This is a fictional story depicting images of violence, rape and 
torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if you are not an 
adult. Although this story is loosely based upon the notorious Villa 
Grimaldi in Santiago, Chile, remember, the story is fiction.


A Red Hot Chile
by Grim Williams

Copyright 2000. All rights reserved.


Part Four


The muscles in Francesca's shoulders strained beyond belief, the bed 
creaked, and she now felt the pressure building in her knee joints. 
"Have they gone?" she gasped, fighting to maintain her composure.

I was sat on the edge of the old rusty bed with my hand casually placed 
upon her chest. "Have they gone, sir," I corrected, idly flicking one 
of her small nipples with my forefinger.

She winced. "I'm sorry. Yes, of course. Have they gone, sir."

In my other hand I held an old hair dryer and was waving it 
industriously at the ropes holding Francesca's wrists to the corners of 
the bed. These were new ropes that I'd previously soaked in water. 

"Yes, they've gone," I said. "But they won't be long. They'll be back. 
Just a few minutes, Francesca, and then the torture will start."

She groaned. She lay prone with her back digging into the uncomfortable 
rusty springs, her four limbs pulled towards the corners of the bed, 
and her body stretched into the shape of an X. "But you are already 
torturing me, my Captain. My arms, my legs. My chest is so tight; I can 
hardly breathe. It hurts. How it hurts! Any more and I'm sure that 
you'll dislocate my shoulders. But you know that, don't you, my 
Captain? You know exactly what you're doing."

"Of course, Francesca. This is my job, after all. You are being slowly 
and relentlessly stretched. As the ropes dry, they shrink and pull upon 
your ligaments and muscles. Very soon your joints will be burning with 
pain and every muscle and sinew will be strained to its limit." 

"Dear God!" she coughed, shivering from fear. "I thought I could be 
strong, I hoped for so much! But the torture is already so terrible. 
There are sharp stabs in the small of my back. You are breaking me in 
two, my Captain. I'm not sure that I can stand it if the pain gets any 
worse."

Her breathing was shallow but tortured, her face strained and creased 
with furrows of distress. I noticed how the knots about her wrists had 
sunk deep into her skin, pinching and cutting the circulation.

I kissed her tenderly on her cheek, enjoying her confusion and woe. 
"The pain you feel at present," I told her softly, luxuriating in the 
touch of her silky blonde hair against the side of my face. "It's 
nothing. We have barely begun."

Through the open window I heard excited male voices, several people 
talking yet nobody listening. My heart leapt. There was commotion, 
raucous laughing, some shouting.

But Francesca was deaf to it. She could focus on nothing but her own 
pitiable state. "Oh God. I can't bear it, my Captain. How can I? Please 
tell me. You must know. This pain. I'm sorry. It's too much. I can't... 
I think I may let you down."

"On the contrary, Francesca," I said, placing the hair blower on the 
bed by her side, standing, and then walking across to the window, 
looking down at the drama unfolding below. "You won't let me down. It's 
impossible. The more I see that you're hurting, the more I like it; the 
more aroused I become."

Francesca strained to look round, to be able to see me. There was such 
suffering in her dull sad eyes. "Is that true, my Captain? I want to 
arouse you. I do so want my body to whip up within you an inferno of 
fire, to inflame you as I've never done before, but, oh dear, my spirit 
is willing but my flesh is so weak. How can I endure it? Oh God. My 
Captain: the ropes, I can feel them tightening. My arms are quite numb. 
My chest, I can barely breathe... Please sir, how much worse can it 
get? The knots are biting into my wrists so deeply."

Through the window I saw three men with spades. They were digging a 
hole in the ground. Around them stood a group of between seven and ten 
guards. These were jesting and gesticulating: a couple were smoking and 
one seemed to be arguing with himself. I noticed indifferently that 
both Juan and Pedro were among their number.

"It will get worse," I said idly, trying to peer inside the hole. "Much 
worse. Soon you will not be able to talk, or to think of anything but 
the pain. Perhaps you will even be beyond screaming. It happens."

I stepped away from the window, resolutely picking up the hair dryer 
and moving towards her feet. From here I could see along the funnel of 
her legs, towards her gaping hole, spread apart and open for 
inspection. 

She lifted her head anxiously, noticing at once how I was looking at 
her yawning slit. "Oh God. But you are already aroused. I can see it in 
your pants. Dear God, forgive me. My shoulders... Please, can I see? 
Show me, while the men are not here, please, allow me to see how 
aroused I have made you."

