Fantasy Fulfilled

                               

     Horace was last off the helicopter, there in the waste of

the desert.  There were a zillion stars, but there was no glow in

the sky from the lights of Las Vegas; they must be miles from

anywhere.  The cabin attendant, a sexy blonde who had served

drinks, led them across the sand for a hundred yards or so, to

what looked like an outcropping of rock.  In fact, there was a

concealed door, and an elevator.

     In the reception lounge, far underground, Horace waited his

turn to process in, enjoying another scotch and watching the

others -- two Japanese businessmen, a woman who might be a bull

dyke, a yuppie, and a teen-ager, who confided to Horace that this

trip was a graduation present from his divorced father.

     Horace was excited.  He'd spent every penny he had saved,

working hard, for this one chance to live out his secret fantasy.

His wife, Rose, had the money, paid the bills, and she made him

work for his pocket money.  $98,700 was a lot of pocket money.

But he had waited a long time, filed papers, supplied dozens of

color photos, and he waited until his wife went on her vacation -

- they took separate vacations -- just so the experience would be

close to perfection.   Finally, the hostess, totally naked, got

to him.

     In an alcoholic haze, he signed some more papers.  "You

understand," she said, "the terms of the contract.  You get

forty-eight hours with a woman who is surgically altered to your

specification.  If she does not meet your specifications, you

have five minutes to complain.  Otherwise, you have rented her."

     "Yeah, I understand."

     "You can do anything you want, except permanent injury.  If

you damage the goods, you will have to pay extra."

     "Yeah, yeah," replied Horace, anxious to fulfill his

fantasy.

     "And we have ways of making you pay."

     "Yeah."

     She led him past several doors, which she had to unlock, and

finally showed him his room, #14.

     The room was in two halves.  One half was an exact duplicate

of his wife's bedroom, same drapes, same wall paper, same four

poster bed, same night stand, same little lamp on the stand.

Lying on the bed, in a robe just like Rose's favorite, was a

woman who looked very much like his wife, the same black hair,

the same long nose and thin lips.  Only she was different, where

it counted.  She was an inch shorter than Horace, about five-

seven, not a towering six feet.  She got up to greet him,

slipping out of the robe and saying, "Hello, Horace.  I'm Rose,

and I'm hot for your body."  Rose wouldn't say a thing like that.

Actually, the voice didn't even sound right.  Where did they get

these women, Latin America?  But the most important specification

was right on.  Instead of flat, pendulous breasts, that hung on

her chest like empty moneybags, this Rose had gorgeous, high-

standing globes, spherical breasts (style "G-16" in the catalog),

which met in the middle, forming a vee-shaped cleavage, and

bulged out at the sides, half covering her upper arms.

     Horace loosened his belt and flopped on the bed.  He unzipped

his fly and said, "Suck my cock."  Rose, his wife, seldom invited

him into her bedroom, and, when she did, they did things her way.

She wouldn't even touch, never mind suck, his cock.

     This Rose got on her knees between his knees and openned

his fly.  "May I?" she asked, as she began to remove his pants.

He raised his hips to let her undress him.  She even took off his

his shirt.  Shit, the real Rose wouldn't do that.  Then she went

down on him.

     It was great, but too quick.  The thrill of having his

"wife" do that for the first time was just so... He came before

he got a chance to savor the joy of it.  No matter, he still had

forty-seven and a half hours to play.

     Horace looked at the other half of the room.  There was a

wet bar, several cabinets, a toilet, etc., and a combination

gymnasium and torture chamber.  Horace helped himself to another

drink, while the woman stood watching.  Then he checked out the

contents of the cabinets.  There was a whole sex shop, everything

from leather to lotion, from whips to wipes, cuffs to clamps.

     He selected four heavy leather bondage cuffs and buckled

them on Rose.  She just stood there, looking a little frightened,

which made things better.  Then Horace suspended her from some of

the several available ropes, so that she hung from her upraised

arms.  He fixed her ankle cuffs to ropes from the floor, and

tightened them, spreading her legs until she winced in pain.  But

she did not complain.

     He spent an hour or so, torturing her tits.  He put clamps

on her nipples -- the springs seemed weak.  He bound her

beautiful globes with ropes, pricked her between the ropes with

his pocket knife.  Rose bore it all.  Jesus, how much of the

$98,000 must they pay her, to go through that?  Unless, of

course, they had kidnapped her somewhere.

     Next, he shoved a big vibrator/dildo up her ass -- it came

with a tube of lubricant, or he'd never have got it in.  He let

that buzz in her ass while he went to work on her cunt.

     "Rose," he said, remembering is frigid wife, "here comes the

good part."  First, he carefully shaved her pussy hairs -- razors

and shaving creme were provided.  He would have liked to yank 'em

out, or burn them off, but is objective was to deprive his wife

of the bush she was so proud of, without destroying the playpen

underneath.  When she was completely denuded, her hairless vulva

looking like a child's, he parted the outer lips and started to

explore with his fingers.

     Rose, hanging there, was quiet, as Horace explored with his

fingers, reaching in so far he could feel the neck of her womb.

He pulled on her inner labia, played with her clitoris.  He

wanted to make her come and come, and she came, over and over.

