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2
The Plan
You do get those days, occasionally, when everything seems to be working out. All your aspirations and expectations are delivered and you mark that rotation of the earth as a positive in your life’s calendar.
Now imagine youve had a month of those days in a row. One after the other. Do you start believing in luck, then? Is that when you book yourself into the nearest church and thank God?
How about a year? One solid year of total one hundred per cent success in every endeavour. Maybe its wearing thin now. Maybe you start to expect it, and little insignificant failings start to seem so much bigger, so much worse. You become a perfectionist.
I think thats how we imagine it, because none of us live it. I imagined thats how it would be, its how I was raised. Appreciate what you got. Dont expect everything to go your way. Be happy with six out of ten. Good is good enough.
Well, here’s the thing.
FUCK, THAT.
The Bluenorth Club doesn’t just host parties for a night. The guys dont go home the next morning with beer soaked jackets with a thousand-dollar debt and a missing eyebrow. Bluenorth do it right.
It might seem easy, given they’re all basically zillionaires with total impunity from any government or police force. They are, as they would say, ‘invisible to the cosmetic authorities’. If that’s too vague for you, it means they’re rich enough that they can get away with anything.
And what they choose to get away with is not illegal arms trading, hardcore drugs, reality television or any of the usual evils. What they do is capture and cage women for the purposes of a short, very painful life sentence.
I blew cigar smoke out over a perfectly trimmed lawn. Wilkes’ butler was running a manual mower over the emerald plain as the others raised slowly, moving from room to room with a gentle grunt of ‘hey’ and ‘good night last night’.
I absent-mindedly drew an imaginary square around the lawn with my cigar. I repeated the action a few times, trying to get it right.
Wilkes opened the patio door and gave me a nod.
‘You got stuck in well last night. The boys were impressed.’
I shrugged off his compliments. Never did too well with those.
‘Not like it was an effort.’
I made the same shape again with my cigar, around the edge of the lawn. Wilkes noticed and smiled.
‘Trying to work it out?’
I nodded. Wilkes jumped up to his feet and paced out ten yards from the door to the verge of the grass.
‘Staircase.’ He said.
He then took off his shoes and walked across the carpet-like lawn, pacing out a rectangular shape about as long and wide as the one I had been imagining.
‘Edge of the dungeon.’ He confirmed, then pointed toward a trickling marble fountain, ‘torture equipment,’ he palmed at the far side of the lawn, ‘women’.
Years as a construction worker had left me with an itching need to know the exact layout of his underground male heaven. I already had it sussed that it was lain under the lawn. I watched the butler continue to run the grass with what I had thought was a mower, now realising it to be a movable electricity generator.
‘Right,’ Wilkes clapped his hands together, shaking his bushy beard against the brisk morning air, ‘time to get to work again!’
My body may have been aching beyond belief, but at the prospect of more, I leapt up and made it to the dungeon before Wilkes even had the key out.
As I approached the corridor of cages the girls flinched back into the deep recesses of their tiny prisons.
‘No, no no!’
‘Please not again!’
I checked each terrified face for the ones I had already tried. In my first night I had worked through about half of Wilkes’ inventory.
Reaching about two-thirds down the first corridor of cages I came across a black-haired pale little cunt, about 5’1. The girl shook her head and begged, but I had made my choice. Fresh meat for grinding.
Wilkes tossed me the electronic key and I swiped her open. Some of them scramble to the back of the cage, some lash out, kick, bite and scratch. Others try to push past you and run for it. They watch each other do it and fail, and still they try it.
That morning’s girl was a hider. She stuck her body so firmly into the far corner of the cage that I had to half climb in and grab her by the ankle.
As I pulled her out she clung on to the rungs of the cage with such panic that i had to yank her free, dislocating a finger in the process.
‘Thanks for getting me started,’ I told her as she wailed at the pain.
Hoisting her cheerfully over my shoulder I slapped her pert little white backside and carried her to the Chamber. Riding her over the horsebox got me into my rhythm, as pounded into her unbroken asshole, feeling the tears expand and her little voice grow hoarse from begging and screaming. Her tension enveloped my shaft as I hammered harder with every cry, loving the spasms that added extra tightness with every thrust.
I pulled out to spread my explosion of cum across her shivering thighs, listening to her voice crack and quake as her breathing slowed back to a normal rate.
‘Is that the end?’ she asked faintly.
I laughed, picked her up off the horse and dragged her by the wrists to the table, shoving her down onto her back. Her hands were behind clamps before she could think, and I was standing between her spread legs.
Her little face erupted into screams the moment she saw the metal canister, rounded at the tip to allow a smoother shove into her shivering cunthole. As I slid back the latch at the base an array of spikes jutted into the walls of her cunt, hair-thin and excruciating. Her thighs slapped against my sides trying to fuse together. Her crotch muscles contracted, desperately trying to force the canister out. With ease I held it inside, the traction on the spikes causing only more agony with every clench.
‘PLEASE!’
Her back arched and her arms twisted in the clamps, desperate for relief. Only ten minutes since cumming and I was already rock hard once again. Turning to the kit, I pierced her clitoris with a hook-edged needle and tugged repeatedly, watching the tears stream from her face, her mouth agape in a silent scream.
At once I pulled the hook free and had her on her feet, against the wall. The whip flew in my hand back and forth, ribboning her back with welts. Wilkes re-entered the dungeon and sounded an air-horn in my direction, drawing me out of my torpor.
‘What?’
‘Its dinner time.’
I looked at the clock, then at the broken, exhausted creature hanging in the wall brackets, barely able to draw enough breath to scream. I had been torturing her for five hours.
Wilkes had a knowing look in his eye as I returned the girl to her cage, practically folding her up like a suit to pack her away, so weak was she.
‘I was the same when I started,’ he told me as I slid the cage shut again, ‘you better watch how you go.’
‘Why, d’you think I might kill one of them?’
‘Two of the ones you used last night died.’
I froze on the spot and checked Wilkes’ eyes. He wasn’t kidding, but nor did he seem to be annoyed.
‘Women tend to do that when you shove an iron spike through their cunts, just saying.’
‘I guess so.’
‘How do you feel about it?’ He asked me.
I had no answer for him; at least none I was ready to say out loud. Lets just say I had no trouble sleeping that night.
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