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Message-ID: <36272asstr$1019722202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Grim Williams <gw@grim_williams.co.uk>
Subject: {ASSM} Slave Girl Convict: The X File #3582455 (MMF rape, tort, snuff, caution)
Date: Thu, 25 Apr 2002 04:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

WARNING: CONTAINS SCENES OF RAPE AND TORTURE

This "fragment" is taken from "Slave
Girl Convict, The X File" which I co-authored with Dolcetta.

(http://asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/grim_williams/www/sgc)

I can't post the whole story here as parts of it aren't text.

In addition, many readers may find the complete story a little 
confusing and unwieldy. It's a kind of jigsaw, an assortment
of sometimes contradictory, seemingly random material, some 
of it quite dry: newspaper cuttings, pictures, 
e-mail records, audio transcripts and diary entries that 
combine with fragments of story to reveal a "truth" 
that is out there, somewhere.


Like it or hate it, think of this as a taster.
           
Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk)
Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk)


**************************************************


<Fragment ID="3582455" Date="1 Jul 1984">
  <Name> Shannon Courtney </Name>
  <Location>
    CCTV Corporate Headquarters
  </Location>
  <Collator> Victoria Wilson </Collator>
  <Text>
           
"Come on Courtney! You're late! Get a move
on!"

The words were stinging my ears. "That's not
my fault," I muttered, hurrying along the
icy corridor as fast as I could.

Doors opened; heads peered out, men filled
the doorways. Men. Men. Everywhere men. What
are they good for? Don't they have anything
better to do? Nothing better than to stand and
gape? Always looking, gawking, lusting.

But I didn't complain. Not out loud. Only
to myself. I didn't say a thing. Only
thought it, thought it in my head.

My arms ached. Of course they did. They'd
been chained in the transporter, chained
above my head, and now they were cuffed
behind my back, at both wrists and elbows,
making my breasts jump forward, lifting
them, horribly obscene. My shoulder joints
were aching, the muscles extended, hurting,
throbbing. Behind my dry eyes was a reservoir
of tears that I'd secretly wept.

"Come on, you ugly fat cow! Faster!"
someone bellowed, the Weasel, striking me
hard on the back of my thighs, slapping me
with his truncheon, finally bringing tears to
dry, parched eyes. I jumped forward, shuffling 
as fast as I could.

"How can I hurry?" I groaned resentfully.
"How can I? With my hands cuffed behind my
back and eighteen inches of chain tangled
about my ankles? If they took these off then
I could run. I could be quick. But not like
this."

But I didn't complain. Not out loud. Only
to myself. I didn't say a thing. Just
thought it. I thought it in my head.

And then, suddenly, I noticed a man hurrying
toward me, he'd come scurrying down some
stairs. He was a middle aged man in a smart
grey suit, a dark blue shirt and tie. He was
running along the corridor towards us,
his breathing heavy, his face hot and
flushed. In his hand was a radio, its
aerial extended. He was annoyed. He was
anxious and perturbed.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he barked. I
thought he was shouting at me, but no. He
was just looking. At my bust. At my dark
protruding nipples. At my long, smooth
curves. Everything on display.

My nipples grew under his gaze. I blushed.

He was addressing my guards but looking at
me. "Get her up there! Into Tomlin's room!
Get her out of sight!"

What was going on? What had I done? I didn't
understand.

One of the guards shoved me forward, Granite,
I call him, for his face and heart are made
of impervious stone. He shoved me, diverting
attention from himself, prodding me in the
small of the back.

Someone whistled. One of the men filling
the doorways. They were falling over
themselves to see. I was cold and naked,
frightened and humiliated.

A naked woman in the midst of so many men.

I stumbled forward, shivering, cold with
fear. For the briefest moment I thought
he'd used his stun gun:  that large, ugly
prod that leaves you writhing in agony. But
no, thank God, it was only his fist.

Only.

"Come on, Courtney!" he mocked
sarcastically. "Public Justice beckons. You
heard the man. It's your big day. We're
going to make you beautiful. We're going to
turn you into a star. Show some enthusiasm,
you stupid cunt."

Oh God. Enthusiasm? How can anyone have
enthusiasm...?

The waiting was over. Today was the day. I
was going to be fucked and killed on
television for everyone to enjoy.

"We mustn't keep the Judge waiting," they
mocked, the Weasel slapping my butt with the
flat of his hand.

The man with the suit led the way,
speaking into his radio, taking us up a
broad stone staircase, me following with the
guards at my back, hobbling up the
stairs, hurting, weighed down, broken, the
heavy chains dragging upon my bare, blistered
feet.

"Hurry up, slut!" the warders snarled,
callously sliding one of their cruel black
sticks between my thighs.

I gasped. Not there! I tried to drag
myself faster, pushing myself on, up the
never ending stairs, desperate to escape that
terrible, pitiless stick.

The chain between my feet clanked noisily
upon the stone grey stairs, knocking
against my ankles, bruising and grazing
them.

I shuffled up the stairs, faster, faster:
second floor, third floor, fourth floor.
"Get a move on, bitch!" they repeated,
lifting the stick to the join of my legs, 
tickling my secret lips.

Oh shit! 

I stumbled. How could I walk with
the stick stuck there? Oh God! What were
they after? Did they want me to hurry or
not?

