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From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)
Subject: CODY: CANTERBURY: Cricket, Chpt. 1
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THE CANTERBURY TALES
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
PROLOGUE TO THE GARAGE MECHANIC'S TALE: Our host was in no mood
for an argument. He rode up and down the line, shouting, "Move it, you
dirty sluts. Step lively. Wiggle those behinds." At the same time, his
whip curled through the air, slashing long r ed welts in the girls pretty
buttocks and underbellies. To Nathan, he said, "Mount your pony and ride,
sir. We haven't got all year to move these pigs to Canterbury. The
Archbishop's planning a banquet in two days time. Now then, who'll tell
the next story?" His whip suddenly snaked in between my legs and took a
nick out of my left nipple. Withdrawing, it sliced a razor sharp edge
through my crease, and I squealed in pain. Nathan held me still as my red
hair whipped the air. Only my tightly bound wrists kept me from clutching
my wounded vagina.
The ponys, of course, did not tell stories in the book. But it
was a far different story for the re-creation. There we spilled our guts
out. I was called upon to tell several stories. Which is not easy if you
have a bit in your teeth. You have to us e a lot of body language. At
the same time, Nathan was driving his spurs into my tits and ribs, making
me prance and show off for the others.
We were trotting along a narrow defile where a rail track lay.
One of the girls had been giving her rider, a garage mechanic, trouble, so
it was decided to stop long enough to discipline her. A luscious blonde
with a baby face, she trembled as the man dismounted. The next moment,
she was lying on the ground, groaning from his having kneed her viciously
in the crotch. We watched as he kicked her in the face, hauled her up by
the hair, and beat her, first hitting her in the face, and then on her
enormo us breasts. The girl begged for mercy. You can be sure she did
not give him any more trouble when he climbed back on her back.
It was his turn to speak. "You know," he said, "women are such
worthless creatures. The blessed Timothy says that all women are whores
and must be constantly beaten and tormented lest they lead men to do evil.
And who is more likely to know, Tim havin g spent most of his youth in the
fleshpots of somewhere, I forget which, Philadelphia or something. He was
an American."
I tell you, my stomach was sick with what had happened to Chloe.
She was so beautiful. A dancer. Now wet mascara drained down her elfin
face as she cried. Her stockings were also ruined. Unlike myself, she
was one of the whore's who had been provide d by the host. Nathan cracked
his crop on my back side and we started off again. The mechanic went on
telling his filthy story.
THE CANTERBURY TALES
CRICKET
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 1
Roll over. Stretch. Open eyes.
The sleek, well-toned body came to life like a fine tuned machine,
a finely-crafted sportscar, its engineering complete down to the most
intimate detail.
One long golden leg worked its way out from between sheets. The
soft material slid off the woman's torso, clad in a short black teddy.
She reached up to scratch her nose. She was still wearing the gloves.
The garter belt had come loose and pinched. Masses of black hair snaked
with gold spread out across the pillow and clung in wet clumps to her
face. One eye was swollen, the left.
She raised her head. Both stockings were down around her ankles,
and she still had on the high heeled pumps, tightly buckled. And
padlocked. Where was she?
Groggily she sorted through fragments of the previous evening.
With Glenn. At the Bakers. Her left leg was broken. So was her nose.
Arnold Baker had done that. With a well-aimed kick as she bent over from
a punch in the stomach. Why?
Her husband had twisted her right arm behind her, until it snapped
at the elbow. She tried to sit up. Her lean Jaguar body felt as if it
had been wrapped at ninety miles an hour around a steel pole. As if a
hand grenade had been dropped into a cut gla ss punchbowl, crystals of
silver pain exploded through her brain. Something else was wrong, too,
something inside her. Cricket, twisting, screamed and rolled off the bed.
Her head hit the floor. One ankle, that of the broken leg, chained, kept
her to the brass bedstead. Bone broke through the tanned skin. She
blacked out.
Her mind traveled backward in time to an afternoon two weeks ago.
