This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the earlier parts of this story.
The one they called Cveck grabbed her then, grasping a big handful of her hair, and yanked violently backwards, then sideways, then threw her down onto her face, crying out in fear and shame and despair.
Two or three of them were at her immediately, then; pulling and dragging at different bits of her, deliberately rough, laughing at the way she was being yanked in different directions by each of them, almost as if they were fighting over her, as if they wanted to pull her apart, dislocate her shoulders, wrench her neck; one twisting her knee so that she flipped like a landed fish, helplessly, to avoid what felt like it would break the joint, it hurt so much.
Soon enough, though, she realised that they were working towards something— a stiff, tall leather collar was being buckled round her neck. At the same time a thick belt, or narrow corset, also in stiff leather, was being strapped around her waist, then tightened, until she squealed with pain— her waist was being squeezed beyond endurance— except for the horrid reality that she had no choice but to endure.
And all through this, no opportunity was lost to grab at her sex parts; to maul, to squeeze and painfully distort her breasts, her sex mound, her buttocks, her mouth; her wrists were grabbed, her arms painfully twisted behind her, or out to the side, bunched fingers pushed deep into her throat; she was fighting, non-stop, against succumbing to total hysteria, desperately working to retain control over herself, at least— some tiny scrap of self-control, in this maelstrom of fear and pain; anguish and tearing despair wrenching at her mind without cease; I asked for this— this is my stupid fault; stupid fucking cow.
And then it got worse— flipped onto her face, a boot immediately planted on the back of her head, so that her mouth and nose were pushed down into soft mud— immediate terror at being unable to breathe forcing horrible, painful struggles to achieve a position where she could get the merest corner of her mouth clear, to desperately suck foul-tasting air into her lungs.
Her torso was lifted, her head forced back, as if she were craning her neck to look up at the sky, and then somehow fixed that way— she could feel a pull at her waist and the back of the collar; immediately after that her hands were bent up behind her back - she felt some sort of bars or rods— her wrists were forcibly crossed, painfully stretching her shoulders, elbows and wrists, and then she heard high pitched zipping noises, felt ties cinching hard into her wrists.
Before she could even really understand what had been done with her, they were at her feet, bending her legs up behind her, until they had her ankles tied too, up into the small of her back, tearing strains at her hips, narrow ties immediately cutting into the flesh of her ankles.
They were pleased with themselves then— laughing; they flipped her over onto her back; more a trussed chicken than a human being; helpless, hurting, terrified; panting, moaning, covered in filth, breathing hard, mud in her windpipe forcing awful choking, tears spurting from her eyes, pathetic pleading words uttered in a thin and terrorised voice Mia hardly recognised was her own.
“Mr Wilder! — take the scores!”
Two of them grabbed whatever frame of bars it was that connected her waist and her neck, which held her head bent back, to which her wrists and ankles were tied (the ties were cutting off blood supply, so that she was already suffering pins and needles in her left hand and her right foot); they lifted her up, then, and powerful torches played over her body as they shouted out the patches of colour, claiming their hits.
The scoring was simple. Each man had a colour, and each hit was counted. Different parts of her were worth more. Of course, her sex was most valuable, her breasts next, and so on.
She was casually manhandled during the count, hands taking the chance to maul and toy with her in the most forthright of ways. It seemed deliberately chaotic— she was grabbed and pulled at again and again, her body twisted, thighs wrenched apart, breasts pulled roughly out from her body, head twisted from side to side.
The big man who they called Weinstein won, of course, with his two pussy hits and three near misses, plus the single shot at the beginning (some of them were unsure of the names, and she had realised that they were using code-names, just as in the DVD, but less obvious).
From what they said to each other, it seemed that they would get to use her according to their score— so Weinstein was to be the first to fuck her, and choose which hole he wanted. They called the softest, most vulnerable parts of her— those which they would rape— called them holes. It made her cry.
