Chapter 1: The Dolcett Tart

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Lesbian, Heterosexual, Fiction, Horror, MaleDom, Caution, Cannibalism, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Dolcett Tart - Death Mode is a compulsive Dolcett-based computer game where decisions made have consequences in real life. In the game Lizzy and Donna are best friends, holidaying on the island of Korpius with their boyfriends. They'll be chased by hundreds of men while wearing slutty bikinis, and if caught, they'll be stripped nude and face an agonizing, Dolcett-like outcome. They think they're on the same side and it's only a game; but in the real world it's war; girl against girl to the death.

"Lizzy? Are you crazy or something? You can't be serious!"

Elizabeth Parsons squeezed her legs together to elicit the first forbidden tingle of pleasure in her pussy, enjoying the lascivious thrill that this created in her mind. "You bet," she sighed, rolling over and rubbing her mound against the fabric of her beach chair. This brought a deeper, stronger glow to her lower regions that was both pleasant and terrible. "Of course I'm going to do it. Dee, how can you doubt me? Girl Hunt is a once in a life time experience."

Donna Wilson was the person she knew best and her oldest friend. The two of them had been close since they'd been fourteen and at school, sharing playground secrets and the occasional boyfriend, and yet Donna was incredulous, for she was listening to a stranger. "You're mad!" she declared, stabbing her foot in the sand. "What about Richard? What must he think of it? It's reckless, Liz! Selfish. And, what's more, it makes us a laughing stock. Both of us. It really does."

Donna wasn't innocent by any means. She was a conscripted forced laborer in the adult sex industry and had experienced the seamier, murkier side of life, yet for her the idea of being chased around Greek mountains by hordes of sex demented cannibals was something she found preposterous. It was something you read about in yellowing newspapers or fantasized about while lying distracted on a foreign beach. It wasn't something you did.

"You're wrong, Dee. I'm not a laughing stock," came the slow, almost breathless reply. Elizabeth was naked and physically aroused, and she'd just spied a man taking pictures. The man had a long telephoto lens fixed to his camera and he was pointing it at her pussy as she lay vulnerable and exposed on her beach chair. Doubtless her raw, puffy sex was filling his frame and he was examining every fold, every crevice of her physical femininity.

Oh God. He was filming her secretly from behind a windbreak.

The guy was nothing special to look at. He was overweight and slightly balding, but his cock was a truncheon. It was tall and proud and it protruded from the front of his swim shorts. Elizabeth gulped as she caught it in her peripheral vision from behind the safety of her sunglasses. The camera was aimed directly between her legs.

She knew that if she continued to rub her mound against the beach chair as she was presently doing, she would cum and the guy would capture it on film, and she wanted him to do it. It was inside her, the craving, the aching. Yet the hunger must remain unfulfilled because Richard had forbidden her to climax unless he first gave his permission, and Richard was her master.

Elizabeth forced herself to roll onto her back because this was the only way she could prevent her climax. She was tingling with excitement and longing. She knew that that this other guy was looking, and slowly she parted her legs so that her pink, sensitive flesh would be clearly and unmistakably in his frame.

Her bikini lay on top of her bag. It was a discarded, useless frippery. She was naked: public property, available for any man to lust at and admire. She opened her legs wider, wanting to show more. Wanting. Imagining. Would the guy see how wet she was? Would he notice her hard, swollen pearl? Would he capture it on film? "I'm not mad," she decided thoughtfully, feeling the itch pricking between her legs and wanting to calm it but knowing that she oughtn't. "In fact, as for being a laughing stock, who's laughing? Richard isn't. He doesn't mind if I run. In fact, he's been encouraging it. He calls me his favorite little Dolcett Girl. So what do you say about that? Me! A Dolcett Girl!"

Elizabeth lay simmering on her chair in the sunshine having already consumed more alcohol than she was used to and now she was happily and pleasantly drunk. There was an open bottle of Amstel cooking at her side and a racy Dolcett novel held tightly between her fingers.

"This is as good as it gets," she sighed dreamily, slowly relaxing her tummy muscles and closing her eyes. She felt relaxed. The cramped little office where she usually worked was a million miles away. It was in another time, another place, another reality. This was where she belonged. On Korpius. On an island of cannibals. On an island of Jessicas. "Believe me," she murmured lazily. "This is the best. Nothing surpasses the magic of Girl Hunt. There's nothing so extreme, nothing so sexy, nothing so cruel or wicked or bad. How could I not be part of it?"

