The Dictator's Claw

Chapter 8 – Down to the Wire

Shelley Stevenson tossed the dog-eared women's magazine she had been leafing through across the marble-lined bathroom. She was so horny she could scream. She had thought the afternoon bubble bath would relax her, but it was only serving to whip the froth of her tensions up further. Goddamn Sven, that asshole, she thought uselessly. He hadn't been home now for almost a day and a half. Her mind spun with the mountain of curses she would unload upon him when he finally walked through the door.

Reaching down into the steamy bath for the handle of the rubber scrub brush, she toyed with the idea of sticking it up her snatch, but disregarded it quickly. She most certainly wasn't going to reduce herself to an afternoon of jerking herself senseless while her philandering husband was satisfying himself in more legitimate ways.

She had suspected he'd been fucking that snooty socialite, and had been secretly relieved to hear that the issue wouldn't be cropping up for a while. But still, Sven's “late nights” at the Times still seemed to continue, and she knew now that they would never end until she cut the bastard's cock clean off. She was imagining just that, and starting to get vaguely excited, when the doorbell rang.

After checking the peephole, and seeing a young man in his thirties with disheveled dark hair and a black leather jacket, she opened the door, keeping the chain attached.

“Hi, Mrs. Stevenson?” the young man asked, looking hopeful.

“Yes?” she said, guardedly, but not without a smile. He reminded her of John Cusack, the actor, with his neat, trim appearance and swimmer's build.

“I'm Colin Gallagher. I work with Sven over at the Times . He was supposed to turn in some pictures for an article of mine that was due a few hours ago. We're really in a jam over it. My editor will have my head on a platter if I don't bring him back something.” He gave her a warm smile and shrugged his shoulders. “I'm really sorry to bother you. Should I come back in a little bit?” he asked, looking at her robe and wet hair.

“No, no, don't be silly,” Shelley responded. “Sounds like it'll just take a few seconds. Please, come in.”

Colin stepped into the house and took a good look around. Just an ordinary tract home in Jersey . Not more than 1300 square feet, if that. But, as he walked through the living room, he took note of the new projection television in the corner of the room. He'd never actually seen one of these, but he'd heard about them. To the right of the TV were a large Quasar quarter-inch video tape recorder and an RCA video disc player. He'd heard both of these went for close to a grand, if you could even get a store to put you on the waiting list.

“I suppose you want to see Sven's dark room? It's this way. Care for something to drink?”

“Oh, no,” he returned politely. “You're very kind.”

He quickly followed her, noticing the large black marble countertop that enclosed the kitchen. “What a cool kitchen counter,” he remarked.

Shelley smiled. “Yes, we love it. Well, it's through that door and to your right.”

“Great. Thanks again.”

Colin walked through the doorway of a room that contained a washer and dryer and some cleaning supplies, and his eye stopped on a hunting rifle propped up in the corner. He was about to take a closer look at it, then realized Shelley was right behind him. He continued toward another door with a large red light bulb mounted at the top of the frame, turned, and waved pleasantly at the woman before entering.

Once inside, Sven silently locked the door and quickly began to search through the piles of glossy photographs to the right of the developing pans. Everything he'd seen so far was pointing him in the right direction. Now, all he needed was some hard proof. Still, after sorting through maybe fifty photographs, there was nothing in the pile that told him otherwise.

He spotted a filing cabinet in the corner and began to root around in it rapidly, but again could find nothing. Contact sheets, specs on camera equipment, business receipts…. He stopped, and began to rifle through the little bits of paper, which were organized and clipped together quite neatly. Too neatly, in fact, to make him believe that they belonged to his gregarious, carefree colleague. But, maybe he was more put together in other parts of his life, Colin thought, not believing it for a second.

Near the back of the folder were several itineraries stapled together. A quick search of these made his hands go suddenly cold. There were quite a few mentions of South America and the far east on the trip plans. More than five in the past year. And they had all been paid for with cash, some of the trips costing more than $5,000. Even so, it wasn't enough.

Colin jumped as he heard a knock on the door.

“Mr. Gallagher, do you need some help in there?”