The next highest score— a man they called Napper, who she recognised as one of the ones who had liked to come in close before he shot, would get to choose his hole, too. That would go on on until all three holes had been used once. From then on, the subsequent men had to use her holes in a set order, so that that part of her which had just suffered its first rape would get at least two turns rest before being used again.
They explained to her, grinning, that they didn’t really care about any of this— but that they hoped it made her feel less than human to be disposed of so mechanically.
And it was true; she did feel tragic about the debasement of it all, and she cried some more, but insistent in her mind was the fear of what would come next— ‘hose her down before burning her‘— Weinstein had said, and she could not stop herself trying to guess what that might mean, fixated on how they would ‘burn’ her, unable to stop flicking her eyes at the huge fire-bowl, which had chunks of tree as big as a man’s chest in it, and which gave off a powerful heat, even at a distance. There was a pig-roasting spit, and other paraphernalia near it, and her skin crawled every time she looked at it.
And then, she was thrown down on her back, feet and arms under her, cruelly folded, like a piece of meat trussed up by a butcher came the horrid image into her mind, the pissing began.
“Clean her up with piss, rapists— she doesn’t deserve clean water!”
Breathing became hard in a new and foul way, as there seemed always to be a heavy stream of hot, rank urine splashing onto her face, getting in her eyes, impossible not to find it in her mouth, her throat, gagging and choking and spitting and wailing. And it was everywhere, and she was writhing in piss-smelling mud and they were finding it hilarious;
“What a filthy bitch! All that piss and she’s dirtier than before! Cveck! You get to have your fun, now— she’s gonna need dunking!”
She was almost too far gone to really understand what was happening as once again she was flipped onto her face. Things were done behind her back; rough and painful as always, the clank of chains, pulls and pushes, fingers pushed into her, before an engine roared into life and she was abruptly lifted up, shockingly high, then swung rapidly sideways, making her shriek in terror, feeling herself sway wildly, dangling, face-down, from chains which must be fixed through the bars behind her— her spine in an agony as it was bent hard backwards.
Then, equally frightening, she was going down fast; far too fast, squealing like the terrified animal she was, until her mouth was suddenly filled with freezing, foul-tasting water as she splashed, face down, into a shallow pool which stank of cowshit and decay; bubbles of rank swampy gas released by her feeble thrashing as she sank into seemingly bottomless slime and she felt certain, suddenly, that she was going to die like this— sure that something had gone wrong and they had dropped her; that she was going to drown in liquid filth, die while so shamefully trussed-up; helpless, defiled, degraded and terrorised.
But just as a part of her had realised that death might be welcome, had started to relax into the peace and simplicity of giving up, of accepting the ultimate defeat as her due, there was an almighty yank on the frame she was been strapped into, both up and to the side, which hurt like nothing before, and she was dragged free of the sucking mud, up into the cold evening air, choking and retching and spluttering and sobbing now, sure that her back or her arms, or her knees— perhaps all— must be ruined, torn, broken, wrenched out of place. She was screaming without pause, almost wishing for death, then, as an end to this limitless nightmare of helpless degradation; not even sex; just non-stop fear of pain, mutilation, having it borne in on her again and again that she was less than human to these animals, that they had planned some campaign of psychological destruction for her which would destroy her.
Frankly, if she had been given the chance, she would have begged them to finish the job; break her mind forever; wreck her— for the idea of being forced to live through more of such treatment, without the release of insanity, unconsciousness or death was too awful to think about.
It was not to be; vicious but well-placed punches to her belly had her coughing and choking her airways clear; the engine whined, and her head was lowered while her ass was elevated; water poured from her nose; she felt gouts of it being forced from her lungs, where no water— let alone filth water— should ever be.