Horace Bunting's office. High above the harbor. An architect. He was
designing her house. Tall, handsome, self-assured, he had a clear idea of
what she wanted. Perhaps more than she knew herself. She had gone there
to meet him from work. Cricket was a designer herself. She did
interiors. She was very successful. Horace wanted to show her the
floorplans. Afterward, they would go to the club.
Another fragment. Her father's study. She stood in front of him,
one hip hiked up, the other leg bent, in the classic fashion pose. She
was wearing a white party dress, bandage tight, crotch high. Large
breasts nearly spilled from the small halter. It was her father's idea
that she should marry Glenn. Of course, she complied. Glenn would take
her places. Like the Bakers'. It was almost like leading a double life.
Obediently, she moved closer to her father. He put his hand out. She
moaned. And woke. Screaming.
No. She couldn't be awake. Not awake and doing this. Not this.
Who was it this time? Arnold Baker? Winslow? Doug? She woke again.
And again. Her life was an endless series of awakenings, from one reality
into the next. Each worse than the one before. In one was the trial.
The endless questioning. What had she been doing there at three in the
morning? Was she a nymphomaniac? Didn't she have any pride? No
self-respect? What kind of a dress was that to be wearing? In another
was the churc h. The same dress but a church. It was even worse in
church. They looked at her. And she woke. This time it was the asylum.
Where they had put her after the accident. It had been an accident. Her
body spasmed. When she opened her eyes, she was ba ck on the beach. Six
of them. It had been a real gang bang. Glenn had watched. Afterward, he
said she had asked for it. Cricket didn't argue.
Why did she have these dreams? They were dreams, weren't they?
She was a successful designer. They came and went. She struggled to get
control of herself. Horace had told her to be there at six. She was ten
minutes late. He looked at her. She kne w what he was thinking. "I'm
sorry," she said. "The traffic." He came towards her. Something about
him, the way he walked, reminded her of her father. Inwardly, she
cringed, but she held herself in check.
Cricket was an innovator. The men in her life were inventors.
They invented things to do to Cricket. Arnold Baker had turned her into a
four car garage. That's what her belly felt like. It was stuffed with
steel wool. Arnold had rammed it in with a pool cue. Cricket's wrists
were tied behind her. The white dress was wrapped round her waist like a
belt. Breasts hung down. She did not look like the sleek, elegant
socialite who had entered the club earlier that afternoon. She banged her
head agai nst the floor, desperate with pain. Once again her mind slipped
sideways.
This time, she woke, a pretty teenager at the military base. They
had tied her to the hood of a half track. In the blazing sun. She fried.
The whole platoon took her, one at a time. Afterward, they cut her loose.
Cricket staggered along the dirt ro ad, walking back to town. At a
roadhouse, where she stopped to make a phone call, some good old boys took
her on a pool table. She woke up in bed. There was nothing wrong. More
dreams.
Why?
Perhaps she was going mad.
Perhaps they were wish fulfillments. She wanted to be abused, to
be hurt; degraded, spit on, humiliated. Especially in front of her
husband's friends. Glenn treated her so well. She needed to be
disciplined.
They were going out that night. To the Bakers'. Arnold Baker was
a thug. She knew he desired her. Did she really want an animal like that
working her over? Breaking her to his will? Was that it? Did she want
to be savaged, brutalized? Hurt?
Maybe.
Arnold's wife, Cathy, was certainly a good example of a punching
bag. She rarely was without a black eye or some other injury. She said
they were accidents, but everyone knew. A sumptuous redhead, she went out
of her way to please him. Cricket felt s orry for her. Why did she put
up with it? Was she afraid to leave? Possibly. Or was it the good life?
Cathy was a tramp Arnold had picked up. He knew what he was looking for.
She knew better than to cross him.
There was blood everywhere -- in her shoes, on her sleeves, and
all over the floor. Human blood soaked through her gown and underwear.
It settled on her abdominal skin and trickled down into her sex. It
seeped between her legs.
Wearing a minidress, she danced suggestively. There were closeups
of her hips, her breasts, her buttocks. Then a man. He started dancing.
He unbuttoned his shirt. He ended pinning her against a wall, thrusting
his body against hers.
