****** 72 Steps by Gen. Dom ******
===============================================================================

72 Steps


Part One of a novella in progress

Author's note: The following work of fiction is extremely violent in nature,
containing torture, rape, scat, mind control and other deviant pleasures.
Proceed at your own risk. If under 18, LEAVE NOW!


1. The Ride

The vacation prize had been awarded to her in the mail three weeks ago, and
when she had first received the notification letter before that, she had
immediately thought of trashing it. When you start to read your junk mail, you
know you're hitting bottom. When you respond to it... well, you're sinking
fast.

As she sat in the back of the 737, in a crummy coach seat that didn't even
recline, she played over in her mind exactly what she thought she was getting
into here. Everything had been laid out so perfectly by the travel agency that
had been contacted to coordinate her trip to Acapulco.

She had expected a room at a Hyatt, but had been informed she would be staying
at a private villa, on the beach, no less. She knew virtually no Spanish, but
had been informed that the household staff (a private staff?) could speak a
little English, enough to be of service. She would select food and no money
would change hands the entire visit. She had the pictures that the Real Estate
company who sponsored the contest had sent and they were wonderful. A modest,
but comfortable looking beach house. She couldn't argue.

After the plane touched down, and she had cleared the Customs department in the
small humid airport, Catherine was toting her luggage, wondering if she was
supposed to be waiting for someone. An older Mexican man, wearing a white linen
uniform was holding a placard with her name on it nearby. Beside him was a
younger man, dressed in street clothes.

"Hola," Catherine said clumsily. The older man made a slight bow and said "Hola
Senorita, my name Arturo, I work for you. Please follow." With a slight smile,
he and the other man took her luggage and began walking out of the airport.

The awkwardness of this situation started to gnaw at her. She knew she was
supposed to feel relaxed, this being the first real vacation she had taken in 4
years. The divorce had been particularly hard on her financially. After
spending 15 years as a housewife, she had been cut loose on a hi-tech job
market and had managed to make a living doing temp secretarial work. Her ex-
husband, who had instigated the divorce, had been climbing the corporate ladder
at the time of the separation and was in a position to give her a brutal court
battle. She managed to escape the clutches of his lawyers with the huge house
to herself, but nothing left to maintain it.just as he planned. She had moved
into subsidized housing 6 months after the bank foreclosed on the property. The
thought of being around strange people, especially men, did not comfort her.
Why hadn't she brought Tammy, her friend, with her----she had even offered to
pay for her plane ticket and meals?

Her reverie was cut off as she stopped on the hot pavement outdoors and stared
at the vehicle into which her luggage was being loaded. She was expecting a
cab, but had received a Cadillac stretch limousine circa 1985. It had no rust,
but the black paint was dull and lifeless. The windows in the rear had
scratches and chipped tinting.

Arturo opened the rear door for her, and she fished in her purse for Pesos.

"No, no Peso," he said.

"But, don't you need money for this car? Is it included?"

The handsome, older man stared at her, obviously not understanding every word
she had said. After a pause he said, "paid," pointing at the car. "This is car
for your stay. You have Esteven"---pointing at the other man----"to drive you
during week," he finished, haltingly.

"OK, si." was all she could manage. She stepped into the car and the door
immediately slammed shut and the power locks snapped down. Before she could sit
she saw them. Two Mexican men in suits and sunglasses were sitting on the back
seats, which were upholstered in a wine colored velvet. One had on a white
straw hat and a white blazer. He was very thin. The other was bald and quite
fat, although his black three-piece suit fit him stylishly. The fat man was
smoking a cigar. Both were expressionless.

Panicked, Catherine looked up to the front of the car. A solid black partition
had been raised. She half duck waddled forward and had time to strike it once
with her fist when she felt the rough embrace of two hands from behind. It was
White Hat, as she came to call him.

"Welcome to paradise, gringo bitch," he said in a hoarse, high-sounding voice.
He cackled and his comrade began a slow deep chortle.

White Hat spun her around and threw her on the jump seat, facing them. He then
slapped a pair of steel handcuffs on her wrist and fastened them with a steel
twist to a metal loop that protruded from underneath the jump seat armrest. As
White Hat was doing this, Black Suit applied ankle irons, which were easily 50
pounds each. All this happened in less than one minute. Later, she would think
of ways she could have struggled, but the element of surprise had been sprung
most effectively.

Both of them then reclined in the plush rear of the limousine, admiring their
handiwork.

Black Suit then began to speak. Unlike White Hat, he spoke English fluently and
in a deep voice that both excited and terrified her. He gestured with his cigar
to her skirt, which due to the struggle had been hiked up considerably,
exposing her white K-mart panties. White Hat crawled toward her and, lifting
her skirt, ripped the panties violently, exposing her bare pussy.

"Leave her to me, now," Black Suit said.

Almost from reflex, Catherine began to feel herself getting wet as the car
clambered along the rough highway. She suddenly began to struggle violently,
but quickly discovered the futility of it. Black Suit moved up and sat beside
her on the seat. Keeping his glasses on, he stared at her and began to grin. He
had very bad teeth.

Suddenly his entire middle finger thrust up into her wet orifice. She threw her
head back and moaned with pleasure and surprise.

"You like that, cunt?" he said. He began fingering her vigorously, pumping up
and down. At first it felt good, then it gradually became painful. She realized
he had a large ring on, and it was slowly scraping her insides. She began to
moan but he would not stop. She started to scream and he slapped her in the
face, his hand burning intensely. "Shut the fuck up!" he screamed at her.

He turned away from her, facing the car's rear, and puffed on his cigar. The
car's intercom phone rang and White Hat picked it up, talking in Spanish to the
car's driver, whom she could hear distantly through the partition.

Black Suit tapped the ash of his stogie on the worn carpeted floor. He then
moved toward her again and licked her lips. As he did so, he moved the cigar
under her skirt. She could feel the heat intensely.

