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TORTURED TEACHER Chapter 26-30
by Joy Paine
Index words:     whip breasts w#    squeeze breasts s#    whip genitals g#
		golden shower u#

NOTE: with one exception, the characters in this story have no
resemblance to any person living or dead.  The exception is that
I like to picture myself in the story, from time to time.



No sooner was her "date" out of the room than the matron appeared. "No
time to waste, Susie dear," she cooed. "Normally, we'd have to rush like
mad for the next 10 minutes to get you ready for your next 'guest' -- pull
out the pins and clean you up and so on. But this next guy has a special
approach. He wants to take up where your last boyfriend left off, so he
gets 10 minutes extra with you as working time."

Thanks a bunch! Susie thought. Not only do I have to work 10 minutes
overtime, but this guy is going to start where the last one left off.
My God! Does that mean that his torture is going to be all the worse?
I ought to join the union, she thought wryly.

While she had been talking, the matron had been getting Susie ready for
the next customer -- strapping her arms to a sort of tilting framework
that fit from her shoulders to her waist, so that she was leaning over
backwards at an angle approaching 45 degrees. Her ankles were fastened
to rings in the floor, so that her legs were spread far apart.

And she was mother-naked, of course, with those pins still reminding her
painfully of their presence.

She recognized the next customer, too. The Chief of Police, uniform and
all. He wasted no time starting on his fantasy.

"So," he said, stroking the places where the pins still pierced her body,
sending new pain through her, "you wouldn't talk for the boys. Well, I'll
soon get a confession out of you."

It soon became obvious that this was just a pretense, as she had known
it would be. Every time she began to confess to some crime, real or
imagined, he would hiss, "The truth, slut!" and apply some new torment.
                                                                  w#
He started out with a snappy little whip, much like the one that Chuck
had used on her breasts. But it was more painful now, when it hit those
damned pins on every other stroke or so. And then he reversed the whip,
pounding her tits with the handle. Damn! It felt like a rubber hose, the
way it bruised and abused the nubile mounds.

"Won't talk, eh?" he gloated. "Well, I guess it's time for the real
stuff." He picked up a pair of Crushers, then laid them aside. "Naw, too
wimpy for me," he said scornfully. "When I squeeze a whore's tits, I want
to get a personal feel into it."
                                                             s#
And personal he did get. He started out with his bare hands, squeezing
brutally, all the while forcing those pins deeper into her tortured flesh.
And then he brought out another device. "The lemon squeezer, we call it.
Only in your case it's more like an orange squeezer -- or maybe even
grapefruit." He stroked her breasts, making sure that she got his meaning,
that she fully savored the pain beforehand.

Each squeezer consisted of a pair of paddles, hinged together at the end.
All he had to do was trap her breast between the two paddles, and squeeze.
The shape of the paddles gave enough leverage so that he could apply
unbelievable pressure.

It soon became evident that he was one of those that didn't mind if his
victim fainted.

When the smelling salts had revived her, he started in on her cunt. First
the cattle prod, although it didn't really appeal to him -- it didn't
allow him to release enough of his own energy.
                                                       g#
He then fastened a clip on each of her cunt lips -- a clamp that bit
horribly, and was painful enough in itself. But then he attached a
thong to each clip, and circled her thigh with it -- stretching the
orifice wide open, defenseless against his whip. He started whipping the
inside of her cunt . . .

She never knew whether he had raped her during one of her periods of
unconsciousness, and she didn't really care. The pain was so unbearable
that a little rape would have seemed like child's play.
                                                                 u#
When he revived her for the last time, she found that he had jammed a
funnel between her teeth while she was unconscious, and had taped her
lips tightly around it. When he saw that she was awake again, he whipped
out his dong and pissed squarely into the funnel, making sure that none
of the golden liquid spilled out, so she had to swallow every last drop.

"I'll see you again, bitch." was his parting shot. "And you'll talk next
time, believe me. There are lots of delightful persuasion techniques that
I haven't got around to using yet."

=============================================================
TORTURED TEACHER Chapter 27
by Joy Paine
Index words:     (none)

NOTE: with one exception, the characters in this story have no
resemblance to any person living or dead.  The exception is that
I like to picture myself in the story, from time to time.



