European Nightmare Part VI

Flickering on the wall in an eerie intermittent glow like some bizarre puppet show, a dark figure twisted and jerked in mid-air, dancing a strange jig as the candle’s light moved with every draught. The room’s almost dead silence, save for the occasional creak or whimper, made the movement even more odd, disjointed and unhuman. And in a sense it was. The shadow was no inanimate puppet or flickering light show but outlined what had been an innocent and beautiful young woman. Now still, the latex clad object dangling limply from the rafters looked no more human than its shadow, a grotesque husk of what she had been. If she could have seen herself, Holly wouldn’t have recognised the girl who walked into the bar that fateful night.

With a face just a sheen of black barely hinting at features and eyes covered in a thick black leather blindfold, Holly’s black blindness mirrored her fractured mind. A blessing perhaps for in a pitch black world, she could not see what had been done to her body. If Holly’s mountainous chest had always attracted male leers, now it was not just the size of her huge breasts that caught the gaze. Battered, bruised and swollen, her pale luscious mounds were now bulbous globes of pain, the soft white flesh now scarlet as the ropes below each tit bit hard into a flesh overlain by a patchwork of variegated bruises whose colours and shapes resembled countries in a nightmarish red atlas. Most striking were her swollen pierced nipples which leaked a white fluid like marbled fat in meat, running zig-zag down her boobs to saturate the rope wrapped around her chest and dribble further down her gleaming jet black body. Following her smooth contours, converging into two white rivers running down her black legs and over her encased feet, they dripped drop by drop off her toes into a growing puddle on the floor. The supply was constant, the viscous liquid resembling a solid line of chalk. But Holly had no sense of this, unable to distinguish her nipples’ discomfort from other pain. Blind and in an almost silent room, she could almost have rested – except that all of her was in pain, ranging from mild discomfort to a constant deep throbbing agony of her battered tits. And her head was filled not just with pain but a terrible fear that she would never escape this living hell.

Across the room, Olivia was equally tightly and uncomfortably bound. When Greta left, it was just bearable but her position forced Olivia to look up at the candle jammed into her arsehole and so, when the first drop of hot wax ran onto her perineum, she was not surprised. After many minutes, it ran onto her sensitive labia, covering her crotch in wax. But when the flame heating the wax burnt level with her arse cheeks, she suddenly felt an area numb since her anal rape. As it melted in her newly ravaged arsehole, she began to whine in pain and as it melted even deeper into her rectum, her noises soon turned the basement from near silence into a chamber of pain filled screams. After hours of pain in the flickering light, the candle finally burnt out and the girls were in darkness. But now, after lying on a hard wooden table with her legs bent painfully up by her head for hours, Olivia was getting frequent excruciating cramps. Being bound in such a position for so long took its toll despite a flexibility allowing her to endure longer than most women. Each time the agony exploded along her legs, she squealed through the open gag, her inarticulate piercing screeches shattering the basement’s dark silence.

————————————-

White gravel crackled beneath black tyres as a heavy car rolled up a magnificent driveway of a stone castle rising above, back-grounded by mountains. It almost seemed the movie-set home of a villain from a James Bond film and was certainly equally malevolent. As the car stopped at the stone steps of the entrance, Jeremiah smiled in pleasant recollection. This time though was different for, unlike his previous visits, he had not come empty handed. This time he had a sweat covered toy.

After the exhausting journey from the airport, Melissa now lay on the car’s luxurious leather seat, her large chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. A soft humming sound came from her crotch as Jeremiah twiddled his thumb on a small black box and she jumped as the sound increased and vibrations shuddered through her body. Squeezing her legs together to stop the dildos from vibrating so powerfully, she sat upright and forced her feet into the floor. In vain. She had tried to stop it before and couldn’t, her efforts belied by her sweat covered body and saturated clothes. To her right Tyrus mockingly laughed. Closing her eyes as the vibrations took effect, Melissa tried to think about something, anything else but it was impossible. Hours of near constant stimulation and lubrication had made her pussy incredibly sore, the vibrations causing far more pain than pleasure. But still her body responded, again lubricating her already wet. Accepting the inevitable, Melissa tried to enjoy the brief respite from pain as yet another orgasm began to build.

She still wore the baggy clothes of the airport so her body would not keep Jeremiah from sleeping. A bonus was seeing the crotch of her light grey tracksuit bottoms turn a wet soggy black from all the stimulation and it took great willpower not to rip the bitch’s clothes off and drive his cock into her dripping cunt. But in the next few days he would cum so much that he had to pace himself. When young he had used his wealth to just bang girls, his taste pure vanilla. Even after marrying a former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader 20 years ago, he had only done some light bondage. It took time to find the side of him that now bought him halfway across the world. As his wife’s libido fell, he discovered at 38 his rather unusual preferences through internet bondage porn, BDSM books and literature and an occasional illicit meeting with submissive sexual partners. Escalating quickly, delving deep into the dark web to view more extreme torture porn, he then visited Greta Schweinberg’s infamous castle. Where he was right now, reviewing his journey to what he now regarded as a sacred place. Fiddling with the black box controlling the vibrators stuffed into Melissa, he smiled as she jumped and tried to stifle her unwanted climax. Then he heard footsteps on the gravel outside.

