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17
“Are you starting to pay me now?” Carol Edwards had asked four days earlier.
She was on the floor of Brad Tomalin’s office, on her side, her head propped up on her right elbow.
“No,” said Brad, as he placed five one hundred dollar bills on his desk. “These are for a new dress.”
Carol sat upright and looked at him quizzically.
“I’m giving you to a man Friday night. A car will pick you up at 8. He likes to tear the clothes off women, and fuck them while they’re crying. I know you can afford it, but I think he should pay for the one-wear dress. Buy something stylish. Something similar to what you were wearing to that charity thing the night we met would be good. He likes to rape ladies, not tramps. And although we both know what you are,” and he made an encompassing gesture toward where she sat naked in midday, with a drop of come in the corner of her mouth, “you can still pass.”
“He is going to hurt me?”
“Yes. Yes he is. Quite severely, I expect.”
“For how long?”
Brad laughed. “Until he lets you go. His car will return you home.
“Wear lingerie: bra, panties, garter belt, nylons. Lacy, sexy, elegant not trampy. More for him to rip off.
“And there are other instructions…”
…
“Open your mouth.”
Though spoken conversationally, the words knifed through the illusion that they were two normal people having evening cocktails.
Upon her arrival a half hour earlier, he had introduced himself as, “Ooni,” but it hadn’t been necessary.
“I know who you are. Oblivion’s drummer. I saw you perform live at the old Jack Murphy stadium when I was a teenager.”
He was pleased. A good start. She didn’t want him angry with her.
Oblivion was a rock group that made lifetimes of money in a few years in the early 90s before breaking up. She seemed to remember that he was from Sweden or Finland. Somewhere in Scandinavia. His English, though, was American.
For a while he was a model host, showing her into the spacious living room in the California Mission style house, overlooking a wide lawn sloping gradually to a stand of tall Eucalyptus trees on a hill north of San Diego and inland from Del Mar; asking politely what she would like to drink; mixing and pouring her martini, placing it on a coaster on the end table beside a two piece right-angled sectional; pouring himself a glass of champagne; taking a seat at the far end of the other piece of the sectional; complimenting her on how beautiful she looked, and on her dress; and carrying on the usual meaningless cocktail conversation about weather, climate change which could only have deleterious effects San Diego’s already perfect climate, recent movies, a book he was reading in which Rebecca West wrote that conversation is an illusion because there really are only intersecting monologues. They both laughed.
Carol’s dress was of flowing blue and green silk, cut high front and back and reaching to just above her knees. She had chosen it for style and because she thought it would tear easily. Never before had that been a consideration. Just to be safe, she had made a tiny cut in the neckline with fingernail scissors. Carol liked the dress and was sorry she’d never get to wear it again.
During the seemingly interminable inconsequential chit-chat, she tried to keep her eyes on Ooni, but they were continually drawn to objects on a old dark wood serving table behind him.
Hastily she swallowed the sip of martini she had just taken and opened her mouth.
“Run your tongue over your lips. Slowly. Top. Bottom. Make them glisten. Good.”
Carol felt herself trembling. A muscle in her flat abdomen twitched.
“Now tell me all the ways that mouth can bring me pleasure.”
“I can kiss you.”
Silence.
“And I can lick you.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you want. And I can suck you.”
Silence stretched.
“And...And I can talk to you.”
“Is that all?”
“All I can think of.”
“What about scream? Don’t you think it would bring me pleasure to hear you scream?”
“Y..yes.”
“And beg? Plead for mercy. Beg me to stop. Beg me to let you come? Which, by the way, Brad says I can if I chose.”
“Yes.”
“You look like a lady, but you are just another slut, aren’t you? Opening your mouth when a man you’ve just met tells you to. You’re not just another slut, you are the biggest slut of all.” Words were coming faster, piling on top of one another, and his voice rising. Abruptly that ended, and conversational again, “Did you know my wife left me?”
“No. Recently?”
“A long time ago.” As he spoke he seemed to forget about Carol Edwards and be looking within himself. “For another musician. Another drummer even. And not as big a band. He sells insurance now. They have a couple of kids.” And then he came back to the present. “You’re wearing a ring.”
Carol nodded.
“So where’s your husband?”
“Asia.”
“A big place, Asia. We toured there twice. Where in Asia?”
“At the moment Bangalore, India. I think.”
“You think?”
