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“You assholes should be paying me for this job,” said the small-in-stature, dirty-blonde man who showed up while Billy was performing anal intercourse on my sore butt hole. He was fucking me with maximum brutality and I was whimpering in pain.
I’d been doing all right with anal until Mel decided to demonstrate for his peers that with the aid of a can of vegetable shortening found in my grocery bag he could fit his hand inside my rectum.
While Stan held me down, Mel packed my holes with shortening then proved to the disbelieving onlookers that his hand would fit in my vagina and his arm in my asshole. I shrieked my misery as Mel’s fist stretched my rectum as he penetrated me to his elbow. I could feel his fingers wiggling deep inside my colon.
“Packing her shit,” was the phrase he used to describe what he was doing. I was certain he was going to rupture an internal organ and I would bleed to death. Somehow that didn’t happen. When he finished, my rear was covered in shortening and shit.
Mel took the time to run his feces covered finger over my upper lip giving me something he called a Dirty Sanchez. I don’t think of myself as a super fastidious person but having a layer of shit painted below your nostrils is beyond disgusting.
Billy used my cashmere sweater to wipe me off before he mounted my rear. “I don’t want your caca on my dick.”
Billy was the youngest and the one with the most staying power. He positioned me face down with my knees under my hips and my face shoved into the filthy mattress. He was on his feet, crouched over me, fucking straight down into my bowels. I moaned with pain after each thrust. As he descended, he landed an old palm bitch slap on my flank that stung like hell. My body was bruised the color of a grape the next day.
It was dark outside so my gang rape was approaching five hours. They’d taken one short break to play cards and drink the rest of my beer. I’d been slapped silly, penetrated in all three orifices, forced to swallow several loads of semen, and made to play Stan’s disgustingly nasty Rusty Trombone. In Stan’s words, I was a shit licking slut who didn’t mind recycling.
Gang rape brings out the worst in men. It unleashes their competitive and violent nature. The more pain they cause you the better the rape. I didn’t know how many times I’d been ravished. They kept trying to out perform one another. One of their tricks was to push my face cheek out with the head of their cock then slap that side of my face transmitting the force of the blow down through their cock head to their balls. For reasons that were beyond me, they considered it funny as hell. My face ached when they were done.
At some point, they gather around me for a gag the whore session. Each one held me by the hair, ordering me to open my mouth wide so they could force their cock down my throat. My choking and spewing drool was another cause for great amusement. I was rotated among the four until I was a total mess. They finished by pumping their loads into my open mouth after which they added their spit. I’d been in some pretty wild scenes in college and the Marines but I didn’t recall anyone spiting in my mouth.
All three orifices had been violated repeatedly. The four men were young and seemed insatiable. I was used to my thirty eight year old husband who fell sound asleep after doing me once.
Sergei spoke with a thick accent. I assumed he was Russian or Ukrainian or any one of the ethnic groups populating that part of the world. Later I learned he was a member of the Chechnyan mafia.
“Just need a minute, boss,” said Billy increasing the pace by which he was driving his manhood into my rubbed-raw bowels.
Sergei stood close beside the bed. He lit a cigarette causing me to worry about the health effects of second hand smoke. I realize how stupid that was. There was ever possibility I wasn’t going to survive the day let alone live long enough to die of lung cancer.
I figured Sergei was going to be my next rapist but as it turned out I was wrong. It would have been less painful if he had.
“Look boss, see how it her butt stays open,” said Billy withdrawing his cock. “You can spit straight down her shitter.” That was followed by the sound of expectoration and the feeling of sputum slowly sliding down my bowel. How absolutely humiliating!
“Very nice, Billy, your mother would be proud. Now hurry and finish, I have some questions for Mrs. Wagner,” said Sergei before patting him and me on the shoulders and moving away.
I watched as Sergei removed his suit coat and tie then his cuff links and placed them neatly on a nearby chair. My husband Dan wore cuff links to the office. I’d given him a very expensive pair for our second anniversary. Those kinds of odd thoughts kept passing through my mind as Billy’s groin slapped hard against my bottom. He picked up the pace, grabbing my hair to use as leverage. The tendons in my neck strained as he bent my head backward. All off a sudden, he was done. His semen joined his spit deep in my intestines.
After Billy finished, they left me alone for a while. The five sat at the table and spoke in whispers, occasionally glancing in my direction.
I was sore and completely exhausted. I’m not sure I could have moved if the bed was on fire. I curled up in the fetal position expecting the worst. Emotionally, I was still grieving over Dan.
It may sound stupid but up till that point I hadn’t thought about why I was there. I’d just assumed four thugs had grabbed me for an afternoon of rape or as they would call it, fun. Mall parking lots are hunting grounds for sexual predators. I hadn’t noticed the van parked alongside my car. When I opened the Mercedes trunk to load the groceries I heard the van door slide open. In an instant I was hauled in the van with a hand clamped over my mouth. I felt a sting in my bicep and it was lights out. The odd thing was that they stole my groceries so in addition to rape sex I provided lunch.