But I didn't dare complain. They'd use the
stun gun for sure! It would only take a
caprice. 

Whoever was holding that thing between my 
legs, teasing me, mocking me, had only to 
touch the switch and the electricity would 
shoot down my pussy, right up inside knocking 
me flying... Oh God.

I'd never recover from that! Never!

I shuffled up the stairs, faster, faster:
fifth floor, sixth floor, seventh.

There were men hanging over the landings,
jeering from above, enjoying my
humiliation, laughing at this naked woman
who couldn't cover herself. "Hey, there,
Shannon, one of them jibed. "What are you
going to do for us? Are you going to dance?
I bet you've got it all planned. You girls
always do. Come on, darling! Give us a
rehearsal!"

I kept my eyes lowered, focusing upon the
ground, on each successive stair, ignoring
him, ignoring them all,shuffling up the stairs.

While all the time, the stick probed between 
my legs, playing with my ass cheeks, tickling 
my pussy lips, threatening my sanity.

I knew what he was referring to, the man
above: he was reminding me of my mitigation.

What an awful word! What an awful task!

Fifteen minutes. That's all a girl gets.
Fifteen minutes in which to make her
impression on the voting public. Fifteen
minutes of unending shame.

Of course, she can do as she chooses: she can
reason; she can apologize. Not that these
will do her any good. The voters  get
bored with talk, irritated with stupid
excuses.

There's only one way to please an audience:
give them what they want. Every girl gets
told that. A good show. Give them what
they're after.

Give them sex.

Striptease. Masturbation. They're almost
synonymous with "mitigation". The word has
been corrupted, bowdlerized, has
transformed in meaning. A good show is
all that separates  a girl from being
executed humanely  or inhumanely, being
tortured or simply raped.

Mitigation.

What a word!

Of course I'd given thought to my
mitigation, a great deal of thought. Every
girl does.

All around me men made comments: about my
breasts; the hair on my pussy; the shape
of my ass. It seemed that everything was 
open to conversation: would I die quietly, 
would I faint at the sight of my guts. 

My face burned with terror and humiliation.

But I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

"Get her in here," the suit ordered, opening
a door and waiting impatiently for me to
shuffle past. My breathing was laboured and
my ankles were bleeding. We were on the tenth
floor, at the top of the building.

"She's late," the suit complained, his
manner short and ill tempered. They
followed me into a large spacious office.
It had a thick carpet into which my
feet thankfully sank. They were sore and
stinging, unused to walking on rough
concrete.

The suit slammed the door, making me jump,
and strode past me ignoring me totally. He
was quite tall, but with a thick spreading
waist. His hair was receding and he had
small, beady eyes. Never a good sign.

"They're burning some sweet office temp," he
said.

I watched him closely. What did he mean?
"Not the end of the world, I admit. Those
bitches ask for it anyway, the stupid cunts."
There was a large window that stretched the
entire width of the far side of the wall. In
front was an ostentatious desk, neat,
fastidiously so. He stood behind it, reading
a note that had been placed there.

I glanced around, nervously. To my right was
a long, soft sofa. To my left was a bank
of four monitors. The monitors were
turned on, the sound audible but low. I
recognized Linda Luscious on one of them.
With her there was a woman, a brunette,
shrinking in terror.

It didn't take a genius to realize I
was watching tonight's episode of Public
Justice.

That meant... it wasn't me tonight. That
thought gave me hope. I'd really thought...
that tonight...

But I wasn't concentrating. "Hurry up,
slut," Granite growled, slamming his long
black stick into my midriff. "You've got to
get dressed. Destiny awaits."

Oh shit. I creased up, winded, grimacing with
the pain. I hated him. I hated them both. I
couldn't stand, couldn't breathe. The air had
been torn from my lungs.

Granite hauled me back up, taking hold of
my wrists, making me stand.

Suddenly, my elbows came free, then my
wrists. He'd released me from the cuffs. I
stretched my arms gingerly. They were so
stiff, heavy, almost dead.

The suit was still by the desk. He picked
up the phone and began to dial. Someone
answered. He began to speak, his voice
barely more than a murmur. All the time he
was looking at me through his dark, beady
eyes. Staring at my breasts, my stomach, my
legs.

"Hello. This is Stuart. Yes. She's here.
The Courtney bitch. Yes. I see. What do you
want me to do with her?"

I tried to listen. What were they planning?
My fate was being decided. I needed to hear.

But the guards had other ideas. Granite
pulled one of their ridiculous paper
dresses out of a transparent plastic bag
and tossed it to me. "Get dressed!" he
growled with a sly grin.

I glanced at it shakily, my eyes
unseeing, my mind unthinking. All I could
think was that the suit was on the phone,
deciding my future.

Wasn't that good? Shouldn't it offer me
hope? I glanced again at the monitor, at
Linda Luscious and that other woman.

What was going on?

But then the suit put down the phone. My
fate had been decided. He whispered
something to the Weasel. He was annoyed. He
had to leave, I heard, but he would be back.
They must look after me.

But what about me? I had to ask.

"Please sir... what... what are you going to do
with me?"

I had to make them tell me. I couldn't endure
to build up my hopes if they were false.
That would be the cruellest blow.

But he didn't answer me. Instead, he hurried
out of the office, his mind very much
elsewhere.

