The Alley

By DX

Copyrighted 10/2001, 5/2024, all rights reserved.

White light flashed into her eyes, blinded her, and forced her to squint, but she dare not close them.  One of the men moved in the darkness around her, adjusting the light stands.  "How's that, Mr. Green?"

Mr. Green, a hulking figure hunched over a work bench, glanced over his shoulder.  "That's fine, Mr. White."  Mr. Green went back to shorting his tools.  "Mr. Black?  Would you bring that extension cord over here?"

Mr. White leaned over her, his face a blank shadow.  "She has very pretty eyes."

Mr. Green turned as his thick mammoth fingers wriggled into rubber gloves.  "For now she does."  His gloves snapped sharply.  "I want you to glove up.  This glue instantly and permanently bonds flesh.  If any gets on you, you'll be stuck forever.

Mr. White nodded and his shadow pulled away.

Mira could feel them moving around her, shifting in the shadow.  She struggled against the layers of tape that held her fast to the board.  She was propped up at an angle in the center of an echoing, abandoned warehouse.  She tried to twist her head to see what they were doing, but the thick straps of heavy tape across her forehead and neck that secured her head to the board kept her staring up into the blinding white light.  She could make out Mr. Green, his bulk setting up a tripod. Mr. Black stepped over and mounted something on top of it.  She didn't know who they were.  She'd never heard their voices before.  She didn't know why they abducted her.

Her eyes shifted over as Mr. White pulled up a stool and sat beside her.  As he shifted in and out of the light, she could see he was wearing a surgical mask.  They always did something to hide their faces.  

Mr. White donned a pair of plastic goggles.  He peered down at her as he peeled off a long section of heavy tape.  "Yeah, she's quite the looker.  What a loss."  He said sadly as he ran a tight silver stripe across her chin.  Mira's mouth was already packed with a fat rubber ball held in place by tape.

Mr. Green pulled up a stool.  His square head leaned over her.  His heavy fingers held tongs and with them was rolling a sponge in a container filled with an acrid goo.  He pulled the sponge, stretching strands of amber before plunging it back down and stirring it again.  "Once this stuff starts to dry, it'll expand.  It all happens in a few seconds.  If it bubbles up out of her mouth, let it."

Mr. White watched the mixing.  "How's it going to dry in her mouth, I mean with spit and all?"

Mr. Green kept with his mixing.  "She's afraid, her mouth will be very dry."  

Mira realized with horror, he was right.

The clear golden glue began to turn white.  "Get ready."  Mr. Green announced. 

Mira felt hands about her head as fingers pulled the tape away from her mouth.  She felt the ball pull free with a pop and she drew breath to scream but felt the slimy sponge pack into her mouth first.  Mr. White's hands were under her chin, pulling her jaw shut while Mr. Black clamped a cold, metal plate across her mouth.  Mira tried to spit out the foul thing but only felt it suddenly swell in her mouth.

"Hold it still."  Mr. Green said.  "Until I bolt down the corners."

Mira felt the glue in her mouth continue to swell, filling every inch of her mouth, her teeth.  She thought it would force its way down her throat and choke her, but as Mr. Green loomed over her, choking to death was the least of her worries.

"You're using wood screws?"  Mr. White asked.

Mr. Green fitted a long screw into a drill.  "It's a titanium sheet metal anchor.  Once they penetrate a hard barrier they open up like umbrellas so they cannot be unscrewed.  The government uses them to secure warheads onto missiles."

"Oh," Mr. White said softly.  "And where did you get those?"

Mr. Green leaned closer.  Mira could see her terrified eyes reflected in Mr. Green's glasses.  "You know better than to ask such things."  He said as Mira watched the screw aim at a pre-drilled hole in the plate that covered her mouth.  "You'll feel a big pinch."  Mr. Green told her.

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Copyrighted 10/2001, 5/2024, all rights reserved.
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The Unbroken

By DX

Copyrighted 1997/2020/2023

They say I'm Unbroken.