"Now, give us a nice warm kiss, or I'll shove this Havana so far up your cunt
that both of us will never see it again. And that would be a real shame, since
this is one damn fine cigar."

Terror surged through her and she melted, for the first time feeling what she
would come to know as total submission. He kissed her roughly, tongue fishing
hungrily down her throat. His breath reeked of garlic and tobacco juice and she
almost gagged, but decided against any sudden movement. He had the lit cigar
inches from her clit.

When he was done with her, as the car pulled slowly through an incredibly poor
neighborhood, he sat back in the rear seat and White Hat handed him a Scotch
with ice. She badly needed a drink herself to wash the scum from her mouth,
mostly.

She noticed they were pulling through a set of gates, wrought iron and over 12
feet high, manned with armed guards. From this point on, the landscape changed,
from slum to highly fashionable residential district. She passed beautifully
landscaped areas and large gates, presumably leading to the homes that sat on
the cliff side. This must be Pichiligue Bay, the exclusive private area of the
city she had heard of from the travel agent. Not where her house was located.

She looked to the men for answers, but they only smiled, White Hat gazing out
the window and Black Suit contentedly smoking and sipping his drink.


2. The First Lesson

The car took a sharp left and pulled into an enclosed carport with an elaborate
stone floor. Arturo opened the door to the back of the limo, and White Hat
unhooked her from the seat restraint, but left the handcuffs and ankle weights
on. Black Suit was again at her side and gripped her arm roughly. He again
leaned in and spoke almost in a whisper.

"From this point on, you will no longer be called by your name, you will be
'slave'. We are delivering you to your Master. He has paid us quite handsomely
to deliver you to him, and we do not disobey him, or anyone who compensates us
so well. You will learn that the only law here is the law of money. And your
Master has that, and more, on his side. We will now go down to his private
villa, so you may be properly introduced. He has instructed us to leave your
ankle weights on, so as to teach you your first lesson. We must break your
spirit, before we begin your conversion from human being to the pig slut you
truly are."

He then picked up her 110-pound frame, and with frightening force, threw her
toward the car door. White Hat cackled with glee and pulled her from the car.
She found she could barely move her feet, as she was pulling almost twice her
weight with the added iron. White Hat produced a long black baton; much like a
policeman would wear. This, however, was a much more sinister version.

"This will give you incentive to walk down these 72 steps," White Hat said. He
then touched the baton to her ass gently, and a jolt of electricity penetrated
her body. She tried to leap up, but only stumbled. She fell into the strong
arms of Black Suit, who laughed diabolically, amused. "Follow me," he said,
still laughing.

The journey down the stairs was one she had only made once, but she never
forgot it. The outdoor stairway consisted of 5 separate flights and every now
and then she caught a glimpse of the majestic bay with the sunlight shimmering
on the water. The stairs twisted and turned fiendishly, reminding her of an old
castle. Plants and wild foliage grew on all sides, along with tropical
wildflowers and ancient stone. Black Suit walked at a slow, deliberate pace in
front of her, almost strutting, the smoke from his cigar blowing backward and
into her face. When she faltered or slowed even slightly, the baton would prod
her along. Once or twice, she almost fell from its force, and White Hat had to
steady her, since there were no railings.

They finally reached the front foyer of the house and it looked to her as if
she were entering a palace. There was white marble on the floors, walls----
everywhere. Catherine found herself facing her reflection in a huge mirrored
wall with a stone table before it. On the table were various crystal and china
objets d'art and in the center a brass vase filled with at least three dozen
red roses. Staring at her image, she began to weep. Her face had bruises on it,
as did her arms; and her lip was cut open. The light beige skirt was torn
almost completely from her body, and her pubic hair shown underneath. Her
blouse was ripped and her large breasts were spilling out. Black Suit regarded
her and told her in a smug tone "Now, you're looking like you fit in here." He
spun her around and to her horror another flight of stairs, these also marble,
were before her---a spiral staircase, with a large, regal banister of
alabaster.

She looked at him and sobbed. "I can't, I WON'T!"

Her body was thrust forward by the unrelenting prod.

"You will!" Black Suit said, gripping her chin with a force that almost crushed
her jaw. "Now march slave," he said, smiling, his sadistic nature coming
through full force now.

She got down the stairs and collapsed on the marble, legs totally numb. Looking
up, she got a clear view of the bay and more stairs that led down to a bunch of
umbrellas, tables and lounge chairs.

That was all she saw, for a while. A soft silken band was wrapped over her eyes
and tied tight. She was brought to her feet and she walked a few more paces, to
her right. Then she was lifted to her feet and then in the air. She was hung
with her handcuffs on a hook and her feet did not touch the ground, even though
the weights pulled down relentlessly, intensifying her pain, effortlessly and
slowly.

She heard the two men walk away from her and then all she could hear was the
crashing sound of the waves on the beach and a strange noise in the background.
She felt warm air and knew she must be on some kind of open-air terrace. She
could hear a cracking sound, and she could hear chewing and licking, as if
someone was eating in front of her. This continued for maybe ten minutes.
Finally, the voice of Black Suit said, "For your presentation, Celestial One."

Obviously whoever was savoring the meal was her captor. The reference to
"Celestial One" was vaguely familiar, though she dismissed it, the pain in her
legs shadowing all else.

Her blindfold was undone and in front of her, behind a glass and iron table,
set with china, crystal and a silver champagne bucket, was a large man dressed
in an elaborate white uniform, arrayed with braid, medals and sash. Enormous
golden epaulettes decked his broad shoulders, a triple lanyard under one arm of
multi-colored threads, as an added accent. A bright red sash cut across the
uniform in one direction, while a wide black leather belt cut across the other.
He reclined in the high-backed wicker and leather chair and she could see a
holster displaying a black pearl handled .45 revolver and a sheath that looked
to contain a dagger, hanging from the waist portion of the belt. The cuffs and
neck of the uniform were ornately decorated with red and gold embroidery. He
wore a pair of khaki colored riding breeches and on his feet were spit shined
patent leather, knee-high jackboots. For the first time today, all hope drained
from Catherine's face.

