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Message-ID: <62961asstr$1397729408@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: The Bawdy Bloke <john@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Getting out of hand (MDom, BDSM, toture)
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Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2014 06:10:08 -0400
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This was originally posted on my blog at 
http://bawdybloke.com/flash-fiction-getting-out-of-hand/ ... I would 
love feedback.

"On reflection, it may have got a bit out of hand."

I muttered those words with some disdain, but it was probably true; our 
event was in poor taste and maybe we could have showed a tiny more 
restraint. But we lived like that. We lived on the edges of 
respectability, because when you have two Lamborghinis in the drive, and 
more money in the bank than most Premiership footballers, you can afford 
to cross the line.

Or mistakenly, pretend there isn't even a line to cross.

Like our Easter party last year: the one that made it into the 
newspapers. Downing twenty grand bottles of champagne, running naked 
through the streets of Bournemouth and fucking a seventeen year old 
against the side of a Police van is perfectly acceptable behaviour for 
highly-stressed high-flyers. Didn't the journos at the Daily Mirror do 
that sort of caper at their plebby University? I mean, it's normal to 
need to unwind. For successful people, anyway.

They just didn't get it.

But, of all the things we've arranged, our New Year's bash tops them all.

The venue: a disused warehouse in East London.

The budget: Around Ł750,000.

The attendees: Five ace bankers: superstars in their field, absolute 
studs in the sack and filled with stress. Plus, a dozen dirty sluts with 
loose morals, no limits and a need to earn filthy cash. They'd earn 
their money.

The theme: Guantanamo Bay.

Yes, that's right: we had a terrorist themed party.

We put the girls in spandex orange jumpsuits, we changed into camouflage 
military gear, and started on the alcohol. Many of the sluts had played 
with us before; they knew our excesses and desires, and how well we 
paid. What's ten, twenty or thirty grand per bitch for a night of 
uninterrupted debauchery? I make that sort of money if I take a break to 
shit during the day; they name their price, we pay it.

So after a few glasses of fuck knows what, the girls are giggly and 
laughing: they think it's all a bit of fun, and one even slides her zip 
down her body to reveal a leopard-print bra.

Sorry love, we've not come for playful games, but we've come to make you 
scream.

This is Guantanamo Bay, and I'm going to hurt them. The sprinkling of 
smashed glass against the wall indicates that I'm ready to relieve my 
tension. I grab one of the cunts: she's a young `un, possibly a 
University student, with long blonde hair and a curious nose. She was 
smiling, but as I wrap my fist around her fair locks, and snap her head 
back, that disappeared. "Play times over ... for you!" I growl into her ear.

She writhes, desperate to get free of my grip, but she's mine tonight. I 
drag her down the warehouse to the cages we've had built. Solid steel 
and built to resist, I throw her head first into the first cell I come 
to. I can hear squeals and yells behind me, so I know some of my 
colleagues are getting started too. It's what we've come to do.

She looked up at me, doe-eyed and pathetic as I fasten the cage shut, 
inside. I have dozens of weapons on my belt and pick a small hunting 
knife, advancing on the worried girl. She's crying, scared, pushing her 
body across the cold floor to the corner of the room. I like `em to play 
hard to get, because I like to play nasty.

A large chunk of hair comes off with the blade, reminding her I could 
break her if I want. My lust trebles instantly. I tucked the knife back 
into my uniform, for use later.

Her smell of her fear permeates the cell; her face is riddled with 
terror. She's new, she'll learn. I'm going to fuck her up but not kill 
her. The whip indicates my dominance, a hard smack across her thighs 
reinforces it. She screeches; the sound of her pain is nothing but 
blissful music to my ears.

I can't resist, smashing the whip down forcefully onto her rear as she 
begs; she's powerless. An insignificant bitch pleading for desperate 
mercy in my mighty presence. I'm not feeling compassionate today, and 
her helpless plight fuels my arousal.

I need it; I need to make her scream, pushing her boundaries and 
exposing her to untold levels of excruciating pain. I need revenge for 
the commodities fuck up the week before, and for my wife getting 
pregnant. I need to unleash a torrent of frustration and she's my 
victim. She will never experience as much agony as I am forcing into her 
flesh; I'm savouring every yell of her vocal chords, every crack of the 
whip, every whimper from her confused body and every piece of her 
miserable surrender.

She begs; she pleads; she makes a desperate bid for escape but it's all 
in vain. I don't know what her safeword was, and I didn't care. I 
haven't spunked this much cash and time on someone who wants to fuck off 
at the first two thousand lashes.

And she's making me horny. Fucking horny. I can feel the desperate need 
to fuck the screaming bitch that I'm holding down as tears cascade from 
her sorry face. I've never hit anyone so hard, her ragged body 
responding to every strike of my horsewhip. But I've never had this much 
tension in my muscles to unleash.

I felt hot, panting from my workout, flying with my dominance. And then, 
as the jumpsuit tears under my fierce strikes, I saw the bleeding mass 
of skin across her back, buttocks and thighs.

That's what I wanted, as I forced open her spandex and pressed her legs 
apart. "Please," she begs through desperate sobs. "No more!"

It made my heart melt and arousal soar. She offered no resistance to my 
cock being rammed to the hilt as her tight cunt gripped my dick with 
tearful intensity. Her eyes, filled with pain and terror, are overcome 
when I smack her bloodied thighs with my bare hands. Her cunt, worn out 
by my whip is abused by my pounding cock, as her resolve is crushed by 
the alpha male in the room.

I can't resist my peak, and the pitiful sight draws my orgasm from my 
body and I withdraw to coat the remnants of her jumpsuit with my cum. I 
smile at her, bedraggled and pathetic and take my knife from my body, 
cutting chunks of her hair out before pissing over her.

She is worthless; she meant nothing to me, and I needed to show her how 
powerful I was. She curled into a fetal position, so I gave up on her to 
find another bitch to torment.

Which is when she ran away: the treacherous cunt left when my back was 
turned, and ten minutes later, our party was stormed by armed Police.

I was bundled to the floor, stripped and forcibly taken. The indignity 
of it all: I yelled angrily at the coppers, but found myself in an 
interview room with a uniformed pleb, an hour later.

The hour I should have been turning that bitches skin purple and blue.

I wanted out of the Police station to salvage what we could from our party.

"On reflection, it may have got a bit out of hand," I admitted. "But 
it's all fine. Nothing to worry about."

"You think it's acceptable behaviour?" A snotty nosed Sergeant asked me. 
"To violate someone when they withdraw consent? And one of the girls was 
fifteen." His eyes narrowed. "She's underage."

"No comment," my solicitor interrupted. "My client has no comment to 
make, officer." He glared at me, but I knew nothing about the fifteen 
year-old; I was just there to unwind. The Sergeant had heard my story: 
the arranged party, a few drinks, the games; I had nothing more to add. 
"When will you be releasing him, officer?"

The Sergeant have a wry chuckle. "We'll be charging him. And then 
that'll be up to the judge." He smiled as my face dropped. "But then, I 
would imagine he'd want your client to be in a cell, with a real alpha 
male. See how he really likes it." He leant back in his chair and 
clicked his pen. "Pretty face like yours; won't take long," he promised. 
"Won't take long at all."

I panicked, fear swelling inside of me. I felt trapped, anxious to leave 
and needing to get out. But there was no escape. The Sergeant was clear: 
I'd answer to someone for my excesses. "OK, now things are really 
getting of hand," I cried, to no avail.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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