Page 1.

 

            The Filing Cabinet Tit Torture.

 

            She was a fighter.

            The best I'd ever had.

            Twenty-nine and perfectly fit and a ringer for Ashley Judd.

            Same uppity face and attitude.

            'Her a ball buster', That's for sure.

            Same fuckable and breakable body.

 

                Visit:    http://www.famousbabes.com/pics118/ashley/ashley019.jpg

                             http://www.famousbabes.com/pics118/ashley/ashley030.jpg

 

            And dammit, she was fast and strong.

            She'd  gotten loose from her bindings, and was getting away.  She must have pumped a quart of adrenalin, because she got over beside a four drawer, letter-sized, steel filing cabinet, the older style, where I had my porn pictures and magazines and a good number of video tapes and discs, and she gave it a great heave and tipped it over towards me. I had to scramble, like mad, to not get completely trapped under it and the top caught my ankle and foot, pinning it.

             That hurt plenty.  It must have weighed two hundred pounds and I couldn't get my foot loose, as she reversed and came charging back at me.

            She was naked and her tits flew around.

            She was really going to let me have it and she wasn't one to trifle with.

            (Just like Judd, in the 1997 movie, Kiss the Girls.)

            The only thing was, two of the drawers had spilled open and all the contents spread about.  She slipped on some of the plastic cases and fell, her full weight, onto the corner of one drawer.  She crashed down, and broke one of her fucking ribs, the lowest one, on the right, and yelped, as she passed out from the pain and the surprise.

            There she was slumped over the drawer, a little blood dripping onto my precious stuff, with her tits profiled like hanging ornaments. I could have put a single arrow through both of them at once.  She wasn't all that big, so it would have taken a pretty good shot, but I could have done it.

            So there I was with my foot still stuck and hurting even more because of her added weight on the cabinet.

            Fuck was I mad.

            At myself for being so careless.

            I managed to twist around, to flop her off, using her hair as a pull and then levered the cabinet up to free myself.

 

Page 2.

 

            It took about ten minutes and I was pissed beyond pissed.

            I wanted to kill her.

            Instead, I drew back to kick her, with my other foot, in the cut on her side, but it hurt too much to try to stand on the sore one. I dropped down and kneed her good and punched her a few jabs, to be sure the rib wasn't just cracked.

            She moaned but didn't revive.

            I looked at the mess of my files, of my collections, and the cabinet, and at her sprawled naked, thinking she needed a real fucking vicious lesson.

            I still wanted to kill her.

            But she was too nice to waste.

            I kept looking at the sturdy, steel cabinet.

            Some more and some more.

            When it was full, it was really heavy.

            I could barely move it myself.

            Maybe I should drop it on her?

            Fucking right, I had a vision.

            She came to in a couple of hours and had no idea of what I'd been up to, but I'd been busy with the mischief.

            From about the waist up, I had her secured to the floor, extremely firmly.  I had her wrists bound and pulled outwards in opposite directions at a distinct right angle to her body.  Her shoulder  and elbow joints were almost dislocated, she was stretched so tightly.  Using two steel eyelets screwed into the wooden floor, beside her on each side, I had a cord pulled through them and over her, fastened ultra-tight forcing her tail bone tight, flat down. She could move her legs freely to kick all she wanted, but from the constraint up it was as if she was nailed down (which didn't sound like a bad idea either.  Crucify her to the floor. And I had lots of spikes.)

            I had uprighted the filing cabinet and emptied it of all its remaining contents and dragged it over to where she was.  I levered it so that its back was on top of her valley, between her tits, at a right angle to her shoulders. While being busy, I had attached two wooden legs made of sturdy two by six spruce, to the front of the cabinet, on the sides, the same height as her chest from the floor.

            The cabinet was resting half on her chest, at the back, and half on the floor, on the legs I'd made, at the front, with small pieces of carpet under them so they'd slide, if need be.

            The width of the cabinet was a bit of a problem.  From her arm pit, it was down to her gut and wanted to tip into her stomach, like disappear into her belly button.

            I had to be ingenious. I attached another board to the bottom at the front, and extended it out about two feet towards her toes. Like an outrigger. I attached another leg to it to arrive at the same length as the other two and now it just sat there nice and straight and tall and steady. She'd really be puzzled by my engineering, but mostly the need for it.

            The very bottom of the cabinet was pretty well flat, like the top, but it had some seams and rough edges and it was already digging into her valley.

            I waited for her to come to.

            I was in no hurry.

            My fucking foot still hurt and I wanted to re-charge.

            Besides, did I have a surprise for her.