“Ah, no. Thanks, Mrs. Stevenson….”

“Call me Shelley,” came her light, musical voice.

“No thanks, Shelley. I've found what I'm looking for.”

Colin began to perspire as he heard the doorknob begin to turn, and then gulped quickly for air as the sound stopped, as quickly as it had begun.

“OK. Well, I'll leave you to it then,” Shelley said, sounding vaguely disappointed.

Colin rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved with the wife of a potential gangster or thug, or whatever the hell Stevenson called his second “occupation.” His mind swam at the true meaning behind these sickening revelations. He stuffed a few of the receipts into his jacket pocket, wadding them up into little balls, and then closed the drawer.

The last row in the cabinet had a cheap-looking combination padlock attached to it, and his eyes focused with dread on the grey steel file it secured. Almost by instinct, he tugged the lock, not changing the numbered reels. It immediately dropped open. Now this is the Sven I know and love, he thought grimly. He delved greedily into the drawer and pulled out one of about ten plain brown envelopes. He recoiled at the first picture he pulled out.

It depicted a girl, no more than nineteen or twenty, he thought, spread-eagled and tied to a large steel table. Between her crotch was a large, rounded saw blade. If he hadn't seen the girl's eyes so clearly, he would have sworn they were just dirty pictures, delivered from the UK or the Middle East for a hefty sum, no doubt. But the terror in the girl's face was very real. He could tell she had been crying, as there were visible signs of moisture in the corners of her big, round eyes. Her teeth were barely visible behind a large handkerchief that had been stuffed into her mouth.

His heartbeat raced as he shuffled through the photographs, all of young girls arrayed and trussed up in sadistically twisted configurations. One girl was strung from a rod in a doorway with a rat dangling above her pussy by a barely-visible wire. Another woman was tied to a spit above several black kettles piled high with charcoal briquettes. Yet another was tied to a torture rack, her legs looking as though they were formed from Silly Putty, obviously no longer breathing.

Colin began panting hard, no longer caring if his tortured breathing could be heard or not. He stuffed the obscenities back in the envelope and slid it quickly under his arm, zipping up the jacket.

He looked frantically around for something to take with him, and snatched a large padded envelope from one of the counters. He took several deep breathes, then slowly opened the door to the dark room, paced through the laundry area, then started down the hall.

When he was about to step through the threshold of the kitchen doorway, he heard a sharp cracking sound and a woman's voice screaming for help. Peering around the corner, he saw two large, long-haired men in black T-shirts and leather vests; one holding a very large hunting knife to Shelley Stevenson's throat, while the other fit her wrists with a shiny set of steel handcuffs.

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

“Well, gentlemen, what can I do ya for?” Sven asked, putting down a sheaf of papers he had been leafing through at his small desk in the Times city room.

Before him were two elderly men, one dressed in a worn corduroy blazer, the other in a dapper black three-piece suit. He recognized the first man as Sy Carey, after a few moments.

“Mr. Stevenson,” the first man smiled, almost with hesitation, “I've wanted to meet you for some time now.”

“Mr. Carey!” Sven boomed, as if he were a long-lost relative. “What a pleasure! I hardly expected to find you here in this rank eastern heat. Aren't you located out in fair San Diego ?” He reached out his large paw and pumped the frail-looking man's hand wildly until it almost threatened to pop off.

Sy laughed lightly at Sven's enthusiasm and looked down. The other man continued to gaze at Sven in a detached way, almost as if he were evaluating him.

“Please guys, sit down!” Sven insisted, pulling up another small side chair from a nearby desk, to compliment his own.

“Sven, I'd like to introduce David Palmer, Diana's uncle,” Sy said, gesturing to the black-suited man. An uncertain look came over Sven, and then he pushed his hand into the elegant man's soft grip. He quickly withdrew it from Sven's touch after only seconds, and did not smile. Jesus Christ, Sven thought, Diana wasn't joking when she said her uncle was a bit unapproachable. Even though he'd dated Diana for more than half a year, he had never met either of her two guardians, but didn't find that strange. Her uncle was a notorious recluse who never ventured far outside of his palatial 100-acre estate in western Massachusetts , and his wife was usually in Europe , or at their Park Avenue apartment.

