Saturday, December 24, 2011

Happy Holidays

I guess I was too optimistic and "You Will Submit" will not be done by the end of the year. Other things interfered and kept me from writing anything.
So, here is another chapter, as a holiday gift.


Chapter 4
Upper East Side

And so it continued: Every three or four weeks Paul would arrange a new encounter for me, most were outside the city, where the necessary privacy was more easily obtained; a few happened in town. In those cases, a gag was almost always required. Once, it was with a woman.
I appeared at the assigned address at the appointed time. It was in the spring, when life seems to rush and New Yorkers peek out of their winter coats and hats almost in disbelief that yes, winter is finally over. The penthouse condo, in a stately old building, on the Upper East side screams old money. I gave up on wearing fine underwear for this events, it always comes off right away. My tormentors do not want any interference in their access to my not so private parts. This day the weather was pleasantly mild so I skipped the undies altogether. I wore only the standard uniform of the New York woman: A little black dress.
I took a cab from our apartment on the Lower East Side. Paul gave me no special instructions so I enjoyed the relative luxury of a New York cab instead of a bus or subway. If I was going to get my ass creamed by rod, whip or flail, I might as well get there in style.
The yellow cab made its way up Park Avenue and there, just north of the Met Life building, it hit me. I wondered it took so long, fear and desire again blending in my belly. I should have been used to it by now but it always came as a surprise, a welcome one, like the surprise presents you get on your birthday. I left the cab and entered the building. A doorman asked my business. I replied with the apartment number and gave my name as Ellen. He called up and pointed out the elevator.
Alone in the elevator my legs turned to jelly. I leaned against the mirrored walls and held on to the bar to steady myself. Sweat glistened on my upper lip and beaded on my neck sliding, drop by drop, down my back. The elevator rushed up and my blood rushed down to the base of my spine, where all my nerves rose to the occasion. I felt the tightness in my tunnel and the moisture coating the inner membranes. The elevator stopped.
There were only two penthouse condos. I stood at the door and marshalled my courage. I rang the doorbell.
A stunningly beautiful, middle aged woman opened it. I remained transfixed, speechless, at the door for a few moments. I had never been with a woman before. She was blonde, her stylish haircut shorter than a bob but longer than a pageboy. Her black dress fitted her contours and reached mid thighs. I noticed she wore hose, an expensive one. Her high heeled shoes were of the best leather. She smiled at me.
"Do come in," she said.
I followed her to an almost empty room. A heavy wood armchair sat, alone, in the center of the hardwood floor.
"Please undress," she said.
She handed me a coat hanger.
I hung my dress from a hook at the back of the door and stepped off my pumps. She saw my naked body and smiled.
"You are ready," she said.
I did not answer, the throbbing in my belly and the tension in my female parts capturing all my attention. She gestured to the chair.
She tied my calves to the chair legs first with hemp rope. I began to shake. Two loops of rope fastened my midriff to the back of the chair. My arms, she tied at the elbows and wrists with more of the heavy hemp rope. I wondered what her plans were. I felt my oils seeping from my kitty and, looking down saw that it was oozing love juice on to the seat of the chair. She noticed where I was looking and, still smiling, flicked my clit with a manicured fingernail. A potent orgasm hit me, right then and there. With my eyes screwed shut, I thrashed, within the limits of my bonds, on the chair. What this meant was that I curled and uncurled my toes and fingers and shook my head about. Everything else was immobilized by her expert ties. Still, it was not enough for her. She slid a flat board behind the back of the chair which she fastened in place by throwing two loops of rope across my chest, one above and the second one below my breasts, drawing them tight and tying them behind the back of the chair. The coarse hemp rope scratched my skin with my least movement, like breathing, for instance.  Trussed like a chicken, or a sausage, I could only move my fingers and toes, and my head.
Now it was time for my head. Fortunately, she did not use hemp rope on my face. She used a long plastic tie. It went around my forehead and the board behind me.
Panic heaved in my chest and I feared I would throw up, which would be a challenge, since I couldn't move at all. Panting for breath I opened my mouth. She was ready for that taping my mouth open with adhesive tape. The tape caught my lips against my teeth and I tasted blood at the back of my mouth.
I squealed, more in discomfort than pain, my fear mixing with a new wave of arousal.
I wondered where would she whip me, there was not that much exposed skin, except for my breasts. She left the room.
After what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than a few minutes she returned bearing a black briefcase and a wheeled stool. She sat on the stool rolling to my side and opened the briefcase.
I began to scream before the first vise grip clamp hung from my nipples.
Then I came, hard. My muscles cramped along my spine, rippled on my thighs and convulsed on my arms. Unable to move, tied by the thick, strong rope, they threatened to rip themselves off their insertion on my bones, adding a new layer of agony to the massive orgasmic spasms that racked my bound body. Unable to move I came and came, squirting my juice on the chair, and beyond.
She sat, at my side, watching me until the last spasms subsided.
She removed the clamps from my nipples; they hadn't been there that long so it only hurt a bit more than when she put them on.
Then I saw the needles.
My screams, muffled by the tape on my mouth were not loud enough to bother anyone, it seemed, but were the best I could manage. They were also the only response I could make while she proceeded to cover all the surface of my breasts with hypodermic needles. She inserted each one slowly, deeply, until the hub was firmly planted on my flesh. When all the skin was covered by the colored plastic hubs she took longer and thicker ones and stuck them, just as deep, in my nipples.
I thought I was done screaming.
She dragged the chair tilted it against a wall. I was afraid I would fall backwards although, trussed as I was, there was no way I could hurt anything.
She picked up five needles and took one of my hands.
I was wrong.
I thought I was done when she freed me from the chair and removed the needles from under my toe and fingernails. I waited for her to remove them from my breasts but instead, she helped me to my feet and led me from the room.
On wobbly legs I followed her down a corridor to a bedroom. There, she removed her dress. Under it she wore an expensive looking, black lace bra, with matching garter and thong. She removed the thong but left her garter and hose on.
I joined her on the bed.
She hugged me to her chest. Unfortunately, she neglected to remove the needles from my breasts. I had to make love to her, kiss her, fondle her breasts as she squeezed mine, pins and all, until finally, she laid back on the bed, spreading her thighs, for me to lick at the center of her world. It was shaven and I lapped at the sweet nectar that oozed from the glistening slit. Unfortunately, she insisted that I do this lying down on my belly, my weight on my needle riddled breasts.
I lost count of how many times she spilled her juice in my mouth before she, sated, let me leave the house.
I had to remove the needles myself.



