Path: not-for-mail
From: ochiba@earthlink.net
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,rec.arts.prose
Subject: Cody Archive: Betty
Date: Thu, 01 Apr 2004 14:08:38 -0800
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 1131
Message-ID: <4c762987.0404011408.1f2d52fc@posting.google.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 67.75.73.36
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="ISO-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1080857319 8374 127.0.0.1 (1 Apr 2004 22:08:39 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 1 Apr 2004 22:08:39 +0000 (UTC)
===================
A Brief Notice
It is with great pleasure and awe that I announce that the Cody Ann
Michaels Archive at Moxley-Bryce University Press is preparing a new
large type edition of Cody's early work together with a teaching guide
for use in elementary and middle schools. As part of the project, it
was decided to repost corrected versions of these stories as well as
new work, on the Usenet, along with indexing on Cody's website:
http://home.earthlink.net/~ochiba/codex/. All rights, specified and
implied, to these writings are reserved to their author who is the
sole owner. While they may be included in archives of a
non-commercial nature, they may not be sold or otherwise used
commercially. Although the Archive editors do not consider Cody's
writings to be pornographic or obscene, persons who are easily
offended are advised to look elsewhere for reading material.
Harlequin, Inc., for instance, puts out a tasteful line of books. The
Collected Speeches of Laura Bush suggest another possibility. Cody's
fans, however, will be delighted, as I am, to find here several texts
that have not heretofore appeared on the internet. Further
information about Cody, her diary, and other stories can be found at
the above mentioned website. You can let Cody know how much you enjoy
her stories or how much you'd like to rape and/or beat her up care of
ochiba@earthlink.net. Be sure to put the word "Cody" in the subject
line to avoid being spam-zapped. And -- need it be said? -- all
stories are fiction.
Trilby Gloat, Special Projects Editor
SPECIAL NOTICE: THIS IS FICTION. IT DOES NOT REFER TO A REAL PERSON.
ANY RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN IT AND A REAL PERSON, IF SUCH WERE TO EXIST,
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
BETTY
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
She would walk down the street and men would notice her; and then
there were the postcards and photographs.
It was drugs that finished her off. But before that, everyone wanted
to use her. Klaw. Wylie. There was a woman in Florida. She used
jungle settings, wild animals.
Everyone wanted her. She had a kind of persona. That face. Long
red hair. Bangs. A lot of people think she was a brunette. That's
because the pictures are black and white. But she wasn't. The red
hair photographed black. She was something. Then she disappeared.
She had to get away. She went out west. Started a new life. Tried
to get off drugs. Wasn't any use. She couldn't. She came back east.
John was waiting. He knew he had her.
If she hadn't threatened to talk, that was her big mistake. He told
her to keep her mouth shut. But he didn't trust her. She was a
junkie. Some of the boys took her upstate to a farm. Those long
legs, big breasts. They took their time.
Her name was Betty. Her specialty was being tied up in her
underwear. This was nothing new. She'd spent most of her life with
her hands behind her back. Or else she'd tie up someone else. Some
other girl. Susan. Elaine. Michelle. Whoever it was. Irving would
take their picture. He was a master.
Betty was really very submissive. She'd do anything he told her.
She liked to be beaten. There are many pictures.
The last ones were taken at the farm. They show everything, from
when she was picked up at the club where she worked as a stripper.
Nick's Top Hat Lounge. She had just gotten dressed. If that's what
you call it. Short white dress, high heels, black stockings. She was
going out. John picked her up. Irving took their picture.
She thought they were going to his apartment. But they weren't. The
driver headed out of the city. She said she had to go home. John
told her to shut up.
It was about an hour's drive. "Where we going?" she asked.
"You'll see."
They got to the farm about midnight. The other car was already
there. Milo was waiting.
Those were great pictures. Right away she knew something was up.
They got out of the car. It had rained earlier and the ground was
wet, muddy. Inside, it was just an old farmhouse. Nothing fancy.
Betty looked around. She had posed in worse places. She wondered
what they were doing there.
She remembered a scene where she had tied up a blonde. In a barn. A
place like this. It was rundown. Then there was one where a man had
tied her to a chair in a place like this. With a ballgag in her
mouth. What were they doing? Milo had some ropes. She hadn't been
told they were going to do a session. She wondered why.
"Whatta you say we do it without ropes," Milo said. John shrugged.
Irving set up his camera. Do what? Betty wondered.
Milo walked up to her and slugged her in the gut. That surprised
her. It was always fake violence. What was he doing? She doubled
up. He caught her on the jaw with a right hook. It spun her around
and she fell. She could taste the blood in her mouth. There was a
sofa. She landed against it.
John sat down in a chair to watch. Betty turned. Milo caught her.
He beat the shit out of her. It was horrible. He just kept hitting
her while John and the other guys watched. When he was done, Betty
was huddled up on the floor.
Milo stepped back. "You want her?" he said to Joey.
Joey picked the redhead up and leaned her against a wall. That way,
he could hit her harder. She slapped him. That's just what Joey
wanted. To be beaten. He beat her up the way he wanted to be beat
up. When he was done, she was beat up, She slid down onto the floor.
Joey brought the tanks. Willie put her inside. She couldn't fit.
