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.

The story thus far can be read by following these links:


Part One, The Beginning
http://www.deja.com/getdoc.xp?AN=598563459

Part Two, The Reception
http://www.deja.com/getdoc.xp?AN=603379224

Part Three, The Strip Dance
http://www.deja.com/getdoc.xp?AN=603387535

Part Four, The Confession
http://www.deja.com/getdoc.xp?AN=608535031

Part Five, The Mock Crucifixion
http://www.deja.com/getdoc.xp?AN=608535046






Part Six





"Imagine a lady," I said, uncoiling a long black hose from the corner 
of the room and laying it out. "A pretty lady, blonde, with a nice 
curvaceous figure."

"You mean me?" Francesca gasped, closing her eyes to better fight her 
pain. The ropes pulling her arms and legs had shrunk yet further, 
extending and exhibiting her tormented body beautifully. There was no 
give in them at all. She was stretched so tightly that most of her body 
barely touched the rusty bedsprings. It seemed that her taut ass and 
strained angular shoulder blades were about all that supported her.

"Maybe," I nodded. "She doesn't wear any clothes, this lady, and this 
fact excites her. Is that you? She's very wet and aroused."

Francesca shuddered, opening her eyes again. "God, then it's not me. 
I'm not aroused. How could I be? This hurts. God, how much this hurts!"

From outside the glassless window I heard the sound of excited male 
voices. It was chaos down there, everyone screaming instructions yet no 
one listening. I glanced over towards the window, my heart beating 
fast. It seemed that the diggers had reached their goal.

"Why shouldn't you be aroused?" I protested, running the hose idly 
through my fingers, my mind still fully outside with Pedro and Juan and 
the others, down below in the courtyard. "I felt your panties, 
remember. I felt your dripping juices. You were hot, red hot. No 
mistake."

"That isn't true," Francesca objected flatly, clawing at the ropes with 
the tips of her fingers, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her 
suffering arms. "Please. Tell me the truth. While we're alone. We 
always said that we would. My panties weren't wet. They weren't, were 
they? Please, tell me that they weren't."

"Why would I lie to you, Francesca?"

Her makeup had run and was smudged across her petitioning face. Her 
cheeks were stained with the mud of her mascara, and her chin glowed 
red with the remnants of her lip-gloss. "I would have known," she 
groaned, biting her lip, fighting the pain that was crippling her 
shoulder joints. "I know I would. A woman doesn't wet her panties 
without being aware that she's excited. I don't, anyway. How could my 
panties have been wet? Tell me that."

I held the nozzle of the hose in my hand, stroking it gently. "Isn't 
that obvious? You were aroused by what you were doing. You like men 
looking and getting turned on by your naked body. It turns you on."

Her moist blue eyes were dull and sunken, tired too. "But I wasn't, I 
mean, it doesn't. It was horrible, having to undress like that. God, it 
was awful! With those creeps leering like they'd never seen a woman 
before. And then, when they'd tied me to this bed, they looked right 
up, inside... God! You I could accept, you're my husband after all, but 
them..." 

I shook my head sadly. She was trying a little too hard. "It won't 
work, Francesca. You protest too much. I don't believe you. You can't 
pull the wool over my eyes any more. You've already confessed, 
remember? The priest? Your Father Philip Barajas? Hanging there for 
him, naked on his cross. No one made you do that: you volunteered. You 
agreed to undress and let him paint you. So don't play the shrinking 
violet now. Not after what you've told me. You're not telling me that 
he didn't look? Right up, inside?"

The nozzle was about nine inches long, the nozzle of the hose, with a 
diameter of about two inches at one end, tapering gradually towards the 
tip.

I tapped it rhythmically against the palm of my hand, stepping away 
from the window, towards the base of the bed, where I could admire her 
beautiful cunt a little better. The noise echoed explosively about that 
small bare room. Slap. Then again. Slap. I brought it down hard, 
against my palm, threateningly, making her wonder, making her think. 
And again. Slap.

Francesca's gaze closed in upon it, upon the nozzle, my second favorite 
dildo. "No! He didn't," she denied warily, her eyes following its every 
hypnotic movement. "He didn't look. Not like that. My legs were closed, 
not wide apart like now. And he was different. He is a priest. My 
priest. A man of God. He doesn't count."

She shuddered, so conscious of her open unprotected crotch, and of my 
cruel undisguised admiration of it. "Please don't let them look. Not 
again. Not there. It's not proper. You, I don't mind, of course I 
don't. It's embarrassing, but you're my husband, you have the right..."

The nozzle had a number of raised concentric rings cut horizontally 
along its length. I smiled contentedly. She did mind: she minded the 
way I was looking very much. She hated it, this calculating manner in 
which I now stared at her cunt, I could tell.

It felt good. "But I'm not your husband, Francesca," I contradicted, 
running my fingers gently along the swell of one of the concentric 
rings. "Not in this room. Haven't you grasped that, yet? You're just an 
object for me to play with, a toy. Nothing more."

