BDSM Library - Cunt Hunter

Cunt Hunter

By Llabmik

Chapter 1 – Quiff Quest

I watch the woman's washroom for the right moment and the right female while I slowly push the bucket and mop the floor in my janitor's uniform. I'm not the janitor and it's a cheap uniform easily available at department stores everywhere. The corridor is usually deserted. I only mop when someone comes along.

I inspect the merchandise as it parades to the woman's washroom from the party. I'm patiently waiting for some Grade A fuckmeat to be all by her little lonesome in the little girl's room.

I hear the click of high heels around the corner coming my way and start mopping with the casual boredom of the professional floor cleaner.

My fantasy female rounds the corner and makes me a happy hunter.

I like her pretty face, blue eyes and fine figure-hugging short black dress. I like her beautifully coiffed blond hair. Unraveling a bitch's French braid is always a pleasure.

She walks past me, paying no attention to the hired help that I'm pretending to be. I like the back view too, admiring the way her heinie twitches in that short, clinging black dress. There is no visible panty line and a faintly visible bra line. Her miniskirt stops just below her butt cheeks, showing off her lovely legs to perfection

I give her a minute. Then I put the mop in the bucket, place mop and bucket neatly back in the closet and step up to the door of the Powder Room.

I hang a neatly printed sign on the door handle:

PLUMBING EMERGENCY!

WASHROOM OUT OF ORDER!

PLEASE USE 2 ^ND FLOOR WASHROOM.

OUR APOLOGIES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

I retrieve the Taser and the stun baton from a wastebasket and follow her into the washroom. I love stun technology. I'm no weakling, but it makes everything soooooo much easier. My bitches get a lot out of it too.

I hear the musical tinkle of an obviously much-needed pee in one of the stalls. I love a bitch that has had a bit too much to drink. I wait patiently for her to finish.

I hear her tug on the toilet roll and stand.

I graciously allow her time to delicately dab the pee from her genitals.

I hear the enchanting rustle of intimate female apparel as she pulls up her panties and smoothes down her dress.

The stall door opens and the classy cunt saunters out, hips pumping seductively.

She stares at me in surprise. I aim carefully. The red sighting dot of the Taser appears on her chest, halfway between her nipples. She stares at the red dot in growing horror.

She's seen enough movies to figure out the dot's significance. Her beautiful blue eyes widen as she takes in the weapon.

Having positioned myself carefully, I fire the Taser from the optimum range of 10 feet away.

She grunts as the two darts punch into her tits. The wires attached to the darts trail back to the Taser in my hand and administer a brutal 50,000-volt jolt that makes her muscles spasm agonizingly.

Her lovely body jackknifes and flies backwards into the stall as if kicked in the gut by a mule. The force of the jolt lifts her out of her black fuck-me pumps.

The 5 second long, carefully pulsed jolt completely overrides her central nervous system. Her muscles contract violently until she is in a foetal position on the floor, twitching uncontrollably.

The Taser's good for taking a bitch out, but to put her under requires a stun baton.

Fortunately for enterprising rapists like myself, all of these things are available to the average American, quite reasonably priced (for 'self-defence', of course). A feature that really appeals to us Serial Rapists is that the batteries are rechargeable.

As she huddles on the tiled floor, her circuits scrambled, I step up and touch my Stun Master baton to the nape of her neck.

I press the button.

Her pretty body shudders and jerks as I fry it with a 650,000-volt jolt. This is truly agonizing as the pulsed current makes every muscle in her body spasm uncontrollably, draining her strength in a savage 10 second electro-convulsive workout, short circuiting any co-ordination she may have had.

I put down the Taser. Leaving her twitching spastically on the floor, I push open in sequence the two doors leading to the outside corridor and step out. I put on a Greek accent for the benefit of two older women who have obviously just been stopped short by my sign. I part my hands apologetically.

"She's a stinking mess in there, ladies. You no wanna go in. Please, you use the washroom onna second floor."

They grimace and thank me, hurrying for the elevator. I pull the large trash container on wheels into the washroom where she is still on the floor twitching away nicely, eyeballs rolled up in their sockets.

Kneeling down, I jerk the two darts from her tits.

I take a package of Cinnamon Red Hots out of my pocket and shake out a handful into the palm of my hand. Reaching under her dress, I pull down her thong panties.

I like those black thong panties. I also like her garter belt and stockings. Is she a high priced whore or a babe who, underneath her clothes, is a shameless little slut?

Putting these deep philosophical ponderings aside, I ramrod a few Cinnamon Red Hots into her cunt with my fuck finger. The second batch I jam up her asshole. I pull her panties back up neatly. I like to make sure that my rapemeat has her mind firmly focussed on what's between her legs.

I pat her quivering butt cheeks affectionately. She's my bitch now.

I glance quickly through her purse. Her name is Angel. Ironically, Angel will soon find out that I am a devil anxious to introduce her pampered pussy to the torments of Hell.

