The Grays Document ~ Part Four
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
"Don't clench. It's going in and you can't stop it."
He kneels to better enjoy Becky's humiliation, eyes on both her face and the slow, penetration of the vibrator egg. She groans and whimpers as she is reluctantly widened to accept the foreign thing; feverish perspiration dots her head during her violation.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! Stop! STOP!" she cries and feels the fullness. The need to expel it is overwhelming but she fears more torture if she does. He grins, eyeballing her for a weakness, but Becky strains to hold it in, battling her own reflexive muscles.
He tucks the controller against her thigh and turns the knob. Becky lets go a surprised and anguished look as the egg pulses and vibrates inside her, the waves traveling through the common wall to her vagina. She squirms and pants stuttered breaths to keep up.
"Remember... if you pop it out or cum, it's more slow tickle torture. And I have until Monday to play with you." the man says, striding over to the bed. He comes back with a plastic bag, inside are white clothes pins, "Now, I don't really think you can overcome this little task, and to tell you the truth, I have been saving your feet for last. They're so pretty."
"No! NOOOO!" Becky pleads.
"Don't worry. I'll be fair. You haven't fucked up yet. But..." he begins to pick the clothes pins out of the bag and lay them, one by one, on her belly, "But, I am going to hedge my bet. I am going to pin your pussy lips back and out of the way. I want your little sore clit unobstructed because I'm going to torture it," he says, a little amused, and a little distracted by one broken pin, "Slow."
Becky moans with anal angst and grits her teeth. He licks a finger and tugs and pinches her nipples in turn, adding one, then two then three clothes pins deftly; relishing her torment. She grunts and yowls, trying so hard to deal with the multiple stimuli. Then, with the same deliberate attention, begins to pin her labia back with rows of clothes pins, her pink, most intimate flesh exposed and glistening. The excitement is not lost on her inner reflexes and she begins to exude her own creamy lubricant.
"You are one horny bitch," he notes, "Let's try a nice stiff feather on that little clit; see how long you can keep from coming like a two-dollar *****. Not long I'm betting. And when you do, you know what your punishment will be."
Becky tries to be silent, bearing down to keep the egg in her asshole is all she can muster. But now she feels the maddening dance of the tip of the feather, stiff but wet from her own sexual betrayal. It glides and teases all up and down her inner sex. At first it seems bearable, nary an annoyance, but minutes in, the throb in her clit is undeniable; it needs touched. Shortly after it aches for touch. Friction. Anything but the cruel slide of the feather tip, moving slowly about like a sadistic creature circling prey.
Then, without warning, the feather tip pounces directly on her most sensitive pulsing tissue. Becky cries out and begins to gnash her teeth at the tactile onslaught. Her clitoris, raw and brooding from the whip, aches but is unable to escape. Conversely, it rises and bulges with her hot blood, greedily yearning for more friction. But the feather is light, teasing, and her torture mounts. Becky moans and bewails her frustration. Inside she feels the climax building, ratcheting, and she makes great leaps towards her dangerous end when she mistakenly dwells on how 'relentless' her torture is. She cannot help but find the thought of her own desperation sexually intoxicating and it jerks her forward, closer to orgasm; she can't keep the thoughts and sensations out of her mind.
The egg thrums through her pelvis. Her tormentor deftly fields his hellish quill. Relentless. Relentless. Relentless. Rebbecca tenses hard. He feels it. Involuntary muscle contractions. Spittle flies from between her clenched teeth as she resists but is overwhelmed by the roaring train of release. With a low cry of sexual agony and bliss, her bonds once again groan and strain. Her vagina, exposed and freely open, expels her pent up fluid in forceful ecstasy. She rolls and convulses for several minutes.
The egg emerges with her third wave.
Becky lie there, shaking, weeping. Exhausted.
She knows he is pleased and will torture her more. She almost resigns to die.
Catching her breath, tear swollen eyes make a last attempt to find his, to beg his very soul for mercy. She babbles and implores... but he will have none of it.
"No. A deal is a deal." he says flatly and begins to walk his fingers down her entrapped leg.
"Oh god no! Please don't do this. Not my feet, I'll die! You don't have to do this!" Becky clamors, her body weakened, tries a vane attempt to pull away.