And then came the hose— a fat agricultural pipe, emitting a high-powered stream, freezing, getting colder as it continued, hitting her like a blow; in her face, between her legs, all over her, not just cleaning her, but scouring her, it seemed, so that when, at some invisible signal, it stopped, the contrast was such that she could not help herself from crying out her abject, pathetic gratitude;
“Thank you, thank you … please … please …”
and then, before she knew she was going to say it;
“Please … please … rape … rape me. I’m … I’m so … I’m so sorry for … for before … please … please, just rape me. Rape me hard. I … I deserve it. I offered …
A vicious slap across the face silenced her— the hand heavily encased with a thick waterproof glove;
“Pretty begging, cunt, but you may as well save your breath, we’re gonna burn you now. Maybe you’ll have something more interesting to say after that…”
Mia couldn’t help but struggle, then; twisting and turning in the tight tie, suspended from unseen chains; helpless, pointless, but unable not to attempt something.
All she got was more laughter, as once again the engine blared, and she was swung back into the centre— feeling the heat of the fire warming her, needing the warmth— she was shivering, her teeth chattering loudly, feeling cold to the bone as the water dripped from her skin.
Lowered to chest height into a group of several men, all masked, a longer chain, thick and heavy, was brought down between her spread thighs and yanked tight, eliciting a new kind of scream from her as it crushed her sex lips and her clitoris, before it was fastened off to the front of the corset, at which a double slap of her buttocks seemed to be the signal to raise her up high again, before something utterly terrifying happened— she was swung until she was face down, head lower than her groin, directly above the fire bowl— the flames had died down, but the heat was searing, and she felt the water on her skin heating up immediately and squealed in abject terror, before completely losing it as something infinitely worse took her beyond sanity.
Horrifyingly, she felt the chains attached to the frame at her back loosening their hold, then falling away free, and knew herself to be about to drop, head first, into the enormous fire-bowl, glowing almost white at the centre; time slowed to a crawl— she seemed to have forever to think about what was going to happen to her; everything in her body; every fibre, every muscle, every nerve, strained as wildly as it ever had, seeking something, anything that could even delay the terror of being burned alive in the glowing bowl, but of course this could make no difference, and she knew it, certain this time that she was going to die, knowing that there would be nothing like the kind of peace which had seemed possible at the bottom of the pond.
Then the world seemed to turn upside-down, she felt and smelt her hair crackling and singing, felt herself fall twice as fast as she expected, at the same time as her pussy burned with a different kind of agony, a great tug on the front of the corset, swinging wildly, and then, impossibly, she was not dead, but in fact out of the direct heat of the fire and back at chest level, facing upward rather than down, in the centre of the circle of her abusers, hanging directly in front of Weinstein on his throne.
Her own scream had been throttled by the violence and shock of the somersault; it seemed that her tormentors were also a little shocked, for the laughter, taunts and cruel comments had died away. Only Mia’s broken sobbing; ever so soft, ever so pitiful, ever so weak, could be heard above the deep and incessant crackling of the fire, until a smattering of applause and cheers broke out.
Only later that night did she finally understand that the chain through her legs had been placed there to make the horrifying trick possible— as the chains at her back had been released, the lifting arm of the big digger had been rapidly raised, so that as she had tumbled, face forward, toward the fire, she was in fact being lifted up by the longer chain, which had forced an involuntary aerial somersault, finally leaving her hanging, face-upward, suspended from the front of the corset (the big digger arm was the source of the engine noise— what they had been using to move her around). When, much later, she saw the video Maddy had taken, it was almost beautiful— it could have been an act from the Cirque du Soleil, and, changed as she had been, so deeply and fundamentally altered, she did not condemn those who had done such a terrible thing to her. Rather, she found herself full of respect them for their ruthless artistry in breaking her down so quickly, so thoroughly, so irresistibly, and full of fear at the knowledge of the depth of their continuing control over her, access to her.