I heave her curled-up, tremulous body, along with her purse, into the trash container. Angel is now, quite literally, white trash. I toss in her high heels. The trash container is lined with foam to keep her from making noise as she sweats her way through the Stun Baton Electro-Convulsive Workout. I close the top. Two tipsy babes from the party applaud sardonically as I take down my PLUMBING EMERGENCY sign. Aping the manners of a gentleman, I bow to them pleasantly and wheel my new fucktoy away inside the trash container.

They are nice fish, but Angel is the Catch-Of-The-Day.

In the alley, I dump her jerking, spasming body into the back of my van.

Each jolt of the Stun Master only keeps a bitch twitching helplessly for 10-15 minutes.

I reach between her legs and press the Stun Master against her cuntlips through those delightful thong panties. The Stun Master can punch through up to 2 inches of clothing to deliver a full charge to its victim. Those flimsy panties are no protection at all as I press the button to send Angel into another long agonizing spasm.

I slam the back doors of the van shut and hop into the driver's seat. I adjust the rear view mirror so that I can watch her shudder and jerk as I drive along.

Chapter 2 – Pressured Pussy

I love watching bitches when they think no one is looking. Modern surveillance cameras are small and oh-so-easily hidden.

My darling Angel comes to lying in a bed, utterly exhausted, but fully clothed right down to her high heels.

I've had a sniff. Her deodorant has signally failed to keep up to the impossible demands of the Stun Baton Electro-Convulsive Workout. A heavy musk of sweat surrounds her moaning form like a dense fog.

She has been passed out with her mouth open, slack-jawed. A line of drool connects the corner of her mouth to a soggy spot on the pillow.

Her blond hair has fought loose of its French braid, another victim of the Electro-Convulsive Workout. It lies in a glorious golden halo spread over Angel's pillow.

Her lovely blue eyes flutter open briefly. Angel dully takes in the fact that she is lying on a bed in what seems to be a jail cell. Listlessly, she eyes a throw sheet covering a piece of furniture on the other side of the bars. It is obviously too much effort to keep her eyes open. Utterly exhausted, she closes them.

I'm willing to bet that Angel has never felt this tired, as boneless and weak as a jellyfish. Muscles ache that she probably never knew existed. My bitches have told me that it feels like the very marrow of their bones is throbbing.

Eyes still closed, she massages her breasts. Her titmeat obviously hurts where the darts from the Taser punched into them.

Her cunt and rectum must burn. Clamping both hands over her crotch, she rolls on her back on the bed, moaning softly. She obviously suspects the worst.

Actually, the worst is yet to come.

Slowly gathering up the tiny modicum of strength that remains in her, Angel heaves herself up to a sitting position and plants both high heels firmly on the floor.

I love the shocked expression on her face as she opens her eyes and realizes that she is not alone.

A naked, black-haired beauty stares back at her. Although Angel is hardly repulsive, Iona regards her in sheer horror as if Angel were her worst nightmare.

Well, I can't really blame her. Iona's been here before.

I have positioned Iona outside the bars of Angel's small cell, strapped into a heavy wooden chair. The large rubber ball gag filling her mouth accounts for her inability to communicate with the new bitch although she has much to tell.

A studded black leather harness over Iona's pretty face clamps both her forehead and throat to the high back of the chair as well as holding the black, saliva-slick ball gag in place. Her cute nose pokes out through a triangle in the leather. Her pain-ridden dark black eyes stare at Angel from between the restraining straps.

The seat of the chair is V-shaped, splayed out from the back of the chair, which is more a thick, sturdy pillar than a slim back. Each of her widespread thighs follows an arm of the V. A small, but sturdy, wooden pillar supports the front of each arm of the V. Her legs are strapped at the ankle and just below the knees to these front legs of the restraining chair. The restraining chair is high so that her pretty feet don't touch the floor. A small strap buckled tightly over the arch of each foot keeps her pointing her toes prettily. From the way her calf muscles are twitching, it looks like she has hit the wall in the point-your-toes marathon event and is starting to cramp up.

A thick restraining strap circles her torso just below her bare breasts. Another one is snugged tightly over her hips. No matter how hard the bitch struggles, she is going nowhere, clamped firmly to the chair by the tight restraining harness.

Her swollen shithole and fuckhole are fully exposed by the V-shaped seat. The end of a thick, richly studded dildo protrudes from each orifice, stretching them painfully. The studded dildoes have been pumped in and out vigorously until her orifices have swollen shut around them, clamping them firmly in place.

The full-breasted beauty is panting hard, squirming and straining futilely against the tight studded straps. Sweat trickles down her heaving torso.

Like Angel, her deodorant failed a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Her naked skin glistens with an oily sheen of fear sweat.

Her wrists and elbows are strapped down to the arms of the heavy wooden chair. Every finger of her hands is strapped down individually by a small strap halfway down her finger, so that her hands are pinned, palms down, fingers splayed wide, on the smoothly polished wooden arms. She has long, beautifully manicured nails, nicely buffed and polished.

She frantically tries to talk to Angel through the ball gag. The gag does its job. All that she manages to communicate is her hysteria. Hilariously, Angel tries to comfort and reassure her. Iona is, of course, very anxious to communicate, to tell her important things that she is desperate for Angel to understand. Iona's well-raped little ass is on the line here.