Some of the girls look up to me, like a hero, or leader or something grand. Others look at me as if I'm making it worse for them. I'm not doing anything. I'm as broken as they are. We all shuffle into the showers on our own, quickly, quietly. No guards, no monitors. There are cameras, but I heard that most of them are broken anyway. We are unsupervised and still we obey.

See? We are all broken.

The warm water brings out the welts on my breasts, angry and red. I turn my back to the other girls, thinking I can hide them, but I realize that it only shows off my history of whip marks that criss-cross my back. I fumble with the tiny bar of soap, more like a block of unscented lye, and wash down my legs that are stripped like a flesh colored Zebra. A thousand punishments, for a thousand crimes. None of them I committed.

I stop looking at myself. It isn't pleasant. I look at Mary across from me. I can see the wires that stitch her cunt closed. First, they inserted a spiked egg, then scored the inner lips raw so they would heal together forever. They also did something to her uterus so that she does not menstruate. I look at it as one less thing to worry about. It’s been two weeks now. They did it to her to be mean, to speed up her breaking process.

It worked. She cannot masturbate, or receive any sexual pleasure, and urination is a mess. She can't even stand up straight. The spiked egg gives her a low boiling pain she will never be free of. And if that were not enough, the egg is hollow, with a bell inside. You can hear it when she is jostled, a low clanking, humiliating sound. 

I know how she feels. I know too well. 

They did the same thing to me. 

I hear it when I walk, clunking around in my lower belly. It is a constant reminder of my place as a slave. I feel it always. A painful reminder that will never go away. I cannot touch myself, because there is nothing to touch. Everything fun has been removed. I just have a constant itch of horniness that can never be scratched.

It’s quite maddening, really. Especially at rest time when I’m in my cage, and Donna, my cage mate, lays beside me. I feel her warmth, her body against mine, and all I want is to take her and kiss her and lick her nether as she licks mine.

I guess it is for the best. Things like coitus is forbidden anyway, so having my sex surgically removed is one less temptation gone.

As I shower, I notice poor Alice. They put her in the Iron Maiden Form. It isn't Iron actually, but a surgical steel bra and corset that instead of lifting, supporting and gently shaping, it’s crushing and flatting her breasts and pinching off her waist. With every breath it feels like showers of shrapnel exploding into her chest from the brutal spikes in each cup that molds her breasts into an inhuman shape. She tries to bathe, but she can't bend to reach her legs and Mary has to do it for her. I can see she's cried all of her tears. She accepts her torment. 

I know how she feels. I had to wear it for a month. They took it off when there was a buyer for me. He or she wanted me for their pet cowgirl. I had thought my 36C breasts were impressive, but they injected me with a genetic treatment program that caused my breasts to grow to a 54G! And Lactating! They had to put wires in my spine to prevent the weight from twisting it out of shape.

I must be milked twice a day. When I am to be punished, they tie my hands and let me go unmilked for several days. The pain! Feeling as if my breasts are to explode each waking minute is maddening. They have also welded steel rings around the base of my breasts that cause my breasts to swell like two balloons.  The breast collars are to increase my suffering. They like it when I suffer.  It also makes a perfect perchance when they hang me by my tits for my whippings. They seem to enjoy watching me swinging, my hands free, slick with sweat trying to hold myself up and block the lashes that come from all sides.

But, they say I am Unbroken.

Alice also wears a posture collar. It is a telescoping neck brace with a ratcheting control knob. This thing slowly and permanently stretches her neck for that beautiful swan look. They had another girl who wore one and they stretched her neck to a giraffe length of seven inches from shoulder to jaw line. To punish her, they removed the collar and her atrophied neck muscles could not hold up the weight of her head and it lobbed over, choking her. She finally had to beg them to put it back on her.

A sound snaps me out of my daydreaming. A plastic bottle skitters across the floor. It’s shampoo! My heart flutters for a brief second as I look up and see Brome Hilda walking away from the showers. I can only see the back of her head, yet I know she is enjoying the chaos that is about to erupt.

