 |
|||
|
|
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.
|
|
|