Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
DESTINY (5)
An Edwardian terraced home in the Dyke House Town of Hartlepool, Northern UK
The only sound in the bare stone basement was a faint whimpering coming from the young woman hanging in the centre.
Sometime before, she had been dragged down to that room, stripped of her clothing, and hung by leather manacles around her slender wrists. Her feet dangled a good foot off the floor. Her shoulders hurt, but mostly it was the pain in her hands that made her whimper softly. The leather wrist manacles were cutting into her flesh and impeding the blood flow until her hands, with fingers still not fully healed from her previous abduction, had turned an ugly shade of purple.
Even though the girl was not large, every bodily pound on her slender frame was pulling down, forcing the manacles to dig into her tender flesh. Tears, creeping down her cheeks, had left their trails, but now her head was bowed and the tears no longer flowed. Having struggled at first, she had found that it hurt much less if she simply hung as motionless as possible. She did not even lift her face when she heard and sensed a presence in the room standing directly behind her.
For a while he said nothing, and the girl felt the stirring of hope within. Was he going to let her down? Also, having lost all feeling in her broken hands, would they ever recover?
“You have made our life very difficult Grace Miller,” came the voice from behind her. It was the one called Omar.
“This is the room in which we killed the whore Dani, do you wish to join her?”
“I … I can’t tell you anything more, why …?”
“Why have we taken you again? Because we can, and because you saw too much of our operation in Amsterdam. Because you and your stupid colleagues did not heed our warning.” He answered his own question.
She said nothing. What he said was true; she had fought against them and discovered their location … and other things besides.
“So now we will keep you here for a few days, have our fun and then dispose of you like the pointless, meaningless cunt that you are Grace Miller.”
His words were harsh, but they meant nothing to Grace. Her life would end here, wherever ‘here’ was, and she let thoughts of her dead lover and colleague, Ekaterina Novikova drift into her mind as she tried to find her ‘happy place’.
Walking around to stand before her, Omar added, “I have seen many young women like you here. Some resist. They are then punished. Soon enough they learn that obedience is far better than punishment. And then we send them out to be abused and raped.”
Still she said nothing. Brushing aside her long brown hair, the brute’s other hand reached up and took her chin into his grip, tilting and twisting until she was forced to look him in the eye.
His face was hard, that of a killer. Dark, hard eyes probed into hers until she wanted to scream. The thin scar running down his chin and the blotched, discoloured skin on the left side of his face, gave evidence that he had lived a violent life. His fingers were rough and strong. She tried to close her eyes, but he shook her head and she could not.
“We should begin,” he said matter-of-factly as the door to the room opened once more and Grace gasped when she saw Markus, the man who had abused, raped and drugged her, walk in.
“I think we will start with this, Grace Miller …” Before his sentence was finished, she was screaming. He had let go of her chin and his strong fingers had grasped her nipples and he was twisting them hard … very hard. Her screams echoed off the stone walls, as Grace tried to twist her body away but the grip was too strong.
With any remaining resolve quickly dissipating, the bound Agent tried to kick out with a bare foot but did no damage. He hardly felt her connection with his thigh, as, with a final, painful twist her abused nubs, he let go.
Moving across to where they hung, ready and waiting, he looked over a selection of whips and other instruments of torture hanging provocatively in the bound Agent’s line of sight. The whip he chose was not the worst. Some of those could rip the flesh off its victim with a single stroke, but the one he picked was only a couple feet long. It was made of braided leather, and at the end of each individual lash was a knot that had been hardened until it more resembled steel than hide. That tip would bite into flesh, but only small bites at a time, prolonging the agony and torment.
“May I?” Markus held his open palm out and, with a nod, Omar handed his collaborator the chosen lash.
Markus grinned and, facing Grace’s exposed front, he stepped back with the whip in his hand.
The girl’s head hung, her chin almost on her chest. She had lost the will to fight, and the agony in her limbs had given way to an awful numbness.
“It won’t be long now Kat and we’ll be together again …” she uttered in a whisper.
“What did the whore say?” Omar spoke. But there was no answer, and in truth he didn’t really care.
Then it began.
The first stroke across her breasts made Grace scream and jerk. Markus watched as the pain flared leaving a long red welt in its wake.
Then the second … which connected viciously across her hips at the level of her mound, leaving a second angry red line on the soft flesh
Across the breasts again. Another scream.
A backhanded cut across the hips.
Grace danced in her bondage, squirming, writhing, screaming out her pain …
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, stop, no please …” But the words, as she knew only too well, would serve only to inflame the perverted desires of her torturers.
The fifth across the breasts, leaving another line of swollen, red flesh.
Another scream.
The whip lashed out mercilessly … across the tops of her thighs this time.
Then Markus paused to take a breath. Handing the lash back to his boss, Omar turned to replace the implement on the wall upon which it hung, speaking as he did.
“You are very beautiful Grace Miller. We will enjoy you very much.”
The men, both of them, turned and left, leaving Grace trembling as she hung, sobbing out her hopeless cries.
