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Drilling Devon
by Steven Davis (sd@magenta.com)

***

A psycho kidnaps and tortures a young woman unto death. 
(M/F-teen, nc, extreme, tor, sn)

***

I'd been watching her for many months, and it was 
becoming intolerable.

I just couldn't bear for that woman to walk the earth 
and not be mine. This could not go on much longer, so I 
decided to give myself a Christmas present.

This gift was acquired pretty easily; a lot easier than 
it was fighting my way through the malls for the rest 
of the stuff on my shopping list. The woman - I'll call 
her Devon; it's not her real name, but you don't really 
want to know too many specifics; trust me on this, you 
don't - worked late some nights. 

It was pretty easy to sit at the bus stop across from 
her workplace on one of those nights and watch for her 
leaving work, then trail her across the large and 
largely empty parking lot to her car. Then, with her 
car on one side of her, a van on the other side of her, 
and me just behind her, I softly spoke her name. It was 
delightful the way her eyes bulged when she turned her 
head. It was also quite understandable; most people 
have never seen a .454 caliber revolver, and if one's 
first view of one is when the barrel's a foot from 
one's face, it can be a bit overwhelming.

She had nowhere to run, no way to get help, and no 
means of resistance. So she surrendered. It was the 
correct decision. It was also a serious mistake. 
Sometimes that happens.

I put her in the van I'd parked on the side of her car 
nearest the avenue. I don't think she liked the looks 
of the van's owner, but then, he wouldn't have liked 
them much either, and after she was hogtied and 
helmeted, she didn't have to look at him anymore. I 
drove the van a couple blocks to the garage its owner 
rented - I have to remember to call the Girard Estate 
and ask if any garages have become available - and 
switched vehicles, putting her in the trunk of my car 
for the drive upstate.

When I got the car in the garage here, I got her out of 
the trunk, freed her feet, and removed the helmet 
(replacing it with a leash), and led her to one of the 
special rooms, the one's with the steel doors and the 
soundproofing and with the windows bricked over. Once 
safely inside I untied her and took off her coat, then 
made her replace those running shoes with the black 
high heeled pumps in her bag; they went so much better 
with her black skirt and hose than did those white 
running shoes. Such an odd lapse in fashion sense from 
such a stylish woman, who was so skilled at looking 
sexy without ever appearing provocative. 

Once she was properly attired, I pulled her wrists 
behind her and applied hand and thumbcuffs, then 
stuffed her mouth with foam rubber and applied several 
loops of rope to hold it in place, and pushed her into 
a wooden chair that was bolted to the floor. I looped 
some rope tightly around her waist, then bound her 
ankles and ran a rope from her ankles to the bar 
between the back legs of the chair to keep her feet in 
place, before placing a leather hood over her head, and 
telling her, as I stroked the front of her snug, but 
not tight, sweater, "I'll be back to play with you."

Then I let her wait for it. Time drags for a hooded, 
helpless, captive. It was only about three hours, but 
to Devon, with her world reduced to the hot, stuffy 
blackness under her hood, it surely seemed an eternity. 
Eventually I came back with some toys. I started with a 
stiff cane. I rolled back her skirt to expose those 
pretty thighs, then stroked them for a while before 
bringing the cane down across them, causing her to jerk 
in her bonds and shout into her gag, neither of which 
accomplished very much. 

Neither did her reactions when I crashed the cane 
across the insteps of her bound feet and followed that 
with a sharp jab of the cane's point into her ribs. 
That knocked the breath from her and set her to trying 
the difficult task of sucking in all the air she needed 
through her stuffy nostrils from the stale, humid air 
within her hot, close hood, and she nearly passed out. 
I waited while she struggled to stay conscious (silly 
of her), and when it seemed she had succeeded, crashed 
the cane lengthwise across her chest. 

I spent a long time slashing, at short but irregular 
intervals, the cane across her thighs and chest and 
insteps and shins, with occasional sharp jabs to her 
abdomen. Throughout this time, she sat there helpless, 
squirming futilely in her bonds, shouting pointlessly 
into her gag, sometimes sobbing, the tears running 
unseen beneath her hood as she waited in growing terror 
for the next unpredictable bit of pain.

I loved it.