He pauses at her ankle, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky falls silent, momentarily, then erupts in a sorrowful shrill, "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOUR FUCKING TALKING ABOUT! FUCK! LET ME GO! LET ME FUCKING GO! YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON! I'M JUST..." she wails, "I'M NOBODY! NOBODY!"
He stares. Possibly bewildered by her display. Then he simply shrugs and begins to tickle her tied foot with purposeful fingers.
Rebbecca explodes into helpless laughter and cries of agony. His nails are blunt but long enough to scratch. Her arches are silky and moist with a fresh, heady sudor. There is no pulling away and his hands are free to explore her soft sensitivities. She begs and jerks, as his attention rounds her delicate arch and tickles the tops; her toes spreading and flexing in spasms, desperate to flee. He exploits the tender flesh between each painted toe, wrenching new peals of laughing agony form her bellowing lungs. He torments her as he goes, "Tickle tickle tickle. Little spy, I'm talking to you.... can you stop laughing? No? You have no control. No escape. I'm just going to tickle your helpless little feet for hours. Laugh if you like that idea. OH! You do! Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky lie there like a paralyzed marionette. Forced to laugh against her will, and seeping again with false sexual backlash. The agony is a thousand fold being unable to move. Her feet become more sensitive it seems the longer she is tortured. He bides his time and is methodical, never giving a chance for reprieve. The soles of her feet pink-up with the irritation, yet, must suffer under the relentless accosting.
He drinks in her desperation and suffering like a parched desert dweller. Her anguish is the music he bows from her delicate extremities. He muses how fast the electricity of touch must travel; past toes and arch and tender heel, past ankle knee and thigh, past clitoris belly and breasts, onward to discharge and detonate in the brain. A brain aware of its own helplessness; yet fights onward to resist, but ultimately cannot. Reflexive laughter. False joy. Sweet, unrelenting torture. The man's cock snakes his leg with filling arousal.
"Are you gong to talk? Are you going to fucking talk now? It looks like you are helplessly ticklish and that really does mean I can do this all night and you won't be able to turn it off. Talk you stupid bitch! FUCKING TALK!" he demands, loosing his composure a notch. Becky cannot answer, she is lost in the whirling torment of a thousand nerve endings panicked. Her feet have long since given up struggle and hang limp as he tickle tortures her for submission.
To his right a red flash on the wall, followed by blue. He stops. Freezes. Then to the window.
"...fuck," he squints, "FUCK."
A police car. Its brash lights silently invading the dead serenity of the motel parking lot, pulls up to the far end of the building. The office. The night manager.
Becky, barely able to comprehend, watches, breathing hard as the man abandons her and his possessions, snatching only his pistol and his coat over it as he briskly exits the room. Not long after, she hears the crushing gravel under tire as he drives away. Rebbecca does not remember passing out.
* * * *
Rebbecca wakes to a loud cry. Spanish. Daylight is pouring through the open motel room door and a squat woman is in silhouette, crossing herself over and over again. She bolts from the doorway, run waddling, "Madre de Dios. Oh mi dulce Dios. Una niña, una niña! Ven pronto, ella es crucificado!"
Becky begins to shout as best she can for help, but resigns. Hoarse.
Later, enshrouded by a shock blanket, Becky finishes her statement to an encirclement of sour faced police officers. A plain-clothes detective offers her coffee and she refuses it, asking for some bottled water instead. "He wouldn't stop... not until the cops came last night. He didn't know they weren't here for me. I guess it was just dumb luck."
"Not dumb, Miss. Very fortunate. The night manager got drunk on beer and he dialed 911 by accident, when he didn't answer the operator, a squad car was sent out. You are one very lucky young lady. But its over now. We need to take you to the hospital; rape protocol. Its procedure," the detective says.
"Yes, I understand... but I want to go home," tears well up again, "Can I call my Mom, please? Can I just call her on my cell? I want my mom."
"Yes. Of course. Take as much time as you need."
Becky stands and huddles her blanket close, then meanders into the open parking lot for privacy. The phone dials and she hears the familiar ring. After the fourth, the receiver picks up.
"Monahan." Flatly.
"It's Rebbecca. I was abducted and tortured last night. But I lucked out and told him nothing. The cops came. I'm fine, but I want a fucking relocation. The Grays Document is intact and the actionables are still safe. All three of them. I want a goddamn new assignment... Do it."