They must have done something to her, hormone shots, or

something, because she was so juicy, so hot, he couldn't believe

it.  "Oh, Horace," she cooed, carefully rehearsed, "I love it

when you do that."  With considerable effort, he got most of his

hand in her and tried to fist-fuck her, while he teased her

clitoris with the other hand.  He could feel the contractions in

her cunt: she was coming, all right, and she screamed, just as he

had specified, "Horace, you're the greatest!  Oh, I'm coming.

I'm coming!  Oh, do it harder, Horace."

     Horace got up on a little stool, and he tried to get his

cock into her stretched, sopping wet, cunt, but it just wouldn't

stand up.  Maybe it was too soon after the first time, or too

much alcohol in his system.  He wanted to screw her, to feel her

vaginal contractions around his big cock, but he couldn't get it

stiff.

     Frustrated, he loosened her ropes, so she could stand there,

her legs widespread, and bend over enough to suck him stiff.  She

sucked and sucked, licked and licked, but he just couldn't

perform.  Damn.  Well, there were a lot of other things he'd like

to do to Rose.

     He winched the ropes tight again, stretching her as if she

was on a medieval rack.  Then Horace found another vibrator in

the cabinet and jammed it into her gaping cunt, fastening it with

straps to her legs.  He turned it on and watched it chug inside

her, while her bound tits wobbled, the pinchers on her nipples

swinging.  He took a whip from the cabinet, a cat'o nine tails

that looked like leather but was really soft rubber.  All the

whips were "safe."

     "Rose, you bitch, you've been castrating me for years," he

screamed, as he whipped her ass.  "I can't get it up," he yelled,

lashing at her belly and breasts.  One of the nipple clamps was

knocked off.  He left it on the floor, continued whipping her --

the nipples which bulged from her breast bindings, her back and

belly and butt and all around her legs, until she was a rosy pink

from her neck to her knees.

     At first, she called out, "Oh, you're the greatest, Horace.

Do it harder," but, when he bit her nipple, she swore at him in

Spanish.

     "Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he yelled as he beat her harder.  His

wife loved to belittle him, to remind him that he couldn't fuck

her very well or very often -- "I can buy a better lover for

$19.99, batteries included."   He'd show Rose.

     "Rose" was in bad shape, her shoulders almost dislocated

from the way he had suspended her, her beautiful "G-16" breasts

disfigured by the ropes, her asshole and vagina stretched to the

limit and overstimulated by the continuous buzz of the vibrators,

and her body showing the marks of the whip.

     Horace was in bad shape, too, tired from his exertions, with

a shrivelled penis which hung uselessly.  He drank, too much,

from one of the whiskey bottles, and passed out, naked on the

bed, leaving Rose hanging there.

     When Horace awoke, there was good news and bad news.  The

good news was that his prick stood tall and hard.  The bad news

was that he had to piss, and as soon as he emptied his bladder,

his tool went limp.  Damn.

     Rose lay on a mat, asleep.  Someone had come in the room and

undone all his work of the night before, no stretched arms, no

vibrators, no breast bindings, only the cuffs left.  The someone

had even put discrete little bandages where Horace had tormented

Rose with his pocket knife.  There was a little folding table

with breakfast on a tray.  There was also a note: THERE IS AN

ADDITIONAL CHARGE IF YOU DAMAGE THE GOODS.

     Still, Horace's anger toward his wife and his frustration

about his impotence drove him on.  He must find some way to hurt

Rose.  He slapped her, which she seemed to shrug off -- all in a

day's work.  He punched her with his fist.  She scampered away,

jabbering in Spanish, and he finally apologized and held out his

open hands, fingers spread.  He searched through the cabinet, but

he couldn't find anything that would really satisfy his desire to

make Rose suffer.  Stuffing a vibrator in her cunt wouldn't make

her suffer; she'd probably have a dozen orgasms, the way she was

wired.

     That gave Horace an idea.  He got her to lie down on the

bed, and he attached her wrist and ankle cuffs to the four

bedposts.  He talked soothingly, and caressed her body, played

with those glorious G-16s.  His prick seemed to wake up a little.

     Then, he took the lamp from the bedside table, removed the

shade, and walked over to the sink.  A gentle tap, and the bulb

shattered, leaving two shiny wires sticking up.  He went back to

the bed, plugged in the lamp, and held the two bare wires against

her skin, either side of her navel.  The switch was in the cord,

easy to thumb on and off quickly.

     Horace flicked on the current.  Her whole belly contracted,

and he could smell burning skin.  Off.  She relaxed, started

complaining in Spanish.  So he gagged her and continued his

experiments.  Touch her leg, and her leg would convulse.  Drag

the wires across her breast, and leave a line of very painful

little burns.  Rose made muffled screaming noises through her

gag, and the more she screamed, the harder Horace's cock became.

He was beginning to anticipate how nice it would be to have her

cunt clamp down on him as he fucked her eyeballs out.  But first,

to get it really hard, he needed to get more revenge, to hurt his

"wife."

