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"Fantasy Fulfilled"

      by Libertine

      (MF tort snuff necro oral anal)

Horace was last off the helicopter, there in the waste of the desert. There were a zillion stars, but there was no glow in the sky from the lights of Las Vegas; they must be miles from anywhere. The cabin attendant, a sexy blonde who had served drinks, led them across the sand for a hundred yards or so, to what looked like an outcropping of rock. In fact, there was a concealed door, and an elevator.

In the reception lounge, far underground, Horace waited his turn to process in, enjoying another scotch and watching the others -- two Japanese businessmen, a woman who might be a bull dyke, a yuppie, and a teen-ager, who confided to Horace that this trip was a graduation present from his divorced father.

Horace was excited. He'd spent every penny he had saved, working hard, for this one chance to live out his secret fantasy. His wife, Rose, had the money, paid the bills, and she made him work for his pocket money. $98,700 was a lot of pocket money. But he had waited a long time, filed papers, supplied dozens of color photos, and he waited until his wife went on her vacation - - they took separate vacations -- just so the experience would be close to perfection. Finally, the hostess, totally naked, got to him.

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In an alcoholic haze, he signed some more papers. "You understand," she said, "the terms of the contract. You get forty-eight hours with a woman who is surgically altered to your specifications. If she does not meet your specifications, you have five minutes to complain. Otherwise, you have rented her."

"Yeah, I understand."

"You can do anything you want, except permanent injury. If you damage the goods, you will have to pay extra."

"Yeah, yeah," replied Horace, anxious to fulfill his fantasy.

"And we have ways of making you pay."

"Yeah."

She led him past several doors, which she had to unlock, and finally showed him his room, #14.

The room was in two halves. One half was an exact duplicate of his wife's bedroom, same drapes, same wall paper, same four poster bed, same night stand, same little lamp on the stand. Lying on the bed, in a robe just like Rose's favorite, was a woman who looked very much like his wife, the same black hair, the same long nose and thin lips. Only she was different, where it counted. She was an inch shorter than Horace, about five-seven, not a towering six feet. She got up to greet him, slipping out of the robe and saying, "Hello, Horace. I'm Rose, and I'm hot for your body." Rose wouldn't say a thing like that. Actually, the voice didn't even sound right. Where did they get these women, Latin America? But the most important specification was right on. Instead of flat, pendulous breasts, that hung on her chest like empty moneybags, this Rose had gorgeous, high-standing globes, spherical breasts (style "G-16" in the catalog), which met in the middle, forming a vee-shaped cleavage, and bulged out at the sides, half covering her upper arms.

Horace loosened his belt and flopped on the bed. He opened his fly and said, "Suck my cock." Rose, his wife, seldom invited him into her bedroom, and, when she did, they did things her way. She wouldn't even touch, never mind suck, his cock.

This Rose got on her knees between his knees and unzipped his fly. "May I?" she asked, as she began to remove his pants. He raised his hips to let her undress him. She even took off his shirt. Shit, the real Rose wouldn't do that. Then she went down on him.

It was great, but too quick. The thrill of having his "wife" do that for the first time was just so... He came before he got a chance to savor the joy of it. No matter, he still had forty-seven and a half hours to play.

Horace looked at the other half of the room. There was a wet bar, several cabinets, a toilet, etc., and a combination gymnasium and torture chamber. Horace helped himself to another drink, while the woman stood watching. Then he checked out the contents of the cabinets. There was a whole sex shop, everything from leather to lotion, from whips to wipes, cuffs to clamps.

He selected four heavy leather bondage cuffs and buckled them on Rose. She just stood there, looking a little frightened, which made things better. Then Horace suspended her from some of the several available ropes, so that she hung from her upraised arms. He fixed her ankle cuffs to ropes from the floor, and tightened them, spreading her legs until she winced in pain. But she did not complain.

He spent an hour or so, torturing her tits. He put clamps on her nipples -- the springs seemed weak. He bound her beautiful globes with ropes, pricked her between the ropes with his pocket knife. Rose bore it all. Jesus, how much of the $98,000 must they pay her, to go through that? Unless, of course, they had kidnapped her somewhere.

Next, he shoved a big vibrator/dildo up her ass -- it came with a tube of lubricant, or he'd never have got it in. He let that buzz in her ass while he went to work on her cunt. "Rose," he said, remembering is frigid wife, "here comes the good part." First, he carefully shaved her pussy hairs -- razors and shaving creme were provided. He would have liked to yank 'em out, or burn them off, but is objective was to deprive his wife of the bush she was so proud of, without destroying the playpen underneath. When she was completely denuded, her hairless vulva looking like a child's, he parted the outer lips and started to explore with his fingers.