He pushed her in. Her legs were doubled up. She heard a "snap." She
screamed. He hit her. She gave way. Pete put the lid on. Now she
was ready. They took her out to a sewage dump and dropped her in.
You could hear her struggling. The next thing, they shot holes in her
so the water could get in, and then she was put into the sewer. Betty
screamed. She was crumpled up so small that even a bullet couldn't
hurt her. Now she was free. You could hear her. It was wonderful.
I hit her again. She crumpled. Again.
Again.
The bulldozers covered her up. She's still in there. Trying to get
out. Irving showed me the pictures. Betty. Click. Again. Click.
Move. Click. Click. And now urethra. Click. diarrhea. click.
Poor Betty. She was such a ditz. She knew everything that happened
to her. Right down to the end.
A couple weeks later, they came back. The backhoe dug her up. She
was dead.
They took her down to the dollhouse. And spread her out on the
floor. What they took out of the barrel was a piece of shit. The
other gang had got there first. There was nothing there.
Okay. Hit her again. Click. Again. click. Again. Click. The
pictures were all over the place. What Milo did to her was pretty
awful. The hair was the same, but the face didn't look like the one
in the pictures. Klaw ripped her apart. She was all over the place.
John, too. John dragged her out into the yard and made her crawl in
the mud. He kicked the shit out of her. What a mess. He like to
hear her beg. Betty begged him to stop. He wouldn't. Click.
It went on all night. The ones in the barn were the worst. Jaw.
Face. Breasts. He took her apart.
The ones who didn't beat her up, fucked her. They were fucking
Betty. Scumbitch bimbo whore. The boys had done other chicks. But
never one like this. That mop of dark red hair was a handle. So were
the tits. They made the most of her.
John was ripping her apart. Whore. Cunt. He called her all those
names. Every name you can think of. It wasn't enough to kill her.
They had to humiliate her, too.
She tried to get away. They'd let her run a little and then they'd
drag her back. Like a cow. She couldn't get loose. Betty cried.
She couldn't understand what they were doing this for. She didn't
want to. She just wanted to get away.
When they jammed her in the barrel, they used a two-by-four to make
her fit. Wham. Wham. She fought like a demon. Right up until the
time they put the top on. High heels, ripped stockings. What a
looker. She was head down. You could see those long legs kicking.
Big white hips. Asshole crammed with shit. They'd juiced her real
good. Then sewn it shut. She couldn't get it out. It was up inside
her. Sticking out her chest. She fought. My God, how that girl
fought. Klaw took every picture. He was the best. Look at this one.
See the face, what they did to it? And look at this, the hips. He
used a flash with this one. F50 with a fast film. Boy, they don't
come any better than that.
This shows the barrel when they were shooting at it. She was inside.
Screaming her head off. You can see the blood.
This shows when they dug her up. Milo had her. Poor Milo. He
really had a thing on his hands. He just basically liked to torture
girls. Even when they were dead. He had a theory that they really
weren't. That they could feel everything. He still has her. You
should see her now.
Chapter 2
I get the strangest assignments. "Whatever Happened to Betty Page?"
I rented a car and drove out to P. The man who opened the door was
middle-aged, stocky, with big hands. What could he tell me? We went
into the living room of his modest suburban home and sat in
comfortable chairs in front of the television set.
It was a long time ago, he said. I got a call to go out to a
warehouse in Canarsie. They had a problem with the landlord. I had
to get my stuff. There was a lot of stuff, but one was a drum I had
stored there sometime before. What it was was this bimbo. She was in
the barrel. I'd forgotten all about her. She was something else. A
nice redhead with big tits. We had put her in the barrel, oh,
sometime before. She'd been in the barrel all this time. I wondered
what she looked like. Boy, she'd been in there a long time. So I
took her back to my apartment. What'd you say her name was? Betty
Smith? Page. Yeah. Maybe. Anyway, she was pretty far gone. I put
her in the kitchen. You want to see?
So we went out to the kitchen, and there she was. His wife. She'd
been sitting there for years. She looked exactly like Betty. It was
really Betty Page. He picked her up and we went back to the den. The
old man put her in a chair. Like she was sitting there. I mean, it
was her. Betty fucking Page. I went apeshit. I couldn't believe it
was really Betty Page. She looked exactly like the pictures.
Exactly.
You want to hit her? Milo asked.
I just wanted to stare. I couldn't believe it. Me. With Betty
Page. I freaked out.
She was wearing a black corset. And high heels. And stockings.
Sheer stockings. Not the two for three dollars in Woolworth's. These
were honest to god real stockings. Attached to suspenders. And black
panties. And over the elbow gloves with the fingertips cut off to
expose the long red nails. She looked at me.
But how could she still be so young, I wondered. She must be in her
sixties. Yet she looked exactly like the photographs. Milo said it
was because she was a hologram. He'd gone back to watching TV. She
wasn't really there. She just looked like she was. A hologram based
on the photographs held her in place so that I could look at and even
feel her, as if she was really there. Go on and try.
It was true. She was there. Or she felt as if she was. And she
felt real. Like a girl feels when you touch her. Warm. Sensual.
Able to respond. I could feel her respond. I could even smell her.
Milo said it was all done with computers. The whole house, he said,
was a computer. It made Betty Page. Go on. Do whatever you want.