She coughed. "Yes. Yes, I do understand." She fought hard to clear the 
phlegm from her throat. "And I'm glad in a way. I want you to treat me 
the same as you would treat any other woman. I've told you that. Only 
then can I begin to understand. But it's so embarrassing."

My smile broadened, but it was a dark, thin smile without warmth or 
affection. "Yes. Of course it is. It should be embarrassing. But that's 
the intention. Don't you see that? That's why we strip you, and expose 
you: in order to embarrass and humiliate. Have you forgotten? I did 
warn you, before we ever got here how it would be."

I wasn't really concentrating on what I was saying. My mind was 
elsewhere. It was focussed on that beautiful exposed pussy, and on the 
phallus I held in my hand. I only had one thing in mind to do with that 
long hard nozzle, and that was to plunge it deep inside her pussy, and 
when it was there to turn on the tap and fire the high pressure jet 
deep inside her sensitive interior. 

I think she was beginning to suspect. There was anxiety in her voice 
and she was glancing fearfully at the hose. "Yes, I know you did. Yes, 
you did warn me. But that doesn't make this any easier. Not easier at 
all. I don't know. That comes from being Catholic, I guess."

My smile was by now positively evil. "But you don't want it to be 
easier, do you Francesca? Not deep down inside. You want to be 
punished, to be absolved of your guilt. That too comes from being 
Catholic."

She groaned without answering, closing her eyes and turning her head 
from me. 

The rings would catch upon her pussy walls, holding the nozzle in 
place, preventing it from ousting itself as it would otherwise do under 
the backwards pressure of its own water jet. I shivered in 
anticipation. 

"And you will be," I grinned maliciously. "You'll be well and truly 
punished. That's where the others have gone, Pedro and Juan, to prepare 
your punishment."

She waited expectantly. She knew now. But I made her wait, holding the 
end of the hose in my hand, swinging it gently.

There was a shout from outside the window, then the creaking of 
straining wood, followed by a large cheer.

I relaxed. It was a weight off my mind. I said, "I was telling you 
about a lady, do you recall? A blonde, beautiful tits, a fiery temper, 
a right bitch. And no, I wasn't referring to you, Francesca. She's 
outside, the woman I was thinking about. Juan and Pedro are with her in 
the courtyard right now. They went down to exhume her body."

Francesca was appalled. Her expression was a pure picture for sadistic 
delight. I've never seen her so shocked. "What?"

I settled myself down, towards the bottom of her bed, placing the 
nozzle into the gap bisecting her legs, and then moved it slowly but 
resolutely up towards the junction at their top. 

Francesca's body stiffened. She knew exactly what was coming. "Two days 
ago," I said idly, maneuvering the nozzle with the same attention and 
sense of purpose that a young child uses when playing with his favorite 
toy car. "We placed her in a coffin and then buried her. Alive, of 
course. Alive. Since then she's been left without food and water. 
Nothing. There's just a narrow tube to provide her with a little air. 
Although that is a secret. She had no idea of its existence. 

"They've all been down there digging her up: Pedro, Juan, and the rest 
of the boys. I couldn't keep them away. It's exciting. Not even the 
sight of your tantalizing tortured flesh stretched upon the barbecue 
could keep them away. No one can resist being present when a coffin is 
opened."

The color had drained from her cheeks. Even the smudged mascara seemed 
to have faded. "God! How could you...? She might be dead!"

I shrugged. "Maybe she is, although I don't think that's likely, not 
from the boy's reaction. You heard them: they'd have been disappointed 
if she'd not been alive; that cheer didn't sound much like 
disappointment. But accidents do happen sometimes. Despite that, it's 
worth the risk: it's such a wonderful torture. Can you imagine that 
woman's terror as the lid was nailed to the coffin, and then she was 
carried and then lowered into the ground."

"It's horrible, inhuman!"

"Exactly. But can you imagine it, Francesca, hearing the clods of earth 
thump against the top of the coffin, hard and echoing at first. But 
then the thuds begin to soften and fade as more and more soil is piled 
into the hole. Can you imagine the terror, the claustrophobia, having 
to breathe that stale stagnant air; not knowing whether it will be her 
last, whether she will ever see daylight again?

"And then nothing. Absolutely nothing. For the first time she knows the 
silence of the grave, the horror of the terrible twins of silence and 
darkness: no light, no sound. Can you imagine that, Francesca? And 
then, time begins to pass: first minutes, then hours, with no way to 
count them. No way of knowing how long it will be before the air is 
exhausted. No way of knowing whether anyone will return, and if they're 
going to, when that will be. Not knowing. That's the worst: the 
uncertainty. Not knowing. Not knowing whether she's been forgotten and 
forsaken, buried alive, to slowly rot and suffer and die.

Francesca was still disbelieving. She couldn't comprehend how anyone 
could possibly do such a thing. "And you've done this? You, my Captain? 
To a real woman? My God!"

I smiled. "And then the thirst begins to set in, hardly noticed at 
first, but there's the dryness of the throat, unable to swallow, to 
think.

