Archive-name: live_sentence1-3

From: an309248@anon.penet.fi

Subject: Story: The Life Sentence, Part 1 of 3

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

The following story is intended for the enjoyment of adults only. It contains graphic sexual scenes which might not be appropriate for young eyes. Please, if you are under the age of 18, stop reading this file and go look for something else to do. Thank you.

by Denny Mulligan (formerly Little Sissy Tippytoes)

The room was absolutely silent.

It was a large room, perhaps 25 feet wide and 40 feet long. The ceiling was very high, at least 15 feet, with several lights distributed over large intervals. The bulbs, though not covered, were still quite dim, probably a very low wattage. There were no fans hanging from the ceiling to circulate the air, and the room was warmer than usual, but dry, and ventilated so that it was not stuffy. It was important that the room be kept warm, since the permanent occupants were naked at all times.

There were a few narrow skylights here and there in the ceiling, so the occupants of the room, if they were so inclined, might gaze upward to see the condition of the sky. Unfortunately, the glass used in the skylights was tinted, so the sky always seemed dark and foreboding, even on the sunniest day. If one were walking above the room, the skylights looked like grave markers embedded in the ground. They were opaque on that side, preventing anyone from looking into the room below, and thick enough so walking on them would not break them.

Seated on a long bench were eight females, ranging in age from about eighteen to twenty-three. Each woman was kept separate from the woman seated next to her by a vertical divider extending about 30 inches into the room, and high enough that, even standing up, they would not be able to see each other without leaning forward and craning their necks. Each woman was naked, and shaved not quite smoothly bald, but down to a short, ragged stubble. Each woman wore a length of chain around her waist. Running through a ring attached to this waist chain was another chain that was secured to padded leather cuffs wrapped around each woman's wrists. Attached to this chain was a chain which was perhaps 24 inches long. This chain hung down from each woman's waist where it joined yet another chain, about 12 inches long which was attached at each end to a set of padded leather ankle cuffs, identical to the wrist cuffs. The long chain joining the wrist cuffs to the ankle cuffs was fashioned so that, seated, the wearer could, by bending over somewhat, touch the top of her head. Standing, however, in order to walk, she had to hold her hands level and together at her waist.

At the end of the room opposite to where the eight women sat was an aluminum toilet with no seat. There was also an aluminum sink. Painted on the floor, beginning in front of each woman's seat and extending across the length of the room, was a white line which led directly to the toilet. About five feet in front of the women's bench was another line painted on the floor, this one yellow and parallel to the long bench.

Along the wall to the right of the seated women were several enclosures, each enclosure having an entrance typical of a barred prison cell door. Each cell was separated from its neighbor by a thick cinder block wall which extended two feet beyond the bars, so the women locked inside the cells would not be able to see each other. The cell walls rose only ten feet above the floor, leaving an open space for about five feet to the ceiling with its dim lights and narrow skylights. The interior of the cells measured about four feet wide by six feet deep. Inside each cell was a thin mattress, carefully rolled up and placed against the rear wall. Folded neatly and placed on top of each mattress were a thin blanket and a bare pillow. Like the benches on the adjacent wall, about five feet in front of the cells and running the length of the room parallel to the enclosures was a yellow line painted on the floor.

The silence was broken by the rattling of chains as the newest prisoner, a young woman about eighteen years old, slowly stood. Keeping her eyes focused on the wall opposite her, she shuffled up to the yellow line, stopping with her toes just touching the edge of it. "Madam Guard," she said in a clear, quiet voice, "Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, requests permission to cross the yellow line."

Silence. Then a voice, mechanical in tone, coming from a cheap speaker attached to the wall high above the women's bench, said, "For what purpose does Prisoner H wish to cross the yellow line?"

The young woman repeated her introduction, "Madam Guard, Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, wishes to cross the yellow line to use the toilet."

Again silence. Then the voice, tinny and dull, "For what purpose does Prisoner H wish to use the toilet?"

The young woman, sweating slightly as she stood at attention, replied, "Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, wishes to use the toilet to urinate."

Silence once again, this time extending for several minutes as the voice in the cheap speaker-box apparently analyzed this request, pondering its validity and necessity. Finally: "Permission granted."

Slowly, because of the shortness of the length of her ankle shackles, the young woman began to shuffle forward, carefully remaining centered over the white line leading from her seat to the toilet. The other women seated on the bench attentively followed her progress as she struggled across the room, though they studiously avoided looking directly at her back, instead pretending to focus on some distant point on the opposite wall. Meanwhile, the young woman's progress was quite slow, deliberately slow, crossing the room. Finally, after a several minutes' journey, she arrived at her destination. Carefully turning around so that she now faced the other women seated on the bench, she slowly let herself sit on the cold metal rim of the toilet, her back straight, her eyes seemingly focused on the speaker attached several feet above the heads of the women on the bench opposite her. There was no water in the bowl, and the sound of her urine striking the metal edges seemed excessively loud in the absolute stillness of the room.

She finally completed her task and flushed the toilet, the water rushing from the tank into the bowl sounding like the ocean's roar in the silent room. Sitting quite still, she spoke again, "Madam Guard, Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, requests permission to wipe."

"Permission granted."

Reaching over to the sink, the young woman removed a terry washcloth from a holder. She turned on the cold water, and placed the cloth under the tap, holding it there until it was thoroughly soaked. She then squeezed out the excess water, then carefully wiped her vagina with the cloth, then rinsed it and returned it to the holder. Slowly, carefully, she stood up at attention. "Madam Guard, Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, requests permission to return to her seat."

Silence. Then, a voice, almost betraying boredom: "Permission granted."

Slowly, the young woman shuffled back across the room, her chains and shackles rattling in a metallic swish, until once again she stood at the edge of the yellow line.

"Madam Guard, Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, requests permission to cross the yellow line."

"Permission granted."

The young woman took the last few remaining steps, turned slowly around, and lowered herself to her seat on the bench, rejoining the other women in their silent contemplation of the toilet and sink across the room from them.

The attack occurred with sudden viciousness.

Martha had left the roller rink early, because her asshole stepfather was mad about her grades and wanted her home before ten o'clock. So she had left her best friend Angie flirting with the other seniors at the rink, and had walked home alone. But, as she passed an alleyway after crossing the street to the side her house was on a few blocks ahead, a shadow emerged swiftly from behind a small clump of trees. It loomed over her before she realized it was not the shape of the trees, but of a person. Before she could scream, though, his hand covered her mouth, hard, mashing her nose as he pulled her back against him with surprising strength.

"Don't make a noise," his voice threatened, barely above a whisper. Grasping her belt buckle at the front of her jeans with his other hand, he shoved her under the trees, whose low-hanging branches provided sufficient protection from being seen from the street. As she tripped and fell on her side, he released his grip on her belt buckle, and she started to try to squirm away from his grasp. But, she saw the switchblade knife before she even heard it click open, and heard his low, threatening voice, "Don't move, bitch. Don't move, don't talk." Holding the knife in front of her eyes, he ordered her to pull her pants down. She began to cry, and then to tremble, hard, as though she were shivering in an ice-storm. Once her pants were off and she was naked from the waist down, he ordered her to zip open his fly. Evidently, he didn't want to release his grip on her mouth. He squeezed her jaw until it ached unbearably; but, trying to control herself, she complied, and soon her fingers had pulled down the zipper, and, at his growling command, she had released his cock from inside his jeans. It was already hard, ready to burst. "Put it in," he whispered into her ear as he roughly shoved her on to her back and moved in between her legs. Eyes filled with tears, gasping and sobbing in spite of his hand over her mouth, she obeyed, and soon his penis was pushing its way into her virgin pussy.

When he was finished, he grunted his satisfaction, relaxed just a little bit, and rolled off the terrified girl. Then, holding the knife in front of her face, he scowled at her and said, "You better forget what I look like, girlie. You understand me?"

She began nodding her head frantically, nearly hysterical in her fear. He looked at her with all the menace he could gather, then growled, "I don't believe you, slut. I think you're gonna tell all about me." And he drew back the hand which had covered her mouth, balled it into a fist and brought it crashing down on her eye. She screamed, tried to crawl away, but he caught her by the hair with the hand still holding the knife, and continued thrashing at her with his fist. Her lip split open and blood spurted out, smearing on her face and his knuckles as he punched her over and over. Finally, he was finished. He stood up, picking up her pants and underwear. Waving them in her face, he grinned with a vicious twist of his mouth. "A little souvenir," he said. And then he was gone.

Martha lay there sobbing for a few minutes. Then, not caring about her nakedness, she got to her feet as quickly as she could and began to sprint towards her house a couple of blocks away, sobbing in great gasps as she ran.

Her keys had been in her pants pocket along with her wallet, so she had to pound on the door, shouting and shrieking for someone to let her inside. Finally, her mother came to the door, opening it with an annoyed-sounding greeting that turned to a gasp as she saw Martha standing illuminated in the porchlight. "Oh, my God, get in here," her mother squealed. "What happened?"