Rose, hanging there, was quiet, as Horace explored with his fingers, reaching in so far he could feel the neck of her womb. He pulled on her inner labia, played with her clitoris. He wanted to make her come and come, and she came, over and over. They must have done something to her, hormone shots, or something, because she was so juicy, so hot, he couldn't believe it. "Oh, Horace," she cooed, carefully rehearsed. "I love it when you do that." With considerable effort, he got most of his hand in her and tried to fist-fuck her, while he teased her clitoris with the other hand. He could feel the contractions in her cunt: she was coming, all right, and she screamed, just as he had specified, "Horace, you're the greatest! Oh, I'm coming. I'm coming! Oh, do it harder, Horace."

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Horace got up on a little stool, and he tried to get his cock into her stretched, sopping wet, cunt, but it just wouldn't stand up. Maybe it was too soon after the first time, or too much alcohol in his system. He wanted to screw her, to feel her vaginal contractions around his big cock, but he couldn't get it stiff.

Frustrated, he loosened her ropes, so she could stand there, her legs widespread, and bend over enough to suck him stiff. She sucked and sucked, licked and licked, but he just couldn't perform. Damn. Well, there were a lot of other things he'd like to do to Rose.

He winched the ropes tight again, stretching her as if she was on a medieval rack. Then Horace found another vibrator in the cabinet and jammed it into her gaping cunt, fastening it with straps to her legs. He turned it on and watched it chug inside her, while her bound tits wobbled, the pinchers on her nipples swinging. He took a whip from the cabinet, a cat'o'nine tails that looked like leather but was really soft rubber. All the whips were "safe."

"Rose, you bitch, you've been castrating me for years," he screamed, as he whipped her ass. "I can't get it up." he yelled, lashing at her belly and breasts. One of the nipple clamps was knocked off. He left it on the floor, continued whipping her -- the nipples which bulged from her breast bindings, her back and belly and butt and all around her legs, until she was a rosy pink from her neck to her knees.

At first, she called out, "Oh, you're the greatest, Horace. Do it harder," but, when he bit her nipple, she swore at him in Spanish.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he yelled as he beat her harder. His wife loved to belittle him, to remind him that he couldn't fuck her very well or very often. "I can buy a better lover for $19.99, batteries included." He'd show Rose.

"Rose" was in bad shape, her shoulders almost dislocated from the way he had suspended her, her beautiful "G-16" breasts disfigured by the ropes, her asshole and vagina stretched to the limit and overstimulated by the continuous buzz of the vibrators, and her body showing the marks of the whip.

Horace was in bad shape, too, tired from his exertions, with a shrivelled penis which hung uselessly. He drank, too much, from one of the whiskey bottles, and passed out, naked on the bed, leaving Rose hanging there.

When Horace awoke, there was good news and bad news. The good news was that his prick stood tall and hard. The bad news was that he had to piss, and as soon as he emptied his bladder, his tool went limp. Damn.

Rose lay on a mat, asleep. Someone had come in the room and undone all his work of the night before, no stretched arms, no vibrators, no breast bindings, only the cuffs left. The someone had even put discrete little bandages where Horace had tormented Rose with his pocket knife. There was a little folding table with breakfast on a tray. There was also a note: THERE IS AN ADDITIONAL CHARGE IF YOU DAMAGE THE GOODS.

Still, Horace's anger toward his wife and his frustration about his impotence drove him on. He must find some way to hurt Rose. He slapped her, which she seemed to shrug off -- all in a day's work. He punched her with his fist. She scampered away, jabbering in Spanish, and he finally apologized and held out his open hands, fingers spread. He searched through the cabinet, but he couldn't find anything that would really satisfy his desire to make Rose suffer. Stuffing a vibrator in her cunt wouldn't make her suffer; she'd probably have a dozen orgasms, the way she was wired.

That gave Horace an idea. He got her to lie down on the bed, and he attached her wrist and ankle cuffs to the four bedposts. He talked soothingly, and caressed her body, played with those glorious G-16s. His prick seemed to wake up a little.

Then, he took the lamp from the bedside table, removed the shade, and walked over to the sink. A gentle tap, and the bulb shattered, leaving two shiny wires sticking up. He went back to the bed, plugged in the lamp, and held the two bare wires against her skin, either side of her navel. The switch was in the cord, easy to thumb on and off quickly.

Horace flicked on the current. Her whole belly contracted, and he could smell burning skin. Off. She relaxed, started complaining in Spanish. So he gagged her and continued his experiments. Touch her leg, and her leg would convulse. Drag the wires across her breast, and leave a line of very painful little burns. Rose made muffled screaming noises through her gag, and the more she screamed, the harder Horace's cock became. He was beginning to anticipate how nice it would be to have her cunt clamp down on him as he fucked her eyeballs out. But first, to get it really hard, he needed to get more revenge, to hurt his "wife."

