting knife. Mrs. Hanningbolt
said, "God, you rotten filthy animals, don't, please don't, you dirty bastards,
rot in hell, oh Jesus don't do this, no, I'll kill you, all of you, I swear it,
no please please don't no don't no..."
Mrs. Hanningbolt had on a dark blue shirt and a pair of black pants.
Hitch cut them off her body. Slowly. Grinning at her. Baring her skin inch by
inch, not caring about her begging or crying or struggling. Button by button he
cut open the shirt, cutting and ripping, and Donal helped with the ripping. She
had nothing on under that shirt, no brassiere, nothing. Hitch and Donal slowly
bared those round thrusting breasts. Donal kissed one, and Mrs. Hanningbolt
spit on him. So he bit her nipple, bit it hard, until Mrs. Hanningbolt cried
out and pleaded with him to stop. And Hitch got up onto the lowest bar of the
grill and leaned over Mrs. Hanningbolt and took hold of her hair and ground his
mouth down on hers. I heard her whimpering as Hitch kissed her, holding her
head in place by her hair. Until Bart said, "Enough! Get on with it." And Hitch
cut Mrs. Hanningbolt's pants off, again slowly, baring first one long smooth
leg and then the other, and then cutting, ripping, till she had only panties
on. And Hitch cut those off too.
"Now what?" Donal said, and Bart said, "Now we show the lousy bitch who
owns her."
And they all got into the truck and drove off, with Mrs. Hanningbolt
riding naked on the front like a figure on the prow of a ship. Heading into
town, and I rushed to my car to get there ahead of them, for I understood that
Bart meant to ride Mrs. Hanningbolt through the town that way, showing her off
as a trophy. Their trophy. Riding in triumph like conquerors, with the captive
princess on display.
And that's what they did.
And the townspeople ate it up. Bart drove that truck up and down that hot
dusty street, up and down, showing off his trophy. And at last he stopped,
right in the middle of the town, and all three got out of the truck.
"Now," Bart said. "Do it now. Let them all watch."
Hitch and Donal tossed up for who would go first, and Hitch won.
Mrs. Hanningbolt's eyes were wild, and she shook her head, saying, no,
for god's sake, no. But Hitch got himself up onto the bar again and he unzipped
his pants and pulled out his thing, and Mrs. Hanningbolt was moaning and crying
and trying to pull away, but Hitch put his thing between her legs and pushed it
into her and she screamed and Hitch started to hump, taking her hard and fast.
At last he finished, grunting loudly, and got down and Donal got up and he did
it to her too, but took longer. Then Bart took his turn.
We all stood and watched.
Nobody was going to do anything. The beautiful young Mrs. Hanningbolt was
getting it good. It was exciting. So all of us watched it. And when Bart was
done he took off his thick brown belt and started to whip her. Donal and Hitch
did too, and they all beat at her with their belts all over her body, and Mrs.
Hanningbolt screamed and screamed, until she was hoarse, but still screaming.
"Now you know," Bart said.
Then they cut her down from the truck and she fell on the ground, but
Hitch said, "Not yet, baby," and pulled up on her arms until she was sitting
up, then lashed her wrists to the grill bars. Hitch stepped up to her and
thrust his thing at her mouth. Mrs. Hanningbolt turned away, and Hitch hit her
body with the belt, hit it again and again, saying, "Do it!" until she couldn't
stand it any more and turned her head back and opened her mouth and took his
thing into it, sobbing and choking. Hitch did it to her mouth. It took a long
time. He did it in her mouth. Then Donal did it in her mouth, and Bart did it
too, and told her to swallow it. Then they cut her loose again and Mrs.
Hanningbolt fell in the dust and lay there, crying and sobbing.
"Crawl," Bart said. "Crawl down this street, you slut."
And Mrs. Hanningbolt got up on her hands and knees and she did it,
crawled down the street, naked, crawling in front of all of us, past all the
people of the town. And back.
And then they took her away. This time Bart tied her wrists together in
front of her and hitched her with a long rope onto the back of the truck, and
drove slowly out of town, with naked Mrs. Hanningbolt running along behind,
running to keep up with the slowly moving truck.
That night they hung her from the front doorway of her shack, hung her up
by her wrists all night.
Next day they put up a sign in town. A new business. Mrs. Hanningbolt was
their stock in trade. Anybody could go out to that shack and have Mrs.
Hanningbolt's body, for a price. Bart and Donal and Hitch took the money. Mrs.
Hanningbolt did what they said to do. What anyobdy said to do. Anything.