The girls have already pounced on it and are fighting over it. Anger, frustration and pain make them lash out violently at each other and I have to act quickly or all hell will break loose. I muscle my way through and grab it, barking at them to be still. They obey as good little slaves do. "Hold out your hands!" I order in a harsh whisper. I dole out shares for each and let them run back to their corners and rub the golden liquid into the flaxen, hay stacks they call hair. It’s not some deep rooted vanity, but a vain attempt at feeling human again by curing the split ends of our abused hair.

I keep the bottle, and with the last drops left, turn to help Mica. She is a tall, muscular girl with suntanned golden skin from hours outside running around in circles by the trainer. She stands like a goddess! 

Now she was one of the Unbroken ones! Unbridled, unconquerable, a fighter to the last. But she fought too much. They surgically removed both her arms at the shoulders. She is a pony girl now, hauling a heavy cart up and down a hill to remind her of her place. Submissive, broken, docile. The other girls resent her for being a fallen hero. But I still look up to her, help her. It makes me feel special to touch one who walked so high. I am honored to serve her, as any slave would be.

She kneels before me, like a knight would kneel to a rescued maiden. I lather her hair and massage her scalp. I know in a few days they will remove all her hair by electrolysis, and leave only a thin stripe for a mane. I fool myself that she will have a beautiful, silken blond mane when she goes to her buyer.

I rinse her, then wash down the rest of her. She gives me a quick kiss on the lips as a thank you. I can see the tiny, healing scars on her throat where they operated on her so she cannot talk. Ponies don't talk. They also severed some nerves in her face so she can't even mouth words. She can only stamp her feet to communicate. She stands on her tip toes making her taller than she is. The fet locks she is locked in day in and day out has permanently shaped and twisted her feet to form crude horse hooves.

Resistance is futile. 

I learned that soon after they brought me here. They showed me The Pit where they kept Veronica and I soon learned about her legend. She was Unbreakable! They finally put her in a hole in the deepest level of the dungeon. Each day they lower a basket. It is to be filled with dirt and in exchange, they lower her down some food. She is down there, although it is so deep and dark, you can’t see her.  She is still digging her pit deeper each day in exchange for food. I imagine one day she will tunnel her way to freedom. Or dig her own grave.

My attention is drawn back to the present. Vanna is fooling around. She is prancing about like a model, flinging her hair back over her shoulders and she doesn't see the door behind her open. It’s like slow motion as I realize it is Brome Hilda returning to see the effect of her evil joke and Vanna is throwing her wet hair backwards, a trailing banner of water following in its wake. All of us freeze where we stand, our mouths agape. Vanna looks perplexed, unable to figure out why we are not laughing and turns to see.

Brome Hilda was incredulous! Her face twisted with fury as she blinked the water from her eyes, and wiped it from her face. Vanna is trembling and unable to run. If she ran that would mean more punishment. She only cowers before her mistress, her trembling voice squeaking, unable to even plead for mercy.

Brome Hilda is feared by us all. 

She would kill you, but never quickly. She enjoys breaking bones and letting them heal all wrong, gloating that her victim will forever endure pain. She crushes, she grinds, she wrenches and wretches. She never shows mercy.

Brome Hilda's riding crop lands with stinging rage. Startled, Vanna slips and falls onto the unyielding tile. Brome Hilda continues her rain of whipping blows at the slipping, crawling Vanna, vainly trying to get away. Brome Hilda pauses her fury as she curses the crop in her hand for not doing enough damage. In the corner of her eye she spots the tools the plumber carelessly left against the wall.

She picks up the wrench, heavy and cold, her face a mask of twisted hate, and raises it over her head.

Brome Hilda is going to kill her.

The blow powered through Vanna's defense of waving arms and crashes directly against her breast, mashing it against her ribs. Vanna howls and thrashes about on the floor as Brome Hilda pounds into her thigh. The leg spasms from pain and Brome Hilda's face alights with glee. She is going to make this last.