"Panic. How long has it been? Days? It seems an eternity. She screams, 
she cries, perhaps someone will hear. But her throat is too sore and 
dry and parched. It is barely a croak. No one will come, no one will 
know. She claws at the coffin, cracking nicely manicured nails, 
scraping the skin from her delicate fingers.

"Can you imagine, Francesca? She knows now that it's hopeless, that she 
should save her strength, but for what? How can she lie back and do 
nothing? It's easy to be rational from the outside, from the surface, 
to see the futility of her struggle, but that's impossible six feet 
under.

"And the stench, the terrible stench of excrement and piss, filling the 
cold dank tomb, overwhelming, degrading. Hour after hour in total 
darkness. Imagine. Can you? Can you imagine it, Francesca?

"She yearns to be able to stretch, to move an arm, a leg. It's 
impossible to describe how it feels, the oppressive claustrophobic 
intensity of that box, not ever being able to move, hour after 
interminable hour.

"Her mind begins to break down, she can't think any more. Thoughts come 
in self-pitying sparks. She sees things, hears voices. She doesn't 
trust anything she sees or hears. There's nothing left: no will, no 
purpose. For two days, Francesca. Two whole days.

"Slowly she ceases to be human, she crosses the threshold between 
humanity and bestiality. Do you know, Francesca, when we eventually 
pull these wretches out of the ground, and lift the coffin lid, they're 
no longer women, refined, human, they're deranged beasts: lunatics, 
filthy, demented, insane. That's why they make such excellent sport 
when they recover a little. That's why the boys love to be present: 
it's not often you can play with a woman who's been stripped of every 
vestige of dignity, pride and humanity. I will show you. I've asked for 
them to bring that wretch up here, so that you can see for yourself. 
It's only right that you see the end result first. You know, Francesca, 
I don't believe they ever recover, not really, not fully. There's 
nothing that quite affects the mind like being buried, like being 
buried alive."

Francesca blinked back her tears, her voice becoming increasingly 
hysterical. She'd caught the implication of what I was saying. "Please 
don't! You can't mean it! You intend that for me! God! You do! I can 
see it! My Captain! Sir! For God's sake! How can you say you love me 
and ever consider such a thing?"

I shook my head sadly. "But I don't love you, not here. You're simply a 
piece of meat for me to use and abuse. I'll grieve when I get home, 
sure. But don't you remember? I told you before. How easily you forget. 
I'm the potter and you're my clay, to knead and bend with my fingers, 
to mold and shape and break."

"God, you're insane!"

"Not me, Francesca, not me. I'm not the one who volunteered to come to 
this madhouse, to be tortured and humiliated. To have my proud sexy 
body reduced to an unrecognizable shadow to satisfy some perverted 
guilt complex. Surely that's where the insanity lies."

She made a superhuman effort to lift her head, to look me in the eye. 
She held her head there for but a second before it fell back, her head 
bouncing hard upon the steel springs. If she'd thought she could manage 
me and impose limits, then she was in for a rude awakening. "Please, my 
Captain," she begged. "If there's any, any compassion at all buried in 
your heart..."

There wasn't. I struck, plunging the nozzle deep within her pussy. She 
screamed, her whole body tightening and stressing. I'm sure she'd 
forgotten that nozzle, with all the talk of people being buried. 
"Forget it, Francesca," I said jumping up and striding quickly towards 
the cold water tap. "I've already decided. You said it yourself. You 
deserve to be punished. You've brought disgrace upon us both. My wife 
and a priest! The shame! So just think. When you walked from the van to 
reception, across the courtyard earlier, you walked across this young 
lady's grave. She was lying naked, dirty and cold, entombed in the 
ground beneath you. She may even have been crying out, hoarse and 
pleading, but you didn't hear. Imagine that, Francesca. Pedro and Juan 
are retrieving her right now from her coffin. She won't be able to 
walk, or move, the muscles will be quite numb. She'll barely be 
conscious."

I turned on the tap, full blast. There was a hiss of moving water, the 
long loose coils of hose pulsating and twitching angrily as they 
filled. She knew it was coming. Francesca knew. "Please help me," she 
prayed. "Dear Mary, mother of God! Please. Oh please, dear God!"

I waited. "So, an empty coffin. Think, Francesca! What do you think 
that means? Guess! I have a vacancy."

There was terror in her eyes. It was coming. The hose was filling. It 
was a monstrous penis about to ejaculate and fill her unsuspecting 
womb. "Oh please God!"

"Wouldn't you want to try it, Francesca? I thought you said you wanted 
to experience the worst, all the terrible things I do to women."

She screamed. Her lower torso bulged and contorted as the freezing 
water spat fiercely up into her cunt. It raced down her love tube and 
struck her cervix deep inside, and then continued on, through, into the 
womb itself.

Her face blanched and she babbled inanely, attempting vainly to cover a 
pain that was more psychological than it was physical. In fact, it 
wasn't really the pain that was bothering her: it was the rape. "God! 
Not that. Please, if our love means anything, not that."