“Mr. Palmer, it's…such a pleasure,” Sven gushed. “Diana never stops talking about you and, of course, I know many things about all the good work you and your wife have done….” He trailed off, getting absolutely zero response from the man.

All three men took their seats, as Sy began to speak in a low, steady voice that commanded all the authority of someone speaking at four times the volume.

“Sven, Mr. Palmer has some questions for you regarding the trip you took with Diana, to Tarakimo. He's about to embark on hiring several international agents to engage in a world-wide manhunt for her. Before he does, he wants to clear some things up.”

“Wow! That's fantastic, Mr. Palmer,” Sven marveled. “It's about damn time, too. No one is taking this case near as serious as they should. I mean, I can't even get people to guard my own family, and I've been threatened several times.”

“Before or after you left Tarakimo, Mr. Stevenson?” Palmer asked curiously, speaking in a voice that oozed money and breeding.

“Well, both, David. Mind if I call you David? Call me Sven. Are you thinking she's still in Athens ?”

“So, your story is still that Tara 's thugs threatened you after you made your initial press statements while still in Tarakimo. Is that right, Mr. Stevenson?” Palmer asked, ignoring Sven's extraneous questions with cold neutrality.

“It was a bit more than a story, Dave….” Sven began, laughing slightly, “It sure as shit happened. I wish to god it hadn't.”

“Please. Mr. Palmer will do nicely,” came the man's stiff response, as he recoiled slightly at Sven's profanity.

Sven's cool slipped a notch. Who did this arrogant ivy-league prick think he was talking to? He suddenly had an image of the man, tied to a rope, prostrate before him, while he ripped the man's bespoke English suit from his body with his bare hands.

“Mr. Palmer,” Sven said, giving him a tight smile, before continuing. “I arrived at Tarakimo airport on July 5 to find Isamu and his henchmen there at the terminal, barring me from leaving the country. They had bayonets, for Christ's sake! They pulled no punches. Without a full retraction, my wife and daughter would have been kidnapped and tortured, and most likely I would not be here today.”

Palmer smiled slightly. “Yes, Mr. Stevenson, I'm well aware of what it's like to have family threatened,” he said, in a blasé tone that made Sven's blood boil. His family's welfare is obviously much more important than mine , simple peasant that I am, the photographer thought contemptuously. This guy is too much. “But your family is safe and sound, and mine are in danger,” Palmer concluded stonily.

“Look, pal,” Sven said, his voice lowering a register, as he shook a finger in Palmer's face. “My family is still in danger. I've gotten calls from Isamu ever since touching down….” He trailed off, feeling suddenly quite confused, as if he'd been tricked.

“Really, Mr. Stevenson?” Palmer asked, sounding very interested, almost as if he were a prosecuting attorney putting Sven through the wringer. “And why would Isamu threaten you now? What more could he want you to do for him?”

Sven tried to stifle a laugh. “This is really pathetic, you know? You rich pricks have always gotta find someone to take the rap, don't you? Maybe you should take a good hard look at this situation, Dave , and ask yourself who's really to blame for Diana's disappearance? Maybe you should have had your butler take your head outta your ass long enough to realize what your niece was up to!” Sven was now shouting at the wealthy man, but amazingly, Palmer continued to regard him with quiet contempt, as if Sven were completely fulfilling every prejudice he had arrived with.

“But you knew what Diana was up to, didn't you Sven?” Palmer pressed, looking deadly serious. “You were advocating for her to make that trip to Tarakimo long ago, weren't you? You see, sometimes I make it a point to have my head removed from my rectum long enough to have a chat with my niece. We're really quite close; more than you realize.” He gave Sven a caustic smile. “But, I must confess, after only talking to you briefly, that her involvement with the likes of you is indeed beyond my comprehension.”

“I have no idea what you're getting at,” Sven said, standing up suddenly. “And I don't wish to continue without a lawyer present!” With that, the big blonde man stalked from the room, grabbing his navy blazer from the coat rack angrily, brushing past Sy's outstretched arm.