The book she was holding had been lent by Richard, her boyfriend. It showed a naked woman on its cover, a brunette who was bent double having been bound to a piece of machinery known as a Jessica. Her ass cheeks were stretched and they were facing the camera. Her back was arched and her partly concealed face was a whirlpool of emotion. From between slightly bowed legs, a tuft of untrimmed pussy hair poked out untidily, but the centerpiece of the artwork was the metal pole poised in front of her cunt. It was eager, almost quivering, waiting to be pushed into the woman's genitalia and driven straight through her torso until it burst from her mouth.

There was a badge proudly attached to the machine. Jessica 3000, it read.

Elizabeth was recently familiar with the model, having been taken to a small mountain village the previous day where high on a hill overlooking the small village of Scala in an olive grove with obese matronly chickens running beneath her feet and grand-daddy goats nibbling at her shorts, she'd been taught the rudiments of 'Jessica 3000, Operations and Maintenance' by a Greek man, 27 years of age, jet black hair, deep clear eyes who'd gone by the name of Stavros.

Elizabeth had paid more attention to Stavros's physique than Stavros's tuition, but so what? It didn't matter. The course was one of a number of opportunistic subjects that were taught by the locals to cash in on the Girl Hunt phenomenon. This specific one, like the others, had been advertised in the "travel emporiums" – shops offering a miscellany of activities and services aimed at the girl eating tourist.

Richard had chosen this one because he contended that every woman visiting Korpius should learn the internals and "thinking" of the Jessica given that one day it would become her master and lover. This had driven a lively, frank debate on the meaning of the words "master" and "lover".

Elizabeth glanced breathlessly at the book in her hand. She'd already read enough pages of it to know that Maisy - the intelligent but stubborn heroine - was a spy working in cold-war Russia for the American CIA. Maisy, like all clichéd heroines of the genre, wore horn-rimmed spectacles, woolen cardigans, knee length skirts and dull grey stockings. She was plain in her appearance, with mousy brown hair which she habitually tied in a bun. She had flat shoes and no makeup. The plot line was formulaic and passé, sufficiently so that Elizabeth had worked out its ending by page sixteen: Maisy would stumble through a succession of increasingly merciless punishments that would bare her of her cardigans, skirts and stockings. She would lose her spectacles, bun and much else besides: a baggy shirt, an ill fitting bra - torn at the top and frayed in its straps - a pair of pink faded panties. The punishments would progressively strip her of her poise, arrogance and self-respect. Her pussy would be thoroughly shaved in order to be in contradiction with the image on the cover, for in these books the cover picture never matched the descriptions within. Maisy would be revealed as an alluring glamorous woman with natural breasts and a pouting pussy. But ultimately she would be revealed as a physically weak woman – weaker than the spit that would spear her through - for at the approach of the book's last chapter, Maisy would regrettably be taken to the despotic, yet virile KGB agent who controlled the Jessica machine illustrated on the cover.

He would rape her, and then as his cum dribbled down her thighs, he would whip her breasts and turn his attention to her pussy. Maisy would be screaming and crying, but despite that, her legs would be pulled apart so that the spit could be inserted into her hole. She would twist and buck while its tip worked its way through her guts and chest and emerged from her mouth.

Elizabeth imagined her as a beautiful lady butterfly opened up and pinned through its centre by a fanatically obsessed collector so that it might be displayed in its ultimate feminine glory for his benefit and pleasure...

Maisy would prove victorious in that she would refuse to divulge any secrets, but she would be broken, beaten. This woman was brave, courageous, tragic, and ultimately doomed.

The book was a Dolcett style bondage pulp, nothing more, nothing less. It contained a vicious cycle of tortures leading to a frightening, but predictable finale. The plot was formulaic. Maisy was condemned from the outset.

Elizabeth lowered her sunglasses and covered her face as she imagined Maisy's unbroken screams merging with the whirring of the camera's shutter. She figured that the photographer guy would go to his apartment after finishing on the beach and he'd look at the pictures he'd taken. He'd jerk off while looking at the images of her glistening pussy.

This was a new world to her, here, on the beach. It was Richard's world, a world of submission and total, unquestioning obedience, and he was teaching her the ropes.