Melissa had been close to reluctant orgasm when Jeremiah dialed in its highest setting, her body shaking so violently that she could not stop her teeth chattering. And then after a moment of O-ing silence, her swollen clitoris and pussy pushed her into a flailing form writhing on the limousine’s leather seat, screeching her strongest orgasm of the day. Just then the door abruptly opened and a shaft of daylight sliced into the car. As the vibrating bullets inside her mercifully stopped, Melissa looked at the open door where she saw a face and then that it was female. Seeing a woman for the first time in her captivity filled her with hope. Which lasted a second before being taken away.

“Welcome back, Mr Johnson,” the Asian woman said, completely ignoring the sweaty panting woman across from the fat American, “would you like help with your cargo?”

Melissa was stunned. A woman was helping the man who had raped and tortured her! And had even referred to her as ‘cargo’! Even as she lay there panting and sweating from multiple forced orgasms, aching from weeks of sustained torture, this woman showed no interest in helping her. She looked helplessly around but clearly nobody here, wherever it was, would help her.

“No, thank you,” Jeremiah replied, “she’ll do as I say. Come on, girl, out!”

His sharp tone required Melissa to obey or face his wrath. Her body ached but she steadied her buckling legs with her hands and, bent over, staggered like a newly born foal slowly to the door. Since the vibrators made extending her legs difficult, she paused there to work out how to step down. Given her weakness, the sudden firm slap on her arse made her legs collapse and, unable to hold on, she sprawled out of the car onto the stony gravel.

As the two men cackled in laughter, the blonde lay on the drive, hurt and humiliated. The Asian woman looked on. She didn’t enjoy odious foreign men treating women in an infantile way just to get off and often pitied the women who were sadists’ playthings. Still she did nothing. Blood trickling from a cut on her forehead, Melissa struggled up, looking at the woman for aid. But the Asian knew that helping her would earn a one way ticket to a torture chamber and ignored her. The blonde did not know this, viewing her as just another cruel person who loved inflicting pain. But the elegant woman, dressed in black, knew where she had come from and what she had left behind.

As their laughter died, Jeremiah began the significant task of hauling himself out of the low riding car. Gripping the rim with thick sausage-like fingers, he slowly swung his legs out, his cowboy boots crunching the gravel. Now came the hard part. First steadying himself, he swayed back and forth then took a huge breath and used his momentum to pull himself out of the car. Though red with the exertion, the woman didn’t help; he was be far too proud to accept and would immediately report her to the castle owner. Like an elephant raising itself in the morning, he hauled himself up, his groans and creaks from the car’s suspension filling the air. Finally standing, he paused to catch his breath and readjust his belt before smiling at the woman, totally unembarrassed by his struggle to get out of a car. Behind him, slim and athletic, Tyrus patiently waited.

“This way please, Mr Johnson,” the woman said as she turned and started toward the castle, her long high heels requiring intense concentration to walk fluidly on the loose gravel.

Stiff from the journey, Jeremiah stretched and looked at his surroundings, the towering peaks of this stunning valley far different from the barren desert of his Texan oilfields or the drab cityscape around his Dallas office. Jeremiah was not awed by it. He was not a student of culture or nature and his tremendous wealth had not changed that. For him the real sights of this place lay inside. He had been waiting long enough and it was time to do what he enjoyed most.

“Quickly,” Jeremiah snapped to his captive, “there’s a lot in store for you inside.”

His chuckle after the comment made Melissa’s skin crawl as she stumbled toward the castle’s massive stone steps. Turning her head as much as she dared, she took in the jaw dropping scenery. She normally enjoyed looking at mountains and sweeping valleys but these only inspired dread. Even if she escaped, there was nothing around to help. What’s more, it was hardly inconspicuous and yet she already had a sense of what went on here. How could such a place exist in 21st century Europe? But her musings did not solve her problem and her dawdling now drew her captor’s ire.

“Move, cunt!” Jeremiah barked so loudly he clearly wasn’t worried about being overheard.

With her legs still weak, she took uncertain small steps and, her confidence shot, was unsure where to put her arms. Her self-esteem was so low that she now meekly decided to hold them across her chest. Acutely aware of eyes boring into her back, crossing the massive driveway to the steps took an age. As the dribble of constant orgasms dried on her legs and her wet underwear started to chafe, she kept her head down and climbed, the clicking heels of the Asian woman always before her. At the top, the woman waited at a huge wooden door and she also stopped, desperate not to go in. As her tormentor wheezingly approached, his inability to even climb stairs easily only worsened her disgust and shame. With a tremendous sigh, he arrived and Melissa shuddered.