Now that my bitches are starting to bond, I quietly open the door to this hidden section of my basement. It moves quietly on well-oiled hinges. The two are so intent on each other that they notice nothing.

I slam the door hard.

Both my bitches jump. I favour Angel with a feral grin.

"Angel, before you and Iona continue your rather one-sided chat, I want you to take off your clothes and show me what you have to offer, starting with that little black dress."

Her purse has provided me with all sorts of useful information concerning my darling Angel, her rich Daddy, her even richer sports superstar boyfriend.

I love introducing a soft pampered beauty to hard brutal realities. From snotty hottie to screaming rapemeat is a sharp plunge down a very slippery slope.

Considerately, I insert the long plastic nozzle from a squeeze bottle into the side of Iona's mouth between her cheek and the ball gag, stretching her cheek. I squeeze the water bottle. Her Adam's apple bobs as she swallows thirstily. It's a nice mix of water with ground up caffeine and amphetamine tablets. Because it squirts in behind her tongue she tastes nothing and gulps it down.

I give her generous portions.

I like my bitches pumped, perspiring, panicky. This isn't her first dose of pep pills. Iona's heart thunders in her chest. She's panting hard, but can't ever seem to quite catch her breath. Her frantic, darting eyes are trying to look everywhere at once.

To Angel, I am gently encouraging, deceptively mild-mannered

"It's easy. Just take it all off and hand it to me through the bars."

Angel is insolent, deeply resentful, a thoroughly spoiled rich bitch.

"Why should I do that, fuckhead?"

Instantly, poor Iona goes ballistic, struggling hard, squealing frantically through her gag. Her big boobs bounce and jiggle delectably.

I pull a pair of small, needle-nosed, vice-grip pliers from my pocket. I clamp the vice-grips onto the tip of Iona's thumbnail. I pull up and back. Her thumbnail splits and breaks. Iona screams hard as I clamp the vice-grips onto each fragment of her broken thumbnail and brutally rip them out.

I tap the vice-grips lightly, but suggestively, on Iona's only remaining thumbnail.

I am, once more, sweetly, gently encouraging.

"I guess you want Iona to scream a little louder and longer before you start stripping."

A good girl at heart, Angel hurriedly starts to unzip. Poor Iona is making a lot of noise, still trying frantically to tell her something through her gag, but babes always like to chatter and I am tolerant. After all, she does have a lot of helpful hints that she could pass on and she is powerfully motivated to do so, but there is no fun in that.

I accept Angel's body warmed LBD (Little Black Dress), toss it in a red plastic box on the floor and examine what is left with interest. Stockings, high heels, a garter belt and thong panties highlight a dynamite body. I particularly like that lacy push-up bra that she has on. I hold out my hand.

"Give me that nice black bra and show me your tits, cunt."

Silently, biting her lips, Angel uncups her melons, hands me her breast-warmed bra and I am again a happy pervert. I have chosen well.

"Give them a jiggle, sweetmeat."

She gives them a small, tentative bounce.

Most good-looking babes have a fair bit of experience flaunting their wares. From looking through her purse, I know that her boyfriend is a professional athlete, a millionaire who can have his pick of the bimbo-licious babes. I am sure that she can do a LOT better.

I clamp the vice grips onto the nail of Iona's pinkie. I manage to rip the shrieking bitch's fingernail off in one piece.

"I don't think that you're really trying, cunt. I don't mind too much as I have Iona here as an shrieking entertainment alternative to a poorly performing bitch."

I light up a brazier and start heating up the branding irons, looking significantly at Iona who is red-faced and sobbing hard. She stares at Angel pleadingly, whimpering pathetically like a sad little puppy.

"Gee, it looks like Iona doesn't want to be my shrieking entertainment alternative."

Having found her motivation, Angel decides to be a good actress and put on a much better show. She interlaces her fingers behind her head, pulls back her elbows and arches her back so that her 36D breasts lift enchantingly. She really works those puppies, giving me a truly talented jiggleshow.

I smile. I love it when a bitch decides to be a real little performer for me.

"Much better!"

"If you look under the bed in your cell, you'll find a metal slave collar. Just slip that around your throat and snap the padlock shut to lock it in place."

Angel looks under the bed and finds the slave collar as advertised. It is attached to a short chain bolted firmly to the cinder block wall.

She puts it on and snaps the padlock shut.

"Just hand over the panties and then we'll get serious."

There is no hesitation. She peels off her panties and hands them over. I give her cunt-warmed panties an appreciative sniff and toss them into the red plastic box.

"OK. Hands behind your head, chest out, legs spread wide. I'm coming into your cell. I want everything on display, open and available. If I'm not satisfied with your performance, Iona gets to find out how high I can make her scream."

Angel obligingly assumes the position. She is truly glorious – blonde dynamite.

I open the cell door and, moving aggressively, slap her hard in the face, forehand and backhand, really working the knuckles in on the backhand.