In fact, Richard had ordered her to read the book so that she could deepen her understanding of the thought patterns of a Dolcett girl. He'd underlined the choicer passages and he'd made copious jottings in the margins, telling her that he would test her on these sections in due course.

In her previous life, Elizabeth had previously considered herself a free spirit: an independent woman who'd been wont to twist men's wills to her whim, not the other way round. Men had been in awe of her, cowed by her beauty and character, but now things had changed!

Richard was a man with a dark, brooding and dominant nature, and he'd shown her a side of herself that she'd never known to have existed before, a side that was deep, submissive and uncomfortable. He'd proved to her that he could govern her will.

Elizabeth shivered as she acknowledged that thought. She quaked. Even now she didn't understand why she obeyed him whatever he asked of her and how he demanded her obedience. It was as though her mind had been rewired. It had been over-etched, for from the moment he'd entered her life there had been a shift in her thought patterns and there seemed no possibility of reversing of the process.

The pivotal moment had come when Richard had turned up unannounced at her apartment and had invited himself in to show her "that" video. She remembered sitting on her black leather sofa with his arm wrapped about her waist, almost cupping her breast, him not saying a word, and there'd been a hunt.

Richard was the cameraman, and he'd told her that the video was a home movie - a snuff movie, he'd said - laughing as if this was a joke. After some seconds of introduction a woman in a bright yellow bikini had pranced childishly on the beach. The woman had been of mixed race, with black hair, dusky skin, a good figure, and she'd been speaking directly to camera. She'd been flirtatious and relaxed, occasionally flashing a tit, pulling it mischievously from her bikini top and then popping it back while explaining that she was with Richard on the island of Korpius and that the following day she was running in something called a "Girl Hunt", and that it was making her feel nervous, anxious and yet incredibly sexy.

"What's your name?" Richard asked from somewhere behind the camera. "Tell us your name."

"Sonia," she smiled.

"Your full name. For the record. This is an obituary, remember."

"Yes, sorry. Yes, for the benefit of my video obituary then, my full name is Sonia Dawn Abbott, and this is my story."

"Thank you. How old are you, Sonia?"

"Twenty one."

"And what do you do?" "I'm still at college. I'm studying graphic design."

"And tell us why you're here on the island of Korpius?"

"Because you wanted me to come ... you asked me ... you said I must run..."

"And do you do everything I say?"

"Of course, yes. You'll punish me if I don't..."

"Absolutely everything? There's nothing you won't do?"

"Nothing. I'm here, aren't I? You're making this film and I'm going to be snuffed tomorrow. That's pretty close to the edge."

"And so what will happen to you in the Hunt?"

"I'll be chased," she answered, twisting her hips.

"And how do you feel about being chased? Say it to the camera."

"I feel nervous. Scared. Terrified. I can't keep my hands still. Do you see? And I'm fucking hot and excited..."

"Why are you nervous, Sonia?"

"Because the chase is for real. Tomorrow, I'll be running for my life ... and I'm going to let myself get caught ... I'm know already that I'm going to die."

"And what does that knowledge do to your tummy? Say it, Sonia."

"It hurts. I get cramps every time I think of it. It burns like I'm going to pee. I don't want to be caught but you've said that I must ... and I'm scared..."

She bit her lip as her nervousness grew. "When you catch me then you'll cook me, hurt me, torture me, eat me." She gasped, suddenly tense. Her face flushed. Her eyes became red and her breathing grew hoarse. Uneven rasps were interwoven and conjoined with uncontrollable shudders traversing her whole upper frame. "I'm going to be a real, live Dolcett Girl, and you're going to film it. And it's not just going to happen here on Korpius, but in my real life too."

"Your real life? Explain to the people, Sonia. Otherwise they won't understand what you mean."

"This is Korpius Death Mode and I'm an avatar. I think I'm real but I'm not. Somewhere out there is a real world and in it there's a real me who is playing a computer game and shitting herself, because she knows that I'm going to be caught and eaten here in the game, and so she'll be eaten too. Right now, she's trying to find a way to reach me, talk to me. She wants to persuade me somehow not to obey you but she has no idea how to do it, and she's getting desperate. She's listening to everything I'm saying and she's starting to cry. She's getting frantic ... She's so scared that she's playing with her pussy and she doesn't realize that she's doing it ... Because she knows that because of me she's going to suffer the cruelest cut of them all..."

"And what is that, Sonia? What is the cruelest cut?"