Behind her, Jeremiah paused for breath. On first coming here nearly twenty years ago, he had bounded up these steps, excited at what lay in store for him. Now he could barely crawl up. But it didn’t bother him for regardless of how he got here, when he did he would enjoy its delights just the same. Still wheezing heavily, he waddled over to Melissa and placed his hand on her arse.

“Pretty darn impressive, isn’t it?” he asked, speaking to her as a father might a daughter, though of course not wanting an answer, “Just wait till you see what’s inside. I can’t wait to see what you make of everything, baby. And I promise, if you pay attention, it’ll be very educational. Shall we go in?”

Giving her firm rump a squeeze and a slap, he walked on. With no chance of escape, she reluctantly started forward as the Asian woman pushed against the stone archway of the door and the great wooden panel swung open. As the four of them went in, her heart sank.

———————————————————————-

Lucy blankly stared at the wall, transfixed by images of what she had seen and her own disturbing thoughts. It was like repeatedly watching a movie where the thwack of staves on the hanging girl’s body and her piercing screams were the soundtrack to images of the red haired woman and the grotesquely tattooed man gleefully smiling as they brutally beat the girl. But it was not a mental patient’s stare, blankly seeing troubling images. When the woman had returned her, she had tightly hugged the blue robe to her slender frame and sat, thinking. Surviving here clearly meant obeying orders or suffer terrible punishment, not only to her but her friends whose whereabouts and fate she knew nothing. More disturbing than captivity or being fucked everyday was that she, a cold but ultimately kind hearted girl, was expected to inflict terrible pain on innocent people. As she considered how she could ever bring herself to do that, the door suddenly opened.

Scarlet filled the gap and Lucy physically recoiled, backing up to the wall. The woman she was thinking of was even more intimidating in person than seen through the glass. Despite ludicrously high leather boots, she still stood over six feet tall and her appearance terrified the teenager. With orange hair so bright it almost gave off light, a heavily made up alabaster complexion and tightly cinched-in corseted waist she looked almost other-worldly. And if now her red robe was not open but tied, little was left to the imagination as her obscene breasts pushed against the thin silk and her nipples looked like bursting through. But her green eyes looked at Lucy impassively.

When the woman threw down a pair of heels, Lucy slid off the bed to sit next to them. It felt like forever since she had anything on her feet and as one who loved fashion, she was quite excited. The shoes were nice, almost ones she might have picked herself. Sliding her feet in, she wasn’t surprised at the perfect fit; this operation was well organised and getting this detail right was easy. As she tied the straps, she tried to enjoy the small familiarity before being again forced to do, witness or endure something horrible. Finished, she stayed seated, passively resisting whatever was next.

“Get up,” the woman said in a strong Eastern European accent, “you come with me.”

Unlike last time, this woman didn’t turn and expect her to come but just waited. Standing up, Lucy found the heels higher than she usually wore but not unmanageably so. Slowly and a little ungainly, she walked to the door, expecting the woman to turn and lead on. When she didn’t, Lucy nearly walked into her massive chest. Unsure of what to do, she meekly waited for her next order.

“Stand straight,” the woman barked, “let me look at you.”

Standing up, Lucy raised her head and chin, trying to look confident and avoid further humiliation. The red headed woman looked at her then circled, examining her body with eyes and hands. When she grabbed her arse, the girl flinched but stayed composed, the grab nothing to what she had already endured. Continuing to poke and prod, the long nails easily felt through the thin silk gown, she moved to Lucy’s front and used both hands to clasp her breasts, tracing the outline and then slightly squeezing them as if inspecting fruit. Then, seemingly satisfied, she put her hands down.

“Not bad,” the woman said and Lucy was strangely relieved to have passed the test, “nice tight ass, good legs, thin. Tits small but I don’t think for long. Let’s go.”

As she turned and strode off, hair and robe flowing, Lucy followed, feeling strangely ungainly on the heels and shocked by the penultimate sentence. She had always been proud that her breasts were decent enough for a cleavage, big enough for men to love playing with during sex and small enough to wear any dress without a bra. She didn’t envy her friends their more ample chests but now this bizarre woman was talking about making her a freak like her. But with nothing to do about it now, Lucy just followed, looking and thinking. Where the Asian woman had been in total control of herself and situation, this one looked different, her walk far less graceful, her control artificial, really not one who decided her own fate. If not comforting, for the first time Lucy felt a sense of power.

Acting on this new inner strength, Lucy moved faster to catch up. The corridor seemed longer than before but then she realised they were going in the other direction. Adjusted to the heels, she now strode confidently behind the red robe, almost appearing to be the one in control, her grace and poise far exceeding the woman in front. Lucy couldn’t know it but that thinking was intended. When the woman came to a heavy wooden door, Lucy instantly noticed she knocked, unlike her previous guide who had pressed her hand to the stone. When it opened and they walked through, Lucy expected to see someone at the door but there was nobody. But people were there.

