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 Eight


Cum was collecting within my balls. Everything down there
was tightening, throbbing, ready to fire.

Francesca's breathing was rapid too. Her eyes were glazed
and her face was red and puffy. She was nearly there, at the
edge of the precipice, approaching her climax. I rattled her
needle, jiggling her tits. She gasped, scowled, and quaked
with frustrated aching.

"Stop it!" she groaned. "Enough!"

The bed groaned to our rhythm, squeaking to the regular beat
of my exertion, twittering away its own carnal cadenza.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I caught a slight
movement. From the right of me: a noise, a shadow. My first
thought was that I had imagined it.

But no, someone was over there, watching us. God! A voyeur!
A peeping tom!

Who was it? Juan perhaps? Or Pedro, back from exhuming the
"corpse"? Might they even have brought that poor unfortunate
for my Chiquita to examine, as a portent of her fate?

My eyes tried to focus on whatever it was standing in the
dark shadows of the doorway. Green shafts of cold
fluorescent light peered lustfully round the edges of a
heavy frame, over wide shoulders, and then, down, caressing
the bound figure of my naked sweaty wife.

I knew him. I recognized that distinctive profile. It was
Pedro, that doctor without a clue. The pervert! He was
getting off on this. He was enjoying himself. I knew it.

Excitedly, I whispered into my dear Chiquita's ear. "There
are people watching. Watching, Chiquita. So be careful. You
mustn't let them know who you are. Think, my Chiquita. Think
before you speak. We're no longer alone."

"What?"

She froze for a moment, her breathing stopped, fighting, I
think, the overwhelming temptation to check out what I'd
just said: fighting the desire to speak, to scream, to
panic, to craze out at the nightmarish idea of finding
herself the unwitting star of a pornographic peep show.
There was fear in her feminine features, and sitting not far
behind, I saw doubt. She was unsure, undecided whether to
take me seriously or not.

I placed my mouth to her ear, tickling her earlobe with my
tongue. "When you cum," I whispered, unable to resist
cashing in on that wonderful uncertainty. "I want you to
exaggerate it, like you're a great porno queen in a blue
movie. I want you to excite them, to make them cream
themselves. You can do it. I know you can. You're a real
sexy strumpet. So come on, Chiquita, let's give them a
show."

That did it. I'd hoped that it might. She hesitated, but
then relaxed, deciding that, for certain, this was a ruse.

Her dark blue mascara had run down her cheek and was smudged
with rouge. "You're lying!" she declared, lifting her head
from the bed. "There's nobody watching us. Why did you say
that there was?"

The needle swayed from side to side as her breasts gently
bounced. God, that was fantastic! She should do that more
often! My cock was by now so far over the side that there
was no way I was going to be able to pull it back. I growled
theatrically, preparing myself to fill her with my hot
sticky seed.

"Give them a show," I repeated. "A show, my Chiquita!"

She whimpered softly, her own climax near. Was this theatre?
Or was it genuine?

"Louder," I hissed. "You're a porno queen, remember."

She pulled upon the rope holding her, biting her lip. "Oh,
God!" she cried.

That was better.

"Louder, Francesca! Louder! I want them to hear you in
Reception, in the canteen, even in the coffins, six feet
under. Do you understand? I want everyone in Grimaldi to
know that you've been well and truly stuffed."

Her eyes fluttered wildly and her breathing rent in heavy
gasps. She was coming. At last she was coming. "Louder!"

"Oh, God," she screamed dramatically. "Oh God, I'm coming!"

I pounded down on her hard, smelling her exertion, feeling
her nipples rubbing against mine, the steel spear cold
against my chest.

"Fuck me! Fuck me more!" she screeched, warming now to her
part. A light sheen of hot sweat coated her face, her chest,
and her open hips, and it shimmered tantalizingly in the
artificial light of the single bulb hanging directly above
her.

"That's good, Chiquita," I applauded with rasping breaths.
"Keep it up. Keep it going, Chiquita. I can see your name
already in lights."

The watcher had now stepped out of the shadows. I could see
him. He was standing in the doorway with his trousers
unzipped and his erect cock in his hand. Shit!

But he was slightly to Francesca's rear and so she hadn't
spotted him yet.