Anything at all. Bart and Donal and Hitch saw to that. If she didn't they
whipped her. If she did, sometimes they whipped her anyway, for fun. It was
fun. I did it a lot. I couldn't help it. I had to pay a lot for it, but I had
to do it. Mrs. Hanningbolt was so young and beautiful, that body so curvy and
thrilling. I would whip her and listen to her scream and beg and cry, and I
would lie on top of that squirming, twisting body and I would do it to her, do
it to her, and watch her hating it.
But it was best on the truck. I had them put her up on the front of that
truck, spread and stretched, and I took her that way. And then I would drive
that truck into town, down the solitary street, with Mrs. Hanninbolt riding
naked on the truck. My trophy. My captive princess slave...
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part 2
"Don't," Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "Please don't, please, not that way,
not again, I don't want to, please."
"I have to," I said. "You know I do. I can't stop wanting you. It's your
own fault, such a fabulous body, I want it now. I have to do it to you now. Lie
down on the floor."
"Oh don't," Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "For god's sake."
Mrs. Hanningbolt was naked.
I said, "If I call Bart and Donal and Hitch, you know what they will do
to you."
"No, please."
"Lie down," I said. "On the floor. On your back."
Mrs. Hanningbolt did it. She got down on the hard dirt floor and lay on
her back.
"You know what to do," I said. "Spread out. All the say. Spread and
stretch."
"Bastard," Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "Dirty filthy scum. All of you." And
she spread out her arms and legs, spread them wide, and lay there all open and
taut and waiting.
"God," I said. "Oh my dear sweet god, such a pretty curvy smooth fabulous
young body." And I got down and I lay on top of that outstretched body, lay
myself right down over her, till I could feel all of it against my body, each
inch of it, hard round breasts and soft curving thighs and smooth squirmy hips
and belly. And I took her. I put myself right inside her and slid slowly,
slowly in, watching her face and her eyes.
"Oh god so fine, so fine," I said. "I can't stand how good it is. I love
having you this way, Mrs. Hanningbolt, all spread out and having to accept what
I'm doing to you, having to give me your luscious young naked body."
"Damn you!" Mrs. Hanningbolt said as I slowly pumped up and down on top
of her and into her. "Oh, damn you, damn you all!"
"Move with me," I said. "Do it, Mrs. Hanningbolt, because I wouldn't mind
watching Bart and Donal and Hitch whip you again. I'll ask them to hang you up
by your wrists this time, with your feet off the floor so you can kick and
thrash and twist around all you want. I love to watch you dancing in pain,
screaming and screaming, and if I ask Bart and pay him enough money, they will
put you --"
Mrs. Hanningbolt was sobbing now, big crying sobs, but she did as I said,
hating it all, I knew, but she moved for me, raising and lowering her body,
twisting her hips, crying. And as she did, I told her how I was going to turn
her over, lying on her stomach with her lovely face against the dirt floor as I
took her from behind, as I did it in her ass.
"Then I'll use your mouth," I said. "That fine gorgeous mouth. I'll do it
to your mouth, all the way down your throat, and your lips and Jesus god I'm
coming in you, I'm going to shoot inside you, Mrs. Hanningbolt, fine lady do it
I love it I love you Mrs. Hanningbolt --"
Actually Bart had told me not to call her Mrs. Hanningbolt. Bart and
Donal and Hitch didn't want her to be given such dignity. They called her
Nilla, her first name. Nilla. It cost me a lot of money to have my way with
her, but I couldn't stop. It was almost that way with most of the men in town.
Mrs. Hanningbolt -- Nilla -- was kept busy giving her body to all those men,
and Bart, Donal and Hitch went on piling up the cash.
But from time to time things would fall off and the hunters would take
Mrs. Hanningbolt into town to drum up business. Usually they took her in as
they had that first time, stretched naked across the iron grill of their truck,
spread and bound. But sometimes she had clothing on, so they could make her
strip down in front of the townspeople. All the townspeople got a thrill out of
watching Mrs. Hanningbolt degraded and humiliated, simply because she had been
so positive and sure of herself, had acted -- not snotty, for she was always
outgoing and friendly -- but independent. Poised. Quick and sure and all,
confident in her glorious young womanhood. And now she was a captive, a trophy
for the hunters she had fought so hard against, made into a slut for their
profit and a debased plaything for their amusement. And ours.
Last time Bart and Donal and Hitch had brought her to town, they had
brought her into Billy's restaurant, and had sat down to eat as almost the
whole town slowly filled that place up. Mrs. Hanningbolt -- Nilla -- didn't sit
with them. They had her crouch on hands and knees by the table, and
occasionally threw scraps of food on the floor, and Nilla had to eat them like
a dog. Crawling around the table, with those full round bosoms swaying beneath
her, that long soft brown hair dragging in the dirt, crying as she picked
scraps up with her beautiful mouth.