His head was shaven and waxed, and he sported a large black handlebar mustache
and pointed goatee, both neatly oiled. He had piercing green eyes and a glass
monocle on a gold chain attached to the uniform, which undoubtedly was used to
magnify them.

He looked familiar, and as she stared closely, he began to look even more so.
It suddenly hit her -- it was Michael, her ex-husband! He then looked down and
continued ripping apart a lobster claw with his bare hands, gathering up the
meat and sucking on it, virtually inhaling the delicacy. He took a swig of
champagne. As both of them continued the stare down, it was plain that he was
enjoying her revelation.

She was the first to break the silence.

"Michael," she gasped, "Please help me.I don't know what this is about.If we
can only talk." She thought then that this must be an elaborate joke on her,
and that not all hope was lost. They had a history together. Three kids.
Fifteen years. This wasn't happening. He would take her in his arms and rescue
her..

The prod entered her ass brutally and she screamed. Black Suit was in front of
her, shrieking, spittle flying in her face.

"You stupid cunt! This is General Tara, and he is your Master. There is no
Michael. This man is a god here and you are shit! You will speak to him
only.ONLY when HE speaks to YOU!" He slapped her face again, almost knocking
her out cold.

Michael laughed briefly and, leaning back, began to lick the butter and
seasoning from his fat fingers and to dab at his mouth delicately with a white
cloth napkin. "OK, Roc, you can lay off now."

"Very Good, Excellency" Roc responded immediately and retreated a few paces,
his tone suddenly subservient.

It was Michael, all right, Catherine thought. The voice, the tone, everything.
She saw him clearly now. The man whom she had lived with who rarely wore
anything more formal or ostentatious than a suit to the office was now this
ridiculously outfitted cartoon character. She guessed everything here was meant
to intimidate her, but she could not get the old Mike out of her head. The Mike
who mowed lawns on the weekends, played football in sweats with her sons and
ran errands in the family minivan. He never had worn facial hair and his head
always sported a thick thatch of black hair, in constant need of trimming. This
Michael had put on about 60 pounds, but much of it looked to be muscle. The
beer gut was gone. His demeanor, which had always been meek, was now assured,
calm and incredibly pompous. It was like an episode of the Twilight
Zone."Mike's Evil Twin."

Michael arose from the table and sauntered over to her, butter still dripping
from his mustache. He grabbed hold of one of her tits and slowly began to
squeeze the nipple. As he pinched, he began to twist it as well. She gasped for
breath, feeling faint.

"Hello, slave," he said, "Welcome to my pleasure dome."

He turned to another man, dressed like a soldier (complete with bayonet and
chrome helmet) and said with in an imposing baritone: "Show her to the
playroom."


3. The Playroom

She awoke slowly and the first thing that struck her was: torpid. The room was
torpid, dark and humid, although in the background she could hear the surf as
well as the sounds of the night: insects, wild creatures. The walls were
complete stone as if this room had been built right into the side of a cliff.

Catherine got her bearings and began to really look around her. Gas light
torches lined the walls giving the room a dim light. There were no windows. She
was lying on a stone slab in the middle of the room, and she was nude, and
soaked with sweat. Even at night the temperature in the room must have been
high-70s. Her arms and feet were shackled to the table (leg weights still on,
but lighter, she thought), and a large rubber ball had been stuffed in her
mouth and secured with layers of packing tape. She heard a scurrying noise-----
inches from the table---and ice went through her veins.

Suddenly, a crackle filled the room and Mike's voice began to be transmitted
over a pair of elegant looking speakers. He must use this to torment his
victims, she thought. Feeling defeated, she also realized how effective it was.

"Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas slave," Mike gloated. She realized it was Christmas
morning, and began to weep silently. "In time for the new Millennium, I am
going to introduce you over the course of the next weeks to many exciting
experiences----some will be terrifying, others may give you some pleasure. All,
however, are designed for our amusement."

Catherine looked wide-eyed, puzzled. He seemed to sense this.

"We consist of myself and eleven of my closest associates here in Acapulco. We
form an elite organization known as the Doses Diamante Feifes. All of us are
local bosses here who are well connected with the Mexican government, and local
law enforcement. We deal in various clandestine activities from things as mild
as counterfeit Cuban cigar smuggling, local racketeering at the resorts and
slavery. The last of which has proven to be our most lucrative business, so
far. If we had not been so close in our lives, before, my dear slave, I would
not be telling you this. But, I feel I can trust you to an extent. This year
alone I have made over $75 million selling young slaves to various Doms the
world over. My last coup was a 19-year-old girl who was on Fall Vacation here
with her family. Naturally, there were inquiries, but there are many ways
"accidents" happen in these remote areas of Acapulco, many peasants to use as
decoys to fake deaths. I generally cannot be bothered with petty dealings of
that sort. I leave it to much more experienced professionals."

A pause. He loved to hear himself talk, that was one thing that had not changed
about Mike or Michael. And as she was lying on the slab she was remembering
other things as well. They had done mild bondage during their first five years
of marriage, before the sex stopped completely. He would tie her up, she would
call him.what? Generalissimo! She felt lead in her stomach as she recalled the
time he asked her to call him "Celestial One" as she was sucking his cock.

"Look around you," he continued, "at all my instruments of pain and power. My
dick gets hard just thinking about them and you".

She looked. Some of the machines she could recognize, others she could not. She
saw a rack. Ornate whips of various lengths and shapes, branding irons and
cattle prods decorated the wall. Straps were suspended from the ceiling.
Kettles containing hot pokers smoldered under low flames. An iron maiden.
Sawhorses. Toilet seats with nothing underneath. A rusty iron chair with a car
battery hard wired into it. Feeling sick, she had to turn away. He began to
laugh.

It then occurred to her, if he was talking to her, he must be watching and
listening to her as well. Her eyes scanned the room for cameras, frantically.

