She looked longingly up at the curtained, shuttered front window, staggered that her life had now entered this new level of hell: raped in her sleep, fucked in the shower, fed only after a ring-gagged blow job, screwed and/or molested in front of the TV, fed and emptied only during the daily visits from her mother-in-law -- a brutally bound, tit-tortured, gruesomely gagged, sexually suffering cum container for a boy she had simply kept from kissing her a mere five years before.The lovely Leesa Mendaski lay on the thick white carpet in the middle of the living room and started to shudderingly cry. Again.
“Hey honey,” he called from the door between the tooth rooms and the fucking rooms. “I’m home!”
All Kerry Sherman wore in the solitary confinement ward of the psychiatric institution for the severely disturbed was the elastic that kept her hair in a severe ponytail.
The shackles around her ankles, the chain going from the center of them up to the metal collar around her throat, the plastic mouth-plug that kept her from biting or swallowing her tongue, and the stunningly effective “strait-gloves”: pale fingerless opera gloves made of a space-age polymer that cinched above her elbows and allowed them to affix her crossed arms tightly under her amazing breasts and around her slim waist to be buckled rigorously in the small of her glorious back.
She looked up at doorway of her windowless padded cell, clutching herself, breasts bobbing, standing in the middle of a large room filled with sex-toys. In the opening was Sheriff Jim.
“You promised,” he repeated, “not to tell.”
He held in his up-lifted hand Tom Brannigan’s specially made cock and balls gag. Her eyes widened in remembrance and narrowed in despair. “Remember this?” the cop asked. “Well, this one is my size now….”
She got out one good screech before the cock slid onto her tongue and he started shoving the balls in her cheeks as she heaved, flat on her back on the cushioned floor. “And you know what happens to bad little girls who break their promises,” he grunted as he buckled the new muzzle tightly behind her neck.
She knew. A daily parade of specially trained doctors, orderlies, and nurses had shown her every time she wasn’t medicated and hospital-gowned during strictly regulated visiting hours.
They’d even secure her to a wheelchair, cover the arm and leg straps with a blanket, and roll her around the grounds … the mouth plug tightly in place, of course. And no amount of crying or pleading or clawing or twisting would convince anyone that she hadn’t been driven insane by her ordeal.
And why should it? She probably was.
Dr. Jennings watched on the private monitor in his office as the sheriff spooned the girl on the padded floor, his mouth suckling her ear, his cock deep in her ass, his hands mashing her tits.
He wondered what the deputy and trooper were going to do to her next. More importantly, he wondered what he was going to do to her after they all left.
“Orderly,” he called, well aware of the erection threatening to tear his pants. “Slave girl, I think.”
“Again?” his assistant complained.
“Again,” he said serenely. “Poor little American girl, so sweet, pretty, and innocent, unjustly detained and concealed in a secret room for the sheik’s pleasure, unable to fight, run, crawl, or even cry for help, no matter how hard she tries or how much her loved ones search for her.”
He looked over to lock gazes with the orderly who was already preparing Kerry’s lingerie. “Impossible fantasy, right?.
“Right,” said the orderly, going back to his work. “Could never happen.”
Tom and Agnes Brannigan entered their quiet, dark, living room from the back door, laughing. They seemed a little tipsy, especially in the way they clutched at the voluminous raincoat between them.
“No, I think we were absolutely right to close the inn,” said Mrs. Brannigan. “Especially after the double tragedy.” Agnes stilled, wavering in place. “Poor Leesa, so blonde, so fresh, so stacked….”
“Poor me,” Tom interjected. “Still didn’t get to screw her enough. Ha!”
His wife went on as if not hearing him. “And poor petite Kerry. What a sweet, sensual, shapely little girl.”
“Yeah,” her husband muttered. “She got the full Tom treatment, all right.”
“Besides,” said Mrs. Brannigan. “We got enough socked away to have a very comfortable life, right?”
“Right.” He winked. “And a plan on how to make more…!”
They both turned to the raincoat … that wasn’t just a raincoat.
“That’s where you come in, sweetie,” Agnes said lightly, wagging a finger.
The raincoat had eyes. Green, frightened, eyes.
They had been hanging out at their old haunts: gyms, hospitals, schools. There had been a couple of possibilities, but there was always a “but”: a tattoo or piercing (no matter how hard Agnes argued that it could be removed), bad attitude, even raccoon eye make-up (“It can be washed off!” Agnes cried).
On a far away campus, she had finally gotten him to concentrate on anything but exteriors when Casey Mitchell walked by. The Brannigans stopped talking in mid-sentence, and immediately went into Leesa-mode.