I’d just assumed they decided to snatch a housewife and put a train on her when I happened by. I’d read there were gangs around the city that considered it a form of social protest to kidnap females with nice cars and clothes as a way of getting even for not getting the breaks afforded their bettors.
I had some hope that after they had fucked the shit out of me, they would let me go after threatening death to my family if I contacted the authorities. As it turned out, I was partially correct.
But with the arrival of Sergei, it dawned on stupid me that I wasn’t selected at random. I was about to learn the real reason.
My speculation was interrupted by the breakup of their meeting. Without a word of explanation, they rolled a beat up desk chair to the side of the bed and sat me in it. They taped my wrists to the chair arms and my ankles to the base of the chair.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked repeatedly as Oscar held me so Mel could wrap tape around my midsection and the chair back. I was immobilized when they finished.
The four stepped back to allow Sergei to roll another desk chair to where it faced me. Sergei sat two pieces of luggage on the floor beside his chair. One was an oversized brief case and the other a long black tube, the type used to carry rolled up blue prints. It didn’t contain blue prints but I wish it had.
Sergei took his seat and immediately asked, “Where are your husband and my money, Mrs. Wagner?”
“My husband is dead. He was killed in a boat explosion two weeks ago. I have no idea what money you are talking about,” I said.
“Dan Wagner is not dead. His two partners are dead along with my brother,” said Sergei.
As far as I knew, Dan was the sole owner of MR Inc. There were no partners. “The FBI thinks he’s dead. They’re running DNA tests to prove it,” I said.
“Trust me, Mrs. Wagner, the FBI knows that your husband is not dead,” said Sergei. “Now, where is my twenty million dollars?”
Twenty million dollars was out of our league. Dan was doing well and we had a nice life but there was no way we had that kind of money. “That’s crazy. We don’t have twenty million or even one million.”
“Bring that table over, Billy. It looks to be the right height,” ordered Sergei pointing to a small wooden table on the other side of the room.
The right height meant you could roll my chair up to the table. Mel and Oscar ran strips of tape along the back of the chair to the table legs binding me tightly against the table top. It pressed hard against my ribs. My boobs were resting on the table.
“I was hoping you would be more cooperative but of course as a former Marine, you have to show us how tough you are,” said Sergei opening his briefcase.
I wondered how he knew I was in the Marines. Semper Fi wasn’t tattooed on my shoulder. As it turned out, he knew almost everything about me.
“That’s got nothing to do with it. I don’t know anything about your money,” I said.
“You and your husband were avid fishermen so I’m sure you’ll recognize these,” said Sergei holding two very large fishhooks in one hand. The other held a pair of needle nose pliers.
I’d taken up fishing to be with my husband although I hadn’t gone on the last trip. He told me it was a guy’s only fishing party and he’d invited some business associates.
I stared at the oversized hooks. They were far too large for the lake fish we caught. That was when things got really painful. Sergei captured my left nipple in the pliers and pulled. I reacted by screaming for him to stop. He did but only after he forced the hook through the top of my areola and out the bottom. That hurt. And it hurt just as much as when he did the right nipple. When he finished, I was left gasping for breath, fighting to control the pain.
“Too bad, you have beautiful breasts. Doesn’t she, fellows?” asked Sergei as he removed two elastic cables form his briefcase, the kind used to secure skis to the luggage rack of an SUV.
They all nodded agreement as Serge unwound the cables. I do have terrific boobs and I usually show a little cleavage. What’s the point of hiding your assets? Every night I moisturize them with a non-alcohol lotion. I have a tanning bed at home so I don’t have any tan lines. Dan was crazy about my breasts and he liked to hold one when we slept spooned. But Sergei and his cohorts were about to make me wish I’d had them chopped off.
“She likes her nipples sucked,” said Stan who had made a point of biting them while we fucked. Stan was the kind of lover who believed good sex required the female to scream and beg.
I watched terrified as Sergei hooked one end of the bungee chords into the hook eye then stretched it across the table to catch on the edge before letting go. The elastic snapped taut causing me to cry out. It felt like my boob was being ripped off my chest. Sergei ignored my loud howls and stretched my other boob.
When I looked down through pain clouded eyes, I could see my breasts had became long and flat as the elastic pulled them away from my chest. The hooks were pulling a hole into the tissue and my blood was dripping onto the tabletop.
“Where is the money?” repeated Sergei as I fought to control the pain.
“I don’t know anything about money,” I screamed.
“That is so fucking cool,” said Billy reaching down to pluck the elastic cable like a guitar string. “It’s a tittie guitar.”
I screamed as the pain radiated back into my chest. Billy’s voice reflected the excitement perverts feel at others pain. The sick bastard had a hard on.
“I’ve got to get a set of these for my girlfriend,” said Stan pulling the cables and letting them go.
The vibration was incredibly painful. It radiated up to the pain center in my brain and stayed.
“We Chechens learned this from the Russians. They did it to the women they captured, even my sister, Natasha. She had beautiful breasts before they cut them off. Billy, since you find Mrs. Wagner’s predicament so appealing, you can start,” said Sergei opening the end of the blueprint case and removing a handful of flexible bamboo canes. He handed one to Billy then rolled his chair back to give Billy a clear shot.