This room was neither a dark cell nor filled with the sight and sound of sex but draped in purple velvet. Wearing different coloured robes of the same design as Lucy’s, women stood or sat on chairs or couches, all silent and oblivious to the others with only the eerie chiming of some gentle Oriental music breaking the quiet. When the two entered, no-one even looked to note the woman’s bizarre appearance. Fearing reprisals, Lucy didn’t ask what was going on and so merely waited for some cue.

Leaving Lucy, the woman strode to the end wall and sat on a couch. As the door clicked closed, for the first time Lucy was free of threat but had no idea of what to do and just walked after the woman, trying to project control. It was like walking into a prison yard where how she acted determined her standing. On the wall was a small ticket dispenser and despite no idea of its purpose, she took a number – ‘64’ – then made for a velvet chair and sat down. Suddenly there was a loud beeping and Lucy looked up, convinced she had done something wrong. Everyone was looking at a screen above the door which displayed a bright red ‘42’. As the other women looked away, a woman from the back approached the opening door and left. Since taking a ticket was no mistake, Lucy relaxed and settled down to wait with a mix of fear and some small curiosity for her number to appear.

———————————————————————-

As he looked at the man swaying in his chair, Daniel Hanneman began to think it all a complete waste of time and money. The first drink he bought him was clearly not his first and sipping his own double whiskey, he thought about how to get anything from this sad excuse for a man.

“So,” he said, edgily annoyed, “do you have ANY information about those three girls?”

“Oh yeah,” the man slurred, his purpose in the bar coming back to him, “those three off the news. I did see them in this bar a few nights ago now you mention it.”

“Yes,” the detective was exasperated, “you said that before. You also said they sat with two Turkish guys, do you remember that?”

“I do!” the man exclaimed, “sat in that booth over there. All three were drunk, falling about….”

“Yes!” Daniel’s bark made others at the bar look at them. He was far too busy and the case far too important to repeat the same material over and over. If what he had learned last night was all the man knew then this was another wasted day. Which he’d had far too many of recently. “Can you tell me anything new? Have you seen the two Turks here before? You said one worked at the bar?”

“Ah yes,” the man said, unperturbed by his irritated tone, “one does work here. He’s quite unfriendly, only interested in the women who come here.”

Finally, Daniel thought, he was getting somewhere. Of course this man’s story needed checking but having one potential suspect was a start. But he needed more to take to his superiors. Over the next hours he tried, buying him drink after drink. It was largely fruitless, the man’s drunken ramblings often having no information at all. But just occasionally an useful snippet prompted Daniel to continue. One point was intriguing. The man recognised three of the women missing over the last few years, each time saying the same bartender and friend spoke to them. But after so many drinks, Daniel saw he would get nothing more. It was time to see what the bar staff could tell him. Thanking the man and leaving change to pay for the drinks, he headed for the bar.

Behind the bar, the same short haired girl of the previous night watched the haggard detective approach. She had seen plenty of police officers down on their luck, drinking then making horrible leers and comments. She knew she had to take some customer abuse but when it came from those in authority it was worse. Still, she knew her job and as he came over she stopped drying the glass.

“Can I help you, Sir?” she said with a professional smile.

“Good evening, Miss,” the detective said, trying not to sound intoxicated, “as a matter of fact you can. I was wondering if I might have a few moments of your time?”

The woman sighed before answering, knowing that since barely anybody was in the bar she could hardly claim to be busy. And men like this gave her most of her tips so it paid to be pleasant.

“Of course,” she smiled.

“Oh thank you,” Daniel was surprised she gave him any time at all, “I’d like to know if you knew anything about these three missing English girls?”

The pretty girl’s eyes widened and she looked around uneasily. She had hoped the man had moved on from last night’s subject but clearly not. After going home she had thought about the girls while struggling to sleep. The more she thought the more she was convinced she had seen them and the more she realised how suspicious it was. She remembered them being taken outside too drunk to stand, by a guy she worked with and his friend. He’d started about eighteen months ago, seemingly out of nowhere and gave her the creeps. But what really worried her was that after taking them out, not unusual in itself, he hadn’t come back. After checking nervously, she leant over the bar.

“Yes,” she said, “I think I do.”

“Ok,” the detective said softly, “tell me everything you can.”

Taking out his notebook and pen, his excitement was so great he had to stop himself from shaking but he tried to remain calm, the girl’s nervousness very clear. The testimony of some old drunk helped but his superiors would ridicule it. This was far more believable and for the first time he might actually be taken seriously. As she nervously looked from side to side, he prepared to write.

“Well,” she began, “I’m not 100% sure.”

“That’s OK,” he said, desperate for any information, “Any information could help find these girls.”

Encouraged, the girl told him what she knew. When he showed her pictures of other missing women, amazingly she recognised some and talked further. But soon she stopped.

“I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, “I have to close up now.”