“I don’t...We don’t...I don’t hear from him everyday.”
“Does he know where you are?”
“You mean here in your house? I didn’t know until I got here.”
“I mean generally. He knows you are with other men? That you fuck them and do anything they want, no matter how vile?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know that you voluntarily came to a man who is going to make you scream?”
“I...I think so.”
“Again, ‘think.’ “
“I think Brad emailed him.”
“And what does your husband think of all this?”
“He thinks I’m crazy.”
“And what do you think?”
“He may be right.”
Ooni laughed.
“Do you think he would like to hear you scream?”
“I don’t know...Probably. I’ve hurt him.” Immediately she realized that was the wrong thing to say.
This laugh from Ooni was more troubling.
“I’ll punish you for him. I’ll make you scream for him. For us all. I’ll beat you like a drum.”
He smiled and went on matter-of-factly.
“An old expression, but I’ve found it true. The best drum is a woman’s body. Don’t know about men. Might be the same. Probably is.
“But a woman’s body is great. Different sounds from different parts. Ass, breasts, back, legs, soles of feet. All different sounds. Call for different strokes, different rhythms. And the cries and screams and begging are the lyrics. The body is the drum; the screams the lead singer. I improvise the lyrics, too. Loud and soft. Fast and slow. It’s an art. And I’m a good drummer. Always was. The best.”
Carol felt her body shaking.
“You’re shaking. Good. You’re afraid. What else are you feeling, knowing that soon you will be naked and helpless before me?”
“I am afraid. And curious.”
“Excited? Aroused? I’ll bet your cunt is wet.”
“Yes.”
“What did Brad tell you about me?”
“That you like to rip women’s clothes off and make them cry.”
“And you still came tonight?”
“Obviously.”
“Did he tell you anything else.”
“To have my...rear clean. To wear mascara. Water based.”
“And why do you suppose I specified that?”
“I don’t know.”
“So that it will run down your face when you cry.”
“Oh.”
“What do you think of my toys?” He gestured over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what some of them are.”
“Come. I’ll show you.” And he stood and held out his hand.
Although her heels were only a modest 2 ½” high, Carol got unsteadily to her feet and put her hand in his. Both their palms were damp.
Circling the sectional, he led her to the table.
“You recognize some of these.” Pointing to several pair of Vice-grips. A battery operated electric drill. Plastic electrical ties of various sizes. Duct tape. A three foot length of clear plastic ½” diameter hose. “Home Depot is a great place for S and M. Don’t worry about the drill. There’s a dildo attachment. And the ties are perfect for all sorts of things: wrists, ankles, breasts. You have big ones. Secure these around the base. Tighten them down. Watch the pressure build up. Your breasts turn purple with trapped blood. The sound changes then. But they do leave marks.
“For your sake, I hope you followed instructions. The hose is for you to suck my come out of your ass.”
Spread out on display were whips, various leather and metal collars and cuffs, a leather hood with a metal ring at the top and zippers at mouth and nose; a full body black latex suit, also with strategically placed zippers. “For when I just want the essentials,” Ooni said.
A box with wires running from it like a battery charger sat next to something that resembled an electric shaver. “A stun gun,” he explained, picking it up and pocketing it.
“These,” he said pointing to a pile of individually wrapped vials, “are surgical needles. Sterile. Where do you think I should place them?” When she did not reply, his drummer-strong hand still holding hers squeezed hard. “Where?”
“Ohh. Please. Sensitive places. My breasts.”
“And?”
“Not my vagina?”
“Why not your cunt? Your clit? Your ass? All over?”
Abruptly he stopped crushing her hand and released it.
Ooni was having trouble controlling his breathing, and Carol Edwards wondered if he was insane or on drugs, or both, and was terrified. This man could kill her, mutilate her. What had Brad gotten her into? She glanced around, desperately seeking a way to escape.
“The trouble,” Ooni said, “Is that you are already such a slut that many of the things I like to do to married whores like you, Brad tells me you are used to, already do routinely. Ah, well, I will have to be creative.”
The bony man turned abruptly. A blur of motion. Blinding pain exploded in Carol Edward’s mid-section, and she found herself writhing on the floor, gasping for air. Instantly he was on her, grabbing the collar of her dress, ripping down, pulling the shreds from her shoulders, fingernails slashing at the lacy light blue bra that matched her eyes, digging into her breasts. “You didn’t think,” he hissed, “that just because you are willing, I wouldn’t rape you.”
