Rating
PART ONE
DEMONS AND DRAGONS
1
You are distractedly watching the monitors when you sit bolt upright.
That face ! You hit the rewind button excitedly, view the footage again in slow motion.
Sure enough, it really is her.
You twiddle the replay dial another time, studying each single frame, hitting the printer icon several times, making hard copies.
You smile inwardly, already feeling heat between your thighs.
You are sat alone in your small office. It’s barely more than a booth really, windowless and dark. But it is your own, private space. You have your desk, your chair, an identical guest chair, a couch by the wall and a filing cabinet in the corner.
On your desk there are four viewing monitors. They are imported, 20 inch flat screens controlled by a single keyboard. Aside from the phone and intercom, an angle-poise lamp, and a neat stack of buff files, there is nothing else.
You do not like clutter.
You study the demonstration now with renewed interest. There are several thousand of them on the streets; chanting, marching, waving their stupid, futile banners.
The faces are mostly middle class, professional; the urban elite who desire political change. Attractive faces mostly, good looking, 20s and 30s, pretty women and handsome men. Only a few have been sensible enough to wear headbands, even the occasional facemask with eyeholes. Most are bareheaded and they will be easily identified by VRS: Visual Recognition Software.
Their banners and placards say it all really; ‘Democracy’, Justice’, ‘Freedom’, ‘Individual Rights’, ‘Womens Rights’.
Above all, ‘Power to the People’.
You rock back on your wooden chair and hitch up your leather skirt. The pungent scent of unwashed sex assaults your nostrils. Musky, strong, fishy.
Your fingers descend to your greedy, already wet slit.
The only reminder of home is a framed photo standing on the filing cabinet. Your two children smile out at you. Innocent cherubs. Observing. You smile back at them as they watch their mother, your lips widening into an ‘o’ of eager anticipation.
You are only 24 years old; but you have already served 6 years in the State Police. You were recently promoted to Shift Supervisor in the Surveillance Division. It is a position in which you have demonstrated a particular aptitude.
You are dedicated, diligent, observant, motivated.
You love your authority.
To demonstrate your power.
Demonstrate.
Demons.
2
In the streets, Topaz felt so proud. The people really were rising as one. Even the Authorities would have to take notice this time. She chanted in unison with her colleagues, marching towards Central Square.
‘Power to the People. Power to the People’.
Topaz was a student journalist, in her final year before graduation. She was wedged amongst her favourite people in the world; her fiancé Jorjo, her best friends Silky and Danno. But they were surrounded by others, to their left and right, ahead and behind, a huge throng demonstrating, peaceful but united, orderly yet determined.
She smiled. To her these were not just slogans. She really believed the world could be made a better place. If power was shared with the people, if individuals truly were allowed to be individuals …
These were the best days of her life. Thrilling and intense. Everything was slotting into place; academically, romantically and nationally. She would have a career, a husband, and their children would grow up in a better country.
Jorjo steadied her as she stumbled.
She looked up at him gratefully. He was so strong, so protective. She always felt totally safe with him. He was 2 years older than her, 6’ 4” and strapping. She looked into his chocolate eyes, admiring his firm, stubbled jaw, his even features.
They had only been engaged for two weeks and she had obviously not made love to him. But the previous evening they had kissed and embraced for the first time, and she had felt his hardness, pressing against her body, her own nipples responding. Soon they would be married and she would finally discover what it was like.
She glanced across at Silky.
Silky was not only Topaz’s best friend, she was the nicest person you could ever meet and undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women in the entire country. Her profile was just so perfect; chin, nose, cheekbones, forehead, all in classical alignment, the archer’s bow of her two lips, yellow blonde hair rustling like silk thread as she walked and chanted.
And Danno, Silky’s husband, Jorjo’s best mate. What a neat square. Two female best friends married to two male best mates. Danno was shorter than Jorjo and less swarthy, less manly in her view, although she couldn’t deny that her friend’s husband was pretty good looking too.
Topaz was envious of her married friends. At 24, she was one of the last of her circle to stay single. Still a virgin.
For too long now she had relied on her fingers for release. Masturbation was a shameful, unspoken sin, and she felt terrible guilt every time she had succumbed to her juvenile appetites.