I watch the wrench lift again, I watch Brome Hilda's face change from joy to confusion, her arm balking in the air. My hand is upheld, blocking her view from her target. "Mercy!" I cry. I'm on one knee, bent over Vanna's twitching body, trying to get a grip on the girl's arm. I have a second to act, a second to escape.

I take too long.

I move my hand out of the way of the falling wrench and take the blow for Vanna on the meaty part of my shoulder. I feel the metal clash with bone and jagged shards of ice shoot violently through my arm. I look up and see the blood splatter on Brome Hilda's face, her flaming eyes now fixed on me. I drag Vanna to her scrambling knees and pull her out of the way as the next blow whistles through the air, a clean miss. The two of us are stumbling and tripping.  I lead her through the streaming showers praying that Brome Hilda does not follow us in fear of getting her uniform wet. I pretend not to hear her threats and orders as I duck through the access door, left unlocked by the plumber, and charge through it. It leads to the hallway and we quickly run to the cells. Like good slaves we go to our cages, shivering from cold and fear, and wait.

And I am supposed to be Unbroken?

A minute later, the rest of the girls shuffle in, lead by a monitor, a senior slave. They are all dripping, some with soap still in their hair. Obviously, shower time was cut short by my theatrics. I get dirty looks, but no more. Donna, my cage mate sits beside me for warmth and comfort. I cling to her, and rest my head against her bosom. A cowgirl like me, her breasts dwarf mine. We wait together for the repercussions to occur, but it doesn't happen. 

As the pins and needles of feeling come back to the fingers of my wounded arm, Kiko, the food monitor, shuffles in with dinner. We all get on our knees and wait. She moves slowly, her face occasionally twisting with pain. It was Brome Hilda, testing a new toy, that made her that way. It was a cage, but instead of welds at each bar, there were hinges. Brome Hilda wrapped the girl in its steel embrace and locked it closed. Then the mistress bent the tiny, oriental girl, cage and all, at the knee and waist, her hands behind her back. Slowly Brome Hilda lowered Kiko so that her chin almost rested on her knees. The weight of the iron bars held her motionless. We all watched with morbid curiosity as Brome Hilda took in the spectacle of the helpless girl wrapped in iron.  Brome Hilda then sat on her.

The scream was unreal.

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Copyrighted, 11/2023 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without permission.
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The Starfish Affair

By DX

Karen, Alice's lab assistant, stole not only Alice's grant money and ruined her career, but also helped herself to Alice's Breast Enhancement formula.  But what Karen doesn't know is during a trip to the South American jungle, Alice developed a taste for a rare delicacy!

Mad-Science, erotic horror, wild torture and cruel torment!  This over the top story has it ALL!  

Copyrighted Feb 2000, 10/2023, all rights reserved.  Story may not be duplicated without written consent from the author.

Karen shivered in the cold, damp air. She could see the waves of goose pimples ripple across her melonous breasts, as her nipples swelled to the size of thumbs.

It wasn't the cold that made her shiver.

She didn't try to protest. It would have done her no good even if they had not ripped the tongue from her mouth a week or so ago. They had strapped her to a post, secured her head and body with thick, leather restraints, then rammed a heavy gauge steel ring through her tongue, which was then hooked to a come-a-long.

It surprised her, as it always had, that she was not beyond feeling. The never-ending cycle of pain would always renew and refresh in its delivery of unimaginable trauma. How could her charred, shredded throat still scream with such volume, spiraling upwards as the torment turned up a notch, was beyond her.

Her tongue was stretched slowly as they took their time, clicking the handle of the ratchet with intended affect. Her tendons strained and stretched, pulling her tongue out beyond imagination. She was choking as her neck pulled too far, and her tongue still going further.

It exploded with a fine shower of blood as her tongue finally gave way and ripped from her mouth, leaving a stringy trail of tendons and veins.