The lovely dress tore all the way down. Matching blue garter belt and panties dug into her flesh as they were pulled off.
Carol was still trying to breath. She wasn’t even sure what had happened. Had he punched her? Used the stun gun? Her shoes had fallen off. Only ripped nylons clung to her lower legs. Rough hands and teeth everywhere. She was being raped, and fought back instinctively, scratching at his face. Drawing blood.
“Bitch.” And this time she saw his fist slam into her gut.
Her legs forced apart. His cock free of his pants. “You are sopping, slut. You love it.” And he pounded her brutally against the floor.
…
All the rooms had high ceilings. This one was twelve feet, Carol Edwards thought as her eyes followed the rope from leather wrist cuffs to a pulley. Her head was behind her arms and she could not look forward, only up or to the sides. The rope was taut. Her body, now stripped even of the tattered stockings, stretched full length. Swaying, striving to balance on the very tips of her toes. To the sides she saw herself endlessly reflected in a continuous wall of 7’ mirrors that lined the room. Reflections reflecting helpless reflections.
Now, naked too, looking more corpse than man, Ooni entered the room.
“You do have a body. Even stretched like that, your tits haven’t flattened.
“I want you to feel something.” He held up the stun gun. “I’ve never experienced it myself, so can’t say first hand, but all women say it is the worst.”
“No. Please.”
“I told you you would beg. Now scream.” He touched the device to her right nipple and she did. briefly, before blacking out.
…
“Come on. Come on. We don’t have all night. Unfortunately.”
To the sharp smell of ammonia, Carol regained consciousness.
Ooni was holding something under her nose and slapping her face, not hard.
“There. That’s better.”
“No more. Please no more.”
“Oh, there is more. Some time when we have more time, I will take time. But I want to finish your introduction.”
Blue eyes in lolling head watched his scrawny ass move away. A cranking sound. Pressure on her wrists and arms. Toes scrambling wildly for vanishing floor. When the cranking stopped the strain on her arms and shoulders was immense. In the reflections the gap between the floor and her toes was six inches.
He was back beside her. His breath in her face. Right hand found her right breast. Left hand the crack of her ass. Pulling on nipple, pushing on ass, he put her in motion. Swinging a pendulum. A motion he continued with a bullwhip.
The whip cracked, snaked around her body, between shoulders and thighs, bruising but not quite breaking skin, wrapped, spun her as it unwound. Caused unbearable pain and promised screams. And running mascara.
“You are starting to look like an owl,” he observed, when he finally lowered her, sobbing to the floor, and rolled her onto her belly.
Her body on fire with pain, Carol Edwards hardly noticed the cock enter her ass, until it emptied and withdrew and was replaced by something smaller but harder.
“Here,” Ooni said, rolling her onto her back and placing the other end of the plastic tube in her mouth. “Suck.”
She did.
Though tears she saw him leaning over her with a video camera, photographing the tainted fluid flowing through the tube.
…
An hour later they were in a bed. She was crying.
“Do you want to come?”
Hating herself, she nodded between sobs.
“Then climb on.”
Her body hurt. Not as much as it would in a few hours when it stiffened. She winced as she swung a leg over him, and gasped at the now rare sensation of a cock, a hard, real cock, in her cunt. Ooni lay still, hie hands crossed behind his head. Smiling. Letting her do all the work.
Lifting and lowering hips. A sea of pain penetrated by pleasure.
18
She healed. Or at least her body did. And life flowed on. Though a river deeper and darker. Like any addict, she built up tolerance and needed ever stronger dosages of her drug of choice.
Carol Edwards had a beautiful mind. The Ancient Greek ideal: a sound mind in a sound body. Well, perhaps not so sound, or so beautiful, any more.
Though that mind was becoming increasingly irrelevant to her life, she sometimes paused to wonder what was happening to it. Sex, real and anticipated, released hormones and chemicals. While she had always enjoyed sex; in the past, except at the very start of a few relationships, she was having sex or anticipating sex only at scattered intervals. A few times a week. The chemicals flooded her brain and then were washed away. Now they were always there. She was always having sex, or just had, or was about to. Hormones and the semen of several men were always in her body. She wondered if there were toxic levels.