"Well," the matron said gaily, while she cleaned Susie up after the
Chief's visit, "that's the last customer for the night." Susie let herself
draw a long breath of relief, even though the job of removing the pins
was still causing her pain -- pain which the matron seemed to enjoy, and
tried to prolong. "Now it's time to meet the club's Manager," she went
on. "He always likes to interview the new employees. Good personnel
relations you know," she added archly.

So I'm finally going to meet the bastard responsible for all this, Susie
thought vindictively. Well, I'll give him a piece of my mind, Manager
or no.

And then the matron twisted Susie's arm painfully behind her back, started
strapping her onto the torture frame. Oh God! Susie thought. Was this what
that shadowy "Manager" meant by "interview"?

It sure was, she soon discovered. When Susie was entirely helpless, with
her nakedness exposed for whatever satanic things the Manager might want
to do, the matron spoke again. "The Manager is someone you know, Sweetie,"
she grinned. "In fact, in a small town like this, you'll probably find that
you already know most of your lovers. But the Manager has a special
interest in keep you guessing, so . . ."

Susie felt more helpless than ever as the matron taped the blindfold over
her eyes. She knew that her torturers had, so far, gotten a special
pleasure out of letting her know in advance just what they were going to
do to her -- and to what part of her; to let her savor ahead of time each
new pain or indignity they were going to inflict. Like the poet who had
said that the coward dies a thousand times. And it was a horribly
effective psychology -- as these sadists well knew.

But this was even worse. To lie there helpless, not knowing -- not
knowing who was looking at her nakedness, who was preparing to invade
her privacy, to torment the intimate parts of her body, to subject her
to normal and perverted rape -- this was a hundred times worse.

And then the matron fastened that telemetering cuff on her, and Susie
knew that the Manager was one of those demons who wanted to make her
agony last as long as possible, without the "inconvenience" of her losing
consciousness.

And one more indignity, perhaps worse than all the others.

"The Manager knows that you're a little upset at being fucked by other men
than your husband," the matron said sweetly. And that was the understatement
of the year, Susie thought bitterly. "So," she went on, "he's going to
let you pretend that he is your husband, while he makes love to you in
his own special ways. So make sure you address him as 'darling', and
whatever else you call your husband. And call him 'Jim'", she taunted.

That was surely the ultimate indignity. To have to pretend that the man
raping and torturing her, and subjecting her to the vile perversions that
she knew would be her fate -- to have to pretend that he was her husband,
whom she loved -- that was a new extreme in torment. And she knew that
she would have to go along with the perverted suggestion, or else . . .

Isolated as she was from reality, Susie had no concept of time. Each
minute of agony seemed like years, but she had no way of knowing how
many of those minutes there were. She didn't know how many men -- or
women -- tortured and defiled her during that interminable period. Or
they might even have set the machine on automatic for some of the time,
and just watched -- or gone off to play cards, or to have sex with
somebody else, or something.

She did know that at least two men were involved, though, because more
than once she was raped simultaneously by two torturers (or was one of
them a dildo?), giving her the chance to demonstrate once more the
proficiency she had developed at "sandwich" fucking.


=============================================================

TORTURED TEACHER Chapter 28
by Joy Paine
Index words:     (none)

NOTE: with one exception, the characters in this story have no
resemblance to any person living or dead.  The exception is that
I like to picture myself in the story, from time to time.



During the next few weeks, life became a sort of routine for Susie -- a
routine that she was sure was a rehearsal for Hell.

On the nights that Jim was going to be out of town (and somehow, Angie
seemed to know what nights they would be, even before Susie did herself)
Angie would come over to spend the night in the delights of Lesbian torture,
sometimes having "the boys" over for a gang bang first. Their abuses were
more varied now, since Angie had given them the word that Susie's asshole
was in service, too. And the training that Susie had received in the use
of her "working parts" made the rapes a lot more fun for the boys. And
made them come over a lot more often.

And then the next morning, if it was a school day, Angie would gleefully
tape the Spiders on Angie's tits and clit, and ride off to school with
her, making sure that the poor girl was not wearing any underwear at all,
or that she was wearing bra and panties that were too tight, making the
Spiders bite with an extra measure of pain.

