WHY I LOVE THE .22

Ask anyone who knows guns and they will tell you that the .22 is a great gun for plinking, or targets, or groundhogs, or teaching some kid to shoot, but for any serious use it is just too small, too weak, too puny. And most of the time they’re right. But I don’t do much of any of those things and I still love my .22. Let me explain.

The young woman [ girl] stands tied to a strange device. An old turntable from a long forgotten auto show, cut down until it is just large enough to hold her and the frame that holds her. A post behind her bends forward over her head and splits into a crossbar that her hands are cuffed to while simple U bolts on the turntable secure her ankles. The effect is that of a X cross without any of the timbers in the way. Behind her is a wall of sandbags and lights both illuminate her and blind her as to what is happening. Twenty feet away is a very solid shooting bench with sandbag rests and on the bench rests a very nice bolt action .22. The smooth lines somewhat spoiled by the silencer attached to the barrel it is never the less perfect for my purposes. Heavy with a fine scope it allows me to pick one pussy hair and place a bullet through it. Better yet the lack of recoil lets me watch the bullet strike. The turntable and the odd frame gives me access to her entire body save the soles of her feet and the top of her head.

Most girls that find themselves standing on my merry-go -round have been used and abused and this is only the last stop on their long journey through and to hell. Right now I find myself with no room at the inn so this one will be treated to the short ride. My enjoyment of her limited to simple rape and explorations she is still strong and full of life even as she stands crying and bemoaning her fate. Unable to see anything behind the lights she is still treated to the sight of the bullet scared sandbags as the table turns and she shows her fear and understanding. But her understanding is flawed by the many pictures and movies she has seen for she is worried about six men with hunting rifles and fails to understand the purpose of the turntable. The bullets that will kill her are not what she should worry about, the ones that will not should be her concern but that idea does not enter her mind.

The faint snick of the bolt closing on a round is her first hint of trouble. Not having any experience with firearms she fails to recognize the sound for what it is but it has come from behind the blinding lights and so worries her. I always enjoy deciding shot placement but there is something special about the first shot. Should it hole an ear and reinforce her belief that she is to be killed quickly, or perhaps the loss of a nipple to shock and surprise. A very carefully placed round down the opening of her most secret place , in effect shooting her pussy lips off, a lovely thought that I will save it for later. I decide on the nipple shot and wait until the angle is perfect. She does not notice the pefftt from the silencer but the tugging slap of the small .22 short hollow point and the spray of blood from the destroyed nipple gets her attention. The first of many screams echoes in the shooting gallery as the truth of what has happened sinks in to join the pain and shock of seeing one of the things that makes her a woman blown open by the small piece of lead.

I wait and enjoy the view and listen to the music of her screams and cries. She begs and pleads for mercy but there is only silence until the snick of the bolt is heard again. I wait until she quiets before ruining the other nipple and the whole process repeats. A long furrow appears in her cheek just below her eye and another opens the skin covering her ribs. Almost a full box of ammo is spent drawing whip marks on her body before I use one to actually make a bullet hole then I use several to punch holes in each of her once lovely grapefruit sized tits. The truth of my actions has finally been made clear to her. The bullet that kills her will only be the last of many, many that will strike her and all but the last will be lovingly placed not to kill but to wound and to destroy and to cause pain and fear and hopelessness.

We take a break, shooting this accurately is hard work and so is being shot. She greedily gulps the water I offer without knowing it contains drugs that will strengthen her and allow this game to last longer. It is also the last drink she will enjoy. We return to the game with the shot I have been saving. I quickly place two side by side and remove the outer lips of her womanhood. This outrage overpowers her and her thrashing forces me to wait for another shot.