But anything grows old after a while. I put up the 
cane, and let her wait for the next phase. After a time 
(too short a time really, but I was kind of worked up), 
I took the hood off her head, for a moment she seemed 
to forget her pain in the relief of fresh air in her 
nostrils and cool air on her wet head. I couldn't have 
her feeling any pleasure, and both pleasant sensations 
seemed forgotten when I held a long, sharp, single 
edged knife in front of her face, the light shining off 
the highly polished blade as I turned it back and forth 
before her frightened eyes.

 I pressed the blade to her throat and held it there 
for a moment, before its tip slid under the top of her 
sweater and started cutting through the fabric, slicing 
her sweater from neck to waist. I pushed aside the 
sweater to get to her breasts, and cut away her bra to 
expose them.

I spent a few minutes playing with her breasts, rubbing 
and pinching them, then slid the knife under her skirt 
and slip, pushing it as far along her legs as I could 
before turning the point upwards to cut the fabric. 
Then I removed the rope from her waist, and stood her 
up to finish cutting off her sweater and skirt and 
slip, leaving "Devon" standing before me in just heels 
and hose. I let her stand for a long time as I admired 
my new possession's long, lovely, slender legs 
supporting her trim, elegant frame, on which her medium 
sized breasts seemed voluptuous.

"You're a very lovely woman," I said. "I'm really going 
to enjoy fucking you. You do want to fuck me, don't 
you?" She shook her head "no" quite forcefully. "No? 
Oh, I think you do, or at least, you will," I told her. 
I pushed her back into the chair, then slapped her face 
hard before moving behind her to remove the cuffs and 
pulling her wrists, bruised and lacerated from 
struggling with the handcuffs, through the bars of the 
chair and tying them together tightly. 

I cinched her elbows before moving in front of her and 
untying her feet. Then I wrapped her ankles in 
bandages, and then put her left leg under her right, 
looped a rope around it, and tied the end of the rope 
tautly to the leg of the chair. Her right ankle I tied 
to the leg of the chair. "I'll be back, dear," I told 
her, and went for more toys.

I came back with hourglass, a camera, a video camera, 
and a drill. I loaded a bit in the drill, plugged it 
in, and turned it on, then brought the whirling drill 
bit very close to her eyes before turning it off and 
placing it on a table where I knew she could see it 
easily. Then I told her, "I'm going to have a lot of 
fun drilling you, bitch. Whether I do it with my cock 
or with this," - as I pointed to the drill - "is up to 
you." 

After setting up the video camera, I turned the 
hourglass upside down, and said "If you want the 
mechanical drill, just sit till the hourglass runs out, 
and I'll drill you through the kneecaps and breasts and 
wherever else seems fun. If you want me to fuck you 
instead, get out of those ropes before the time runs 
out."

Given these options, she started really struggling to 
get free. That wooden chair's very sturdy, but it 
creaks nicely, and it was really creaking delightfully 
from the force of her desperate struggles, but the 
ropes weren't giving and the knots were holding. Her 
wrists were being lacerated as she pulled them against 
the thin nylon cord I'd used for her hands. 

I really enjoyed the red blood against the clean white 
cord over her purple hands, and as I circled her 
snapping still photos I made sure to get several shots 
of her bound hands; by taking several shots, spread 
over the hour, that showed both her hands and the white 
tiled floor I showed the small puddle of blood that 
grew as she cut herself deeper with her struggles. 
Maybe the elbow cinch, which reduced the circulation 
below her elbows, kept her from realizing how badly she 
was lacerating her wrists. Or maybe she just really 
wanted to fuck me. Whichever it was, it was fun to 
watch.

And fun to comment on. "I knew you wanted me Devon." - 
"You must really like to fuck!" stuff like that. She 
didn't pay much attention to my commentary, no matter 
how obnoxiously I gloated, save for the time I asked if 
she'd ever wanted to fuck her husband this badly, that 
one got a little reaction out of her.

But not much, as she kept her energy pretty much 
directed to the task at hand (and foot). And she sure 
had plenty of energy. Everything was jiggling and her 
breasts were bouncing and her chest was pounding and 
she was all red from struggling and shiny from sweating 
under bright lights and it's all right there on the 
videotape. She must have been in really good shape to 
have such stamina.

Eventually, of course, she started wearing down. Sweaty 
and tired and short of breath from her exertions and 
from not being able to breath through her mouth, she 
began stopping to rest, but each time she did I'd 
fiddle with the drill, and that seemed to push her to 
resume her efforts, but neither the sight of the drill 
nor the rapidly falling sand could show her how to 
escape her bonds, and as the hour ended, "Devon" was 
still tied to the chair, and her flushed face turned 
pale quite quickly when I said "Time's Up."