Martha stood before her mother, face bleeding, naked from the waist down, with wet leaves and dirt smeared on her legs. "I was...w-was...oh, Momma, it was awful!" she screamed, throwing herself into her mother's arms. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows of the unlit living room. Her stepfather. Martha saw his shadow before she saw him. She recoiled with a little scream. Her mother pulled her a little closer, making a little cooing sound. "What happened, baby?" she asked. For answer, Martha just burrowed deeper into her mother's arms.

Her stepfather stood facing Martha and her mother, a doubtful look in his eyes. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Where're your pants?" Martha, suddenly aware of her nakedness, tried to cover herself by hiding behind her mother. But her stepfather pushed his way past the woman, grabbing Martha by the arm. "What's the meaning of this?"

Martha's eyes were wide with fright. "I was...was attacked," she stammered. "Someone...I don't know...so ugly...jumped me...he...he..." Her mother reached out again, but the stepfather pushed her away. He glared at Martha, his eyes cold and unforgiving. "I told you about going out there dressed like a tramp, didn't I? Didn't I warn you about that? Huh? Haven't I told you time after time that dressing the way you do you're gonna get yourself in trouble? Haven't I?"

Martha's mother said, "Now, Herbert, look. Marty's been attacked. The man beat her up, he raped her, for God's sake. Have some pity."

The man turned to Martha's mother. "I'll bet she asked for it," he said in a voice like ice. He grabbed the woman's arm. "Look at her," he said. "Look at all the makeup she's got on, all that lipstick. She's a tramp. Whoever did this was provoked. She's probably making it up. She probably had him hit her so we'd think she was attacked, that it wasn't her fault."

"Oh, Herbert," the woman cried. "How can you say this? You can't believe what you're saying is true. She's only a girl. She's only seventeen."

Martha stood, eyes downcast, tears flowing down her cheeks, choked with her sobs. As her stepfather increased his verbal attack, she felt more and more damaged. It was worse than the man's fists, the man's sex. This cut straight to her heart.

Her stepfather was yelling at her mother. "Seventeen's old enough to fuck. And that's all this little tramp seems interested in. I told you she was trouble. I told you she was headed for something like this. But you wouldn't believe me, would you? Well, take a look. Look at the slut!"

Her mother was sobbing now, too, unable to look at her daughter. The man turned to the woman and pushed her. "Go get her a clean skirt or something. She looks like a whore standing there without any clothes on. Go on. Hurry up."

Martha cried out and tried to reach out to take her mother's arms, but her stepfather slapped her hands away, then glared at her mother until she began to retreat to carry out his order. As she scurried up the stairs, he turned back to face Martha. In a voice even colder than the rapist's, he said, "You ain't gonna shame this house any more, whore. You're finished here. I'm sick and tired of you and your trampy ways, your tarty face paint, your slutty clothes, your animal music. When your mother gets back here with a change of clothes, I want you out of my house. Do you understand?"

Martha was hysterical. "But, why? What'd I do? I was attacked! I never saw the man! He jumped out of the bushes! He beat me up! He raped me! Why is this my fault?"

The man looked at the sobbing teenager. In a calm, quiet voice, he said, "As much a tramp as you are, you deserved everything that man did to you. I've been warning you for a long time that you were headed for trouble. And so you were. Well, not in this house. You won't bring scandal into my house. Not in my house. Nossir."

Martha's mother had returned with a pair of panties and a skirt. The man took the panties and stuffed them into his pocket, then handed the skirt to Martha. "A whore like this doesn't need underwear," he growled. Her mother sobbed, "Oh, Herbert, she's no whore. She's just a little girl. Why do you hate her so? Why do you look for everything evil in her?"

Suddenly, viciously, the man swung his arm in an upward arc, the back of his hand smashing the cheek of the woman. "Shut up, you stupid bitch!" he screamed. "Just shut up! One more word out of you and you're gonna be joining this slut out on the street!" Martha's mother stumbled from the force of the blow, nearly falling down. "Get back in the kitchen," the man ordered. "This is between me and the tramp. Get out of here." Sobbing, Martha's mother retreated from the room. Martha was stunned. "Momma!" she screamed, but her mother had already shut the kitchen door.

The man grabbed Martha's arm, squeezing it painfully just above the elbow. He whirled her around and shoved her to the front door. "You're on your own, now, slut," he muttered, as he opened the door and pushed her onto the porch. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and a ten. "Here's some money to get you started on your way. Now, I don't ever want to see you again. You got me? Just leave, and don't ever come back. And if I find out you tried to contact your mother, I'll come and find you and kill you. Understand?" Then, he pushed her off the porch, causing her to trip and sprawl painfully on the concrete sidewalk. He tossed the skirt on top of her, then went inside the house, slamming the door behind him. He clicked off the porchlight, plunging Martha into the darkness.

The silence was suddenly broken by the tinny hum of the speaker being clicked on. The voice, sounding somewhat shrill, blared out, "Attention all prisoners! All prisoners will report immediately for roll call!" The eight women stood quickly but quietly, and shuffled hurriedly forward, their chains sounding like brass wind chimes on a windy afternoon, until they stood in a row, their toes just touching the yellow line.

The speaker squawked again, "Prisoner A."

A woman, older than most of the other seven, replied, "Madam Guard, Prisoner A, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, is present."

"Prisoner B."

Another woman, tall with large breasts which swayed slightly as she shifted her weight almost imperceptibly, responded, "Madam Guard, Prisoner B, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, is present."

The litany of attendance continued until at last Prisoner H, the one who had recently ventured across the room to relieve herself, announced her presence as well. The women stood quietly, awaiting further instructions. They were not long in coming. "Attention, all prisoners!" the speaker said. "Recreation period is now concluded. All prisoners will return to their cells. All prisoners, right face! Forward, march!"

The eight women turned to their right and began the walk to the cells arrayed along the wall, being careful to follow the yellow lines painted on the floor. Slowly, their chains rattling noisily, they shuffled along, taking mincing steps, but trying to hurry along as quickly as possible. Finally, each woman stood before a cell door. The speaker hummed again and the voice sounded over the static din, "All prisoners, right face." The women turned to face the open cell doors. "All prisoners will enter their cells immediately," continued the speaker box. The women moved forward until each one stood inside her cell. Again, the box erupted, "All prisoners will secure their doors." Each woman turned around, grasped her cell door, and pulled it shut. After the final click of the closing doors, the guard activated the electronic locks which snapped with a sudden and ferocious finality.

Now that "recreation period" was over and the women safely locked again in their cells, they were free to talk, and immediately a low hum of conversation began, most of it aimed in the direction of Prisoner H, who had only arrived in the room that day; and so everyone was excited about the prospect of hearing what was going on outside the room, in the world they themselves had been taken from weeks and months before.

Martha slowly picked herself up from the sidewalk, carefully sliding the short skirt up over her skinned, bruised buttocks. Slowly, wiping the tears from her eyes, she retreated down the walk, glancing over her shoulder to see if, perhaps, her stepfather might have relented and was now opening the front door, or if her mother was signaling her to come around to the back to be let in the kitchen. But, aside from hearing sounds of her stepfather screaming at her mother, and sounds of flesh slapping flesh, Martha neither heard nor saw any sign that she was welcome in her own home. She trudged down the sidewalk and began walking aimlessly, with no plan or idea of a destination. As she slowly approached the border of the downtown area of the town, she found herself walking along the edge of the public park. Exhausted from her ordeal, unable to think of anyone to turn to, she entered the park and sat down on one of the benches. But, it being late and the park feeling spooky in its dark stillness, Martha decided to seclude herself in a small clear area surrounded by bushes. She curled up in a fetal ball, and pulled her short jacket up over her head - it had begun to grow chilly in the cool Spring midnight - finally crying herself to sleep.

The bright sun climbing over the horizon suddenly burst through the bushes, and Martha's eyes shot open. Frantically, she looked about to see if she'd been discovered. The park was silent in the early dawn; not even zealous joggers had put in an appearance yet. Martha brushed the leaves off her skirt and jacket, and tried to arrange her hair with her fingers. She was cold and hungry. Her lip was puffed up from where the rapist had punched her, and her eye was beginning to turn purplish and swollen. Her body was stiff and sore and all she wanted to do was lie down in a bed, anything to get a little comfortable and a little warm.

She decided she would try to find her friend Angie at school; perhaps she could help Martha decide how to handle this crisis. Obviously, it seemed to her, going to the police would be of no use. She couldn't identify her attacker, and her stepfather had kicked her out of the house. The police would simply declare her to be incorrigible and ship her off to a foster home or, worse, reform school. She was hoping maybe Angie could give her some ideas of what she might do. Angie always had plenty of advice to offer. Martha's spirits picked up a little as she thought about her friend - they had been best pals since first grade - she knew Angie would help. Besides, she was starved and she needed the essentials: comb, toothbrush, underwear, everything.