Wednesday, November 23, 2011

New work: You will submit to a tall dark stranger. Sample.


Chapter 7
North Jersey

I knew the next appointment was a bad one. I could tell by looking at my appointment book; by the gap between one appointment and the next. A mild session was followed by only a few days, a week at the most of recovery before the next one. A long break meant the session would be harsh. A three week break like Paul scheduled for me after this appointment was rare and presaged a really tough session. My guts squirmed inside me for days before the appointment, anticipation building on fear as the date approached.
There were no special requests by my patron, simply to be at the appointed street corner at the appointed time. To identify myself I would wear a red hat. A limo would come and pick me up.
That worried me; that and the long break. At best it meant I would not be able to return on my own; at worst, well, you know.
Thus, at 3 PM on a summer afternoon I found myself standing at the corner of 42nd and Lexington, wearing a black mini dress and a red Pamela straw hat I got at Bloomingdale's that morning. I hadn't been standing for five minutes when a black stretch limo pulled up to the curb; ignoring the protests of the drivers behind him, the chauffeur got out and opened the door for me. I slid into the plush leather seat and we were off.
I could tell right away this was not a livery vehicle. It lacked the distinctive obnoxious smell of the livery car, a mixture of cheap odor absorber and cheaper perfume. This limo smelled like leather.
The partition was up so I could not speak with the driver were I inclined to do so. He used the intercom to tell me that there was bottled water and soda in the wet bar.
We headed east, through the midtown tunnel and into the industrial morass of North New Jersey. After a while we left the urban sprawl behind and motored through a more rural area where the Garden State actually had gardens. I missed the name of the exit; not that it mattered. I never brought my cell phone on this assignments as it could be traced. My patrons were as concerned with security as, I hoped, Paul was.
As soon as the car got off the highway my stomach began to churn with equal parts anticipation, fear and excitement.
The highway gave way to a series of lushly arbored two lane roads. Every so often, a gated driveway opened between the trees, the mansion beyond never visible from the road. The moneyed people who lived here valued their privacy. They minded their own business and did not pry on that of others. The implications rocked a new wave of cold fear inside my belly.
The limo turned into one of these driveways and stopped at a large mansion. The chauffeur opened my door and led me to the entrance. He opened the door for me. I followed him into the house leaving the limo on the driveway.
The house felt cold inside, even in the heat of summer. The curtains had been drawn over the windows and the entrance hall, and the rooms beyond lay cloaked in semi-darkness. The chauffeur led me to a sitting room.
"Please wait here miss," he said.
I sat down on one of the easy chairs. The furniture that surrounded me could not be bought today at any price. I doubted that there were craftsmen now that could turn out pieces like the ones I saw around me. Restless, unable to sit still, waves of heat pulsing from my loins, mixing with icy pangs of fear, I stood up and walked around the dim room. The artwork, and the furniture were obviously polished and cared for regularly yet there was a very thin layer of dust on the surface of one of the side tables that told me this room was seldom used. The owner of this mansion must not receive visitors often.
I heard a step at the door and turned to find a thin, old woman, with white hair caught in a bun. Despite her age, she stood ramrod straight. Her long black dress, accented at the neck with a jet necklace reached her feet, its sober color relieved only by a thin strip of lace at the neck and cuffs.
"You've met Frank," she said, "follow me."
I followed her. At the base of the stairs she opened a door.
"This leads to the basement and to Frank's quarters," she said.
She led me up the stairs, to her bedroom. I followed her, my breath catching in my throat. I felt sweat beading on my spine; I felt short hairs on my neck rising, standing on end. My heartbeat throbbed in my ears.
A suite rather than a bedroom, it consisted of a sitting room, with a desk, bookcases, two easy chairs and a large screen TV; through the sitting room we reached an even larger bedroom with a king size bed, dresser and nightstands, all clearly handmade in fine wood. Beyond, a large bathroom with a sunken tub the size of a small pool.
"Do you like it?" she asked, "a gift from my late husband."
That was the last spark of humanity I saw from her.