It was Granite who answered me. Granite,
his eyes cold and gleaming, grinning:
"Don't you know?" he whispered, breathing
his putrid stale air into my face. His
voice was gruff, his body aroused. "You're
going to be a star. A real, hot porn star.
What do you think of that? You're going to
be the feature attraction on tonight's
Public Justice."

My heart went wild; my fingers trembling. My
eyes darted to the TV screen. I saw Linda
with that other woman...

Granite watched me, enjoying my panic. His
gaze followed mine to the TV monitor, the
curl of a smile appearing on his lips.

"You think that's live? It's not. That's a
recording," he said.  "You're watching a
repeat. You're our  star tonight."

I swallowed hard, my mouth as dry as a bone.
I couldn't help my reaction. He loved it.

But I didn't believe him, not entirely.

The clock above the sofa said 8:25 PM.
Public Justice begins at 8:00 PM. It would
already be half done, just as I was seeing on
the monitor.

"But I'm innocent," I protested.

The Granite's face broke into a rocky,
lopsided grin. "Isn't everyone?" he asked,
sharing his amusement with the Weasel.
They both seemed highly tickled. "Why don't
you tell that to the Judge? I'm sure she
could do with a good laugh. She may even
grant you a last request."

My legs wavered as he said it. I was
beginning to suspect that I was being set
up for a private execution. I'd heard of
such things: rich men with nothing better
to spend their money on. Shit. I wasn't even
going to get a trial! They'd brought me here
to murder me.

Oh shit, Shannon! Hang on to dignity. Hang
on! But it was so unfair.

"Or  with  gorgeous tits like yours,"
the  Granite continued, cupping my left
breast, pinching my protruding nipples. "She
may even offer you an easy way out, a
merciful exit. One never knows."

A merciful exit? Dear God, I'd been right!
They really were going to kill me!

The Weasel took a cigarette from his pocket
and lit it, watching slyly, enjoying the
sight of Granite twisting my nipples.

My whole being felt heavy. They were going to
kill me. Oh God. My eyes were wet from self
pity. I didn't dare move, not even to flinch.

I could feel my teats hardening, glowing.

I blushed, angry with my rosebuds. They
were hurting, aching from where Granite was
squeezing them.

"Look at her," the Weasel joked, pointing at
them, waving his fat ugly finger. "She's
begging for it. There's the proof. A real
spicy bitch!"

What could I say? How could I deny it?

I covered my embarrassment by pulling the
paper dress over my head, thankful that I
had it, careful that it didn't tear. All
the time I could feel their eyes
watching me, gawking at me, wanting to strip
me of more than my clothes, of dignity too.

I knew what they wanted. I could read their
minds.

The dress was short and badly fitting, hardly
covering my twins, gaping open at the front,
bulging around my waist.

And my nipples, still on fire, protruded
visibly through the thin white paper,
painfully evident.

Traitors!

Why wouldn't they do as I wanted? Why were
my little teats so hard? I told myself that
it was the friction of the rough paper
keeping them stiff. Nothing else.

But that was a lie.

God. What was wrong with me? How could I
be getting aroused in a situation like
this? While being humiliated and degraded?

"I bet her cunt's wet too," the Weasel
chortled with derision, "I bet she's
aroused, just like the others. Why don't you
take a look?"

"No!"

Oh God!

The Granite grabbed me, holding me with one
rough, stony hand while he felt between my
legs with the other, inside my inadequate
dress, fondling my pussy from behind.

He soon had his answer. "She's dry," he
riposted with a quick laugh. "But it feels
like she's got a nice, tight cunt. What do
you say? Is there time? It wouldn't take
long to juice her up a little!"

They both looked at the clock. 8:30 PM.
Half an hour until the show finished. Long
enough, they decided.

I shook myself free of Granite's hand,
tears for the first time glistening in my
eyes. I could still feel his invading
fingers inside my pussy. It felt dirty.

I pulled down my dress, twice, three times,
but still it wouldn't cover me.

"It's a pity about that," the Weasel
chortled, shaking his head mockingly,
revelling in my discomfort. "However much
you try to hide it, we can still see your
beautiful slit."

"Why should she try to hide it?"
Granite returned, walking around me,
encircling, taking a peek at my bare ass.
"She's a whore, pure and simple. Whores
should be seen for what they are."

I bristled with anger. "Don't worry,
Shannon," I told myself quickly. Not
aloud. But to myself. "Don't react. Don't be
annoyed. Don't make them happy. They want to
see you upset, that's why they're saying
these things, to hurt you.

"Whore's should be fucked," Granite sneered,
his hand on his chin, admiring my ass. And
you're going to be fucked, good and hard."

Dignity.

Dignity. Isn't that the keyword?

Remember, they're dogsbodies, insignificant
nobodies, the shit on the soul of your feet.
Be strong, Shannon. Keep your dignity!"

But I couldn't convince myself. My mind
wouldn't listen. How can a raped woman
have dignity? Isn't that a contradiction?
How can she? She can't. A raped woman has no
dignity. None.

They were going to rape me.

"Time  for  a quickie, Shannon?" Granite
continued, grinning, reaching forward and
trying to lick my ear. "We've a spare
half hour. What do you say? Should be a
treat for a whore like you."