On Saturdays, there would be a routine visit from the "masked rapist", who
would use the Crushers enthusiastically before raping Susie's cunt and
asshole. And Saturday nights -- and sometimes on other nights as well --
she would be taken to the Club, where she would suffer for many hours the
torments of the damned.

Perhaps even worse than the degradation and agony of the sessions at the
Club was the knowledge that practically all of the men in the community
(and several of the women -- after all, this was the age of equal rights)
knew who she was, and what she was doing (or rather what was being done to
her) during those evenings (or all-night sessions) at the Club. Of course,
Susie knew the identities of the men, too, and had learned a great deal
about the sexual practices and perversions that they preferred. But she
wasn't about to blow the whistle on them, and they knew it. Blow them,
sure, but never blow the whistle on them. She couldn't do that without
making her own shame officially public.

And who would take her complaint seriously, anyway? Certainly not the
Superintendent of Schools, or the Chief of police. Or the Mayor, who was
another one of her more imaginative and innovative customers.

On the other hand, she was sure that her customers were whispering behind
her back. Strangely, though, their behavior to her face was most polite --
almost courtly. "One of the traditions of the Club", the matron had told
her. "We cater only to gentlemen here. (Except on Ladies' Night, of
course.)"

Some gentlemen! Susie thought bitterly. Beasts, bastards, who would rape
and torture a helpless girl while she screamed for mercy.

The bridge club girls were not gentlemen, of course; they were diligently
proving the validity of Kipling's comments to the effect that the female
of the species was more deadly than the male. Ever since that cruel
moment when they revealed to Susie that they knew about her servitude,
they had played no bridge, but had reveled instead in imaginative orgies
of which Susie was the victim.

They had so much fun, in fact, that they were completely oblivious to
fact that Angie was gleefully videotaping their playtimes, often
re-running the show in a private viewing for Susie, to recall for her
"benefit" the pain and embarrassment of the ordeal.

And the school Principal was becoming ever bolder in his advances. The
last straw came one Friday afternoon, on one of the days when Angie had
forbidden Susie to wear underwear, and the Principal's hands were bold
enough to discover that fact. Trapping her in the corner of his office,
he rubbed his cupped hand over the poor girl's breast, making that damned
Spider hurt until it was all that Susie could do to keep from screaming.
And then he leered at her, "I bet that makes the Spider really bite.
"Let's try the other one . . ."

Susie gasped. "You -- you know!" she accused.

Again that irritating chuckle. "Oh yes, darling," he crooned. "That sweet
little Angela has been keeping me posted on the details of the debauchery
that you have been luring our innocent youth into. She even gave me this
picture. Look . . ."

The picture, in living color, was even more revolting than Susie's memory
of the act. There she was, bound to her bed, blindfolded, with Spiders and
Crushers in place, helplessly awaiting the weekly visit from her ravisher.
"I think that the School Board will have something to say about your job
when they get a look at this picture. It probably won't do your marriage
any good, either," he added as if in afterthought.

Susie gave another gasp of dismay. "Please don't tell my husband," she
implored. "Look," she tried to make her voice sultry, tempting. "I know
what you want. You men are all the same. I'll put out for you, if you'll
just keep quiet about it." What the hell? By this time, one more rapist
wouldn't make any difference.

The Principal smiled triumphantly. It had been an even easier victory than
he had hoped.

"Just what I wanted you to say, Darling," he taunted. "In fact, I've been
counting on it so strongly that I had already arranged with Angie for you
to spend the night at my house.

"And she was good enough to bring the suitcase of special equipment that
you keep stashed away for her . . ."

Once he had her in his bedroom, he wasted no time in stripping Susie
naked, putting the Spiders and Crushers on her, and shackling her to the
bed. Just like the picture, except that he left off the blindfold. As
she tensed for his invasion, Susie felt him tightening the Crushers until
she almost fainted.

There was something horribly familiar about the way he drove into her,
but maybe it was just the similarity in circumstances. But when he pulled
out, and moved over to her asshole . . .

"It's been you all the time!" Susie screamed.