"Stand here," she pointed to a small, wide foot stool, the kind taylors use when measuring their customers.
"Remove your dress."
I shrugged my dress off at the shoulders while standing on the stool. I tossed it on a chair nearby. As I stood in front of her wearing only a black lace bra and matching thong, she examined me carefully. I did not know what to do with my hands under her scrutiny so I hooked my fingers behind my neck and stood up straight, displayed to perfection.
"Spin, slowly."
I did so.
"Stop."
I faced the window. The curtains were drawn open and I could see the garden and a lake. Beyond the lake I saw the outlines of other mansions.
"I keep only Frank in the house," she said, her voice calm, even, "for security and peace of mind. Two maids come, during the week to keep the place neat. They don't do a very good job but I have other things to care about."
I remained standing, silent.
I felt her hand touch my buttocks. I flinched at the touch of her cold fingers.
"Relax, I shan't hurt you," she said.
That failed to reassure me.
"I let Frank take care of that."
Hot juice dripped inside my tunnel. Cold fear gripped my chest.
"I don't like all the sweating, the screaming," she said, "come, follow me."
I felt awkward following her in my underwear while she led me back to the sitting room, all clad in her sober black dress. I thought full nakedness would be preferable to this partial state of undress but it was not my choice.
She opened a cabinet on the wall and I felt my knees grow weak and my pelvis burn. It was full of rods, crops, canes, whips and other instruments of torture.
She held a dog whip in her hand. The business end swung slowly as her free hand slid over my belly.
"Do you cut easily?" she asked as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"It depends on the instrument," I replied.
She showed me a long thin crop, "For how long would this mark you?" she asked, "Wielded by a strong hand."
I shook my head, fear replacing arousal, "Two weeks, I think."
"Remove your bra."
I did so. My breasts stood proudly on my chest. I covered them with my hands. I feared this woman looking at them; comparing them, perhaps, with her own withered dugs. I feared what she might do to them. The tremors that shook my body could not be hidden.
"You are afraid," she said.
It was not a question but I nodded anyway, "Yes madam."
"You have reason to be."
My innards squirmed, I gasped for breath, my mouth open. Her hand cupped my chin a finger penetrating between my lips. She held me by my jaw and moved my head this way and that. She led me back to the footstool but, before I climbed on it, she said, stretching out her hand:
"Your panties."
I placed the thong on her hand and felt the colors blooming on my face. I wished the crotch was not as soaked as I knew it to be. Her fingers examined the frilly fabric and the terrycloth crotch. A wicked smile crept to her lips as she raised it near her nose.
"A hot slut I see."
I said nothing.
I followed her back to the sitting room and, on her orders picked up a stout rubber strap with a wooden handle.
"Ask Frank to work over your derriere hard."
She sat down on one of the chairs. As I left I heard the TV turn on.
Nude, carrying the heavy rubber strap in my hand, I stumbled down the stairs to the empty main floor. I opened the door to the basement and walked down the unembellished wooden stairs that led to Frank's quarters. I found him in his sitting room. It was a large, windowless room, with thick carpet, a TV, coffee table, easy chair and shelves containing books. He was sitting on the chair reading a hard cover book. Despite the thick carpet and my bare feet, he heard me arrive and put down the book. I glanced at the cover: The Remembrance of Things Past.
His eyebrows raised, "Yes miss?"
I handed him the strap.
"She said to work over my derriere, hard." I squeaked.
"Of course," he stood up.
He brought a straight back chair from a room and sat on it; he placed a towel over his lap.
I did not need further instructions; I knew what I needed to do. With my insides rolling with heat and need, I was about to drape my body over his legs. I knew I could endure the strap on my bottom. He interrupted me.
"Go to the bathroom first," he pointed to a door on the wall.
I obeyed, a bad feeling gnawing at the back of my throat.
Splatt! The sound of the strap hitting my buttocks preceded the pain by a millisecond. Cramps racked my body as my womb and tunnel expelled their oils, my screams of pain mixing with the sounds of my release. He took his time and hit me again and, once more, a wave of bliss throbbed over my body despite the blistering pain on my bottom.
He continued spanking my bottom, hard.
My pleasure over, all I felt was the strap hitting my ass, burning my skin, the pain throbbing into my muscle, into my flesh.
"Try not to tense up so," he advised.
