The Dictator's Claw

Chapter 7 --- In the Claw's Clutches

Marnie gingerly replaced the phone on the hook as she heard Sven's heavy footsteps approaching from the hall.

“Goddamn, those twins are talented!” the big man crowed, hefting his belt as far as he could raise it over his humongous beer gut. He retrieved his white Stetson from a coat rack and donned it grandly, strutting over to the receptionist's desk. Marnie gave him a plastic-looking smile and went back to thumbing through an old edition of Fortune .

“You think it was really necessary to use the dogs, Boss?” she asked lightly, not looking up from her magazine.

“Fuck yes, it was, Marnie,” Sven said, a bit louder than he intended. “Man's gotta eat. I wasn't about to make another trip down here just to get ‘em to sign some lousy papers.” He put a fresh cigar in his mouth and moved his face closer to the woman.

“Light your own damn cigar, Sven,” Marnie said tiredly, finally looking into his cold blue eyes.

The blonde man did a double-take, straightened himself up to his full height, and bellowed for his henchmen. Marnie leaned back in her chair, laughing slightly.

“Do they hold your dick while you take a piss, too? I know they hold your women down,” Marnie observed, contempt dripping from her smoky voice.

“What's the matter? Big bad Boss Hog is gonna have me slapped around?”

“I don't know what the fuck's gotten into you Marnie, but I don't like it. Seems like you want to help me whet my whistle even before I get a belly full o' beef,” Sven smirked. “We can arrange that.” He'd never liked Marnie from the day he met her, and suspected she'd returned the feelings. Still, he wouldn't tolerate this sort of insubordination. He could hire any bitch off the street to do her job.

Jake and Nick appeared in the hall doorway, still sweaty from the interrogation session, looking confused.

“Boys, take our friend Miss Gould here into the playroom,” Sven commanded, jerking a thumb in the direction of the two goons. The two men just gaped, open-mouthed, as Marnie began to laugh even harder.

“Sven, I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Major Isamu. It would seem I'm not the only one who's grown tired of your histrionics,” she said smoothly.

Sven's rage-ridden puffy face began to shrivel, as if Marnie had stuck a pin into it. He removed the unlit cigar from his mouth and took off his large hat, fanning it slowly across his dampening face. Just the sound of Isamu's name had evoked more fear and hesitation in the man than Marnie could have hoped. Sven reluctantly waved the men away.

“What the fuck's going on?” he demanded.

“Sit down, Sven,” she smiled, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk, “we should talk.”

Sven stuffed himself into the small, hard-backed chair and glared at her hatefully.

“I think your philosophy of ‘the more the better' is catching up with you, boss ,” she said, saying his title mockingly. “The big man wants you back in Tarakimo. I told him I hadn't seen you around recently, but that I would take a look. I'm looking,” she finished, eyeing him hungrily.

“You goddamn bitch,” Sven snarled, “what do you want? A bigger piece of the action?”

“For starters. Fifty percent of the take around here will get you out the door tonight, and to that steak you're so hungry for. But it's gonna take more if you want to buy some additional time to save your family.”

Sven narrowed his eyes. “You're a lying cunt. How do I know you even talked to Isamu?” Sven demanded.

“You don't. I could be making the whole thing up,” Marnie sneered, shrugging her shoulders casually. “What's the matter, Sven? I thought you and the general were old pals. Are you afraid you won't be coming back from this trip?”

The hulking man leaned over menacingly, pointing a finger in the face of the gloating woman. “I'll be back, an' when I finish with you, your pretty little twat will be swingin' from the rear-view of my new Caddy,” he snapped. “Count on it, sweet tits.”

Marnie said nothing, though she did feel a cool wind move through the office, even before Sven opened the front door and stalked outside.

*************************************************************

“Doesn't anyone in this vile pit ever sleep?” Diana choked out, when Isamu had finally seated himself in the general's throne chair, after staring up at her for more than five minutes without speaking.

“With so many delightful ways to pass the time, it almost seems a shame to waste the minutes in unconsciousness,” the black man laughed. “Even so, as enjoyable as your distress is to me, and to the general, we must move on in the interest of time.” He clapped his hands loudly.