Sonia lifted her arm and in her right hand was a small knife, a surgical scalpel. The camera shifted and followed it as it went down towards her pussy and she made a sharp, powerful gesture, pulling the knife abruptly across the front of her slit.

"And that's just the beginning," Sonia said. "We're both going to be butchered and eaten."

"Does it make you feel sexy that I might do that?" Richard asked her, zooming in on her face. "To you and to her?"

"You will do it ... there's no 'might' ... I'm going to make sure you catch me ... I have to obey you ... We're both going to be snuffed..."

"And does that thought make you feel sexy, Sonia?"

"Not sexy. Something else."

"Go on. Explain it to us, Sonia. There are other women who are watching this and they're wondering how it feels."

"I feel fear. Terror. Panic. Believe me. It isn't sexy at all. But I have to do it. I have to do what you say, whatever the cost. I have to obey you."

The camera watched unflinchingly as her mind brooked thoughts too appalling to contemplate, until her expression softened, her breathing relaxed and the stress was gradually replaced with lightness and calm. Then the film cut to Sonia being pursued by a dozen testosterone crazed men. She was still wearing her bright yellow bikini although this now seemed out of place because she was no longer on the beach. She was surrounded by fields and brush.

Richard explained by means of a voiceover that the men chasing Sonia were called Hounds and the pursued women were known as Hares. He pointed out that the hounds were gaining on Sonia because she was exhausted, bruised, sweaty and dirty. He'd told her that she must run for six hours before giving herself up. At this point, she'd been running for five hours of the six in the hot Greek summer sun and she was hurting and tired and thirsty. She'd had enough but she knew she had to keep going.

Richard used slow motion footage and close ups to show that her left side was cramped, that her legs were jelly and her feet were leaden and blistered.

And still the Hounds chased her, forcing her round in ever decreasing circles. They teased and baited her, reminding her that they would cook her when they caught her. They explained that her feet would be tied together and the rope would be looped over a convenient branch. Off would come her bikini. No consideration would be given for her modesty or her rights. Their hands would pinch her bare flesh and they'd grope her. They'd clean her. They'd soap her down since she was meat, and they were the butchers.

The Hounds pursued her through increasingly familiar fields and olive groves, over fences and across nettle ditches, continuing their barrage of torment.

"Keep running!" they cried. "Run for us! We want you to be lean. We're going to strip you, rape you and eat your sweet fleshy parts."

They pursued her until her spirit was broken and she finally collapsed in a heap of dehydrated, listless weariness. Still she drove herself on. She staggered to her feet, too tired to stand and too frightened to fall. On the chase went until finally she fell: too exhausted to move. And even now she tried. She crawled: like a baby on hands and knees with the Hounds surrounding and encircling her, kicking her ass with their hobnail boots, jabbing her breasts with sticks, jeering her efforts and counting down the clock until the six hour mark had past.

Then someone rammed a rod at her side and it rocked her. She gasped and teetered. Then Richard pressed the soul of his boot to her shoulder. He pushed and she crumpled.

"Gotcha, my dear," he said, pinning her to the earth with the ball of his foot and then tipping her over onto her back. He bent down. "Well run. You did well, but now it's time we had our fun."

The scene shifted and now Sonia was being carried to a beach at the bottom of a ravine. She was listless, quiet and without fight as ferocious men toyed with her yellow bikini and pulled at the straps of her bra. She attempted resistance but it was robotic and dispirited, and they simply slapped her face and poked at her chest. Again, she pushed them away but as she did so, someone unfastened her bra, and they all laughed. Another man ripped off her bottom, and they jeered and mocked her.

"Oh my God!" Elizabeth exclaimed in her shock as she watched the video, clinging to Richard and his arm. She was biting her nails and watching with a portentous disbelief: and - yes, with a gnawing, awful bewilderment. She sat there incredulous as the now naked Sonia was dragged onto a flat, open beach, first by her hair and then by her nipples, staggering and awkward. She was tipped up, turned over and her pussy was shaved. Her arms were fastened behind her back.

"Oh shit!" Those words were Elizabeth's. They escaped her mouth before her mind had reacted, for even as Sonia was shaved, she saw hunters gathering twigs, broken branches. They were building a fire and soon they were lighting it and bringing it to life, and beside them there was a spit.