I heaved a stomach wrenching retch of
despair. This was too much. I couldn't bear
his clammy, groping fingers and his putrid,
smelly breath. I pulled away from him, from
his disgusting mouth and his disgusting leer.

"Why not, Shannon?" he grinned. "Don't you
fancy it? Why not? A hard thick dick
filling your hole? It'll be your final
fuck, the last time you feel a pretty cock
inside you. Come on, Shannon. Bend over.
Over the desk. I'll give you a fast ride,
a goodbye fuck! What do you say, eh?"

I said nothing. I kept mute.

Suddenly, Granite pulled my arms up
behind my back, tearing them, bending
them into a position they were never
intended to go. I grimaced, then shrieked
out, crying.

I had to relieve the terrible agony in my
upper arms. I bent forward, over the desk
with my ass stuck out, biting my lip.

It helped.

The position was less painful. But I was
open, naked and inviting, facing the Weasel
and waiting to be fucked.

Oh God.

My face was on the desk side on, my tears
rolling into my hair, my eyes blurry with
tears.

I was going to be raped. No doubt about
that. None. A woman's worst nightmare.

Rape. And it was going to happen to me. Not
some other anonymous woman, some slut who'd
asked for it by the tightness of her dress
or through taking her drinks in some sleazy
layover.

No: me.

I was going to be raped.

Would it hurt?

Would I live?

Would I catch some loathsome disease?

Shivering, frightened.

Available, waiting to be corked. My cunt
open.

God. What would become of me? Who would want
me now? Raped.

Granite  kicked at my ankles, pushing
them  apart, spreading my legs, preparing
me, opening them, exhibiting my private parts
to his examination.

Oh God.

Through the mist I could see the
monitors. I wasn't looking, just seeing,
but there I was on the second one from the
right. It was my confession. I was in
the wench's stool and being interrogated. I
blushed bright red.

What was going on? Why were they showing my
confession at another woman's trial?

I could hear the shrill, timid sound of my
own voice: trembling, afraid, and explaining
it all, everything that I'd done.

That was me. Frightened. Confessing. Lying.

But suddenly my mind was forced to focus
elsewhere, on what was happening behind
me, right then, that very moment.

Oh God!

I heard the sound of a zip, the gasp of
falling trousers, and then the probing
pressure of a man's cock, hot, hard and
insistent, pressing from behind against my
slit, searching for the entrance.

Oh God. This was it. This was what I'd
feared, what I knew would happen.

My turn.

God. He was going to rape me.

The side of my face was squashed against the
table, the paper hem of my thin shift
bunched around my waist.

Oh God. Here it was. He was doing it. Raping
me. Granite. Punching his ugly, weapon into
my tight little hole. I couldn't stop him,
couldn't prevent him.

I stared at the television, trying to
obliterate reality from my mind, trying to
ignore the humiliation, the pain of my sore
dry vagina.

Linda Luscious was talking to me now,
smiling, her blue eyes dancing with delight.
Even as the monster behind me jammed my
legs against the desk, penetrating me,
filling my love tube, I heard the soft,
dulcet tones of dear Linda, reminding me of
my constitutional duty to vote.

"Remember that Shannon Courtney's future
rests in your hands. The right to vote was
won by the founding fathers, fought for in
time of war, fought for by struggle and
blood. Remember, dear viewers, the enemy of
freedom is apathy. Use your vote, don't
lose it. But first, before our lines open,
here is a thought from our sponsor."

I didn't understand. What was going on? Why
were they talking about me? What was going
on here?

The picture cut to the miserable creature
sitting crest fallen opposite Linda. Who
was she? Why was she being tried in my
name? It didn't make sense.

Surreal.

The picture faded to a shot of a woman
running across an empty beach, her bare
feet splashing in the flow of an advancing
tide, her long blonde hair trailing behind
her. She wore a high cut bikini, navy blue
and her flawless skin was bronzed from a
life in the sun.

Suddenly, she met and fell into the arms
of a mighty Adonis, his biceps rippling,
his pectorals bulging. He swept the woman
from her feet, squeezing her, pressing his
lips to hers.

And across the screen came the words, 'When
was the last time you enjoyed a Magic
Moment?'

Oh God. How much longer? My pussy was
bruised and hurting. Why didn't he just
get it over with? He was going on and on,
slapping my thighs, groping my breasts
through the thin paper, mauling them,
pinching them.

"And now," Linda Luscious was saying, her
rouged cheeks glowing, the advertisement
having ended. "That special moment that
only democracy makes possible.   

The opportunity for young Shannon to reach out
to you, her peers, her judges, to try and
make good the wrong, to ease the
punishment, to voice her repentance.
Here, ladies and gentlemen, live on Public
Justice, is the mitigation of Shannon
Courtney."

Granite was watching it too. I could tell.
His trousers might be around his ankles and
his cock inside my hole, but his mind was on
that bitch, sitting there on TV in my place.

He was screwing me; he was raping her.

"Go on, baby," he growled. "Show them what
you're made of. Make us all hot."

But she didn't know what to do. I could see
that. She was ill prepared. She hadn't
spent hours, as I had, days pondering the
intricacies of mitigation.

She didn't know whether to stand or to sit,
to move or to stand still, to talk and
plead with her audience, or whether to stay
silent.