            And I wouldn't do any more until she could watch and see and wonder aloud.

 

Page 3.

 

            She revived slowly and then started qickly, 'Ow. Ow. What the Hell? What the fucking Hell? What are you doing? Why? Get this thing off me.'

            She kicked her legs some, throwing her cunt open to view but then settled down when she realized it, plus how much it hurt more. How heavy it felt.

            It was about to get a whole lot heavier.

            'For God's sake, you idiot, what are you doing? Get this thing off me. It's cutting into me.'

            'Fuck you and fuck you. You tried to flatten me with it, so why shouldn't I return the favor? Besides you nearly busted my foot.'

            'God stop it. I was only defending myself. Oh shit. God, my ribs. I think one's broken.'

            'Yeah, maybe not before and maybe so, from the fall, but for sure after I kneed and punched you.'

            'You broke my rib? On purpose?'

            'Sure. Why not? What's it to you, after what you tried? You're lucky it wasn't your neck or your cunt.'

            'I was just trying to save myself. Why shouldn't I try to save myself?'

            'Because you failed, you idiot, and now let's see you save yourself from this.'

            She had no fucking idea what my idea was.

            'Please. I'm sorry. Please. Just get it off me. I can hardly breath and it's hurting my chest something awful.'

            'And it's hurting your tits, at least one of them?'

            It was like that was important to me, that her breast was getting it too.

            'I said it's hurting my chest, just get it off me.'

            'Well, let's see what we can do to increase that?'

            'Increase? What? Increase? Why?'

            The first part of my scheme was very simple.

            I pulled open the bottom drawer all the way. It actually lessened a bit of the pressure on her and she looked a little relieved.

            I left the room and returned, staggering under the weight of six square concrete paving stones, I gathered from a pile outside. They were double Hollands from Unilock and were about eight by eight by two inches thick.

            'What the Hell? What the bloody Hell are you doing?'

            I started to put them into the drawer, at the back corner, closest to her chin.  It didn't do much of anything, because most of the weight was over the front feet and she wondered what I was up to.

 

Page 4.

 

            Then, she was incredulous.

            She couldn't fucking believe it.

            Each stone weighed exactly fifteen pounds.

            The six were in place and I closed the drawer.

            Which put the load bearing extra onto her tit valley.

            Now she really felt the added effects of ninety extra pounds.

            I opened the next drawer and left for another batch of weight.

            Four drawers, four loads.

            And I ended up with three hundred and sixty pounds piled into the cabinet, plus it's own weight, about four hundred and forty pounds total, all bearing almost over her heart.

            She looked squished and pained and all terrified and had to fight to get each breath.

            It reminded me of a great big fat lady who was convicted of murder because she sat on her husband (who was cheating) and wouldn't get off. He couldn't breath. How she'd gotten a husband in the first place was beyond me.  I imagine she wasn't fat when he married her, but ate her way right into prison and oblivion.

            I figured I'd done enough stones to move on to the next step but wanted to tease her a bit first and maybe rape her a bit for good luck.

            'So now what do you think about trying to flatten me? How do you like it?'

            She could only gasp and croak out her reply  because of how much her chest was compressed and her heart was being squished too, like being bruised.

            It wasn't a good thing to mash her ticker.  It might stop her clock for good.

            'God. God. God. Enough. God.'

            'You're right. I guess it's enough, but I could add a few more.'

            'No. God. God. Get it off me. You're killing me. The pressure in my ears, something's wrong. And my eyes feel funny.'

            She was bleeding slightly into the whites. I guess her heart, having to work so much harder, was increasing her blood pressure.

            Maybe to dangerous or fatal levels.

            Oh well, Que Sera Sera.

            Que Serah, rah, rah.

            Give me a one..

            Give me a two..

            Fucking cunt, as if I really cared.

            There'd be nobody to say a prayer at her grave,

            So I'd give her the cheer.

            The big send off.

            'You want it off?'

            'Of course, Don't be stupid. (She still had the fight in her.) Of course, I want it off.'

 

Page 5.

 

            'It doesn't sound like you've learned your lesson, calling me stupid.'

            'I'm sorry. I meant the question was stupid.'

            'Calling me stupid or the question stupid, it's the same thing.'

            I collected four more stones.

            'Oh no. God no.'

            And put them loose on top of the cabinet.

            Sixty more pounds added.

            We were right at the quarter ton.

            'So I suppose you really want it off now? Say please take it off.'

            'I already have said please. And don't put any more on, they're too heavy. So please again, help me. Take it off. Help me.'