Elizabeth sensed the terrible purpose of the fire without needing a voiceover. She sat straight in the armchair with her hands gripping Richard's arm with accelerating panic as Sonia was led helpless towards the spit, as her hands were chained behind her back. She was helpless, impotent, begging Richard for an undeserved mercy that was not on offer.

Elizabeth watched as Sonia was positioned by the spit: hysterical, crying. There were tears in her eyes for the creature was about to be cooked. There were no special effects here. No trickery. This was gyno-gourmet for real.

Richard spoke in his voiceover about the background of Girl Hunt. He spoke about the dams - the money, the Mudawana and even the Dolcett philosophy of women being roasted as foodstuff. He spoke about avatars and the close, inescapable link between their real lives and fantasy lives. He explained the business model behind the Hunt's finances, even as behind him and in full view of the cameras, the poor twitching Sonia hung naked, humiliated and terrified, listening to what must have seemed like irrelevance while awaiting her fate.

Then, at the end, when it was done, when the video was over, and Sonia was gone, when all that was left of her were pickings at the edge of a plate, Elizabeth was left cold, shocked, frightened, repulsed; and in the midst of her turmoil and heartache, Richard had told her that Girl Hunt was a game.

She hadn't comprehended this at all. "What do you mean? A game? How can it be a game?"

"Listen. Watch my lips ... It isn't real. None of it is real. Do you think I'd make this video and bring it to show it to you if I'd really murdered someone? It's not real, Lizzy. It's all fake. Everything you've just seen is a computer game ... That's all..."

Elizabeth had regarded him disbelievingly for a moment, and then she'd been livid at having been "had". She'd screamed at him. She'd raged. "Poor, poor Lizzy," Richard had teased mockingly, going to her kitchen and finding a beer in her fridge. He opened it without asking her permission. If only she knew the "real" truth, he thought, but since she'd just become a protagonist in the game, the truth was now beyond her.

"The fun part of Girl Hunt is in making it look real..." he said.

Elizabeth had spluttered something banal, ridiculous and offensive, but inside she'd felt a mighty explosion of relief. It wasn't real! Girl Hunt was a game. It was phony.

And then, moments later, her still racing mind caught Richard talking about taking her to Korpius, about dates, reservations and Hunts. "Only one girl in a hundred is caught," he'd explained. "The rest go home. Sonia was unlucky, some would say foolhardy, because she chose to be caught. Some girls do. They're called Dolcett Girls, and for them it's a fetish. It's like a religious devotion, but for the other women who go to the island it's a sexual adventure, one that separates the women from the prudes. Of course, you're sitting there and wondering why people do it. Why run? Why take part in the Hunt? What's in it for you? Well, for you Lizzy, you'll have the satisfaction of having risked everything to prove your loyalty to me. You're mine now, and you'll do as I tell you, because otherwise you'll disappoint me and that means you'll disappoint yourself. Do you understand?"

What could she say? It wasn't a question. It was a demand: a statement. This was the way things were. Richard had lured her in some unexplained way and having vanquished her, this new Elizabeth was unable to resist.

She didn't understand why she was beholden to Richard. In her normal everyday life she'd been a proud, independent woman, twenty five years of age, daughter of wealthy, if eccentric parents - a free spirit - except that it seemed that suddenly that she wasn't so free, for she had no choice but to please Richard.

What was the reason? What was the motivation? Did she love him? Or was it something more sinister? It seemed to her that Richard could lead a woman to the altar of Dolcett and sacrifice her without a moment's regret. He was a horrible man. He had the mesmeric ability to lead a woman up the steps of a public scaffold and there he could persuade her to undress and stand naked, embarrassed, humbled and humiliated in front of every man she'd ever known, denying everything she believed in and acting against every logical thought. And he could make her enjoy it. That was the rub. That was the addiction. He would kiss her on the cheek and she would respond even as he placed the noose on her neck.

"No blindfold," he'd whisper, kissing her cheek softly, cheerily, his long sly fingers trailing down her front from her breasts to her sex. "Watch them, Lizzy. Watch how hot they're getting as they watch you hang."

Elizabeth was hooked and it was too late for her now. There was nothing more she could do. She was under Richard's power, conditioned to the inevitability of her own doom as surely as this was Korpius. People might call it hypnotism, or charisma or brainwashing, but whatever it was, Elizabeth was caught by its spell.