It was a little hard to believe. I spent the rest of the afternoon
beating up Betty Page and raping her. Whatever I wanted her to do,
she did. If I wanted her to try to fight me off, she would. If I
wanted her to give me a blow job, she did. Oh my God, how she did. I
went nuts. What a babe. I hit her in the gut. She doubled over.
Just like she did for Milo thirty years ago in a farmhouse in Sullivan
County. I pounded her into mashed potatoes. She bled all over the
place. Real blood. That was some computer.
How can you live with this?
It's not so bad. I get a pension. I watch television. She doesn't
bother me. Usually I keep her in the kitchen.
But what happened when you took her out of the barrel?
I took her home. Beat the shit out of her. Stuck her in the
kitchen.
But was it fun?
In the beginning. I liked to beat up chicks. But I really liked
this one. She was endless. I spread her all over the apartment.
What'd you do?
Everything. Anything I had always wanted to try out. Then I got
tired. It wasn't the same. When I retired, I came out here. Nothing
to do. Just watch TV. Nothing on. It's all junk nowadays. Violence
everywhere you look. People getting killed. It's not safe.
Sometimes I go to the senior center. Things to do there. You want to
hit her some more before you leave?
Chapter 3
She woke up slowly, becoming aware that her hands were tied behind
her back. Where was she? What had happened? She tried to move. It
hurt. She lay still.
She was in a basement. Lying on a dirty floor. How had she gotten
here? Then it started to come back to her. John had picked her up at
the bar. Taken her somewhere. The men had beaten her. But where was
she now? This didn't look like the farmhouse.
Her dress, what was left of it, was in rags. Her stockings were
torn. She began to remember the beating in detail. The way each man
had taken his turn with her. John had watched. Later, he had beaten
her up, too.
This was like one of the scenes in the bondage sessions she posed
for. But it was real. She tried to work her hands free. The rope
was too tight.
She heard a door open and someone coming down the steps. It was two
men. They walked over to her and stared down. "Please," she said.
"Untie me."
They laughed. One of them picked her up. They tied a rope around
her neck and hung her from a hook in the ceiling. Her feet could just
barely touch the floor. She had to stand very straight if she wanted
to breathe.
This was the exquisite Betty Page that everyone had heard so much
about. The ultimate showgirl. Irving was not here to take her
picture now, was he? Whatever happened to her would be off camera.
The men went away. She stood there, being very careful not to move.
If she did, she would choke. She wished she could get free. She
wished they wouldn't keep doing this. It was so mean. Why did they
want to hurt her?
She knew it was because John wanted her to suffer. He liked knowing
she was going through hell. His men gave him periodic reports. He
would offer suggestions about other things they might try.
One of the men came back. He let her down and untied her hands. She
wondered what was going to happen next. He took her by the elbow and
walked her across the room. There was another door that led to a
stairwell that went up to the street, an alley. He told her to get
lost. She couldn't believe it. He was letting her go. Before he did
though, he hit her a good sock on the jaw. She spun round and went
over some garbage cans. When she woke up, the man was gone.
She had to get home. But how? Like this. The dress was ripped to
shreds. Her black corset was ripped. She looked like a whore. She
didn't have any money. She would have to walk home.
She walked along Broadway, feeling exposed and vulnerable. People
stared at her. She felt cheap. A tramp. Guys whistled at her.
If only she could find something to put round her. But what? As she
was stepping off a curb, she was hit by a bus. It knocked her across
the sidewalk. Betty staggered up. What happened? No. Where was
she? She couldn't find her way. A cop stopped her. Get out of here.
She turned to go and he smacked her with his nightstick. Betty went
down. When she came up, she was sucking cock. Her soft wet lips went
around it. People watched. She tried to get up. He held her down.
She struggled. That was what he wanted. Poor little Betty. See what
happens when you play with the big boys? Trixie held her up. What's
this? That's the way she looked after the bus ran over her. Jees,
look at those tits. She tried to cover them. He stopped her. No you
don't. She spun around. He was gone. That's when the bus hit her.
It was all over in a minute. No. After the second Kennedy was shot,
who was left?
They looked at him. The chief. Yeah. Put it on the table. Over
there. Why was he so ashamed? Look at the other guys. They did it
too.
But that didn't make it right.
No. Definitely. It certainly didn't.
What do you think?
I think you'd better get clearance. What do you think?
I think I'll take a little walk downtown and see what's happening.
She wandered through the passageways of her mind, trying to remember
what had happened. As she turned, he lifted her and pushed. It was
twenty stories down.
I saw her go by. She was wearing a black corset and stockings.
I thought it was a garter belt.
No. It was definitely a corset. And seven inch high heels.
How can you be sure?
I measured them as she went by.
Each one saw something different as she hurtled past. Some saw the
face. Others the tits. Some the black panties or the red hair or her
hands tied behind her back. A few reached out to her, grabbing at her
dress, her breasts, trying to drag her back by the hair. Each missed.
She had a date with gravity and a concrete sidewalk.
They finished her off. She hit the ground at two hundred miles an
hour and went right through the pavement. Nothing was held back. The
mask was off. Behind it, Betty groveled, trying to get the upper
hand. She couldn't. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Something held
her back. Her face splattered against the concrete. Her body bounced
back.