The last time they removed her tongue, they had nailed it to a table and let hungry rats nibble it off. The time before that, they nailed it high on a wall, then let her hang from it until her own, pain wrought thrashing caused it to finally tear.

Now, in the cold, cold cellar, she waited her fate. Ahmed busied himself by testing the mechanism that would release the guillotine over and over again, giggling madly each time the blade slammed home.

She felt the Professor's hand on her shoulder push her forward. Karen didn't resist. She couldn’t.

She didn’t really want too.

Karen gazed distantly, unresponsively at the monstrous machine before her. Polished wood and gleaming brass brackets and screws handsomely made up its base like a collector's piece of fine furniture and not a butcher's toy of death. Its blade, locked in its casement above, glimmered like a mirror, its edge wickedly sharp. A heavy spring coiled against it so when the trigger was thrown, it fired down with tremendous force and ensured a crisp, clean cut.

Karen had laid her breasts before its blade before and felt the steel slice through her flesh. They had been her pride and joy; her mammoth, attention grabbing breasts were worshiped, even adored, but they were only quivering mounds of flesh, locked in the guillotine's unyielding embrace. Unable to move away she could only watch the gruesome fate. With a snap, it was over, faster than an instant. Suddenly slicing her open to a quickly flooding torrent of pain. A white-hot iron seared her flesh and kept her from bleeding to death, and adding to her seeming never-ending, nightmare of pain.

They force fed her for months and fattened her up. When they had put enough weight on her, they brutally harvested her arms with a chain saw. Her new grown breasts were put into the breast guillotine and with a snap of the flashing blade, her massive breasts popped of and dropped into the basket.

That had been months ago.  Her breasts had re-grown to a lovely size and shape, but she knew it wouldn't last because they would continue to grow, becoming monstrous and unbearable before they finally cut them off for their Breast Beacon breakfasts. Her arms were already re-grown. 

The re-growth was happening faster.

As Karen stared painfully at the guillotine, its single hole where her neck would rest before her, she was unable to decide if she should be happy or distraught. This was it, the torment would be over. She wondered why they didn't harvest her breasts before the final act? Although they were not their usual over ripe size, they were plenty large enough.

Pushed closer to her fate, to the blade, the final torment, her mind reeled back to the day it all began.

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Internment

By DX

Copyrighted 03/2003, 10/2023

Eva has been sealed in rubber, locked in a coffin, and buried alive with horrific torture devices.  Can her lover free her?

Torture, latex, heavy bondage.

 Eva stirs restlessly in her rubber cocoon.  From her breathing, the heave of her copious breasts, I can tell that she is asleep.  I can only imagine the nightmares that are locked away inside her heavy helmet.  The nightmares she will never really awake from.

 I have finished my chores for now, and in the brief respite from my labor, I am drawn here, as a moth to a flame, to the row of Closed Circuit T.V.'s that unblinkingly watch poor Eva, keeping tabs on her punishment. As I lean closer to the monitors, I can see my own reflection faintly in glass, superimposed on Eva's image, like a ghost hovering over her tomb. My face is an alien, featureless latex mask. Only my eyes, like chocolate almonds, denote my humanity. They are filled with longing, and sympathy, missing Eva's sweet kisses, her secure embraces, her titillating tongue. We were lovers before the crime, inseparable and indivisible. It was a suitable punishment to keep us apart.

 I got off easy.

 Eva suddenly thrashes awake, startled by the unpredictable and painful electric shock that I know too well, and the horror of her prison refreshes anew. Her eyes flash. Those sky blue eyes that I have spent so many hours lost in, look demonic in the infrared light. I must remember that she is in total darkness, blind. The light that I see are from the color night cameras. They emit a light invisible to the human eye. To Eva, her world is black.