“Ok,” he said, “but write down your contact details so we can be in touch if we need more help.”

After she did, Hannemann gathered his stuff and left. In the cold night air, he felt braced by his progress and decided to go in tomorrow with his findings. Of course he needed more time to speak to this girl and perhaps do some recon but he couldn’t ignore the urgency. The chance of finding them after three days was slim to non-existent and help had to come now. So he readied himself for his biggest moment. That night, drifting off to sleep, the thought of being a hero filled his dreams.

—————————————————————–

Olivia had no idea how long she had been bound in the dark but she did know that every second was agony, her legs screaming in pain as the tight bondage kept her in throbbing stillness. Certain irreparable damage had been done, her tortured mind was filled with images of being crippled, her legs stretched beyond recognition, her whole body a grotesque mess. Her other pains, her burnt crotch or bruised breasts were nothing to the burning pain in her lower body. Exhausted by her screams, all she could do was occasionally cry out, her ring-gagged mouth allowing only the most pathetic wails and mewls, the sounds adding to the creaking at the other side of the room. She was so desperate to escape this hell that on hearing heels click on the stone steps she felt relief.

That the arrival of the girls’ chief tormentor evoked this emotion was no accident. Walking down the stairs, Greta knew what they felt, her control of her captives so great she could make them feel any emotion she chose, having often done so to many other women. Reaching the bottom, she strode into the room, her high heels very clear in the dungeon’s near silence. Counting her steps till level with the table, she then moved up to listen to the anguished sounds coming from the doubled up girl who whimpered even knowing her captor was listening and enjoying them. Silently smiling, Greta touched her taut hamstring. The blonde gasped and Greta chuckled as the muscle quivered uncontrollably. Rubbing her hand up and down the agonised limb, she leant in.

“Does it hurt yet, baby?” she whispered, knowing full well the girl had been in agony for hours, “I bet even those beautiful toned legs are cramping up terribly by now. But do not worry, you will soon be up and getting down to work. First though, I seem to remember I gave you a little something to keep you company but it seems to have gone out. Shall we have a look?”

On that, a spotlight suddenly turned on. Olivia shut her eyes to lessen the light’s intensity but her eyelids still flashed painfully. Knowing it was coming, Greta had turned away. Now she looked at the remains of the candle jammed in the girl’s arse. A storm ravaged red sea covered her crotch and arse cheeks, bumps in the wax rising and falling like dunes in a barren desert. From the main body small rivulets ran down her back and beneath her breasts. Running a long finger down Olivia’s leg and onto the wax, Greta pressed it. Its firmness showed it had been cool for hours but the ring of pink skin round that sea of red was evidence that each drop of wax had burned, if only momentarily.

“Ahhh,” Greta said as if genuinely excited, “that looks so pretty! Look at it!”

Pulling her golden mane, Greta forced her head up, bending her body still more. Olivia opened her eyes. She had not looked at the candle jutting from her arse and hadn’t seen the full extent of her wax panties. Now she had to watch Greta move a finger to her arsehole, now completely corked with wax, and onto the red mound of her encased pussy. Tapping a long nail on the hardened shell, she then crashed Olivia’s head onto the table. Briefly blanking out, Olivia’s eyes flashed painfully.

“Very pretty,” Greta whispered, “but sadly it cannot stay like that. You will not be much good with two holes blocked, will you? So I must get rid of it. But first, that horrible gag needs to come off.”

Feeling for the buckle at the back of Olivia’s head, Greta undid the tiny clasp to release the leather strap. After working the metal ring out of Olivia’s teeth, she watched her react to her mouth’s newfound freedom. As always, the struggle amused her. Acting as if she had just woken from a night of drinking, mouth dry and lips wrinkled, the teenager tried to wet her mouth then remembered what had been done to her tongue and hesitated. Discovering the surgery still allowed almost normal use, she tentatively ran her tongue round her mouth as Greta clicked her fingers loudly.

“That is much better.” Greta didn’t expect an answer as she held out her hand for Mehmet to give her a small plastic baton. Wrapping a hand in Olivia’s golden mane, she again pulled her head up as she weighed the baton and swished it slowly, tantalisingly through the air.

“I will not insult your intelligence and lie,” Greta said, slowly swinging the baton up, “this is going to hurt. But you can watch and use that mouth of yours to finally please your mistress.”

On that, she smashed the baton into the barely visible outline of Olivia’s hidden pussy. The impact was instantly drowned by her reverberating wail of agony which Greta enjoyed immensely. Her pain didn’t end with that sickening thump for her body involuntarily bucked in response. Tied so tight she couldn’t move, this caused an almighty spasm in her legs. And her torment was far from over.