Quickly, she left the park and walked back to her own neighborhood to her friend's house. Angie lived two blocks away from Martha, so there was little chance Martha's stepfather would spot her and cause further trouble for her. Entering Angie's yard from the rear by climbing over a low chain- link fence, Martha crept up to the back door which opened into the kitchen. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed up the steps and peered through the window pane in the door. Luck was with her! Angie was in the kitchen, and her mother and father were in the dining room engrossed in their morning newspaper reading and coffee sipping.

Martha tapped lightly on the window pane, just loud enough to catch Angie's notice. Angie turned to the window, her mouth opening in a perfect O. She quickly strode to the door and opened it. "My God, Marty," she whispered loudly. "You look awful! What happened?"

Martha whispered her reply, "The asshole beat me up. He's kicked me out. Angie! Can you hide me here for a little while? Please?"

Angie looked over her shoulder at her parents. They were still absorbed in their reading. "Ok. Hide in the tool shed. I'll leave the back door unlocked. As soon as my folks have gone to work, you can sneak in and hide up in my room."

Martha blew her a kiss and whispered, "Thanks, Angie. You're the best." Then, she turned and hurried over to the garden tool shed, opening the door as quietly as possible, and stepping inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so she could tell when Angie's parents left for work.

After what seemed like hours to Martha, Angie's father emerged from the kitchen, walked down the steps and over to the garage. He dialed the code on the remote garage door opener and stood waiting while the door slowly lifted. Then, he got in his car, started the motor, and began to back down the driveway. As he was doing this, Angie and her mother came out, Angie hanging back to close the kitchen door and "lock" it. Then, they repeated the same ritual Angie's father had performed. When everyone had gone, Martha, who had been watching intently from the garden tool shed, tiptoed up to the kitchen door, quietly opening it and letting herself into the house.

Once inside, Martha felt safe for the first time since being attacked in the alley near her home. She went to the refrigerator and looked inside. Not much there, but she did find some leftover fried chicken drumsticks which she devoured as though she hadn't eaten in days. Then, needing to pee, she went into the powder room off the hall by the front door. As she entered the small room, she glanced at the mirror. She looked awful! Worse than Angie had hinted. Her face was lopsided from the swelling on her jaw. Her lip was puffy and caked with dried blood. Her eye was turning a yellowish, purplish color. Her hair was a total mess, unkempt and wild-looking, with leaves stuck here and there in it. As she sat down on the toilet to relieve herself, she groaned in despair over what had happened. She couldn't decide who was worse, her stepfather or the rapist. Maybe her stepfather was the rapist, she thought. Who knows? Worse things had happened. The sonofabitch. He'd made her life miserable ever since he and her mother had returned from their honeymoon six months ago, and he'd taken up permanent residence in her home. He hadn't been there a week, and it was already pretty clear he hated Martha and wanted her out of the house. He'd looked for every little excuse to put her down, to find fault, to punish and harass. Last night had just been the culmination of his campaign of hate. Martha started to cry. Why hadn't her mother stepped in? Why had she let Martha be treated so horribly by that...that monster?

Finished peeing, Martha went upstairs to Angie's room. She was really tired, now. She found a towel and decided to take a shower before taking a little nap. Maybe that would help her feel better, she thought. At least, it would take away some of the stiffness and soreness she felt. She got undressed and padded into the bathroom, turning on the shower in the tub. While she was waiting for the water to warm up, she looked under the sink and found a toothpaste still in its dentist's office wrapping. She opened it up and carefully, because of her lip, she brushed her teeth, slowly getting rid of the stale taste in her mouth. The water was beginning to steam up the mirror, so Martha opened the shower curtain and stepped into the tub. Oh, God, it felt so good! She didn't know when a shower had ever felt so soothing and comforting. She wanted to stay there forever. She began to hum as she soaped herself all over.

Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open, and the shower curtain was ripped aside. Martha screamed, nearly tripping in the tub. It was Angie. "Oh, shit, Marty!" she cried. "You're mother's dead!"

Martha stared at her friend in disbelief. "What? But...how...no...no! That's not possible! How?"

Angie tugged at Martha's arm, helping her out of the tub. "The police were at school. They were looking for you. They said your stepfather told them you and your mother'd had a fight last night, and you beat her up and then stabbed her to death."

"Oh, God!" cried Martha. "That dirty bastard! That sonofabitch! He killed her! After he kicked me out!" She fell to her knees, sobbing, holding her head in her hands, rocking back and forth as she wailed in complete despair.

Angie sat down on the floor beside Martha and took her head, holding her friend close to her breast. "Oh, Marty, Marty. What can we do? The police aren't going to believe you. Especially when they see your face. One look at you and you know they'll believe that asshole's story about you and your mom fighting."

"What am I gonna do, Angie?" cried Martha. "What can I do?"

Angie frowned. "Well, for sure, we've got to get you out of this town. C'mon. Get your clothes on. I'll call one of the Robinson twins and tell him I need a ride. He owes me a favor. I'll get him to take you to the bus station over in Edgerton. Maybe you can catch a bus and be in the city before the police think about putting out bulletins on you."

Martha said, "But, if I run, they'll for sure think I'm guilty. Wouldn't it be better to get a lawyer, or something?"

Angie shook her head. "Listen, you know and I know what a pecker your stepfather is. But he's got this town thinking he's 'Mister Perfect,' 'Mister Big-Time Attorney.' Even if you get a lawyer, and what lawyer would want to go up against the asshole, it's still going to be your word against his. Who do you think they're gonna believe? Huh?"

Martha thought about it. "I guess you're right," she sighed, defeated. "I'm probably being really stupid. But there sure doesn't seem to be too many choices, does there?"

While Martha put on her skirt and blouse, and combed out her hair with a borrowed comb, Angie called her friend Bill Robinson, a nineteen-year- old graduate who was working construction. After heated discussion and argument on her part, Angie seemed to finally convince him that Martha had been framed, and he agreed to help her avoid the police. But it was going to cost Martha forty dollars, leaving her with only ten dollars for the bus trip to the city. Frightened, unable to think of an alternative, Martha agreed to his terms. He and Angie made plans for Martha to meet him at a place where it would be unlikely anyone would know or recognize her.

Before they left the house, Angie gave Martha one of her purses, a small denim bag with a shoulder strap. Inside, they tucked a comb, toothpaste and toothbrush, lipstick, tissues, and a small bar of soap. With luck, Martha might find help in the city, and be able to purchase whatever else she might need. At least she'd be away from this town, and she had a fighting chance of getting away altogether. At the bottom of the stairs, the two friends embraced and then Martha hurried to her meeting with Bill Robinson, while Angie returned to school to see if there was some way she might help Martha there.

End Part 1 of 3

Message-ID: <171308Z10071996@anon.penet.fi> Path: bull.hkstar.net!imci3!imci5!pull-feed.internetmci.com!news.internetMCI.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!hunter.premier.net!netnews.worldnet.att.net!uunet!inXS.uu.net!nntp.inet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories From: an309248@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an309248@anon.penet.fi Date: Wed, 10 Jul 1996 17:11:27 UTC Subject: Story: The Life Sentence, Part 2 of 3 Lines: 534

The following story is intended for the enjoyment of adults only. It contains graphic sexual scenes which might not be appropriate for young eyes. Please, if you are under the age of 18, stop reading this file and go look for something else to do. Thank you.

by Denny Mulligan (formerly Little Sissy Tippytoes)

"Prisoner H!"

It was the woman in the cell on her left. She was speaking in a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper. Prisoner H, the newcomer to the room, turned and stepped over to the barred door so she could hear better.

"Prisoner H!"

"Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Prisoner D. Welcome to our cozy little cottage." This comment caused the woman to begin snickering, then snorting in a way that made her choke slightly so she had to stop talking for a moment while she cleared her windpipe. "Whew!" she exclaimed once she'd regained her breath. "Sorry about that. Comes from not talking enough, I guess. Say, I wanted to ask you something."

"What's that?" asked Prisoner H.

Prisoner D cleared her throat again. "Well, this may seem a little personal. But, have you ever eaten pussy?"

"W-what?" asked Prisoner H. "Eaten what? Pussy?"

"Yeah, pussy. Have you ever eaten pussy?"

Some of the other women who had heard Prisoner D's question laughed. It was obvious this was a major topic of conversation for Prisoner D.

"No, no, I never have," said Prisoner H.

"Well, that's too bad. We'll have to see if we can do something about that. Every woman should try it, I say. Babe, I watched you rolling your sweet ass across that floor to the toilet, and that's all I could think about. Give me that pussy, I thought. Let me wrap my lips around those wonderful cuntlips. Doesn't that sound delicious? Mmmmm. What a wonderful thought."