But it wouldn't be long. At any moment she would notice him.
She would see. She would know that I hadn't been kidding:
that she was putting on a show for this man's arousal. I had
no idea how she would respond. Would it excite her? Or
disgust her? Would she revel in it? Or would it drive her
crazy?

I couldn't restrain myself any longer. I was too turned on.
A heavy involuntary groan announced the fact that I was
beginning to climax, shooting my wad up my dear one's
welcoming love spout. The first jet of seed gushed along her
cunt, striking her cervix, then slushing about inside her.

"Look!" I hissed, unable to continue the suspense, nodding
breathlessly towards the door, "Look behind you!"

A second wave of come was about to explode from within me.

She turned, looking back towards the open doorway and saw
the man standing there, and the explicit way he was showing
his appreciation of her anatomy.

"Oh God!" she panted, tumbling head over heel into a body
shattering orgasm of her own, her body trembling
involuntarily as waves of rapture broke over her.

There was no way that either of us could stop now. We were
fucking like wild beasts, loud, intense and brutal,
consummating an animal act with feral passion.

She knew him of course, even as he stepped towards the bed.
She recognized his short, gross figure; those slimy layers
of fat round his middle that spilled over his thick leather
belt. God, he was odious. The fat shook repulsively as he
slid artfully across the dank cell towards her.

She could smell his cheap lotion now: he was that close. The
same cheap lotion that had wafted over her as he'd peered
lewdly down the gap in her blouse, how long ago that now
seemed.

Francesca stared up at him helplessly, fucking and being
fucked, unable to stop or even to look away.

He came right up to the bed, standing over us. His obscene
member was in his hand: swollen, thick, and erect. He held
it threateningly above my Chiquita's head, stroking it
steadily. He hadn't changed. It was still her breasts that
captivated his attention. They weren't held by a blouse and
a bra now, but by a single filament of hard steel. Magic! He
was staring down at them and enjoying their predicament.

"Don't be shy, Francesca!" Pedro smirked gleefully, beating
his circumcised cock rhythmically in his hand. "Tell your
husband what happened after you crossed to the rectory. Come
on, Francesca!"

"God," she cried, her body bouncing to my climactic rhythm.
"You were listening!"

"Of course I was listening" he grinned. "But don't stop
because of me, not when your husband is enjoying himself so
much."

I continued to bang my dear one's bones, firing my hot
creamy cum into her cunt, overcome with the elation of it
all.

"You see," Pedro continued. "Isn't that proof? The Captain's
enjoying the story. Can't you feel the evidence swilling
about in your cunt? So don't stop now! Come on, Francesca,
you haven't told him the best bit! Or has the cat got your
tongue? Go on, tell him, Francesca. Or am I forgetting my
manners, since we haven't been properly introduced? Would
you like me to be more formal? What would you like me to
call you? Francesca? Or Signora Rodriguez?"

I collapsed onto my dear wife's sweat sodden flesh,
satiated, drained, my cock buried inside her.

But this was awful. I was in a daze. What was going on? How
did Pedro know about us?

But hadn't he just said? He'd been outside listening,
listening to everything that we'd said.

Signora Rodriguez. That's what he'd said: Pedro. That phony
doctor without a clue.

He knew. God. He knew.

"Pedro," I began uneasily, hastily withdrawing my wilting
cock from Francesca's wide-open cunt. A drop of cum dripped
from its tip onto her creamy thigh.

"Pedro," I began again. "This isn't as it seems."

"No?" Pedro sneered, rolling his cock between the palm of
his hand and Francesca's burning cheeks, pushing it against
her soft skin. "So how does it seem? Are you referring to
the way you're using your position and influence to give
your wife an easy time?"

"I'm not giving her an easy time," I protested, angrily.
"Look at her tits, for god's sake! Look at the state of
them! How can you accuse me of giving her an easy time?"

"They're very nice," Pedro agreed greasily, watching them
tremble with cruel anticipation. "Very nice. But you could
have hurt her more than that, don't you think? Much more."

He took hold of a bunch of Francesca's long tresses in his
free hand, wrapping them around his cock, and then pulling
the noose tight.

"He's going soft, my dear," Pedro whispered callously,
squeezing his purple knob head through the loops of coiled
hair. "Did you know that? He used to be the best, but
now..."