She quiets and the next level of hell is opened to her horror. She grunts as the first shot fired with deadly intent strikes her half way between her navel and the top of her pussy lips. The muted thump of the strike belies the damage as the hollow point opens intestines and their contents leak, a death wound but not a quick or painless one. A second one perforates her stomach and with that she realizes how badly she is injured. She begs me to stop, to help her, to call a doctor, the police, anybody. She questions why and who and what she has done to deserve this fate but the only answer is the strike of another flying piece of lead. I return to the whip type injuries to allow the only serious wounds to take effect. She bleeds freely from her wounds as I insert an IV with blood expander. This will buy her more life but somehow she fails to thank me. Now I hit harder targets not harder to hit but rather more damaging ones. Until now no bullets have hit bone and I change that. The low powered slugs will not break major bones but any strike into a bone sends the pain to a whole new level. Both hip joints suffer from lead jamming them and the kneecaps shatter without the joint behind them failing. Her funny bones take hits also before I stop again. She has stopped trying to scream or beg and accepts each new insult with only grunts, moans, or sudden gasps. As she hangs her strength returns a little and in a low voice she begs for water. I bathe her wounds and she feels hot and dry to my touch and the cool water teases her as she still begs for a drink. I hold a tall glass of the wanted fluid in front of her eyes, cold enough to have beads forming on the sides, ice clinking in it, a vision of heaven that she wants more than life itself. When I hold it to her lips she greedily sucks it down faster than I can pour it down her parched throat. No sooner is the glass empty than the hellfire explodes in her guts. Pain beyond any possible human understanding or description, pain that pales any thing that she has ever felt, pain that goes beyond agony and torture and into realms ruled by demons and devils and populated by the souls of those damned past all eternity and past all reason.

There is nothing that I can possibly do to worsen her lot until the flames of damnation ruling her now burn lower so I wait and listen to the lovely song she sings. The song ends and with it her power to resist the death bearing down on her fades. She is dead, dead from the infection and its accompanying fever already raging in her guts, dead from the shock of her injuries, dead from the blood loss, dead from the breathing difficulties caused by the loss of strength in her legs that changes the restraint of the frame into a crucifixion. She is dead but she still lives and suffers. Her mind has not yet grasped the awful truth and her body still has the ability to resist even though the outcome is as certain as sunrise.

I am impatient though and wish to add still more to the overpowering load on her body so there is the muted sound of more shots. Once again she absorbs the impacts with little outward sign of effect or pain but I know different. There are now holes in her lung tissue that even this soon are leaking blood to pool in the bottom of those organs, blood that will drown her as surely as feet of water over her head. I clean my rifle for there is no more need to use it. Even from the bench I can hear the sound of air bubbling through the blood filling her lungs and I move closer. Heat radiates from her as I once offer the tall glass of cold water but some part of her still remembers the look of the poison and she turns her head away. Enough blood has pooled in her to force her to cough in a feeble attempt to clear her airway, the pale lips are painted with the finest lip gloss in the world as the bright red blood stains them. Thin trickles leak down from her nostrils and the corners of her mouth to drip onto her chest and tits there to join with the bloodstains already there. I am excited and pushing behind her I jam my dick past the blood and thin shit leaking from her ass and start to bugger her. I can see over her shoulder as each pounding thrust sends a spray of mist from her mouth, red mist that drifts to the floor. My feet feel the first drops of urine that join the blood leaking from her ruined pussy and before I can move the drops become a flood. She no longer inhales as strongly in time with my thrusts and the spray subsides. I feel the tightness of her assring ease just before I spent my load and my withdrawal allows a wash of diluted blood, shit and other fluids to splash to the floor. The gurgling sound of her breathing is growing weaker until it quiets to soft gasps. There is no more coughing, no movement at all save for the soft gasps that signal the end is near. A slowly spreading wave of shudders spreads through her body and the life leaving is almost visible as it departs. Her bloody body softens and sags more until only the shape of her suggests that she had ever loved or laughed or even lived. I lower her to lay in the pooled mess beneath her feet and as one last insult the barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun is inserted in the mess that once was her pussy. The shot makes a strange muffled roar and for a split second she swells and jumps. I stand and admire my handiwork before removing the barrel and releasing another flood of pulped organs, blood and other stuff to join that already pooling around her carcass.