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Subject: {ASSM} Week 41 ( viol, elec, preg, snuff, m/f tort } REPOST
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Date: Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:10:02 -0400
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I feel the special secret thrill as he clicks the handcuffs shut
around my wrists: the thrill of maybe, the thrill of what if, the
thrill that comes from knowing that this might be the night that my
husband finally decides to end me. I am forty one weeks pregnant. I
could go into labor at any moment. My husband is about to fuck me (oh,
yes!); that might be enough, all by itself, to get me started. Yes, I
might start, but I will not finish, for he will not let me deliver
this baby. I have looked into his eyes and into his soul, and I know
this to be true.
I stand quietly in my white bra and panties, waiting patiently as his
eyes assess my body. I feel huge but well-loved: my swollen round
belly draws him to me, as do my engorged breasts. He has been coming
for me almost daily of late; he simply can't resist my massive,
pregnant body.

He nods, satisfied. "Lay down, slave. On your back."

"Yes, master." I hasten to comply. It is not entirely comfortable to
lay down upon my cuffed wrists. My tremendous weight presses the sharp
steel into my flesh and I wince. But my pain is unimportant. Obeying
my husband is the only thing that matters.


His practiced hands peel the dripping panties off of my immense hips.
He takes a moment to examine the panties, and smiles when he sees how
wet they are.

He stands before me, naked and hard. Will he take me now? No: he wants
me completely naked. And so his fingers reach for the central hook
which holds my bra closed. (All of my bras open in front; since my
wrists are inevitably bound when my husband takes me, this is quite
necessary.) And now he pauses to caress my huge, swollen breasts. His
fingers play gently with my enormous, rock-hard red nipples. Though I
know it is forbidden, I whimper softly. I can't help myself. The
excitement is intolerable.

"Quiet, slave," my master commands.

"Sorry, sir," I whisper. But he continues to play with my erect
nipples. I writhe uncontrollably. Why doesn't he just fuck me? Can't
he tell how badly I need it? Yes, of course he can--and that's exactly
why he's waiting. He is tormenting me with his fingers, and I love him
for that.

A second involuntary whimper escapes my lips. My husband's eyes
sparkle. "I warned you once. Now I have to punish you."

"Yes, master!" I squirm gently on the bed, awaiting the sweet kiss of
the crop. Last time he whipped my breasts until the nipples bled, and
I'm sure he will be every bit as thorough this time...

But that is not a whip he's holding in his hand. It's a scalpel. I
gasp in delight and astonishment. Could it be...?

I have no time for further thoughts. He grips my nipple and pulls it
up, away from the breast. The scalpel flashes, and I am suddenly blind
with pain. I watch, amazed, as a crimson fountain erupts out of my
nipple hole. I realize that I am screaming, but that's not important.
What matters is the agony, the desire...he has not yet touched me
below the waist, and yet...

He takes my second nipple, and that sends me over the edge. It is the
most difficult (and thus the most satisfying) kind of orgasm: a non-
clitoral climax which suffuses my entire body. I come volumes, as the
bright red blood bubbles up out of the gaping wounds where my nipples
used to be. The blood trickles slowly over my vast, pregnant breasts.
I feel that am truly a woman, perhaps for the first time in my brief
life.

"Silence, slave!" my master roars. Removing my nipples has
dramatically aroused him. His cock is a swollen purple weapon, and I
cannot wait to feel it inside me.

"Please, master," I moan. "It hurts so much...Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
it hurts! Please, master, I...I have to scream...my nipples..."

"Are gone. As your clitoris soon will be, unless you shut up."

I open my innocent brown eyes as wide as I can. "Oh, please, sir, no!
Not my clit!" The script calls for me to utter these words, and I
deliver them faithfully, though I silently pray that he WILL castrate
me. If he takes my womanhood, he will kill me. I'm sure of that.

"You dare to question me?" he howls. Mutilating my breasts has driven
him mad with lust. He wants to snuff me; I can feel it. I just have to
push a little more...

"No, master!" I whimper. "I would never dare to question you! But
without my clit, I would never feel pleasure again. I would..."

"You would have to concentrate on pleasuring me...which is what your
body is for, after all."

"Yes, master." He has the idea now.