I shook my head. What was she asking? "I don't understand you, 
Francesca."

She was fighting to keep her head raised enough to see me, gritting her 
teeth. "Please. Please, sir. Will you please undo your trousers and 
allow me to see how my agony excites you."

"What? You want me to take out my cock?"

She tried to swallow, but her throat was quite dry and she only managed 
it with some difficulty. Her head fell back. "I know I have no right to 
ask. But please. Please sir. If I can see how much my racked body is 
turning you on, then it will help me to endure this terrible pain in my 
arms and legs."

"You want to see my erection?"

"Please sir. Yes. Are you going to make me say it? Please. For the love 
of God!"

I considered. I had never realized just how sexy she was. I pondered. 
"Everything has its price, Francesca. First you must tell me about the 
man: the man that took you to see Manuel Carras. If you tell me about 
him, then maybe I will humor you."

She grimaced, attempting again to lift her head. "I can't, my Captain. 
How can I? I want to tell you, but... if I do then I know that you'll 
kill him. How can I bear that, my Captain?"

My gaze kept returning to her sex, to that gentle bulge covered in soft 
silky hair. I did it deliberately, to taunt her. Francesca is normally 
such a modest, retiring woman. I knew how much she must hate having her 
genitals on such open display.

Her head fell back for a second time against the rusty springs and she 
closed her eyes, blushing, attempting vainly to close her legs. 

I spoke carefully. "Then he's a traitor? This man? Is that what you're 
telling me?"

Her eyes were still closed. Unable to verify the situation for herself, 
she could only imagine my lecherous leer exploring and penetrating her 
most secret place. "I don't know. Maybe he is a traitor. Who am I to 
say? I don't know. You may think that he is."

I reached forward and casually nipped her outer lips between my thumb 
and forefinger. She yelped in a surge of panic, her white eyes 
immediately staring wide and unseeing. These eyes knew that she was 
totally helpless to protect her vulnerable cunt lips from attack.

From outside I could hear the noise of reluctant digging, and the 
occasional strain of Pedro's boisterous frenzy. "Then you had better 
tell me who he is," I advised coldly. "I can pinch your pussy much 
harder than you imagine possible. Is that what you want? In fact, I 
could as easily pinch your clit..."

She screamed. "No, please! I beg you. I want to confess. I hate these 
secrets. But I can't! Please, my Captain. How can I betray him?"

I played with her, gently stroking her pussy lips, moving inside. "Then 
you make yourself an accessory to his crimes. I can't help you, 
Francesca. And as for your poor clit..."

I could feel her thighs shaking uncontrollably in fear and sensed her 
tense as she prepared herself for what I was about to do. 

My fingers brushed away the outer skin and felt for her secret rosebud. 
I found it.

At once, the bed springs groaned and her body arched in an impossible 
angle given the tautness of the ropes. "No!!!! Please!" 

Her fingers clawed at thin air, reaching, grappling. "I'll tell you! 
Anything. I'll tell you what you want to know! Please! No more! Not 
there! I'm so guilty. I did want to tell you. I hate these secrets. My 
Captain, sir! But I feared that you might kill him..."

Mercilessly, I took her clitoris and squeezed it hard, twisting it a 
quarter turn in the same action. "You're not thinking straight, 
Francesca," I gloated.

She screamed in anguish, tears popping from the corners of her eyes. I 
continued on relentlessly, "It's for you yourself that you need to 
fear. Forget him! Let him look out for himself."

I still held her clit, threatening, thinking, when a tremendous surge 
of power and lust raced through me. I couldn't resist, didn't even want 
to. Ruthlessly, I twisted down on it for a second time. 

"Please," she screamed again, her body rocking hard against the 
springs. "It's the priest, my priest! Please! Let go of me! That's why 
I went with him in the taxi. Please! Let me talk! No more! He came to 
the hospital. He said that there was a man in the mountains who was 
sick - dear God - and that if he didn't receive medical help quickly 
then he would die."

I relaxed my grip slightly on her throbbing bud. "So you went?"

"Of course I went." Her words tumbled out in unbridled relief. "Yes, 
sir. It's what I'm trained to do. I'm a nurse. What else... what 
else... oh god! My pussy! What else was I to do?"