She was confused, terrified, as I was.

Even so, I was vaguely curious. What would
she do? How would it compare with what I
had planned for that awful moment?

She was dazzled, in shock. She looked down.
That was a mistake. She shouldn't think.
Thinking induces doubt. She should let her
mind go blank and let her body do its own
thing, what it was designed to do.

I could feel her uncertainty, her
bewilderment. She had been prepared for
nothing like this.

Slowly, finally, tiredly, she began to
undress: pulling off her tiny paper
dress. They were playing music, striptease
music, to accompany her actions. That seemed
callous, cruel, like rubbing salt into
an  already festering wound.

I felt for her. For that should have been
me. Me doing those obscene things for an
unseen lecherous audience.

And at the bottom of the screen, a
flash appeared detailing the four possible
punishments. 

"Vote zero for not guilty,"
it read. "One for slow flight, two for slow
water, three for crispy limbs, four for
meat-fuck and five for cross guts."

The punishments are always a little cryptic.

Bookmakers take bets on what they mean as
well as on what punishment the girl will
get. This was one of Adam Tomlin's bright
wheezes.

The producer. The big Mister of Public
Justice.

"The public loves a flutter," he once said.
"If they can have a little fun, a little
gamble, and win some money too, how can we
lose out?"

That was his art. Knowing people, digging
into our basest desires, the things we
secretly hanker for although we never admit
it. That was the first thing. The second was
knowing how palatably to provide it.

The young brunette pulled the dress from
her shoulders, across her white goose pimply
breasts, ripping the thin paper  down the
front, and then, after a little
hesitation, with tears in her eyes she
shrugged it over her hips to the floor.

She stood self-consciously, with her
hands over her groin, hiding her pussy, her
head looking down.

There it was again, her mistake. She
shouldn't look down.

The camera panned back to get a better view
of her. She was  frightened, confused, not
knowing whether to cover herself or
whether to show herself off. Her heart told
her one thing, her mind another.

"Watch carefully," Granite grunted, holding
his cock deep inside my vagina, making slow
grinding motions with his hips, pulling me
with him. "Cause that'll be you next. Can
you feel how hard I am? How hot my dick is?
That's cause I'm thinking of you, Shannon,
naked on TV. Naked and about to die."

Oh God.

He slapped his tight, swollen testicles
against my white buttock cheeks, not once,
but many times. Again and again.

Was I really going to die? I'd thought
so a little earlier, I'd been prepared for
it, not wanting it, scared of it, but
prepared nonetheless. Weasel had told me I
was going to die. But now, with this other
bitch on TV taking my place, I'd almost
thought... a miracle...

"Hurry up, Mike," the Weasel told the man at
my back. "We haven't all day. The Gaffer
said he'd he be back after the closing
credits. I want a turn too, you know."

But he needn't have worried. Granite was
about to cum. I'm a woman. Women know these
things. I may not have been able to see his
face, but I could hear his breathing, I
could sense his rhythm, I could feel his
hard cock quivering  in my love tunnel,
about to reach  its destination.

I tried to put my mind elsewhere, to keep
it clean, unsullied. I didn't want to think
about that, his dirt.

His dirt inside me.

God. Would he make me pregnant? Quickly I
tried to count the days. How many? Seven,
ten, twelve, that meant that I could easily...
But what did it matter? I wouldn't be
alive beyond tonight.

Even so, I didn't want to think of his
child, Granite's child, the Weasel's child,
somewhere inside me, a hideous alien monster
bloating my belly like a plastic balloon,
disfiguring and branding me, laughing at me
because I'm weak and only a woman...

And then, at last, he was coming, his hot
spunk squirting inside me, spraying my
insides, polluting me, soiling me.

Making me sticky.

Horrible. Messy. Disgusting.

When he'd finished I lay still, my head
pressed against the cold table, my ass
sticking out for one purpose and one purpose
only, to be used and abused by a man, by men.

I was his fuck toy, a woman. I have a hole.

It's our fate to be raped, penetrated.

He withdrew his cock, leaving his dirt
inside, he shook it, slapped my butt, and
then stood aside, his rough hand heavy on my
back, letting me know that I shouldn't move,
that I should stay as I was, like a mare,
ready and waiting for the next fuck.

"Don't move, slut," he laughed. "There's
plenty more where that came from. Plenty
more. And you're going to take it, you're
going to take every single drop."

I could already feel his cum trickling from
my pussy, sticky, vile, cold, wet:
disgusting. I've always been proud of my
appearance, But now I was reeking in dirt.

"Don't move, slut," Granite repeated,
pulling up his underpants, then his
trousers. He zipped himself up, patting
his crotch. "If you move, I'll stick the stun
gun up there, inside, know what I mean. That
should make you twitch a bit, eh?"

That drew me back to reality.

I shivered with fright. He wouldn't! He
couldn't! But I knew that he could if he
had a mind, if I gave him an excuse.

And so I didn't. I kept quite still. I
didn't try to close my legs. I didn't do 
anything to upset him, to restore my modesty. 
All I could think of was that long black ugly
stick buried inside me, his finger on the
button, mocking me, threatening to press.,
moving it slowly in and out. He would
threaten that if I didn't cum, he'd press
the button and give me an electric kiss.