End.
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
"Don't clench. It's going in and you can't stop it."
He kneels to better enjoy Becky's humiliation, eyes on both her face and the slow, penetration of the vibrator egg. She groans and whimpers as she is reluctantly widened to accept the foreign thing; feverish perspiration dots her head during her violation.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! Stop! STOP!" she cries and feels the fullness. The need to expel it is overwhelming but she fears more torture if she does. He grins, eyeballing her for a weakness, but Becky strains to hold it in, battling her own reflexive muscles.
He tucks the controller against her thigh and turns the knob. Becky lets go a surprised and anguished look as the egg pulses and vibrates inside her, the waves traveling through the common wall to her vagina. She squirms and pants stuttered breaths to keep up.
"Remember... if you pop it out or cum, it's more slow tickle torture. And I have until Monday to play with you." the man says, striding over to the bed. He comes back with a plastic bag, inside are white clothes pins, "Now, I don't really think you can overcome this little task, and to tell you the truth, I have been saving your feet for last. They're so pretty."
"No! NOOOO!" Becky pleads.
"Don't worry. I'll be fair. You haven't fucked up yet. But..." he begins to pick the clothes pins out of the bag and lay them, one by one, on her belly, "But, I am going to hedge my bet. I am going to pin your pussy lips back and out of the way. I want your little sore clit unobstructed because I'm going to torture it," he says, a little amused, and a little distracted by one broken pin, "Slow."
Becky moans with anal angst and grits her teeth. He licks a finger and tugs and pinches her nipples in turn, adding one, then two then three clothes pins deftly; relishing her torment. She grunts and yowls, trying so hard to deal with the multiple stimuli. Then, with the same deliberate attention, begins to pin her labia back with rows of clothes pins, her pink, most intimate flesh exposed and glistening. The excitement is not lost on her inner reflexes and she begins to exude her own creamy lubricant.
"You are one horny bitch," he notes, "Let's try a nice stiff feather on that little clit; see how long you can keep from coming like a two-dollar *****. Not long I'm betting. And when you do, you know what your punishment will be."
Becky tries to be silent, bearing down to keep the egg in her asshole is all she can muster. But now she feels the maddening dance of the tip of the feather, stiff but wet from her own sexual betrayal. It glides and teases all up and down her inner sex. At first it seems bearable, nary an annoyance, but minutes in, the throb in her clit is undeniable; it needs touched. Shortly after it aches for touch. Friction. Anything but the cruel slide of the feather tip, moving slowly about like a sadistic creature circling prey.
Then, without warning, the feather tip pounces directly on her most sensitive pulsing tissue. Becky cries out and begins to gnash her teeth at the tactile onslaught. Her clitoris, raw and brooding from the whip, aches but is unable to escape. Conversely, it rises and bulges with her hot blood, greedily yearning for more friction. But the feather is light, teasing, and her torture mounts. Becky moans and bewails her frustration. Inside she feels the climax building, ratcheting, and she makes great leaps towards her dangerous end when she mistakenly dwells on how 'relentless' her torture is. She cannot help but find the thought of her own desperation sexually intoxicating and it jerks her forward, closer to orgasm; she can't keep the thoughts and sensations out of her mind.
The egg thrums through her pelvis. Her tormentor deftly fields his hellish quill. Relentless. Relentless. Relentless. Rebbecca tenses hard. He feels it. Involuntary muscle contractions. Spittle flies from between her clenched teeth as she resists but is overwhelmed by the roaring train of release. With a low cry of sexual agony and bliss, her bonds once again groan and strain. Her vagina, exposed and freely open, expels her pent up fluid in forceful ecstasy. She rolls and convulses for several minutes.
The egg emerges with her third wave.
Becky lie there, shaking, weeping. Exhausted.
She knows he is pleased and will torture her more. She almost resigns to die.
Catching her breath, tear swollen eyes make a last attempt to find his, to beg his very soul for mercy. She babbles and implores... but he will have none of it.
"No. A deal is a deal." he says flatly and begins to walk his fingers down her entrapped leg.
"Oh god no! Please don't do this. Not my feet, I'll die! You don't have to do this!" Becky clamors, her body weakened, tries a vane attempt to pull away.