It was pointless. My ass clenched up of its own accord, negating any relief the soft tissue could offer; my ass muscles, tight as rocks, received each and every stroke and only relaxed between blows, when it did not help. I screamed with each stroke, the screams that so bothered the lady in black upstairs. My legs kicked and my hands grasped at the fabric of his trousers. My tears flowed unimpeded down my cheeks. His cock, under the towel, rose to poke at my belly.
I felt my bladder and understood why he had me empty it before we started.
When he finished, I stood up, still crying. His shirt was soaked with sweat. I noted the erection tenting his pants and thought he'd want me to take care of that for him but he simply handed me the strap.
"Go, she's waiting."
My ass burning like the fires of hell, I made my way up the stairs to the lady's sitting room. On the TV, one of the old "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," episodes had just finished playing.
She remained in her seat.
"Come here dear," she said.
I stood in front of her, the strap still in my hand. I felt her cold hand on the blistered skin of my ass.
"Lean forward a little dear,"
She examined my cheeks, spreading them to see better inside my crack and my untouched bunghole. I heard her breathing harder. She was aroused by this. I heard her squirm in the seat, the only thing stopping from fingering herself right then and there was her long dress.
"Put the strap back inside the cabinet and bring the canes dear."
Inside the cabinet hung five different canes. I took them to her.
She picked one, a solid rod and swished it through the air, "What do you think?" she asked, "Would it cut your skin?"
It was hard and stiff, but I thought it would not.
 "Too rigid ma'am," I answered.
"I agree," she picked up a long wicker one.
The sound it made was shriller, "Too soft, don't you think?"
"Yes ma'am," I answered.
I tried to assess the effect each one would have on my body as coldly as I could. The calmer I managed to get, the more excited she grew. Finally we chose two canes. A thin bamboo one and an even thinner rattan horror.
"The bamboo one is for your breasts dear," she said to my horror.
"Tell Frank to reserve the rattan one for your nipples," she added.
I began shaking uncontrollably; I tried to stammer an answer but could not utter any intelligible words.
As I left, before she turned the TV on, I heard her say:
"And do remind Frank to have no mercy, especially on the nipples."
"He does forget things sometimes," she murmured before the theme of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" filled the room.
The two flights of stairs down were the longest distance I ever travelled. I inched down the last flight taking so long that, by the time I reached Frank's sitting room, my cheeks covered in tears, he was standing looking up at the stairs wondering where I went. He had changed into a clean shirt.
I handed him both canes.
"What are her instructions?" he asked.
I shook my head, blubbering and could not say anything.
He put down the canes and approached me. I felt to my knees crying hysterically. He took me in his arms and carried me to the sofa. He sat on it and hugged me to his chest.
"There there," he said.
It took me a while to stop crying and collect myself. Once I got control of the waterworks I released my death grip on his neck and stood up. He stood up too.
"What are her instructions?" he asked me again.
"You are to use them on my breasts," I said.
He nodded.
"The thin one is for my n... nipples," I added.
"All right."
I had to say it, and I did; I blurted it out, before my courage broke.
"You are to have no mercy, especially on the nipples."
The tears began to flow again. Unable to control my eyes I was, at least, able to control my body. I stood still, or as still as my sobs allowed me to be.
He brought out a thick pole, the width of a pine tree, that he inserted into a hidden hole on the floor. A stout cross piece went into a groove at the top and was fixed in place by a strong metal peg. He placed a footstool by it and had me climb on the stool.
"Place your arms behind the crosspiece," he ordered.
I did so and he fastened my wrists together with handcuffs in front of my belly. The cross pole, sliding behind my back thrust my breasts out while pulling back on my shoulder joints in a pose that was as painful as it was obscene. Then he pulled out the footstool
With my feet dangling free, all my weight hung from my shoulder joints. All concerns about obscene exposure replaced by the tearing pain in my shoulders my screams filled the room and echoed on the walls. He placed a short flat board on the bottom of the vertical pole at such a height that I was able to rest my feet on it and take the weight away from my shoulders. I recovered enough of my composure to at least stop screaming.
