The Last Days of Miss Primrose

3. Play and Preparation

For Lili Primrose the night is endless and eerily silent. The sound proofing on the walls and ceiling shuts out the night noises as effectively as it shuts in any sound she is able to create, which consists mostly of a pathetic mewling through her nose. The springs and interlocked wires of her innerspring bed make old-fashioned mattress sounds when she bounces her body, but she soon learns that bruising her back on the cruel metal wires is no way to begin a long night locked down on them. The air grows cold, sending her into spasms of shivering, keeping her perpetually aware of her nakedness and helplessness.

A knot of dread makes her stomach hurt. The conversations she overheard concerning her future, as best she can figure them out, seem to indicate that Byron Madden plans sell her into prostitution, or worse. She has no clear idea of what a "snuff party" might be, but it doesn't sound good. She tries to think of a feasible plan for escape from this cabin, but he has kept her constantly in restraints since he grabbed her in the parking lot. He keeps the wrenches that would unbolt her iron collar on the pegboard, and even if she could rise from this innerspring, the chain would prevent her from getting anywhere near it.

The wires cutting mercilessly into her back muddle her thoughts. Soon she can only think about how to ease her misery. She longs to be rescued from her suffering and from the plans of this mad brute, but her eyes keep fastening on the blunt, perforated finger pointing at her from the pipe overhead, poised to spew death in her face.

The sound of rattling at the door! Her heart leaps into her throat and her body goes rigid! She stares at the nozzle, holding her breath, willing it to remain benign! The door opens.

"Ah, you're still here. Liked our accommodations, did you?"

Her breath shudders out, at once relieved and terrified. She hates being defenseless and at the mercy of this madman. She hates it that she's naked and he can feast his depraved eyes on her at will. She hates it that she'd rather be alive under these conditions than dead in a cloud of cyanide. It can only be that she still hopes to find a

way to reason with him before it's too late.

He's chatting amiably, meanly aware that her mouth is bound up and she cannot respond, even if she weren't afraid of the ever-present cattle prod.

"You'll be happy to know that we won't be interrupted by pesky searchers, at least not until you're safely away to your new career as a whore or entr é e. The first thing the police will do when you're finally reported missing Monday or Tuesday is check with your boyfriend. As we all know, many crimes of violence are committed by spouses and lovers. They'll naturally be a bit suspicious of his tale of camping on Long Pond all by his lonesome, especially if they're smart enough to search his residence and find your skirt and pantyhose hidden in the trash, all covered with blood. Blood matching your type, it will turn out."

His prisoner is thrashing about on the harsh innerspring, making desperate noises through her nose. He can't help but smile at her fruitless protests. She's so cute when she's upset. He sits down beside her and caresses her breasts and smoothly shaved sex as he talks.

"Turns out you couldn't have picked a better week to rile me, what with boyfriend heading off for the deep woods. Helps, too, that you had a big row with him about it and bitched about it to your buddies in the teachers' lounge. In the cops' minds that 'row' will turn into a fight and they'll start searching for your body. But up at Long Pond, not here. They'll probably drag the damned lake!" He laughed and pushed three fingers into her vagina, reaming them around, making her gasp. "How's them apples, bitch babe? They'll be looking for you for months, trying to pin a murder rap on boyfriend. May succeed, too. All because of your big mouth and bad judgement." He crushed her cunt between his fingers and thumb. She made a muffled scream. "Too bad you won't be around to see it all, but I've got other plans for you. One way or another, you'll be long gone."

He fishes the pan out from under the innerspring. It's empty.

"Too shy to use your bedpan? That's all right. I wanted to watch, anyway."

Her heart sinks. He's going to force her to pee in front of him! She won't! She can't! She'll withstand the cattle prod before she'll do that!

He releases her wrist cuffs from the corners of the innerspring and fleeting thoughts of kneeing him in the groin, overpowering him, quickly vanish when he cuffs her hands behind her back again before releasing her ankles. He cranks the collar chain up, forcing her to scramble off the innerspring and on to her feet. Before long her wrists are locked into the overhead bar again. But this time, instead of the spreader bar between her ankles, he ties them into a spread position with ropes attached to rings in the floor. Then he slides the pan between them.

