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Warning:  What follows is fiction.  It is also snuffporn, as much
or more horror than it is erotica, and a depiction of nasty, brutal
and criminal stuff that should not be read by anyone who doesn't
have a very high SPF (Squickful Psychotic Fantasy) rating.

It doesn't have the least bit to do with the anything that could
possibly be considered part of "our thing" (what some call BDSM).

Don't take this warning seriously, but, please, *do* believe it
(nobody ever believes these warnings, I oughta change my nom de squick
from SD to Cassandra).


The story may be freely transmitted, archived, printed and otherwise
reused so long as ALL the labels and warnings remain in place, and so
long as you don't mind people thinking you a sick, perverted SOB for
wanting to resend, archive, or print it.






Last chance to avoid reading this.  Just press "n" or whatever your
system uses, and you don't have to read this story.  You really don't,
you know.





Still here, huh ?  Well, you were warned.  Don't tell me it's
sick and disgusting, I just told _you_ that, and why did you keep
reading if you didn't want to read something sick and disgusting ?
Don't complain to me about your nightmares.  But if you were
looking for nightmares and this didn't do it for, let me know
about that, and I'll see what I can do for you.






"Drilling Devon" (NC, NS, M/f; Extreme Cruelty; gruesome, bloody,
                  and bloody gruesome)
by
SD


I'd been watching her for many months, and it was becoming intolerable.
I just couldn't bear for that woman to walk the earth and not be mine.
This could not go on much longer, so I decided to give myself a
Christmas present.

This gift was acquired pretty easily; a lot easier than it was
fighting my way through the malls for the rest of the stuff on
my shopping list.  The woman - I'll call her Devon; it's not
her real name, but you don't really want to know too many specifics;
trust me on this, you don't - worked late some nights.  It was pretty
easy to sit at the bus stop across from her workplace on one of those
nights and watch for her leaving work, then trail her across the large
and largely empty parking lot to her car.  Then, with her car on one
side of her, a van on the other side of her, and me just behind her,
I softly spoke her name.  It was delightful the way her eyes bulged
when she turned her head.  It was also quite understandable; most
people have never seen a .454 caliber revolver, and if one's first
view of one is when the barrel's a foot from one's face, it can be a
bit overwhelming.

She had nowhere to run, no way to get help, and no means of resistance.
So she surrendered.  It was the correct decision.  It was also a serious
mistake.  Sometimes that happens.

I put her in the van I'd parked on the side of her car nearest the
avenue.  I don't think she liked the looks of the van's owner, but
then, he wouldn't have liked them much either, and after she was
hogtied and helmeted, she didn't have to look at him anymore.  I drove
the van a couple blocks to the garage its owner rented - I have to
remember to call the Girard Estate and ask if any garages have become
available - and switched vehicles, putting her in the trunk of my
car for the drive upstate.

When I got the car in the garage here, I got her out of the trunk,
freed her feet, and removed the helmet (replacing it with a leash),
and led her to one of the special rooms, the one's with the steel
doors and the soundproofing and with the windows bricked over.  Once
safely inside I untied her and took off her coat, then made her replace
those running shoes with the black high heeled pumps in her bag;
they went so much better with her black skirt and hose than did those
white running shoes.  Such an odd lapse in fashion sense from such
a stylish woman, who was so skilled at looking sexy without ever
appearing provocative.  Once she was properly attired, I pulled her
wrists behind her and applied hand and thumbcuffs, then stuffed her
mouth with foam rubber and applied several loops of rope to hold
it in place, and pushed her into a wooden chair that was bolted to
the floor.  I looped some rope tightly around her waist, then bound
her ankles and ran a rope from her ankles to the bar between the back
legs of the chair to keep her feet in place, before placing a leather
hood over her head, and telling her, as I stroked the front of her
snug, but not tight, sweater, "I'll be back to play with you".

Then I let her wait for it.  Time drags for a hooded, helpless, captive.
It was only about three hours, but to Devon, with her world reduced to
the hot, stuffy blackness under her hood, it surely seemed an eternity.
Eventually I came back with some toys.  I started with a stiff cane.
I rolled back her skirt to expose those pretty thighs, then stroked
them for a while before bringing the cane down across them, causing
her to jerk in her bonds and shout into her gag, neither of which
accomplished very much.  Neither did her reactions when I crashed the
cane across the insteps of her bound feet and followed that with a
sharp jab of the cane's point into her ribs.  That knocked the breath
from her and set her to trying the difficult task of sucking in all the
air she needed through her stuffy nostrils from the stale, humid air
within her hot, close hood, and she nearly passed out.  I waited while 
she struggled to stay conscious (silly of her), and when it seemed she 
had succeeded, crashed the cane lengthwise across her chest.  Then I spent
a long time slashing, at short but irregular intervals, the cane across
her thighs and chest and insteps and shins, with occasional sharp jabs
to her abdomen.  Throughout this time, she sat there helpless, squirming
futilely in her bonds, shouting pointlessly into her gag, sometimes
sobbing, the tears running unseen beneath her hood as she waited in
growing terror for the next unpredictable bit of pain.