My eyes were riveted to Frank as he picked up the bamboo cane. I saw his shirt, open at the neck and the loose khaki pants he wore, tented by an erection he needn't bother to hide. Then he began and I lost control. I screamed, and tossed my head about but he ignored my pleas. He caned my breasts with perfect tempo stopping only when, in my desperate throes, I fell off the bottom plank and hung from my shoulders from the cross. Whenever that happened he would stop and wait for me to stand on my own feet again before resuming. During this time he studiously avoided hitting my nipples.
I barely noticed he had stopped. Only when he carefully inserted a drinking straw between my lips I understood that the torture had ceased. I drank ice could water from a glass he held for me. I caught my breath and then I saw, on the coffee table the thin rattan cane.
It hadn't ended. I began to sob again. I wished he would have continued, non stop, so it would be over. He put away the water and bent to pick up the cane. Before he resumed I managed to say:
"Especially on my nipples."
I crawled up the stairs to the main floor, on my hands and knees; all the strength had left my body despite the Mountain Dew Frank made me drink after my ordeal was over. In my hand I carried the bamboo rod, not much the worse for the wear, and the remains of the thin rattan cane after it had shattered against my nipples. Across my breasts, red and purple stripes and welts had turned the, formerly white, skin into a psychotic's crossword puzzle punctuated, here and there by droplets of blood where the skin split under the vicious caning. When I got to her sitting room I stood up. The TV was off. I walked in silence through the room, carrying the canes in my hands. In the bedroom I found the old lady, stark naked, standing by the bed. Her jugs dangled, like empty wine botas, in front of her scrawny chest. Her pubic mound sported a few tufts of white hair. Her skin hung like leather from her  arms.
"On the bed," she ordered.
I lay face up on the bed, my hands still holding on to the canes, while she straddled my face and lowered her pungent cunt on to my mouth. My nose poked at her fragrant asshole as I began to lick and suck at her withered cunt.
She said she wouldn't hurt me. She lied. Her hands pawed and groped at my sore breasts but her cunt was so effective at smothering my screams that her ears were not bothered by my squeals of pain. I had to endure this until the pace of her breathing, as well as a few drops of stale moisture announced her climax.
She got off me once her orgasm was over and pulled me up by the hand.
"He did a good job on those," she said.
I followed her to her study where, again, we looked thought the instruments hanging from their pegs in the cabinets.
"Let's find something to destroy that young cunt of yours."
I felt my spine melt, acid churning in my stomach. I did not reply. I could not mouth a word. I kept my lips firmly shut against the waves of nausea that rolled in my belly.
I managed not to puke.
She picked up an old fashioned car antenna.
I ran to the bathroom and violently hurled.
She did not follow me. I rinsed my mouth, using some of her mouthwash; who uses regular Listerine anymore? before returning to her.
"Ask Frank to give you three good strikes across your tummy, to see how it works."
I endured them in silence. They would be but caresses in comparison with what would follow. When I returned to the lady she examined my belly.
"It will do nicely."
While I stood in front of the naked hag, the aerial in my hand, she added:
"Tell Frank to give you the last five directly on your clit."
I did not get the last five directly on my clit, although I reminded him and Frank tried. My lips were so swollen by then, torn and shattered by the unforgiving metal, that the steel antenna could only reach my clitoris after first sliding between the swollen curtains of flesh. It was not my fault that my screams were louder. I wasn't able to talk by then.
I crawled up the stairs, and through her study, the aerial forgotten in the basement. I reached her room exhausted; too spent to be afraid, after all: What more could she possibly do to me?
Inside the room, I saw her from her flank, a massive strap on dildo sticking out from her pelvis.
"Here, on the bed," she said.
"Let's see if Frank did a good job."
I found my answer. I hope my screams bothered her.
When she finished pounding my shredded cunt, my insides felt as raw as my outside and my uterus and bowels felt as if a mule had taken a kickboxing lesson with them. Lying prone on the bed, my legs spread open, blood streaming from my destroyed pussy I heard her say:
"Stand up slut."
Using up reserves of strength I never knew I had, I slowly pushed myself off the bed and stood, wavering in front of her.
She pulled the sheet open and slid into the bed.
"Frank deserves a reward. Go ask him to fuck your ass before he takes you home."
I turned and walked to the door.
"And turn the lights off when you leave."