"You will remain in that position," he states firmly, "until you have pissed into the pan. And if you need to shit, you might as well do that, too, because before this day is out, you'll be getting an enema.

She can't believe what she is hearing. She wants to tell him to fuck off — a word she hasn't used since college — but he hasn't removed the tape that keeps her mouth clamped shut. She makes the only protest she can: screeching through her nose and thrashing uselessly in her restraints.

"Oo, that's sexy," he says. "I like that. Keep it up!"

She sags, defeated, held up by her wrists. Despite her determination not to do so, she breaks into tears of impotence and humiliation.

"I'd take the tape off your mouth," her tormentor teases, "but it helps keep you out of trouble so I can get some work done. Tell you what, though: I'll take it off after you piss in the pan. By then I'll be ready to start correcting you again."

He makes more cell phone calls while she concentrates on ignoring the building demands of her bladder. The tenor of the calls remains the same: talk of her sexual uses and of her value for "snuff." The person representing Der M ä dchenbraten , whatever that is, seems to be winning on points, which seems to mean he's offering the most money for her. But she is on the verge of exploding. Urine is starting to leak down her leg. The pain is bringing new tears to her eyes. It finally dawns on her that this monster will not relent; he will force her to disgrace herself (as he put it) simply by ignoring her. And what the hell difference does it make, anyway. He's getting ready to SELL her, for God's sake! As a prostitute! A sex slave! She's naked. He's raped her. He will probably rape her again. She is absolutely powerless to resist any and all debasements he decides to heap on her. She has already been defiled by his fingers and his sex organ and will soon be defiled by many others, or snuffed (whatever that means) or dead. She resigns herself to this ultimate humiliation and unleashes the painful backup in her bladder. It splashes noisily into the pan and draws his attention. He's on the phone, but he turns to watch. Smiling.

She refuses to feel ashamed. He made her do this! Besides, it's a natural function that everybody does. Modesty about emptying the bladder is a mere social convention, a human invention. Toddlers pee for their moms and dads during potty training. Nurses help immobilized or paralyzed patients do it. What's the big deal about peeing? But despite her cool logic, tears leak from the corners of her eyes.

He punches his cell phone off and nods appreciatively. "All right!" he says. "I love to watch a woman piss in public for the first time. It rips away that cloak of self-righteous pride, that phoney pretense of decorum that society lays on us. It's all part of our schizophrenic attitude toward sex: the simultaneous obsessing about it while hiding it; using our sexual attributes to attract attention and stimulate imagination while, at the same time, condemning their display. It's understandable, of course, given our weird concept of morality. Our pee pipes are enclosed in the same apparatus as our sex parts. Therefore, pissing in public, which requires exposing the apparatus, is as forbidden as fucking in public. It's all ridiculous, of course. Strip away the walls and doors and clothes and laws that buttress our pretensions, and we're just another species of animal who eat and piss and shit and rut and mate and give birth to more animals like ourselves. We excuse our absurd sexual contradictions by pretending there's some kind of supernatural being who demands that our species must defy nature and act differently from all the other beasts who also have mouths and pee holes and poop chutes and dicks and cunts and who do all the same things."

This high-toned lecture on sexual relativity does not seem to be cheering up his captive female who hangs dejectedly over the warm pan of urine. The sight makes him chuckle. He loves to humiliate these women, almost as much as he likes to torture them, and feeding them this convoluted philosophical crap helps rub their nose in their disgrace. He can see she wants to argue back but cannot. In fact, enforced silence will be a continuing component of her torture, right up to her final disposition.

He picks up the pan, sloshing its contents around right in front of her face, enjoying her attempts to hide her embarrassment. He carefully pours the urine into a mason jar and sets it on the cabinet.

"I've got good news for you," he says as he lowers the bar to which her wrists are cuffed. "You've been sold. I got a really good price for you from the Society of Isis and I'll be delivering you to them this afternoon. That doesn't give me much time to play with you, but at least it will get you out of the country in case, for some reason, the search for your body brings someone sniffing around this cabin."

He releases her wrists from the bar but quickly snaps handcuffs on them, although this time in front of her. The change provides welcome relief to her aching shoulders and gives rise to a spark of hope for escape. She can do more with her hands in front, even though they're cuffed.

