You realise I only need half an excuse don't you? OK then, I'd better explain the back story to this. DA isn't just about the opportunity to display art, it's a community. I know my experience with writing isn't quite the same as those who post graphics but I find I get lots of messages from people who just want to talk to me, usually it's about kinky filth. Sometimes people want to write with me and then I have loads of fun. Alison did too.
This story was the result of her talking to a Spanish guy who thought she deserved to be punished for the failure of the Armada in 1588, like that was her fault? He thought being English was incriminating enough, so yes, she needed to be slapped for her smugness. They changed history so that Parma's Catholic army in Holland made it across the North Sea and occupied England. Of course this was followed by years of persecution as protestants were hunted down, often unfairly convicted of witchcraft or anything else the inquisitions fancied would do. A Hapsburg, Catholic regime was established which became the foundation of the alternative English nation. One of these witches was publicly tortured then thrown into a hole in the ground and left to rot.
450 years or so later, she gets apprehended for posting kink on DA which is watched by an organisation called The Catholic League. These people are a sort of secret society of the Catholic Church's chosen ones. They rule modern England from the board rooms of capitalism. They watch everything. They're the people who really do own the country just like the descendants of William the Conquerer's mates do now.
As you'll see from the story's third part, which I'll post below, she's fallen into the hands of The League. From here, the story loses its tenuous relevance to complaining about DA. I thought that if Wix looked bad, the bastards Alison's Spanish friend had in mind would look worse. Religious fundamentalism is always a scary thing. They threw her down that hole in the ground too and the tale becomes the story of her punishment. If I get time, I'll post more of the story in
https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/filthy-kate.8435/page-9#post-676298
In the mean time...........
"Retribution!" I cried. "Why, what for?" I asked, crushed by the weight of such heavy trouble. "I've got rights.” I said, demanding some. It wasn't fair that I should be accused alone. I didn't understand what I'd done wrong. I couldn't defend myself against it, whatever it was, not intimidated like this. To be honest I had no idea what to say.
"Yes you have rights." my persecutor told me, "In law." He explained that in law I'd be given a chance to wriggle free through a swamp of technicalities, interpretations and the opinions of a hundred interested parties. Worse than that, I'd be given a voice to spread my message of destruction and depravity with, which would make trying to shut me up legally counter productive. "We're not in law, not the common law protecting a dirty little whore like you." he said. Society needed the security of a greater power than that. It wasn't enough that I should pay for my crimes against decency. Humanity would not remain pure if the ideas I sought to propagate were allowed to fester and grow unbridled, to rear their ugly heads again, infecting the minds of the gullible, insecure and impressionable souls I preyed upon. "It's only kinky sex.” I argued, timidly.
"It's filth!" he screamed at me. He dragged me out of my chair with my dressing gown and threw me up against the wall. "It's insidious, devious, wicked treachery, corroding the foundations of traditional family values!" He shouted that right into my face, spitting it at me. I could taste his saliva. I froze rigid, pinned in place by my armpits as he screamed "The weakness of men cannot be allowed to be exploited by gutter crawling low life like you!" "Oh my god.” I thought, "He's off his head!" We stared into each other's eyes, nose to nose so close I could hardly focus on the madness in his. I was breathing his angry breath, fixed.
For a long, terrifying moment he held me trembling. "Is this what you want?" he asked, calmer after his rage, then moved his right hand onto my left breast, pushing me against the wall by squashing it. He watched my face as it hurt me. My feet weren't quite on the floor and when he grabbed my right breast as well I slid down an inch or so. It allowed him to change his grip. He lifted me back up by my crotch, preventing me from falling sideways with his other hand on my throat. I suffered in silence rather than provoke his anger again. "Is this temptation?" he asked, "Is that what you're doing? Are you trying to poison me too?" he hissed at me.
The fingers of his right hand moved as my weight forced me onto them and he tightened his left round my neck. I knew my knickers wouldn't save me from the worst he could inflict for long, then he stopped me breathing. I waited in agony for him to let me go, terrified his unpredictability might make my ordeal worse. "You smell like filth." he said watching me endure his control over me. He waited until my distress became almost unbearable, then accepted my intimidation was complete. He dropped me, gasping, at his feet for the second time.
"You see Mrs Woodford," he said as if there was a point to torturing me, "It's not enough that you promise not to be the home wrecking harlot again, something you so love to play. Sorry isn't going to repair the damage you caused. We have to convert you, set you on the path of righteousness and make you good again. You're a dark angel Alison, we need to show you the light. But first, it's necessary to show you how dark the darkness can be."
"This is a nightmare!" I thought. Storybook heroines always think that when it’s all gone tits up and the villain is about to slash them to ribbons. I've written that, it's normal but this cannot be happening for real, and a nightmare is all I can call it. Who the hell is this fuckin' maniac? He turned away from me, leaving me in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall. My dressing gown had fallen off my shoulders, slipped down my arms and was tangled round my feet. Rather than attract his attention by trying to extricate myself I lay still, with nowhere to go anyway. He returned to the computer, typed in something, waited and then seemed satisfied.
Having dealt with me clerically he got up and walked back towards me, looking at me, not as if he wanted my attention but as if he wanted to deal with me physically as well. I watched as he bent down to pick up one of my ankles and grab hold of my robe. My imaginary heroine might have kicked herself free, just as I'd thought of doing on the stairs when all this started. I was simply pissed off then but this was grave, this was serious trouble and my fragile courage had dissolved.
I let myself be dragged across the floor, so scared I stayed there while he let go of me to open the door. Ashamed I'd been such a pushover, I almost offered him my leg to help him resume dragging me relentlessly down the corridor, not through the police station but the other way, out into the car park at the rear. Friction rolled up my vest top, my tits fell out of it and I cried out in pain as the right one caught on the back door's threshold, my own weight trapping it momentarily. He scraped my nipples across the stones and grit outside for a few yards then dumped me.
"This is it Ali, this is your last chance to escape!" I thought. I was out in the open. My fictitious heroine would have seized the opportunity to at least make a drama out of trying to get away, for the sake of the story. I thought about what this psychopathic nut case would do to her if she didn't make it and lay still defeated and crying.
Through the tears I saw him walk to a car. He opened the boot and reached in to get something. I couldn't see clearly enough to fathom out what until he pointed it at me. It was a gun! "Oh fuck!" I thought, "He's going to shoot me!" Instinctively I curled up. How pointless is that? The gun fired and instantly I felt something thump hard into my thigh and a violent, vicious sting. I expected my leg to be smashed but it wasn't, neither was I drenched in my own blood. In horror I looked down to find a little plastic tube with a fluffy pink tuft on the end, a tranquilliser dart.
"Oh god please help me." I prayed. Stupid really, I'm a non believer but we've all been to school and we’re conditioned to express desperation that way. Help from anyone would do. I looked up at him pleading "Why?" but the malice on his face dismissed me, I didn't deserve explanation. "You're fucked now!" I watched him think, smiling at me. Perhaps I could have pulled the dart out if that would have made a difference but I accepted I'd already been poisoned. I was sure he had another one anyway.
Calmly he put the gun back in the boot, closed it and sat down on the lid, folding his arms to watch helplessness overcome me. My thundering, terrified heart would pump the poison into my brain quickly and there wasn't any need for impatience. "Why?" I kept thinking, "Where's the reason in this?" While I could still focus I could see him laughing at me, remotely as I lay on the ground maybe ten yards away. Overwhelming fatigue came a few minutes later and I stopped caring. Then I just stopped.