"Too bad, Devon," I said, turning on the drill and 
approaching the madly struggling woman. "You can stop 
struggling, dear, time's up. Well, if you want to keep 
trying it's OK by me, but it won't do you any good 
now," I told her.

I locked inflatable cuffs above her knees and ankles, 
telling her that they would keep her from bleeding to 
death before I was done with her. I also told her "I do 
hope your trauma threshold is high, otherwise the 
trauma itself may kill you; I hate it when that 
happens." Then, kneeling by her squirming right foot, I 
guessed where her big toe was within her shoe, and 
pressed the drill to that spot and drilled through her 
shoe and toenail and into the sensitive flesh below it, 
and it sounded as if the chair would have to break, but 
it held firm. 

Then I put the drill bit on her right instep and pushed 
downward, slowly, the bit eating through and spewing 
out nylon, flesh, bone, and at last leather, as Devon 
screamed more loudly than ever, loud even through her 
thick gag, until the bit finally emerged from the 
bottom of her shoe, and after being certain to get a 
close-up shot of the drill bit spinning while 
completely spanning an occupied high heel, I pulled the 
drill out, then inflated the cuff around her right 
ankle until the blood flow ceased. "We can't have you 
dying before you've suffered enough, can we?" I asked 
her.

And since we couldn't have that, I removed the gag. "We 
can't have you throwing up and choking," I told her. 
"Not that choking on your vomit wouldn't be a good way 
for you to die, but not till after you've really 
suffered, and you haven't even begun to suffer," I told 
her. 

I forced an apparatus into her mouth and locked it in 
place so she couldn't close her mouth, then stuck a 
pair of pliers in her mouth until I caught her tongue 
and could put some real strong clamps on it and 
adjusted the chains leading from the clamps as if to 
pull her tongue downwards and out. That kept her from 
speaking but not from screaming, reduced the chance of 
her choking on her vomit, and assured that she wouldn't 
bite her tongue and choke on her own blood. "Now we can 
finish playing," I said.

"I wonder if there's anything you'd like to say now," I 
asked her as I picked up the drill. Placing the bit on 
her right knee, I asked "Would you like to tell me how 
much you'd like to fuck me?," and she vigorously nodded 
yes.

"To suck me?" I asked.

She kept nodding and making what seemed like pleading 
noises. 

"To do ANYTHING I want you to, anything at all?" I 
asked, lowering the drill as I did so, and "Devon" 
nodded her head with desperate enthusiasm.

"Look me in the eyes," I ordered, and she fixed her 
eyes on mine. "Are you prepared to be my slave, without 
limits, for as long as I want you?," I asked her, and 
"Devon" quickly gave several short nods of her head, 
keeping her eyes on mine as she did so, and I could see 
in her eyes pain and fear but also sincerity, and the 
beginning of hope that she might actually be spared the 
rest of the horrors she'd been trying unsuccessfully 
not to imagine (though I doubt she'd imagined all that 
I had).

"Well, dear, then it's really a damn shame you didn't 
say so when you had the chance," I told her as I raised 
and triggered the drill and pressed the bit into her 
right kneecap, and the drill bit through flesh and bone 
and cartilage as Devon screamed and spasmed and 
struggled mightily, the movements of her leg causing 
the drill bit to wander about inside her knee and tear 
her up even more than I'd intended, but that was OK. 
When her screams and struggles slackened, I withdrew 
the drill and inflated the cuff above her knee, causing 
it to cut off the circulation below the knee.

Smelling salts and cold water in the face were enough 
to revive her. The slaps to her face that followed were 
really just for fun. "You're not leaving so soon, 
'Devon'. This is one party you're going to see through 
to the end," I told her as I moved the drill to her 
left foot and began drilling through the sole of her 
shoe and into the ball of her foot.

My groggy captive came alive again, her screams filling 
the room, subsiding to moans and sobs as the drill 
which had appeared behind her toes was withdrawn, but 
reviving as the drill was repositioned just under her 
heel and ate it's way through leather and flesh and 
leather again before it appeared out the back of what 
had been a black pump but was now pumping red, her 
hoarse voice strong but barely human, no longer 
attempting to plead, but only trying to express pain 
that was beyond expression.