"That's right, Honey," he sneered. "All the time you've been saying 'no'
during the week, you've been putting out for me on Saturday. But those
days are gone forever, as the old song used to go. Tomorrow, instead of
accommodating your 'masked rapist', we'll go over to the Club, where we
can have some real fun. And as for tonight . . ."

Susie groaned as he started unpacking the suitcase of "equipment" that
Angie had given him.
===================================================

TORTURED TEACHER Chapter 29
by Joy Paine
Index words:     (none)

NOTE: with one exception, the characters in this story have no
resemblance to any person living or dead.  The exception is that
I like to picture myself in the story, from time to time.





But it's a long worm that has no turning, to mix a couple of metaphors,
and things finally reached the point where Susie could stand it no longer.

Angie had stripped naked (she always felt more wicked that way, she said),
and she had made Susie strip naked, and she was ostentatiously selecting
the "proper whip for the occasion", when Susie just boiled over.

Grabbing the whip from Angie's hand, she brought it down with all her
strength across the surprised girl's butt. "See how you like it, you little
bitch!" she screamed.

To her amazement, Angie did like it! Bending over and grabbing her ankles,
she begged for more! "Please spank me -- I'm a naughty girl", she begged.

Here was an offer Susie couldn't refuse, as the saying goes. All of her
pent-up resentment came to a focus, and concentrated in her arm, as she
rained blow after blow on the lovely pair of ivory globes that were
presented willingly, eagerly, for the ordeal. And Angie begged, through
her tears of pain, for more...and more...and more.

Finally, Susie's strength gave out, and she let the whip drop to the floor.
Angie was on her in a second, showering her with kisses; on her lips, on
her breasts, working lower and lower...

And this time, she kept it up until Susie had the first real orgasm that
anyone had ever given her. And still Angie's frenzied gratitude was not
spent. But this time it was expressed vocally.

"Thank you, thank you!" she gushed. "I've wanted someone to do that for
a long time." Her words continued in an almost frantic outpouring. "My
parents never punished me in any way for anything. They always used to
say that they were following the new trend of permissivity, but it
seemed to me that they were just too lazy to bother themselves with
correcting me. I tried and tried to get their attention by misbehaving,
but all I got from Mother was a sigh of resignation, and Dad never said
anything -- he just grunted. That spanking gave me a sense of security --
I feel as if I've found someone who really cares. Promise me that you'll
look after me, please, PLEASE!"

This was a new twist, thought Susie. At least I can count on less torture
from Angie now. And maybe a little discipline will actually get the little
bitch to behave better in class -- and possibly even turn her life around.
But what Angie needed now more than anything else was affection. Susie
knew it was her turn. After all, she had Frenched Angie many times
before...

But this time, it was a gesture of the affection that Angie craved -- a
free offering, a sort of "handshake" to seal their wordless bargain. By the
time Susie had finished, Angie's tears had vanished.

But she was still contrite. She knew that she could not erase the damage
that she had done -- that the manager of the Club still held the power to
prolong Susie's slavery -- but at least Susie could know that she had a
"pal" who would sympathize with her, and would offer her sexual solace
whenever it was wanted. A mutual sexual solace, of course...

And then the worm turned a little more, to mix the metaphor a bit further.
The manager had Susie in the customary position: naked and blindfolded,
bound and helpless, with the telemetering cuff securely in place, and had
started the usual torment of her breasts, when the pain suddenly stopped.
It seemed like ages before somebody came to investigate; to find the
manager lying on the floor, writhing in the last throes of a heart attack.
Angie (for it was she who first came upon the scene), feeling that Susie's
condition deserved higher priority than the manager's, loosed Susie's
bonds, and gently removed those painful pins, bathing the injured areas
with a soothing balm. Then, and only then, she turned her attention to
the man who now lay face down and motionless on the floor. Finding no
pulse, she rolled the body over, affording Susie a full view of his
face.

Susie gasped, and almost fainted with shock. This beast, the man who had
been torturing her for weeks -- who had always known exactly when (and
for how long) her husband would be away from home -- was that selfsame
husband!