Diana felt herself being raised, and the horrible throbbing pain in her ass seemed to stop momentarily. The vaginal dildo was retracted with a loud popping noise, and she winced as it seemed ready to almost take her insides along for the ride. Diana felt herself move horizontally, and then downward, downward, very slowly, until she was on the ground looking straight at Isamu. The pain in her rear returned, with a force much worse than before, as the relative numbness induced by the constant violation vaporized.

She shuddered as he continued to gaze at her, knowing he was inspecting her like a scientist, looking carefully for the hidden flaw --- the crack beneath her sheen of courage.

“I take it that you're still not cooperating. Is that right?” he asked, in a bored tone of voice.

“You take right,” she dead-panned back.

“I wonder…a smart woman like yourself…you must realize by now what we wish to do with you…what we're getting at….” Isamu smoothed his elegant, medaled black uniform, as he paced toward a wall bedecked with whips, canes, and paddles. “Isn't there a part of you that finds this all…vaguely exciting? I mean, it must be exposing you to a number of previously inexperienced sensations, no?”

The man's easy self-confidence and bravado oozed over Diana, almost dissolving her avid hatred of him for the moment and replacing it with a sort of dread fascination, a feeling of involuntary hypnosis. His voice was dredged in velvet, each syllable fluid and distinct; the thick crunching sound of dirt and gravel beneath his glossy riding boots almost lulling. As he searched the wall, looking for an appropriate tool, as a student might peruse a library shelf, Diana found herself wanting this to be over as soon as possible, wanting someone to take her from this and end it. She wanted to be free, to be saved --- at any cost.

“We've only been working on you a short time, but we've been observing your reactions to various stimuli…” he continued, selecting a large bull-whip that looked like a coiled black king snake. “You definitely had no problem conjuring up a moist secretion when his Excellency was questioning you on the rack.” He drew his gloved hand back and deftly flicked his wrist with a small movement. The six-foot whip cracked sharply, sounding like a blast of buckshot. Diana quivered. Isamu repeated the action, gazing over at her intently, as she averted her eyes. He smiled slightly and returned the whip to its place on the wall.

“When you were in the bedroom, the leader observed a curiosity and eagerness that he found telling, almost voyeuristic….” He took a large, curved, rounded black paddle from the wall and fondled it in his hands, weighing its heft intently. “It feels good, doesn't it, to be a tool in someone else's hand? To bear no responsibility, no guilt? I mean, it wasn't like you had much choice in the matter. You were an extension of the Mighty One's very hand --- the dictator's claw, so to speak.”

Diana was now visibly trembling, tears pouring from her face. “No! I didn't have any part in that poor woman's death. It was him…all him!”

“Ah, yes, that's true,” Isamu went on pleasantly, giving the paddle two good swings in mid-air, savoring the rush of current that followed, like a refreshing spring breeze. “Like all of us here, you are finding that we have little or no choice in our actions. We are doing the bidding of a god among men, after all. It is our destiny, our fate.” He returned the paddle to it's hook and walked a bit further along the ghoulish wall. “You will find that things will be much easier for you to bear if you just surrender yourself to that fact.”

Isamu's hands finally rested on a medium-length dressage whip, the end of which was decorated with steel barbs. He gave it a few casual flicks, droning on. “You're being seduced by him, as we all have been. He's living inside of you now, growing stronger with every minute.” He walked toward her, stopping a few feet in front of her crotch. “It's time to free yourself...to give in to your impulses….”

Diana gasped with terror as the brutish man reared back and brought the whip down sharply on her wax-clotted pussy. Even though she felt virtually nothing, due to the thick, opaque encasement around her loins, she began to scream with abandonment. “You know you want it, Diana. Say it. Tell me that you welcome the leader.” He gave her two more swift strokes, hacking the wax off viciously in large clods.

“No…I….” she gasped, her eyes pleading with Isamu as her voice degenerated into a series of spasmodic wailing.

“Welcome him, as he welcomes you!” He brought the whip down three more times, the third time drawing blood and sending a sharp piercing sensation through Diana that shot through her spine. She screamed loudly.

“SAY IT, BITCH!” Isamu thundered, poising the whip in the air to strike her again.

“I…welcome…him!” Diana shrieked, collapsing into hysterical sobs.

Isamu removed his glove and plunged his index finger into her roughly. Diana squirmed uncomfortably, not having relieved herself in several hours and trembling at the consequences if she chose to do so now.

The big man licked his finger thoughtfully, and then motioned to his guards. One held her arm steady as the other plunged a large hypodermic needle into an exposed vein. Diana felt a large wave of grogginess hit her, almost instantly.