For Greta, Olivia’s noise just proved she was doing a good a job, a huge crack in the wax showing the soft skin beneath. Eagerly continuing, the black plastic crashed near the first, thudding into the girl’s crotch and exploding small shards of red wax from the surface to open yet another gash that revealed more bronzed skin. Olivia scream was intense, her mind racing with images of horrendous bruises and broken bones. Her next swing squarely hit Olivia’s right arse cheek, loosening a large chunk over the base of her pussy. Flicked away by her abuser, her inviting sex was at last exposed.

Mehmet watched Greta’s fourth strike and listened to another piercing shriek in the theatre of screams. When he had seen the little teen, his cock had stiffened but now, watching Greta beat the girl so brutally, he felt annoyed. He had brought quite a few women here but since meeting her in the bar three nights ago, he could not get Olivia out of his head. Before talking to the three teens, the men decided to take them to the castle and so he’d convinced himself he wasn’t interested in what they said when she chatted on with a reckless easy-to-listen-to abandon. Though supposedly scouting them, he had found himself drawn to the little blonde. It hadn’t stopped him raping or hurting her but for some reason he didn’t quite understand, watching Greta crash another fierce blow on the girl’s pubes created a strange anger. He felt this one his; he had found her and only he should do this to her. Still, he knew his duty and if he interrupted Greta while she was working, well, he wasn’t sure what would happen but he didn’t care to find out. And so he stood watching as the sight of Olivia’s beautiful pink pussy stirred his lust once again.

In a world of pain, Olivia wasn’t thinking of Mehmet at all. The excruciating stretching of her legs was now joined by the baton’s rhythmic pounding whose force felt great enough to shatter bones. Pulled up by her hair, she had to watch each sickening blow. If she hadn’t felt the pain she wouldn’t have thought it was her. The situation was so unbelievable she still subconsciously hoped it was all some awful dream, that she’d wake in a hospital having been spiked but safe. But these actions were real, real pain, real humiliation and real cruelty. As another blow slammed into her and another chunk fell away, the wax was now only strips criss-crossing her hips, streams running down her body and two plugs in her arse and cunt. Greta ran the tip of the baton over her two holes, tapping each one lightly. Watching in sheer terror, Olivia waited for the next terrible torture, imagining the baton being rammed deep into her. But Greta had something else in mind and put it down.

“There we go,” Greta’s voice contrasted cheerily with Olivia’s misery, “that was not so bad, was it? Now, you cannot work with all those wax streaks so you are going upstairs. Time to get you up.”

Greta pointed and Mehmet edged round to the cuffs binding her ankles. Pushing down on her calves, they undid the buckles strapping her feet to the table. Pushing up desperately, Olivia’s stretched legs tried to return to a natural position but her tormentors held them. On release, her legs swung round, slamming her heels into the hard wood. Again she screamed, first at the impact and then at the excruciating pain of her agonisingly stretched legs resuming to their normal position. By the time Greta undid her strapped arms and then the band holding her forehead, her screams had died to intermittent sobs. Mehmet then scooped the small girl off the table, tossed her over a shoulder like a rag doll and marched up the stairs, his thoughts about her seemingly forgotten.

As they disappeared, Greta went to the room’s other girl. Holly didn’t know what had happened to Olivia but had heard her screams and as her torturer approached began to shake. Knowing her fear, Greta smiled broadly and stopped to look at the blindfolded specimen whose massive bulging tits were level with her face. Holly knew where she was but could only flinch as her sharp nails traced down the sensitive red skin of her mountainous breasts. Bound like this, Greta knew those magnificent tits were very sensitive, each touch of her sharp nails painful. Scratching along the bulbous flesh until she reached a nipple, she ran her finger through the white liquid and slowly mouthed it with a loud sucking noise as if tasting a luxurious chocolate. Then, running her palms along the bound mounds, she slapped them hard. Small drops of white arced across the room as Holly’s bound tits bounced from the impact and a soft muffled moan escaped her gagged mouth. Resting once again, more liquid oozed from her nipples to run the familiar path down her breasts.

“Mmmm, delicious,” Greta spoke loudly for the girl to hear, “soon it will be ready to be put to work. I wish it could see how ridiculous it looks with its big udders sticking out and leaking. It better enjoy the next few hours because when I come down next, it will not be so comfortable.”

Taking one last look, Greta then turned to follow Mehmet and Olivia up the stairs. For the first time Holly was alone. Her thoughts ran in a mouse wheel, uselessly circling what Greta had said. Being referred to as it, having her breasts slapped, pinched, scratched and abused in unimaginable ways, being treated like an animal was “normal”. That Greta planned something even less comfortable than this worried her but that was intended and knowing that made it easier to bear. But one word troubled her: ‘leaking’. How could her breasts be ‘leaking’? What could possibly make them ‘leak’? She thought about the needle that had been jabbed into her breast. But what could it have done? And what was ‘leaking’? Blood? Water? Milk? All seemed implausible. Yet despite the pain Greta caused, the girls were, physically at least, almost the same as when they’d been captured. If they were rescued, she thought, there was no reason why they couldn’t return to their old lives but each passing torture made that hope fade. Holly knew she would never be mentally the same but now she wondered whether she would be physically intact. It made trying to be strong and not lose hope increasingly difficult. Every second wore her down and it was certainly true that things would not get any easier. If she knew what was coming, though, she would have despaired even more.