Casey wore jeans, sandals, and a t-shirt, but there was no hiding her spectacular body. Tom immediately judged her measurements as 32D, 22, 33 -- breasts round, high, full, and firm in the clearly delineated nylon/spandex/cotton t-shirt bra. At five foot, three inches, her weight had to be around 100. She had her thick, heavy, silky red hair in a flouncy pony-tail. Her face was pretty, fresh, and freckled. She wore nice glasses.
They shadowed her just long enough to convince themselves. Her demeanor was bookish, nice, quiet, even shy. She stopped at the library for some solitary study. They were ready when she came out.
By then it was night. The campus was decently attended, but not crowded. The sidewalks were lamp-lit, but not spotlighted. She started up the sidewalk until she neared the Brannigans’ van. Then Agnes approached and used the oldest saw in the book, just for fun.
“Excuse me, are you a student here?”
Casey cautiously looked up at the woman who approached her, but when she saw Agnes’ salt-of-the-earth face, she relaxed a bit. She slowed, but did not stop completely.
“Yes, I am.” Her voice was sweet, lilting … like it would ever again make any difference.
“A dog just ran out as I was parking. A puppy. It was too dark. I think I may have hit it.”
“Oh no! Where?”
Agnes was already moving between vehicles, hiding her wicked grin. “Here, right here.” She stepped out between the cars and moved right. Casey moved behind her, stepping back left so she wouldn’t get in front of the woman. That was just asking for trouble.
Tom stretched out from the driver’s side window … that Casey was obliviously standing beside. He didn’t have to reach far. In fact, he only had to jerk the needle forward and it sank into Casey’s smooth neck to the base.
By then Agnes was sandwiching her against the car, sharply pressing her abdomen so any cry would be changed into a wheeze. Then the side door was sliding back and Tom was “helping” a seemingly woozy redhead coed in, as Agnes blocked any other student’s view.
The door closed. The vehicle pulled away. Casey Mitchell was gone.
Back at the out-of-business inn, Casey Mitchell reappeared from the shrouding raincoat. Breathtakingly beautiful in an abbreviated “Brannigan school” uniform of frilly, skin-tight, midriff-bearing, open shirt; bulging black lace bra; hip-hugging plaid, pleated micro-miniskirt; black thigh-high leggings; and black, high heeled saddle shoes.
She also started to slowly emerge from the injection’s soporific effect.
Her mouth was stuffed to bulging. Her lower face was sealed with elastic adhesive bandage. Her arms were wrenched behind her, the elastic adhesive bandage cinching the limbs from her elbows to her wrists – very effectively thrusting her impressive chest out.
“Surprisingly stacked and power-packed for a redhead,” Tom mused, holding the petrified girl by one upper arm as her amazing tits swelled in the demied black lace with each terrified breath. “They’re usually not this built.”
“Spectacular body,” Agnes agreed, holding the other upper arm, letting her eyes take in the girl’s quivering shape and trembling legs. “Wonder if she’ll be missed.”
“No matter,” Tom grunted. “No pre-planning clues, no remaining evidence, even an eye-witness wouldn’t be helpful. The van, and its mud-covered license plate’ll be gone before we put her to bed.”
“Nice to live on a lake, isn’t it?” Agnes murmured.
“Besides,” Tom continued, “her college is too far away for any one to figure she was brought here.”
Casey’s green eyes glittered in horror as she looked from one to the other, then began to muffingly plead through the stuffing and cement.
“Now, now,” Agnes chided. “Don’t you understand?” The woman reached up and plucked the girl’s spectacles off. “Why, Miss Mitchell,” she sneered, “without your glasses, you’re beautiful!”
“Oh no,” Tom whined, pulling her from Agnes’ grip and pushing her backwards toward the sofa. “Oh no, oh no, oh no, we’ll have none of that!”
The couch edge caught her shins and she fell, squealing in fear, her hair splayed across the seat back, her proud, handsome breasts jiggling in their underwire prison. She stared in abject distress, green eyes like searchlights in the gloomy room, as Tom unzipped his pants and reached inside.
“The blonde,” he said, “was Andy’s. The brunette was just a substitute. An incredible substitute, but still just a substitute.” He straddled her lap, grabbing a fistful of luxurious, rare, hair and pulling her head back. “But you, Red? You’re mine, all mine.
He popped her left tit out of the bra like de-yellowing an egg, stabbed his cock under the barely-there pleats, and viciously welcomed a choking, gagging, kicking, arching Casey Mitchell to her new, captive, life as he thuddingly plunged repeatedly into her tight, warm, barely-used canal and filled his clawing hands with her bulging freckled breasts.
Agnes only looked away from the pitiable coed’s cum christening when she thought she heard the distant sound of motorcycles…