I loved it.

But anything grows old after a while.  I put up the cane, and let
her wait for the next phase.  After a time (too short a time really,
but I was kind of worked up), I took the hood off her head, for a
moment she seemed to forget her pain in the relief of fresh air in
her nostrils and cool air on her wet head.  I couldn't have her
feeling any pleasure, and both pleasant sensations seemed forgotten
when I held a long, sharp, single edged knife in front of her face,
the light shining off the highly polished blade as I turned it back
and forth before her frightened eyes.  I pressed the blade to her
throat and held it there for a moment, before its tip slid under the
top of her sweater and started cutting through the fabric, slicing her
sweater from neck to waist.  I pushed aside the sweater to get to her
breasts, and cut away her bra to expose them.

I spent a few minutes playing with her breasts, rubbing and pinching
them, then slid the knife under her skirt and slip, pushing it as far
along her legs as I could before turning the point upwards to cut the
fabric.  Then I removed the rope from her waist, and stood her up to
finish cutting off her sweater and skirt and slip, leaving "Devon"
standing before me in just heels and hose.  I let her stand for a
long time as I admired my new possession's long, lovely, slender legs
supporting her trim, elegant frame, on which her medium sized breasts
seemed voluptuous.

"You're a very lovely woman", I said. "I'm really going to enjoy fucking
you.  You do want to fuck me, don't you ?"   She shook her head "no"
quite forcefully.  "No ?  Oh, I think you do, or at least, you will",
I told her. I pushed her back into the chair, then slapped her face hard
before moving behind her to remove the cuffs and pulling her wrists,
bruised and lacerated from struggling with the handcuffs, through the
bars of the chair and tying them together tightly.  I cinched her elbows
before moving in front of her and untying her feet.  Then I wrapped
her ankles in bandages, and then put her left leg under her right,
looped a rope around it, and tied the end of the rope tautly to the
leg of the chair.  Her right ankle I tied to the leg of the chair.
"I'll be back, dear", I told her, and went for more toys.

I came back with hourglass, a camera, a video camera, and a drill.
I loaded a bit in the drill, plugged it in, and turned it on,
then brought the whirling drill bit very close to her eyes before
turning it off and placing it on a table where I knew she could see
it easily.  Then I told her, "I'm going to have a lot of fun drilling
you, bitch.  Whether I do it with my cock or with this" - as I pointed
to the drill - "is up to you". After setting up the video camera, I
turned the hourglass upside down, and said "If you want the mechanical
drill, just sit till the hourglass runs out, and I'll drill you through
the kneecaps and breasts and wherever else seems fun.  If you want me
to fuck you instead, get out of those ropes before the time runs out".

Given these options, she started really struggling to get free.  That
wooden chair's very sturdy, but it creaks nicely, and it was really
creaking delightfully from the force of her desperate struggles, but
the ropes weren't giving and the knots were holding.  Her wrists were
being lacerated as she pulled them against the thin nylon cord I'd used
for her hands. I really enjoyed the red blood against the clean white
cord over her purple hands, and as I circled her snapping still photos
I made sure to get several shots of her bound hands; by taking several
shots, spread over the hour, that showed both her hands and the white
tiled floor I showed the small puddle of blood that grew as she cut
herself deeper with her struggles.  Maybe the elbow cinch, which
reduced the circulation below her elbows, kept her from realizing
how badly she was lacerating her wrists.  Or maybe she just really
wanted to fuck me.  Whichever it was, it was fun to watch.

And fun to comment on. "I knew you wanted me, 'Devon'", "You must
really like to fuck", stuff like that.  She didn't pay much attention
to my commentary, no matter how obnoxiously I gloated, save for the
time I asked if she'd ever wanted to fuck her husband this badly, that
one got a little reaction out of her.

But not much, as she kept her energy pretty much directed to the task
at hand (and foot).  And she sure had plenty of energy.  Everything
was jiggling and her breasts were bouncing and her chest was pounding
and she was all red from struggling and shiny from sweating under bright
lights and it's all right there on the videotape.  She must have been in
really good shape to have such stamina.