Carrying Olivia’s limp body up the stairs, Mehmet cared little for Holly’s worries. His role was not to think about the minds of the girls coming through here but to shape their thoughts with his actions, hurt them, make them feel powerless and, most of all, enjoy himself. Early on he hadn’t understood this, merely obeying orders, fucking a long line of beautiful women and taking increasing pleasure in inflicting pain. Now, though knowing these girls were always changed here, he chose not to think about it. But now, walking up the stairs, he puzzled over what Olivia thought. Carrying her on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, an arm across her pert little bottom, he wondered. Did she despair? Did she have an inner strength and determination to resist? And now he was suddenly troubled by thoughts of why he was worrying about what this bitch thought. He hadn’t worried about others nor had his feelings made him any easier on her than them. He’d fucked and abused them all.

On going through the door, he veered right then into another room. Olivia was out of the dungeon for the first time but didn’t care. Though fearful of the future, it couldn’t be worse than the past. Indeed when Mehmet slung her on his shoulder, she tried to enjoy it as a brief respite from crippling agony. “Respite” was relative of course since her pussy throbbed painfully from Greta’s battering, her legs ached from hours of cramp and her elongated tongue felt strange and alien. Still, Greta’s absence was a plus for if the two Turks had been unbelievably cruel, she was worse. Another plus was leaving Holly. The two had been friends for years, virtually inseparable since primary school and doing everything together. To see and hear Greta abuse her, both physically and verbally, was like being abused herself. The cruelty wouldn’t stop but at least she wouldn’t have to see or hear it.

The room differed from the dark and dingy basement since it had the basic fittings of a prison cell: a small bed and a chair, a space for a toilet and shower. Kicking the door shut, Mehmet put her on the mattress and silently dragged a chair to the middle of the room. Plonking himself down facing the bed, he stared at the girl curled in misery, her legs up to her chest, covering her breasts as best she could and turning her hips toward the wall to hide her arse and pussy from his gaze. Despite the hours of tears, she still looked beautiful. Mehmet could have just sat and watched her but he had a deadline. Clicking his fingers loudly to get her attention, he spoke in his softest voice.

“No time to sleep, baby,” Mehmet whispered, “you must be ready to work. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you but I have to clean you up.” He tailed off as he realised he shouldn’t be talking, reassuring her or anything. The whole point was to grind down these girls’ self esteem and courteously talking to her shattered the illusion. Looking at the blinking camera in the corner, he knew that if Greta investigated, she would catch his unprofessional moment and potentially detect his weakness for this girl. The consequences of this weren’t clear but he didn’t want to find out – Greta was not one to get on the wrong side of. But he could do nothing about it now and so just got on with his job.

“Up.” Mehmet said but Olivia didn’t move. He wanted to give her time but now he couldn’t afford to be lenient. Angrily grabbing her, he lifted the small girl up, surprised she didn’t resist but merely hung limply, her head slumped against her chest. “Stand up,” he was annoyed, “or I will hurt you.”

Knowing she had to obey, Olivia reluctantly straightened her legs to stand. They buckled at first, having not taken weight for many hours, but as he held her, she tried again and though her stiff legs hurt, eventually stood. Showing a persistent mind-set, Olivia crossed one arm across her chest to hide her breasts and snaked the other down to her sex. Despite being naked over the last few days and having unspeakable things done to her, she still tried to modestly cover herself. Mehmet didn’t shatter her illusion but brushed her golden hair from her face and then tenderly, as if a doting lover, lifted up her chin. Olivia knew what he wanted and kept her eyes down, not wanting to look at one of her assailants but he kept lifting her chin. Considering it, she decided that though looking at him hurt emotionally, she could show her strength and resistance. So, reluctantly, she lifted her eyes.

The Turk dwarfed Olivia’s slender 5’ frame. He wore only a pair of baggy sports shorts and she took in the milky coffee colour of his rippling torso, his roughly hewn jaw and hazel eyes. Tears welled as memories flashed back of having to look at him when first raped. Having cried many times in front of this man, she tried desperately to control herself but couldn’t. Barely seeing through a film of tears, she felt a hand grab the arm on her chest and briefly resisted. Knowing he would finally succeed, she stopped and with a heavy heart, felt it pulled away, revealing her pert breasts just as a tear dripped onto them. Quickly taking a beautifully formed breast, he looked at her face as he gently squeezed the soft globe of pliant flesh. Olivia tried not to react to her breasts being squeezed but, remembering how roughly he had treated them, she flinched. Still squeezing her tit, his other hand took the arm covering her sex. Again she resisted but a swift muscular tug pulled it away.