Isamu watched as her limp body was untied and returned to the prison cell, pleasantly humming a tune he remembered from his youth.

*************************************************************

Sven looked once more at his watch and debated phoning Shelley from the casino, once he got there. It was now almost midnight, and she would no doubt be suspicious. But, he thought, tonight would be an opportune time for Tara 's thugs to make their move, if what Marnie said was true.

He tried to pacify his fear by thinking of the many ways he would make that traitorous cunt suffer once this was over. So, she wanted to run the show, did she? Just a few days dealing with Isamu, and she'll wish she was back on the phones, doing her little clerical chores. Dealing with that erratic maniac was a bitch of a way to earn a living, and she'll find that out soon enough, he thought ruefully.

Sven decided the best way around this was through a direct confrontation. He'd call Isamu tomorrow morning and find out what was what. A trip to Tarakimo might not be such a bad thing. He could give Isamu and Tara a dog and pony show, explain his plans for expanding his branch of the trade, discuss new interrogation techniques, try out some new toys, eat good food, smoke some fine Cubans, and sow a few gallons of joy juice in the process. He laughed to himself, as he poured a fresh drink.

No, this wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe he'd even be able to eavesdrop on Diana's training. He smiled, his cock growing stiffer at the thought of his high-and-mighty ivy-league honey, as his limousine shot through the night, toward Atlantic City .

The only kink in the plan would be devising a cover for the Times . His whereabouts were even more closely monitored by everyone now, even by the media. No, he would have to go incognito, as Hog.

*************************************************************

A week passed.

Diana knew it had been at least seven days, if only by the number of sparse meals she ate in her filthy prison cell. She had been allowed to shower only once during the entire time. Over the past week, between the drugs and the lack of food and water, her head constantly swam in a delirious balance between discomfort and arousal. The former was due mostly to a very large metal apparatus she had been forced to wear around her waist and crotch, which sported openings for her to relieve herself when unlocked, but which prevented her from completely touching her pussy or her asshole. It was secured with a large bolt and appeared to be a medieval chastity belt. The latter was due to the constant broadcasts of torture being streamed into her cell.

At first she was repulsed by the videos, but she gradually became intrigued by them, mostly due to the adamant, vocal responses from the female victims onscreen and the lack of anything else to pass the time. They were in pain, she didn't doubt that. But in truth, it seemed very staged, almost like a dirty movie. The girls seemed very excited, almost pleasured, by the caresses of the captor's soft gloves and the forcefulness of their persuasive tools. In particular, that of Isamu's.

The large Nigerian was quite threatening, Diana admitted, and she could understand how he might seem exotic to some. Of course, these ignorant girls had never argued with the man ad nauseum for hours in order to gain even a few civil rights for prisoners. They wouldn't understand such things. How they could endure his condescension, his intimidation, his raw… power …. She felt herself suddenly blushing as she remembered wondering as a freshman at Oxford , adrift in a sea of boring preppy WASPs, what a big black man would look like, standing over her, cock erect. Hadn't she occupied those many long nights in her apartment, after studying alone, with just such fantasies? Maybe she was no different, or better, than these girls after all.

She cursed herself. What kind of slut was she, and why would she be thinking these thoughts? They were the thoughts of an insurgent, a traitor. They're breaking you down bit by bit, she thought bitterly. And yet….

Yet, she longed to see her pussy again, to scratch it, to tend to it. She felt its insatiable craving and its welling warmth, and was continually frustrated by the cold metal when she went to relieve herself. You aren't attracted to those monsters, she reasoned. They're placeholders. Substitutes for Sven. Oh, how she wanted him!

She stretched out on the cold stone floor and threw her head back, a pathetic moan escaping her parched lips.

*************************************************************

In her dream, Diana was lying on a large silk bed --- the bed of the general. A large man with a black hood stood over her, zealously lubing a huge vaginal pear. She remembered thinking: I must scream. I must cry out . But she didn't. Instead, she spread her legs even wider than they already were spread. Curiously, she wasn't tied down…no. She wanted him to violate her with the monstrous tool.

The man had hands the color of coal, and she knew it was Isamu. “Just do it! Finish me off!” she screamed at him, almost joyous. He just stood there and laughed while her pussy became wetter and wetter. He taunted her with the device, running the sharp tip over her G-spot, and then withdrawing it. Finally she reached toward him, grabbed the pear, and began thrusting it inside herself, reveling in the pain. But it wasn't enough.