"They are all around you, my sweet. I am everywhere and everything. I control
your mind as well as you body. Did you know that constant deprivation of
privacy could drive a person insane in a matter of days? You have one choice:
complete submission, and that is my goal. After your stay here, you will have
one desire, and that is to serve your Master. Keep in mind, I always know what
you are doing, and at anytime your image and voice can be beamed to any one of
our twelve houses. Then, there's the satellite network."

Suddenly, a soldier was standing over her and her arms were being secured with
straps. A large hypodermic needle was inserted into her arm, and she was
unconscious in under a minute.


4. Burning Desire

When she woke up, Michael was standing in front of her in a silk smoking jacket
and silk pajamas, both a rich Claret color. He looked very comfortable and
relaxed (probably was drinking heavily) and he leered at her in a way that made
her extremely uncomfortable. He was stroking his goatee with one hand and
fondling a long hard-carved ivory cigarette holder in the other. A Turkish
cigarette burned slowly, the strong scent of it bringing her into
consciousness. She was hanging by two straps in the playroom, and she could
hear the whispery stealth of what could very well be a whip swinging lazily
behind her bare ass.

"When.when did you start smoking?" she asked him.

He looked surprised that she would ask him a direct question. Taking a puff and
blowing it in her face, he answered her, measuring his words in a singsong
fashion that was extremely irritating.

"One of many nasty habits I've picked up down here. Actually, I smoke cigars.
But during our first session, I thought I'd attempt a bit more theatricality."

He seemed to enjoy using the holder as more of a baton than a receptacle for
smoking. He gave a signal----a swish of his holder in her direction----to one
of his soldiers, and she suddenly felt something brushing against her cunt. It
felt like a large penis, but of course it was a dildo, and a rather crude one,
in fact.

He showed her a remote control device, the size of a small pillbox.

"One of my more fiendish inventions," he explained. "This dildo can be
controlled in speed, length and width by radio frequency. I could use it
upstairs if I wished, but I wanted to be with you in person tonight. I must say
I've missed your company since we've been apart." A wry smile was on his face
and she had no idea if he was serious or not.

He punched a button and the dildo began to move, as did she, up and down slowly
bringing the rough object into her pussy. There was quite a bit of pain, since
she was hardly wet. It puzzled her suddenly how she had gotten wet almost
instantly in the limo for Black Suit, or Roc, but how Michael left her dry. He
began to circle her, blowing almost perfect smoke rings, and she felt like prey
caught by a cagey jungle cat. She began to moan vocally with the increasing
pain.

"Just a tip, my pet," he purred in her left ear, "it's much less painful if you
just give in to the sensation of helplessness. Relax and give yourself over to
me. It's your need for control that is causing you pain."

"You're a sick bastard, General" she said, saying his title mockingly. "Who do
you think.." An increase in the length of the dildo. "..you are?" Hints of
rebellion slowly left her voice.

"Someone who can do this," he murmured and the dick inside her expanded,
pumping her up like a balloon. An orgasm rushed through her and she almost
passed out. The dildo continued to hump her, faster and faster.

"Will you continue your impudence to my royal person?" he threatened, holding
the remote up to her face.

A lash connected with her ass with brute force. The man swinging it circled
around to the front her and she knew it was Roc, but couldn't be positive. He
wore a black robe and a leather hood, with only coal black eyes showing. The
whip he was brandishing was terrifying: a full-length bullwhip to which had
been attached a number of small metal spikes.

She came again, this time dripping on the floor. The General looked pleased.

"A few more lashes for her" he commanded. He walked back to a large velvet
chaise lounge that had been brought down to the dank room. An air conditioner
was also running full force, and she knew it had been brought down for Him, but
was almost glad to at least have that small comfort. The dildo continued to
hump her mercilessly as she counted the lashes mentally, almost for the sake of
a diversion. She gulped and yelled out with pain, but no one could help her.
The dildo was thrusting her backward at the same time the lash was throwing her
forward. The General took the scene in with a tremendous hard-on throbbing
under the silk. When the 10th blow had been struck, he blew a few smoke rings
and then instructed her to be bound to an old wooden rack in the corner of the
room.

This table looked ancient. It was an older rack, which took two men to operate,
each one to turn the hideous gears in both directions. When the man who
appeared to be Roc threw her down on the machine, she shrieked at the pain from
her bloodied rump. She was instantly gagged with a rubber bit that prevented
her from speaking clearly, but not from making noise. The General loved to hear
her scream, she soon found out.

"I think you may be beginning to understand your place in my kingdom, but this
may help drive it home a bit," he said.

Extinguishing his cigarette and removing it from the elegant ivory holder,
which he tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket, he snapped his fingers and
Arturo appeared by his side. He had obviously been waiting at the back of the
room for quite some time. Arturo was holding a silver tray, which supported a
large Walnut humidor and a snifter of brandy that was steaming. The General
picked up the fishbowl-sized snifter and swished the liquor around, moving it
under his nose and inhaling deeply. He then selected a monstrous looking cigar
from the box, over 9 inches long but fairly thin, and after an elaborate ritual
of cutting and lighting it, he seated himself by the table near her hips. He
motioned to Roc, who began to turn the wheel on one side as another hooded
henchman worked the opposite end.

She gasped as an enormous racket started up below her, a symphony of grinding,
wheezing gears. The General grinned viciously, drinking in her fear with hungry
eyes. Her legs were being pulled further from her body, and then spread apart
and her arms were pulled dramatically above her head. When she thought he had
planned for her to be ripped apart on this device, the noise stopped and she
was left spread eagled. He then worked something beneath the table and the
portion supporting her ass and legs fell away. The machine strained her so
tightly, she didn't even notice for a moment but eventually gravity began to
take it's toll and she found the suspension more and more painful.

He had a good-sized ash on his cigar now, and as he puffed, she had to admit
that the rich scent of the tobacco was exciting her. Not realizing she still
had the dildo inside of her, she was surprised when it started to move again.
This time, though, waves of pleasure swept through her body. She came again and
again, puddles of cum forming on the stone floor below her ass. The General
watched her cum and she could see him drooling on the end of his stogie. He was
getting a proper show. The first hints of attraction toward him were forming in
her mind, and she panicked at the thought of it. She hated him. Why was she
wet?