Naked and exposed, Olivia stood as Mehmet softly fondled her breast and moved his other hand to her still waxy privates. Each pretty tit could fit into a hand but they looked large on her small body and no man would have complained about squeezing them. Mehmet certainly wasn’t and as he drank in her delicate features he could no longer stop himself. After telling him to get the girl ready, why would Greta bother to check? Part of his brain knew he could be throwing away his career or worse but another part didn’t care. Stroking the side of her face with one hand, he gripped her hair and leant in. Her mouth was slightly dry and her lips cracked but he still pressed his lips firmly to them, forcing his tongue into her mouth and not caring that she didn’t respond. Lost in a heady mix of lust and confusion, he kissed her passionately while tightening his grip on her tit. His cock throbbed in his pants and Olivia felt it rise, the fabric of his shorts rubbing her thighs. He could wait no longer; it was time to put Olivia’s new tongue to work. He stopped kissing to whisper

“I want you to suck my cock,” he said breathlessly, “but I’ll be gentle.”

Not waiting for agreement, still gripping her hair and breast, he led her to the bed and sat on the edge, pulling her to him and forcing her to kneel. Releasing her breast, he used his hand in her hair to force her face toward his crotch and rubbed her face over it, the fabric rough on his sensitive cock. Releasing her to pull down his shorts, his prick bouncing proudly up, he waited for her to obey.

In the context of this whole nightmare, giving a blowjob was a fairly humane command. She stared at the throbbing veiny cock, a paragon of masculine strength and virility but there was no reason to delay. Gripping its base with a tiny hand, she peeked quickly at Mehmet’s face, his anger during her first rape now seeming like genuine tenderness. Extending her long tongue slightly, she bent over to slowly engulf his cock’s engorged tip and then, responding to a soft appreciative moan, inched further down his shaft, getting halfway down before the head touched the back of her throat.

As Olivia slid up until just the head was in her hot mouth before going down, Mehmet moaned again as her tongue rasped the sensitive underside of his dick, her dry mouth barely inhibiting his enjoyment. He looked down as she fellated him, her golden blonde hair cascading over his dick. As he brushed it out of her face, her eyes flicked up, the sight of her baby blues making it even more erotic. Still stroking her face as she bobbed down again, he took care not to push her down. He could face fuck a girl whenever he wanted but that wasn’t what he wanted now. He wanted to share a moment with a girl as he used to, a tender moment where the goal was not merely pain and pleasure but genuine human connection. Though spanking a woman or squeezing a big pair of tits while fucking a screaming babe was fun, part of him missed the fun of mutual passion. Looking at Olivia’s pretty head on his shaft, a semblance of that emotional connection returned.

Her mind and mouth filled with dick, Olivia had no idea Mehmet was contemplating the value of human connection. Still, this was the most relaxed she had felt since being abducted. It wasn’t enjoyment, no, but with no crippling pain or threat of imminent torture, she could focus on simply pleasing a man, something she had enjoyed before all this. An ex-boyfriend had first taught her how to suck cock, guiding her through her inexperience. In the two years before he went to university, she had done it many times, becoming not only proficient but enjoying it too, not so much in itself but from pleasing her partner. She had none of that satisfaction here. Even trying to please Mehmet and Hasan had only been to stave off some impending punishment. But this felt different. Here he seemed to be enjoying not just her blowjob but a moment alone with her. She couldn’t put her finger on why but it allowed her to relax and clear her mind of the horrors of the last few days.

“Oh fuck yes,” Mehmet muttered under his breath, “jack my cock.”

As her hand moved up and down, she rested her free arm on his leg and again went down on his cock, pushing it deeply in and speeding up her jacking off. His moans grew in intensity and the hand stroking her cheek now gripped her hair hard. Though he pushed his groin toward her, it was a far cry from Hasan’s face fucking. Breathing through her nose, she moved the cock in and out of her mouth, jerking the base up and down like a salt shaker. When he twitched, she knew he was close.

“I’m cumming,” almost shouting, he stood up and pulled his cock from her mouth, “look at me.”

Wide as dinner plates, her brilliant blue eyes looked on as Mehmet jerked himself off. With the tip of his cock just inches from her face, he came after only a few strokes, a thick blob of sticky white cum shooting from his dick in a line from her hair to the bridge of her cute button nose. With a loud roar, a second jet shot over an eye, welding it shut. Milking the last drops from his twitching cock, he squeezed his jism over her face. Looking at her, he knew he had betrayed his duty by sharing an intimate moment with a slave. And looking at her cum covered face, he knew he would do it again.

—————————————————————–

Their footsteps echoed loudly in the great marble hall. The brilliant white polished surfaces almost blinded the terrified American, the room’s splendour showing her situation as even more hopeless. When she hesitated, not knowing where to go, Jeremiah immediately verbally abused her.

“That way, bitch,” he said loudly, his brash Texan personality showing no signs of abating as he pointed to the hall’s far corner where a man and woman stood.