Her stomach convulsed rabidly. She was staring wildly into deepest 
space; her body taut and her fingers frantically twitching as the 
unseen force gushed through her insides. Somehow she'd managed to twist 
her legs but she couldn't free her cunt of the invisible violating 
intruder. I knew from experience that what she was feeling was nothing 
more severe than biting cramps, accompanied perhaps by a sharp stinging 
sensation, a burning, especially if the water had penetrated up her 
urethra. Nasty, yes. But not as painful as might be imagined from 
watching her scream.

"Love?" I bit, treading uncharitably upon her overcooked misery. "Our 
love? What right do you have to be talking of love? When at every 
opportunity you were out dropping your panties for your priest. What 
kind of love was that? God. It disgusts me. You've shamed and betrayed 
me, Francesca! The hypocrisy!"

The water was now flooding out of her cunt in a large fountain, 
gurgling and foaming, and then dropping straight through the steel 
springs in a wonderful waterfall effect, to the concrete below.

"God," she gasped, her whole being tense and strained, bearing down 
like she was in imminent expectation of giving birth. In a sense she 
was. "Dear God." Her voice was raised. "You don't understand. That's 
not the way it happened!"

I grabbed hold of the hose. "No? Then how did it happen? Are you 
denying that you went back to him?"

"No, I can't deny that. I did go back, but I had to, he told me that if 
I didn't...Please, please, take it out. God. It's killing me!"

Her mind was too focused upon the douche tickling her most sensitive 
parts really to be able to concentrate properly upon what I was saying. 
However, I continued on, nevertheless.

"Then you had no remorse," I accused. "How could you have gone back? 
How could you, Francesca? I thought you loved me. I thought we had 
something special."

She was going frantic. Not torture this: but rape. She was being 
ravished before my eyes, not by a man, but by a simple garden hose. It 
was sweet revenge.

"So what happened?" I demanded to know. "When you returned, what 
happened then? Are you denying that you dropped your panties for him a 
second time? Or am I losing count? A third time? Deny it. Deny it, 
Francesca!"

She was screaming. I wasn't getting through. "It wasn't like that! 
Please. For pity's sake. Take it out! You're splitting me in two!"

This was patently not true. The water slurping around her womb might be 
causing considerable discomfort and might later leave her with a mild 
infection, but apart from that, the douche was doing her no physical 
harm at all. 

But that's a man's reasoning. It's logical, analytical. A woman doesn't 
see rape like that. It's her enemy, her worst nightmare. It causes its 
own pain, its own distress, and there was no doubting that in 
Francesca's mind, this was what she was now experiencing. 

She was being sexually assaulted by my plastic implement. She was being 
raped for the very first time in her young protected life, and it was 
taking her mind. She couldn't concentrate, couldn't think. I sighed. 
I'd won, and yet I hadn't: I wanted more. It was time to change tack. 

Still, no problem. This wasn't defeat, more of a tactical withdrawal. 
Reluctantly, I tugged on the hose, roughly pulling it from inside her 
flooded cunt. The jet of water fizzed icily from its tip, as fiercely 
as ever, but it was no longer as threatening to her. She gasped, and 
then sank back, grateful and thankful. "Then deny it," I croaked. "Tell 
me that you've never since removed your panties for Father Barajas, for 
that fucking pervert."

Her relief was immense, but not, unfortunately, because she'd been an 
honest woman. "I can't," she lamented, relaxing as much as she could 
relax, stretched as she was. She lay, recovering her breath. "I can't 
deny it. But you make it all sound so disgusting!"

The cold water was now spurting across her stomach, bouncing off the 
smooth flat skin and up into the air, spraying, dripping down her 
frozen sides, running speedily along the underside of the rusty 
springs. Water. Water. Everywhere water. 

"It is disgusting," I countered, considering my next move. "And in your 
heart you know that it is. Otherwise, right now you wouldn't be feeling 
so guilty."

She didn't answer that, so I slid up the bed, towards the upper half of 
her nude body. I sat upon the bed's edge, my trousers soaking wet. She 
greeted me with horrified trepidation, her expression fearful and 
anxious. I still had the armed water nozzle in my left hand, ready to 
fire.

"You don't understand!" she complained bitterly, shivering from the 
coldness of the water that lay in icy droplets upon her chest, her 
stomach and her upper thighs.

"What is there to understand? All I need to know is how far it went. 
So, did you fuck him?" I asked, firing a vengeful savage spray of water 
straight up into Francesca's face. It caught her suddenly, by surprise. 
She spluttered, gasped, and then sucked in breath, turning her head 
instinctively to avoid the high-powered jet splattering against her 
nose and cheeks.

"Come on," I insisted, moving the throbbing nozzle to within inches of 
her nostrils. The water pounded her face, and then spat up into the 
air, describing a huge arc of tiny freezing droplets. "So you went 
back. What happened? Did you fuck him? Come on, Francesca. Did you fuck 
your perverted priest?"

The water had soaked into her hair. It streamed in hundreds of tiny 
rivulets down her face and neck. It poured along the metal bedsprings, 
falling in a heavy rain onto the rough gray concrete. Beneath the bed, 
a large puddle had formed which slowly drifted towards a small drain in 
the center of the room.
 