 She is hermitically sealed in a latex body suit, then sheathed in a heavy rubber body bag with inner sleeves keeping her hands plastered to her sides. The air was sucked from the bag and fused closed creating a perfect skin. Tubes and hoses fill her mouth and nose so she may breathe and drink a nutritional, hydrating soup that will keep her alive. With this done, she was lifted, struggling futilely, and placed in a coffin. Warm, soft velveteen pillows over re-enforced titanium with cameras secured in the lid to peer down at her. Then the heavy lid locked in place.

 Then, with somber cadence, they carried her out back. With her life line hoses threaded through a tiny, fitted hole, she was lowered into a six foot deep concrete crypt and buried alive. With the dirt patted down, a two ton slab of grey marble was cemented in place. Once every six months one of my sister slaves goes out to a small locked box about ten feet from the burial site and places a new thermos of her life giving fluids, and checks the batteries on the cameras and her re-breather unit. Eva's thin umbilical cord is her only connection to the world. She hears only silence, sees only darkness.

 This is Mistress Safia's justice. Swift, harsh and unforgiving.

 Now, I watch as Eva struggles, desperate, daring, no longer vying for escape, or mercy, but only a few moments relief from the never ending plod of Chug. Chug was the nickname we slaves came up with for the Computerized, Human, Utility, Generator that Mistress Safia invented. It’s a massive dildo that I swear she molded from a horse's cock. It wriggles and pulses and pumps and squirms its way deeper and deeper, methodically, deliberately and slowly, oh so fucking slowly, driving you to orgasm, and just when you're at the brink, babbling in tongues, over drafting your checking account, nails across the back, the hyper smart computer chip in Chug's head signals a powerful and excruciating electric shock that quickly tames the tiger and leaves you decimated and thoroughly unsatisfied. Back at square one, the process begins again, and as the tidal wave approaches, the naive hope that the little monster in your snatch will take pity and let the orgasm of a lifetime come into being--only to have that hope blasted away with the torturous electric thunderbolt of the evil machine.

 Mistress Safia doesn't fuck around.

 It keeps the body moving during long bondage sessions and thus prevents thrombosis and boredom.  Right not, it is all Eva has.  All of her senses, hearing, touch, smell, sight, and taste and gone.  She only experiences sexual torture twenty hours a day, leaving her a few nap breaks in between episodes.

 It’s easy to believe the stories about Mistress Safia, about her DeSade cruelty, that she's evil. Albeit she is stern and harsh at times, but in reality, she is loving, caring, and forgiving. Everything is forgivable save two crimes: rudeness, and dishonesty. Be polite and honest and you'll get along just fine. Mistress Safia also is bonded by her word, once given it cannot be recalled, so she does not give it lightly. She expects, no, demands the same from everyone else.

 Mistress Safia gave her word that Eva would remain buried in her coffin for the rest of her natural life.

 I don't question the life sentence. It was to be expected for such an inexcusable incursion of deceit, but I still feel the pangs of emptiness. 

 I touch my fingers to my gagged lips, and then to the screen. I gather up my cleaning materials into my basket. I have dawdled in the Mistress' office long enough.

 Safia stands in the doorway, her golden eyes watching me, stopping my heart. Her beauty is breath taking, startling, the natural vision that could send nations to war. I can only stand before her like a possum in head lights.

 "I want you to change your request." She commands as I bow submissively. "I will give you until tomorrow to name something else."

 I bow as she walks away, her audience with me over and I am dismissed. It was last week that my happy Mistress granted me a boon, a gift of my choice for my good service. Anything in her power would be granted. I could only nod to thank her, gagged as I was. She said I should take a day to think of what I wanted. I bowed again, then stole a glance to her enchanting face. There was a shadow of doubt in her eyes, as if she just realized she had made a mistake.

 The next day she found me cleaning the silverware, even when she was frowning, she was beautiful. "I will not grant your boon." She said without preamble. "I will be away for the long weekend, when I return, I will grant you something else."

 I bowed. Gagged as I am with a permanent pierce ball gag, communication isn't conventional and although I had not 'said' anything to Mistress about what I wanted, she just knew. 

 The one story about Mistress Safia that is true that you should remember is this: She can read minds.

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