They had her. She came through. Someone put a hook in her tongue.
That stopped her. She stared crosseyed at the pink muscle as it was
pulled out of her mouth. She could feel her body already beginning to
ricochet, this would rip her tongue out.
Not really. They knew what they were doing. Nothing was left out of
the calculations. As her body extended outward, her neck remained
behind, stretched to the limit. The wave of energy extended down her
torso and along both legs until it reached the tips of her toes. Then
it snapped back, just as we had intended. The pretty teenage nymphet
was stretched to the max. But as we suspected, this was only for an
instant, and then the wave reversed itself. She went wild. We had to
get her back. It was a tough shot. She screamed. God, it was awful.
We had such a good time with her. Betty went into reverse and her
jaws doubled backwards as the tongue was extended further still. By
now we had half her esophagus out there. Then we shoved in the plug
and let her rip. Betty couldn't figure out what was happening. The
small tongue winch continued to do its work. But we were getting
cross hatches along the belly so we had to decide whether to ease up
or try for a new level. The teeth, by this time were some where
around her breasts. She was doing nicely. I couldn't get a handle on
it. Another surge. We decided to go for it. Her hands came up under
her tits and started to lift them off the ground. She was clawing at
them, trying to get loose. What she needed was a butt plug. But it
would mean getting up under the soft underbelly, then going deep into
the wound. Go on. Do it.
It was too late. She was already starting to implode. We couldn't
control the reaction. Various small wave patterns formed along the
girl's torso. Her legs were kicking. The big breasts bounced on the
sidewalk setting up a new series of motions. Betty was going mad.
She no longer knew who she was. Or what. She shattered.
Somewhere out there there was another Betty who was not like her.
Betty was someone else. Not her. She had to get away. They wouldn't
let her. She symbolized too much for them. Each took a piece of the
bimbo to remember her by. It was an echo.
Betty opened the door to her apartment. Anyone could come in. And
there she would be. Betty Page.
Or: And there she would be Betty Page.
Choose one.
Chapter 4
Many of these relics found their way to a laboratory in Canada, where
a team of dedicated scientists used them to clone a new Betty this one
even more desireable than the first. From there it was but a short
step to making more Betties, as many as one desired.
She returned to New York. So did the others. The other Betties.
There were hundreds, thousands. Each had the same genes, the same
good looks, the same behavior patterns. It became impossible to look
into the lens of a camera without seeing Betty. Her pictures were
everywhere. So was she. In supermarkets, bars, on television.
To torture one was to torture them all. Each shrieked as one or
another was beaten. The streets filled with writhing Betties each
enacting the butchering of one. Betty anchoring a newscast would
suddenly hunch forward as someone buried a fist into the belly of a
Betty in upstate New York. Betty in a bar would go down with legs
spread open as Betty in a back alley was raped. These actions tended
to overlap as the various Betties reported in. Conflicts arose. Was
the Betty being hacked to death by her boy friend more important than
the Betty being thrown from an apartment window or the one being
pushed under a train? Each felt that she should take precedence over
the others. Thus they became individualized, separate. The whole
disintegrated. They were no longer in contact across the genetic
webwork of their common origin. They were alone, isolated,
vulnerable. Something had been lost.
Gradually, they were rounded up. Most went to laboratories, where
they were used in experiments such as the one previously described.
The original Betty remained at large, however. On the lam.
Someone like that could not stay out of trouble long. She was
spotted going into a building in midtown. Trapped in the basement,
she was easily subdued. This time she was going to last a long time.
Chapter 5
She had their memories, that of all the Betties, everything that had
been done to them. As to what had happened to herself, she could not
remember. She swam in a sea of other women's experience, fighting off
the sharks of their individual destruction. How long could she last?
In Akron, a Betty was slowly roasting over a laboratory fire. She
looked so beautiful. Betty could see her. What was that?
Dubuque. What were they doing to her in Dubuque? Something exploded
in her head. It was the grenade going off in Wisteria. She had
changed her name. But she couldn't change her face. She was still
Betty. Or she was. Now she was all over the place.
Butte. Montana reporting. They made a network of her.
Go on Candy. Let it go.
I'll fall.
Try it. See what happens. You can always take back.
He remembered everything he saw. That's what was keeping him tied
up. Memories.
Of her?
Who else?
But what you said was she was not.
I did not.
You did.
Ko.
So you have to treat it like a board.
Right.
A board is different from a network.
So what?
You're just learning.
She's all tied up.
Take her. See what happens.
Chapter 6
He didn't give her a chance to recover. He was on her in an instant,
lifting her up, slamming against the wall. She was never safe. She
held out her hands to defend herself.
Click.
This file contains nudity. Those offended by the artistic
presentation of nudity should refrain from viewing.
Click.
Title: Betty in lace up teddy fairly unlaced
Betty reclines on her bed in a white lace up teddy that appears to be
becoming unlaced.
This file contains nudity. Those offended by the artistic
presentation of nudity should refrain from viewing.
Click.
Title: Betty with a black eye.
Betty, severely beaten, sits on a chair, leaning forward, clutching
herself.
This file contains nudity. Those offended by the artistic
presentation of nudity should refrain from viewing.
Click.
Title: Betty grovels in fireplace.
On her hands and knees, Betty shows off her abundant charms. Large
breasts reach nearly to the floor.