He tapped the cigar's ash in a crystal ashtray that had been set up by his side
on a small table, along with his brandy, then reached over and pulled the dildo
out of her, switching it off at the same time.

He then leaned over and whispered into her ear.

"You have had the pleasure, sweet pet, now you must have the pain as well."

With that he began to bring the cigar, now with a white-hot exposed tip, closer
and closer to her pussy. The heat increased at a level that was uncomfortable
at first, then began to feel more and more intolerable.

"Please, your Excellence, please" she found herself babbling "Just do it.just
do it!" But the ring shaped bit in her mouth made her words barely
intelligible. He seemed to understand, however.

"Now, now, slave," he chided playfully, "How can we call this a torture chamber
if I immediately inflict the pain? Waiting for the pain can sometimes be even
more exciting than receiving the pain."

When he was inches from her cunt, he began to puff heavily on the stick of
Cuban tobacco and she screamed at the increase in pain.

When he touched the molten tip to the soft flesh of her clitoris, the white
operating table lights above her flashed and her mind seemed to explode. She
clenched her fists and would have bitten her tongue clean off if the rubber in
her mouth hadn't prevented it.

That was when she blacked out.

She awoke to find herself spread out on the device, face down this time, but
with a cock inside her ass, which had been lubricated with something. She was
still in pain and could not even begin to enjoy anything, at the moment. Her
head felt numb and she was dizzy. She wondered momentarily if she had been
drugged.

"You're still a good fuck," Michael was saying, and she knew it was him inside
her. He gripped her hair and pulled her head up.

"Speak slave! I command it!"

"Uh.thank you general" was all she could manage. He pumped harder and harder
with constant force for at least 30 minutes until finally he ejaculated with
incredible force into her ass. She had not come, there was no way to even get
the strength up to fake it. It was plain he didn't care. He moved away from her
rear and walked to the front of the rack. His pajamas were off but he still had
the silk jacket on, untied. His cock was huge, maybe ten inches (longer than
she remembered) and dripping with cum. He wiped himself with a towel and then
stuffed it in her mouth. She could taste his hot semen.

"I'll see you at dinner," he said with a smirk, putting on his PJs, and
lighting a cigarette. In a cloud of opulent smoke, he left the room. The door
shut with a loud sound, echoing across the stone room.

Roc was still with her, and as he looked at her through the hood, terror began
to seize her once more. He walked over to the table slowly, then pulled open a
drawer beneath her. Producing a small metal object, he fondled it lovingly in
his black, deerskin-clad hands then shoved it in front of her nose. It was a
tiny piece of steel that looked like a vice, with a large wheel at one end and
very tiny threading on the screws. He got behind her and effortlessly found her
way to her clit, and attached it.

"No. nonoooooo," she began to squeal, as he tightened the metal jaws with
sadistic sluggishness. Roc began laughing and she had confirmation that it
really was him. The pain was incredible. She pleaded, begged, but it did no
good. She knew He was upstairs watching, savouring her discomfort, and probably
having more fun than Roc.

Again she passed out.

5. The Escape

When she awoke she was nude and lying on a marble floor underneath a long
walnut table with a large glass top. It felt as if someone was strangling her,
and she noticed that around her neck a collar had been attached. She tried to
move her head to look up through the table and immediately recoiled. Spikes,
which must have been embedded in the leather collar, dug into her fine soft
flesh. She cried out briefly, and then stopped, not wanting to give Him the
satisfaction. Perfect, Catherine thought, the only position I can remain in
without pain is on all fours! The General knew how to rob a woman of every
shred of dignity.

She was suddenly pulled about a foot toward one of the chairs at the end of the
table with a massive steel choke chain. A gloved hand reached into her hair and
began to fondle it.

"That's a good doggie," the General crooned, and pulled her by her hair to
stare up at him through the glass. A spike dug into her neck as she stared up
at him, again dressed in a uniform (Black, this time) and seated in a palatial
gold-gilded high-backed velvet chair. A place setting was before him and on the
gold plate was a glass of Scotch. He stirred it intermittently. He puffed on a
short fat stogie.

"Roc had quite a bit of fun with your clit" he began, "It will be sore for
awhile, so I'll be playing with it soon." He chortled lightly. "You have had
quite the time here, haven't you? Do you have any idea what day it is?"

She said nothing. She looked down.

He snatched her chin in his hand, which was sheathed with an ornate White
leather gauntlet glove and pulled her head up again. She gasped with pain.

"Look at me when I talk to you, you little bitch! And answer my fuckin'
questions."

She obeyed. "Yes, your Excellence. What day is it, My Lord?"

He seemed pleased with her submissive response and released her head. She
stared at the floor.

"New Years Eve. Happy New Millennium," he said flatly.

She began to sob softly, but stopped as his boot flashed out from underneath
the velvet seat cushion and struck her squarely in the abdomen.

"SHUT UP!" he screamed. He pulled her out from the table with one jerk on the
mighty chain. He stood up and towered over her, hands on his hips, a riding
crop in one hand and the choke chain in the other.

"I am going to have my monthly business dinner tonight, with the rest of the
bosses. We have much to discuss, but thought you'd be a good source of
amusement for us during the evening. Many of my colleagues have been watching
you on the Network and are very eager to meet you. At the end of the night, you
will perform for us.perform a little experiment of sorts, one I have
choreographed. It will be quite culturally enriching. You know I've always been
an avid patron of the arts." With that he struck her sharply on the bare rump
with the crop and she yelped. Again the crop came down. This time she bit her
tongue and said nothing.

"See," he said, "You are already learning to be quiet when you receive
discipline. Good dog."

He dragged her across the floor into a sitting area that was entirely glassed
in, overlooking the terrace where she had first seen him. He gestured to Arturo
who was standing nearby, as always.