She lunged for the man, lunged for the hood. She remembered pulling it off and then….

Nothing….nothing except for the large clanking sound of her cell door being opened, and a large light flooding her eyes. A tall uniformed figure stood before her, and she knew it was Tara , merely by the amount of ornamentation on his chest. It must weigh fifty pounds, she thought scornfully, probably the only hard thing on his corpulent body. Though, his arms were strong, she remembered…frighteningly strong.

The flunky at his side switched off the light and she got a better look at the dictator, who was dressed to the nines, as usual. He stepped toward her until her face was inches from the toe of his shiny jackboot.

“Lick it, cunt,” he commanded. When she refused, he swung his riding crop viciously at her mouth, slashing open her lower lip.

“You…fucking… PRICK !” she yelled, but he only laughed in response and waved his long, razor-thin cigarette holder in her direction. His thug, a large Asian with the build of a Sumo wrestler, lifted her from the ground by her hair and she shrieked with pain. Tara smiled sweetly, patting her cheek playfully with a white leather glove that extended halfway up his forearm --- more decorative than functional, but intimidating, nonetheless.

He marched ahead of her, down the long hallway, as if he were leading a parade, as the henchman propelled her forward with a chokehold on her wrists. The weight of the belt made it difficult to walk, and when she did, the steel ground into her thighs uncomfortably.

After walking for maybe five minutes, the despot stopped at a large set of double doors and rapped twice with his crop. The doors opened and Diana looked in at a large room with nothing inside but a long, black rectangular box, like a coffin.

Was this it? Was this her tomb? she thought, frantically.

Tara gave her a swift swat on the thigh with his whip, as though she were a recalcitrant mare, and the goon pushed her toward the black box. When they arrived near it, he lifted her in his arms, while Tara worked a control on the table that supported the container, and the top slid smoothly open.

Diana gasped with terror as she looked inside, and saw what appeared to be thousands upon thousands of tiny spikes embedded in the top, bottom, and sides of the coffin. “An…iron maiden...” she murmured, aghast.

“Ah, not quite, my beauty!” Tara chuckled. “Though it does resemble a horizontal version of that infernal machine, does it not? The goal of the maiden is to simply puncture your flesh. Effective, in some cases, but altogether quite boring as tortures go.” He drew on his cigarette holder, sucking the smoke up into his nose, holding it in his lungs for quite some time before it trickled slowly back out through his mouth and nose. “No. This device is much, much more insidious. It conforms more closely to my ultimate objectives, you see.”

Diana fought to escape the Asian man, but he held her tightly. “To become your sex toy? That's it, isn't it, Tara ? You don't care about that report at all!” Diana shouted. It would almost be a relief if he just stopped the charade and told her what he was really after, she thought.

“Sweet, naïve Diana. How you underestimate me,” he purred in reply. “I do want your submission, that's true. But I want so much more. And every day I have you in my clutches, the closer I get to achieving it.” He puffed thoughtfully for a few seconds and then gestured to the box. “Put her in,” he ordered blithely.

“No!” Diana cried futilely, as the goon lowered her into the box. She thrashed about, trying to strike him in the face, but he put his gloved hand on her neck and started to choke her. When she relaxed, he removed the grip and settled her into her small, dark prison. She braced herself for the piercing spikes, but was amazed when she didn't feel them. Instead, she felt as if she were lying on a very thin sheet of plastic, which, upon inspecting her surroundings, she found that she was.

Tara was standing at the foot of the coffin, busily twisting another cigarette into his holder. He lit it quickly and blew a cloud of smoke into the box, where it swirled and wafted around her. “Surprised?” he queried smugly. “Oh, I don't want to puncture your pretty body right away. That would rob me of a lot of pleasure. No, that's a very fine layer of Plexiglas that you're resting on. Never fear, it can be pierced quite easily, but I don't want you to suffer just yet. I have…so-o-o-ooo much more to tell you!” he laughed gaily.

“I just bet you do!” Diana couldn't help but retort, amazed and horrified at how twisted this evil man's mind was.

“Sang,” Tara said, turning his head toward his menial, “insert the balls.”

