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