This file contains nudity...
Click.
Title: Betty, stripped to her underwear, hits the mirror.
The camera catches Betty at the moment of impact, as the tall mirror
shatters.
Click.
She had no way of escaping. They traded her around, each one taking
his turn at beating up the comely redhead.
It was fun. She was always available. All they had to do was turn
her on. When they were done, they left her for the next guy. It was
also good exercise. A workout on Betty Page always left you feeling
fit. Energized.
Chapter 7
Betty knew she had to escape. She decided to move to London. Her
friend, Kate Rawlings, a young fashion designer, said she could store
her belongings in the basement of her studio. The last item was a
large trunk. The two girls pushed it up against the wall. Betty's
plane was leaving that evening.
A few hours later, Kate was sitting in a cafe with her friend, Randy.
He owned a boutique that sold her clothes. It was a warm spring
evening. Betty's plane had gone. They were discussing Kate's new
line of intimate apparel. They joked about trying it on Betty.
Afterwards, Kate returned to her studio. She had been constructing a
black corset and wanted to try it out. She took it down to the
cellar. She opened the trunk. Inside was Betty, bound and gagged.
Betty tried to struggle, but she was no match for her captor. Kate
hung her by the neck from one of the rafters, wrists behind her back.
Betty's feet barely touched the floor.
At first, Betty babbled incoherently, cursing Kate for making her
miss her plane. What did she think she was doing? Kate laughed. She
had the vivacious redhead right where she wanted her.
Betty suddenly realized the stakes had changed. She was no longer in
control. She hung there in front of her former girl friend, wondering
what would happen next.
For starters, Kate stripped her down to her underwear. Betty wiggled
as her clothes came off. She was beginning to feel strange, hanging
this way. Kate had given her a small box to stand on, both feet close
together. "What are you doing?"
"Trying this on." Kate slipped the corset around the petite redhead
and began to cinch it tight. Betty couldn't breathe. She stood up
taller. She jerked violently as Kate stuck a pin in her behind.
"Hold still."
Betty tried to get away. Her toes slipped off the box and she hung
there in midair, kicking. Kate slammed her fist into her cunt and she
went white. The rope was cutting off her breath. She tried
desperately to get her toes back on the box before she passed out.
She just made it. Kate used her buttock for a pin cushion. Betty
screamed.
The young designer went about fastening the corset to Betty's flesh.
She stitched it tighter and tighter. Betty's breasts hung down over
the sides. Kate gave one of the big fleshy globes a playful slap.
Betty's breasts were exceedingly sensitive, one of the reasons she had
tried to escape. The smack sent shockwaves through her frail body.
When she was finished, Kate tied Betty back up and put her back into
the metal footlocker. Betty was squeezed in tightly, her body bent
backwards at a painful angle, her ankles tied to her neck. A ball gag
was inserted between her lips so that she could not cry out. Kate had
punched holes in the locker so that the cute little bimbo could
breathe, but the jagged edges cut into her flesh. She had to push
hard to get the lid closed. Betty's muffled struggles were useless.
Kate padlocked the trunk and went upstairs.
When she returned the next evening, Betty was in a pretty bad state.
Kate hauled her out of the locker and dropped her on the floor. She
untied the redhead's hands and feet and let her lie there. Betty
gradually straightened her back. She looked dazed. The corset Kate
had made her wear cut her nearly in half. Kate wasn't satisfied,
however. She wanted Betty to look exceptionally thin. Emaciated.
Betty had had nothing to eat or drink for more than twenty-four hours.
Now she was starving. Kate set a bowl of water on the floor in front
of her. Betty started to pick it up, but Kate kicked her away. It
was something Betty had tried on her once before. Betty had made her
crawl on her hands and knees and eat dog food out of a dish. At first
Kate had refused. Now she was getting her revenge.
Betty bent over the bowl and lapped at it. Kate watched her. Before
she was finished, Kate pulled her head up by the hair. She kicked the
bowl over. The water ran across the dirty floor. Betty tried to lick
it up.
Suddenly, she got to her feet and made a break for the stairs. In
her weakened state, she crawled up them like a ladder, She pushed
open the door at the top. The next instant, a foot kicked her in the
face. She straighened up, lost her balance and fell backward down the
stairs.
Kate was waiting for her. She picked up the redheaded moppet by the
hair and slammed her against the brick wall. Randy joined her and for
the next hour the two took turns beating the shit out of Betty. The
young art historian was no match for the two.
Kate especially enjoyed beating up her teenage idol. For the first
time, Betty was in her power and she could do anything to her she
wanted. Betty bounced off the walls and hit the concrete floor.
Randy stomped on her with his heavy boots. He had always wanted to
beat up a girl, and this was his first time. All the pain and anger
that he had felt for years came out against Betty. Afterwards, the
two young lovers had sex with the pretty redhead and each other, using
Betty as a cushion against which to slam their copulating bodies.
There wasn't much left of the silken charmer after they were through.
It was nearly morning when the pair of sweethearts stuffed their new
plaything back in the box and went off to have breakfast.
The next evening was a show that they had to attend, and then Kate
was going off to a weekend party in the Hamptons and Randy was headed
up state to see his mother, so it was several days before either of
them got a chance to get back down to the basement and take Betty out
of the box.
