More Torture for Tiffany
(Part 3)
Three weeks passed quickly at college, and Tiffany left for
home, for her appointment with her torturer. She would never
have thought of herself as a prostitute. It seemed to her she
was doing something noble, saving her family from bankruptcy and
earning her way through college.
The three of them waited, anticipating the ordeals to come.
Her father, comfortably dressed in a tee-shirt and running
shorts, visited the bathroom one last time, hoping he wouldn't
wet his pants while tied to a post. Her mother wore only a
bathrobe, knowing she would be naked for the next twenty-four
hours or so. She had turned up the thermostat; at least she
wouldn't be so cold. Tiffany was dressed as her father was. She
had hated having her favorite jeans cut from her body the last
time she had been home.
"The waiting is what is getting to me," said Tiffany. "Last
time it was a surprise. I didn't have time to worry. Now -- can
you imagine, I'm actually wishing he would get here sooner!"
"Tiff, dear," her mother said. "It might help it you tell
yourself it isn't happening to you. He calls you Slave Two. Try
to imagine it's happening to a girl named Two. And when it's
over, forget it. It never happened to Tiffany. I find that's
the only way I can stand it. Oh, and if you close your eyes, so
you can't remember visual images, they don't come back to you as
nightmares."
"Thanks, Mom. Call me Two. OK, One?"
They heard a key turn in the lock. Their torturer, dressed
in his "police" uniform, came in. They went to the front hall to
present themselves, and he motioned them to the basement, which
was his domain. He came and went, storing things there, but the
family was not allowed to look before the appointed time, usually
a Saturday afternoon.
They knew what to do. Tiffany's father stood against a
supporting column and allowed himself to be bound to it, where he
would be forced to watch the torture of his wife and daughter.
Slave One, his wife, took off her robe and hung it up. Tiffany
peeled off her tee shirt and dropped her shorts, leaving herself
naked. Her body was lean and shapely, her breasts full and
firmly upstanding. She knew she looked good.
She tried to remember that it was "Two" who stood there
naked, her cunt naked, fully exposed to her torturer's view. The
day before, Tiffany had waxed her pubes, to make sure there would
be no more hairs to be pulled out. Being plucked with pliers was
not pleasant.
Tiffany -- no -- Two had not been in the basement since the
previous session, her first. She did not realize the amount of
equipment which had been stored there, out of sight. It
surprised her when the "policeman" erected a saw horse on wheels.
"Slave Two," he commanded, "stand there." He pointed to the
floor next to the horse.
Two stood as she was ordered. He strapped one ankle to a
leg of the horse, the other ankle to the leg at the other end.
Then he strapped her wrists to the legs on the far side, which
forced her to bend over, with the crossbar of the horse
compressing her belly, and making her hip bones, the front of her
pelvis, support her weight, grinding against the hard bar.
Her head hung upside down, and she found herself looking
between her far apart knees at her father, Tiffany's father. I'm
not Tiffany. I'm Two, she kept telling herself.
"Slave One," the torturer said, "thirty strokes." He held
out a bamboo rod. That older woman, One, "not really" Tiffany's
mother, stepped between Two and the man bound to the post. Two
waited for the first blow.
But the torturer stayed One's hand, until he rotated the
wheeled horse a quarter turn, so that man, One's husband, could
see better. One again stood behind Two. Two, looking out
between her own spread legs could see the still attractive legs
of One, could see pink inner labia showing between One's hairless
outer lips.
The first blow landed squarely across Two's taut buttocks.
The initial sting took her breath away, and an instant later, the
pain began to radiate through her. "Harder!" she heard, and the
second blow seemed to make very nerve in Two's body scream for
relief. Three, four, five... Two's screaming, the victim
thought. Poor Two. She can only mindlessly react to the pain.
Don't let Tiffany know this is happening. Yes, a sense of mental
detachment helped.
Then the blows stopped. The torturer ran his fingers over
Two's ass. Both cheeks, and her bruised labia, too, were pink
and tender, burning with that steady pain that injured nerves
supply for quite a while, even after the source of the injury
stops. Two could feel every finger on her tortured flesh. But
he soon stopped that, and Two came down from her heights of pain
and was again aware of time and place. Perhaps endorphins in her
brain, natural analogs of opium, were having an effect.
Two watched, turning her head almost dreamily, as One pulled
down the bound man's shorts. Curious. He had a hard on. Two
felt the wheeled horse moving, and she could see, between her
spread legs, that huge prick. There was a condom on it now, a
bright pink thing with rubber fingers on it, like a bottle brush,
almost. She hardly heard fingers being snapped, but she
responded with a conditioned reflex, becoming dreamily aware that
her sex box was getting juicy. Oh, yes, Two had been
conditioned, the last time.