The bastard, while he was pretending to be a dutiful and loving husband,
was actually selling her body to all comers, making a fortune from the
pain and humiliation that her brutal customers had  inflicted on her.
Well, she thought grimly, he won't get another cent from me, now.
===============================================
TORTURED TEACHER Chapter 30
by Joy Paine
Index words:     (none)

NOTE: with one exception, the characters in this story have no
resemblance to any person living or dead.  The exception is that
I like to picture myself in the story, from time to time.


Susie's sexual slavery was immediately terminated, of course, by the
discovery that Jim had been the architect of that slavery.

His death was just icing on the cake. The only reason that she had
submitted to the pain and indignities that had been her lot was the
fact that exposure of her "misdeeds" would have ruined (she thought)
her marriage and Jim's career future. Even if he had lived, she
would have been free of that awful hold. In fact, she mused, it would
have been sort of fun if he HAD lived -- and she could have flaunted
her freedom in his face.

Be that as it may, he was well beyond her reach now -- and he just might
be suffering some of the Hell's tortures that he had inflicted on
her.

It was Angie who pointed out that Jim's death would affect her life in
another way. As his widow, she would inherit his possessions -- including
the Club itself. Well, she thought grimly, let's inventory my estate.

Fortunately, she had no more "customers" scheduled for the evening. Jim
never had let his "recreation" get in the way of her money-making duties.
Luckily also, she discovered, he kept his files in locked cabinets, and
carried the keys on his person. There were no tricky combination safes
to cope with.

One of her first discoveries was a not-unexpected cabinet full of pictures.
Pictures, filed and indexed carefully, showing Susie's customers at "work".
Pictures of the Mayor, of the Chief of police, of many of the "respectable"
and influential men and women of the town, engaging in sexual perversions.
Pictures that would ruin their lives, once the public found out. And
find out they would, Susie vowed, once she decided on the best way to
manage the disclosure. Maybe the Internet would do for starters . . .

But Angie had another idea. An idea that Susie would have found revolting
a year ago, but an idea that appealed to the ironic sense of humor that
she had developed during her months of slavery. The next day, the Club
was closed to "business", but Susie summoned several of her most prominent
male customers to listen to a short speech. And to view copies of some of
the pictures.

"Of course," she concluded, "the best pictures have been moved to a safe
place -- a place where they can not fall into the wrong hands -- such as
yours. You have my word that you will be protected as long as you eagerly
carry out my wishes in every detail. But the minute any one of you rebels,
or grumbles, or demurs, his pictures will be published. And the pictures
of two or three of the rest of you may go along with them, so you will
find it wise to police one another's activities.

"And here's what you are going to do for me. . ."

There was to be protection, of course, of Susie and her activities. If she
should die, even of the most obviously natural causes, all pictures would
be released. There would be no economic or legal harassment. And -- the
meat of the plan -- "you gentlemen will now become MY slaves -- mine and
Angie's -- and will attend to our sexual needs. This may, of course entail
a bit of pain now and then". And the few other girls who had been Susie's
partners in slavery would also enjoy "privileges" at the Club, if they
desired.

"However, it won't be all bad," she smiled. "During the times that you are
not serving me, you will still be able to use the full facilities of the
Club, although we're going to have a bit of turnover in the work force.
>From now on, the working girls will consist of the women that have been
our customers. I'm sure that you can find ways to induce them to co-operate,
even if the pictures of them that I have are not persuasive enough by
themselves.

"I'm afraid that some of you will have a little discomfort here and there,"
she smiled cruelly, "as the axe may fall on some woman that you hold in
rather high regard. Your wives or sisters, perhaps. Or even your teen-age
daughters. But I'll let you work that out among yourselves. Just remember
that you are all in jeopardy. If one of you does not co-operate, several
may suffer. And you may get some consolation out of the fact that every
one of them will have been guilty of torturing the poor slave girls that
have been working here up to now.

"Oh, and one more thing. The very first women you are going to add to my
stable are the members of the bridge club to which I used to belong. Here
is a list of their names. And, as a first persuader, here are some
pictures that a friend of mine -- who shall be nameless (Angie grinned
silently) -- has taken of them abusing me when their husbands thought
that they were playing bridge.

"So, gentlemen, I thank you, and good night. You will please excuse me now;
Angie and I have some other business to attend to -- some infinitely more
pleasant business. . ."

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