Eventually, of course, she started wearing down.  Sweaty and tired and
short of breath from her exertions and from not being able to breath
through her mouth, she began stopping to rest, but each time she did
I'd fiddle with the drill, and that seemed to push her to resume her
efforts, but neither the sight of the drill nor the rapidly falling
sand could show her how to escape her bonds, and as the hour ended,
"Devon" was still tied to the chair, and her flushed face turned pale
quite quickly when I said "Time's Up".

"Too bad, 'Devon'", I said, turning on the drill and approaching the
madly struggling woman. "You can stop struggling, dear, time's up.
Well, if you want to keep trying it's OK by me, but it won't do you
any good now", I told her.

I locked inflatable cuffs above her knees and ankles, telling her
that they would keep her from bleeding to death before I was done
with her.  I also told her "I do hope your trauma threshold is high,
otherwise the trauma itself may kill you; I hate it when that happens".
Then, kneeling by her squirming right foot, I guessed where her big
toe was within her shoe, and pressed the drill to that spot and
drilled through her shoe and toenail and into the sensitive flesh
below it, and it sounded as if the chair would have to break, but
it held firm.  Then I put the drill bit on her right instep and pushed
downward, slowly, the bit eating through and spewing out nylon, flesh,
bone, and at last leather, as Devon screamed more loudly than ever,
loud even through her thick gag, until the bit finally emerged from the
bottom of her shoe, and after being certain to get a closeup shot of
the drill bit spinning while completely spanning an occupied high heel,
I pulled the drill out, then inflated the cuff around her right ankle
until the blood flow ceased.  "We can't have you dying before you've
suffered enough, can we ?" I asked her.

And since we couldn't have that, I removed the gag.  "We can't have
you throwing up and choking", I told her.  "Not that choking on your
vomit wouldn't be a good way for you to die, but not till after you've
really suffered, and you haven't even begun to suffer", I told her.
I forced an apparatus into her mouth and locked it in place so she
couldn't close her mouth, then stuck a pair of pliers in her mouth
until I caught her tongue and could put some real strong clamps
on it and adjusted the chains leading from the clamps as as to pull
her tongue downwards and out. That kept her from speaking but not
from screaming, reduced the chance of her choking on her vomit, and
assured that she wouldn't bite her tongue and choke on her own blood.
"Now we can finish playing", I said.

"I wonder if there's anything you'd like to say now", I asked her
as I picked up the drill. Placing the bit on her right knee, I asked
"Would you like to tell me how much you'd like to fuck me ?", and
she vigorously nodded "yes".  "To suck me ?", I asked, and she kept
nodding and making what seemed like pleading noises.  "To do
ANYTHING I want you to, anything at all ?", I asked, lowering the
drill as I did so, and "Devon" nodded her head with desperate
enthusiasm.

"Look me in the eyes", I ordered, and she fixed her eyes on mine.
"Are you prepared to be my slave, without limits, for as long as
I want you ?", I asked her, and "Devon" quickly gave several short
nods of her head, keeping her eyes on mine as she did so, and
I could see in her eyes pain and fear but also sincerity, and
the beginning of hope that she might actually be spared the rest
of the horrors she'd been trying unsuccessfully not to imagine
(though I doubt she'd imagined all that I had).

"Well, dear, then it's really a damn shame you didn't say so when
you had the chance", I told her as I raised and triggered the drill
and pressed the bit into her right kneecap, and the drill bit
through flesh and bone and cartilege as Devon screamed and spasmed
and struggled mightily, the movements of her leg causing the drill
bit to wander about inside her knee and tear her up even more than
I'd intended, but that was OK.  When her screams and struggles
slackened, I withdrew the drill and inflated the cuff above her knee,
causing it to cut off the circulation below the knee.

Smelling salts and cold water in the face were enough to revive her.
The slaps to her face that followed were really just for fun.  "You're
not leaving so soon, 'Devon'.  This is one party you're going to see
through to the end", I told her as I moved the drill to her left
foot and began drilling through the sole of her shoe and into the ball
of her foot, and my groggy captive came alive again, her screams
filling the room, subsiding to moans and sobs as the drill which had
appeared behind her toes was withdrawn, but reviving as the drill was
repositioned just under her heel and ate it's way through leather and
flesh and leather again before it appeared out the back of what had
been a black pump but was now pumping red, her hoarse voice strong
but barely human, no longer attempting to plead, but only trying to
express pain that was beyond expression.