Much later— in what was transparently nothing more than a defensive psychological transference— Stockholm Syndrome— she found it came to be a comfort to her, that she had been subjected to such an extraordinary ordeal; ‘Who else?’ she asked herself; ‘What other girl, put through such a thing, could have come through it without being changed out of all recognition?’. Of course, this comfort was not proof against an even more obvious question; ‘What kind of girl would have said Yes to Justin in the first place?’
As ever, Weinstein moved things forward;
“OK boys, let’s show the victim what we really mean by ‘burning’, shall we?”
She was lowered further, onto some surface— she remembered a huge slice of tree trunk, like a big rough table— resting on her bent back arms and legs, still strapped, agonisingly, to the frame behind her. Then a weird sort of mask was placed over her face, with a silvery mesh— she could see fine through it, but if they were protecting her face, what were they planning to do to her body— her sex obscenely spread, once more being groped without the slightest finesse— deliberately brutal— her firm breasts, too, the nipples stiff from the cold, now being warmed by a stranger’s mouth, then filled with pain as he bit her, hard. Her mind was losing its grip, she knew; outrage upon outrage, no let-up, no respite, constant fear, constant pain, constant shaming; it could not continue! It must not! And yet she knew it would; did not even dare to protest, for fear of worse. She was crying continuously now, but without the energy to sob.
And then she saw it, the giant steel snow-shovel, wielded by a huge masked man, plunged into the hot ashes which had fallen through the perforated base of the fire-bowl, the ash peppered with glowing coals, and she found the energy to scream again, thrashing her head wildly from side to side, begging, pleading, protesting now;
“No!, No! Not that! Please You can’t… AAAAIIEEEAAARHH!”
They had. A giant shovel-load of hot ashes, tipped onto her torso— she could feel the points of intense heat, the searing pain, and she wrenched herself so violently that she rolled off the tree table, landing heavily on her side on the ground, to be immediately soaked by several buckets of water, hearing the cheers and whoops and laughter of the savages pretending to be men who were abusing her, her soul grinding itself into the dirt at the fact that there was nothing she could do to stop them as they lifted her back onto the platform, to shouts of;
“Go again, Yurkin! Go again!”
Through the mask, she had no way of telling how bad the damage was, but the pain was frightening, the anticipation of it being done again worse— they had fixed the frame down somehow, so that she could not shift it, no matter how she flung herself about, desperate to avoid the next shovel of ashes, which looked much hotter, but to no avail— horrified, she had to watch it being done to her, unable not to watch, needing to know what was happening, even though there was nothing she could do but scream and wriggle, uselessly.
This time her wet skin sizzled— she heard the noise, saw the steam. She was being cooked alive! She must go mad, surely, from this torture?
She could see the men with the water buckets, refilled from a hose, but they were standing back, and she screamed at them, begging them, while they grinned at her, for what seemed forever, as she could feel herself being burnt all over, despite her desperate bucking and grinding— doing everything she could to slough off the ash, sticking to her wet skin, until at last the drenching came.
Exhausted, panting for air, unable to process the terror that the burning coals inflicted, she was dully horrified to see that they were going to do it again; her pleas and cries were no less urgent, not less intense, but it was as if everything was through a veil then, as if she was watching the poor victim, feeling her pain, but not party to it, dissociating from the horror of it all, until it occurred to her to offer herself again, in hopes of a reprieve from another shovel-load of burning, and she cried out;
“Please, Sirs, please, rape me; I … I’ll be good for you, I … I promise … Anything, just … please? please, sirs?”
“Hold on, lads, the cunt is trying to bargain! Problem is, she’s got nothing to bargain with. Promised us everything already. So, who’s for another bit of terrorising her with the hot coals?”
A shout went up.
“You heard that, girly. The lads are enjoying your entertaining reaction to being burnt. They know they have you for days, now, to fuck any way they want, as invited by your goodself, in your cute little invitation video. So, unless you can think of anything … anything for us, anything new, that is … then I think we’ll order up a new shovel of hot coals for you, Missy.”