Kate had brought a can of Alpo which she made Betty lick off the
floor. She had to do it lying down because she couldn't stand up
anymore. That didn't matter because Kate had brought a pole to hold
her up. It was an old lamp base with a funny shaped knob on the top.
It came to a sort of point. She stood Betty up and got a rope around
her neck which she fastened to an overhead support. Then she inserted
the lamp stand up Betty's back door. She could have put it up her
cunt, but she other plans for Betty's twat. She couldn't stand the
pole straight up, because it was too long, but put it at an angle, so
Betty could put some of her weight on it to ease the rope and get her
breath. She could also get some weight off by standing on the small
box, but her feet kept slipping off.
The rope holding her wrists behind her back was pulled tight and
forced her to stand bent over, carefully balancing on the box to ease
the pain in her shoulders.
Kate went to work, designing a new gown which she stitched to Betty's
skin, shoving the needle in and out. A touch of lace around the
nipples pushed them up and outwards. Kate had sewn ribbon wire into
the edges, so that it cut into the delicate skin, giving the huge
knockers a life of their own.
Betty twitched and fretted, trying to escape the ins and out of
Kate's needle, but she was no match for the young designer. Ruffles
of lace skirted the tiny bustier into which Kate had crammed her.
Blood poured down her legs, staining the stiff material. Slowly, her
body eased itself down along the pole as more and more of it pushed
its way up inside her. It tried to straighten her out while at the
same time the pain in her shoulders forced her to bend still further
forward. Her cunt was pulsating, trying to mediate between them.
Betty's lips extended downward and tried to wrap around the steel
shaft. She was trying to get up onto it. The tips of her toes clung
to the wooden box, trying to maintain a hold. Her butt stuck straight
out in back of her. Her body was twitching uncontrolablely. Kate had
sewn ribbon thread in and out of her ribs. Betty was all skin and
bone. Except for her tits. Her breasts, if anything, had grown
larger. They hung down in front of her, nearly bouncing off the tops
of her legs.
Kate gave one of them a slap. Betty howled. Her body went crazy.
Suddenly she was out straight on the pole, her legs trying to get up
onto it. She struggled hard to keep it inside her, not to let it
stick out her belly, which was extended downward by the diamond shaped
knob up inside her. Halfway down the shaft was a bar that kept her
from going any further. It held some of her weight and allowed her to
get a better purchase on the pole. She had dragged it up underneath
her as it went inside until she was deeply impaled.
Chapter 8
By now, she had lost all touch with reality. She tried to think,
tried to remember who she was. Betty Page. That seemed right, but
who was Betty Page?
I couldn't remember. Where had I come from? Why? It was all a
mystery.
I looked down at my soft luscious body. The black underwear: panties,
bra, laceup corset. The stockings. High heels. I had big tits, nice
legs.
I was in a room, an apartment. I figured in New York, maybe Miami.
I didn't remember how I got there. Or when.
There was a knock on the door. I went to open it. A man was
outside. He pushed the door open and came in. I didn't know who he
was. But I figured what he wanted.
He put some money on the table. Then he came up to me.
And hit me in the face. The blow caught me on the jaw, and spun me
around. He caught me by the hair and pulled my head down, bringing
his knee up at the same time. I was stunned.
He followed up with a series of body blows. I went down, and he
kicked me in the stomach. Then in the face. For the next half hour,
he worked me over like that.
I was half unconscious. I couldn't think what was happening. He sat
down to have a smoke and watch me crawl on the floor. My whole body
was shaking.
Click.
This picture shows nudity. Those offended by the artistic
presentation of nudity should refrain from viewing.
Click.
This picture shows nudity. Those offended by the artistic
presentation of nudity should refrain from viewing.
The man resumed beating me. I could do nothing. He broke a chair
across my back as I tried to get up. My face and arms were covered
with blood. So were my legs. I was so hurt.
When he left, another took his place. I was their punching bag.
Chapter 9
Sometimes she was pimped out to frat parties. That's where Kate met
her. Stu, the president, asked her to serve the drinks. She noticed
the pretty redhead. She was on crutches. The girl took a drink from
the tray. She moved awkwardly, as if every movement caused her pain.
Kate was curious about this girl. Why was she crippled? In spite of
that, she was intensely beautiful. She wore a white spandex dress
with a very short hem. Large tits struggled against the cups of the
halter, held up with sphagetti straps.
Betty said she was recovering from injuries sustained in an
automobile accident. She was driving along the coast road when her
car went out of control and slammed into a tree. She had been thrown
out and nearly died. She had spent several months in the hospital.
Now she had returned to the campus to continue her studies.
The girls were taken to a large room at the back of the house. At
one end was a stage. Tables and folding chairs were placed around it.
Kate had no idea what she was supposed to do. In the center of the
stage was a steel pole with the metal frame of a bicycle saddle
mounted on it. Betty was forced to bend over this with her behind in
the air. Her ankles were tied to pegs near the bottom of the pole.
Her toes could just barely reach the floor. Her wrists were tied
behind her, as were her elbows. Then a rope was used to lift her arms
up and back, forcing her downward. Another rope around her neck
pulled her head forwrd.