But at last she was about to taste the fruits of womanhood. Her pangs of impatience were nearly over. All her friends had waited too. Like Silky for example, who’d married Danno six months earlier, and was still sparkle-eyed about it, hinting lasciviously to Topaz about the carnal duties that awaited her.
Only one girl she had ever known had disobeyed the cardinal rule.
Only one girl from their school had gone with boys before marriage.
A girl named Elka.
3
You steady yourself before entering Interrogation Room 13.
You hear your mother’s stern voice in your ear as you always do:
‘An entrance, Elka, a woman should always make an entrance.’
You adjust your jacket: draw a deep breath. Today, you’re wearing your black State Police uniform; buttoned up leather jacket, white cotton shirt, tight black pants, leather boots. Your breasts are prominent and your waist is cinched tight. But underneath you wear no underwear; no bra, no panties.
No need.
Prisoner 13902 stares wide-eyed as you gently close the heavy door.
Immediate recognition ? Oh yes. Delightful.
She cannot speak. Her eyes move, clocking you. A pitiful moan escapes her distorted lips. Your two assistants have left her stretched, inert on the workbench. A steel spider gag holds her jaws wide apart. She is rendered immobile by shiny red leather straps round her forehead, neck, waist, wrists and ankles.
Her head cannot move. Her limbs cannot move.
But you pretend not to recognise her. You feign disinterest.
What’s she to you ? Just one more number to be processed.
You walk over to the table and pick up her file. There are two mug shots; straight-on facial and side-on profile, with 13902 superimposed in the bottom right corner. And there is one full length photo, naked but for her underwear.
It is the start of what will become a large photographic collection.
The form contains basic details you mostly know; her name, date and place of birth, height, vital stats, identity card number, parentage, relatives, education, a few other titbits.
There is a water cooler. Your pour yourself a paper cup, sip it, relishing the cold liquid as it calms you, still avoiding her pleading gaze.
Finally you turn in one smooth movement and survey her nakedness, making sure she can see the slight curl of your lip, the amusement in your feral grin. You want her to know, to feel it.
Yes - you recognise her.
No - you will not help.
She is not quite naked. Yet. Your assistants have left her simple white bra and functional cotton panties on. She clearly wasn’t planning to entertain today. Her nut-brown eyes gaze up at you, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
Her tits are splendid. Her figure has all the contours of a delicate vase; jutting hip bones either side of deep valleys that flare up to a plump mons, evident under her skimpy cotton panties. Her tummy is concave, untouched by childbirth.
You smirk. Her slim waist is one of those that makes you wonder quite where a big dick is going to fit !
Her prim cotton bra still manages to present her cleavage like a fruit stall; oversized, inviting breasts that rise up like volcanoes from the flatlands of her taut ribcage.
The kind of body that only the luckiest, most undeserving girls seem to get. Her skin is a subtle shade of olive, neither dark nor pale.
Its colour contrasts beautifully with the glossy scarlet leather of the rack. The leather is perfect, oiled, ready. Her face is framed by a matching scarlet leather U block that holds her head completely still.
You stand close to the rack, inhaling her thrilling fear.
Demons dance impatiently within your talons.
You place your hands on the leather either side of her waist and lower your head to just above her bra. Then you, ever so slowly, sweep your face down her body, sniffing, studying every inch and curve, every mole and hair, the goose bumps and the olive perfection. You inhale her belly button, panties, knees, feet, toes, then travel back up her legs, hips, armpits, neck and finally her gag-stretched, petrified face.
Terror really does have its very own scent.
“Oh dear.” You eventually murmur, ever so sadly. You tut-tut your teeth. “Topaz, isn’t it ?”
Her eyes blink, nostrils open. Such a pretty, helpless face.
You smile and nod into her eyes.
“I’ll answer for you, shall I ?”
But she so wants to speak, gnashing her pretty teeth against the cold steel of the gag.
“Shh ! Topaz. You’ll hurt your mouth. These gags aren’t just kinky toys. Keep still and listen.”
Oh but this is even better than you imagined. You want to go slowly, to savour this, but it’s so hard to control yourself. It’s like those stories you read online, on illicit Western websites. You have to stop your eyes scanning the text, leaping impatiently to the rude words, the crude action.
