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Subject: {ASSM} Flogging Estella Warren ( viol, whip, snuff, m/f tort } REPOST
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Date: Tue, 18 Mar 2008 16:10:03 -0400
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The whimpering bitch is on her back, cold steel hard against her
shoulders and ass. Shackles an inch thick hold her wrists and ankles
to the execution table. The locks are slaved to her heartbeat; she
knows with one hundred percent certainty that she will not leave this
table alive.
She stares in horror at the five men who stand before her. Physically,
they are virtually identical: tall, strong, muscular. They are bare
chested. They wear skintight black leather pants and executioner's
hoods. She remembers what the frightened young blondes in the holding
pen said. Apparently the executioners are chosen on the basis of two
criteria: their cruelty, and the size of their cocks.

Each of the five men holds a different whip. There is the riding crop.
There are the two floggers: one short and red and stingy, one long and
black and thuddy. There is the dreaded single tail. And there is the
one she cannot think about. She remembers what the judge said:
"Estella Warren, you have been found guilty of being a fertile human
female. The sentence is death. In addition, your crime features the
special circumstance of extreme physical beauty. I therefore sentence
you to be whipped to death in a procedure which shall last not less
than two hours, video footage of which shall be edited for immediate
broadcast on state television."

Estella's eyes are dry, but barely. The tears are near and she knows
it. She is stark naked, spread eagled. It is the most compromising,
exploitative position she can imagine. Her pussy has been shaved and
lubricated; it glistens under the studio lights, pink and perfect. The
cameras are everywhere: there are half a dozen she can see, and
probably more she can't. They will drink down her death and beam it
into every living room in the nation. And when they hold the
population reduction plebiscite, it will pass with 98 percent support.

She does not bother to beg, for there is no point: she has nothing to
bargain with. The one thing she has to offer is free for the taking
now. And so she simply waits for them to come for her, which they do.
They start slow. The flogger men go first, brushing her naked skin
with the soft falls of their whips as she squirms and struggles on the
table. After a few minutes of this they give her some strokes. They
are surprisingly gentle at first, but she whimpers nonetheless, for
she knows that this represents a beginning. Gradually they build. The
strokes fall heavier now. She feels the sting of the little red
flogger, the deep wallop of the black one. The two sensations play off
each other. The men focus on her small, round breasts and on her firm
thighs. She gasps as the twenty tails of the red flogger come down
together, just next to her trembling bald cunt. The long black flogger
strokes the length of her breast, and one of its falls catches her
stiff pink nipple. She howls, and knows that by doing so she has
guaranteed that this scene will find its way into the broadcast.

The flogger men step aside, to make room for the crop and the
bullwhip. Estella's gorgeous body tenses on the table as the men
approach. The crop artist goes first, and he is not gentle. The stiff
leather clapper falls on the tenderized meat of her tit, and she jumps
in response. He whips her hard and he whips her fast, raining the
strokes down onto her punished breasts as she writhes and screams
beneath him. She feels the depths of his sadism through the crop. This
man wants to hurt her, wants to see her suffer. She catches a glimpse
of the bulge at the crotch of his tight leather pants. Yes, he wants
her to feel it.

 He crops her taut young thighs, always hitting the muscles just so,
maximizing her pain. Then he returns to her breasts, harder now, hard
enough to bruise. She howls. He moves down once more, to the thighs
and then inward, sweet Jesus no--but yes, of course, he is cropping
her cunt, striking the sweet tender lips with glorious abandon as the
tears flow freely down Estella's high, proud cheeks.

She now receives ten lashes with the single tail. The bullwhip man is
as precise as his comrades. Estella takes two on each rock-hard
nipple, and nearly passes out from them. Then she takes two on her
pussy, and does pass out from those--though just for a moment. The
whip artist wakes her up with more breast strokes, going back and
forth between her brightly glowing pink tits as she cries in agony.

The flogger men move in again, and this time it is far worse, for now
they are building on their previous work. Her breasts and thighs are a
brilliant brutal pink, and her breasts are swollen. She has already
gained half a cup size; her breasts look unnaturally large over her
gaunt supermodel's midriff. Her thighs and pussy are screaming from
the abuse, and now the flogger tails fall down on her like a punishing
rain, hitting her, hurting her. The flogger men lash her ruthlessly,
and this time they do not confine themselves to her "safe" areas. They
whip her belly too, and why not? They certainly don't have to worry
about damaging her internal organs. Perhaps they even intend to do so.
What was it that brainy college girl had said, in the pen? Something
about controlled kidney damage? Estella can't remember, exactly. All
she knows is that it hurts terribly. She sobs like a little girl, and
still they keep hurting her.