Pedro sucked up his saliva noisily, lifted his head, aimed
and then spat in a single unbroken motion. The trail of warm
spittle flew over Francesca's chest and stomach, striking
the upper part of her white thigh, close to where my semen
had dripped. Pedro viewed it with disgust. I guessed that
he'd been aiming slightly higher, at the pink folds of her
puffy cunt. "But now, he's past his peak, the Captain. It's
sad, very sad when you see an talented interrogator go
soft."

He yanked on his handful of Francesca's hair, jerking it
sharply towards himself. Her head lurched forward violently,
her mouth closing upon his bucking cock. She fought to pull
away, twisting her head so as to avoid it. "Please! No!"

"Suck it!" he ordered malevolently, using her hair to rein
her head back into line. He guided it firmly, compelling her
gray lips onto his bulbous glistening dick head, forcing her
to take it into her mouth. "And make sure you drink it right
down to the last drop. Understand?"

Suddenly, I was galvanized into action. "Stop it," I
protested, grabbing hold of Pedro's arm. "Whatever you may
think, Francesca is my prisoner. Mine! You're the medical
officer here, not the interrogator. Or have you forgotten?"

His smile narrowed into a thin lop-sided expression of
disdain and he shook himself free of my grasp. He was
holding her hair fast. It was entwined tightly around the
fist of his left hand.

"You don't see it, do you?" Pedro said, in amazed
wonderment, tugging upon my wife's long loose hair. It was a
pair of reins to him to control the movements of head and
mouth. He was using it to pull her gagging into his crotch.
"You really have lost it! Even now, you don't understand."
She was choking on his cock, unable to escape it.

With his other hand, the right, he pinched the tip of one of
Francesca's breasts, squeezing it firmly between his
fingers, at the nipple where the needle had entered it,
rubbing at the flesh until the blood began to ooze.

"I didn't have to guess that the little lady was your wife,"
he said loquaciously, smearing droplets of blood around the
upper part of the breast. Little corrective tugs upon
Francesca's hair kept his cock happy within her mouth. "I
knew. Don't you see? There was no little mistake that gave
you both away, no stupid blunder on your part. I've always
known the truth. Are you really so blind? You've been set
up, Captain, lured to the bait as the fish is enticed by the
snare of the fisherman."

Francesca stared up at me fearfully, her mouth full and
bulging with his fat ugly penis. Her eyes were questioning
and uncertain, her breasts heavy and groaning with pain,
both from the long deadly needle skewering the one to the
other, and from his plier-like fingers biting into her
teats.

God. This was awful. What was I to do? He was enjoying this.
He was getting off on humiliating us both.

Pedro dipped his forefinger into the small well of blood and
drew two sticky red lines horizontally across Francesca's
torso, one on either side of her naval. He had to do it
several times, each time extending the lines a little
further over the flat of her heaving stomach and then a
little way down each side.

He dipped his finger in her blood again and this time began
drawing vertical lines from her breasts to the top of her
legs, forming an empty tic-tac-toe square across the plateau
of her quivering stomach.

Pedro looked up at me, his blood-covered finger still
reaching across Francesca's chest, pressed into the crease
at the top of my wife's bare leg. This was where the second
of his vertical tramlines terminated, just a whisker from
the wispy hair of her gentle mound.

"Even now you can't see it," he exclaimed wondrously, still
pulling regularly on my Chiquita's long blonde hair with his
left hand, using it to force her into a slow syncopated
rhythm of suck and release on his cock. "Why don't you ask
your fair wife who it was that put her mind in turmoil with
all those dreadful stories about what you do here? Ask her!
Who was it that fed her mind with the insane idea that she
should become your victim? Who was it, Captain Rodriguez?
Don't you know? Then ask her!"

I swallowed hard, gazing down questioningly at Francesca,
yet unable, perhaps unwilling, to voice the unspoken words
that might force a reply. Her cheeks were puffed out and her
mouth chomping away on his glistening broom handle. Through
watery eyes she stared back at me, silent, her familiar face
drawn in a laboring scowl of anguish.

Pedro was enjoying this. His whole manner was one of
derision and ridicule. He was enjoying being able to
humiliate us both. He was enjoying this rape of Francesca's
mouth.

And I couldn't blame him, even though it hurt, for these
were lessons that I had taught him myself.

His bloody fingers wandered the short distance into
Francesca's silky pussy hair, twisting it between his
fingers, gripping it firmly.

