Chapter 3

Three weeks passed quickly at college, and Tiffany left for home, for her appointment with her torturer. She would never have thought of herself as a prostitute. It seemed to her she was doing something noble, saving her family from bankruptcy and earning her way through college.

The three of them waited, anticipating the ordeals to come. Her father, comfortably dressed in a tee-shirt and running shorts, visited the bathroom one last time, hoping he wouldn’t wet his pants while tied to a post. Her mother wore only a bathrobe, knowing she would be naked for the next twenty-four hours or so. She had turned up the thermostat; at least she wouldn’t be so cold. Tiffany was dressed as her father was. She had hated having her favorite jeans cut from her body the last time she had been home.

“The waiting is what is getting to me,” said Tiffany. “Last time it was a surprise. I didn’t have time to worry. Now -- can you imagine, I’m actually wishing he would get here sooner!”

“Tiff, dear,” her mother said. “It might help it you tell yourself it isn’t happening to you. He calls you Slave Two. Try to imagine it’s happening to a girl named Two. And when it’s over, forget it. It never happened to Tiffany. I find that’s the only way I can stand it. Oh, and if you close your eyes, so you can’t remember visual images, they don’t come back to you as nightmares.”

“Thanks, Mom. Call me Two. OK, One?”

They heard a key turn in the lock. Their torturer, dressed in his “police” uniform, came in. They went to the front hall to present themselves, and he motioned them to the basement, which was his domain. He came and went, storing things there, but the family was not allowed to look before the appointed time, usually a Saturday afternoon.

They knew what to do. Tiffany’s father stood against a supporting column and allowed himself to be bound to it, where he would be forced to watch the torture of his wife and daughter. Slave One, his wife, took off her robe and hung it up. Tiffany peeled off her tee shirt and dropped her shorts, leaving herself naked. Her body was lean and shapely, her breasts full and firmly upstanding. She knew she looked good.

She tried to remember that it was “Two” who stood there naked, her cunt naked, fully exposed to her torturer’s view. The day before, Tiffany had waxed her pubes, to make sure there would be no more hairs to be pulled out. Being plucked with pliers was not pleasant.

Tiffany -- no -- Two had not been in the basement since the previous session, her first. She did not realize the amount of equipment which had been stored there, out of sight. It surprised her when the “policeman” erected a saw horse on wheels. “Slave Two,” he commanded, “stand there.” He pointed to the floor next to the horse.

Two stood as she was ordered. He strapped one ankle to a leg of the horse, the other ankle to the leg at the other end. Then he strapped her wrists to the legs on the far side, which forced her to bend over, with the crossbar of the horse compressing her belly, and making her hip bones, the front of her pelvis, support her weight, grinding against the hard bar.

Her head hung upside down, and she found herself looking between her far apart knees at her father, Tiffany’s father. I’m not Tiffany. I’m Two, she kept telling herself.

“Slave One,” the torturer said, “thirty strokes.” He held out a bamboo rod. That older woman, One, “not really” Tiffany’s mother, stepped between Two and the man bound to the post. Two waited for the first blow.

But the torturer stayed One’s hand, until he rotated the wheeled horse a quarter turn, so that man, One’s husband, could see better. One again stood behind Two. Two, looking out between her own spread legs could see the still attractive legs of One, could see pink inner labia showing between One’s hairless outer lips.

The first blow landed squarely across Two’s taut buttocks. The initial sting took her breath away, and an instant later, the pain began to radiate through her. “Harder!” she heard, and the second blow seemed to make very nerve in Two’s body scream for relief. Three, four, five ... Two’s screaming, the victim thought. Poor Two. She can only mindlessly react to the pain. Don’t let Tiffany know this is happening. Yes, a sense of mental detachment helped.

Then the blows stopped. The torturer ran his fingers over Two’s ass. Both cheeks, and her bruised labia, too, were pink and tender, burning with that steady pain that injured nerves supply for quite a while, even after the source of the injury stops. Two could feel every finger on her tortured flesh. But he soon stopped that, and Two came down from her heights of pain and was again aware of time and place. Perhaps endorphins in her brain, natural analogs of opium, were having an effect.

Two watched, turning her head almost dreamily, as One pulled down the bound man’s shorts. Curious. He had a hard on. Two felt the wheeled horse moving, and she could see, between her spread legs, that huge prick. There was a condom on it now, a bright pink thing with rubber fingers on it, like a bottle brush, almost. She hardly heard fingers being snapped, but she responded with a conditioned reflex, becoming dreamily aware that her sex box was getting juicy. Oh, yes, Two had been conditioned, the last time.

One pressed on Two’s back, where the bruising beating had not reached, rolling the horse until the rubber tickler touched Two’s bruised vulva. The torturer spread her labia and guided the penis into Two’s vagina.

Two felt her inner lips and tight vagina being stretched, felt the little rubber fingers pop-popping past her sensitive labia and poking the walls of her tunnel like burrowing worms. “No! You can’t make me fuck my own daughter,” she heard. Tiffany would have gone insane, to be fucked by her father, but Two, detached, unrelated to that strange man, accepted it matter- of-factly, as if someone was stuffing a vibrator into her. The horse rolled back and forth, the penis went in and out, the rubber fingers dragging her inner lips back and forth with them. Two got no pleasure from it. She was mostly aware that, with the deepest thrusts, her sore ass was pressed against the man’s belly, and it hurt. She even thought to herself, how prickly pubic hairs are, when your skin is so sensitive.

Two’s head swung back and forth, as the horse was wheeled to and fro with faster, harder movements. She closed her eyes, imagined she was on some wild, stomach sickening ride in an amusement park, and tried to ignore the pain from her bruised bottom, which pressed against the man, every time that rod plunged into her, banging on her cervix.

“OH! God! No!” she heard, as from afar, “I’m coming.” The stiff rod within her shook and softened. She felt the rubber fingers pop-popping out of her one last time, as the horse was wheeled to the other side of the room. Two opened her eyes, saw Tiffany’s father weeping, and closed them again.

Time seemed to lose meaning, as Two hung bent over the horse with her eyes closed. The bar pressed painfully on her pelvic bones, and her bruised ass ached, but she tried to put that out of mind. Two tried to remember her past, but she had none, except for that last session, three weeks earlier. Two only existed to be punished. She had no past, no childhood, no recollection of why she was being punished. That was all she was, a body for her torturer to abuse. But since she had no other life, when Two tried to distract herself with pleasant memories, she could only remember the nicer parts of the previous sessions, the delicious orgasms which had come, again and again, when her holes were stuffed with vibrators and One licked Two’s overstimulated clitoris. Just remembering made Two feel sexy, wish for attention.

Then she heard One, crying out in pain and sobbing between explosive screams. Two opened her eyes and saw One, suspended from the joists above, hanging from her wrists. One’s legs were spread, and her cunt gaped open, for One’s perforated labia were pulled apart by hooks on taut rubber bands. The torturer was applying the bamboo, front, back, and sides, from One’s shoulders almost to her knees. Two wondered, in a detached way, how One would be able to sleep, if she was bruised all over, with no untouched place to lie on.