How else would you explain the gaudy, microscopic swimwear that she'd worn to the beach with the words 'I'm a Dolcett Tart' printed across the artificial yellow bikini bottoms? It was so reminiscent of Sonia's costume, maybe it was Sonia's costume, and yet Elizabeth didn't flinch.

How else did you explain the matching beach wrap that Elizabeth had draped casually across the end of her beach chair for everyone to see, the infamous Dolcett cartoon printed on one side of it? The cartoon showed a naked woman with one end of a metal spit protruding from her mouth and the other end emerging from her pussy.

How else did you explain that she'd removed both halves of the bikini and had sat all day for men to gawk at?

Richard had given her the bikini as a present after telling her that the artificial yellow coordinated with her vivid red hair and although Elizabeth wasn't naïve enough to believe him, nevertheless, she'd worn the swimsuit to the beach and then she'd removed it.

He was conditioning her, grooming her as surely as a sour middle aged felon garnering the trust of an adolescent girl. He'd flattered her. He'd laced the flattery with gentle coercion, and once when he'd arrived on Korpius he'd shown his true colors:

"Take off the bikini. I want to look at you."

"Richard. Please. Not here on the beach."

"Take it off. It says on the panties that you're a Dolcett Tart, so take off your bikini. In front of me. Now. Right here on the beach."

She'd glanced round self-consciously, blushing bright red. "Richard!"


"I can't."

"Would you like me to fasten you to the sand with pegs and then whip your bare naked flesh with a bull whip? Think on that for a moment and then reflect how easily I can."

She'd known better than to test whether he would carry out his threat and therefore she'd taken off her bra and panties and she'd stood without clothes on the beach, knowing that dozens of men were scrutinizing her very full and heavy naked figure.

"Very good," Richard smirked. "I want everyone to admire you. Give a performance and show yourself off, Elizabeth. I want you hot and wet and excited whenever I chance by and touch you, but you mustn't cum. Do you hear me? Hot, wet, but if you ever tip over the edge and cum, you'll be punished."

That's the way it was. He was the master. He'd ingratiated himself on everything she did and he'd told her what she must do.

She opened her legs fully in obedience to Richard's demand. She must be hot, he'd said. She must be wet. She caught the whir of a camera and the advance of its owner. She ached to move but knew that if she did, she would cum.

"Don't be a dunce, Donna." she said abruptly to her friend. Oh God. This was too much! "Girl Hunt is a special, wonderful experience, better than surfboarding over Niagara or riding naked on the back of a tiger, all those stupid escapades we dreamed about at school. It's an adventure!" The words were from Richard. They weren't Elizabeth's, but she parroted them nevertheless as Richard had ordered her to do. She rocked back and forth on her towel, almost imperceptibly, allowing the slow rhythmic movement to work its magic within her. And it did.

It made her hot and wet just as Richard had ordered, so that she ached for release.

She closed her eyes and remembered that she was forbidden to climax, but the harder she tried, the wetter and more aroused she became.

She clung to her book, biting her lip and not breathing, knowing that she'd be punished if she came, and it was a terrifying prospect to be punished by Richard because the man was a monster, a psychopath, a demon. Elizabeth wriggled uncomfortably, becoming hotter and wetter as she drew nearer to the brink.

Oh God.

She prayed not to cum. She prayed for the camera to move, to go away, to stop taking pictures; but the prayers weren't helping.

She mustn't cum. She mustn't.

Elizabeth was an accountant by profession. Nothing smart. Nothing glamorous. Nothing special. The work was dull and boring, a career mapped out by her father - almost as punishment for the trouble she'd caused him at school.

She mustn't cum. She mustn't. Yet her tits were burning and aching. The matter was consuming her thoughts to the extent that she could think of nothing else.

She remembered that there had been an escapade at school that had got her into trouble and her father had been angry, and then there had been the incident with Donna and Donna's father...

She held the book weakly in her hand, the front cover on show. Men glanced at it as they passed, but mostly as an excuse to look at her tits and pussy, and the guy with the camera moved closer. He was curious. They all were. People stared as she lay vulnerable and on open display, just as Richard had commanded that she must lie, and still she heard the noise of the camera and it was making her cum.

"But Elizabeth!" Donna cried, dragging herself across the dry powdery sand to get closer to Elizabeth, unaware of the turmoil that was burning at the centre of her head. Donna glanced at her friend, blind and unknowing. Donna was wearing a simple red bikini. Her private parts were properly covered: protected. Not only that, but Donna wasn't big and heavy and people didn't stare at her the way that they stared at Elizabeth.