Prisoner H was momentarily stunned. No woman had ever spoken to her like that. She had no idea how to reply. Finally, one of the other prisoners spoke up: "Hey, D, how you gonna get in her cell to get that sweet honey's pot? Climb over the wall?"

Prisoner D replied, "Sweetie, if I could climb that wall, I'd be having this conversation in her cell already." General laughter. "Oh, baby, baby. How I miss eating pussy! Well, I can dream about it, can't I? And H, honey, I'm gonna be dreaming about your cunt every night from now on. Mmmmm. I'm gettin' hot just thinking about it. Hey, hey! I can't keep my hands to myself any longer."

The other women by now were laughing loudly. Even Prisoner H was smiling at the silly talk. But, eventually, the laughter died down, and each woman was left more or less to contemplate her four-by-six world.

Shortly after this conversation, the woman in the cell on the other side of Prisoner H spoke: "H. Have you ridden the horse yet?"

Prisoner H wasn't sure she'd heard this woman correctly. "Ridden a horse? Well, I took some lessons when I was younger... "

"No, no," the woman impatiently replied. "Ridden the horse. Here. In this place."

Prisoner H said, "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just confused. What is the horse, anyway?"

Prisoner D said, "It's what we live for, baby. It's our salvation."

The other prisoner, the one who had asked the question, said, "After you were sentenced, they took you to a holding cell to train you for life in this room. Right?"

Prisoner H's face darkened at the memory of the torture she had endured in the tiny darkened room, the beatings that seemed never to end while she struggled to learn the rules, the humiliating statement she was trained to give when talking to the guards, the hours of silence punctured by the whip and her screams. Yes, she'd been in a holding cell. She guessed all the prisoners had been subjected to the same. "Yes, I was in the holding cell."

"Well, didn't they make you ride the horse while you were there?"

"They beat me a lot. They wouldn't let me sleep. They screamed at me and starved me. But, no, I don't remember a horse. But then it's all so blurry, you know? I was so exhausted all the time."

"No," said the other prisoner. "You'd remember the horse. Well, you'll learn about it here, for sure. And like D said, you'll quickly find it's the whole point of life in this place. Like she dreams of eating pussy? Well, you'll dream about riding the horse."

Before Bill Robinson would let Martha get into his pickup truck, he insisted she give him the two twenty-dollar bills. Once they were seated, and he'd started the engine and begun the drive to the next town, Edgerton, he patted the seat beside him - it was a bench seat - and gestured for her to move over next to him. Reluctantly, with a frown, she complied.

Martha nodded slightly, folding her hands in her lap and staring ahead through the windshield.

As the truck entered the two-lane highway, Robinson turned to Martha and asked, "How much money you got left, baby?"

She looked at her hands. "T-ten," she murmured. "Ten dollars."

Robinson threw his head back and laughed. "Whooee! That's hardly enough to buy supper! How you gonna get along in the big city with ten bucks?"

Martha seemed absorbed in studying her fingers as they laced together. "I don't know," she mumbled. "Maybe get a job. Something." She shrugged her shoulders and fell silent.

They drove in silence for a short while, then Bill cleared his throat. He removed his right hand from the steering wheel and placed it on the seat back behind Martha's neck. She ducked her head and leaned slightly forward. He ignored her attempt to avoid his touch. "I think I can help you out a little bit," he said, quietly. "With money."

She mumbled, "H-how?"

"I can let you earn back that forty dollars you gave me." He moved his hand over to cover her right shoulder.

She was becoming nervous. She knew she was not going to like his offer. But she had to say something. "H-how?"

Robinson's face lit up with a big grin. "Why, babycakes, you can suck my cock. That's how! Twenty bucks a pop!"

Martha's face turned red with shame and embarrassment. "I...no...uhm... I've never done that...uhm...before."

Robinson laughed out loud. "Well, it ain't like it takes a rocket scientist to figure it out, is it? You just put my dick in your mouth and suck 'til I come."

Martha nearly retched at the thought. Her face had begun to change color from shamefaced red to sickly gray. "I...I...no...no...can't d-do..."

Suddenly, his hand left her shoulder and grabbed the back of her neck, squeezing it in a vise-like grip. "You dumb cunt," he snarled. "One way or the other, you're gonna suck my cock. You may as well act like you want to so you can get some money for it."

Martha's eyes flew open in fear as he squeezed her neck. "Please...please," she begged. "I...oh, please...not...no..." Her voice trailed off in a frightened whine.

Robinson's grip grew tighter on her neck, and he pushed her head down until she was doubled over in the seat. "Bitch! You're gonna suck my cock, or I'm gonna deliver you to the cops over in Edgerton. Now, get your head outta your ass, and realize I ain't fuckin' around with you."

Martha began to sob now, shaking from her crying or from her terror, it didn't matter which. Robinson continued to maintain his painful grip on her neck. But he seemed in no hurry to use her mouth. He drove on as she finished crying and choking out her sobs. Finally, she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. Robinson twisted her head so that her eyes were looking at his lap. His fly was open, and his erect cock stood up, long and thick, with a purplish-colored head. It seemed to twitch with eager excitement. Robinson said, in a low, threatening tone of voice, "Get to it, cunt."

Knowing she had no choice, Martha slowly lowered her face until the angry looking head of Robinson's penis was inches away from her mouth. The small opening at the tip looked to be enlarging, an evil eye staring up at her. Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips and touched the head of his penis with them. It was hot, as though it were afflicted with a raging fever, and it twitched as her lips made contact. She withdrew, and licked her lips to moisten them. She tasted his cock as she licked. "That's it," he spoke, his voice seeming far away. "Use your tongue. Yeah."

Slowly, she began licking in a circular manner all around the crown, then she slid it into her mouth, squeezing slightly with her lips, and continuing her licking motion. She began to slide her mouth along the length of his cock, still rolling her tongue around the shaft as her lips descended. Robinson was groaning now, trying to maintain his concentration as he drove, yet delighting in the remarkably perfect blowjob Martha was giving him. Her head began slowly bobbing up and down the shaft, pausing each time she pulled up so that only the head was in her mouth. Then, she would lick it all around before beginning her descent along the shaft again. Robinson could stand it no longer. With a loud groan, and closing his eyes (nearly causing the car to swerve into the next lane), he exploded in a hugely intense orgasm, pouring out torrents of cum into Martha's hot, moist mouth. She nearly choked on the flood of sperm, but managed to swallow most of it.

It took a long time, and they had entered the center city and were stopped at a traffic signal, when he shot his wad again into her mouth. Finally, he let her up, and she looked out the window to see a street crowded with cars and people. Robinson signaled her to get out of the truck, and said, "Come around to my window, and I'll give ya the forty bucks I owe ya." Martha, keeping a wary eye on him, opened the door on her side and stepped out into the street. Quickly, she scurried around to the driver's side where Robinson sat looking at her, a half-sneer on his face. "Where's the bus station?" Martha asked. "I don't see a bus station around here."

"Oh," he said. "It's one block over from here. It's on a one-way street, and I would have to go around several blocks to get lined up right. You just cross here and go down that street. You can't miss it. There's buses all over the place."

Martha eyed him suspiciously, but finally nodded her head. "What about the two twenties you promised me?"

He held them in his hand. "Open your purse, and I'll stick 'em in for ya."

Reluctantly, she opened her purse and held it up so he could put the two bills into it. Suddenly, he snatched the purse with his hand, ripping it out of her fingers. With a squeal of tires, he roared down the street, laughing at her in his rear-view mirror as she tumbled to the pavement to avoid being hit by his truck. His last view of her as he sped away was Martha sitting in the street shaking her fist at him, and a young black man reaching down to help her to her feet.

Martha was sobbing hysterically. "That bastard!" she screamed. "That dirty sonofabitch!"

The young, handsome black man continued to help her up. "We gotta get you out of the street, baby, or you gonna get run over, for sure." Finally, she was balanced on her feet and he was able to help her over to the curb. "What happened, baby? Your man cut out on you?"

Tears flowing down her cheeks, Martha said, between sobs, "He took my purse and all my money. I don't have anything left. I was supposed to catch a bus."

The man smiled, trying to look kind and helpful. "There ain't any buses around here, baby. I'm sorry to have to tell ya that."

She looked at him, her eyes wide with confusion and growing apprehension. "N-no buses? But he said the bus station was just up the street. I don't understand."

The man smiled again. "Looks like your man fucked over you in more ways than one, don't it?" He held her arm as she continued to cry. "Well, look here, baby, why don't we find a place to sit down, and calm down, and talk about it. Whaddya say? There's a coffee shop right over there."