Stunned, Angel falls to her knees like so many pimp slapped whores before her, her face flaming. I grab a fistful of her blond hair and with my other hand work over her pretty face with a series of ringing slaps that sound like pistol shots. Pulling hard on her hair, I jerk her unsteadily to her feet. Putting her back to the wall, I hammer her hard in the solar plexus with two hard shots of my fists, left and right.

The breath whooshes out of her. Badly winded, Angel struggles to breath.

I throw her onto the bed.

Jerking her legs apart savagely, I ram my rock hard gristle into her hot fuckhole. As I pump hard between her legs, resting my full weight on her, I grip her head with both hands and work my thumbs in her eye sockets, jabbing them into her eyeballs, grinding hard.

A pair of swollen shiners looks good on a fucked over piece of rapemeat.

As I come inside her, I hammer my fists into her gut so that her bare bod spasms pleasantly underneath me.

Chapter 3 – Rapemeat

I like raping over a bitch several different ways, so Angel is once more wearing her LBD and black fuck-me pumps with a much-drooled-on black ball gag between her lips. The ball gag is held in place by a slim studded black leather strap buckled tightly behind her pretty little head.

Angel's slim wrists are crossed and bound over her head, tethered by a short rope to a ceiling beam. Each of her shapely ankles is tethered separately to a ringbolt set in the floor, holding her superb legs just far enough apart so that I can dip my hand between them for an intimate grope but close enough together to enable me to pull down her black lace thong panties. She is blindfolded with a black silk scarf so that she can't see what is happening. This heightens her concentration on her other senses. Smell, sound, touch and fearful anticipation are her world now.

Angel has been standing there awhile, pondering the possibilities. Her blonde hair is mussed from another brief futile struggle with her tight bondage.

It probably seems like a long wait to her, although she has no means of telling the actual time. At last, she hears the pocket door to the windowless room slide open into the wall and then slide shut again. Footsteps approach. From the sound that they make on the concrete floor, it sounds like hard-soled shoes or boots, not sneakers or moccasins. From the intent expression on her face, I can see that she's trying hard to be Sherlock Slut, deducing what she can from the very limited evidence at her disposal.

She tenses as she feel my hands running slowly up her beautiful legs, pausing to squeeze her heart-shaped calves, going slower and slower as they rise higher and higher.

I feel her up lingeringly. My fingers caress the sensitive spot behind her knees. She feels my palms warmly cupping the backs of her thighs, massaging and kneading her firm, nicely toned thigh muscles.

I like a babe that works out and takes care of her goodies. A female like that has a lot to offer a force-fucker like me and the stamina to offer it again and again.

From the sound and from the warmth emanating from my body, she can feel me in front of her as my rising hands gradually lift her dress. I make sure that she feels my breath lightly on the front of her thighs. I do it very lightly so that she is uncertain whether I am deliberately blowing on your bare skin or just breathing warmly on it.

Uncertainty is good.

The rape will be a slow process, allowing for lots of anticipation and suspense along with sudden exposure to brutal realities.

I slip a finger into one of the leg holes of her lace panties and slowly, tantalisingly move it around inside, feeling the smooth-shaven, exquisitely sensitive flesh. She shudders as my finger lightly, almost accidentally, brushes over her cuntlips.

I insert a finger in the other leg hole and slowly, tantalisingly, repeat the process.

Then I use both hands and do both panty leg holes at once.

Angel lets out a long shuddery breath as I squeeze her bare buns with both hands on either side of the thong buried in the crack of her glorious ass.

I slowly, deliberately raise her dress higher and insert my fingers inside the elastic waistband of her panties. I teasingly run them around inside. Then I pull the waistband out to inspect her smooth-shaven slit.

I hold out the waistband at the front and blow a puff of air into them. I let the waistband snap back against her smooth young belly.

Lovingly, I delicately tug the thong out from between her satin smooth ass globes. I blow a long, gentle breath down the crack of her ass. The soft creamy skin of her butt cheeks goose pimples as she quivers in fear.

I delve into her panties with both hands, squeezing her beautifully rounded buttocks. Angel gasps as I forcefully part them and run my finger over her rectum.

I jerk her panties down to her knees, where they are stretched tightly between her legs. Delving lightly, I rub her cuntlips with two fingers. I part them gently and run the side of my finger along her exposed pink slit.

Leaving her dress bunched up around her waist and her black panties stretched tightly between her parted knees, I allow her to think about the possibilities as I unzip the back of her dress…

She shivers as she feels the cold metal on her shoulder. She gives a small jerk as she hears and feels the snip of the scissors as I cut the slim spaghetti shoulder straps holding up the black dress. I pull it downwards, exposing her firm bra-less breasts. Reaching around from behind, I lift them, squeezing, caressing lovingly.

Time for some pain.

Angel pulls in a sharp breath as I pinch hard and twist her nipples savagely.

My erect penis brushes her bared buttocks. A liquid drop of pre-cum from the tip of my dick dribbles over her ass cheek. I rub the hairs on my chest against the bare skin of her back. With a frisson of dread, she realizes that I am naked except for the boots.