He pauses at her ankle, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky falls silent, momentarily, then erupts in a sorrowful shrill, "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOUR FUCKING TALKING ABOUT! FUCK! LET ME GO! LET ME FUCKING GO! YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON! I'M JUST..." she wails, "I'M NOBODY! NOBODY!"
He stares. Possibly bewildered by her display. Then he simply shrugs and begins to tickle her tied foot with purposeful fingers.
Rebbecca explodes into helpless laughter and cries of agony. His nails are blunt but long enough to scratch. Her arches are silky and moist with a fresh, heady sudor. There is no pulling away and his hands are free to explore her soft sensitivities. She begs and jerks, as his attention rounds her delicate arch and tickles the tops; her toes spreading and flexing in spasms, desperate to flee. He exploits the tender flesh between each painted toe, wrenching new peals of laughing agony form her bellowing lungs. He torments her as he goes, "Tickle tickle tickle. Little spy, I'm talking to you.... can you stop laughing? No? You have no control. No escape. I'm just going to tickle your helpless little feet for hours. Laugh if you like that idea. OH! You do! Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky lie there like a paralyzed marionette. Forced to laugh against her will, and seeping again with false sexual backlash. The agony is a thousand fold being unable to move. Her feet become more sensitive it seems the longer she is tortured. He bides his time and is methodical, never giving a chance for reprieve. The soles of her feet pink-up with the irritation, yet, must suffer under the relentless accosting.
He drinks in her desperation and suffering like a parched desert dweller. Her anguish is the music he bows from her delicate extremities. He muses how fast the electricity of touch must travel; past toes and arch and tender heel, past ankle knee and thigh, past clitoris belly and breasts, onward to discharge and detonate in the brain. A brain aware of its own helplessness; yet fights onward to resist, but ultimately cannot. Reflexive laughter. False joy. Sweet, unrelenting torture. The man's cock snakes his leg with filling arousal.
"Are you gong to talk? Are you going to fucking talk now? It looks like you are helplessly ticklish and that really does mean I can do this all night and you won't be able to turn it off. Talk you stupid bitch! FUCKING TALK!" he demands, loosing his composure a notch. Becky cannot answer, she is lost in the whirling torment of a thousand nerve endings panicked. Her feet have long since given up struggle and hang limp as he tickle tortures her for submission.
To his right a red flash on the wall, followed by blue. He stops. Freezes. Then to the window.
"...fuck," he squints, "FUCK."
A police car. Its brash lights silently invading the dead serenity of the motel parking lot, pulls up to the far end of the building. The office. The night manager.
Becky, barely able to comprehend, watches, breathing hard as the man abandons her and his possessions, snatching only his pistol and his coat over it as he briskly exits the room. Not long after, she hears the crushing gravel under tire as he drives away. Rebbecca does not remember passing out.
* * * *
Rebbecca wakes to a loud cry. Spanish. Daylight is pouring through the open motel room door and a squat woman is in silhouette, crossing herself over and over again. She bolts from the doorway, run waddling, "Madre de Dios. Oh mi dulce Dios. Una niña, una niña! Ven pronto, ella es crucificado!"
Becky begins to shout as best she can for help, but resigns. Hoarse.
Later, enshrouded by a shock blanket, Becky finishes her statement to an encirclement of sour faced police officers. A plain-clothes detective offers her coffee and she refuses it, asking for some bottled water instead. "He wouldn't stop... not until the cops came last night. He didn't know they weren't here for me. I guess it was just dumb luck."
"Not dumb, Miss. Very fortunate. The night manager got drunk on beer and he dialed 911 by accident, when he didn't answer the operator, a squad car was sent out. You are one very lucky young lady. But its over now. We need to take you to the hospital; rape protocol. Its procedure," the detective says.
"Yes, I understand... but I want to go home," tears well up again, "Can I call my Mom, please? Can I just call her on my cell? I want my mom."
"Yes. Of course. Take as much time as you need."
Becky stands and huddles her blanket close, then meanders into the open parking lot for privacy. The phone dials and she hears the familiar ring. After the fourth, the receiver picks up.
"Monahan." Flatly.
"It's Rebbecca. I was abducted and tortured last night. But I lucked out and told him nothing. The cops came. I'm fine, but I want a fucking relocation. The Grays Document is intact and the actionables are still safe. All three of them. I want a goddamn new assignment... Do it."
End.
