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From: Brighid Cerridwen <kali_mother@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Revenge, Pt. 1 (MF, MM, Fdom, bd, fist, cbt, best, mutilation)
Date: Tue, 12 Dec 2000 07:10:05 -0500
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Revenge of a Modern Day Fury
by Mother Kali

There were some with interests similar to hers who
considered themselves hobbyists. Others preferred the
term afficionado. Still others fancied themselves
masters of the universe. Those looking in from the
outside tended simply to call them monsters. 

But Glennis believed that she was, in fact, a Fury--an
ancient force, magically reincarnated into the modern
world of technology and secrets. There was no other
way she could explain her life. In the beginning,
she'd been humble, even downtrodden. Lightning wasn't
supposed to strike twice, but when it did, it had to
mean something. Winning a fortune at Powerball and
then investing in the right tech stocks, two of the
darkest horses, had catapulted her into that
gravity-free space of wealth that was beyond
everyone's touch. She could do whatever she wanted,
and she couldn't help but believe that this was
exactly as it was supposed to be.

And what she wanted was retribution. It was the raison
d'etre of a Fury, after all. She could never quite
fathom the other hobbyists or afficionados or whatever
they called themselves and their taste for exploiting
the weak, the innocent and the helpless. Where was the
challenge in that? Anyone could lure a child off a
playground with the promise of a puppy or an ice cream
cone. Runaways would trust the first person to offer
them a decent meal and a chance to break into
modeling. It was hardly sporting. And, besides,
Glennis had a feeling for the little people. She'd
been one of them herself once upon a time.

But to hunt and capture and break the guilty and the
powerful--now that was work a person could be proud
of. It was an art, a true calling. Half the time, she
didn't even undertake it for the profit, simply for
the satisfaction. A Fury liked to admire her own
handiwork.
 
She heard about cases where retribution was needed
through various channels--letters to the foundation
she ran and referrals from colleagues and articles in
the newspaper. She could spot an injustice seemingly
from half way around the world. Furies could see
things other people couldn't. 

There had been the doctor, or butcher as she preferred
to call him, who had made quite a profitable living
off plastic surgery procedures he wasn't qualified to
perform. Things went wrong more than a few times, but
the powerful doctor's lobby always managed to protect
him, until he finally ended up killing a woman during
what should have been a routine liposuction. Her
husband sued, but the doctor's high-priced attorneys
convinced the jury that the doctor could not possibly
have foreseen what would happen. They made it seem as
if it were the dead woman's fault, as if *she* somehow
should have known better, that her death was the price
for her vanity.

It was the kind of reasoning that did not sit well
with Glennis.

Since his abduction, the doctor had become one of her
star attractions. He had broken easily, as the guilty
invariably did. He now serviced an enthusiastic and
growing clientele who enjoyed performing medical
procedures on him. In a typical day on the job, he
received enemas and had catheters inserted into his
penis. He would lie on his own examining table that
Glennis had removed from his office, with his legs in
stirrups as his "doctors" probed his anus using a very
large speculum. The photographs and videos were hot
sellers. But Glennis had decided that the perfect
comeuppance for someone who had no respect for women's
bodies would be to give him one of his own, so he
could learn the proper reverence, firsthand. The
traffic from the net cast of his silicone breast
implants had nearly crashed the server. She couldn't
imagine what sort of crowd the doctor's castration and
the creation of his female genitalia would bring in. 

The proceeds from the doctor's performances had been
channeled through the foundation to the dead woman's
grief-stricken husband, a sizeable grant with which he
planned to begin an advocacy group to enact stricter
legislation governing the cosmetic surgery industry.
Glennis was pleased to have helped with the cause in
her own small way.

One of the foundation's other current projects was
helping a group of Guatemalan women begin new lives in
the States. They had originally been lured into the
country by a wealthy American heiress who had promised
them good jobs and green cards. When they arrived,
they were beaten and held against their will, put to
work in inhumane conditions in a sugar refining
factory. After their long shifts, they were expected
to sexually accommodate their male co-workers. One
young woman tried to escape, to return home to her
fiancee and her family. She had been caught, and the
rich American woman had cut off the girl's breast in
punishment, maiming her as a lesson to the other
women. 

Eventually, the authorities had discovered what was
going on and had liberated the Guatemalan women.
However, their rich American slaver managed to wriggle
her way out of any legal action. Thankfully, Glennis
did not need the law in order to deliver justice. She
had the woman kidnapped and brought to her compound,
where she compelled her to work as a prostitute,
giving blow jobs to busloads of men brought in from
all over the area, letting her have a taste of her own
medicine, so to speak. 