I tugged my erection from out of my trousers, moving round the bed so 
that she could see it more easily. I wanted her to see. I wanted her to 
know. It was hard and angry, the foreskin stretched back from the 
purple glans. I shoved it towards her face. "Look, Francesca," I 
gasped. My cock exuded the strong animal aroma of sex. "Look how your 
screams excite me. I must do that again. I really must. I must crush 
your sweet clit between my fingers. Such honey! So what is it, 
Francesca? What is his name? Tell me. Tell me his name!"

"I'm sorry," she cried, still staring at my tool, utterly miserable. "I 
can't tell you... Not his name. Anything else. I know. You'll torture 
me. I'll suffer abominably for it. But how can I betray him?"

I smiled evilly, vindictively. "So how is your clit? Is it aching real 
bad?"

"Oh God!"

I began to stroke my erection, at first quite slowly, savoring her 
disquiet. "Perhaps I should caress it again. Like I did a moment ago. 
Think of the pain, Francesca. And then think what I could do if I 
really wanted to hurt you. Are you sure that you don't want to tell me 
his name?"

"I can't," she howled. "But I do need to talk, to confess. Please."

I turned on the hair dryer and pointed the hot air at one of the wet 
ropes at the tail of the bed. I did it with one hand: with the other I 
rubbed on my dick, teasing it harder. What did she have to say? "Go 
on."

She was staring into space, straight up at the naked light bulb 
directly above her, attempting to avoid the fury of the movements of my 
hand. "I've been feeling so guilty. I hardly know where to begin. Where 
do I start? Oh God! I've betrayed you, my Captain." 

My tone hardened imperceptibly. "Go on."

"God! This pain!" she cried. "Please... But, no. I can't complain. How 
can I complain? I deserve it! I deserve every wretched moment of it!"

Her voice was unsparing and hard. I was intrigued. It was obvious that 
she was suffering far more at the prospect of what she was about to 
say, than from the physical pain of being stretched by the ropes. How 
bizarre! I sensed that a door was opening, but had no idea what would 
be revealed. "What have you done, Francesca?"

She groaned. "How can I tell you? I feel so wretched. My Captain, sir. 
Please forgive me. I'm afraid that I've not been as pure as a wife 
should be."

I flicked off the dryer so that I could hear more clearly. My cock was 
still in front of me, pointing obscenely, but my hand had left it. 

"Oh?"

"Please! Can I talk? Please! Are you listening? Please, don't go."

A thought occurred. "Does this have something to do with Manuel 
Carras?"

She tried to inhale. Her lungs were hurting real bad. "It has 
everything to do with Manuel Carras. If I confess, then you will 
understand why I went, why I had to go. But where to begin? Please, 
sir. Loosen these ropes. How can I explain? I can barely breathe..."

I stood stiffly with the dryer in my hand, my swollen dick exposed, 
gazing glassily at her nakedness. "No. You will survive. Enough. Talk!"

She sucked in breath; her breasts were stretched and tight. Her 
crucifix lay loose around her neck, golden and forgotten. Gradually she 
began to tell her story.

****

You are a good husband, my Captain. But as you know, I am often alone 
in the evenings. Your work keeps you here at night, here in Grimaldi. 
This is right and proper, but I am left alone and without company. At 
first it didn't bother me, I would watch television, read sometimes, 
sew, I even wrote a little. 

I looked forward to those precious days that we spent together, 
frolicking in bed, my sore breasts aching for your caress, my dripping 
hole yearning for your swollen rod to fill it to its brim. I was 
ashamed at myself because you made me feel so sensual, just the promise 
of your touch excited me to the point of coming. I wanted you so much, 
and yet I knew such desire to be wrong, immodest and sinful.

Sex is for making babies. That is what I've been taught. Not for 
enjoyment. And so, every week I would go to Church and confess my 
yearnings, my lust, and the fire that filled my belly. And each week I 
was suitably reassured. I was told that such desire was sinful: that I 
must dull it, kill it. And I was also given much penance.

But such advice is easy to dispense, not so easy to apply. The more I 
tried to do what was right, the greater were the objections of my 
fallen flesh. And with your lengthening absences, I lost control of 
myself; I confess. I fell into repeated acts of lewdness.

I'm not blaming you, my Captain. Far from it. I know I have only myself 
to blame. That's why I must be punished. There have been nights when 
you were out, here, working to pay the bills and provide us with a 
living, and I have been at home in bed with my mind filled with such 
strange confused thoughts. I tried to stop them, to think of other 
things, but it was impossible. Every time my mind relaxed, it wandered, 
returning to him.