"He would never...ahh!" The jet shot up her nose, striking the tender 
vessels that lived high up at the bridge. Francesca gasped. I'd scored 
a direct hit. 

She twisted away her head. "Hurry! Come on now!" I demanded, running 
the geyser quickly across her eyes. The water was running along the 
frame of the bed, seeping deep into my trousers, but I hardly noticed. 
"It's an easy question, you know the answer. Stop stalling! Did you 
fuck him, yes or no?"

"Not properly," she spluttered. "Not all the way... It's not that 
simple. I need to explain..." Her words deteriorated into broken gurgle 
as the water flooded into her mouth, quickly filling it to the brim. 
She coughed, choked, spat out liquid, wheezing as she fought for 
breath.

"Too late," I sighed, firing the hissing spray once again into her 
nostrils. For a moment she held breath, knowing that if she didn't that 
she would take in more water than air, but the complaint within her 
lungs became a pain, an agony that craved to be satisfied. I saw the 
panic in her eyes, the fear, then the insane terror that grew with each 
passing second. Her lungs demanded breath, insisted. Involuntarily, she 
opened her mouth, gasping for air, filling up with water.

Again, she turned her head from me, choking, trying to escape, gagging, 
attempting to evade that fine powerful jet. Once again, she didn't 
succeed. I swung the nozzle after her, towards her gasping mouth, 
training the water into it, pumping her full of water. "So let's start 
again," I insisted bitterly. "Tell me about this man. Father Barajas. 
You went back. So how far did it go? If you didn't fuck him, what then? 
Did you suck him off? Did he do you in the ass? What? How deep is the 
shame that I must bear? Tell me, Francesca. What games have you been 
playing?"

For a moment I directed the water away from her face, onto the rope 
holding her hands, wetting it, soaking it. For a moment she had her 
chance to speak. She spat out some water, wheezing. She rolled her eyes 
in anguish, moaning softly. "We never actually fucked. He wouldn't. He 
said... because he was celibate."

"But you would have liked to," I suggested, spraying her breasts and 
stomach with the freezing water. After a few seconds they went paper 
white, and little goose bumps grew in random patterns across her wet 
shivering boobs. I repeated my question, "Is that what you're saying? 
You would have done it, but he stopped you? Is that right?"

"Yes," she shivered, her teeth chattering nervously. "That's right. I'm 
sorry. I know I should be punished..."

I saw red. This was such a lame excuse, intended to divert my concern 
without addressing the issue of why she had deceived me. But if that's 
what the lady wanted... "Damn right you should be punished."

I threw the hose onto the sopping concrete. It carried on hissing, the 
nozzle twisting angrily about the floor like a venomous snake bent on 
deadly revenge, spitting water back up at us both. My shirt was now 
drenched.

But I didn't notice that until later. I wouldn't normally describe 
myself as a jealous man, not at all. I don't go round constantly 
checking on Francesca, questioning her about her friends or movements. 
I trust her.

But at that moment I was insanely jealous. I was consumed with rage. My 
arms and legs were pumped full of adrenaline. I had to lash out, to do 
something, to hurt her.

I grabbed hold of the headboard, under the horizontal of the frame, and 
then lifted, tilting the bed up in a huge arc. There was madness in me. 
I hardly felt the weight. These revelations were firing me up and 
affecting my thinking.

"So what was it?" I snapped. "Why did you fall for him? Was it the size 
of his cock?"

"No!" she screamed, her body jerking awkwardly, the foot of the bed 
grinding against the wet concrete floor. As I lifted it up through 
ninety degrees, the metal tailboard to which Francesca's ankles were 
fastened became its base, its contact with the floor. Her body slid 
painfully down the metal springs, her slippery slide coming to an 
abrupt halt with a sickening jolt, her weight now fully taken by the 
ropes holding her wrists. She flexed her hands, trying to restart her 
circulation, feeling the ends of her fingers begin to numb as the knots 
bit deeply into her soft fragile flesh.

"Then what was it?" I gloated. "Did you fancy him because he flattered 
you by wanting to use you as a model, or was it because he put you on a 
cross? Well I can make you hang, baby. Are your lungs burning yet? They 
will be soon. See, it's not so very difficult, is it, sweetheart? Can't 
breathe? What a shame! Your face is becoming quite flushed. You know 
what? This is turning me on. This is making me hot, Francesca, watching 
you suffer so beautifully at my command. So how long do you think you 
can last? Half an hour? An hour?"

I shook the bed back and forth, intensifying the pain as her body 
rattled against the springs with each sudden jerk. "I'm sorry," she 
stuttered through tightly clenched teeth.

"Sorry?" I laughed maniacally. "Of what use is sorry? It's just a word. 
Easy to say. I'll give you plenty of sorry."

Without any warning, I brought the palm of my arm across the front of 
her chest, striking her left breast at the apex. There was the loud 
staccato slap of flesh meeting flesh, the shudder of the steel bed 
groaning upon its unnatural perch of the wet concrete floor. She 
gasped, her jaw dropping open in astonished pain.