She was urged to look as desireable as possible. But what
happened when she did? Any woman who dresses that way gets what she
deserves. She was asking for trouble. "Dress to Kill" Night. "How Bare
Do You Dare?" There was nothing deceptive. The pitch was
straightforward. She didn't come here to talk about great books.
What did you expect if you wore a dress that was closer to your
waist than your knees? Seven inch heels? Lace underwear? Danced like
that? She wanted him to see it.
TEEN CONVICTED OF RAPE, KILLING TO SERVE FOUR WEEKS.
Williams was charged in the death of Kimberly Ann Harbour, 26, who
was raped repeatedly, stabbed 132 times and kicked and beaten with sticks
in the Franklin Sports Complex.
There had been eight of them. They had been bored. They decided
to rob some prostitutes. When they ran into Kimberly and Cricket, they
chased the petite blonde onto the field where they caught her. It was
Halloween.
Williams was underage. He could only be sentenced until his
eighteenth birthday. Kimberly begged Cricket to help her. One of the
other boys held her, twisting her arm behind her back. Cricket struggled.
The boys made her help. She didn't want to. She wanted to get away. Or
to get help. To help Kimberly. But instead, she did what they told her
to. She was stronger than Kimberly. Tony, the gang leader, laughed at
her. She could still see his face. In her worst nightmares. And
Kimberly's, the blood running down it. The breasts, skewered with the ice
pick. And the blood gushing out of her cunt. She took a long time to
die. It was an all night affair. On the field and up in the bleechers,
and in the car afterward, driving to a party. They took both girls.
Kimberly was a mess. Her dress was torn, and she looked like she had just
been gang raped, which, of course, she had been. Cricket had helped.
Everyone knew that. They warned her to keep her mouth shut. Tony warned
her that if she squealed, they would shut her up for good. Cricket knew
he wasn't kidding. They dragged Kimberly Ann's body across the field and
put it in the trunk of the car. They warned Cricket that she would die if
she ever told. She swore she wouldn't. When the cops got her, they beat
the shit out of her until she did. Williams swore he would get her. Just
as soon as he got out. He was an animal. The worst of the lot. What he
had done to Kimberly was just a starter he said for what he would do to
Cricket. She was terrified. No one would protect her. She had to get
away. She ran like a scared animal. No one would know. The others were
on her trail, too. Tony, MacRae. Smit. Slowly they closed in. She
woke. Sweat poured off her perfect body. The s teel wool dildo tore at
her insides. Hair clung damply to her face.
Studs had an old car antenna.
"What's that?"
"A car antenna."
"What's it for?"
He smirked.
Kimberly moaned. He touched the tip to the point of the triangle
between her legs. The ball of the antenna had been clipped off, leaving a
sharp point. He poked it up inside her. Kimberly squeezed her thighs
together and tried to twist away.
There was a woosh. The girl howled as the steel antenna laid open
her bare asscheek. She banged her head on the floor, trying to get away
from the pain. Williams laughed.
"Want to try it?"
"Yeah."
They kept the girl moving around. She went mad. Flesh was
hanging off her bones, from her ribs and legs.
Another time there was the grocery cart. This time it was
Cricket. Her big thighs squeezed through the narrow holes made for a
child's legs. The bar between them was jammed up into her cunt. Eddie
jerked her backwards over the metal seat back and wir ed her neck to the
front of the basket. He tied her wrists to the sides, also with wire.
Using the hunting knife, Eddie sliced open the front of Cricket's panties,
leaving a red line up the wide, flat belly. Cricket's legs stuck straight
out, the muscles taut.
The steel seatback dug into the base of her spine. She was broken
over it at an unnatural angle. Butch got the idea of bending her neck
back and forcing her head inside the cart, then retying her so her face
was jammed against the wire front. Cricket' s gloved hands were like
claws as she fought the pain. The boys wheeled the cart into the parking
lot and left Cricket to broil in the hot sun. After three hours the
softly tanned skin was beet red.Her tits were like cooked tomatos. Eddie
took a hand r ake and scraped it from Cricket's cunt to her sternum. The
grocery cart rattled and shook with the woman's torment. Blood oozed out
from around the bar between her legs.