Of course, the woman tried to escape, and that gave
Glennis the perfect chance to serve up the same kind
of justice this spoiled socialite had shown the
Guatemalan girl she'd mutilated. The netcast of her
cliterectomy surpassed even the doctor's breast
implants in generating revenue. The before and after
photographs and videos were also doing quite well, not
to mention that the woman had built up quite a large
clientele of regular customers. Many men and not a few
women were willing to pay a considerable fee for the
novelty of being serviced by a circumcised female
slave. All that money had enabled the foundation to
offer a generous stipend to the Guatemalan immigrants,
who were now happily settled with their families out
in California.

It was the kind of charitable endeavor that Glennis
took great pride in.

Of course, not all her work was purely altruistic. She
indulged in the occasional personal project. After
all, she had been one of the little people once upon a
time. Wrongs had certainly been committed against her.
She was not above seeking retribution for them.

When she looked back on her life, it amazed her that
she had ever been so young and so very defenseless.
She'd first come to the city when she was barely
eighteen, just out of school. She'd taken a job, the
only one she could find, as a secretary in an
investment bank. Everywhere around her, there had been
people making millions of dollars--and that was just
before lunch--while she barely scraped by on the
poverty wages they paid employees at her level. Her
boss had been very well aware of her desperate
financial situation, and instead of trying to help
with a raise or a bonus, he had played on it to coerce
certain favors out of her, threatening her job if she
didn't go along with him.

Last year, she had sold him to a wealthy Asian
industrialist whom he had cheated in some business
dealing. She hadn't inquired what the man planned to
do with his acquisition. But it was well known he had
a recreational interest in creating certain rather
imaginative tableaux, a sort of performance art, he
liked to think of it, although others would most
certainly have called it torture.

Now, at this point in her career as a Fury, she had
but one last personal grudge to avenge. His name was
James.

Back in the old days, when her lack of funds had grown
quite critical, she'd asked some of the other
secretaries in her office what they did to get by.
They had told her about a club where she could go to
make extra money, if she didn't mind having sex with
strangers. Glennis had been rather innocent for her
age, and she'd only ever done it with her mouth, to
appease demanding boyfriends without having to get
their greedy hands all over her. Not that she was
saving herself, exactly. But it did seem like the
first time ought to be treated with at least as much
respect as a fine bottle of wine or the good china. It
should be kept for something that at least resembled a
special occasion.

Although the other secretaries assured her that men
would happily pay for her mouth, she still put it off
for the longest time. Eventually, though, she really
did need the money. And she figured it couldn't be any
worse than what she did for her boss, the furtive blow
jobs delivered beneath his desk. At least, she'd be
well paid for her trouble for a change.

So one Friday night, she put on some red lipstick and
her nicest dress, which was kind of sad, actually,
looking back on it now. It looked like something you'd
wear to a church social, hardly the thing to drum up
business. Back then, she had really not understood the
kind of power a woman had or how to wield it.

When she arrived at the place where the other
secretaries had directed her, it was hardly a "club."
Dreary, grimy dive of a bar was really more
descriptive. She went inside anyway. 

It wasn't a particularly large room, and everyone
stared at her as she stood in the doorway. She blushed
and hurried over to the bar. She perched on a stool
and ordered a drink, a Manhattan, because that's what
her mother always drank, before the habit rotted her
liver and put her in an early grave. She just hoped
they wouldn't ask for I.D.

"Hey, there, Bright Eyes," a man said and sat down on
the stool next to her.

He wasn't ugly, exactly, just sort of old and in ill
repair. His hair was slicked back to cover a bald
spot, and he smiled crookedly to try to hide a missing
tooth. It wasn't very successful.

"Hello," she said, primly, sipping delicately from the
high ball glass, trying not to look at him too
closely.

"You come here often?" he asked.

She shook her head. "First time."

He slung a beefy arm across her shoulders. "You
looking for a little company? You on the clock, so to
speak?"

"I-- Uh--"

"What do you say, sweetheart? Can I get a date?"

She calculated the bills in her head. She stared at
the man's missing tooth. She slid off the bar stool
and started to back away.

"Sorry," she said, and then turned and ran.

Happily, there was a back way out. She pushed through
the heavy metal door into the alleyway and stopped for
a moment to breathe in deeply. The air tasted like
relief, like freedom. The alley led back to the
street, but before she could head for it, a hand
grabbed her by the shoulder and whirled her around.