She was fucking so much it was changing her body. That and less sleep. She had lost a few pounds, which she didn’t need to. Was more limber and supple. More toned. As though she worked out for two or three hours a day. Which she did. But not in a gym. She sensed her brain, constantly bathed in corroding sexual chemicals and stimuli, was changing too. Surely it was being re-wired. Some connections atrophying; some grotesquely strengthened.
One thing that had definitely changed was that Brad was permitting her more orgasms. And the more she had, the more she wanted, even though she was fully aware of what he was doing: he was perverting her. Ross might not know that he was a lab rat, but she knew she was.
She never had what might be considered a ‘normal’ orgasm, an orgasm from a single man with a single cock in her vagina.
Mostly she still just took cocks in the mouth and ass. But increasingly Brad let her finger herself to orgasm while being butt fucked, or let Faye and other women--Rose, the black haired beauty Brad had fucked beside her had returned several evenings with two or three girl friends to play with her and have her serve them--lick or fist fuck her until she came. Faye sometimes made her come by fucking her pussy with the strap on or, rarely, after making her douche, by going down on her. She got to use ever bigger dildos to get herself off, sometimes just the dildo, sometimes the dildo in her cunt while a cock was up her ass. She was now taking one nearly as thick as an arm.
She was permitted to come while sandwiched between two men, or with cocks in all three holes.
Ooni often made her come while torturing her, further blurring pain and pleasure.
And she was compelled to come while engaging in other bizarre acts.
It didn’t matter. She got to come. And that didn’t really even matter either. She liked to come. She craved to come. And the craving was really all. The constant tension, the constant anticipation, heightened sensibility, heightened sensitivity, nerve ends always activated. Life lived on a whole new level of intensity. The rush of constantly desiring and being desired.
I’ve become a bitch constantly in heat, Carol Edwards realized, and did not want to be anything else.
19
To: redwards2010@gmail
From: The Office of Brad Tomalin
Subject: a few things you still don’t know
Attachment: carolhomemovie5.mp4
In his office Ross Edwards opened the video and turned the volume down to the lowest level which he could hear.
A darkened screen. Carol’s voice.
“Please don’t do this. He doesn’t need to see this.”
From black the screen faded in to the spacious master bathroom of the San Diego condo. Terra cotta tile floor. An oversize tub with Jacuzzi nozzles. A corner shower with clear glass walls. Double basins. Toilet. A woman who could only be Carol on her knees, fully dressed, as though she had just come home from work. Ross did not recognize the dress and could not see the woman’s face because her head was in the toilet. Seat raised. All the way in.
“Drink.”
Indistinguishable sound.
The camera was hand held and wavered. A man’s left hand and arm entered the screen, moved as Ross knew it would to the flush lever. Water gushed into the bowl. The woman did not move. Hand grabbed a fistful of hair, lifted, turned Carol’s dripping, eyes-closed face toward the camera. Pushed it back down.
Brad’s voice: “Wash. Rinse. Repeat.”
The toilet flushed again.
Fade to black.
Fade in to Carol, face still wet, shoulders and bodice of dress damp, still fully dressed, which somehow made it worse, kneeling in the bathtub.
“Open.”
Her mouth opened.
“Wider.”
Nothing happened for almost a minute before a yellow stream arched onto the screen and into Carol’s mouth.
Brad chuckled. “Always takes me a while when I have a hard-on.
Had to tie her up and use a ring gag at first. But after three or four times she got used to it. Swallow.”
Ross saw movement in his wife’ throat.
Her eyes squeezed closed as the stream moved up to her forehead, down painting her cheeks, to her lips which obediently opened again, then lower, soaking her dress until her nipples became visible through the cloth.
Fade to black.
Fade in to a close up of Carol’s contorted face. Wet sounds. Heavy breathing. Grunts.
Slowly the camera zoomed back to reveal her naked in the middle of their bed. She was on her back, her legs spread, knees pulled beside her breasts, feet in the air, her right hand buried to the wrist in her cunt, fist-fucking herself.
“You can come,” said Brad.
Sounds of her doing so as the screen faded to black.
An unholy scream that made Ross glad he had turned the volume down.
The screen remained black.
“No. Oh, god. No. I can’t stand it. It is too much. Please. Please let me down.”
The screen faded in to an image Ross Edwards had never even imagined.