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

General Tara playfully jiggled the large joystick on the console in front of him, staring intently at one of the large screens. Each subtle manipulation of the tool invoked a minute movement from a tiny camera mounted on a flexible metal hose in the top of Diana's small enclosure. The buttons mounted to the side of the joystick activated lights that were attached to the electronic eye, illuminating her pleading face for his perversity. He couldn't help but feel like a kid in a video arcade who had just won a free play.

Diana's deranged visage loomed large on his elegant bank of glass monitors: a dozen synchronized masks of fear, as two roaches, then five, skittered across her lips, vanishing into her dark, silky tresses. Her helpless cries echoed around the posh control center where the overfed tyrant was plushly ensconced, lounging in a large, comfortable chair. He leaned in close to the microphone and spoke with calm self-satisfaction: “You've never liked roaches, have you Diana? Such filthy little beasts, aren't they?” Her entire body shook with disgust as the legion of insects swarmed over her, but the dictator thought he detected a shake of her head. “These were specially bred for my use, in a laboratory. They don't carry disease, though. No, I most certainly don't want you to die on me. However, they are extremely aggressive. I regret there is little I can do to control them. On the other hand, there is much I can do to control your response to their tiny torments.”

With that, Tara pressed a button and the mass of tiny spikes surrounding Diana began to slowly converge upon her. Her body quaked fearfully as the plastic underneath her began to be slowly shredded. She tried in vain to brush off the probing feelers of the bugs, but could not even move enough to do so. The villain's irritating laugh engulfed her while she writhed to avoid the inevitable penetration of the needles. Deep in her pussy, the Ben-Wa balls rolled around, inducing small geysers of moisture from within.

Without warning, the needles stopped advancing, moving Diana to almost start crying with relief. He wants you to come, so come, she thought, trying to will her pussy to secrete even more fluid.

“Ah, relief!” the general gloated. “I see you've found the secret handshake!”

“I'll sign the report, general. I've done what you want, told you what you've asked…” she cringed with disgust as a roach stopped and hovered on one of her eyelashes. “Just get me out of here! I'll do whatever you want: suck your cock, lick your boots, just please….” The buxom young woman began to scream insanely.

“Yes, you've told me what I've asked so far. But, what I'm really wondering is what's going through that brainy little head of yours right now .” The dictator chuckled indulgently. “Tell me what you're thinking as you're getting yourself off. As your body is being invaded --- forcibly taken --- by both nature and machine; both slaves, I might add, of my mighty hand…. Are you really thinking of my omnipotent cock? Or, perhaps of the vast legion of men whom I control? How your life hangs oh so delicately in the balance, just beneath my glove? ”

The small needles started to again make contact with her skin, brushing against it with velvet precision, like a million tiny quills tickling every inch of her flesh. Whoever had coined the phrase “making skin crawl” had no idea of the accuracy with which that sensation could be effectively simulated by the most evil of human minds, Diana thought miserably. She could feel herself being slowly crushed under the tyrant's boot heel. He wants you wet, and you're wet. He wants you afraid, and you are. He wants you, and he has you. Pain and pleasure were gradually becoming one, as virtually indistinguishable as two shades of white.

Diana began to scream and plead with the maniac, without restraint. “Yes! Yes!” she said, no longer able to formulate any logical response; letting the words pour from her mouth. She had to end this; she was going mad. “I want to suck your cock! I want to kneel before your throne and become yours! I want to please you! I want you to be my…my….” --- she shuddered as she pictured his ecstasy at the word --- “…Master!”

Tara puffed meditatively on his cigarette holder and considered the girl's appeal, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Indeed I am…indeed,” he said, quite softly, almost with reverence.

He had won the first battle, even if she was only placating him, he thought. The rest would be far easier.

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

“Scream all you want, baby. No one's gonna save you,” one of the goons growled into Shelley's terror-stricken face, brandishing the serrated blade near the woman's rosy cheek. One man pulled her over to the massive dining table that sat just outside the kitchen and threw her roughly on the polished surface, sweeping a large vase of flowers to the floor with a crash, in the process.