He brought over a steaming stainless steel dog dish and set it in front of her.
To her revulsion, it contained what looked to be human shit. She backed away as
the stench hit.

"I made it myself, fresh this afternoon," Arturo said smiling, leaving the
General doubling over in hysterics on one of the velvet couches in the room.

"Sorry my precious" The General said, when he finished roaring. "We're out of
Alpo! Now, EAT UP!"

He placed his jackboot firmly on her ass and almost forced her face-first into
the mess. He got up and stood in front of her again.

"I expect all that to be eaten in five minutes," he said, self-importantly
pulling a gold pocket watch from his uniform and noting the time. He cracked
the riding crop squarely on her ass for effect and returned to the table to
relax.

She looked over at him and he was reading a newspaper and smoking his cigar
effetely. She looked to the door that was about 90 feet away. One mistake,
Catherine thought, no leg irons to hold her down. Arturo was turned away
preparing things at the butler's pantry behind the dining table.

She took her chance and bolted for the door, scrambling madly. She heard Him
roaring "STOP HER!!!" but as she glanced back, He had not even gotten up from
His chair. Arturo was just staring at her.

She flung the door open and the humid night air hit her. She bounded down the
marble steps leading to the pool area, and could hear a commotion rising behind
her. Her eyes darted in both directions. To the left was a sumptuously lit
Olympic size pool with grass and palm trees to the side. To her right was a
narrow flight of stairs beyond a small iron gate. She chose the latter.

She grabbed the gate but it wouldn't open. Not wanting to screw with it, she
scaled it and started to run down the dense jungle walk. Pebbles scraped her
feet and she knew if she fell, she could very well split her head open. She ran
through an arch containing a shower head, obviously for use after the beach, so
she knew she was headed in the right direction. The stairs turned to a smooth
ramp way. She was both relieved, then disturbed that no one seemed to be
pursuing her. She finally came to the end of the walk only to be confronted
with a wrought iron gate that was over 40 feet high. The beach was maybe 100
yards from her. She started to sob hysterically, and struck her hands futilely
against the barrier. "No, no, no, no.." she repeated over and over. Even if she
wanted to attempt escape at this point, there was no possible way to move over
the fence except by pulling her weight up 40 feet, which she was not equipped
to do. She collapsed on the ground and it was there, only seconds later, that a
policeman arrived from the beach area.

He regarded her with no emotion, almost as if a sobbing woman was a regular
occurrence at this gate. Pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt, he said dully
"Subject apprehended at gate."

Catherine looked up at him. "Please, PLEASE help me. They're going to kill me.
He's a madman. Please help. PLEASE!!!"

The man just looked at her and then said (in fluent English, surprisingly):
"Lady, I cannot help you. General Tara and his friends own half this city. I
believe you, but can not help. Take advice: do what General say." He took a
cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it with a Zippo. "You only make worse
by running." He paused and shook his head and a smile came across his face. He
rolled his eyes. "He's going to be pissed" he said dryly. He then became
serious, "So what does he do with the women, anyway? Many people wonder. Hear
stories. Seem too far fetched."

She looked like a hog waiting to be slaughtered, rolling her big wet eyes. "He
burned..burned.my.." She broke down again.

The man looked at her with a sense of perverted curiosity. "Jesus, I guess that
one's true." He still didn't do anything but wait.

She said softly "What... what will he do now?"

"You'd know more than me..but, something very evil. Something diabolic. I no
want your shoes" he said grinning slightly. He put out his cigarette, as two
soldiers approached her from the rear.

They shackled her feet together and her wrists. They said nothing to the
policeman, who watched her be led away in silence, both disturbed and impressed
by the power of the General.

She was led up the stairs and then to the Playroom, which she must have not
noticed as she fled. It was indeed built into the side of the cliff. She was
brought in and tied to an iron chair. Ten rubber straps secured her, from her
ankles to her forehead.

The door swung open with a loud bang, and there He stood, cigarette holder in
mouth, puffing furiously. His head was a bright Crimson. He strode over to her
and she cringed as He approached. He lifted the riding crop and smacked her
across the face, breaking the flesh. She felt blood trickle down, into her
mouth. What more could He do to her?

She got her answer immediately as he picked up two wires with his gloved hands
and displayed them importantly. The ends were bare. She then remembered this
was the chair wired to the battery. He touched the wires together and her whole
body was jolted for a second. He smiled cruelly.

"I was saving this little device for later, but since you must be punished."
Another dose of electricity, this time a bit longer, maybe 5 seconds. Catherine
was shaking uncontrollably from the current.

He paused and began speaking to her as a teacher reprimands a student, looking
down at her disdainfully. He had his monocle on which magnified and distorted
his left eye. She remembered this eye had always been weaker, but she couldn't
tell if he was using the glass for a purpose or for show. Either way, it DID
make him look even more threatening.

"You obviously don't understand how secure this compound is. The sooner you
understand you don't have a chance of escaping, the easier it will be on you.
But right now, I have more important things to think about than your feeble
escape attempts. This dinner party is going to start in fifteen minutes.
Fifteen fucking minutes! This being MY turn to host, all must be PERFECT. That
means you do what I say every second, like an obedient little bitch." He took
the holder from his mouth and shook it in her face. "I have almost half a
BILLION riding on this affair tonight, and I'm telling you now, if you don't
behave yourself and follow my orders, I'll be serving up your pussy ala mode
for dessert. You believe me?"

She nodded furiously. She really did believe him.

"Good. Now attach the mouth clamps," he commanded.

A metal device was attached around her head and then her mouth was gradually
jacked open, leaving her tongue free. The same bowl of shit was served up to
her and she hesitated only for a moment, then began downing it. It was now
quite cold and she almost choked on it.

She was then brought back up to the dining area where the leash and collar were
reattached.