Hope you like it. I hope to have it finished before Christmas, New Year at the latest.



Thursday, November 17, 2011

What I'm up to

Have not posted in a while; been busy.
I am currently working in three projects, three!
First is a follow up on the twelve labors of Andromeda. This time she will be sent on different missions for her master and will tell all to her submissive friend in a series of letters. Working title: The Letters of Andromeda.
Second is an exploration of voluntary total slavery.
Third is a very dark piece on a woman's obsession with danger and yielding control and where it takes her.
I'll try to keep you guys more updated.

Friday, September 30, 2011

The Descent is now # 10

Slowly, almost unnoticed, The Descent has climbed up the ladder and is now sitting at # 10.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Descent update

The Descent has reached #17 on the bestseller list at A1.
I am quite happy to see that.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Descent is on the bestseller list.

The descent has made it to #19 on A1 bestseller list.
Get it here: www.a1adultebooks.com/1663.htm
or get it at amazon for kindle here:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Descent-ebook/dp/B005M3L2ES/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_4

Monday, September 12, 2011

Bestsellers

At A 1 "Her Body" is the best selling of my books followed by "The Spider"
That is if we do not count the Amazon sales where The Spider has sold (as of June) 57 copies.
Interesting facts.
Of all the books I've written, I still think Blue and The Appointment are my faves, followed by The Twelve labors of Andromeda.
Check out the Amazon versions here
http://www.amazon.com/The-Descent-ebook/dp/B005M3L2ES/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
and
http://www.amazon.com/The-Spider-ebook/dp/B004M5HK6Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1315841936&sr=1-1

Friday, September 9, 2011

The Descent is on Amazon!