What would I do? Cum? Not cum? Or just fake
it? But how could I fake it with him
looking down there inside my hole,
inspecting my discharge, my every
movement, my every little twitch?

"Don't move, Shannon," I thought. "Don't
move. Don't give him an excuse!"

I held my pose, offering my posterior, my
two separate holes, feeling the cold air
blowing over the sticky wetness, the fluid
now dripping down my thigh.

On the TV, Linda Luscious was explaining
that Shannon Courtney, me, that I, no, the
bitch in my place, had not impressed the
voters with her display.

No surprise that. I'd known it already. Even
I know what the voters like. I know a bad
mitigation when I see one.

And so...

First, Linda would reveal the punishments the
voters had ruled out.

Number one. The slow flight. That was the
slowest flight a woman could make. Any
guesses? One or two tried. Yes. That was
right, slow hanging.

Number two. Slow water. Would she become a
mermaid? No. This meant slow drowning,
effected in Public Justice's own inimitable
style.

Number three. Crispy limbs. Would dear
Shannon taste herself? Perhaps. Her own
arms? Her own legs? No. Try again. It
turned out to be simple dismemberment.

Damn. I should have guessed that. They did
that a few weeks ago.

Number four. The meat fuck. This one I
did guess. Spitting and roasting. This one
comes up many times although in different
guises. They hold the woman's legs open,
and then insert the spit into her vagina: a
spear, viciously  sharp and made of pure
titanium,  hard, lightweight and rigid.

The woman is tied down with her legs spread
and the spit is then inserted, driven deep
into her, up her love tunnel and beyond,
through her, and out of the mouth.

Then comes the roasting: slow, slow, letting
her feel the pain, the heat of the flames.
She smells her own flesh cooking, the pole
penetrating her belly, filling her, fucking
her for the very last time.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.
Perhaps because the Weasel was behind me,
his cock ready to ram me from behind.

I couldn't see him of course, but I cold
feel him, his hands touching me, fingering
my pussy, spreading my ass.

I bit my lip.

Linda Luscious took the woman by the hand
and tried to lead  her away but she
wouldn't go. She was too frightened. She 
knew this was it. This was the end. Death. 
I could see the fear on her face, feel her 
terror, the uncertainty of not knowing 
what was to happen.

Two men in black masks, naked from the
waist up, came onto stage accompanied by
a huge burst of audience applause. They
took charge. They had enormously broad
chests and tight pants through which the
bulge of their equipment was clearly
visible.

They led the woman, my namesake, across to
an adjacent stage, the Bear Pit, as it's
known. Or more accurately, the Bare Pit. For
as Linda Luscious would say, this is where
a woman is truly bared. Who can conceal
their secret self before the punishments of
Public Justice?

Fear? Pride? Embarrassment? Nothing can be
hidden in the Bare Pit.

This is where a woman is truly stripped.

Now we would find out what Number Five was
about. The curtain parted and the young
brunette was led across to a plain, black
wall.

But before cross guts, first, a commercial.

Pleasant music. Plenty of strings. A soft
pleasant focus. And now a woman, a redhead,
bathing herself, her long red tresses
cascading about her shoulders, lying
indolently in her bath tub. The bath was
full and covered with tiny white bubbles as
baths only ever are in advertisements. Even
so, her breasts were peeking out from
beneath the foam, her nipples a pinkish
red, bold, like splashes of blood in a
feather of snow.

Her face was freckled and pale, her back
arched and her eyes closed and relaxed. Her
hands were in the water and moving back and
forth, to and fro, regularly, repeatedly.

She licked her lips, slowly running her
tongue along the lower contours of her
mouth, and then a hand came up to stroke her
breasts, caressing them, before plunging
back down between her legs, the water
splashing and in turmoil.

Her  back arched. Her eyes opened wide,
surprised, unfocussed. Her body tautened. The
camera stayed on her, liking her, loving
her, watching her pleasure. Her breathing
was fast. She gasped aloud, on the precipice
of ecstasy...

And then the caption...'When was the last time
you enjoyed a Magic Moment?'" And the picture
faded to black.

The Weasel put his hands on my back, over my
paper dress, steadying me, holding me
still. "Get ready, baby," he hissed,
allowing the tip of his erection to
nestle against my lips while he searched for
the opening. "Cause here comes big daddy!"

I closed my eyes, prepared for the renewed
onslaught. Oh God. Why wouldn't they leave
me be? Why wouldn't they just let me sleep?

Or die?

When would it be over? When? How long must
I suffer? Endure this dirty humiliation?
How long? How many? How many fucks had I
still to take?

I gasped, cried out aloud. He'd slammed his
cock inside, right in, right to the hilt in
one powerful stroke. My vagina screamed in
pain, in anguish, angered at his attack.
Oh shit.

I clenched my fists, held tightly to the
table, held on for dear life.

In, out; in, out; long and smooth. His cock
was bigger than Granite's, stretching me,
making me, making me...

"Hey, she's getting wet!" the Weasel
announced with a whoop. A tear dripped
from my eye. "She likes it. She's hot. The
bitch likes her cock. She likes to be
forced."

Oh God. I wanted to say no, it wasn't
true. But I couldn't. I daren't. I was too
scared.