Donna wasn't on show.

"But Elizabeth!" Donna repeated with greater passion, ignorance and intensity. "What if you lose? What if they catch you? These people are cannibals! They'll eat you! Rape you! Doesn't that scare you a little?"

Elizabeth raised a single painted eyebrow and squirmed breathlessly upon her sun bed. She couldn't talk. There was too much at stake...

"Please Donna," she wanted to say. "Shut up. Don't you know that your words are turning me on?" Her steady rocking movements went unchecked in the afternoon balm. They were the only visible sign of Elizabeth's excitement and anguish, of the raging furnace that was becoming too much. She hungered to be fucked. Her lower parts were on fire. They were heavy with yearning and fearful. Her breasts were aching. They were boiling and her neck was pleading to be kissed; but there was an alarm bell clanging in the head like a ship's mighty klaxon.

Be careful, that bell screamed to all who would hear it. Watch out. Danger lurks. Cum at your peril, because Richard will know what you've done because you'll tell him – yes, however awful the consequences you will tell him - and he'll delight in administering your punishment.

On the surface Elizabeth remained cool, urbane and sophisticated, very much her father's daughter, but inside she knew that she was Richard's toy and it was a terrifying thought.


Oh yes, Richard had told her how she must be, the words she must use, the manner of her talking to Donna. He had demanded that she must torment herself to the point of a climax and yet deny herself its pleasure.

It was hypnotism, what else could it be?

"The odds are one hundred to one in my favor," Elizabeth gasped, repeating the mantra that Richard had taught her on that night on the sofa. "It's unlikely that I'll be caught."

Unlikely – yes - but not impossible. And so Elizabeth would run in Girl Hunt because Richard had ordered that she run and what else could she do?

Richard was the one who'd turned her from a normal, healthy woman into a sexual deviant and the worst kind of addict. Richard was her master.

She shivered for it was a terrifying thing to admit that she was Richard's submissive plaything and toy, and yet that's what she was.

Richard had warned her of the risks. He'd shown her the video with the roasted woman and how Sonia had been spitted – except that Sonia hadn't actually been roasted or spitted, because Richard had carefully explained that it hadn't been real. It had been a game – of a kind - for in this strange gruesome "game" called Death Mode, Sonia had been denied dignity and respect as she'd been forcibly ablated, inside and out. Throughout this process she'd sworn and blasphemed in her coarse London accent, fighting and kicking and twisting. She'd battled more as Richard had pushed the spit into her body and it had cut through her tissues, inexorably penetrating her cunt and then it had pierced her body until it had rutted her through.

She'd suffered on the spit for far longer than Elizabeth had imagined possible, and Elizabeth had shuddered at every rasp. She'd felt every jerk. She'd experienced every fraught moment of Sonia's agony and fear. She'd watched with horror and disbelief as the spit had slid up through Sonia's torso had had come bursting from her mouth.

"We'll try it with a stocking," Richard had said afterwards as he and Elizabeth had sat on the black sofa, as Richard's hands had clamped about her neck.

"Try ... try what with a stocking? Richard?" she'd gasped.

Her words had been weak and metallic and she'd been unable to move because she'd been stunned into paralysis by the awfulness of the video. "Get me a stocking, Elizabeth," he'd ordered. "A black one."

She hadn't wanted to listen. She'd been transfixed by the woman twitching on the pole, the lighted coals and the bare feet sliding in misery against the terrible unyielding steel. Oh, she hadn't wanted to obey and yet Elizabeth had been forced to do so because Richard had been squeezing her windpipe, demanding that she go to her room and fetch a stocking, and so she'd staggered there, wheezing and coughing, and shortly afterwards she'd returned with the single black stocking he'd asked for, dreading and yet knowing its purpose.

"I don't want to lose," Elizabeth admitted faintly to Donna, turning a page of her book and reading what Richard had written. Her eyes were watering at the intensity of her thoughts. "I'd be so frightened and lonely if they caught me and I had to be spitted, because I've seen it, what it's like: the suffering, the misery, the torment. Oh my God! Please, Donna. You have to be there for me! I couldn't bear it alone!"