Diana's first instinct was to lash out, but she was terrified to move even slightly. The plastic beneath her shimmied unstably and she was very close to the spikes that surrounded her sides. Sang brought his hand down to her crotch and unlocked a door on the belt, directly in front of her pussy. As he did, Diana sighed with relief as the air made contact with her sweaty sex. This momentary respite quickly turned to terror as she felt two steel balls being rammed straight up her pussy.

Tara laughed deeply. “Ever hear of Ben-Wa balls, my dear? The Chinese used them for years to stimulate their consorts. They were frequently used with chastity belts to keep the juices…flowing, so to speak, keeping the recipient in a heightened state of ecstasy for days, sometimes weeks, while her monogamy was safely ensured!” Sang quickly locked the door and secured the belt, before she could think to answer his outrageous claim.

“These balls though…are unlike any other ever made,” he continued. “They contain sensing devices which monitor the amount of…activity you might be experiencing. When they sense your twat is relatively dry, they will produce an ultrasonic beep, which can be detected by my special equipment in there.” He pointed dramatically at a panel of glass covering one wall. It obviously must conceal a monitoring room, Diana thought miserably. Of course he's going to watch this, and quite comfortably, no doubt.

“When I feel you're getting a bit too dry for your own good, I will activate the box.” The general raked his gloved fingers over the spikes on top of the box lid, almost lovingly. “It will, in turn, begin to converge upon you, from all sides. And these little babies…” --- he touched the tip of his lit cigarette to one of the spikes. --- “will begin to brush against your flesh, moving up and down. As you can see, they're not metal at all, but a flexible sort of hardened polymer.” He demonstrated by wiggling one of the prongs.

Diana inwardly sighed with relief, just a little. This box wasn't the death trap she envisioned after all. Just something that will be extremely uncomfortable, though not unbearable. Well, that's fine. Let him have his sadistic fun. This overdressed thug wasn't going to break her this easily.

“Oh, they're still sharp, never fear!” he cackled, removing his spent cigarette butt from the holder and easily skewering it on the spike, as Diana's brief composure again vanished. “But the purpose of these is to stimulate, not mutilate,” he concluded silkily.

“What do you want, general?” Diana asked him suddenly. “If all you want is that faked report, then bring it on. I've tired of these irritating little games. The UN, Amnesty, and the government are closing in on you bit by bit. It's just a matter of time before they force a search of Tarakimo! They know I'm here and they know that report will be falsified. They're just waiting for it. I only want to be…” she trailed off, her head falling to one side, looking away from him. It enraged her how his tyrannous torture tools could sway her resolve so easily, as if she was putty in his hands.

“…Left alone?” he crooned softly. “Well, tough shit, bitch!” he shouted at her. “I'll make you sign that report soon enough, and it will be effective, just you watch. I have more tricks than you'd ever guess up my sleeve…more favors to call in than you'll ever know! As for my motives, I'll just wait, and reveal them slowly, while you suffer the agonies of a thousand tiny deaths!” He began to laugh like a lunatic. “And agonies you will know…” he said, turning and beckoning to someone that Diana could not see with a gloved finger.

A large plastic case was placed into the tyrant's hands. “Major, give me some light,” he instructed, again to someone unseen. Large fluorescents illuminated the room. The villain casually turned the box around and gave Diana a good look. She felt her adrenaline shoot through the roof of her mouth as she gaped in terror at hundreds upon hundreds of very large cockroaches, entangled together and scurrying over one another in a frenzied mass.

Diana began to scream with terror. She might have known he'd try this, she thought. He loves to prey on old fears, and he had somehow discovered that this was one of them. Fucking bugs! She despised them. Especially roaches!

Tara 's face was alive with evil as he greedily devoured the palpable fear in her eyes. He looked positively joyous, and Diana didn't doubt that he had a huge erection. He rubbed his hands together ecstatically and laughed his revolting little laugh. “They're wonderful aren't they? Imported from South America . The largest and the most vicious in the world! Oh, how they bite!” He handed the box over to Sang and started to walk away, then stopped and returned.

“Oh, one more thing. This box is equipped with four highly sensitive microphones. So, speak up. I want to make sure you're enjoying yourself! I know I will be!” He placed his cigarette holder in his mouth, tilted his head back, and chortled obnoxiously.

A small smile played on Sang's lips as he slowly opened the box containing the filthy insects, and tilted it slowly towards Diana.