You reach out and brush her skin, just below the neck. Something like a bolt of electricity rushes along your arm, into your body, under your ribs, to the lava bubbling inside you.
She moves frantically. Less than a millimetre !
Despite desperately trying to resist, flee, jerk her head away in anger, her forehead and neck remain static.
Only her eyes can move, flicking this way and that like a tennis spectator. Her nostrils flare and her tongue flaps inside her gaping jaws. A tiny blue vein throbs in her temple with effort, disappearing under the edge of the tight strap buckled over her forehead.
You stand up and stretch. Take a deep breath. Such a simple thing. Something people do every minute of every day. Stand, stretch, inhale.
You put your hands on your hips, adopting a more businesslike pose.
It’s difficult to tell in her stressed state, but she seems prettier than you remember. Her face has matured, cheekbones refined, all hints of puppy fat gone. Above her neckline, her skin has tanned slightly darker. From marching, demonstrating, face exposed to the sun, a gentle golden glow, highlighting the white of her eyes and teeth.
“You have been arrested. For interrogation. For immediate sentence.”
You pat your jacket pocket and her eyes follow your hand.
“In here is a piece of paper already signed by the Ministry of Justice. Your punishment and its duration have been left blank.”
You give her your best gloat.
“It’s simply up to me to fill them in !”
You wallow and revel in your absolute power. You want her to see your enjoyment. It’s hard to tell with her face distorted by the gag, speechless, immobile. But you can see the jolt of stunned disbelief in her eyes, the dawning realisation that you’re not joking. Her eyes moisten.
Tears ! Already.
Of Hurt. Of Sadness. Of Shock. Of Frustration ?
Probably all of those things, and more.
But you feel no pity. Only rage. Anger with her, for sure.
And, yes. A little resentment that you are like this. Anger with yourself too. Why were you born like this ? What nature or nurture turned you into this ?
Regret ? Perhaps a little.
But guilt ? No.
You didn’t ask to be like you are, any more than a stupid person wants to be stupid, or an ugly person chooses ugliness.
Even now, deep down, you would prefer to be normal.
Nice and normal.
Nice and vanilla, preferring candlelit romance, satisfied with the love of one good man and weekly missionary sex in gentle darkness.
You remove your knife. A long handled, razor sharp switchblade.
The demon’s talon.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not going to cut you. Well … not yet.”
It is time for a change of pace.
Like the second movement of a Concerto; tempo accelerando.
“Right, let’s get started. Dim, dum, camel, dung !”
You whistle the rhyme from your childhood, dabbing the point of your knife in time to each word before selecting which side to start with.
Dim – dum – camel – dung.
You lean over and gently slice the spaghetti straps of her bra, then carve the centre where the cups are joined. You ease the cups away to reveal her magnificent tits. Even with her bra destroyed, they stand proud, so untouched, so delicious. Her nipples are soft, squashed, frightened. The label on her bra cup is a western 36D.
“Mhm.” You murmur appreciatively.
You chuckle straight into her panicky, damp eyes. You transfer your knife to your left and use your right hand to weigh her left tit. She pleads with you through her tears.
Please, even now, it’s not too late. Stop this. Pleeeease.
You squeeze it, like a melon at a market stall. Plump, firm but juicy. This variety will put up with plenty of manhandling. You knead it to and fro roughly, doing your best to let her read your evil mind.
These breasts will make a man very happy.
Columns of men, in fact.
But now not a single one of them will be her handsome fiancé !
4
Topaz sobbed in pain, misery, distress and futility as the uniformed woman molested her, mauling her breast.
It was Elka.
She and the other children at school had nicknamed Elka behind her back as ‘Petals’; Elka was considered to be like one of those finished roses, overblown, wet from the rain, burst petals lying on the ground.
It was a snide, local nickname used for girls who went with boys.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not going to cut you. Well … not yet.”
The words terrified her.
Now Elka had moved and was standing between her thighs, smiling down. The mechanical table Topaz was strapped onto was modern, made of sturdy steel and red leather, with dreadful buckles, knobs, motors. Her perspiring skin felt damp against the oiled leather. The lower half of the table whirred, parting like some birthing stool. She resisted but it easily pulled her bound ankles wide apart.