To Be Continued …
An Edwardian terraced home in the Dyke House Town of Hartlepool, Northern UK
The only sound in the bare stone basement was a faint whimpering coming from the young woman hanging in the centre.
Sometime before, she had been dragged down to that room, stripped of her clothing, and hung by leather manacles around her slender wrists. Her feet dangled a good foot off the floor. Her shoulders hurt, but mostly it was the pain in her hands that made her whimper softly. The leather wrist manacles were cutting into her flesh and impeding the blood flow until her hands, with fingers still not fully healed from her previous abduction, had turned an ugly shade of purple.
Even though the girl was not large, every bodily pound on her slender frame was pulling down, forcing the manacles to dig into her tender flesh. Tears, creeping down her cheeks, had left their trails, but now her head was bowed and the tears no longer flowed. Having struggled at first, she had found that it hurt much less if she simply hung as motionless as possible. She did not even lift her face when she heard and sensed a presence in the room standing directly behind her.
For a while he said nothing, and the girl felt the stirring of hope within. Was he going to let her down? Also, having lost all feeling in her broken hands, would they ever recover?
“You have made our life very difficult Grace Miller,” came the voice from behind her. It was the one called Omar.
“This is the room in which we killed the whore Dani, do you wish to join her?”
“I … I can’t tell you anything more, why …?”
“Why have we taken you again? Because we can, and because you saw too much of our operation in Amsterdam. Because you and your stupid colleagues did not heed our warning.” He answered his own question.
She said nothing. What he said was true; she had fought against them and discovered their location … and other things besides.
“So now we will keep you here for a few days, have our fun and then dispose of you like the pointless, meaningless cunt that you are Grace Miller.”
His words were harsh, but they meant nothing to Grace. Her life would end here, wherever ‘here’ was, and she let thoughts of her dead lover and colleague, Ekaterina Novikova drift into her mind as she tried to find her ‘happy place’.
Walking around to stand before her, Omar added, “I have seen many young women like you here. Some resist. They are then punished. Soon enough they learn that obedience is far better than punishment. And then we send them out to be abused and raped.”
Still she said nothing. Brushing aside her long brown hair, the brute’s other hand reached up and took her chin into his grip, tilting and twisting until she was forced to look him in the eye.
His face was hard, that of a killer. Dark, hard eyes probed into hers until she wanted to scream. The thin scar running down his chin and the blotched, discoloured skin on the left side of his face, gave evidence that he had lived a violent life. His fingers were rough and strong. She tried to close her eyes, but he shook her head and she could not.
“We should begin,” he said matter-of-factly as the door to the room opened once more and Grace gasped when she saw Markus, the man who had abused, raped and drugged her, walk in.
“I think we will start with this, Grace Miller …” Before his sentence was finished, she was screaming. He had let go of her chin and his strong fingers had grasped her nipples and he was twisting them hard … very hard. Her screams echoed off the stone walls, as Grace tried to twist her body away but the grip was too strong.
With any remaining resolve quickly dissipating, the bound Agent tried to kick out with a bare foot but did no damage. He hardly felt her connection with his thigh, as, with a final, painful twist her abused nubs, he let go.
Moving across to where they hung, ready and waiting, he looked over a selection of whips and other instruments of torture hanging provocatively in the bound Agent’s line of sight. The whip he chose was not the worst. Some of those could rip the flesh off its victim with a single stroke, but the one he picked was only a couple feet long. It was made of braided leather, and at the end of each individual lash was a knot that had been hardened until it more resembled steel than hide. That tip would bite into flesh, but only small bites at a time, prolonging the agony and torment.
“May I?” Markus held his open palm out and, with a nod, Omar handed his collaborator the chosen lash.
Markus grinned and, facing Grace’s exposed front, he stepped back with the whip in his hand.
The girl’s head hung, her chin almost on her chest. She had lost the will to fight, and the agony in her limbs had given way to an awful numbness.
“It won’t be long now Kat and we’ll be together again …” she uttered in a whisper.
“What did the whore say?” Omar spoke. But there was no answer, and in truth he didn’t really care.
Then it began.
The first stroke across her breasts made Grace scream and jerk. Markus watched as the pain flared leaving a long red welt in its wake.
Then the second … which connected viciously across her hips at the level of her mound, leaving a second angry red line on the soft flesh
Across the breasts again. Another scream.
A backhanded cut across the hips.
Grace danced in her bondage, squirming, writhing, screaming out her pain …
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, stop, no please …” But the words, as she knew only too well, would serve only to inflame the perverted desires of her torturers.
The fifth across the breasts, leaving another line of swollen, red flesh.
Another scream.
The whip lashed out mercilessly … across the tops of her thighs this time.
Then Markus paused to take a breath. Handing the lash back to his boss, Omar turned to replace the implement on the wall upon which it hung, speaking as he did.
“You are very beautiful Grace Miller. We will enjoy you very much.”
The men, both of them, turned and left, leaving Grace trembling as she hung, sobbing out her hopeless cries.
To Be Continued …