In, out; in, out. Long smooth strokes,
that made me slowly, inevitably,
involuntarily wet. I hated myself, my body. It
was responding to him. I had no control. God.
I had no control over what my body did, no
control over how I was reacting.

They were controlling my body, making 
me - it - aroused.

"Take a look. The bitch is getting aroused.
She loves it."

But it wasn't true. That was my humiliation.

In, out; in, out. Long smooth strokes.

The woman had been cuffed to the wall, but
only by her hands, to chains high above her
head. She stood, nervous, terrified.

Waiting.

What were they going to do? What was going to
happen?

Linda Luscious announced that we were to be
introduced to a new toy, something special.

What was that? You could see the thought in
her mind. What? Her mind tried to find hope.

A new toy? Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

Perhaps she was to demonstrate a new Magic
Moment. Perhaps someone famous was to get
married. Perhaps we'd won a big soccer match.

Perhaps.

But her heart didn't really believe it. None
of it.

What was to happen?

What was it to be?

"Please, no!" she begged, without knowing
for what or from what she was begging.

"Please, no!"

She pulled at her chains, wanting to escape,
knowing it was impossible.

How could I not watch? All women watch,
perhaps even more so   than the men. We
all watch. Voyeurs. Fearful,dreading, our 
thighs closed, afraid that one day it will 
be us. Perhaps secretly hoping it might 
be, imagining how we would react.

One of the masked men swung round. I
couldn't see his face or his expression,
but I could see the woman's. She glanced at
what was in his hand, and then cried out in
horror.

"No!"

What had she seen?

She struggled against her chains, kicking at
him, kicking at them both, but they easily
sidestepped her flailing legs.

Why was she so scared? What had she seen?

And then I knew. I saw and my heart stopped
still. For in their hands, each of them
carried a large nail gun.

"First our beautiful he-men will aim for
the breasts," Linda Luscious explained for
the benefit of those at home. "Watch
carefully as the nails penetrate the skin,
producing the perfect pin cushion. There are
forty nails in each cartridge, and we'll
be firing three cartridges at each of
Shannon's pretty young breasts. That's one
hundred and twenty half inch nails
penetrating each breast. Just think of that
weight pulling on each tit, setting Shannon
on fire."

As she spoke, the first one hit home and
Shannon, I mean the brunette, roared with
pain, her back arching back, and then,
moments later, came the next shot, making
dozens of little puncture holes in a random
splatter that radiated three of four inches
around the nipple.

I watched in horror, only able to think of
myself and my own twins, my pride, my
treasure. Oh shit.

"They're going to have to be quick,"
Granite observed dryly, looking up at the
clock. "Only ten minutes until the end of
the show. A shame really. They should have
cut the mitigation and allowed longer on the
finale."

The second and third cartridges were fired
into each of the young temp's breasts, each
shot being accompanied by a sharp dull
retort followed by a howl of agony.

Her breasts were a mess of bruised, damaged
flesh and short deadly spikes of smiling
steel. What carnage!

I could only think: that should be me. It was
me. Shannon Courtney. They call her by that
name, my name. Those should be my twins,
my breasts weighed down by the weight
of those nails, tortured and in ruins.

"That's what we call larded," Linda was
saying with her typical inanity. She stepped
forward, and ran her fingers across the
blunt ends of the nails, using them to make
the woman's breasts shake. "Imagine, ladies,
having to carry all that weight on your
boobies. Imagine the tingling of hundreds
of deadly pin pricks. Just imagine this is
you."

I could, and I was.

"Please!" the woman begged, anguish filling
her face, her hands drawn mercilessly above
her head. "'I've done nothing. I'm not
Shannon Courtney. I'm only..."

Whatever it was she said, I didn't hear. The
microphone cut on her final desperate words,
mysteriously fading to nothing.

"Oh fuck," the Weasel grunted, pumping my
behind. "How does it feel Shannon, thinking
of all those nails buried in your beautiful
titties? How does it feel knowing that
millions of men want to see them
destroyed? Knowing, knowing that's your
dress rehearsal?"

"Except there's no dress..." Granite retorted
with a grin. "I bet she'd love it. It turns
them on being hurt. Women are funny like
that. The more you hit them and show them how
stupid and cuntlike they are, the
hotter they become."

"Isn't that so, Shannon?" the Weasel hissed,
finding new ways to dig his tool even
deeper inside me, ripping my insides. "I
can feel you. I can feel your wetness, your
arousal. You're turned on by being used, by
watching that bitch being butchered alive. It
does it for you. It makes you hot. Admit it."
He hit my back, dropping his fists
against my spine through my dress.

"Admit it, damn you."

I didn't care. My emotions were in ribbons.
I would be dead soon. I was paralysed by
sorrow and horror. What did it matter if I
confessed? "Yes. Please. I admit it.
Don't..."

I looked back at the screen, blinking away
the pain.

What had gone before was just a preamble.
As Linda now took delight in explaining, the
half inch nails were just to prepare her
for the bigger nails. One of the masked
hunks stepped up with another, much bigger
and sexier gun in his hand. He reached up,
aiming at one of Shannon's, my, I mean the
woman's hands. He pressed the barrel
against her skin, between the wrist and the
hand.

I saw the terror in her eyes. She knew... She
foresaw... She didn't know what precisely was
coming, only that it would be bad.