Martha studied the man's face through her tears. "Oh, okay," she finally said. Then she groaned again, realizing she had no money, no anything - and nowhere to turn. The man led her into a dark, smoke-hazy room with several small tables, most of them filled by people drinking coffee and talking loudly. There was a bar which ran several feet down the length of the room. A tv was connected to the ceiling over the bar, and it was turned on to a local news show, the announcer blaring his voice over the din of the customers. The man found a table in a far corner of the room and, placing his hand on the small of her back, steered Martha over to it. He sat down with his back to the window, facing the bar, and gestured for Martha to sit across from him. A waitress approached them and took their order for coffee. When she had gone to fill the order, the man leaned across the table and said to Martha, "Now tell me, little lover, what brings you down to the heart of the ghetto? You know, it ain't too often we get hot-lookin' white chicks like you down here."

"Wha-what, where did you say I was?" she asked, an expression of fearful concern on her face. "I-I don't understand. The man in the truck, Robinson, he said he was taking me to the bus station. I need to get to the bus station. Can you help me? He took all my money. He took everything." And she began to cry again.

The man reached across the table and took her hands in his. "Hey, baby," he cooed. "It ain't so bad. Don't worry. After we have our coffee, I'll help ya get to the bus station. I'll even help you get on your bus."

Martha looked at the man again. He really did seem sincere about wanting to help her out. She smiled a small smile at him. He handed her a napkin, and she began to dry her tears. Suddenly, he looked up, past her shoulder, at something behind her. He gripped her hand tightly. "Listen, baby," he said in a low voice. "I want you to get up quietly and move your chair around to my side of the table and then sit down again. But do it so no one pays any attention to you. Got it?"

Martha opened her mouth to respond, but he squeezed her hand. "Don't say nothing," he commanded her. "Just do it!"

Martha did as he said. When she sat down, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Look at the tv over the bar."

Martha looked up and gasped. There on the tv was a picture of her, appearing to be staring directly into the camera. The announcer was saying that she was wanted for questioning in the slaying of a woman, her mother, earlier that morning. There was a phone number under her picture, and the announcer was encouraging anyone with information about the matter to call that number. The man whistled softly and turned to Martha. "Whoa, baby," he said softly, "You did your mama? You're in a lot of trouble, ain't you?"

Martha began to stammer. "N-no, I-I didn't kill her. I c-couldn't kill her. It was, it was my stepfather. H-he's t-trying to pin the b-blame on me."

The man smiled broadly. "Yeah, right, baby, whatever you say. But lemme tell you something, okay? You ain't gonna be catchin' no buses today, understand? That'll be the first place the cops'll be lookin' for you."

Martha was shivering now, terrified, knowing her life was never, ever going to be the same again. "What do I do?" she asked. "Where do I go?"

The man smiled broadly at her. "Hey, hey, little mama. Don't fret. Rodney's here, and as long as Rodney's here, everything's gonna be okay."

She tried to feel reassured, but it didn't seem to work. Her panic just continued to grow. "What can you do? Can you help me?"

Rodney put his hand on hers. "Baby, I'm gonna fix you up so no one will ever recognize you, not even your mama. If she was alive, that is. Man, you don't look like no killer. Hmmm. Life is full of little surprises, ain't it?" And he grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet and walked quickly out the door and across the street.

"Attention all prisoners."

The cell doors were unlocked electronically with a loud clacking sound.

"All prisoners will report immediately for roll call."

Each woman opened her own cell door, then shuffled forward to the yellow line painted on the floor parallel to the row of cells. Once assembled, the eight women stood at quiet attention, waiting for the voice in the speaker to call the roll.

"Prisoner A."

"Madam Guard, Prisoner A, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, is present."

"Prisoner B."

The litany was repeated through all eight prisoners. Then there was a short silence. Finally, the voice in the speaker: "Attention all prisoners. All prisoners will prepare to witness punishment."

Prisoner H had not experienced this phase of prison life. Her week in the 'orientation cell' had been filled with instructions for each phase of life in the big room; but there had been no formal punishment period. There had only been occasional random beatings for various infractions she might have committed. But, this was something new. She would have to remain alert so as to know what to expect when her turn came.

A door on the wall opposite from the cells opened and two black-clad people emerged pushing some sort of gymnastics contraption to the center of the room. The two people, Prisoner H could not determine if they were male or female, but were probably female, wore tight black spandex bodysuits that included skin-tight hoods which covered their entire heads with the exception of two cutouts for the eyes, one for the mouth, and one for the nostrils. Prisoner H suspected there were cutouts for the ears as well, but they were well- disguised. The object they pushed between them looked like a low platform on wheels. A long, thick cylindrical object, covered in leather, was held about a foot above the platform by four short legs, each perhaps a foot long, which were bolted to the platform. Once this object was in the center of the room, one of the black-clad people pulled some sort of lever which locked the wheels in place.

Suddenly, the speaker on the wall erupted: "Prisoner H, report to the punishment station."

Prisoner H, sweating and nervous, started to shuffle forward across the yellow line, when she suddenly remembered. She looked straight ahead and spoke: "Madam Guard, Prisoner H, a scandal and embarrassment to her sex, a worthless slut and murderer, requests permission to cross the yellow line." An almost imperceptible sigh was heard to her left. The other prisoners had noticed her near-fatal mistake and were applauding her. The speaker responded: "Permission granted."

Slowly, carefully, Prisoner H shuffled forward. When she finally arrived at the end of the platform, one of the black-clad persons commanded: "Kneel, Prisoner H, and lay yourself over the horse." Prisoner H dropped to her knees at the end of the leather-covered cylinder, the horse. As carefully as she could, she leaned over the horse until her chin rested on it. Quickly, the two people who had brought the contraption into the big room secured Prisoner H's legs to the side of the cylinder using straps which hung loosely from the side. They then secured her arms so that her hands, folded in front of her, were pinioned beneath her stomach. Finally, they secured her head to the top of the cylinder by tightening a leather strap around the back of her neck. Prisoner H could move no more than an inch in any direction. Her chin rested uncomfortably on the cylinder; her neck was strained as she stared straight ahead.

She could hear a sound like an eletric motor humming, and could feel the light touch of hands (the guards?) on her hips and buttocks. Suddenly, she felt something cold and wet on her vagina, like a cold cream. Then, she gasped as her pussy began to stretch and an object, huge, was inserted into it. It continued to push up into her interior until she thought it would puncture her uterus. And it was thick! It felt like she had been impaled on a log. Then the penetration ceased, and the humming stilled momentarily. Prisoner H tried to shift her body to accommodate the intruder; but, of course, such accommodation was impossible. Then, simultaneously, she heard the humming sound resume, and she felt the object inside her begin slowly to withdraw. It was so long, it seemed to take forever. Then, just as she thought it might be removed from her pussy, it reversed itself and pushed with terrible force back into her womb. She gasped, surprised, and felt stuffed; but, the penetration was not painful at all. In fact, as it slid like a knife into a sheath, it rubbed against her clitoris, sending a thrill up and down her spine, and her stomach jumped as though she were on a roller coaster ride. Once again, the object slowly began to withdraw; then, just as the tip was almost completely out of her pussy - whoosh! - it rammed its way in again, and again rubbed and tickled her clitoris. A rhythm began, and Prisoner H found herself beginning to respond. She was sweating now, and breathing hard. Her tightly restricted body and the uncomfortable stretching of her neck were forgotten as she concentrated on the building sexual heat. She could feel an orgasm beginning to grow within her as the engine continued to penetrate...withdraw...penetrate...withdraw. She could feel her face redden as the heat increased within her. Her moaning was growing stronger. Then, just as she felt herself nearing the moment -

WHAP!

A paddle smacked her right asscheek. Hard. All thought of orgasm instantly disappeared. Then - WHAP! - another paddle struck the other cheek. Then, for ten frenzied seconds, both paddles beat a horrible tattoo on her ass. She screamed, she begged for mercy, all in vain. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

As quickly as it had started, the beating stopped. Prisoner H was breathing so hard she nearly hyperventilated. Sweat covered her entire body, and the leather cylinder she was attached to was soaked. Silence. Except for her gasps and groans. Then, again, the humming and the log penetrating her vagina. The rhythm resuming: hard push in; slow, almost delicate withdrawal; constant irritation of her clitoris. Prisoner H's groans increasing now, she begging for release from this hellish device, begging to be allowed to come, begging for anything to free her from this torment. The pressure of the log increased, the tempo of its pistoning increased, her breathing grew more rapid, again nearing the summit, the orgasm closer and closer, her toes curling the only sign of the approaching climax, she being so tightly bound, coming closer, closer, the edge appearing in her mind's eye, oh yes, oh yes...

WHAP!

Again, the monstrous paddle and the searing pain. Prisoner H screaming now in pain and frustration. Again, the beating, slow at first, then increasing in speed and force. Prisoner H's tears and pleadings unheeded. She seemingly all alone, surrounded by absolute silence. And yet she knows the other women are there, the guards are there. She remembers before this torment began they were there. Oh, stop the pain. Stop. Stop. Ohhh.