Order flooded her mind. She was broken. Studs untied her neck
and pulled her head out of the basket. Her face was imprinted with the
wire mesh. He retied her neck to the basket's rim.
"What are you doing?" she muttered.
They filled the basket under her with crumpled newspaper. She
realized what they were going to do.
"No. My god, no!"
Larry showed her the match. He held it in front of her face.
Cricket shook desperately, trying to get loose. The wires cut her wrists
to the bone. He touched the lit match to the edge of the paper. There
was a horrible shrieking as the fire flared u nder the woman's back,
licking up and around her body. They barbequed her. She wanted to lose
consciousness but couldn't. The plastic seatbar melted into her crotch.
There was the stench of meat burning, her big buttocks oozing fat into the
flames.
When the fire went out, the woman was still alive, still
conscious. The boys wheeled the cart out onto the pool deck. Arnie gave
it a kick that sent it into the pool, landing upside down. Cricket was
drownding. Water filled her lungs. She blacked ou t.
After while they hauled her out. Slowly, she came to. It was
time to take inventory. They cut her loose and dumped her off the cart
onto the sidewalk. The burnt twitching thing scuttled along the pavement.
One of the boys dug a meathook deep into he r side and dragged her into
the store. They took her downstairs and dumped her in a food locker.
Cricket was mindless, chattering, freezing. She was frozen. They left
her there for hours. She threw herself against the door, hammering at it
with fists . Begging to be let out. It was worse than the fire. The
water froze on her skin. When they came for her, she could barely move.
A tub was filled with hot water. Boiling. Steam rose from it.
"Now," Larry said.
"No!"
She went in head first. They held her by the legs. First the
scalding, then choking, drownding. Until she stopped moving. Dragged
out, she was put back in the meat locker. Gradually, she revived. The
nightmare went on. They would never kill her. It was too much fun.
It was not like Kimberly. Kimberly had taken a long time to die,
but eventually, they had killed her. Cricket had watched. She could not
believe so much could be done to a girl and she would still live.
Kimberly had begged her for help. Cricket was afraid. She knew what they
would do to her. And it might be even worse.
It was. Once she had been a strong, independent woman. She had
had a career. She had been so beautiful. It was different from now,
groveling on the floor of the meat locker, shivering, teeth chattering,
naked except for the high black leather boots, a pair of red panties and
leather gloves.
It was the kind of outfit she might have worn to the club in the
old days. Glenn had shown her off. She was very pretty. Kimberly had
been pretty, too. A sweet elfin charmer. Cricket was taller, her legs
heavier and stronger. Both women had big bre asts. They hung like
basketballs on the slender chests, the nipples each the size of a man's
fist. Freaks. Grotesque, misshapen accidents of nature. Men stared at
them, thinking what they could be used for. Cricket twitched nervously,
not sure what t o expect. Bernie patted the underside of one breast,
making it bounce up. Cricket turned away. That was a mistake. The
little man could be very nasty. The next minute she was spinning out of
control, crashing across a table, falling to the floor. He r micromini
dress was hiked up over big fruity asscheeks. She was so embarassed. A
kick finished her off. Kimberly got the message. The same thing could
happen to her. She promised to cooperate.
Working at the club was no picnic. She had to keep the customers
company. For five dollars, they were allowed to do anything they wanted
to her.
"How would you like to break her jaw? Go ahead. Give it your
best shot."
Cricket saw it coming.
"Nice shot. Now, how about the nose?"
A hundred dollars bought carte blanc. They could even take her
home. She lost track of the beatings, the rapes. One incident merged
with another. She couldn't believe this was happening to her. Why?
"Take her in the john and clean her up."
At showtime, she had to dance on the bar. She was drugged.
"You want her to beg?"
"Please don't hurt me. Please. aaggaagggh."
She fought to come out of it. That only made it worse. She was a
mature woman. This couldn't be happening to her. They stripped her down
to her underwear, laughing. Jason tied the rope from her wrists to the
back of his motorcycle.
"No. My God, please don't. Nooooo!"
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