The lights were turned down. A single spotlight illuminated the
pretty coed. The rest of the room was dark. The only other person on
the stage was Kate -- with a leather riding crop.
The white skirt had slipped up over Betty's ass cheeks. Kate went to
work on her behind. The girl's head snapped up, a dazed look in her
eyes. What had happened? Her foot hit the brakes. The little red
sports car went into a spin. The next thing she was lifted up and
backward. The steering wheel hitting her chest slammed her tits up.
Kate pulled her hair back. "Go on, Betty. Get it." Betty got it.
The whip sliced off a piece of her ass. Kate fed it to the dogs.
One by one they were led up onto the stage. It was pledge night.
Wham, bam, double wam. They found a jawbone out on the beach and put
it in her mouth. It didn't matter what they did to her. It would all
come around in the end.
He prepared a labyrinth for her to waltz through. Oh yes. And then
the eye of an eagle and the face of a weasel. A ferret? No. A
weasel.
They found the flesh in a sewer in Oregon. And the morgue was a good
place for spare parts if they needed them. How about this? What is
it? I don't know. But if you hook it to this thing, then she does
this. The crowd went wild. Betty was going nuts.
There was a ring in her nose, and another one fastened into her
naval. He touched her breast. She was slobbering. Come on, Betty.
Come on. The girl was babbling obscenities. She thought she was
still in the car. Rutmon hit her. Then the lights came on.
Chapter 10
A different version: Suddenly the house had vanished and Kate was
standing on a wide plain. The only other person there was Betty. She
was standing at the opposite end of the room in front of the
fireplace. It was a chilly evening, and a fire had been lit on the
hearth. The brothers sat around, watching her. Betty was standing in
front of them. Kate remembered the look on her face. Betty could
have been her mirror image. The two girls faced each other. Then
Kate moved.
The other girl countered and attacked.
Kate stepped backward.
The thrust went wild.
Then she was back in the room.
Betty moved off into the crowd. Kate was left alone, her mind racing
for control. She turned. And went crashing into the drinks table.
Stu picked her up and handed her over to one of the girls. "Get her
out of here." Who is she? I don't know. She came with one of the
pledges. And you did this to her? Well, I didn't know. Where'll I
put her? I don't care. Just get her out of here.
The next day she woke up. Where had she been? Her lips were numb.
She couldn't think. Years later, she recovered the memories. It
wasn't like that at all.
Someone wanted her to judge a contest. They found her at the bottom
of the stairs. Someone said she looked like Kyle's date. She
couldn't remember who she came with. What a pig. They had to get her
out of the house. What about the other one? She stays.
Betty found herself laying in a ditch. She'd been thrown out of the
car. She tried to remember what had happened, but she couldn't. She
didn't know where she was. She stood up. She was still wearing the
leotard. Her stockings were ripped. She started to walk along the
road. A car came along and offered her a ride. She got inside.
Chapter 11
The photograph showed a pretty redhead in a black leotard. On the
back, was this information: "Betty." "14." Occupation: Artist. 5'7",
115 pounds. Social drinker. Non-smoker. About yourself: "I like to
think of myself as a soft-spoken, even-tempered and spiritually
minded. I love people and am interested in meeting someone who is
interested in doing many fun and different things." He got her from a
men's club dating service.
Then there was the picture in the bikini when she was 17. She was
Catholic. An actress. A social drinker. A non-smoker. She backed
away, shaking her head, no. "As an actress, I get to live complete
strangers' lives. In my personal life, I'd like to meet someone who
appreciates me for who I really am."
She was playing a dangerous game against a formidable opponent. He
knew he had her. Slowly, he cut her to ribbons. From a confident,
poised girl she was reduced to a wailing crybaby.
She pleaded with him at every step of the way. His attack was
relentless. He soon had her squeezed into a corner. She had no
resources left.
Her self-esteem was gone. She had nothing to fall back on. In a
sense, she had already lost the game. Still, he played on, reducing
her further and further. He wondered how far he could go before there
was nothing left.
But drugs is what finished her off. Cocaine. Heroin. You name it.
She was a real junkie. In the end, she was willing to do anything for
a fix. That's how she got to be a punching bag. Her creditors set
her up in an apartment. She paid it all back and then some. They
made a fortune.
Irving photographed everything. The fists, the blows, the cuts, the
black eyes. The bones sticking out at right angles. The high heels
and the panties and the dress being ripped off. Whatever they could
think of to do to Betty was on film somewhere. Even when they peeled
her. Starting with the tits. One tit, then the other. Then down the
sides. Along the legs, across the buttocks, up the back, down the
arms, each finger being carefully stripped. Then the toes. They hurt
the worst. They left the face. Betty's face showing what it felt
like not to have skin. Very nice shot.
She had lost the game. Why did he want to pursue it? Why go on
beating a dead horse? Except she wasn't dead, and she wasn't a horse.
She was a pretty redhead with big tits and a gorgeous face. He liked
to watch how each move registered on the face, now that he was
confident of winning.
Both of her nipples had been left intact. He now used a pen knife to
open a small hole in the middle of the left one. He then inserted a
screw driver, pushing it into the opening. It had a long shaft, and
he worked it around in there like a joystick. Betty's face was like a
computer monitor. For each turn and twist of the joystick, she showed
a different reaction. He was fascinated.