Just as she felt herself sliding into unconsciousness, the paddling ceased. Again, she was allowed to relax, or at least to feel no pain or pressure. She could concentrate on her body and its aches, her ass covered with welts feeling as though it had been set afire, her arms and legs numb with stiffness, her neck feeling stretched beyond its elastic limit, her chin as though someone had been punching it steadily for - how long? - how long had this awful torture been going on?

The humming again. The slow penetration of the log. Prisoner H sobbing now, "No, no, please, no." But the heat again building up inside her, starting in her pussy, the center of her universe, spreading upward through her uterus to her stomach, lungs, head, spreading outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. She was on fire now, only a few strokes bringing her again to the brink of climax, panting, gasping, sobbing, crying aloud. The machine was relentless. It pushed, it pulled, it refused to pause, it just kept on going and going and going. Then, suddenly, the paddling again, but this time in perfect unison with the penile log, so that now she was feeling a blend of unbelievably intense pleasure and pain, each one now indistinguishable from the other.

Climbing, climbing, climbing, she was close now, she could feel the explosion building. Paddle, paddle - pain! - thrust, parry - pleasure! No longer groaning, but screaming now, cursing, bawling, all thought gone except what was centered in her cunt and its reactions to the pounding log within it. Close, close, oh yes, there! I'm there! It's - oh ow whoo - here it comes! The paddling increasing in intensity as she hits her limit and screams over the final hurdle, and pain and pleasure are merged into one overwhelming, mind-blowing crescendo of orgasmic release. She is no longer in her right mind - she is pure sensation now - all thought gone - only feeling, and flashes of brilliant light, and crashings of drums and cymbals and screaming trumpets...

Blackness. The light had grown so incredibly bright she couldn't stand it, and found her way into blackness. Unconsciousness. Where neither pain nor pleasure could any longer be distinguished, but just pure, mindless orgasmic release. Then blackness. And silence.

She could feel hands removing the leather bonds which had held her on the leather cylinder, the "horse." The hands now grasped her by her elbows and gently lifted her to her feet. She couldn't stand unaided, her legs were shaking uncontrollably. All she was aware of was the intense pain in her buttocks and the feeling of being all knotted up in her stomach. The two pairs of hands gently guided her back to her spot at the yellow line. She was turned so that she now faced the awful instrument of her torture. The voice in the speaker tinnily blared: "All prisoners will now return to their cells." She could hear the loud metallic swish of the chains of the other women as they turned and shuffled the few feet to their cell doors. The hands gently turned her and guided her into her own cell. Once inside, she was instructed to close her door so that the lock could be turned. Her hands shaking almost as badly as her legs, she managed to turn and grasp the door, holding onto it to keep from collapsing. She closed the door, hearing its metal click. Then, as she hung onto the bars with both hands, and the silence had once again descended on the room, the electronic lock clacked, and the eight prisoners were once again locked in their tiny cells.

Prisoner H could just make out the voice of Prisoner D, her next door neighbor, who said, "Well, H, welcome to the horse. You'll find yourself living every moment of your life thinking about it. It'll be your nightmare and your daydream. It'll be the center of your universe. You'll long for it more than you ever longed for a lover. Because it'll become your lover. And no lover will have ever made you feel like the horse does. Believe it." Prisoner H could stand no longer. She sank to her knees, then turned to her rolled-up mattress, unrolled it, and collapsed into the first deep sleep she'd had since coming to this hellish place.

End Part 2 of 3

Message-ID: <171313Z10071996@anon.penet.fi> Path: bull.hkstar.net!imci3!imci5!pull-feed.internetmci.com!news.internetMCI.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!hunter.premier.net!netnews.worldnet.att.net!uunet!inXS.uu.net!nntp.inet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories From: an309248@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an309248@anon.penet.fi Date: Wed, 10 Jul 1996 17:12:07 UTC Subject: Story: The Life Sentence, Part 3 of 3 Lines: 494

The following story is intended for the enjoyment of adults only. It contains graphic sexual scenes which might not be appropriate for young eyes. Please, if you are under the age of 18, stop reading this file and go look for something else to do. Thank you.

Rodney led Martha to a rundown rowhouse across the street from the coffee shop, and pushed her through the vestibule door. He then led her up several flights of stairs, down dark hallways smelling of stale urine, and, finally, into an apartment at the end of one of the hallways. He unlocked the door, and shoved her inside. She noticed the apartment was small, with a tiny combination living-dining room off to the left and the kitchen straight ahead. Through the kitchen was a short hallway leading to a single bedroom and a bathroom. The furnishings were nondescript and without any apparent theme. Obviously, interior design was not one of Rodney's talents.

He pointed to a couch in the living room, and she sat down. The couch was low, and as she bent her legs to sit, she momentarily lost her balance and had to spread her legs slightly to regain it before she tumbled onto the cushion. As she did so, her skirt hiked up her thigh, and Rodney instantly realized she wore no panties. Hmmm, he thought, this one came prepared.

He took a seat facing the couch, partly so he could continue to investigate what he could of her unpantied crotch, partly so he could intimidate her by staring her down. "You got a real problem, little mama," he began. "Your face is bein' shown all over town. And you ain't got no money to get someplace else."

Martha pursed her lips and nodded. She caught his unwavering gaze, and her eyes were held transfixed, like a deer caught in a motorist's headlights.

"Well, not to worry, baby," he continued. "Ol' Rodney can fix you up so no one will ever think of you and that face on the tv as bein' one and the same. You'll be able to stay right here and no one will ever know it's you."

She continued to nod her head, her eyes locked in his, almost as though he had cast a spell over her.

"But, it'll cost ya, baby. You know, ain't nothin' in this world comes free."

Finally, the spell seemed to break, and she said, "But I don't have any money. I don't have a job. How can I repay you?"

Rodney chuckled humorlessly. "That's easy, baby. You go to work for me."

"What would I do?" she asked.

"What do you think you'd do, mama? What does any bitch who's broke and on the run do?"

Her eyes grew wide, frightened. "Y-you mean...?"

"That's what I mean, baby. You know exactly what I mean."

She shook her head back and forth. "Oh, no, no, I-I can't do something... I...no, I can't do that."

Rodney suddenly leaned forward, and before she could stop him, his hand shot up her short skirt and his fingers wrapped themselves around a handful of her pubic hair. "You're already dressed for work, baby," he said, his voice low and threatening. He yanked hard, and she winced in pain. She tried to grab his hand, but he swung his free hand up, hitting her on the point of her chin, knocking her backwards. "Get them fuckin' hands out of my way, cunt," he snarled. Then, he seemed to relax. He released his grip on her pubic hair, and began rubbing it, patting it gently. Then, he inserted two fingers into her vagina, his eyes daring her to react. She kept her hands at her sides, making no move to defend herself.

Slowly, he began to stroke his fingers in and out of her pussy. He continued talking as he finger-fucked her, "See, I'm gonna give you a complete makeover. Nobody will recognize you. And you? Why, you're gonna hit that street out there and make me some payback. See, I help you out of a jam with the cops, and I help me out of a jam with my landlord. Works pretty good, don't you think?"

Her eyes had begun to fill with tears as Rodney continued probing her. All she could do was nod, to agree. She had no other choice. Refuse, and he would turn her over to the cops. She really had no other choice. Rodney saw the surrender in her eyes. He smiled and continued fondling her pussy.

As his fingers moved in and out of her vagina, he leaned forward and murmured, "Oh, yeah, baby, you're gettin' hot, ain't ya? Ol' Rodney's makin' you feel oh, so good, ain't he? Am I right, sweet mama? Come on, give ol' Rodney a kiss. Jus' a little one? Hmmm?"

Martha could feel herself growing wet and her skin was beginning to feel hot. She felt her face flush. Rodney continued to stare into her eyes and to coo in a low voice. Slowly, continuing her surrender, she leaned forward, closing her eyes, and pursing her lips. She felt her lips brush slightly against his, then his tongue was invading her mouth and she felt a third finger slip into her pussy to join the other two which were already driving her crazy. She began to breathe hard, allowing herself to find pleasure in the seduction. After a long, wet, passionate kiss, Rodney pulled his tongue out of her mouth and began to lick her ear, softly, almost but not quite tickling her. Then he whispered, "Get on your knees, little mama, and suck my cock." It wasn't a request. She knew she had no choice.