One pressed on Two's back, where the bruising beating had
not reached, rolling the horse until the rubber tickler touched
Two's bruised vulva. The torturer spread her labia and guided
the penis into Two's vagina.
Two felt her inner lips and tight vagina being stretched,
felt the little rubber fingers pop-popping past her sensitive
labia and poking the walls of her tunnel like burrowing worms.
"No! You can't make me fuck my own daughter," she heard.
Tiffany would have gone insane, to be fucked by her father, but
Two, detached, unrelated to that strange man, accepted it matter-
of-factly, as if someone was stuffing a vibrator into her. The
horse rolled back and forth, the penis went in and out, the
rubber fingers dragging her inner lips back and forth with them.
Two got no pleasure from it. She was mostly aware that, with the
deepest thrusts, her sore ass was pressed against the man's
belly, and it hurt. She even thought to herself, how prickly
pubic hairs are, when your skin is so sensitive.
Two's head swung back and forth, as the horse was wheeled to
and fro with faster, harder movements. She closed her eyes,
imagined she was on some wild, stomach sickening ride in an
amusement park, and tried to ignore the pain from her bruised
bottom, which pressed against the man, every time that rod
plunged into her, banging on her cervix.
"OH! God! No!" she heard, as from afar, "I'm coming." The
stiff rod within her shook and softened. She felt the rubber
fingers pop-popping out of her one last time, as the horse was
wheeled to the other side of the room. Two opened her eyes, saw
Tiffany's father weeping, and closed them again.
Time seemed to lose meaning, as Two hung bent over the horse
with her eyes closed. The bar pressed painfully on her pelvic
bones, and her bruised ass ached, but she tried to put that out
of mind. Two tried to remember her past, but she had none,
except for that last session, three weeks earlier. Two only
existed to be punished. She had no past, no childhood, no
recollection of why she was being punished. That was all she
was, a body for her torturer to abuse. But since she had no
other life, when Two tried to distract herself with pleasant
memories, she could only remember the nicer parts of the previous
sessions, the delicious orgasms which had come, again and again,
when her holes were stuffed with vibrators and One licked Two's
overstimulated clitoris. Just remembering made Two feel sexy,
wish for attention.
Then she heard One, crying out in pain and sobbing between
explosive screams. Two opened her eyes and saw One, suspended
from the joists above, hanging from her wrists. One's legs were
spread, and her cunt gaped open, for One's perforated labia were
pulled apart by hooks on taut rubber bands. The torturer was
applying the bamboo, front, back, and sides, from One's shoulders
almost to her knees. Two wondered, in a detached way, how One
would be able to sleep, if she was bruised all over, with no
untouched place to lie on.
One's full, pendulous breasts bounced under a blow, and One
screamed especially loudly. Another whack on One's backside made
her pelvis jerk forward, and the rubber bands yanked her
stretched labia even more. At last, when One's body was covered
with red weals, the beating stopped. The torturer put down the
rod and approached Two.
Two was unstrapped from the horse and made to stand. But
very soon she was pushed to her knees in front of One. "Lick her
cunt," the torturer said. Two raised her face to the gaping pink
membranes and began to lick. The sweet/salty taste was very
subtle. If she tipped her head back, practically put her chin
into the funnel opening of One's stretched labia, Two could just
get her pursed lips around the nub of a clitoris, to suck on it
and rub her rough tongue against it. One moaned and writhed,
forcing Two to press harder, to maintain contact. Two wrapped
her arms around the bruised flesh of One's thighs, the better to
steady the target of Two's tongue.
One was quiet for a long time, as Two used her mouth the way
One had done her, so long ago, it seemed. Two's jaws and tongue
began to ache with fatigue, but One began to cry out, kittenish
noises at first, then, "Oh! I'm coming!" Two rocked back on her
knees, careful to keep her bruised backside from resting on her
heels, but her torturer, standing behind her, forced Two's face
back against One's cunt. Two continued her efforts, trying to
forget her fatigue as she had already forgotten the individual
strokes she had received. It helped to make her mind a blank, to
not remember. If you don't think about it, and if you don't
remind yourself how it happened, you soon forget.
At last, the torturer pulled Two away from One's crotch.
Two's face was wet with cunt juice, and One's body was soaked
with perspiration. Her breasts bobbed up and down, as One gasped
for air.