He did the same with the other tit. Now he had two joysticks. He
could play against himself, left hand to right tit, right hand to
left. The girl lost all sense of identity as one wave of pain after
another crashed across her chest and spread out under her arms.
His hands on the bare flesh drove her wild. He was having a grand
old time, making her buck and heave. Irving's pictures show each
twist and turn as the screaming girl sought to evade him. It was a
whole new game. She had lost one, now she was losing the next.
Nothing could stop him. He was on top of her every move. Savage
blows rained down. Her pretty face was a mass of bruises.
Afterwards, he wiped his hand on a towel.
The dark haired beauty lay on the floor. The attack had been a good
one. She was reduced to nothing. The next game was coming up.
"No." Wham.
Krack. Crash.
He used her to break every piece of furniture in the room. Her head
shattered on the table. Arms and legs were broken across chairs.
Pieces of flesh were gouged out with the edges of broken vases and
whiskey bottles. This game went on for some time, long after she had
lost. He wanted to give the fans their money's worth. So he had to
fake her resistance. Make it look like she was putting up a fight.
Her arms swung aimlessly. But now and then they seemed to connect.
It didn't matter. Anything she could do was ineffectual. She tried
to escape, but he tripped her. She fell headlong on the floor. He
kicked her in the side. She rolled over. And he stomped her gut.
Her head and legs came up like a penknife. He did it again. And
again. He was completely in charge. She rolled over, trying to
protect herself. But he kicked her in the back. That opened her up.
He stepped on her neck and twisted his foot. She gagged. Clutching
her throat, she tried to get up. She couldn't. She fell backwards,
strangling. He pulled her up and lifting her, brought her down
backwards across his raised knee. Again the girl rolled off onto the
floorHe could have stopped long ago. Back when he broke her back. Or
both arms. He could have stopped when he shoved the busted bottle up
inside her cunt. She was finished then. But he fought on, making it
look like she was the one who was resisting.
EPILOGUE
Nothing protected her. He tore her apart, destroying her self
importance, ripping it to shreds. The pretty little bimbo was made to
be broken. She couldn't keep it up. She knew she had to die
sometime. But where? She didn't know. The waiting was insufferable.
She walked around the room, terrified of being seen. Where was she?
They kept looking at her, but nobody moved. It was like "click." She
did.
"What?"
She clicked. They turned. What was it? They couldn't tell. The
bronco was broken. He dragged her over to the railing and tied a rope
through the ring in her nose. She squealed. Oh my God, I was so
scared. The two little guys didn't want to have anything to do with
it. One had a weak heart. Right. And then what? I tell you it was
nothing. What? What? What was nothing? I don't know. Todo lo
frio. I don't know.
"Oh yeah! Touvier."
"Right. He was there?"
"What'd he say?"
"He said it wasn't his."
"Then whose was it?"
"Ricardo."
"Que?"
"And he did it?"
"I think he did."
"Bartardo."
"Que mal?"
"Entonces."
"Shit."
Her face disappeared. It was only Richard."
"Who?"
"Ricardo."
Be careful.
I'm doing the best I can."
"They're going to blow us out of the water."
"So that's how it is?"
"I'm telling you."
"A hyatal hernia."
"Right. All the way through her body."
"Que?"
"Touch her. See what happens."
"Nothing."
"No. There."
"My God!"
"And that's just the tit."
"What about here?"
"Don't do that."
Half of New Jersey.
*
Silence.
In his bedroom, behind a picture, he used to keep an envelope of
girls's pictures. The girls were in their underwear or naked. One
day, he discovered he could make the girls do what he wanted. It was
as if they were dolls.
One was a serious redhead. She wore garterbelt, stockings, high
heels. He tied her wrists behind her.
Yeah. He remembered. Only it hadn't been a picture. It had been
her. Betty. He hadn't expected to see her again, but there she was,
standing at the corner of 57th and Lex, wind blowing up under her
dress. It lifted the little skirt and threw her forward into his
waiting fist. It turned her head and the car hit her, slamming her
into the wall.
They rode her into the winner's circle. Betty turned her head. She
had been who he was, and knew what was coming next.
Hasta manana, Madrecita.
Garbage.
She knew she was going to die. She only hoped it would be over fast.
But Ricardo took his time. Nothing would stop him. He was fanatico.
She crawled across the floor towards where he was standing. He would
force her to love him, his cruel depravity. She was a blood smear
across his roccoco carpet. He matched her dna with the girl in the
torture device, so that she could be in exact tune with everything he
was going to do. Betty rolled on the floor in agony as the girl was
skinned and electrodes placed at strategic points on the bare flesh.
Then the fun began. Betty went vicariously wild as the pretty bimbo
was jolted back and forth across the steel cage in which she was
suspended. Betty slammed her head down on the wooden coffee table,
trying to obliterate the pain. She begged them to stop hurting the
pretty little showgirl who was her standin for a night of glorious
sex. The girl inside the cage was also a redhead, and in fact, looked
exactly like Betty Page. Her name was Laura. Betty knew that Laura
was the source of all her pain. The elfin charmer was wiping herself
across the cage floor, each electrode sending hundreds of thousands of
volts through the luscious body. Betty crawled up the side of the
cage, desperately trying to get at the young sexpot being fried
inside. There was no end.