He fired. There was a dull retort and the
woman's eyes opened bright, seething with
raw emotion. Her screams were pitiful,
awful. The gun had fired a nail through her
wrist and into the wall. Her hand
convulsed into a twisted deformed claw,
curling into a broken, twitching shell.

Then they turned to the other wrist. There
was a second retort. "And now," Linda
declared while the brunette thrashed
about, her larded tits rattling, her
hips swaying from side to side. "What you've
all been waiting for, cross-guts."

The hunks unfastened the cuffs, they were
superfluous now. The poor woman was nailed to
the wall.

What now? It would be quick. It would have
to be. The clock was ticking away, only
five minutes left.

So little time...

Then it happened. To the roll of a base
drum, the floor began to part beneath the
woman's feet. She saw it at once, felt it
moving, but was helpless to do anything
apart from scream and watch.

"Oh God. Oh God, no."

It wasn't a big hole, just a trap door two
feet either side of her, but large enough
to achieve its terrible purpose. It was
sliding, sliding away from her and her
feet.

She looked up at her hands. A sticky
trail of blood dripped from the source
of each nail, down her arms towards her
elbow. She could only imagine the pain, the
agony when her whole weight was hanging upon
those cruel sticks of iron.

Dear God!

Her feet trembled to keep contact with the
ground. Even as the floor retreated, she
clawed for a foothold, struggled to hold
contact with something.

Dear God!

And suddenly it was gone. The floor. Her
body slumped down, her feet and legs
kicking, trying to find a toehold, trying
to find anything to cling to. Her wrists
tightened into claws above her head, the
nerves pinched by the nails driven through
her wrists. Her back arched in agony, her
nail larded breasts screaming abuse.

Dear God!

And even now the he-men weren't finished.

She could see the  bulges  in their
tight pants protruding obscenely.

Please!  No more! Wasn't this enough
pain?  Enough punishment?

But no, there was to be more.

"Here is our new toy," Linda was saying. "We
call it `The Housewife's Knife'. Watch, and
watch carefully, for, as we say, we shall
only be doing this once tonight."

Twenty million video recorders were
faithfully recording, twenty million tapes
lacing through the cogs, passing over
revolving heads, storing forever an image of
pain and destruction.

"No! Please, don't cut me!"

One of the he-men had an electric knife in
his hand. It was long and thin and
terribly deadly, its shiny blade glinting
under the bright lights. Shannon, the
woman, watched it approaching her belly,
not believing, not thinking, too terrified
to even contemplate. Her face was a picture
of blind desperate horror.

"Please God!"

And then he did it. The man stuck it in her,
penetrating, slicing her open, cutting a
hole some twelve inches square.  Suddenly
there was something falling  out,
dripping, dropping, red, wet and gory.

Guts.

Dear God.

The woman screamed. She shrieked from the
pain, from the disbelief of what had
happened. She kicked and fought, her legs
parting, her nail covered tits jerking up
and down in slow motion, dampened by their
own weight. She could see her own guts,
her insides, her very life, falling,
dribbling into the black plastic bin in the
pit beneath her.

They were counting, singing. She could hear
the audience chanting: seven, eight, nine...
And she knew the reason why. They were
counting away the seconds since she'd been
butchered, since the knife had punctured her
belly. They were counting the seconds, how
long until she was dead.

She clawed with the soles of her feet
against the wall, perhaps there was support
here, support for her broken body, to take
the weight from her hands, from the devillike
nails.

But no, no support. Her feet simply slid
down. She tried again, but again they
slipped.

She was dying. She could feel the emptiness
of her belly. The nothingness. The terrible,
awful void.

Dear God.

Death was approaching. Seventeen, eighteen.
No rescue now. She was done for. She had to
die. The show had to finish. The end titles
were waiting to roll. There was a terrible
and final inevitability to it all.

She was dying.

The he-men were at the side of the stage,
unburdening their costumes of their
overweight erections. She saw them: long,
thick, swollen.

Everything was a haze. Everything was
drifting.

Twenty nine, thirty, thirty one.

The he-men were stroking themselves, rubbing
their huge rods.

"She's a goner," the Weasel jeered,
watching, waiting, counting along with the
rest. "She's a goner and you're the next."

"When?" my heart thumped loudly. "Now?
Tomorrow? Oh God. Please not."

I looked at the clock above the sofa. I
could just about see it. A minute until the
end of the show.

The woman wasn't moving now, wasn't
jerking, wasn't bleeding.

The counting had stopped at forty seven
seconds.

The men's jism flew across her silent body,
anointing it, clothing it. They had both cum,
precisely to schedule.

It was over.

There was just about time for a final
advertisement. A final opportunity to ponder
a Magic Moment.

The Weasel dropped out of me. Had he
cum? I hadn't realised but he had. He was
still crowing about how he'd got me
aroused, how he'd made me wet, boasting,
bragging about his manliness.

I didn't move. I remained exactly where I
was, bent over the table, naked, my private
parts on display, dripping with their dirt.

I was broken, exhausted, drained.

What now? What else could they do? Even
death seemed a release.

On the monitor a shot of the silent, still
body of the strange unknown woman faded to
the goodbye line of Linda Luscious.

"Come back tomorrow, and once again, you, at
home, can administer Public Justice."

          </Text>
</Fragment>

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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