"Where do you think you're going, Miss?" 

The man was tall, so tall he towered over her,
unnerving her, making her feel far more slight and
helpless than she ever had in her life. He had close
cropped dark hair, military style, and an armed forces
build, strong but lithe. He looked like he could slog
through the muck all day and still have the strength
to break the enemy in half with his bare hands.

"I was just leaving," she stuttered, staring up at
him, her eyes large and scared.

He put his hand into his coat pocket, and her heart
pounded violently. He pulled out what looked like a
leather wallet.

"Oh, no. You see, I changed my mind. I'm not--"

He flipped it open, and she saw the badge. "Detective
Henderson, Vice. You're under arrest for
solicitation."

"Please. No! I didn't. I swear!"

"No? I suppose you just like your men old and a little
rough around the edges. I'm not stupid, Miss. I'm
going to have to run you downtown."

She shook her head desperately. "There must be
something else. I've never been in trouble before."

"Well..."

"Please," she begged.

"I'd need your complete cooperation."

"Anything."

He smiled, and it surprised her with its
lasciviousness. "That's more like it," he said.

She swallowed hard. "What do you want?"

"Open your blouse," he demanded. "Let me see your
tits." 

"No, I-- You don't understand."

He took a step toward her, crowding her space. "What I
understand is that you said you'd cooperate. Now, do
you want to stay out of jail or what?"

She nodded, trying not to cry.

"Then open your blouse."

She hesitantly complied, her hands shaking as she
undid the buttons. 

"The bra, too," he prompted. 

She unhooked it, and her breasts sprang free. The air
felt cool on her sensitive skin, and her nipples
hardened. 

"Gorgeous." His hands closed around her breasts. "Tits
that just beg to be held."

She couldn't help trembling. Her nipples were so hard
they hurt. She blushed furiously.

He laughed at her. "Hey, why *not* enjoy it, right?
Why fight the inevitable?"

She blushed harder, even more humiliated.

She was about to ask him if she could go now when he
suddenly lifted her and pressed her back against the
wall. She could feel his biceps flexing beneath his
leather jacket as he boosted her up above his waist.
He was so large and strong it was as if he were
lifting a rag doll. She felt his hand fumbling between
their bodies and realized with a flash of panic that
he was opening his fly. He didn't even bother to take
off her panties. He just pushed them aside and shoved
inside her, before she could beg him not to, before
she could even get out the words to tell him that she
was a virgin. 

She cried out as he began to move inside her. He was
so large, and it hurt so much.

"Shut up!" he warned.

But she couldn't stop crying. She pressed her face
into his jacket to muffle the sounds, breathing in the
dark leather and the scent of her own tears. 

He pressed her back more heavily against the wall.
"Lock your legs around my waist." 

She hesitated. 

"Do it!" he ordered.

She numbly obeyed. 

He buried his face in her hair. "You're so tight. So
good."

"Please!"

He laughed in her ear. "Is that what you want,
sweetheart? You want me to please you?"

She sobbed.

"Hold on!" he commanded.

And she knew there was no use resisting, so she did as
he told her and tightened her grip on his shoulders.

He slid a hand between their bodies and began to work
her with his thumb, a wiggling motion that sent sparks
all the way up her spine, unlike anything she'd ever
felt before. She dug her nails into the leather of his
jacket.

"That's it, baby," he crooned in her ear. "Give it up.
Let go. Come for me. Come with me."

Between his dick and his hand, her body was flying
apart.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah," he moaned and began to thrust more
urgently.

Her belly tightened, and the heat shot through her.
She banged her head back against the hard brick and
came violently. And as her vision went dark, she could
feel him surging forward, climaxing in short, sharp
spurts. When she came to, he had his hands under her
bottom, supporting her weight. He was breathing
heavily against her shoulder.

"That was great," he said, still panting. And then he
kissed her softly behind the ear. "God, you're
beautiful."

She tightened her arms around his neck and pulled him
closer. She was sore and in shock and more than a
little afraid he might do it again. But he was still
her first, despite the circumstances. And she couldn't
hate him outright.

He kissed her throat and smiled. "You're such a sweet
little whore," he said, and then he laughed.

He pulled out of her and lowered her to the ground.
Her knees were so weak she would have fallen if she
hadn't grabbed for the wall.

"From now on, you can turn tricks here whenever you
want. Nobody will bother you, including me. I only
collect once."

Then he turned and walked back down the alley,
chuckling to himself, leaving her there with his come
and her own blood running down her thighs.

***

(end Part One)



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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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