"Or is this why you kept chasing him?" I ridiculed. "Because he hit 
your tits? I have something to tell you, baby. He's an amateur. A 
klutz. But you fell for it, didn't you? You couldn't help dropping your 
panties, but you did it for a klutz. You fell for his con: hook, line 
and sinker. He's a beginner, sweetheart. A phony. He doesn't know how 
to hit. No pro would ever hit you like that. He did it while you were 
kneeling. That's what you said. But what good is that? You've got to be 
at a decent height to do it properly; you've got to be standing."

I struck her hard, causing her tit to jerk chaotically in a wild 
uncontrollable lurch.

She yelped at the sharp stabbing shock that raced out from the point of 
impact.

"It's in the rhythm," I spat, swinging my left arm and striking her 
other breast sweetly on the full. Her expression opened into naked 
confused concussion, her jaw dropped.

Without pausing, my right hand came crashing down on her left breast, 
hitting it for the second time, this time much higher on the soft 
tactile tissue.

"Am I turning you on?" I cried, thumping the outside of her right 
breast ruthlessly with the flat of my fingers. Her breasts were 
swinging in haphazard autonomy. I followed this impact with another on 
her left tit. "If you get the rhythm right, then you can get a decent 
amount of force behind each slap."

"Please," she implored desperately, grimacing as the next blow landed. 
Both her tits were an angry red and bore the rough impression of my 
palm and fingers. Her eyes had dilated and her breathing was pained and 
labored, caused not by my blows, but by the pressure of her weight upon 
her chest. "Please, for God's sake. I'm suffocating..."

"You're dying," I raged, throwing my whole weight into the next blow, 
funneling the full force through my shoulders and arm, into the 
blistering point of contact, my palm hard against the sensitive 
underside of her unprotected bosom. Crack! The breast squelched, 
exploded, flying off epileptic and convulsing. And Francesca howled. It 
was inhuman, that cry: the sound of a soulless ghoul. Her tit rocked 
back, distending, stretching obscenely, hanging motionless, before 
snapping back onto her chest, undulating through a steady stream of 
aftershocks.

"What's up?" I cried cruelly, beating the other tit, striking it 
squarely upon the nipple. You want out? I thought you were turned on by 
pain."

She howled. "Please..."

I struck half a dozen more times before I stopped, panting with 
exertion and emotion, feeling the heat of my sweat and the thump of my 
angry heartbeat.

"Please," she begged, weeping gently. "I'll tell you whatever you want 
to know. Put me down from here and I will, I promise!"

I watched her hang, the perspiration glistening on her taut naked body, 
her shoulders ravaged by pain as they and her arms bore the full weight 
of her body. Her legs were, of course, still wide apart, tied by the 
ropes attached to her ankles. She was as about as uncomfortable and 
uneasy as it was possible to be. 

But I liked her like this. She was so accessible. As I recovered my 
breath, I thrust a finger inside her cunt and pressed firmly upon her 
clitoris. It was time to apply some psychological torture. Sexual 
pressure can be effective when it's appropriately applied. Of course, 
it can also be a bit of an excuse.

I smiled. "I thought you wanted to be punished? What's the matter, 
Francesca? Have you had enough already? I've only just begun!"

"For God's sake!" she begged. "Please!"

"Don't worry," I grinned. "There's more than one way to skin a cat. For 
instance, seeing your tits flying around so prettily, I got to 
thinking: you have nice firm breasts." I stared coldly into her wide 
suffocating eyes, and rubbed gently upon her dry raw clit. 

I continued, "You want to be let down? Easy. I've often thought how 
attractive your breasts would look if you could hang gold chains, or 
jewelry from them, what do you think?"

Her eyes widened and so did my grin. There's a distinct advantage to a 
torturer who knows the innermost fears of his victim, as I knew 
Francesca. "That's right," I nodded. "To do that you would have to 
overcome one of your quaint pet phobias."

She froze. Her eyes, as big as saucers, bulged. Despite the agony of 
hanging and her shortness of breath, she managed to scream and fight. 
The metal bed shook with the violence of her struggles.

While she fought, I stepped back through the puddles of running water 
to the steel cupboard and, reaching inside, produced a huge hypodermic 
needle, about eighteen inches in length, running through the centre of 
a narrow sterile container. I thrust the thin plastic tube in front of 
Francesca's horrified face.

"Your nipples aren't large," I gloated. "You would look very becoming 
with a gold chain running between them, very fetching. But, first, you 
would need to overcome your fear of needles."

Francesca shook her head from side to side, breaking into a series of 
bitter sobs. It was an involuntary gesture of inner denial. My voice 
droned on relentlessly. "It doesn't really matter whether you want 
pierced nipples or not. The fact remains that if I don't lower this bed 
soon and relieve your beautiful arms, you're going to be in a pretty 
bad way. And the only way you're going to persuade me to do that is by 
asking me very nicely to push this needle through your lovely brown 
teats." She wailed in despair, using all her fading strength. I shook 
my head wondrously. "How can a nurse possibly be so frightened of 
needles, Francesca? I don't understand. I guess they're all right as 
long as they're pointing at someone else. Well, tonight, the needle's 
pointing at you. Beg me to do it, and if you make it sound convincing, 
I'll let you down."