I circle Angel ominously, inspecting her nakedness.

I stop in front of her.

I use my tongue and lips sweetly on her bruised nipples, licking and sucking them erect.

There is a pregnant pause as I step away from her. I make a little noise moving things around on a table at her side.

From the tilt of her head, I know that Sherlock Slut is trying to make some deductions, wondering what is happening and what will be done to her next.

Angel arches forward delightfully as I playfully brush something across both her buttocks lightly…

There is a loud snap and a line of fire burns across her buns as the spring loaded leather strap kisses them hard. I wonder if this is what Sherlock was expecting. From the way she jumped, I think not.

As she jerks forward, feeling the afterburn of the stroke, I part her tightly clenched buttocks and worm my little finger into her rectum for a small, humiliating finger rape while she is still trying to wrap her mind around the sudden flaring pain, reddening her behind.

I slowly twist my little finger inside her tight asshole. With the other hand I softly stroke the rapidly reddening welt, running my fingertips along the raised ridge at the edges. I stroke the welt once more, following the angry red line across her ass globes with my middle finger, pressing hard in the centre of the welt, eliciting a small whimper of pain.

I remove my pinkie from her asshole and step back.

I wait for a few moments while Sherlock thinks about what this probably portends…

She jerks at the sharp snap of the spring loaded leather strap, bare breasts bobbing in unison, as the second stroke is laid precisely on top of the first. As she humps her hips forward, away from the blow, I bury my middle finger to the knuckle inside her hot, dry fuckhole so that the physical shock of the pain blends once more with the sexual shock of another small finger rape.

I pump my fuck finger in and out briskly a few times and then withdraw it.

I step back and let Sherlock think some more about it...

Two hard cracks of the strap. One lifts her ass globes up from below and the other, following almost immediately, slaps them down from above.

Immediately afterwards, while the welts are still blossoming on her bum, I jab two fingers between her legs and bury them to the knuckle inside her fuckhole. I spread my fingers in a V-shape inside her and twist them back and forth.

I make a little noise putting something down on the table beside you. There is the small scrape of something being lifted. Sherlock Slut probably has deduced that the spring-loaded strap is being put down, but what fearsome implement is being picked up?

A flurry of sharp, sudden snaps of the strap as each of her bare breasts is alternately lifted hard and slapped down brutally by a razor strop fanning up and down repeatedly, moving rapidly from one bouncing breast to its bobbing twin.

I step to her side. There are more mysterious, scary sounds from the table.

I don't keep her wondering for long as I chop down viciously with the hard edge of a wooden ruler at the base of her teats, digging in and pulling out so that it feels like her nipples are being torn from her breasts.

They instantly start to swell.

While she is panting hard, trying to cope with this latest assault, I give her a sniff of baby oil.

From the look of confusion on her face, Sherlock is obviously wondering how this could possibly be a bad thing. She breathes deeply as she feels my oily fingers between her legs, spreading her cuntlips wide.

My oiled dick slides smoothly into her hot dry fuckhole. Once she is fully penetrated, I lift her up on tiptoe. I cup her bare buttocks with my hands and lift her from the floor with each hard, fast thrust.

The actual rape is surprisingly long as I take my time, pumping smoothly, feeling her hot breasts and swollen nipples rub against my chest, feeling the burning welts on her bum with my hands as I bounce my Angel up and down, her golden hair flying.

I cum copiously inside her.

I pause, still buried inside her, so that, in very different ways, we can each savour the moment….

Chapter 4 – Stripped For Action

Sooner or later all my bitches start to fade on me. I ask a lot from a woman (well, everything basically) and there comes a time when they have very little left to give. I have looked deep into her eyes and know that it's time to let Iona go, to set her free.

A sentimental man, I decide to give her one last farewell rape.

I do love stripping a bitch. That's why lovely Iona is going through the process one last time.

She is bound in her black thong panties, seamed black stockings, black garter belt and black high heels. Her wrists are tied together, palms out, behind her back, using a thick black plastic tie that, once tightened, can only be cut loose. A strong wire with a clip on the end is clipped to the black plastic tie binding her wrists. It runs through a pulley mounted on a beam in the ceiling. It pulls her wrists up high behind her back, forcing her to stand with her legs straight, bending humbly forward.

Since she is bound with her hands back-to-back, palms out, she can't unclip herself from the wire. The wire itself is 1/8 inch galvanized steel aircraft cable designed for use in winches and tie down assemblies, available at hardware stores everywhere. It can handle up to 400 pounds. It handles her weight easily.

I love hardware stores – so much useful apparatus – clamps and pliers, plastic ties, chains, ropes, cables, wire, winches, powerful batteries, electric jumper cables, knives, saws, drills, screws and nails, hooks, blowtorches… - a wonderland of equipment and tools that can hold a bitch tight and make her scream.

Another thick black plastic tie binds her dainty ankles together.

Her lips are taped shut with shiny silver duct tape, not the cheap kind, but the kind with a really strong adhesive backing. The sponge that is taped inside her mouth, pressing snugly against her tongue, probably has an unfamiliar taste – at once salty and sour. I wonder if she realizes what she is sucking on. I think she suspects, but doesn't want to face up to it.