            I guess I can do that. You seem sincere. Now you seem contrite.'

            She'd never been contrite a single day in her entire arrogant life and certainly wouldn't be so now under forced circumstances.

            She didn't think I knew, but I knew.

            She wanted to kill me more than ever.

            I should have added fifty more stones.

 

            I went and got a strong length of rope and one of my come-along ratchets, the fence puller device with the long handle and the steel cables and hooks.

            I secured the rope around the three feet at the front of the cement filled cabinet and attached it to the ratchet which I anchored to a strong wall bracket bolted right to a stud. We were in an unfinished attic in an old, isolated house.

            I tightened everything up snug.

            'For God's God's sake.' she gasped, 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

            'You said you wanted it off. I'm going to grant your wish.'

            It should have been clear to her, by now, that I was going to pull the cabinet off her by using the ratchet.  The only problem being, she had a tit under there somewhere.

            She still hadn't added it up, done the math, but her recognition was about to focus.

            I started to click the device, using the handle, until the cabinet was ready to slide the first tiny bit.  It was digging right into her flesh and didn't want to budge.  It was her skin and breast plate holding it back. It wasn't the front feet since they were on the carpet sliders.

            After three more clicks, it lurched about half an inch.

            She squealed out like a pig on fire.

            But she couldn't run around.

            All she could do was kick.

            And thrust around with her crotch.

            And it hurt even more.

 

Page 6.

 

            It didn't rip her skin right open but gave her an abrasion, like a power belt-sander had been taken to her, using rough grit.

            Or a carpenter's rasp was bringing her down to size.

            I kept on with the clicking and now had shifted the load about two inches across her.  She was trying to roll, or was more like being force rotated, but her arm was stretched so tightly she just stayed fastened flat. There was no sign of her tit, from above, but the other one was being pulled right over, headed for the center, where her valley belonged. It was being pulled over too. I suppose dislocated. Who'd ever heard of a woman's dislocated tit valley before?

            The view from underneath was something else and it only got better.

            I was taking my sweet time and now after half an hour, I had pulled it across her by four inches and she was finally beginning to comprehend the real problem and the dire seriousness of it.

            What if I kept on going?

            Surely, I wouldn't keep on going.

            I was taking longer now between clicks, so she thought I might be stopping.

            But if I didn't, what was going to happen to her tit that was pinned under it?

            What would eventually happen?

            I wasn't sure either, since I'd never done it before, but my imagination tended to be pretty accurate.

            And, of course, my vision was my goal all along, from the first paving stone I'd put in the bottom drawer.

            She was about seven inches from center to side and now I'd moved it another two inches.

            One fucking inch to go and the thing would slide off her and down.

            Her other tit was pulled right to the center of her chest now and looked silly and fascinating.

            Like a cyclops teat.

            'So what do you think? Think your tit's in for it now?'

            She wrenched her head side to side, more like snapping it and her legs flailed weakly too.

            Her cunt pushed up.

            There was no reason not to fuck her.

            She just moaned and I think it sounded like 'No' with way too many o's.

 

Page 7.

 

            I knew I'd already torn the valley side of her tit from her under supporting pectoral muscles, since no sign of it was yet showing from the front.

            From the side and underneath, it looked like a balloon about to burst, like a bull frog's distended throat as he croaks.

            I suppose her tit was about to croak.

            There was no reason not to fuck her.

            Blood was starting to seep right out from all the distressed skin and her nipple was streaming the white sticky milky juice drink.

            I put a flat saucer under her to collect it for a bit of a taste treat later.

            I had to decide if I really wanted to destroy that tit or had she had enough.

            Then I remembered again, there was no reason not to fuck her.

            I stood over her and went to her face and held it still as I kissed her.

            Her face was so twisted and her lips contorted.

            And she got each breath in installments.

            She barely looked beautiful but was gorgeous in her pain.

            I forced my fingers into her mouth, to humiliate her more.

            'Go ahead bite them. See what happens if you bite them.'

            She never wanted to do any one thing more in her entire life.

            I took hold of her hair, both sides, and smacked her skull to the floor.

            I'd have to be watching that. It didn't take much to crack a head.

            'Now we fuck. Now we fuck, you fuck.'

            I could see in her eyes she was going blank.

            I worked my way down to her pussy and punched her lightly in her lips. She tried to thrust her ass up, but couldn't and any lurching on her part made the load on her chest  even more unbearable.

            I pretended to rape her.

            I parted her and licked her, the usual stuff and gave her the forty jabs with my knob. The thing was, her tit in the center squeezed regular but the one under the cabinet was like an India rubber ball. I think I could have exploded it if I'd squeezed my hardest.