After cutting off the circulation to her ankle, I decide to wait
awhile, to allow Devon to rest and to permit her other wounds to
go numb, so she could concentrate on the fate of her left knee.
It also allowed me to enjoy the sight of my prize as she sat in
her bonds, whimpering, the room's bright lights glistening off
her tears and sweat.  "Do you want to die, 'Devon' ?", I asked,
taking my pistol and aiming it at her tear streaked face.  She
was barely able to hear me, and looked uncomprehendingly at the
weapon.  I knew there wasn't much left, so I figured, I'd better
get on with it while part of her was still here, and pressed the
drill against the side of her left knee and began drilling
through it, the agony reviving her, but not nearly so much as
before, which, coupled with the positioning of her leg, allowed
me to drill a relatively straight hole through her knee and then
through the chair.  Just for the hell of it I put a cord through
the hole in her knee and the chair and tied her leg down a little
tighter.

While the cuff was inflating above her left knee, I fondled her
breasts.  "You had beautiful legs, 'Devon'.  That is no longer
so.  But these are still lovely.  For the moment", I said, as
I attached the sander to the drill and began slowly and carefully
sanding away the skin of her breasts, trying very hard, and almost
successfully, not to let the inconvenience of her squirms and
struggles or the distraction of her screams keep me from removing
just the skin, while preserving the shape and integrity of her
breasts.  While her screams and struggles were inconvenient,
they were also great fun, so I stopped to revive her each time she
passed out, using water, face slaps, smelling salts, and finally
injections, until at last she couldn't be revived.  Unfortunately,
I wasn't done sanding yet, but I finished the job and got it on
videotape and got some nice still shots of her skinned breasts, both
closeups and some shots showing all of her and some of the room.
I'm sure they should entertain the women who will come to sit in
this chair.

I was really pleased with the results of the sanding; I never much
cared for skinless breasts, but skinless breast of chick is a little
different from the normal fare.  The final result was so nicely
gruesome that I'm sure videotape won't fully convey the effect.  There
is something about seeing it live - yes, she's still alive, barely -
that just can't be recreated. It would have been a crime to waste such
an effect, I just had to find someone to show it to, so I called you
and hoped you'd get here while she still clung to life.  Good thing
the porn business leaves you with some flexible hours.  Yeah, I know
it's exposing us both to higher risk, but you're not likely to spend
much time talking to cops, are you ?

What now ?  Oh, I think I'll let nature take it's course.  I moved
that mirror in front of the chair so that if she does wake up,
which I don't think she will, she'll see such a pretty sight.  If
she stays awake after getting a good look at her tits, I may play
with her some more, but I expect her to die without waking again.
Then ?  After all that work I'm not pouring quicklime on this one.
I'll wrap her in clear plastic, weight her down, and drop her
in the deep end of the old quarry.  The water at the bottom's cold
year round, and it will preserve her.  Yeah, I'm sure.

Nah, the guys who snorkel and scuba in there don't usually dive that
deep, and the water's dark enough at the bottom that you need to take
a strong light to look at what's inside all those plastic wrappings.

No, I don't think this videotape's a good candidate for sale, no matter
how carefully you market it.  She wasn't a runaway that no one knew
about or some poor hooker no one cared about, she was a nice middle
class career woman with a husband and kids and a dog, who'll be missed
at work and the PTA.  The police probably already found her car and
suspect foul play; ah, but that they knew how foul - it'd be really
fun to mail them a photopack of that session, but that adds more risk
to what's already a high risk project.  And she was so pretty, the
papers will be running "mother missing" stories with her picture for
weeks.  No, this tape is too hot for any kind of release.  Though I'd
really like to send a copy to the cops.  It just raises the risk too
high; if I could find some way to reduce some of the risk factors,
though, it'd be worth it.  Maybe....

What's that ?  Anything else I want to show you ?  Always looking
to make a buck aren't you ?  I show you something as beautiful as
dying Devon and you're looking for merchandise to sell.  Yeah, I
think I have something for you, a Panamanian housekeeper, 19, cute,
illegal.  Lots of spirit, screamed in English at the beginning.
She was just a few days in the country, the people who imported
and hired her probably think she ran off and whatever they think
they can't call the cops, can they ?  I think you'll like it.
Follow me.

Oh, speaking of showing you something, you ever looked down the
barrel of a .454 ?   Impressive sight, isn't it ?

THE END


************************************************************************
Steven S. Davis                                           sd@magenta.com 
Homepage, vanilla:    http://links.magenta.com/~sd
Homepage, pistachio:  http://links.magenta.com/lmnop/users/sd.html