Her expressive eyes filled with apprehension and horror as
she realized what Pedro was about, and she tensed, gripping
his erection hard with her lips, sucking haphazardly because
his little finger had slipped between her pussy lips,
penetrating deep inside.

She grunted unintelligibly, trying to speak but unable
because of her mouth being so incredibly full.

I watched spellbound. He was going to hurt her. I could
tell. I could see the sensitive skin of her mound being
stretched and lifted as Pedro continued winding pussy hair
round his fingers.

For a moment, Francesca's upper body convulsed as she fought
the hurt coming from her pussy lips without biting upon his
cock. Her lips were being stretched obscenely. He was
opening her, revealing her, exposing the secret inner folds
of her juicy pink cunt tube.

"Help me," she howled in a mumble, inarticulate, incoherent,
and choking: gagging on the penis in her mouth. Her hips
were rising from the bed, three inches, six inches. They
were held high in the air by the might of Pedro's cruel
fingers, fingers that tugged upon that short triangle of
body hair, holding it fast. "Please! Help me! I know that
you can!"

I looked away, preferring to suffer Pedro's ridicule rather
than endure the silent painful pleas of my wife. "The
priest?" I guessed weakly, my words sounding gruff and
abrupt, answering the question that Pedro had asked. "Was it
Barajas who did all those things?"

And all the time he also had his little finger inside her
pressing upon her clit, massaging it gently.

"Oh yes, it was Barajas," Pedro agreed scornfully, his torso
shaking as he mocked, dragging my Chiquita's poor head with
it. "But not the Barajas that you're thinking of, no, not
the priest. Another Barajas. It isn't him you should fear.
It's her. His sister." He hissed the word. "The one who now
calls herself Signora Gonsalez. You will love her. She is
crazy, that one. She has blood lust as I've never seen it
before. She will love this." He held up his finger coated
with a sticky mixture of blood and Francesca's pussy juice,
and placed it in his mouth, licking his finger clean.

"And she hates you, Captain Rodriguez, hates you with a
venom that is beyond understanding. She will do anything to
hurt you, anything at all. And how better than to do it
through the sweet young Signora Rodriguez."

I stared down at Francesca anxiously, then up at him,
shaking my head slowly. "I don't understand," I replied
carefully. "Who is this woman? Does she know me? Why should
she hate me so much?"

"It is a long story, my friend," Pedro grunted, pulling upon
Francesca's hair, slowing her sucking action in order to
hold back his approaching orgasm. "One that she shall tell
you herself when she comes here in the morning. In the
meantime, we must fill the time, yes? Like in the old days,
do you remember? Tic-tac-toe."

"Pedro!" I glanced fearfully at the lines he had drawn
across Francesca's stomach, drying now to a deep reddish
brown. I have never played this game with Pedro. Tic-tac-toe
was a game that that I would sometimes play with a guy
called Antonio in the old days. It was a device we would use
early in an interrogation, just after our victim had arrived
in reception.

"Tell her," Pedro ordered. "Tell Signora Rodriguez about
those games. It will entertain her. I assume she doesn't
know?"

"The games with Antonio?"

He nodded.

"No. She doesn't know," I confirmed tamely.

"In which case I'm sure she will be pleased to learn all
about them," he insisted. "Tell the Signora. I'm sure she
will be most interested."

I sighed. "But they were nothing," I began.

Pedro shook his head in contradiction. "We'll let the
Signora decide that, shall we? I think that she's capable.
Tell it how it was, the games. As you can see, she is an
adult. I think we can share with her the uncensored
version."

I caught my breath. Francesca seemed beyond listening. Pedro
was holding her head firmly with both of his hands, holding
on to her ears, and was pulling her back and forth, using
her to drive himself to the precipice of orgasm. He was
coming. I watched my Chiquita, my wife, gag as his come
flooded her gullet, as she tried desperately to swallow it.
I felt awkward, humiliated.

I grimaced. "Tic-tac-toe was a game we would play on women
who had just arrived at Grimaldi," I began half-heartedly.
Francesca was choking, gasping. "We called it a reception
game for obvious reasons. They would come in, disoriented,
frightened, but still clothed, not really knowing why they'd
been arrested or what the next hours had in store for them."

I paused. Neither Pedro nor Francesca seemed to be
listening.