Yes. I can see you asking. Him. The priest. That is what I'm telling 
you. Please sir. I know I need punishing. I have been so bad.

I don't know how it began. At first he would just talk, in my thoughts, 
I mean. But I was so hot, so aroused that in my thoughts I imagined 
what it would be like to seduce him, to feel his hard cock deep inside 
my body. At first I think it was you that I was talking to; it was you 
that I was seducing, it was your cock that I was imagining. But 
somehow, I don't know quite how or when, but somehow I transferred his 
face onto your body. And then, given a little more time, it wasn't even 
your body that I was touching in these dreams. It was him: just him. I 
had these wicked thoughts so often. I knew they were wrong, but they 
were so exciting, exhilarating, different. And each time I had them, I 
would play with myself and make myself come.

I wanted to tell you. But I couldn't. How could I, my Captain? It would 
have been such a betrayal. You have always been so good to me. No. I 
couldn't confess to you. I know I couldn't. And because of that, I did 
worse, much worse. 

I obeyed my conscience. You are surprised? Yes, I admit it. It was my 
biggest mistake. I was a fool. I felt so guilty about these thoughts 
that I did what I had been taught to do. I took them to my 
confessional. Do you understand, my Captain? Do you comprehend what I'm 
saying? I confessed my impure thoughts to the very man about whom I was 
having them. Can you imagine? I had to do this each week for three 
perhaps nearly four months."

****

My imagination was playing tricks with me. It was running far ahead and 
playing cruel games with me. But what if I were right? What then? Then 
heaven help her from the cruel revenge I would wreak upon her weak 
feminine flesh. "What's his name?" I snapped. "I need to know this 
creep's name."

She didn't purposely ignore my question; it was more that she was so 
caught up in her own thoughts that she didn't hear. Nevertheless, my 
fuse was already burnt through. I was angry. I grabbed hold of her open 
pussy, insensitively groping inside for her bud.

"No," she howled, recognizing my intent, yet totally defenseless before 
it. My hand grasped her tight: gripping, twisting and squeezing with 
the full might of my strength.

Instantly her body contorted in misery, breaking into an unearthly 
shriek of agony that sailed through the open window, penetrating the 
night outside.

The digging stopped; the voices fell silent.

"The name," I bellowed. "I'm not messing, Francesca. I want to know who 
this guy is."

"Philip!" she spluttered in panic. "Philip Barajas! That's his name! 
Please! Stop! You can't imagine how much that hurts!"

"Then talk!" I commanded, holding my fingers against her poor inflamed 
flesh. "And when I ask you a question: you answer me. Do you 
understand? I'm not in the mood for your games, Francesca. No secrets! 
No lies! Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir," she gasped, wheezing and panting. "I'll talk. I'll tell you 
everything. Please, just leave my pussy alone."

"I'm waiting," I warned, pushing a finger deep inside her love tunnel 
and wiggling it about. "This finger could as easily be a cattle prod. 
Would you like that, Francesca? To have a cattle prod inserted deep 
inside your pussy? I have one in the cupboard. It would only take me a 
moment to fetch it. Is that what you want? My patience is waning; don't 
make me lose it! It's on the sharpest knife edge."

It was the final straw. Her eyes darted towards the steel cupboard and 
the awfulness of my threat sank in. That and her pain caused her to 
break down for the first time. She shook uncontrollably and a series of 
eerie cries welled from deep within her soul, searing her spirit. Her 
eyes were hollow, dull, defeated. She lay broken, crushed and weeping, 
overcome with dread.

I also noticed that her feet were now blue and swollen from the knots 
biting into her ankles. The ropes were tightening, tighter, ever 
tighter, pulling upon her limbs, stretching them beyond compassion. 
There was a heavy slime of perspiration covering her face, helped there 
by a combination of mental stress and the physical pressure bearing 
upon her limbs and joints.

But through her tears, she was moaning in an unthinking catechism of 
confession, her words barely recognizable. She had to speak. There was 
no stopping her now. 

She was talking through the pain, trying to avoid it, trying to think 
passed it. Her words came in short rapid bursts punctuated by the 
catching of breath. 

And outside, the digging had resumed apace.



End of Part Four


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part the earlier parts 
of this story by encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my 
proofreaders for their invaluable assistance and suggestions.


Please feel free to write with suggestions. I'll use them if I can.




Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com