After the second flogger session they pause to rape her. The leather
pants come off, revealing massive purple cocks. She closes her eyes
and tries to go limp as they come for her; she knows that fighting
will only make it much, much worse. But her body rebels instinctively
as the first cock enters her. She may be spread and shackled. She may
have forfeited all legal rights. But it is still rape, damn it, and it
still hurts. So she struggles, even though she knows that this only
makes it better for him.

Another man takes her mouth. She most certainly does not bite. Indeed,
she does what she can for him, hoping to buy a little mercy with her
wet, able tongue. He fucks her throat enthusiastically, and he is long
enough to be dangerous: she cannot breathe on the down thrusts, and
must time her respiration very carefully.

Two men stand on either side of her face and masturbate. The one who
holds the thing she cannot think about stands aloof. He is waiting.
His time will come.

Her cunt is tight, her mouth warm and quasi-willing. The sight of her
slender body writhing in the throes of a double rape is enough to get
the other two men off. All four men come more or less together: the
one in her pussy grunts and twitches, and the one in her mouth shoots
his load down her gagging throat, and the other two finish themselves
off Bukkake style, ejaculating all over her cheeks and lips.

Humiliated, her face dripping with cum, she lays there and whimpers as
they return to the task at hand. The crop man is more wicked than
ever; he places bruises atop bruises, and her muscles scream their
protests. The single tail strikes with ruthless accuracy, slicing her
flesh. It leaves long, angry red lines on her tortured tits and
thighs. They are cutting her now.

They flog her a bit more, but only a bit: the crop and the single tail
are in charge now, as the torture builds. They whip her until her
nipples bleed. They whip her belly, and she feels something break
inside her. And then (dear Lord, no!) the crop artist spreads open the
hood of her clit, exposing her sweet tender love button. He brings his
instrument down hard, right on target, once, twice, a third time, and
she knows at last what hell is.

They take her again, trading off, the two who masturbated before using
her throat and cunt this time. They are rougher now, more violent.
They've had their pleasure already. This is about hurting her. The
rape is savage; it lasts and lasts and lasts, immense cocks thrusting
into her broken bleeding body as she twists and suffers on the table.
Once more they paint her with their come. Her face is drenched with
it; she feels like a whore. She stares into the camera, sobbing, no
longer human, and she knows: it's time to die.

He comes for her at last, the fifth man, the one with...oh, dear
God...with the snuff flogger, the one made of stiff, razors-sharp
wire. He brushes it gently against her ruined breasts, and she
experiences what would have been an orgasm, if this were about
pleasure.

The flogger goes up and comes down, nine strands of wire slicing her
breasts like a loaf of bread. The cuts are deep and red; he's
butchering her. The wires slash her other tit, opening it, revealing
its essence. He cuts her belly. He cuts her thighs. The wire touches
her in a hundred places, and where it touches her, it leaves behind a
telltale trail of scarlet.

She gazes down at her devastated body. She is bleeding from a score of
wicked red wounds. Her lifesblood is pooling on the table. She is on
her way. And so he sets down his whip and lowers his pants, revealing
the biggest cock she has seen yet. He enters her, hurting her terribly
as he does so. He begins to thrust, torturing her with his shaft. His
comrades approach with handfuls of salt, which they dutifully rub into
the shredded meat of her tits, into her deeply lacerated belly and
thighs. She gurgles, drowning in pain. He grunts with delight as her
agony peaks: they are rubbing salt deep into her naked meat, and so
she must clench her cunt tightly, massaging pleasure into him even as
he violates her.

He can feel her dying. He fucks her hard, pulling out all the stops as
her pain shades into death. She stares up at him, dark eyes full of
horror, semen drizzling down her chin. Salt-covered hands work her
tits, her hips. She moans softly as her blood pumps out onto the
table. Her cunt issues the special signal that means she is done; he
howls and comes into her. She stiffens and goes limp, her duty quite
successfully performed.

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