6. The Dinner Party

She sat obediently under the table as the bosses filed into the dining hall.
One by one the seats began to fill. All she could see were their boots---all of
them wore knee high types, some more ornately decorated than others, one guy
even wore spurs. Some brought drinks, which she could hear being placed on the
table. Some puffed on cigars and cigarettes. The air was filling with smoke and
the smell of food. She was incredibly hungry.

After being fed the excrement, she had vomited for a full five minutes by the
poolside with the guards watching her. She had stopped when she was dry
heaving. She had not eaten anything before that for 3 days; the only other food
she had been served had been a pasty white substance that looked like old
oatmeal. The water she had been given had been bottled, surprisingly. The guard
who gave her sips every few hours told her that while she was conscience His
Highness did not wish to give her dysentery as it could interfere with normal
interrogation procedures. If He wants you to be sick, he had told her with a
playful smile, there were other ways to achieve that effect. Obviously.

Most of the conversation she heard meant nothing to her. Mostly financial in
nature, they talked of profit margins, expenses, and the irritating stupidity
of some locals who had been hired and had botched a smuggling operation
recently. Some of the voices were Mexican, one was British, others American,
one was distinctly Southern---Texas, maybe. She knew they were watching her
above the glass, but they ignored her for the most part, just as they might
with a dog.

When the first course was served----Beluga caviar and stuffed shrimp, the
General said proudly----her neck was pulled tight.

"Slave," the General's voice boomed ostentatiously, "While we are eating you
will lick our boots. You will place your whole mouth around the toe and suck
first. Then proceed to lick the rest of the boot. While we eat our salads, you
will then polish the boots. And for a finale, you will suck our cocks. I hope
you're experienced in this area, because if you're not finished by the time our
entrees come up, very bad things will happen to you."

Laughter from around the table, as if they knew exactly what would happen to
her if she didn't complete the task on time.

A sharp crack on her ass was dealt from his riding crop. She spent the next 10
minutes frantically sucking and licking leather, shoe polish, pre-cum and
leather conditioner making her nauseous.

She was halfway around the table when the entre was served and she was
panicking. Nothing from the 12 kings who reclined around her, however. They
were embroiled in various business discussions, and since this hedonistic
ritual was regular for them, they didn't bother to notice her tardiness.

After they had finished eating dinner and had started working on huge, decadent
chocolate creations, her Master spoke again in reference to her.

"Gentlemen," he intoned, "since our doggy has failed miserably you are all
invited to help me discipline her. We will be adjourning for Brandy and cigars
in the lounge area of the Operating Theater."


7. Complete Control

The General sat in a plush leather chair behind a large console in front of a
wall of mirrors that overlooked his internal Operating Theater, designed for
surgical procedures that were performed on his victims. When Catherine awoke
from the Demerol she had been slipped, she panicked at being strapped to a
metal table that tilted her head upward at a 45 degree angle. She felt cold air
on her ass and realized it was exposed in a cutaway portion of the table. Her
feet were suspended in the air with a pair of stirrups, leaving her
delightfully spread-eagled for him. Needless to say she was nude. He drooled
slightly on the tip of the large Cuban cigar he was chewing on. His cronies
were seated around him, sipping warmed snifters of Louis XIII or icy Belvedere
Martinis. General Tara's shows were always captivating, yet this one he had
been touting for quite some time.

"So, Mike, we've all been wonderin'" said the Texan, "is it true you were
married to this one?"

The General snapped out of his reverie and turned the executive swivel chair to
answer.

"Yes, it is, Vernon. Like so many American sluts, she ran the show while we
were married for over 15 years, I think." He stopped, hating to share any
information on this part of his pussy-whipped past with someone who needed to
hold him in the highest regard. "Do you have any ex-wives who may need
retraining?" he said with a smirk. Vernon dropped the issue, although a
mischievous smile played on his face. The rest of the bosses laughed loudly,
almost on cue.

"I think, after tonight, you will be tempted to let me play with some of them."
Silence, and an aura of awe swept over the men, as they realized how serious he
was. They all knew Tara was mad, but that was how he had gotten his far. They
knew he was on a jag and let him ramble. What choice did they have?

"My goal here is to turn this little cunt into a complete sexual animal. She
will be rewarded when she does what I command and punished brutally when she
refuses." He put in his monocle and wagged his stogie in the direction of the
one-way glass. "The beauty of this exercise is that her body will be her own
enemy, until I deem otherwise. I will train it to respond to my wishes, thereby
achieving the ultimate measure of control any human can have over another. By
the sheer monstrosities I will perform, her mind will have no choice but to
relent to my pleasure. I invite you now to relax and witness the worst depths
of depravity and perversion that one man can inflict on another. Enjoy!"

He waited for the precise moment to make his entrance, wanting it to be
dramatic and terrifying at the same time. He punched a console button and told
Roc to enter the room and begin making the preparations. Roc entered the room
and Tara hit the "SPEAKER" button so they could listen to the conversation. She
was babbling something, obviously scared shitless. He clucked to himself and
turned up the volume in their booth to the max.

"Please please just let me go I won't say anything please mommy daddy mommy
daddy help help please mr don't do this I only want to go home please mr.
Just.."

Roc smacked her across the face with a leather hand and screamed "SHUT UP!!!"
into her face, spraying spittle on her in a nicely choreographed mess. He began
to lecture her, his features contorting and bending as he began the rant:

"You Yankee cunts are all the same! You talk tough but when it comes down to
it, you can't stand up to the pressure can you? You were fool enough to
question his highness and then act arrogantly toward him. And now you will pay
for what you have said. Do you know the meaning of control? His HIGHNESS does
and now.HE will teach YOU!!!"

At that precise moment, General Tara chose to make his appearance. The girl
watched, astounded, as one of the 50 mirrored panels that surrounded the
interrogation room opened and in walked the Mighty One, in all his glory.

Tara walked to the foot of the table and stopped, a 3 foot long metal swagger
stick with horn handle and razor sharp tip clutched behind his back with one
hand in a military stance. Roc snapped to attention, saluting him with one
hand, clicking his heels as he did so.