Next to her, her expensive, off the shoulder, floor-length, form hugging, black dress is folded neatly over the back of a chair. Her rich bitch diamond jewelry rests on the seat of the chair, gleaming and twinkling in the bright lights. They are from her former life.

She's my bitch now.

Any female who has been stripped to down to her thong panties, stockings and high heels looks like a slut and Iona is no exception, although quite a glorious one, worthy of my most painstaking efforts.

She was daringly braless when captured so her bare tits are hanging out, presenting nicely.

She is surrounded by a ring of bright lights on stands, focused on her. She can't see much of the room or of what lies behind the lights, which are so bright that they hurt her eyes whenever she looks up at them. She quickly learns to stare submissively down at the floor as her least painful option.

Iona hears occasional footsteps on the hardwood floor behind the glaring lights, but she don't know who it is or how many men are watching her bent over with her big bare tits hanging down or if there are cameras focused on her. The hardwood floor of the room seems to amplify any sound she makes, any small shuffling of her high heels, her breathing, the tiniest little whimper… It probably all seems very loud to her.

She hears footsteps approaching on the hardwood floor.

I step from behind the lights in sunglasses, jackboots, black leather pants and a black vest. I like her long black hair, painstakingly brushed. I wonder if she has ever realized that, because she has seen my face, the future I have planned for her does not include leaving her in a position to rat me out.

The rohypnol ("roofies" to the low-life that I purchased it from) often leaves amnesia in its wake, in addition to being colourless, odourless and tasteless when mixed in a drink. I wonder how much she remembers of the kidnapping or of the party she was kidnapped from. From the confused look on her face after her woke up, I'm guessing not much. I was a waiter helpfully serving her spiked drinks at that one.

From behind the lights, I've enjoyed watching the expressions that have flitted across her pretty face as she stood bent over, stewing for a while in her own juices, her fears bathing her brain in deep dread.

She has come to know me well and has a lot to fear.

I stand in front of her. She looks up at me. The room echoes with the crisp crack of male flesh on female flesh as I slap her hard in the face. Her head snaps to one side. She starts breathing rapidly. She looks up at me in confusion, earning a second sharp slap. Her long hair tosses as her head snaps sharply under another hard slap. Her bare breasts shudder violently with each blow.

It's time to introduce her to some serious pain. Pain cuts the snot out of the haughtiest bitch.

Iona has had a lot of snot cut out of her in our brief relationship.

My first tool is simple: a large nail hammered through a thick board just far enough so that only the tip of the point sticks through on the other side. The rounded board fits comfortably in the palm of my hand. The top part of the nail fits between my fingers. I grab Iona's upper arm firmly to hold her in position.

I pause to savour the feel of her sweating tremulous flesh under my palm.

She squeals frantically into the duct tape and arches outwards, presenting her quivering breasts nicely, as I press the point of the nail into her right shoulder, near the middle of her back. Pressing hard, leaning my weight into it, I pull downwards slowly, parallel to her spine. The point of the nail cuts open her skin, not a clean cut like from a razor blade. This is a jagged, tearing, bruising cut; a deeply painful cut. She screams continuously. This turns into hard sobbing as I finish the long cut at the base of her spine.

I admire the long red line that I have carved into her panting flesh. Taking my time, I run my tongue along the cut, worming the tip of my tongue as deeply into the groove as possible, enjoying the feel, tasting her sweat, tasting her blood.

Not wanting her to bleed to death, I considerately pour a line of salt into the wound.

I love a sweating, shrieking female.

I love the feel of her quaking body under my hands as I run them up her sexy legs, feeling the strong calves and firm thighs. I stroke her hot smooth belly and fondle her nicely dimpled buns. I squeeze her tits and rub my palms over her perfect nipples.

I delicately tug her thong out of her butt crack…

Her gluteal muscles clench delightfully as I slowly peel her thong out of the crack of her ass and pull her panties down, exposing her tight little bum. I see her calf muscles tighten as her pretty toes curl in anticipation, but I'm in no hurry.

I like making sure that a bitch understands to the very core of her being that she's just a piece of fuckmeat and that I own every square inch of her skin. The rich bitches that are my prey strongly resist learning this lesson, but I teach them relentlessly until even the most mulish of these snotty hotties understands.

Under my tutelage, although once a bimbo-licious party girl, Iona has become a serious student of my needs and desires.

A bitch always stretches out a bit with time, so I winch up the steel cable clipped to her wrists until her spike heels leave the ground and she is prancing prettily on tiptoe. She has no real leverage to fight me with unless she wants to dislocate her shoulders, which she has hitherto shown a great reluctance to do.

I am sure that she will fight me as hard as she can because what is coming is unbearable.

I lick and suck on her nipples until they are erect.

I snap my fingers and hold out my hand. Iona hears the castanet tap of high heels behind the lights.