"Go on," Pedro growled, recovering his breath. His cock was
still stuffed inside Francesca's throat.

I sighed. "We would be very officious," I began again.
"Asking lots of formal questions, beginning with name and
address, then onto such things as age and body measurements.
Soon the questions would become more sexual in tone. How
many boyfriends had they had? What positions had they tried?
Had they been butt fucked? That type of thing. While I asked
the questions, Antonio - it was usually Antonio - would
begin searching through belongings, pockets, the lady's
handbag, everything. Most time would be spent examining any
personal possessions: contraceptives, sanitary towels, that
kind of stuff. But finally, he would open up her makeup,
making comments, testing out the colors on his own arm."

"Get to the point," Pedro wheezed, finally releasing
Francesca's head. She fell back with a dull moan. "What
about the tic-tac-toe?"

"I was coming to that," I griped. "Antonio would pick a lip
stick, the redder and brasher that it was, the better. I
would cuff the lady's hands behind her back: perhaps make
her stand on a stool with a noose over her head, we both
liked to do that. She would be terrified, too frightened to
move, too frightened to speak."

"A noose?" That was Francesca.

I nodded. "We would hang the rope from the hot water pipes,
most of the rooms in Grimaldi have them. I usually tied it
quite tight, so that the rope would hold her nice and
upright. Then, Antonio would crayon broad, thick strokes
across her face, the square for our game, with her own
lipstick. It's very simple, and yet both frightening and
humiliating for the woman.

Those games usually ended as a draw, as games of tic-tac-toe
generally do. But whatever the result, there was always an
excuse for a new game."

"'Where shall we play now?' Antonio would ask. 'Her face is
much too dirty. How can we use it?'

"'I don't know,' I would reply, perhaps slipping open the
top couple of buttons of my bleating victim's blouse,
stroking her neck, stroking the noose. Then moving my
fingers down, inside the blouse and onto the upper swell of
her breasts. 'How about here?'

"And so we would continue, removing ever more of the lady's
clothing, finding increasingly interesting and intimate
areas of our victim's body to play the game."

"And then came the nun," Pedro interrupted excitedly. "Maria
Barajas. Tell your wife what happened to her. I'm sure you
must remember."

Oh yes, I remembered. How could I ever forget?

"Barajas!" Francesca exclaimed, spitting the taste of
Pedro's come from her mouth. "She's related to Phillip?"

"His sister," Pedro agreed. "Although not the same sister as
the Mayor's wife, that's Lucia. This is his other sister."

We had captured Francesca's interest. "So what happened?"
she asked, staring at me piercingly.

I turned guiltily toward the window. What was going on? I
was the Interrogator! Why did I have to answer all the
questions? I sighed. "Maria Barajas was the girlfriend of a
terrorist... She was fair game..."

"Very pretty too, if I recall," Pedro added
conversationally, pulling on his pants. "Sexy, too. The
Captain was very much taken with her. It was her shyness, I
believe, that attracted him. We took some pictures of her,
rather explicit ones, if you know what I mean. The Captain,
here, claimed that they were destined for publication. She
was mortified. He made her beg for them back. More than beg,
in fact. He made her dance for them. And I'm not talking of
a tango."

"It was just a job of work," I stressed, clasping my damp
hands together and wringing them fretfully. "She meant
nothing to me. Nothing at all. We followed the usual script,
all the usual procedures. It wasn't our fault, what
happened. It was a typical morning's work."

The sun would be rising soon. There was the faint glimmer of
pink, low on the horizon.

"What happened?" my Chiquita demanded.

"She was the girlfriend of a terrorist," I said,
defensively. "Fair game. She'd been seen with him at a
number of political rallies and we had reason to believe he
was using her to convey information. How were we to know
that she and her sister had done a switcheroo on us?"

Francesca was confused. "I don't understand..."

"She'd changed her story several times already," I added.
"And so when she claimed to be a nun it just seemed like
another tissue of lies."

"You had no reason to check her story," Pedro sympathized.
"Why should you? After all, you had what you wanted. A naked
woman to torture. Why should you check?"

"It wasn't like that," I complained. "It was just an
ordinary job. A routine morning's work."

"In which case," Pedro responded, lifting himself up and
fixing me with a judgmental stare. "How come she didn't
survive that day? How come she died?"



End of Part Eight




Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com