Allowing him to guide her with the hand jammed in her vagina, she slowly slid from the couch onto the floor. Finally, she found a use for her hands, as she reached forward nervously to unzip Rodney's fly. A huge bulge in his underwear indicated he was already hard. Hard, and large. As she released his penis from the opening in the fly, she gasped at the size of it. It was thick, and it was long. Her fingers trembled as she grasped it and leaned forward to place her mouth over the head. Rodney had removed his fingers from her pussy, and he used both hands to pull her in close. He then lifted her skirt from the rear and reached over her to reinsert his hand in her cunt, to continue his probing and teasing. Martha slipped her mouth over the head of his cock and began moistening it with her tongue. She made a slow circular motion with her tongue, then tightened her grip with her mouth, creating a sort of vacuum as she then pulled the head further in. It felt as if his already enormous prick was growing even larger. Then, she loosened the grip of her lips, and began licking up and down the length of the enormous shaft. As she licked, she also kissed it, giving it little pecks, even grasping the tight skin softly with her teeth and gently tugging it. As he grew more excited, his hand in her cunt became less gentle in its in-and-out motion. Martha began to tie her mouth rhythm to Rodney's finger rhythm, sliding up and down the shaft with increasing rapidity, trying to pull more and more of him into her mouth. But there was so much of him! And so little room in her mouth. And he was too large to fit in her throat. She groaned in frustration as she found herself getting hotter and hotter, more and more excited, desiring more and more of him inside her. His fingers in her pussy were making her wild; she wanted to come, she needed to come. Now her mouth was like a piston on his cock, pumping up and down, feeling it grow hotter and bigger, as though it were about to explode.

And then it did. A huge explosion, a gusher of cum slamming against the back of her throat, nearly choking her. It was so much she couldn't swallow it down fast enough, and it poured out of her mouth, dribbling down her chin, and down the length of his exposed penis. And she came, too. Oh, how she came. Her knees were actually dancing up and down on the rug, her ass was quivering and shaking, as her pussy exploded like a burst of fireworks. She moaned, she groaned, she wept with the joy of this wild climax. And she sucked and swallowed, and kissed and worshiped the monumental prick in her mouth.

Four days later, she was on the street. Rodney had called a friend who worked in a beauty parlor. She had performed a miracle on Martha, transforming her from a pretty girl with long, flowing blonde hair, to a spectacular woman, with wild red hair, teased and tousled. Martha's breasts had been average, and she had never done much to accentuate them. But the new Martha, thanks to a different bra and a tight, tight top, had tits that turned men's heads. In a micro-miniskirt, her slightly better than average looking legs became unbelievably remarkable, especially with the accents caused by the four inch heels she wore. And the tight skirt drew attention to her hips and her ass. Even Martha had been impressed by the transformation. She had a new name now, Diamond. Rodney knew he'd created a 40-carat masterpiece. He also knew the illusion depended on her acceptance of his claim that she had to rely entirely on him in order to deceive the police; that he, and he alone, could provide her the protection she needed. After four days of sucking, fucking and everything in between, after four days of brainwashing her to accept him as her savior, he had turned her out, and she (against all logic) accepted - no, embraced - her new role in life. Within days, she was the envy of all the regular whores in Rodney's neighborhood. And Rodney was king of the pimps. Her earnings not only helped calm down his landlord, they also went into the creation of a new, suave, sophisticated Rodney, thanks to the expensive wardrobe he bought from her labor.

It wasn't long before the other pimps and lowlifes began to notice the change. Rodney, or Rodney's whore anyway, was taking business away from them. Serious business. This whore of his seemed to possess a huge store of energy. She was pulling in customers faster than she could handle them. So many cars were cruising the street in search of Diamond that they were causing traffic jams. But, of course, that wasn't bad for the other pimps at all. Their girls were getting plenty of extra work as a result of the increase in traffic. But, it was a pride thing. Rodney, who was strictly low budget, was suddenly a high roller, loaded with cash, dressed to kill, looking cool and cocky out there on the corner. It pissed the other pimps off.

And it attracted the attention of the cops.

It was bound to, sooner or later. The citizens were beginning to get annoyed by all the cars roaming aimlessly up and down the street. They'd never really enjoyed the whores, but had tolerated them as long as they stayed away from the kids. Actually, they provided a little color to the neighborhood. And the bars prospered from the business; hell, even the corner market was flourishing, providing as it did a back room for various gambling-related activities that inevitably sprang up from the loose cash floating around due to the business on the street. So, the economy was booming, and the girls kept to themselves and their "escorts." But, now, this new one, this Diamond, whoever the hell she was, this was a different matter. There were too many cars; one of these days one of the kids was going to get run over. Time to put a stop to this nonsense.

So the cops began watching Diamond. And Rodney, no real fool he, began watching the cops. Diamond, by now a thorough professional, kept her nose to the grindstone, in a manner of speaking, doing her job with growing enthusiasm and expertise. She had even managed to overcome the jealousy of the other girls and had begun making friends with them, trying to join the sorority, as it were.

The inevitable happened. The cops were curious, and they wanted to take a look at this new broad who was causing such a sensation on the street. They decided to roust her, just to get her down to the station house, so they could look her over, get to know her, start a dossier on her. Rodney knew if they got her in custody, they would begin looking into her background. This, of course, would be fatal. For sure Diamond would tumble to a long stretch in prison. But Rodney would fare even worse. He was beginning to enjoy his newfound respect as a premier pimp. He liked the $500 suits, the $200 shoes. He liked being able to carry a tab at the local bar. He liked sitting down front at the boxing matches. And he especially liked having this cool white chick with the flame red hair on his arm as he paraded into the arena and down the aisle to claim that front-row seat. If Diamond's history were revealed, he would lose it all. So, Rodney tried to strike a balance. He needed to have her out there working, no question about that. But he needed to have her be a little less noticeable doing it. That obvious contradiction was driving him nuts. Having never succeeded in the pimping business (let alone at anything else), he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. And pimps being notoriously individualistic entrepreneurs, he couldn't very well go asking around for advice, either. So, he watched. He watched Diamond. He watched the flow of automobiles through the neigborhood. And he watched the cops. He was becoming a nervous wreck.

Then it happened: Diamond got busted. The whole thing was a setup from the beginning. Rodney had been so busy watching Diamond, he hadn't noticed that some other new whores had begun to appear on the street. Whores who didn't seem to have their own pimps. He didn't notice them, because they studiously avoided any involvement with Diamond. She, of course, had noticed them. And paid little attention to them. They stuck to themselves, but seemed nice enough. And they offered little competition for her. So, she ignored them. But on this one evening, shortly after the sun had gone down, and the business had begun to pick up in the bars and on the street, one of them approached Diamond and struck up a conversation. Slowly, gradually, a couple of the other new girls drifted over to join their friend and the spectacular redhead. Rodney watched as Diamond found herself sort of surrounded by the three women. She glanced across the street to where he stood, leaning on a fence rail. He signaled her to move away from the other whores; customers couldn't see her.

Then, suddenly, a car, not quite the size of a limousine, but large, a luxury sedan, pulled around the corner and stopped at the curb. Two of the women each grabbed one of Diamond's elbows, and the third stepped over to open the rear door of the car. Before Rodney could react, they had managed to hustle Diamond into the back seat, and were pulling rapidly away from the curb. Rodney began waving his arms and shouting, but there were cars passing between him and the sedan Diamond was trapped in. He could see her frightened expression as the car sped away and she turned to look at him out the rear window.

Rodney sprinted to the police station, expecting to get there as they brought Diamond into the building to book her, or take her to an interrogation room, or whatever they were planning to do with her. But, when he entered the station house and went to the reception desk, he was surprised to learn Diamond wasn't there. Not only that, but no one had called in to inform them of an arrest of any kind in his neighborhood. Rodney waited around for a while, a half-hour perhaps, before finally giving up and returning to his street. He was so desperate, he even asked the beat cop if he might know what had happened to Diamond. The beat cop told him he'd been surprised by what had happened as well. He said he had no prior knowledge of such a sting; he himself had been convinced the whores who had snatched Diamond were real and not vice cops. So, he was as puzzled as Rodney when Diamond was grabbed and taken away. He also mentioned that the sedan she was shoved into was definitely not a police vehicle. "That's the kinda car you guys buy," he said. "We ain't got that kind of money in our budget."

The snatching of Diamond was the talk of the neighborhood for several days. In the bars, on the stoops, in the back room of the market, everyone had an opinion to offer. But one thing was clear. It had not been a police operation. Beyond that, no one had a clue.

The light was intense. She'd been under it for a long time now, she couldn't remember how long. Her thirst was of more immediate concern to her.

After they had pushed her into the car and sped away from the neighborhood, they had forced a cotton hood over her head, making it almost impossible to breathe. Her head had been pushed down so it was resting in the lap of the woman seated next to her. She had been held down like that for a long time. She couldn't remember. The car had finally stopped, and the motor turned off. She didn't know if it was later that night or the next morning. The hood prevented her from seeing anything, and no one had spoken during the entire time they'd been in the car.