            I left her the squirt load and it was time for the finale.

            I wasn't about to reprieve her tit.

            I wanted to see what would happen too.

           

            I stated with the ratchet again and the cabinet was the smallest  fraction of an inch from sliding down her ribs to crash to the floor  and then, hopefully, topple over onto her.

            I gave her one nice little mouth kiss and a clit lick and went back to finish the job.

 

Page 8.

 

            Three more clicks and all fucking torture Hell broke loose.

            It slid down off her shearing her breast open at the inner, valley side and then dropped down onto it to crunch it. It exploded like a water filled balloon and guts and blood sprayed all about and even up onto me. The cabinet teetered there, for about ten seconds, and then proceeded to fall back over her, crashing onto her other tit, before the top smashed into the floor.

            Two tits with one load of stone.

            Fucking little sparrows had broken wings.

            The thing was, the loose stones on top, two of them landed together on her outstretched, tied forearm and broke it.

            Of course she'd passed out. She'd almost passed out from the fuck and I hadn't even rammed her that much or hard but I guess the cunt smacks hadn't helped her constitution. Now she was out cold, so I could  take my time seeing the results and tidying up the mess of my stuff she'd created. Plus she'd crapped and pissed and that needed the mop.

            Now all the stones were in the back of the drawers and the cabinet was on its back and I couldn't lift it off her. The weight and the crash had twisted it, bent it and I couldn't get any of the drawers open

            She'd ruined a perfectly good filing cabinet and I'd have to take it out of her hide.

            Does a clit have a hide?

            It had no where to hide, from my lying, prying eyes, that was for certain.

            I was able to attach an eyelet into a ceiling joist and used the ratchet and rope to pull the whole thing up by the wooden legs I'd put on and swing it around to the side, off and away from her.

            Later, I had to cut it up with a disc grinder to get the stones out.

 

            God.

            God Almighty, was she a pleasing and sorry sight.

            Her tit would never go back into place. It was sheared away from the underlying muscles and she'd split open right through her nipple, not even around it, just about through the center, when she exploded.

            It all looked like road kill.

            Like a bunny rabbit.

            All innocent and mangled.

            Her flesh had been no match for the cement (truck).

            It was totally un-repairable.

            But.

            It was still there.

           

Page 9.

 

            It was still her tit. It wasn't off. I could still make her wear a bra and stuff it into a cup to dress up. And get her into a stretchy tea shirt, wearing no bra.

            See what she thought of women's lib then?

            Fuck, of fuck.

            Some of the pictures possibilities.

            I'd need the discount ink for my printer.

            I cupped my hand under her tenderly and eased her back up onto her chest where it belonged.

            It stayed, sort of flopped, but was more of a heap and she had three nipples.

            It was like dumping a load of stew out of a tin can.

            I picked at one half of her nipple and could see the duct work all leading to the center of her split areola.

            And her horny little erection muscles were no match either.

            They were all pulled and asunder.

            And there was nothing left for them to do, but to try.

            And if they couldn't succeed, there were always the ice cubes or nail clippers.

            They were practically homeless, or at least an earthquake had hit their home base.

            And just like a human being,  because she saw herself as human, she really believed I had to care.

            And I did care.

            I was happy I had succeeded so well.

            It was everything I'd expected, and more.

            Her other tit had been crushed differently when the weight toppled on to her, but it wasn't nearly as severe or dramatic.

            It would heal in six months.

            It could heal.

            The other one would never, not even with a team of surgeons.

            Her slender arm was swelling, from the break and even though it was never set, it would heal.

            She wouldn't be coming to, any time soon, so I decided to give her another jolt with the rod.

            Like before and after fucks and this one for her bad luck.

            There was no reason not to, her cunt wasn't seriously compromised yet.

            And her breasts wouldn't feel a thing.

            I spunked her and relished when she'd come to.

            I was downstairs, when she did, and if she'd been outside, the whole county would have known.

            She wailed like an air-raid siren.

            As if the bombs were dropping, which, I suppose, she'd think they had, but all at once, nice and contained and tidy.

 

 

Page 10.

 

            I think the worst, for her, was when she looked down.

            What a view that must have been.

            A quivering pile of mangled flesh.

            But it was her breast, she had been proud of. 

            A sushi tit.

            She'd been worried I might damage her heart, with the weight, as I kept adding the stones, and now this.

            Stupid. Stupid.

            She'd always anticipate the worst, she thought, until this.

            I didn't give a flying fig if she burst an artery.