Colin watched with horror as the two big goons maneuvered the nude woman's glistening body into place, securing it tightly with another pair of cuffs that they attached through an ornamental hole in the wood at the top of the table. Colin uncomfortably found himself peering into her moist, slightly reddened pussy lips as she panted with fright. He took a few steps back into the hallway, hiding himself as best as he could, while one of the men stepped into the kitchen, rummaging around in the drawers for a makeshift torture tool, before finally settling on a flat, metal cheese grater.

Colin's eyes opened wide as he inched over to the doorway once more. He studied the two men, trying to memorize any telling details, but found with frustration that there was little of significance. Neither wore tattoos on their bulging, muscular arms, which he found odd, considering their pat resemblance to Hell's Angels. Both wore aviator sunglasses that safely hid much of their faces behind ominous mirrored surfaces. One of the thugs had reddish-brown hair and the other, black. Both had pony-tails.

The black-haired man slid the grater under Shelley's ass while his partner lifted her in the air. Both secured her ankles with larger cuffs to the opposite end of the table. Sharp squeaks of panic began to peel from the woman's full lips.

“What do you want?” she wailed pathetically. “I'll give you anything…I'll tell you anything!”

The red-haired man laughed loudly and placed a large plug of chewing tobacco into his mouth from a tin in his back pocket. He stood near Shelley, fiddling with her left nipple, stroking it with a grimy hand. “Where can we find your hubby, sugar twat?” he cracked. The other echoed the statement by chuckling and shaking the handle of the grater, producing an ear-piercing scream from the woman.

“I have no idea…. No! I….” Shelley sputtered out, confused, as the black-haired man disappeared for a minute, and returned with a wire coat hanger, which he began twisting apart with his black, gloved hands. Colin gasped as the man seemed to be coming straight for him, but his eyes must have been trained on Shelley's frozen form, because he stopped in front of her and completed the disassembly, as she lie contemplating what he planned to do to her. The other man hooted wildly and began massaging her breasts with vigor, leaning over and dribbling tobacco juice on her face from his filthy mouth.

The black-haired man walked into the kitchen, and Colin's mouth went dry as the tough glanced rapidly in the direction of the hallway, perhaps having heard one of his retreating footsteps. He silently exhaled as the man approached the stove and placed the metal on one of the burners. He flicked on the gas and fired it up with a lighter. The goon watched the metal slowly begin to heat, smiling with sadistic glee.

Colin began to panic as the man walked slowly over to his prey, letting the metal wire lightly graze Shelley's nipple, making a soft, sizzling sound he could hear, even from his vantage point. The girl sputtered out wild, crazy yelps, then began to cry.

“I don't know! I don't know! He told me he was coming home last….”

The wire was bent by the black-haired goon's thickly gloved hand, into a small loop, and then placed around Shelley's trembling, red nub. “Ahhhh! Ahhh! No! NO! NO! ” she screamed, her body thrashing against the table wildly, trying pointlessly to move from her frozen state, but her yelling became even more shrill as the grater's jagged, nubbly edges grabbed and pulled ruthlessly at her firm ass cheeks, slowly beginning to tear them to ribbons. The red-haired man grabbed the wire and held his lighter to it for a few seconds more, and then advanced on the other breast. He crowed happily at the girl's excruciating agony. Colin began to back quietly down the hallway.

When he emerged a minute later, the lengthy barrel of Sven's hunting rifle protruded into the warm sun, which poured into the kitchen from a window.

“Don't you make a fucking move!” he warned, sweeping the weapon toward the two men, who both immediately turned their attention toward him. The red-haired man reached for something on his belt and Colin unloaded the gun, without hesitation, into the big man's foot. The blast was deafening, and it blew the biker back several feet, leaving him in a twisting, bloody heap on the floor, braying like a branded cow.

The other man dropped the wire hanger and held both hands in the air. “OK! OK!” he yelled, backing away from Shelley.

“Sit the fuck down on that couch and don't say a word,” Colin ordered. The man started for the couch, but, at the last second, began to run for the door. Colin fired into his back, slamming the man forward against the wooden surface.

Colin stepped back, shaking, as the front door burst open and he found himself eye to eye with Sven.