Bart put her up on top of a table and told her to strip in front of all
of us, and when Nilla hesitated for a second Hitch took off his belt. So Nilla
stood up there and took off all her clothes until she was naked.
Then Bart said that his food was so good today that the cook should have
a reward, and they brought out the cook and told Nilla to suck him. For
nothing, Bart said, but it was really to get us all riled up so we would want
Nilla again. Also it was fun for them, and for us, because the cook was a big,
ugly, fat slimy disgusting guy. Bart told Nilla to lick him all over, and the
cook lay down on the floor with his clothes off, and Bart made Nilla crawl to
him and lick every part of him, lick him and kiss him, and he kept her doing it
a long, long time. Nilla was gagging and begging him to let her stop, if only
for a minute, but Bart didn't. On and on, until at last Bart had her suck the
cook's disgusting thing, suck it lovingly and slowly, and finally he came in
her mouth and Nilla swallowed it all.
That made us all want her, and they tied Mrs. Hanningbolt over a table,
with her legs far apart and her head hanging off one side, and all the men
lined up to take her, lined up at her crotch and also at her head, so she could
take their things into her upside-down mouth. This went on for hours. Hours.
I knew what they would do with Nilla afterwards. Make her run all the way
back home with her wrists tied to a rope attached to the back of the truck,
running, running all the way to avoid being dragged along behind. And when they
got to the shack she would be all out of breath, panting and gasping, and they
would hang her up that way, hang her right in the doorway of her shack, hanging
there by her wrists, taut and dangling, swaying and twisting, kicking and
swinging, a living advertisement to anyone who came by. Bart and Donal and
Hitch would punish her body for fun, whipping her, torturing that pain-filled
body, touching their lit cigars to the flesh of her thrusting breasts or
flailing thighs or anyplace that hurt her most.
Sometimes I would hide and watch, watch as I had done that first day they
had come and taken her and put her up on that truck and cut her clothes off and
driven into town with her. I would watch Mrs. Hanningbolt, Nilla, hanging there
in that doorway, and I would watch them torture that body and I would listen to
her screaming, crying, begging them to stop, howling, shrieking, and at last
promising them anything, desperately telling them, yes, she would do anything
they said, just take me down, she would sob, oh god all right I'll say it, I'm
yours, I'm yours, I'll do it, anything, just tell me. "Tell us, Nilla," Bart
would say, and hit her breasts with his belt. "Tell us what you are." And
Nilla, once that proud laughing confident young lady, Nilla would say, "I'm
yours. I'm your slave. I belong to you. Please no please no please god I'll be
I'll do I'm just a dirty filty slut."
"Say it, Nilla," Bart said, and Mrs. Hanningbolt screamed and then said,
sobbing, "I'm shit, I'm nothing but shit and I will crawl for you. Anytime,
anyplace, I will crawl for you, I will suck your cocks, I am a cock-sucking
bitch. A bitch, don't, a cock-sucking, ass-licking bitch. Please don't hurt me
anymore. Please don't hurt me any more. I can't stand it, please, I'm your
bitch, you can play with me and --"
"What about that proud snotty bitch Mrs. Hanningbolt," Bart said. "Who
tried to fight us and run us out of this country? Where is she now?"
"I'm sorry," Nilla screamed. "I'm sorry, I'm not that any more, I'm
yours, you've broken me, jesus god christ, I'm broken, all right? I'm tamed,
I'm yours to use, to have, to do anything."
"Hitch," Bart said.
"Yeah?" Hitch said.
"Whip her."
"No! No please!"
Whack!
Nilla screamed.
Whap!
Scream.
Whapp!
Scream.
I could see Donal now, standing in front of that hanging form, and Donal
was taking her, he was doing it to her as she hung there and as Hitch was
whipping her back as hard as he could. "Put your legs around my waist," Donal
said. Hitch hit her back again, hard, and after Nilla's scream Donal said, "Put
those damn legs up. Right around my waist. Do it." And Nilla did it, hanging
byh her wrists she raised those luscious wonderful long curving legs and
wrapped them around Donal, pulling him into her, howing with the pain of it,
and my thing was hard as anything, I wanted to be Donal, wanted to do it to
Nilla that way, pressed up against her hanging body, that squirming, twisting,
wriggling body, while Hitch whipped her and whipped her.
And then I thought of how I could have Mrs. Hanningbolt all to myself. I
could kill Bart and Donal and Hitch. Kill them and bury them and just stay out
here always with my darling helpless Nilla. I would do it all to her. I had to.
I thought about having Nilla hanging all night by my bed. I thought of raising
her up the flagpole each morning, and lowering her at night. I thought of Mrs.