"Greedy bitch. Stealing pleasure all these years, when your only
thought should have been to service your husband..." His scalpel
descends into my thick, black thatch. I hold my breath and await my
destiny. I feel pressure. He's seeking, searching. He knows exactly
where to find it. The scalpel pushes, cuts. I howl as my tormented
body experiences the unthinkable. He cuts from bottom to top, neatly
bisecting my clitoral bump. The pain is staggering. I remember hearing
somewhere that the highest concentration of nerves in a woman's body
is to be found in the clit.

He completes his work with a devastating horizontal cut. My desecrated
body bucks and convulses its way into a second orgasm. Like its
predecessor, this one is generalized, but this climax has a strong
clitoral component to it. It's as if my dying clit is saying farewell,
leaving me with one final gift.

By the time I recover some semblance of sanity, my husband has set
aside his blade. He has now produced a strange and vaguely sinister
electrical device. It consists of a black box, which is connected by
wires to a pair of square paddles.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks.

"No," I gasp, barely able to form the word through my agony.

"It's called a defibrillator. It's used in hospitals. It's designed to
deliver a short, sharp shock, to restart a patient's heart. However,
I've made certain modifications to its design." He does not specify
what those modifications might be, but I imagine that I will find out
soon enough.


I hold my breath as he presses the paddles against my naked, ravaged
breasts. The device is apparently operated by means of thumb switches;
he throws these now, and I scream through clenched teeth as the
sizzling current flows into my tortured tits. My naked body is wracked
with convulsions. I scream wildly, no longer concerned about possible
punishments. I know that I have earned the ultimate sanction tonight.
What I do at this point is completely irrelevant, and I have never
known such perfect freedom.

The shocks are indeed sharp, brutally so, but they are by no means
short. They continue long past the time when my heart would have
restarted, had it stopped. This is a medical device no longer. In my
husband's capable hands it has become a fine instrument of torture.

I sense his next move before he makes it. He has been working me over
like a true master, letting the pain build slowly so that at last I
might be prepared for the ultimate torture. He has deliberately stayed
away from my pregnant belly so far, and we both know what that means.
He has chosen to save the best for last, and I wouldn't have it any
other way.

Now he deactivates the paddles and moves them from my breasts to my
belly. He places one just above my extroverted navel, and one just
below. He smiles a loving smile. And then he throws the switches.

I feel a pain unlike any I have ever experienced before. The agony is
cripplingly intense; it is surely as excruciating as anything he's
ever done to me, and that's saying something. But there is something
more. This pain is not mine, or not mine alone. To my infinite
astonishment I realize that my daughter is also feeling this pain, and
that I in turn am feeling her pain, as she kicks and thrashes inside
her mother's tortured body.

There is no precedent for this pain, no name for it. My husband holds
the paddles in place, patiently increasing the current as his wife and
daughter squirm and suffer and die beneath his hands. I am in awe. I
have always admired his power, but this, this is something
astonishing. I am nothing to him. I am less than nothing. And the life
that he has planted in my belly...all of this he will sacrifice, for a
moment's pleasure. And as the deadly current flows through the
amniotic sac into my fetus, I see that this is just and right.

He snuffs our daughter first, boosting the current as our little girl
slowly kicks her way towards an inevitable death. I sense her death;
something in the way I'm gurgling tells him what has happened. He
deactivates the paddles and sets them aside.

I am not long for this world; we both know that. He takes his scalpel
in one hand and his cock in the other. He guides the latter into my
tight, dripping cunt; the former opens my throat. I gasp and gurgle as
my life flows out through the vicious gash. He has slashed my throat,
and now I will bleed to death on our bed as he fucks me.

Our lovemaking has a tender passion to it which is beautiful enough to
make me cry. I have no clit, and so I do not come. Ah, but just to
have him inside me is enough. The sweet thrusting, the hardness, the
desire I feel in him. Forgetting that my throat is cut, I open my
mouth. No sound emerges.

His strokes become more rapid. He's close, which is good, because I am
fading fast. The darkness closes in around me. My lifesblood is
pumping out, out, onto my breasts, onto the bed clothes...my husband
gasps and comes into me, filling my dying body with his seed once
more. I smile and let the blackness claim me.

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