Elka brandished the glistening blade again and sliced. Topaz felt fabric being tugged away and then humid air on her bare pubic mound.
“Look at me.”
Topaz blinked back salty tears. Her jaws were in agony now, drool running into the back of her throat, choking her. Elka was watching her with one eye, her other examining the sliced innards of white cotton, smirking at a slight mark she’d found.
“You’ve been such a silly girl all this time.”
Then the cold tip of the knife pricked Topaz. Down there. She felt the blade nuzzling between her private lips, sliding between them. She winced but could barely move, helpless against this invasion, this further indignity.
“I mean, saving this for one man. When you could have been using it to have a good time with lots of boys at school and university.”
Topaz moaned a strangled gasp as the steel tip skated over her flesh, lower, even more humiliating, probing in between her buttocks.
“But now ?”
5
You have handpicked them.
The State Police keeps several duty rape squads on the premises 24/7. But for this job there was only one team. The elite.
The Dragons.
Your favourites from the entire roster. It won’t take long.
Six men troop into the Interrogation Room; a cross section of the worst of male humanity. Even the most raddled, impoverished, has-been hooker would baulk at any of these guys, certainly charge double or treble.
To a virgin their physical appeal is naturally unimaginable.
You watch and, as always, admire their technique. Professionals at work. Their victims never forget but, just in case, cameras and microphones project live recordings on monitors. The grunts, slaps, swearwords and jeers are preserved forever. Sadly the stench of body odour and visceral sex will go unrecorded but it would be equally memorable.
You love the sights, smells and sounds of fucking. Watching another woman, listening to her, choosing her partners for her.
Above all, rape. Even the word thrills you. In your own language, of course, but also in English and other languages: viol, raub, violacion, violenza, panc. Like other kids learn to count to ten in foreign tongues, you learn the words for sexual violence.
Gang rape. A feast for the senses. One is not enough. The floodgates must open, the city must be properly ransacked. It is like watching a movie; the pitiful screams, open mouths as the helpless villagers try to run from the marauding invaders, trapped down blind alleys, their fates inevitable.
Each dragon has his own USP:
There is Giant, over 7 ft tall. He won the toss and takes her cherry: some rough foreplay, pleading female sobs, a brutal thrust, an agonised wail, a chorus of pitiless laughter, the job is done. The fire-breathing dragon tattooed on his enormous back rears up and dives in time with his fucking.
Next there is Dwarf, his swollen head and genitals out of all proportion to the rest of his wizened body.
Then comes the one they know as Whale, monstrously overweight, so amply girthed and unfit that he can only perform on the most beautiful victims and on a double dose of Viagra. The violent red and green sea monster drawings on his body are half buried amongst his folds of his blubbery flesh.
And Surfer; a super-fit marathon runner at 77. His full head of silver hair, slim wrinkled body and proud erection make him appear no more than 65 when he’s atop a pretty young woman.
There is T-Bird; an ebony skinned immigrant. He is like a smooth, sleek, glistening black car, chosen because of the immense size of his steering column. Even going fifth, a lady notices him reaching new parts of her garage.
And last, but by no means least, your absolute favourite. Komodo himself. He is simply the ugliest man you’ve ever seen. Every facial disfigurement, every skin blemish, every wart and pustule imaginable, every belch and stink, casts him as a sexual leper. He is always last in line simply because no other member of his squad will knowingly follow him.
Half an hour later, you are left alone with Topaz again.
An average of five minutes per man is all it took to break her in nicely.
You stand between her thighs and enjoy the river of gelatinous semen flowing out of her yawning beaver. Hers will never look quite the same again. Yes, all cunts are remarkably resilient and they recover from immense stretching and mistreatment, but a gang raped virgin pussy loses just that little je ne sais quoi forever.
The ravaged pink folds sag open and her lush untrimmed pubic hairs are sodden. Her hips are red and bruised, her big tits mottled and scratched, with a livid bite mark round one nipple.
What a spectacular way to lose your treasured virginity.
You have subjected several women to gang rape before now, but this was your masterpiece. Only the second movement in a whole concerto, but a tour de force nonetheless, full of frantic violins, rumbling bass, crashing cymbals and the percussive thud of the timpani drums.
Her eyes are shut but they fly open as you nuzzle a finger through the stream oozing steadily down into the cleft of her buttocks.