Hanningbolt and that quick juicy body and those long bare legs and soft brown
hair and her mouth, that tempting soft round- lipped mouth, that I had felt
around my thing, sucking, sucking, licking, kissing, and crying softly, sobbing
as she sucked and sucked.
Now Donal was grinning, and he said to Bart, "Put your cigar on her leg.
Her thigh. Right here. Put it out, damn it!" And Bart put the tip of his cigar
against the skin of Nilla's thigh, and Nilla yowled as if she was going crazy,
and Donal finished.
I waited until they cut her down, falling all over that broken, twitching
collapsed body and taking her, all of them, taking her, making her take them,
making Nilla do it all. Bart, lying on his back, made her crawl on top of him
and put him into her, and then made her to it to him, moving up and down, up
and down, crying, doing it to him. And Donal now crouched in back of her and
did it to her in the ass at the same time. Nilla was howling in pain but still
had to do it, up and down. Finally Hitch stood in front of her and took hold of
her hair and put his thing in her sobbing mouth, and he did it to that mouth,
they all did it to her.
I waited till they finished, but I had crept in and got hold of Bart's
hunting rifle, and when Bart came I shot him and Nilla screamed and I shot
Donal and Nilla screamed and I shot Hitch and Nilla screamed. I saw them die. I
looked at Nilla, Mrs. Hanningbolt, lying among the bodies, with their things
still inside her.
"Don't stop," I said. "Do it to them."
Nilla was almost out of her mind as I made her suck Hitch's dead cock.
And kiss the dead bodies. Lick them. Nilla retched and gagged. But she did it.
Then I made her dig the graves. Naked. Then we buried them, and I took
Mrs. Hanningbolt, took her and took her, all night long. Nilla never stopped
crying.
In the morning I put her on the front of the truck and drove to town. I
drove up and down the street, as Bart and Donal and Hitch had that first day,
and when the people were all watching, I got out and said, "Mrs. Hanningbolt is
mine now. Watch." I cut Nilla down and told her to crawl, the way Bart had made
her crawl, and Nilla did it, crawling up and down the street, and I said,
"Anybody who wants this lovely lady can have her now. Any way they want to. For
nothing."
That way I won the town to my ownership of the proud Mrs. Hanningbolt.
Now I own her body and soul, and I love watching the hatred and shame in her
eyes as I do it to her, doing it on and on and watching her hating it and still
I make her say all the things that tell her degradation. "I love you," Nilla
says, hating me. "I want you to do it to me, I give you my body, do it harder,
hurt me, please hurt me," and she starts to cry.
I do it to her as she sobs with humiliation and hatred and pain, and I
say, "Go on. Tell me how you want me to whip you."
Nilla says, crying harder, "I love you to whip me, please whip me, whip
my body hard, my breasts, my legs, hurt all of me, oh bastard, no, I'm sorry,
I'm sorry, whip me, I love you to whip me, I'll do anything."
"Light me a cigar," I say.
"Please," Nilla says. "No. Please not that."
"Mrs. Hanningbolt," I say. "Tell me you want me to burn you."
"I -- I want you to burn me," Nilla gasps.
"Light me a cigar," I say.
I still do it to her as she lights a cigar, watching her hands shaking,
watching the fear.
"Give it to me," and she does. When I burn her with it, again and again,
it is the biggest thrill I know, as beneath me and around me my gorgeous
luscious naked Nilla, my crawling, cock-sucking, curvy Mrs. Hanningbolt, is
twisting and squirming and bucking and wriggling and writhing and jerking and
spasming and flailing and kicking, screaming and shrieking and howling and
yelling and screeching.
If a visitor shows up, I make her strip. Visitors love to see my Nilla
bending over a chair with her ass sticking out for them to use. Hanging from
our ceiling, twisting slowly, waiting for the whip. Crawling, rolling,
scrabbling along the dirt floor.
Tight thighs clutch me in the night, begging me to have mercy.
Mrs. Hanningbolt.
Nilla.
Walking in the town street with hands lashed behind, body moving so
lusciously beneath her clothing, which I will make her take off in front of the
townspeople. Walking in fear, knowing that soon she will be lying naked for all
to watch, to take, to enjoy.
My plaything.
My captive princess.
My trophy.
My Nilla.
I kiss her lips and fearfully Mrs. Hanningbolt opens that mouth for my
tongue, giving me her mouth to plunder, not wanting to be whipped publicly
again, knowing she will be whipped, knowing she will be tortured, knowing I
want to watch as she allows everybody to have her body.
Mrs. Hanningbolt.
Hair flying. Arms and legs spread. Riding on the grill of that truck,
breasts thrusting out like headlights, screaming, struggling. Nilla now my
girl, my toy, my thing. Always always I will whip her and hurt her and burn her
and kiss her and take her and watch her hating it all.
Nilla...