Without waiting for her reaction, I withdrew the needle from the 
plastic tube, placing it horizontally across her breasts, thereby 
pushing her nipples into their delicate aureoles. Francesca stared up 
at me, pain and fear momentarily replaced by an expression of simple 
hatred.

I stared back. My heart was beating fast, anxious, afraid. Come on, my 
burning gaze entreated. Don't be stupid, not that stupid. Back down! 
Back down, woman! Don't put me to the test! Don't make me have to 
decide!

Such loathing within her: such repugnance, such humiliation. "Please 
sir," she said at last, her voice shaking, but with a steady placing of 
each dreadful word. "Please, sir. Please pierce... God! Please pierce 
my nipples. But first, please, push back this bed. Do that first! 
Please. And allow me to breathe."

"Well done, Francesca," I crowed. I was triumphant, and perhaps, also, 
without admitting it to myself, just a little relieved. "I knew you 
could do it. It's not so terribly difficult to defeat these irrational 
phobias, is it, Francesca? I'm very pleased you've come to love 
needles. Certainly, since you ask so prettily, I'll pierce your nipples 
slowly and carefully, my dear. But you'll say please and thank you 
before and after each gentle push. And then I shall lower the bed to 
the floor."

"No, please... I can't wait... Lower the bed first... My lungs..."

"Francesca!" My voice was firm and stern. I wasn't going to brook any 
argument. Not now. After all, she was in no position to negotiate. None 
at all.

Blinded by her tears, Francesca could see no more. She nodded nervously 
her defeated acquiescence, biting hard upon her lower lip.

I stepped up, holding the long malicious needle where she could best 
see it and dread it.

She was frantic with fear as I placed its point against the rough 
wrinkled skin of her nipple, holding it there, before methodically and 
very slowly inserting the needle. Her sobs increased in volume, turning 
into wails of anguish as she felt the cold steel piercing her sensitive 
skin. Her body was glistening with a dirty mixture of sweat and water. 
Her mouth was slack, her eyes closed, but I displayed no emotion, there 
was just the merest half smile on my face as I spent more than a minute 
pushing the needle through my wife's tortured nipple.

She was whimpering and crazed with fright and dread. Her complexion was 
ashen gray and her eyes were rolling from side to side. "I feel sick," 
she sobbed, slurring the words with all the cadence of a seasoned 
alcoholic. Her head suddenly lolled to the side.

"It's quite normal," I replied, carefully jiggling the needle in and 
out of its virgin hole, pretending that it was my cock and that the 
hole was her firm chaste ass. My dick stiffened. What a gorgeous 
thought! I said, "Your body has just dumped a whole lot of adrenaline 
into your blood stream." I wasn't sure why I was telling her this. She 
was the nurse. "At first, this lifts your pulse sky high, but then the 
wave subsides and you're overcome by a vagal surge that decreases it, 
lowering your blood pressure and causing the blood vessels to dilate. 
You'll probably faint: ladies faint on me all the time. It's of no 
consequence. It doesn't last long and the ropes will stop you from 
collapsing."

She rocked unsteadily, ashen, fighting the nausea, fighting the ropes, 
fighting the pain. I kept the needle in place, deep inside her pain 
stricken nipple, pricking and penetrating, waiting for her either to 
faint or to recover. In fact, she did the latter. After a couple of 
minutes it became obvious that the worst was passed and that she wasn't 
going to lose consciousness at all. I was slightly disappointed. I 
would have liked her to faint. I vented my frustration on the needle, 
pushing it the rest of the way through; watching with delight as the 
tip reappeared on the other side.

Shit! I should have used the fishhooks! That would have made her faint! 
They don't go in anywhere near as easily! They tear and bite as they 
penetrate flinching feminine flesh.

I smiled evilly. Perhaps the chance was not yet gone. Perhaps she might 
yet faint on me. A lady's tits are not the only protuberances upon 
which she might be hooked. I savored the thought for later.

Yes! What sweet fantasy! 

"Say, thank you," I reminded her amiably, twisting the needle through a 
full half turn.

She winced, struggling to breathe, the color of death, her strength 
fading fast. "Thank you," she wheezed at last, her fingernails biting 
into the palms of her hands as she tried to control her base emotions 
and fears.

"And?" I asked expectantly, pushing several inches of needle through 
the newly cut hole.

Her cheeks were white; her lips were bloodless. She didn't understand. 
She was confused and frightened.

I nodded towards her other bosom: untouched, unsullied, a sacrificial 
lamb waiting for the butcher's knife.

Now, she understood. "The other one," she muttered, screwing up her 
face into a hopeless grimace, fighting for air, fighting for breath. 
"Please. Oh God! If you must. Push the needle through the other nipple, 
but please, do it quickly!"