“What an enjoyable performance, my dear. Thank you. Memorable. And digitally preserved forever, for editing and enjoyment. Very few women have the chance to relive their first time. And I expect your darling Jorjo and dear friend Silky will both want to see how you finally became a woman ?!”
You burrow your index finger suggestively into her virgin anus.
“Don’t worry, my dear.” You chortle. “We haven’t forgotten this hole either. Or that mouth. We’ll bring them all into play soon enough.”
Perhaps you should remove her gag soon ? You don’t want to bust her chops permanently.
“I expect you’re thirsty after that little workout ?”
You walk over to the cabinet and remove the special funnel and a glass decanter you prepared yesterday. While the arrest warrant was being signed and the magicians were briefed, you did a little planning of your own.
The contents are dark-gold, cloudy, unctuous, like a sweet Sauternes wine. But it is anything but sweet.
You screw the funnel into the steel gag. It has a one-way valve that ensures whatever goes in, stays in. You hold the decanter close to her face so she can appreciate the sloshing nectar.
The State’s ‘magicians’ make people disappear.
Troublesome people like Topaz.
People who then reappear, naked and thirsty, on red leather worktops.
“I want you to know what you’re drinking.” You tell her. “Just open your throat and let it trickle down the hatch. You can’t stop it so don’t try. It’s piss.”
Her eyes bug as her fears are confirmed. You love that look of total disgust.
“Mostly mine.” You chuckle. “A taste I promise that you’ll get to know well.”
You swirl the contents, releasing the ammoniac vapours. Time to pour.
“Bottoms up.” You giggle. “Oops. Maybe that later.”
You can smell its sharp odour as you ever-so-slowly tip the decanter.
Mmm. Drinking piss will seem likes child’s play to her soon enough, but for now it produces the reaction you want. Her almond eyes burst like garden sprinklers with bitter tears running down her temples and into her dark hair.
You smile, allowing her a little time to recover, letting her glimpse your delight. You linger, holding back while she gasps and swallows, then tip some more.
Bit by bit by bitter drop.
No rush.
There will be so much more like this. Long days of fun. Trying new ideas. New torments and humiliations, stretching beyond the horizon like an endless scorched desert.
The best part is that there are no comebacks. Topaz is yours.
You have the full protection of the State. Above all, the Chief of Police, and his half-brother the Justice Minister.
You can do just as you like. No limits. For as long as you like.
And within a few weeks Topaz will realise that. Know that. In her soul. But she will never accept it.
And that knowledge will drive her stark-staring mad.
6
Topaz belched a plume of acidic air up through her gag as a trickle of recycled vomit burned back down her throat, making her choke yet again.
Every time she retched the bile erupted out of her and splashed against the regulator in the funnel. Nothing escaped and gravity drove the bitter fluid into her mouth again. Each time she swallowed a little more.
She wanted to shout, to scream, to throw her body about, to keen with grief, shame, and a million other scrambled emotions.
But all she could see was Elka’s grin.
The curl of her lip, the whiteness of her teeth, that confident, bullying snarl. Elka had been pretty at school. In an overt, Western-actress way. But now she looked like a cinema poster of Lady Dracula outside the local fleapit.
Exhausted, she watched out of the corner of her eye, totally shattered, as Elka carefully put the funnel and empty decanter away, humming a tune, then returned and stood in the gap between her legs, hands on hips, grinning.
Topaz felt fingers exploring her disgusting, soiled vagina, a fingernail pinching her labia, tugging the flap open.
Then she heard her mocking voice again.
“Now, how about another six ?”
7
Round Two is more leisurely.
A second rape team, much younger and more high-spirited than the first.
In this country it is hard for unmarried lads in their late teens and early twenties, lustful but single, to sow a few wild oats. Only very scarce ‘petals’ like you, and a few rancid overpriced hookers authorised by the State, are prepared to put out without attaining the exalted status of ‘wife’.
These boys have no shame or embarrassment. They are excited and proud of their hard, oiled bodies when they walk into the room, shoulders back, six-pack abdomens, veined erections jutting and bobbing like batons.
They pose first for a pre-match team photo. Topaz will be admired and masturbated over second and third hand by their friends, posted furtively on networking sites, her image lost into the ether.