            I  knew then, how well it'd work. It had to work because of the Physics.

            And if it killed her too soon, so be it.

            True, there was only one of her, but there were dozens like her.

            All waiting to be had.

            Go fuck yourselves, bitches.

 

            I was feeling philosophical and mean.

            Even a little bit analytical.

            I wanted to bitch slap their brains and their values.

            I didn't give a fuck for the sanctity of their puny lives or any other integrities.

            The cock wants what the cock wants, and mine always came first. (What a perfect situational pun, I mused back to myself.)

            First and foreskin most, I always saw to that, like a school yard bully.

            And bully for me, cunts.

            And them kind of cunts needed to look out

            And they knew who they were.

            All preened and primped and extra well turned out.

            Turned out they were no better than the poor folk,

            At tolerating indignities.

            And only believed that class mattered  because they were never called up on it.

            I suppose, you could say, I did that.

            Called them, and her, up on the carpet,

            Made red with their blood and their daughter's hymen remains.

            And the only thing they were really better at was squawking louder and denial.

            Denying longer, than was reasonable, or than the mounting evidence supported.

            I loved being the mounting evidence.

 

Page 11.

 

            Some had to loose two nipples before they got it.

            One wasn't enough, before they really got it.

            So who was stupid, then?

            They really figured it was the guy's fault, or the guy's problem if he couldn't handle their assertiveness.

            It was a good theory, I supposed.

            But I was sure their cunts begged to differ.

            And begged and begged and squirmed.

            They needed to think with their cunts, the same way men and rapists did  with their crotches.

            Then they might have stood a ghost of a chance,

            Instead of becoming the ghost in the memories of loved ones.

            And I'd loved them all.

 

            What did all this have to do with the filing cabinet tit torture?

            My Ashley Judd clone, my ball buster, wasn't a bitch anymore.

            And I much liked her better as one.

            It turned out, I'd crushed the ferocity out of her.

            Stripped her of her spunk by spunking her too much, I suppose.

            Feeble little futile vixen,

            Some of the girls held up better.

            And went to their graves still deriding me.

            They never could surrender their souls and I had to respect them.

            Kudos to all their brave dead cunts, in whole or in parts or whatever remained of them.

            Me a tit buster.

            Me a cunt buster. 

            How politically incorrect.

            'Me a ball buster.'

            That's a legitimate claim to fame?

            Now there's the standard doubled.

            How about, me a body and mind buster?

            Now that'd make them crazy, drive the feminists and PBs right out of their gourds and bras and onto the whore path.

            But I didn't care.

            I got my revenges.

 

Page 12.

 

            And then we'd need to get them back into their bras, so we could snap the elastic backs.  So we could cut them off with a switch blade knife or blow up the cups with firecrackers. (See one of my previous stories, Chapter two of the Wasps, aptly titled, And now The Firecrackers.)        

            The PBs, those were the initials for Power Bitches, the hot shots. The ones I wanted to smack the moment I saw them. They didn't even have to open their mouthy mouths. We all knew who they were. What they looked and behaved like, and the ones we'd encountered.

            Men, mankind, arise and trounce the PBs.

            Take aim with your peckers and wing them on sight.

            And drag them off to your lairs.

            Once, they thought they could fly and then only could crawl.

            To grovel at our feet for mercy.

            And to prepare and cook our meals.

            Of course, I was only spoofing, and wouldn't want to ruin their complexions or physiologies.

            Mustn't muss their coiffed hair or attitudes.

            Go fuck yourselves, bitches.

            Go fuck yourselves, cunts.

            Go fucking fuck yourselves, PB cunt bitches.

            And let us all watch.

            Like a contest.

            A finger jigging marathon.

            Or like a spectacle, in ancient Rome.

            Do you suppose the lions ate some of the Christians' tits or cunts?

            I thought it was bound to happen, based on the numbers.

            I liked to think so.

            I wondered how the guys, in the stands, in their togas, cheered for that?

            Big pussies munching on little pussies.

            That hardly seemed fair.

            They at least should have offered them chastity belts lined with spiky nails. Then they could chose.

            Of course, getting them on, that would be part of the program, of the spectacle, for the higher entertainment value, for a bigger gate.

            Sort of like half-time Hula dancers.

            Or the hoola hoop circus.

            'And in this ring we have.'

            Oops, no cunt intended.

            And missions accomplished.

 

            I had to get her to make me something to eat.

            Broken arm and broken tit, and broken spirit and soul, and all.

            Male chauvinist pigs still needed to swill at the trough.

            And I'd given up being a politician, years before.