It is out on the Kindle store.
You can find it under Kindle e books--->Erotica----> Polecat.
Or just go here:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Descent-ebook/dp/B005M3L2ES/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1315608982&sr=1-2

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Monday, September 5, 2011

Not today. Maybe Thursday

"The Descent" did not come out today. Maybe Thursday.
Meanwhile check out the review of "The Spider" at the Amazon Kindle web site.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Lana's story

Do any of you remember Lana? She;s the house slave girl from "The Force of Circumstance"
http://www.a1adultebooks.com/site.php?pr=2774&ec=

In any case, there is a snuff, implied cannibalism scene in that story that I toned down a lot for the site. I toned down so much that the story ended up in their general erotica/erotic romance section.
Here is the scene, toned up.  WARNING NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH


I was sold, along with four girls from my village. The colonel who bought us from our parents took us to Bangkok where he sold me and another girl to a pimp that worked among the tourist hotels and clubs. At school, the teachers made sure we learned at least one foreign language, English usually, sometimes German or French. I never saw the other two girls again.
 Every time I, or any girl, is re-sold, her family gets a ten percent commission. That’s the rule and it is always followed. I worked for this pimp for about two years, servicing European and American tourists, before a Japanese man came to see him; he wanted to buy, not rent, two girls. He chose me and another one, let’s call her Susan.
 We stayed with the Japanese man for a week while he traveled around the country. He was cruel and mean, and he often would beat or kick us, for the flimsiest reason, or for no reason, because it pleased him to hurt us. He fucked us, in all possible ways too, but that wasn’t too bad; he was quite small, and he finished very fast.
We knew he had a reason for buying us both; he did not intend to return us to the pimp. This was good for our families since they got their commission, but it did not bode well for us. An American or European may buy a girl and keep her for a long time, or even take her back home. A Japanese or Korean man would never do that. Women sold to them usually disappear.
 He told us why he bought us. He wanted us to know, to see our fear, it got him off. He got angry when we did not cry, or beg for mercy. He stripped us both naked and lashed us with a rattan cane. He only stopped because he did not want to cut our skin. Then he beat us on the soles of our feet until they were on fire and it hurt so much to walk that when we did, it seemed we were dancing.
 Finally, he delivered us to an older man; he was a Sensei, a master. He took us from the Japanese man.
“Tomorrow at two all will be ready,” he said.
He did not mistreat us. He was actually quite kind. He gave us the first good news we had since the Japanese man bought us. He would only use one of us, the other would be spared.
 The next day, Sensei told us who he had selected. It was to be Susan. He left us alone in a room, so we had time to cry and say our good byes.
“Come out when you feel ready,” he said.
When we did, he told me that my job was to comfort Susan, to help keep her calm, to make her more comfortable. He gave us both some sake, but I don’t think it helped much. He told us what we needed to do. We undressed and followed him to a well lit room where a group of men, Japanese or Koreans sat around a metal table. They applauded when we entered, nude and unbound, and stood beside the table.
We bowed to them.
Susan kissed me and I kissed her back. We heard the leering comments of the men, I could imagine what they were saying but, fortunately, I could not understand their words.
Susan turned around and crossed her hands behind her back. I bound them there with a scarlet ribbon. She then sat on the steel table.
“It is cold,” she said.
She lay down on the table, her head hanging off a lunette that had been cut on one of the ends of the table. She began to shake in fear, her rapid breathing showing me she was approaching panic. I was terrified too, but Sensei had warned me that this would happen and told me what to do. I crouched by her face and caressed her cheeks.
“There, there,” I said, “it will be all right, it will be OK.”
If Susan had said that it would not be OK, knowing, as she did, what would happen to her in only a few minutes, I might have killed myself then and there, but she didn’t. Despite her terror, she tried to calm down; it wasn’t easy.
“Take deep breaths,” I said, “deep cleansing breaths.”
She followed my instructions and her breathing slowed down although she was still shaking. I noticed her nipples were erect, as were mine; the room was cold.
 Sensei arrived; he adjusted the table so Susan’s head lay slightly below her feet.
“Feet must be higher than head, or air will suck into heart and death come too soon.”
He pulled out a knife with a curved blade, a little larger than a paring knife. The blade was dark in color, with a pattern of irregular lines on its surface. I later learned that was because it was hand-made and the lines were where the artisan who forged it bent the steel over itself, dozens, maybe scores of times, hammering it into shape. This kind of blade kept its edge much better than stainless steel.