     He dragged the wires over her hairless cunt lips, which

caused her great pain but didn't really satisfy Horace.  He

retrieved his pocket knife, turned off the lamp, and cut the cord

from the lamp base.  Stripping back the insulation, Horace wound

the stranded copper wires around two metal nipple clamps.  One

clamp, he pushed into her ass hole.  The other he stuffed deep

into her cunt.  He really liked seeing the wire leading into that

pink tunnel, disappearing in its depths.

     This time, when he flicked the switch, her entire body

jerked, and her cunt clamped closed in a fantastic spasm, as the

current flowing through her body tightened every muscle in her

belly.  The tetany was so severe that she could not even cry out,

until he shut off the current.  The wild, absolutely terrified

look in her eyes made his tool stiffen more.

     "Rose, you frigid bitch, take this."  He thumbed the switch,

and "Rose", not his real wife, suffered for his real wife.  Her

vaginal muscles clamped down, hard, until Horace turned off the

switch.  He thought he could actually smell the smoke from her

cunt, as he tortured Rose again and again and again, to the point

of physical exhaustion and to the edge of her sanity.  With his

free hand, he would stroke his prick, feeling it grow harder, the

more Rose suffered.

     At last it was time to enjoy the delicious feeling of Rose's

cunt clamping in an orgasmic spasm around Horace's imbedded rod.

He pulled the wire and the clamp from her cunt and plunged his

prick into the tortured tunnel.  Gleefully, he bucked his hips,

but nothing happened.

     "Come on, squeeze, and tell me how good it feels," he said

to Rose, but Rose was too utterly exhausted to do anything but

lie there and be fucked.  The muscles of her vaginal sheath had

been convulsed so many times that there was no elasticity, no

strength left.  She could no more squeeze his dick than a

marathon winner could run another 26 miles.

     "Rose, just one more time," he pleaded, pumping in an out of

her slack vagina, which had all the resilience of whipped cream.

     "Squeeze, Rose.  I can't feel you!" pleaded Horace, but

Rose, spreadeagled on the bed, couldn't move a muscle.  In

desperation, Horace took the loose clamp, which had been in her

vagina, and he clipped it to one nipple.  Pumping furiously at

her slack slot, he thumbed the switch.

     He felt her vaginal muscles clamp down on his prick in a

violent, electrically induced, spasm, as Rose screamed through

her gag.  Horace came, at last, pumping his seed into her.  He

turned off the current.

     Horace lay, finally spent, with his limp prick still buried

in Rose's cunt, and her glorious "style G-16" breasts pressing

against the bare skin of his chest.  He closed his eyes, happy.

     The door opened, and three figures came in, the

receptionist, now wearing a don't-touch-me white coverall, and

two male orderlies.  One pushed Horace off the G-16s, and the

woman put a stethoscope to Rose's chest.

     "What's the matter?" said Horace.

     The woman said, "Horace, you've been screwing a corpse."

     "But I felt her squeeze my prick!"

     "Horace, it's clear what happened.  The current went through

her breast and through her vaginal muscles and through the wire

in her rectum.  And her muscles tightened, as even a dead woman's

would.  But between her breast and her vagina, the current also

went through her heart, and when a heart clamps down, like her

constricted cunt, it can't work.  You killed her."

     Horace was stunned.  He couldn't quite comprehend what he

had done.  But he pulled his penis out of the corpse.

     "You've damaged the goods in a really major way.  You've

given us an expensive disposal problem.  It's going to cost you,

Horace," she said.

     "I'm broke," said Horace.  "I sold my BMW, even hocked my

Rolex and my office desk, to raise the 98 thousand dollars."

     "I told you we have ways of collecting, Horace.  You know.

If you can't pay your restaurant bill, you wash dishes.  We'll

find work for you, until you pay -- let's say, about half a

million dollars."

     Horace panicked, bolted for the door, but he never made it.

One orderly held him; the other injected a drug.

     Horace woke up.  He was naked, but for wrist and ankle

cuffs, and he was spreadeagled, as he had bound Rose, on Rose's

bed, in room 14.  Everything was the same, except the bedside

lamp was repaired, and some really terrifying instruments of

torture were displayed in the other half of the room.  An

electric charcoal lighter was even plugged in, and it glowed red

hot!

     Horace knew he had been drugged for days and days.  He dimly

remembered being strapped to a bed, remembered needles in his

arms, bright operating room lights, being made to work out on

exercise machines.  He knew he was different, now.  Where he had

been flabby, he was now lean, muscular, tanned, in the peak of

health.  He looked down in amazement at his huge penis, inches

longer than he remembered, which stood like the Washington

Monument, rising out of his groin.  It seemed to throb with

tension, craving cunt, but he knew, somehow, that it would never

be satisfied, would never go limp again.  The thought of spending

the rest of his life with an erection boggled his mind.

     But he didn't have long to think about it.  The door to room

14 opened and a woman entered.  She was very tall -- black hair,

long nose, thin lips.  She wore over-the-knee black boots with

stiletto heels.  She wore a black, leather, push-up bra, with her

flabby breasts bulging out the top.  She wore nothing else but

her luxuriant bush of pubic curls.  And she carried a wicked

leather whip.

     "Hello, Rose.  I'm Horace," he said.