He dragged the wires over her hairless cunt lips, which caused her great pain but didn't really satisfy Horace. He retrieved his pocket knife, turned off the lamp, and cut the cord from the lamp base. Stripping back the insulation, Horace wound the stranded copper wires around two metal nipple clamps. One clamp, he pushed into her ass hole. The other he stuffed deep into her cunt. He really liked seeing the wire leading into that pink tunnel, disappearing in its depths.

This time, when he flicked the switch, her entire body jerked, and her cunt clamped closed in a fantastic spasm, as the current flowing through her body tightened every muscle in her belly. The tetany was so severe that she could not even cry out, until he shut off the current. The wild, absolutely terrified look in her eyes made his tool stiffen more.

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"Rose, you frigid bitch, take this." He thumbed the switch, and "Rose", not his real wife, suffered for his real wife. Her vaginal muscles clamped down, hard, until Horace turned off the switch. He thought he could actually smell the smoke from her cunt, as he tortured Rose again and again and again, to the point of physical exhaustion and to the edge of her sanity. With his free hand, he would stroke his prick, feeling it grow harder, the more Rose suffered.

At last it was time to enjoy the delicious feeling of Rose's cunt clamping in an orgasmic spasm around Horace's imbedded rod.

He pulled the wire and the clamp from her cunt and plunged his prick into the tortured tunnel. Gleefully, he bucked his hips, but nothing happened.

"Come on, squeeze, and tell me how good it feels," he said to Rose, but Rose was too utterly exhausted to do anything but lie there and be fucked. The muscles of her vaginal sheath had been convulsed so many times that there was no elasticity, no strength left. She could no more squeeze his dick than a marathon winner could run another 26 miles.

"Rose, just one more time." he pleaded, pumping in an out of her slack vagina, which had all the resilience of whipped cream.

"Squeeze, Rose. I can't feel you!" pleaded Horace, but Rose, spreadeagled on the bed, couldn't move a muscle. In desperation, Horace took the loose clamp, which had been in her vagina, and he clipped it to one nipple. Pumping furiously at her slack slot, he thumbed the switch.

He felt her vaginal muscles clamp down on his prick in a violent, electrically induced, spasm, as Rose screamed through her gag. Horace came, at last, pumping his seed into her. He turned off the current.

Horace lay, finally spent, with his limp prick still buried in Rose's cunt, and her glorious "style G-16" breasts pressing against the bare skin of his chest. He closed his eyes, happy.

The door opened, and three figures came in, the receptionist, now wearing a don't-touch-me white coverall, and two male orderlies. One pushed Horace off the G-16s, and the woman put a stethoscope to Rose's chest.

"What's the matter?" said Horace.

The woman said, "Horace, you've been screwing a corpse."

"But I felt her squeeze my prick!"

"Horace, it's clear what happened. The current went through her breasts and through her vaginal muscles and through the wire in her rectum. And her muscles tightened, as even a dead woman's would. But between her breast and her vagina, the current also went through her heart, and when a heart clamps down, like her constricted cunt, it can't work. You killed her."

Horace was stunned. He couldn't quite comprehend what he had done. But he pulled his penis out of the corpse.

"You've damaged the goods in a really major way. You've given us an expensive disposal problem. It's going to cost you, Horace," she said.

"I'm broke," said Horace. "I sold my BMW, even hocked my Rolex and my office desk, to raise the 98 thousand dollars."

"I told you we have ways of collecting, Horace. You know. If you can't pay your restaurant bill, you wash dishes. We'll find work for you, until you pay -- let's say, about half a million dollars."

Horace panicked, bolted for the door, but he never made it. One orderly held him; the other injected a drug.

Horace woke up. He was naked, but for wrist and ankle cuffs, and he was spread-eagled, as he had bound Rose, on Rose's bed, in room 14. Everything was the same, except the bedside lamp was repaired, and some really terrifying instruments of torture were displayed in the other half of the room. An electric charcoal lighter was even plugged in, and it glowed red hot!

Horace knew he had been drugged for days and days. He dimly remembered being strapped to a bed, remembered needles in his arms, bright operating room lights, being made to work out on exercise machines. He knew he was different, now. Where he had been flabby, he was now lean, muscular, tanned, in the peak of health. He looked down in amazement at his huge penis, inches longer than he remembered, which stood like the Washington Monument, rising out of his groin. It seemed to throb with tension, craving cunt, but he knew, somehow, that it would never be satisfied, would never go limp again. The thought of spending the rest of his life with an erection boggled his mind.

But he didn't have long to think about it. The door to room 14 opened and a woman entered. She was very tall -- black hair, long nose, thin lips. She wore over-the-knee black boots with stiletto heels. She wore a black, leather, push-up bra, with her flabby breasts bulging out the top. She wore nothing else but her luxuriant bush of pubic curls. And she carried a wicked leather whip.

"Hello, Rose. I'm Horace," he said.

- The End -

[Note: this story is protected by international copyright law,
all rights not expressly waived are reserved by its author.]

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