Trembling, I could not draw my eyes from the knife, and despite its terrible purpose, I could not help but admire the beauty of the iridescent patterns on the surface of the blade.
 With his finger, Sensei traced the line he would use on Susan’s quivering neck.
“Not deep, must not cut artery,” he said, “cut vein only, so blood drains slowly.”
I sensed Susan panicking again under my hands. I encouraged her to take deep breaths. I wished I could take my own advice. I kept caressing her face with my hands and, not knowing what else to do, I bent over and kissed her cheek, oblivious to the jeering cat calls of the men.
“Knife very sharp,” Sensei reassured us, “cut little painful.”
Susan only whimpered when Sensei drew the knife across one side of her neck, leaving a crimson line behind that soon became a small red river. He did the same on the other side. Twin rivers of blood now flowed from her neck into a large bucket under the table.
She was still alive and conscious. The knife had avoided her windpipe and the arteries so she could breathe, and talk. I kept caressing her face, my hands now scarlet with her blood, and kissing her, on her cheek and lips, over and over.
“So cold,” she said.
Later, when the rivers had dwindled to small streams and her skin had the color of coconut meat, with her breath coming in irregular gasps, she said:
“Thank you Lana.”
I saw her pupils dilate, and the shine of life leave her eyes. The blood ceased to flow from her neck.
I stood by the table, my eyes full of tears, over the inert body of my friend. Sensei approached us.
“Help me,” he ordered.
He cranked a handle at the bottom of the table so that the foot of the table rose even higher and a little more blood drained from her.
The men now left their seats and went outside, to drink and wait for the appetizers.
Leaving the table tilted, he cut into her abdomen, stabbing into the skin, just above the pubic bone and extending the incision until he reached the breast bone. He worked fast, extracting the stomach and intestines, as well as the liver and kidneys from her body. He dropped the, still warm, organs in a large bucket I held for him. He cut around the diaphragm, took a smaller knife in his hand and reached inside the chest. I saw her mouth move, as if she would speak. Terrified, I brought my blood stained hands up, to cover my face.
He pulled on something and the lungs, heart and windpipe came out. Her tongue was still attached to the voice box at the end of her windpipe. When he dropped the organs in the bucket, her voice box made a noise that sounded like a sigh.
He ordered me to clean the insides with a hose. When I cleaned the gore out of my friend’s body, I had to douse the cavity liberally with salt and pepper out of a crock and brush the insides generously with oil and soy sauce.
While I did that, Sensei took Susan’s liver and cut it into thin slices, coated it with a paste of spicy Thai chilies and tossed it seared the slices on a hibachi. One of his assistants took the seared liver outside to serve it to the waiting men.
He brought two buckets of stuffing. I do not know what he used but, even in my numb state, I had to admit it smelled delicious. Once we stuffed Susan with the contents of the two buckets he closed the incision with thick twine, and I helped him truss my friend, bending her thighs and knees over her belly, and doing the same for her arms. I massaged a load of butter into her hair before wrapping it in aluminum foil. I also massaged her skin with butter until she was completely covered with a thick coat of it.
His two assistants then brought two stout poles and we tilted her body this way and that, until it rested on the poles. They lifted her and placed her on a shallow oiled pan. The poles fit in rings along the side of the pan so they could place her into the already hot oven.
She would have to roast for five hours.
It was my job to baste her body, after the first hour and every thirty minutes afterwards.
While she baked in the oven, Sensei diced her kidneys and dumped them in lemon juice. His assistants washed her intestines and stomach and also dumped them in pails with lemon juice. The intestines would be used for casings and the stomach would be served with chili peppers and potatoes at a later date.
When Susan was done, we removed her from the oven. I removed the foil from around her hair. She looked almost alive, although her skin had turned golden brown. When the assistants took her into the dining room, with Sensei following, I heard a great ovation.
Sensei did not force me to watch as he carved and served my friend’s flesh. Curled into a fetal position, on the steel table where she’d died, I cried. I heard the men’s comments and the sound of silverware. I found a small bottle of Sake that Sensei left for me. I drank it all. It did not help.
Later, Sensei brought me a plate of my friend’s flesh.
“Eat,” he said.
I shook my head, “No.”
He sat down beside me, my friend’s meat on the plate between us.
“She fulfilled her destiny,” Sensei said. “Don’t reject her sacrifice now.”
I looked at him, my eyes swollen from crying.
He looked at me with his wise eyes and said:
“If you had been in her place, wouldn’t you have wanted your friend to enjoy your flesh too?”
She was delicious.

The End.