Carol was hanging naked in a room Ross did not recognize. Her feet were two feet from a hardwood floor. Her arms were tied behind her. Wrist to wrist. Elbow tight to elbow. Thrusting her breasts out, which wasn’t necessary. They would have been out anyway because she was hanging by them. A rope ran about both, distending them to the point it seemed they would be torn off, and then up to the ceiling.
A naked bony man appeared, with a disproportionately healthy erection jutting from his corpse-like pelvis and with, unbelievably, drum sticks in his hands. Reaching above his head he began beating Carol’s blood black nipples like a snare drum, causing her screams to reach new crescendos.
Fade to black.
Fade in to Carol on the floor. The camera moved slowly over her body, lingering on sobbing face and rope marks cut deep into the base of her still purple breasts.
Fade to black.
The screen remained black. “No. Please. No more. Ahgggg!”
Abrupt silence.
The file ended.
Ross sat at his desk, unable to move, stupefied, almost unable to breath.
He gradually came back to his senses and a moment of guilt when he realized his cock was rock hard. But only a moment. He could hardly wait to get home.
20
“Carol, could you come to my office?”
The voice was Rik Cronin’s.
Most of the staff worked in an open space of the old warehouse, divided into cubicles by shoulder high partitions; but Rik Cronin of course had his own office, as did five of the senior architects, including Carol Edwards. Rik’s was only a few steps away from her’s, on the other side of an area shared by his secretary and three PA’s for the senior architects.
Distracted, she gave a courtesy knock on his door and entered. She had just seen an email that Ross had sent ten hours earlier, declaring that he was going to file for divorce. Though hardly unexpected, it had an effect.
Giving Rik a forced smile, she said, “Good morning.”
She hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room.
Her heart sank. Instantly she foresaw everything. Knew that her life had undergone another seismic shift. That she had just lost her final refuge. A familiar voice to her left said, “I don’t believe you are properly dressed to be in my presence.”
Carol Edwards turned and saw Brad Tomalin, sitting, smiling, legs casually crossed in one of the chairs around a conference table on the far side of the room. She seemed to have lost her voice; but then there was nothing to say.
“I see what appear to be pantyhose, and I suspect a bra and panties.”
“I...I had no way of knowing you were here.”
“Of course not. But a good executive is always prepared. No reason to waste all that time pulling them on and off every time I send for you. Rik won’t mind if we extend the rule to this office as well, will you, Rik?”
“Indeed not.”
Both men smiled. Brad Tomalin easily. Rik Cronin tensely.
“So...” said Brad.
“So?” Carol hated that her voice wavered.
“We’re waiting.”
Carol started to speak. Stopped. A hundred thoughts ran through her mind and cancelled one another out before reaching the inevitable conclusion.
“All of it?” she finally asked.
Brad nodded.
Standing midway between the two men, she looked at neither, staring at the blank cream colored painted brick wall in front of her as she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the carpeted floor.
To her right Rik Cronin’s breath became louder as she continued to reveal what was familiar to Brad Tomalin, but which he had so long desired, never seen, and would soon possess.
“Beautiful isn’t she?”
“Yes. More even than I had imagined.”
“Over here,” Brad ordered.
Carol walked to him, aware of Rik’s eyes boring into her back.
“Take it out and get it wet.”
She got down on her knees for the first time in that office, unzipped his suit pants, bent to the task.
After a few minutes, “That’s enough. Climb on. No, face Rik.”
“Where?”
“In the ass. Don’t think I’m going to reward you for being improperly dressed, do you?”
Placed her bare feet and legs outside his clothed ones, she lowered herself onto his cock and began riding.
“Look at Rik. Make eye contact.”
She did and saw a face of fearsome lust.
“Lean back against my chest. Raise you feet to my knees so he can see more clearly what he is getting.”
Rik placed his hands on her hips and raised them so he could thrust up. Carol threw her head back and groaned.
“Spread open your cunt. Let him see what he’s not getting.”
Air was forced from her lungs on each inward stroke. The interior office wall was not thick. She feared that the sounds were carrying into the reception area.
“Ahhh.” She felt him come.
Strong hands lifted her.
“Clean it.” Then as she knelt and did, to Rik, “Woman will definitely cause an increase in your dry cleaning bills.”
“I can...It will be worth it.”
Brad laughed, “I’m sure it will be.” He stood, zipped, and walked to the door, which he opened. Carol Edwards cringed and hoped no one outside could see. “Enjoy.”
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