After cutting off the circulation to her ankle, I 
decide to wait awhile, to allow Devon to rest and to 
permit her other wounds to go numb, so she could 
concentrate on the fate of her left knee. It also 
allowed me to enjoy the sight of my prize as she sat in 
her bonds, whimpering, the room's bright lights 
glistening off her tears and sweat. "Do you want to 
die, 'Devon'?," I asked, taking my pistol and aiming it 
at her tear streaked face. 

She was barely able to hear me, and looked 
uncomprehendingly at the weapon. I knew there wasn't 
much left, so I figured, I'd better get on with it 
while part of her was still here, and pressed the drill 
against the side of her left knee and began drilling 
through it, the agony reviving her, but not nearly so 
much as before, which, coupled with the positioning of 
her leg, allowed me to drill a relatively straight hole 
through her knee and then through the chair. Just for 
the hell of it I put a cord through the hole in her 
knee and the chair and tied her leg down a little 
tighter.

While the cuff was inflating above her left knee, I 
fondled her breasts. "You had beautiful legs, 'Devon'. 
That is no longer so. But these are still lovely. For 
the moment," I said, as I attached the sander to the 
drill and began slowly and carefully sanding away the 
skin of her breasts, trying very hard, and almost 
successfully, not to let the inconvenience of her 
squirms and struggles or the distraction of her screams 
keep me from removing just the skin, while preserving 
the shape and integrity of her breasts. 

While her screams and struggles were inconvenient, they 
were also great fun, so I stopped to revive her each 
time she passed out, using water, face slaps, smelling 
salts, and finally injections, until at last she 
couldn't be revived. Unfortunately, I wasn't done 
sanding yet, but I finished the job and got it on 
videotape and got some nice still shots of her skinned 
breasts, both close-ups and some shots showing all of 
her and some of the room. I'm sure they should 
entertain the women who will come to sit in this chair.

I was really pleased with the results of the sanding; I 
never much cared for skinless breasts, but skinless 
breast of chick is a little different from the normal 
fare. The final result was so nicely gruesome that I'm 
sure videotape won't fully convey the effect. There is 
something about seeing it live - yes, she's still 
alive, barely - that just can't be recreated. 

It would have been a crime to waste such an effect, I 
just had to find someone to show it to, so I called you 
and hoped you'd get here while she still clung to life. 
Good thing the porn business leaves you with some 
flexible hours. Yeah, I know it's exposing us both to 
higher risk, but you're not likely to spend much time 
talking to cops, are you?

What now? Oh, I think I'll let nature take it's course. 
I moved that mirror in front of the chair so that if 
she does wake up, which I don't think she will, she'll 
see such a pretty sight. If she stays awake after 
getting a good look at her tits, I may play with her 
some more, but I expect her to die without waking 
again. Then? After all that work I'm not pouring 
quicklime on this one. I'll wrap her in clear plastic, 
weight her down, and drop her in the deep end of the 
old quarry. The water at the bottom's cold year round, 
and it will preserve her. Yeah, I'm sure.

Nah, the guys who snorkel and scuba in there don't 
usually dive that deep, and the water's dark enough at 
the bottom that you need to take a strong light to look 
at what's inside all those plastic wrappings.

No, I don't think this videotape's a good candidate for 
sale, no matter how carefully you market it. She wasn't 
a runaway that no one knew about or some poor hooker no 
one cared about, she was a nice middle class career 
woman with a husband and kids and a dog, who'll be 
missed at work and the PTA. The police probably already 
found her car and suspect foul play; ah, but that they 
knew how foul - it'd be really fun to mail them a 
photo-pack of that session, but that adds more risk to 
what's already a high risk project.

She was so pretty, the papers will be running "mother 
missing" stories with her picture for weeks. No, this 
tape is too hot for any kind of release. Though I'd 
really like to send a copy to the cops. It just raises 
the risk too high; if I could find some way to reduce 
some of the risk factors, though, it'd be worth it. 
Maybe...

What's that? Anything else I want to show you? Always 
looking to make a buck aren't you? I show you something 
as beautiful as dying Devon and you're looking for 
merchandise to sell. Yeah, I think I have something for 
you, a Panamanian housekeeper, 19, cute, illegal. Lots 
of spirit, screamed in English at the beginning. She 
was just a few days in the country, the people who 
imported and hired her probably think she ran off and 
whatever they think they can't call the cops, can they? 
I think you'll like it. Follow me.

Oh, speaking of showing you something, you ever looked 
down the barrel of a .454? Impressive sight, isn't it?

THE END

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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