"My General," he cried, immediately lowering his eyes.

Tara said nothing. Roc stepped toward him but never dared look him in the face.
The Mexican man lit the General's cigar. Compared with Roc, Tara was a giant,
easily over a foot taller. The General took his time getting the light, gently
rotating the stogie and puffing deeply. When he was pleased with the results,
he blew a few smoke rings, then said "begin with her," pointing vaguely in her
direction, as if she were an object.

The General then leaned down close to her face. Roc had disappeared under the
Operating table. Tara produced a raw garlic bulb and bit into it. He then
forced his tongue and mouth, and his greasy, waxed handle-bar mustache, onto
her. The stench from the garlic and tobacco, which reeked from him, was
suffocating. His tongue fished around her mouth hungrily, the garlic juice
making her sick as she swallowed.

Tara spat out the remains of the bulb onto the OR floor and returned the stogie
to his mouth. He turned to the mirrored wall to primp himself after the little
tryst. He made sure his epaulettes were straight, then that his mustache and
goatee were neatly oiled and in place. Finally, he inspected his bald pate, to
make sure it shown in the light of the room.

He then turned toward her, looking down, and smiled a very smug smile. Hatred
again surged through her and she again wanted desperately to kill him. He
relaxed a bit and continued to smoke his cigar. She wanted him to speak and
explain why she was where she was, what he planned to do with her but at the
same time, she DIDN'T want to know

He seemed to read her mind, and began to slowly speak in deep velvet tones.
Just then she noticed the IV tubes dangling from each side of the table. Like a
cat, Roc popped up and took her right arm and began wiping her vein with
alcohol. She helplessly watched, stricken with horror. This couldn't be
happening. Tara was still speaking but she wasn't listening. Something about
"how she was now his" and that she would be a "totally sexual entity". She
wasn't looking at him and tried to tune him out by focusing on the other,
greater horror: the large hypodermic needle Roc was inserting. Somehow, this
caused her attention to snap back to the General, maybe for an explanation.

"You will find yourself becoming quite drowsy, as the medicine hits your
system. It will be just enough to calm you down yet..heh heh..not enough to
dull the pain." A large billow of smoke escaped his mouth.

"What?" she started. "What are you doing?" she pleaded

He got down close to her once again and traced her lips with a black deerskin
lined finger. She noticed he was wearing rather ornate black leather gauntlets,
complete with fringe.

"Soon," he whispered to her, as if her were reciting a Barry White love ballad
interlude, "I will control every part of your body. You will fuck when I want
you to fuck, you will come when I command it. Even your normal bodily
functions, from your eating, to your pissing and shitting, will be controlled
by my voice."

Roc was now on the same side as Tara, sticking another needle into her left
arm. She was so entranced by Tara, however, that she didn't notice it. Tara
kept on with the mantra.

"I will control you, you will become my slave, to be used and abused as I
desire. This bag," he gestured to the bag that was attached to the needle now
being inserted, "will be your food supply. You will no longer have a hunger
instinct... I will control that now."

He drew closer to her and licked her ear. The heat of his breath and the small
panting noise he was making made her feel ill.

Suddenly she felt a jolt from below. Something was in her pee hole

"That's the catheter," Tara said and began to giggle like a child with a new
toy. From now on, I control when you pee. With the flick of a remote control
button" (producing a palm sized remote from his jacket pocket) "I can release
the valve that empties, or tighten it..guess which position I prefer?" He began
to laugh a deep, insane, bellowing laugh, a laugh he had perfected for
theatrical value. Her terror level began to increase.

Suddenly two tubes were jammed into her ass.

"One for input, the other for output," the General continued when he had calmed
down from his laughing spell. The glove pointed toward the upper right hand
corner of the cold table at another IV bag, this one containing, he explained,
enematic fluid. "When I desire, I can make you shit but you will not be able to
release it until I flip the switch on your output."

It was then she realized what he really had in mind. "The sexual animal". He
took his baton and covered the pointed end with a rubber tip, that he had
greased up with KY. Suddenly her vagina was filled and with a few flicks of his
remote, the General had her raised a foot in the air. With a look of absolute
perverse evil on his face, he clicked the remote, and the small sword began to
move, attached to a mechanical thrusting device suspended from the ceiling. She
felt as if she was humping the air, due to the slender nature of the stick. He
stood back and began to laugh at her. She felt like his puppet. He would turn
the dildo on and off, at sporadic intervals, never predictably.

Her food bag was almost empty. He played with his mustache and said "Do you
need to use the facilities? I know I do.." More belly laughs. Her ass began to
fill with the enema. "Stop, stop" she begged. He chuckled and unzipped the fly
of his jodhpurs. Aiming his large cock at her, he relieved himself on her body.
The warm, stinking stream engulfed her as he aimed his dick at her face. She
could not help but ingest it. She retched.

"Do not let in hope my pet" he said slyly. "No one can save you." He blew a few
smoke rings and left the room, disappearing behind the mirrors.

The bosses greeted his return to the inner sanctum of the booth with a polite
round of applause, though Tara noticed a few were looking a bit pale. Pussies,
he thought. He poured himself a Brandy and leaned back in his reclining throne.
"Hold that thought," he whispered over the intercom to his slave.

She attempted to shit several times, but his clamped tube blocked it. His
laughing reverberated over the length of the room. It may have been ten minutes
or ten hours later, but he finally allowed he to release. As he did so, he
began the dildo. He did this after every time that she performed according to
his wishes.

"I control you, even when you don't see me," Tara whispered into the
microphone, over and over.

Over the next two weeks, she was to become His. His recorded voice boomed into
the room constantly, 24 hours a day, for what seemed her eternity in hell.

The General was indeed a very happy, very rich man after that night. As he lay
with two girls on either side of his enormous gold, velvet and silk bed, he
reflected on how good his life was.


Author's Note: Prepare for "72 Steps The Sequel," when Catherine gets more than
her fair share of revenge on Michael and his band of merry men!

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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