"Is that the best you can do?" I taunted. "I'm sure you can do a much 
better job than that! Come on, Francesca! Beg!"

Her body crumpled, physically and visibly before me. She broke, gasping 
for air. She didn't have the strength to pull herself up. She was 
mouthing the words, no sound escaping from her lips. "Please. Please 
sir! I beg... Do it! Please pierce my poor teat."

I grabbed between the legs with my free hand and lifted. I had two 
fingers crooked inside her and my palm flat against the soft hair of 
her mound. I was hurting her, gripping her tightly, perhaps as much as 
the needle penetrating her sad brown nipple. But this was pain with a 
purpose. I was taking just enough of the weight from her lungs to allow 
her to draw a shallow life-saving breath.

"That was beautiful, Francesca," I commented appreciatively, holding 
her pubic bone firmly, my two fingers buried deep inside. I waited 
while she took several weak intakes of air, supporting her body, my 
hand clamping her soft bruised pussy fast. "You want me to pierce your 
poor brown teat? But of course!"

As I let go of her pussy, the smell of her upon my fingers, her body 
slipped back down the bed, towards the flooded floor, resting once 
again upon her arms, upon nothing but those agonized over-stretched 
limbs. 

The needle approached her second breast, shaking, tremulous. It touched 
its nervous nipple. I took it between my thumb and forefinger, holding 
it top and bottom as I pressed the sharp tip of the needle through the 
skin at its base. Her mouth gaped in silent anguish. "Very slowly," I 
said, twisting the needle with my fingertips, letting it work its own 
way into her sensitized flesh. 

"Very, very slowly." 

I wanted her to feel every screaming sensation, to drown in her fear 
and dread. "It's now or never, Francesca," I said, as she wailed 
pitifully from deep inside her bowels. "We have to get you over this 
irrational fear of needles. You're not going to faint on me, are you?"

The needle was deep inside, almost half way. "Not much further," I 
said, firmly squeezing upon her nipple, pressing against the hard metal 
buried within her, watching the horrified tortured reaction. "Almost 
there." 

I twisted again, watching the sharp point begin to push against the far 
side of her teat, stretching it, causing it to bulge and swell. 

"Just a fraction more. Nearly there, Francesca!" Suddenly, the skin 
gave and parted, and the hard glint of steel protruded through, covered 
with the faintest pink nectar.

She winced, her eyes screwed shut. "Well done," I commended, pushing 
the needle right through. Her breasts were now successfully skewered; 
the needle ran right through both of her nipples, morsels of meat 
spiked for my kebab. There was about three inches of steel on either 
side of her breasts, the remainder connecting them. I held both ends of 
the needle, gently shaking, watching her tits jiggle obediently in 
response as a puppet on my steel string. 

I shivered. "Wow," I remarked. "That's wonderful. If only you knew what 
the sight of your beautiful tits lanced like that does for me. It's 
heaven!"

But she was beyond caring. The agony in her lungs combined with the 
pain in her shoulders, arms, and now her nipples was all she could 
focus on. She was no longer hearing my words. She was losing it. She 
would soon lose consciousness.

I pushed quickly against the head of the bed. A faint is one thing, but 
this could be dangerous. Torture is pointless if its not being properly 
appreciated. She needed a rest.

For a moment the bed teetered, almost in slow motion, defying logic and 
gravity, before gathering speed and momentum, slamming hard against the 
concrete floor with an enormous reverberating crash. Francesca screamed 
and cried. She'd bounced violently upon the unyielding metal springs, 
the rusty metal digging deep into her soft white back, her whole body 
jarring.

It brought pain, but then relief. Her chest was aching and sore, but 
through the weakness and misery, now that she was horizontal again, she 
could breathe.

"Tell me what happened when you went back," I ordered softly, reaching 
forward and running my fingernail along the fine line of smeary steel 
connecting the tips of her breasts. "The truth, Francesca. Whatever it 
is, you have to tell me. Otherwise I may need to persuade you by 
throwing a little electric current down this needle. I hear that steel 
is an excellent conductor. That should warm your titties. Come on, 
Francesca. I need to know the truth."

She swallowed hard, her mouth full of the stagnant tang of stored 
water. "Okay," she gasped. "I'll tell. Whatever it is, whatever you 
want to know. But please, I need to rest. Can't you see? I can't think. 
I'm exhausted. Please loosen me a little. I'll tell you about Father 
Phillip and his sister, Signora Gonzalez."

I frowned. "His sister?"

"That's right," she wheezed. "I didn't know that either. Not at first. 
The Mayor's wife is Father Barajas's sister. Please, I'm going to 
faint. This time I know I am. Please loosen these ropes. If you want to 
hear what I have to say, loosen them. Of course, if you simply want to 
hurt me, then that is your choice. It is your right. But if you want to 
hear my story..."

A droplet of blood trickled from where the needle entered her soft tit 
and then dribbled down the outside of her breast. I watched it idly; 
listening to her labored breathing, and contemplated what I should do 
next.




End of Part Six

AUTHOR'S NOTE

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


Please write with your suggestions. I'll use them if I can.

Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com