They had helped her out of the back seat, pulling her hand, pushing her from behind. Her hands had been cuffed behind her back. Two of them had grasped her arms and guided her up a long walkway into a building of some sort. They had taken her to a room somewhere in the building. All she knew was that the room was on the same level as the entrance because they had not used a stairway nor ridden an elevator. Once inside the room, they had removed all her clothing, and had placed shackles on her ankles. The hood had remained. Again, hands grasped her arms and she was led from the room down a hallway until she was brought into another room.

She was taken to a chair of some sort and placed in the seat. The chair was made of some sort of metal, and at first the cold feel of the seat had shocked her. The cuffs were removed from her wrists; each hand was then reattached to the side of the chair, so her arms were pointed straight down. The shackles were removed from her ankles, and her legs were spread wide apart and bent so that her feet touched the floor at the back of the chair. Her ankles were then attached, as her wrists had been, to the side of the chair. Finally, she was positioned so that her back was flush with the back of the seat, which she discovered was higher than the top of her head. A wide leather collar was wrapped around her neck and buckled, leaving her head rigidly straight and level. The hood was removed. It made no difference. The room was pitch black. A wide piece of tape or some sort of adhesive material was pressed over her mouth, serving as a gag. She heard light footsteps, then a door behind her opening and closing. Then silence.

She didn't know how long she had sat there alone, alternately bored and terrified. She had a growing need to pee. And she was thirsty. Suddenly, an extremely bright light came on and shone directly in her eyes. She gasped, startled, and closed her eyes against the brightness, blinded for the moment. She sensed, rather than heard, movement around her. It sounded as though four or five people had entered the room behind her. They brushed past her - she could sense their shapes - and disappeared on the other side of the bright spotlight. She could hear chairs softly scraping the floor on the other side of the light.

There was a long silence. Martha was sweating, nervous, not knowing what to expect. What happened next startled and frightened her. From beneath her seat, where her naked pussy was pressed to the now-warm metal, she heard a faint whirring sound, like a kitchen blender. Suddenly, an object, cold and greasy, began to push into her vagina, forcing its way past her labia and into her interior. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear. She gasped and cried out. The object continued to push deeper and deeper into her. When she thought it would puncture her uterus, it finally stopped. It wasn't painful; but she felt stuffed full from the depth of its penetration. The quiet whirring sound continued, just above the minimum threshold of Martha's consciousness. Just so she was aware of it, but not intrusive enough to be annoying.

Then the artificial penis began to withdraw. Slowly, slowly it slid down her vaginal tunnel until it rested at the outer tips of her labia. Then, with startling suddenness, it began to push its way into her again, this time penetrating more swiftly, so that its gentle pressure was replaced by a harsher, more insistent pressure. The penis object reached its fullest extension, then began its slow, agonizingly slow withdrawal. Martha found herself clenching and unclenching her fists in time to the movement of the object. The penetration-withdrawal continued for several minutes, gradually gaining speed and strength with each penetration. Martha's fists opened and closed, her toes curled and uncurled, her moans grew louder and more ragged. Now the object was pounding away inside her, and she was weeping, raising her bottom and lowering it in the seat, fucking the fake penis as it brought her closer and closer to climax. Her breasts bounced wildly as she bucked up and down, and her neck was sore as she strained at the collar. She was panting and gasping and crying louder and louder as the devilish object pulsed in and out of her. Finally she could take no more. With a loud cry, she thrashed up and down on the object, overwhelmed by her climax, lost in a frenzy of coming and coming, mindless in her response to the mechanical fuck.

When she was done, sobbing quietly, the object slowly and gently withdrew. But not quite all the way. She could feel it resting just inside the edges of her labia.

A woman's voice broke the silence. "Murderer!" it shrilled.

Another woman's voice: "Mother-killer!"

Still another woman's voice: "Whore!"

Martha sat staring wide-eyed at the light. Who...what...where was she? What was this? Who were these people?

The three women repeated themselves: "Murderer!" "Mother-killer!" "Whore!"

Silence again. Then a fourth woman's voice: "Martha Reilly, your name has been brought before us in an accusation of the utmost seriousness. We are the judicial committee of the National League For The Decency And Purity Of All Women. It is our solemn duty to find women of outrageously immoral character, to judge them, and to punish them by removing them to a place where they can no longer influence others with their anti-ladylike behavior. You are charged with being a notorious scandal to the female sex. Your extreme behavior scandalizes and embarrasses us all. You are a seductress and a whore. But, worse than that, you are responsible for the death of another female - your own mother. Your own mother!"

Martha felt her bladder beginning to tip over. In another moment, she was going to pee. She'd certainly be embarrassed about that.

The same woman spoke again: "How do you plead to the charge?"

Behind her gag, Martha tried to respond, but all that came out was a muffled snort, "Mmmfff! Hmph! MmmMmm!"

The women on the other side of the bright light were silent. Then, suddenly, Martha felt the artificial penis begin to crawl inside her, climbing inexorably to the end of her vaginal tunnel again. She continued to snort into her gag, this time in rage, "Mmmmm! MmmHmmm! MMMfff!" The penis continued to fuck away inside her, climbing up, then backing down, then up, then down, up, down. She was bathed in sweat, screaming into her gag, but responding to the cock which pounded at her uterus and vibrated against her clitoris. She was tingling, she was itching, she wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream, anything. Again, her hands clenched and unclenched, her toes curled and uncurled. Her eyes were slits as she struggled to resist the pole in her cunt. Sitting in a pool of sweat, she could resist no longer, and began to rise and fall as the pole rose and fell. She humped up and down, sobbing now, straining against her bonds, hating what was happening, but reveling in the sensation as she flew toward another orgasm. Up, up, up. Down. Up, up, up. She climbed the pole, she slid back, she climbed again. She had lost all sense of reality. The throbbing fake prick was her reality. But, then, just as she felt she would faint, her climax slammed into her gut, and she sobbed and thrashed and pumped herself up and down on the log inside her. Her bladder seemed to explode and she peed all over the seat, alternately laughing from the absurdity of it all, and crying in shame and embarrassment for wetting herself.

Finally, she was able to compose herself, and calm down once again. The room was still and black, except for the hot, bright light.

One of the women spoke: "You are a naughty girl. Shame on you! Peeing all over yourself like that. Have you no sense of decency?"

Again, Martha tried to respond through her gag. But, obviously, to no avail.

Silence descended again. Time passed, but Martha had no way of knowing how long had passed since she had peed and been scolded. Finally, a voice from behind the light broke the silence: "You are charged with very serious offenses, young woman. The penalty for these crimes is severe - you could be sentenced to life in prison." The voice dropped in tone to a frighteningly dark murmur, "Life in prison without parole."

Martha was sobbing now, pulling at her bonds. If only she could see her accusers! If only she could speak - defend herself - beg for mercy. Anything but this, this restraint, this silence roaring through her head, this awful sense of impending doom.

Another voice: "I believe we've waited long enough for your response. And we hear none at all. I must say, you are a stubborn, willful child. But it is time now to pronounce sentence. Martha Reilly, you have been found guilty on three counts: guilty of murder, guilty of shameless sluttiness, guilty of scandalizing the female sex. This court now pronounces sentence upon you. You are hereby sentenced to confinement in prison for the rest of your natural life, with no hope of parole. Guards, you may now remove the prisoner and prepare her for her new life."

The judges immediately stood, their chairs scraping against the floor, their feet pounding as they strode out the door, behind the blinding light, away from Martha who sat, stunned, in her chair. She tried to scream, but the gag muffled her piercing cry. Suddenly, hands were upon her, releasing her bonds, grasping her arms, dragging her to her feet, hauling her towards a small door illuminated by a tiny, red exit light.

Martha struggled against her captors. She squirmed, she kicked, she tried to go limp and fall down. But the door loomed closer and closer, until it appeared to open as if by magic and she was propelled into the darkness on the other side...off in the distance, she could hear a bell clanging, the sound of an alarm bell or a school bell...

Martha awoke with a start, her face covered with a sheen of perspiration. The phone clanged and clattered on the table beside her bed. She thought, "Oh, God, what a nightmare! Awful!"

She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. A male voice, full of laughter, sounded through the line. "Hey, Marty! 'Bout time you woke up. It's almost noon. Hey, whaddya say we go for a drive, then grab a bite somewhere, and then maybe finish up at a movie? OK?"

She was suddenly awake. As the boy on the other end talked, she recognized his voice and then, still upset by what she had just endured, she snarled into the mouthpiece, "Bill Robinson, you lousy sonofabitch! After what you did to me, I don't ever want to see you again. Ever! Got that?" She slammed the receiver into the cradle.

Bill looked at the phone in his hand in stunned disbelief. What the hell was that all about, he wondered. Boy. Women. I don't think if I live to be a hundred, I'll ever figure 'em out. Oh, well, guess I'll give Rodney a call, see if he maybe wants to go shoot a few baskets or something.

He hung up the phone and looked out the window where his pickup truck was parked in the driveway, ready to carry him away to another day's adventure.

Go back to the main erotica page.