The "policeman" led Two back to the horse. This time he
made her stand with her back to it, as he again fastened her
ankles to the legs. She did not resist; it would be useless. He
took out an enema kit, a two-quart pink rubber bag with a hose
and a tip. Two tried to relax her anal muscles, so the tip would
slide in easier. Her torturer pushed it far in, way past the
connection between hose and tip, and then she felt a balloon
inflating inside her, filling her lower rectum, so she felt as if
she had to defecate. But, of course, she couldn't. She looked
over at Tiffany's father, still tied to the post, his shorts
around his ankles and his penis standing tall again. He seemed
to stare at her. So what? What was he to Two? A stranger.
The torturer filled the enema bag with something that
smelled strongly alcoholic, but he did not release the flow. He
bent Two backward over the bar of the horse and pulled her arms
down behind her, securing them so that the bar pressed against
Two's lower back. She was thankful that the pressure, supporting
most of her weight, was just above her bruised buttocks. She let
her head loll back, and she closed her eyes. She knew Tiffany's
father could see right up between her splayed knees. So what
else is new? Two felt no shame.
Again, there was a period of just lying there, bent backward
over the horse, trying to make her mind a blank. Then she heard
the snapping of fingers, a steady, repetitive sound, like the
amplified sound of a dripping faucet. Snap, snap, snap, snap,...
Two knew her exposed cunt was getting wet. She couldn't help it;
it was a conditioned reflex.
She felt a tongue on her suddenly very sensitive labia,
which parted before it, as it probed for her love button. OH,
yes, One, right there. She couldn't see, but she had no need to
look. One was kneeling between Two's widespread thighs, eating
her out as she had just done to One. The continuing snap, snap,
snap sound dimly registered in Two's brain, but her attention was
focused on the delicious feelings which centered on her clitoris
and radiated through her belly.
She lost track of time, as she became more and more
sensitive, and the stimulation of her vulva excited her more and
more. While she didn't care to open her eyes, she knew her
torturer was standing beside her head, snapping his fingers near
her ear and, no doubt watching carefully as her body built up for
an explosive orgasm. Two realized her nipples were swollen, and
her breasts gleamed with sweat, as her chest heaved with passion.
The expert tonguing of her clitoris had driven her right to the
edge of a thunderous orgasm, when pliers pinched a swollen
nipple, breaking the spell with pain.
Despite Two screaming and writhing, One continued her
relentless stimulation, and soon Two felt it would be only
seconds before she would achieve an orgasmic release. Again, a
vicious pinch put a stop to that, and, as Two recovered from the
shock, she was crying with frustration. She wanted to come! She
needed to come, for her overstimulated nervous system had been
pushed far past the threshold, building up to an explosion, but
the safety valve of orgasmic release had been denied her by the
well-timed short circuits of pain.
Two was writhing and thrashing as much as she could manage,
bent back as she was, like a drawn bow. Her head bobbed
uncontrollably, and she screamed unintelligible obscenities. And
then, experiencing a nervous overload, agonies of exquisite
sensation, she had a real earthquake of an orgasm.
She saw lights before her eyes, heard a roaring in her ears,
felt her womb leaping in her belly as her vagina spasmed like a
snake swallowing a rat. The earthquake rumbled through her
belly, churning her insides for an incredible length of time
before her nervous fuse finally blew, granting her the most
profound relaxation.
Still, snap, snap, One continued, snap, snap, to send
shivery waves of delight racing from Two's vulva, and, after a
few delicious aftershocks, there was another major earthquake in
her pelvis.
As the aftershocks of the second thunderous orgasm
reverberated through Two's exhausted body and delirious brain,
she noticed that One had stopped licking her. She felt both
relief and longing, for the sensations which had driven her to
ecstasy were addicting. She hated for them to stop, but she
didn't think she could stand another second. Her womb twitched
within her. Her sopping vagina seemed almost to ache with the
effort of rapid-fire contractions, and her chest heaved, as she
panted for air, as if she had been running a race.
Her mind was fogged, and she entered another of those
dreaming states when time has no meaning. She heard a pop and
opened her eyes to see that her torturer had lighted a portable
propane torch, quite close to her. Suddenly frightened, Two
looked for One, but she couldn't see what had become of her.
She did see her torturer heating an ice pick to red heat in the
flame of the torch.
The torturer gripped one of Two's hairless outer labia with
pliers and pulled it taut, away from her vagina. There was a
searing pain, which caused Two to scream and almost faint. She
was just recovering, and listening to the hissing torch, when her
other lip was pinched, pulled, and pierced with the searing
point. The procedure was repeated again and again, but Two's
brain, overloaded with pain and fatigue, had befuddled her
consciousness to the point where she could not remember.
She felt something warm, almost burning, flowing into her
bowels, and she developed that disregard for pain that the rapid
absorption of alcohol can produce. Then she lost consciousness.