Her voice was shaking with suppressed anxiety and emotion, and her exclamation faded into a forced, artificial whisper. All she could think about was a woman being held securely by the spitting machine: naked, exposed, her legs parted, the spit moving relentlessly into her shaved womanhood and stretching and tearing it. Its tip was so wickedly sharp that it made its own hole for the ultimate ride. There were guys in her dream, strong assertive guys who were removing her entrails and filling her belly with fruits and then stitching her back up.

"Believe me, I don't want to lose," Elizabeth trembled, rubbing her eyes and feeling the spit twisting in her belly and Jessica's blade scooping her guts. Her fingers reached protectively for her stomach and they touched it gingerly, anxiously, as if to reassure herself that her intestines were intact and that everything was correct and there as it should be. Her hand rested on the flat of her overblown stomach and she found mild comfort and a measure of happiness at the contact. "I intend to win, Donna – and I can do it. The odds are one hundred to one in my favor. I must be positive and think of the money. Think of it. Think of the fun. Think of the excitement. How can I come to Korpius and not join in the Hunt? I don't understand it."

This talk was nonsense to Donna because she was still unaware of Elizabeth's one sided relationship with Richard.

"We could run as a team," Elizabeth continued, rolling her hips and unable to keep still. Richard had the stocking tied around her neck and he was standing above her, kissing her dry lips and pulling the stocking tighter, choking her breath. Elizabeth coughed, and then she fought on, forcing a smile, but it was a smile that was crooked, fretful and worried. "We'd have a better chance if we played as a team, Dee. We could survive as a team, you and I - I'm sure we'd succeed if we did that - and if the worst came to the worst, well - we'd roast together. Would that be so bad? Both of us turning naked upon the spit, rotating with our arms pinned behind our backs. Two Dolcett Tarts, eh? What a sight it would be, Dee! Wouldn't we be sexy? With our tits hanging out and our pussies full of thick, black, hard metal. What excitement! What fun! Doesn't it turn you on just a little, the idea of men tying you up and basting your body, strange men, excited men, men you don't know, their wandering hands deciding what parts of you to touch and what parts to cut and what parts to eat? And then you'd look at me and I'd look at you in our helplessness and pain ... Oh God. That does it for me. Every time I think of it, it makes me ... God ... so hot!"

The talk was cold, hollow, and Donna swallowed hard at hearing the strange, violent content of Elizabeth's words. What could she say? This talk about men eating women was her worst kind of nightmare and she couldn't accept that Elizabeth believed was she was saying. How could a woman be turned on by such sadism? It was barbaric, evil, an eerie throw back to the cruel excesses of the Middle Ages when witches were tortured in the dungeons and burnt at the stake as religious entertainment.

This wasn't a juvenile prank. It wasn't a game. Girl Hunt was a gross and wicked idea, because at its heart women were going to be killed. Men torturing women: chasing them, raping and murdering them, and dear God, even cooking and eating them, to Donna, this was the very epitome of man's inhumanity. It was something alien and bizarre.

She tried to explain to Elizabeth how she felt, that she didn't want to run, that she didn't want to be involved; but her friend had fire in her lungs and lust in her groin. Elizabeth could feel the haziness, the sublime satisfaction of an imminent climax, and she groaned. She fell limp upon her lounger, clutching at its sides while her body shuddered uncontrollably towards its orgasm. She gritted her teeth and looked skywards, begging for release and yet denying it, because Richard would hurt her. He'd punish her and she didn't want to be punished.

Yet there were men walking by along the beach and they were looking at her, surprised men, attractive men, staring at her bare curvaceous body and wondering how she'd react. There was a man with a camera, circling around and capturing every moment of her failure.

He was an artist and she was his Rubenesque muse.

Elizabeth imagined herself revolving on a spit, roasting, and these men were waiting with empty plates ready to eat her. "You won't let me down, Donna?" she gasped, whooping huge unsustainable bucket-sized breaths, unable to keep any part of her lower body still as she came. She was shuddering, shaking, and still the camera whirred. "God. Dear God. Promise me ... Promise me that you won't ... that you'll run with me ... You must ... Oh my ... Oh God! Please! Please, Donna! Run with me!"

And suddenly Elizabeth was still, and in her head, Richard smiled, and very slowly, he loosened the stocking and he kissed her.

"That was naughty," he purred, probing her mouth carefully and delicately with his tongue. "That was naughty and I fear you'll regret it, my dear. It's time to prepare you for your punishment. My darling. It's a fearful one. Diabolical and repugnant. Welcome to Korpius and welcome to Dolcett."

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