A nude beauty, whip marks visible on her back, steps with a runway model's walk from behind the lights. Her bum and tits jiggle enchantingly. The chains connecting her nipple rings to her pierced clit jingle musically. It's hard to tell what her hair colour is as she is completely depilated from her shaved head to her smooth crotch right down her sexy legs to her cute little toes.

Another in a long series of tightly controlled, highly motivated rich bitches, she is tethered via a short chain to a track in the ceiling. The chain is locked onto a metal ring around her neck. Iona probably wonders if this bitch is some reflection of her future.

Sadly, it cannot be. Her future is to be free.

The slave slut drops to her knees, bows her head submissively and holds open a black medical bag at arms length in front of her. I reach into my 'bitch kit' and pull out a clear plastic container of wooden toothpicks. They are round toothpicks with a sharp point at either end.

I put an arm around Iona's sweating torso and pinch the teat of one of her saliva slick nipples. With the other hand, I twirl the toothpick between my fingers and begin pressing the sharp end into the side of her teat. I push it through to the other side, enjoying her squeals and the futile writhing of her firm young flesh clamped under my arm as the sharp wooden sliver spears her teat.

I spear her other teat the same way with another toothpick.

I spear two more toothpicks through the base of her nipples, underneath and at right angles to the first toothpicks. They form a pretty cross piercing each of her nipples.

Iona is panting hard and sweating nicely, trembling beautifully. I give her a moment to brace herself and catch her breath, as the serious pain is about to begin.

I whisper into her pretty little ear exactly what I intend to do.

Her entire physique tightens as she strains mightily with her bonds. She pulls hard to separate her hands. The well toned muscles in her upper arms tense and quiver. Her lean thigh and calf muscles bulge as she wriggles and twists frantically, but futilely. Her big breasts shake and her taut belly flexes. Her bare buttocks dimple, clenching tightly around the thong in her butt crack.

During one of our many intimate moments, Iona told me that she worked out regularly with a personal trainer. I enjoy the show as her lithe, supple muscles ripple and flex sinuously.

At last she gives up, defeated by her tight bondage. She stares up at me, red-faced and dishevelled, her long black hair a tumbled mess, her breath coming in quick sobs.

I pull a 3/8-inch thick hardwood dowel from my bitch kit. It is sharpened on one end like a tent stake. I press it against the base of her breast at one side and push hard to slowly, agonizingly force it in.

There's nothing like a tit-ka-bob. I love listening to her scream into her gag as she jerks and twists frantically, red-faced, her bare body hot and quivering under my arm as I screw the dowel into her bulging breast. I inhale deeply, enjoying the coppery smell of her blood and the sharp tang of her fear sweat.

I take my time and do it slowly. I love grinding a bitch hard. They pass out if I am too quick, so I pace myself carefully. Her shapely legs spasm repeatedly as I brutally skewer both tits from the side with my sharp wooden rod. I hold her tight, savouring her desperate struggles, twisting the doweling slowly and powerfully as I worm it in, forcing it through her tit-meat. Her blood makes the wood swell, staunching her bleeding but tearing her tits a bit more from the inside as well.

Enough foreplay.

Time to get serious.

The kneeling bitch's slim arms are trembling with the effort of holding the heavy doctor's bag out at arm's length, but she is not stupid enough to complain. I reach into the bag and pull out an 8-inch long, 2-inch thick wooden dowel. A headless finishing nail has been partially pounded into one of the ends of the dowel, sticking out an inch.

Iona's tight buns dimple and she tries to arch away as I firmly force the finishing nail into her rectum until the rounded end of the thick dowel is resting against her anus.

I pull a heavy wooden mallet from my bitch kit.

The finishing nail holds the dowel in position, guiding it into her gut, as I begin to hammer the thick dowel into her asshole.

Not looking up, the kneeling slut flinches with each knock of the heavy mallet. Her experiences with me have made her a very sympathetic person along some lines.

Iona shrieks dementedly.

Her asshole tears agonizingly with each tiny tap. Not wanting her to faint and miss out on the fun, I use lots of small taps to hammer the rectal reamer in deeper and deeper, keeping her anguish down to just barely manageable levels.

I love the way her body jerks with each small, delicate tap of the mallet. Iona is red-faced and squealing like a boiled pig with each burningly invasive inroad of the rough, unfinished rectal reamer. I enjoy the feel of her sweating, feverish flesh as I cup her trembling thigh to steady her for each tiny tap. To a pampered rich bitch that has spent her entire life being treated like a spoiled fairytale princess, meeting a guy like me must be a real eye-opener.

Just as the anal reamer disappears between her quivering butt cheeks, buried to its full length inside her, the kneeling slave holding my bitch kit lowers it to the floor, her slim shaking arms no longer able to hold up the heavy medical bag.

I smell urine.

Shuddering in fright, the slave slut is nearly hysterical. A slowly expanding pool of pee forms between her parted trembling thighs.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I couldn't hold it up any longer, Master!"

She looks up at me from the floor, tearful, shaking like a leaf with fear.

"I'm weak. I'm stupid. I'm unworthy…"

I dislike being entirely predictable. Every now and again, I like throwing out a tiny breadcrumb of mercy, especially to a deeply fearful female who understands the concept of consequences to the very marrow of her bones.

