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