“Thanks Sergei,” said Billy taking the cane and whipping the air, making a whirring noise.
“Last chance, Mrs. Wagner,” said Sergei.
“If I knew I would tell you,” I said.
Sergei signaled Billy and the cane landed on top of my breasts with a loud whap or was it a snap. The Afghanis used to say that as far as torture was concerned we Americans were real pussies compared to the Russians. I recall an old mujahadeen showing me what was left of his testicles after the Soviets burned them off with a blow torch. I screamed until I was out of breath then inhaled so I could scream some more.
Sergei waited until I calmed down to speak. “If you don’t tell me about the money, Billy will give you ten of his best without stopping.”
My breasts were on fire. A red whelp was visible across the top. All I could manage was, “I don’t know.” I was desperately trying to think of something else to say. I would have lied to stop the pain but I couldn’t think of anything that would sound remotely believable.
I passed out after eight. They woke me up by pouring a bottle of cold water over my head. Mel took a fresh cane out of the case and did the honors this time. I only made it to seven before blackness overcame me.
“My turn,” said Stan. “Try to stay awake this time. It’s no fun if you faint.”
At nine, I started begging them to kill me. It was that painful.
“I’m beginning to believe you,” said Sergei after they revived me for the fourth time and repeated his question. Oscar, the biggest and strongest of the four had just finished. My breasts were in unbearable agony. They were covered in raised welts. The skin was broken in a dozen places. My chest was splattered with drops of my blood.
“Still, you may know something,” said Sergei taking two lengths of surgical tubing out of his briefcase. He fitted one piece around the base of my breast, pulled it very tight and tied it off. Then he did the other.
They’re 34C so there were plenty of boobs to tie off. They started to swell immediately. Veins and arteries became visible as they turned a dark red. Blood oozed out of the cuts. The effect of the ligatures combined with the caning caused the pain to grow unbearable in minutes.
“How about a little sea salt,” asked Sergei reaching into his brief case for a salt shaker he must have stolen from a dinner? He sprinkled the white crystals on my breasts then rubbed them into the cuts.
I read romance novels. The kind referred to as bodice rippers. They’re filled with sex and violence and the heroine gets her share of rape and torture. From one of my favorites by Barbara Cartland, I recalled the pirates rubbed salt into the cuts left by the lash on the heroine’s creamy breasts. The heroine fainted but I went nuts. I thrashed and screamed against my bonds, attempting to knock my head against the chair.
My audience thought it was funny as hell.
“Just when you think, it couldn’t get any worse, you find it does. Five more, Billy,” said Sergei.
I don’t know that much about torture. In Iraq, we strapped suspected terrorists to an old door and then pushed them down in a tub of water. A couple of dunkings and they were eager to tell us what we wanted to know. But waterboarding was nothing compared to what I was experiencing.
I tried to pass out when the first blow landed on my boobs. The flesh was so tight it felt like a balloon ready to burst. Luck was not with me and I was still conscious when the fifth blow landed. I managed to croak, “I don’t know. Please stop” when Sergei repeated his question.
I passed out when they released me. They dropped me back on the bed while they conferenced again. A bottle of ice cold water brought me awake.
“Are you alert? Do you understand me, Mrs. Wagner?” asked Sergei holding me by the hair.
“Yes,” I muttered. “Please, I’ll do anything you want. Don’t hurt me anymore.”
Sergei held up a picture for me to see. “Recognize them?”
The pain in my breasts was so bad I could barely see. I had to concentrate to focus my eyes. It was my sister Kathy and her two children getting into her mini-van in front of a school. “Yes, my sister, with Jason and Janet.”
“They live at 224 Wheeler Court in Richmond, Virginia,” said Sergei holding up a second picture. “And this one?”
“My mother,” I said.
“Yes, she lives at Heritage Assisted Living on South Meadow Street in St. Paul. If you go to the police or the FBI, we will kill these people and it will be done in a very unpleasant fashion. Your niece is how old?”
I may not know where his twenty million was but I did know that one. “Janet’s ten.”
“The man who kills her will be a psychotic pedophile who will take his time, perhaps as much as a month. She will suffer horribly and it will be your fault. Do you understand me?”
I said, “Yes I won’t tell anyone,” and I meant it.
“I’ve decided to make you a proposition. Are you listening?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You have one month to accomplish either of two outcomes.”
“Yes, two outcomes,” I repeated eager to demonstrate how cooperative I was.
“Either is acceptable but if neither is performed, you will be killed. If you try to run, then you are signing the death warrants for your mother and your sister and her children,” said Sergei repeating the threat.
I was determined to say whatever he wanted. “Understood, I won’t run. What do I have to do?”
“Either find and kill your husband or return our twenty million, preferably both. Return of the money will earn you a ten percent finder’s fee. It is a very fair arrangement,” said Sergei.
“I don’t know where to look,” I said.
“Yes, well no one said it would be easy,” said Sergei. “I suggest you try very hard since your life depends on it.” |