I rub her bald head affectionately. She had once been so proud of her thick chestnut tresses. Now she doesn't even have eyelashes.

"Fetch me two small stools and then lick up your piss."

She flashes me a look of profound gratitude and hurries to obey, her chains tinkling musically as she remembers to wiggle her bum sexily and bounce her boobs saucily.

She returns promptly, carrying two stools. Each stool is small, one foot high.

I unclip the wire from Iona's wrists and wrap it around her neck, clipping it back onto itself to form a noose. I crank the winch, pulling the wire around her throat tight until she is standing up straight, presenting her tits nicely, her black eyes wide.

The bald bitch is on her knees, legs spread wide so that her cunt is clearly visible. Eager to atone, her long pink tongue licks the floor busily. I turn my attention back to Iona, certain that my slave slut will lick up every last golden drop of urinary goodness.

I pull a pair of crash scissors out of my bitch kit. Another delight from the hardware store, the sharp crash scissors are designed to cut a victim out of her clothes. They perform their designed function beautifully, cutting off Iona's panties and effortlessly snipping the thick plastic tie holding her ankles together.

Cranking the winch, pulling up on her noose, I encourage her to step up onto the stools, one elegantly shod foot on each stool.

Iona works desperately to stay standing on the stools as I pull them apart until she is standing with a foot on either stool, shapely legs spread wide, her crotch fully exposed.

Step off the stools and she strangles.

I turn to the slurping slave slut.

"Fetch me the car antenna."

The bald babe stops licking and fetches like the well-trained bitch she is.

I pull the shiny car antenna out to its full length as the bitch resumes sucking up her mess.

I use the antenna to delicately stroke Iona's inner thighs. I run it lightly over her smoothly shaven cuntlips. I run it playfully along her tightly corded groin muscles, standing out nicely as she spreads her legs wide for me in a perfect crotch display.

I rub it along her slit, which is stretched open slightly, exposing an obscene strip of pink. I bounce the silver disk at the tip of the antenna along her pink slit in a series of playful featherlight slaps.

I smile mockingly into her dark black eyes. With her tits swelling painfully around the wooden spikes, her asshole on fire and her crotch fully exposed, I'm confidant that she knows what I'm going to do with that nice whippy car antenna.

Gripping it like a golf club, I pull back all the way and slice upwards hard between her legs. Iona squeals in panic. Her legs twitch as if she wants to close her legs, but stop as she realizes that she will strangle if she does. She shuts her eyes tight and tenses for the agonizing impact, holding her breath.

At the last second, I stop and pat the antenna lightly, teasingly against her cunt.

I do this a few times, messing with her mind, until she starts to relax, then I slice a vicious one into her groin, to the right of her reluctantly proffered genitals, hitting the inside crease where her leg meets her crotch.

She screams into her gag. Her legs jerk violently, but she stays balanced on the stools. I'm delighted to learn that the once snotty slut has learned to handle some serious pain with my warmly supportive encouragement.

An angry red welt burns on her pale white skin parallel to her cuntlip.

I have a love of symmetry, so when she has calmed down a little, I make another angry welt blossom next to her left cuntlip.

I lace one right into her slit.

Iona produces an inhuman shriek of raw pain. She sways wildly but, a grimly determined tramp, she stays on the stools, exposing herself lewdly.

She humps her hips suggestively, hoping to distract me.

I lace another golf club drive up between her legs into her slit, going for some serious yardage, taking care to dig in with the silver disk at the tip of the antenna, landing it right on top of her clit.

Both stools go flying as her legs violently scissor closed.

The noose tightens around her throat and her face darkens. I thoughtfully peel the duct tape from her lips. It rips off painfully, but she barely seems to notice.

Her mouth is empty, so somewhere along the line she has swallowed the yummy sponge.

Her tongue protrudes, her eyes bulge and her face is turning an interesting shade of cyanotic blue. A harsh raspy rattle escapes her throat.

She begins to kick and thrash, her body twisting and turning, swinging like a pendulum as the 1/8-inch thick cable eats into her throat.

I've always been fond of a good strangle-fuck. I step out of my leather pants and move towards her. My rock-hard erection has a glistening drop of pre-cum at the tip, a cheerful portent of things to cum..

Desperately, she wraps her long athletic legs around my waist to try and take some of the weight off her throat. I penetrate her smoothly and start pumping hard.

The heat radiates from her body, warming me with the fire of her struggles. Her hot, swollen breasts, and the wooden spikes piercing them, press hard against my chest.

A line of red is seeping from where the cable cuts into her throat.

As I feel myself on the verge of coming, I wrap my arms around her twitching, sweat-slick torso and pull down with my full weight so that I can delight in her death spasms as I cum.

Her cunt clenches tight around my dick, spasming violently as I empty myself into her.

Iona's straining muscles relax as her spirit is freed, a profoundly religious moment for both of us. Her bladder slackens in death, bathing my balls in warm urine and giving the bald babe another mess to lick up.

Cunt Hunter

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