“Okay guys, shoot !”
They aren’t fussy about the state she’s in, even though fucking her cunt is increasingly like stirring porridge.
Her tits gyrate on her chest as the lads hammer away, but like spinning tops they always seem to bounce up and right themselves with the firmness of youth.
You mechanically adjust the rack, lowering her shoulders and head, raising her hips, parting and elevating her legs as far as humanly possible, so they can deeply penetrate her. There is a puddle on the concrete floor beneath her now; glutinous sperm and streaks of blood mingle with the final traces of her lost innocence.
Then you switch on the responsiveness program. The rack bucks violently once each second, bouncing her hips up and down, driving her cunt to answer their equally savage thrusts in a brutal rhythm. It’s remarkable, really. All those years of inactive virginity and all of a sudden a cunt just starts working.
A healthy young woman can take a lot of physical sex. Provided men support most of their own weight, the female body is designed to provide hours of fun. You know that it’s really only the mental part of sex they have a problem with. Give them one partner in the first flush of a relationship and they will happily fuck him for an hour.
But give them a dozen strangers for five minutes each and they won’t be happy about that same hour at all.
Silly, when you think about it. Illogical.
Her eyes are red, open but unseeing, and her face is flecked with foam. She is simply a bouncing cum receptacle. The sixth boy is finishing, his frantic thrustings and urgent grunts signalling the end of the second round.
You adjust the rack so her right leg is stretched high in the air, the left lowered, so he can shoot his wad at a new angle. Another lad leans in to film his mate’s cock pounding her close up, recording the twitching of his balls as he unloads into her cesspit.
They all pose for a similar ‘after-photo’ holding their rejuvenating glasses of fruit juice, wearing big sheepish grins and absolutely nothing else.
“Bye, Topaz. Nice meeting ya.”
“I’m going to jack myself off for weeks thinking about you darling.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for Jorjo and tell him how great his fiancé is.”
“I hope we can do that again some time.”
“Of course you can.” You reassure them with a laugh, seeing them out.
After they’ve left, you stand behind her head, where she can’t see you, and finger yourself through your opened zip. Her destruction has turned you on to the point you can no longer wait. Your climax explodes within a few, gasping seconds.
In a couple of days time, you’ll ride her face of course, her nose your pommel and her tongue your saddle, but for now a hurried, silent, dextrous release is all you require.
You peer down over the top of the red U block framing her red, glistening face.
“Good news. I think that’s about it for your first day.”
You unlock, unclip and slowly remove her steel gag. Her jaws stay fixed, wide open, seemingly dislocated. There is blood on her teeth and gums. Very slowly she starts moving her chin fractionally, grimacing in pain.
“Don’t try to talk yet.” You tell her, planting your finger over her mouth.
“Just listen to me. I’m going to leave you alone for a while. To rest.”
You remove your hand slowly.
“And to think. You see, you have just experienced the best afternoon of the rest of your life.”
You smile down, waiting for her to absorb your words. Your face is upside down to her. She blinks, stares, eyes trying to focus. You look for recognition, comprehension.
The best afternoon of the rest of her life.
You want her to understand that it’s downhill from here ! A dozen men and a bellyful of piss are just a barrel of laughs.
A mere demonstration of demonic possibilities.
You make sure she hears your generous tone.
“But …”
This is your killer offer. The least of evils.
“ … you can …”
You linger on the word, suggesting hope.
“… save yourself the worst.”
Her eyes widen, her cracked lower lip trembles as if trying to speak.
“Ssh. Later will be fine. I want you to think of ten names. Ten of your best friends and family who plot and agitate alongside you. And I would like your confession that you, and they, are all guilty.”
She looks transfixed, head still motionless, but her eyes dart about. You know she has understood. It is a delicious moment.
“Tch … b …” she utters a few sounds.
“Don’t worry.” You smile kindly. “We know who they all are anyway. But …,” you shrug, “… after all, you know, a bit of extra evidence never goes amiss.”
Another few tears somehow appear in her mad, red-rimmed eyes.
You smile, raising your head, leaving her, giving one final bit of advice.
“If I don’t have ten names tomorrow morning, then I will happily demonstrate to you just how terrible your future will be.”
END OF PART ONE