He makes her sit on the floor and does the same thing with her ankles: he releases them from the floor bolts only to clip them together with ankle cuffs. Now he orders her to draw her knees up to her chest, drop her manacled arms over them and hug her legs to her bosom. He takes a metal rod and threads it over her elbows and under her knees, locking her body into a kind of fetal position. Using ropes, he ties her right wrist and ankle together, then her left wrist and ankle. The two pair of cuffs have now become redundant and he removes them. But he spreads her knees as far as they will go and lashes them to the metal bar that way, the bar having holes through which to thread the ropes. He tips her on to her back so her knees are in the air and the furrow of her sex fully displayed.

Feeling no less helpless than before, she explores frantically with her fingers to find a knot she might work loose, but he has taken care to keep them out of reach. Her chances for escape are clearly slipping away. On top of her fright and anger, she's developed a raging thirst. Having skipped lunch yesterday at the school, she's had nothing to eat or drink for twenty-four hours. She puts on what she hopes is an imploring expression and makes pathetic noises, hoping he will remove the tape sealing her mouth so she can ask for water.

If he understands her plight, he ignores it. He has set up a pair of adjustable trestles with U-shaped grooves on top. With little apparent effort he scoops her up off the floor and drops the ends of the metal rod into the grooves, suspending her between the trestles. She hangs from her knees, the weight of her torso angling her so she is almost upside down. Byron pushes her gently so she rocks to and fro like a porch swing, or like a deer slung from a pole being carried home from the hunt.

He takes a position in the V of her legs, the fabric of his pants rubbing against the tender skin of her rump and inner thighs, and against the far more sensitive lips at the entrance to her womb. He tilts her body on its fulcrum to ascertain that the entrance is at a convenient level for the shaft that will enter it. Satisfied, he goes to the pegboard and takes down a flogger, a whip consisting of a handle with a dozen soft leather thongs.

"I need to play with you now so the marks will be faded by the time your buyer takes possession. The Society is very fussy about the quality of their offerings at the M ä dchenbraten. They prefer unblemished. Unfortunately, that rules out some of my favorite toys, like the heavy cane and the nipple clamps with teeth."

Her eyes show her fear. He likes that. "Why Lili, you didn't think you were my first guest here, did you? Hell, you're not even the first one I abducted in a parking lot, although I generally avoid it. Don't like to leave an abandoned car to proclaim that a kidnaping has taken place. Joggers on rural roads make better snatches; they're trim, fit and fetch really good prices. The easiest and safest, of course, are hookers. No one reports them when they go missing. The down side is you never know about the state of their health and have to avoid swapping bodily fluids. But that's okay. I have lots of ways to amuse myself without drawing blood and there are plenty of females around I can fuck. Like you, for example."

He starts to flick the ends of the flogger on her sensitive cunt. Even such small blows with a soft whip produces an amazing amount of pain and she jerks and cries in her restraints, her body rocking on the metal rod. He talks as he watches the tender skin turning red.

"My favorite snatch technique requires the help of one of my clients. We dress up in cop costumes, put a blue light in the front window of the car and pull over some pretty girl. I pretend she matches the description on an APB and make her get out of the car. I frisk her, cuff her and put her in the back seat where she gets chloroformed and tied up, same as you. The client drives her car to the nearest airport and leaves it in the long term lot. He picks up his own car, which he had parked there earlier, and meets me a few days later at a prearranged location to collect her, all neatly packed in her container. I never take clients here, for security reasons. What happens to her then? Depends on the buyer. Most wind up at a brothel in Central or South America, Asia or Eastern Europe. Others go where you're going, to one of the snuff houses run by Isis. There are four: in Germany, Thailand, Indonesia and Columbia. You're headed for Munich; a festival called Der M ä dchenbraten. You'll love it. Meet girls from all over the world."

He switched from the flogger to a small ratan cane and began tapping it directly on her labia and clit. Her reaction was convulsive.

"Hurts like hell, doesn't it? This place used to be a hunting cabin before I found it and fixed it up. It was pretty dilapidated. But the land is now posted so there are no hunters to use it. And if anyone does break in, it will be their last mistake in this life. Hasn't happened yet, though."

He spreads open her outer labia and gives the pink inner lips a hard whack. She screams and her body stiffens as the pain surges through it like a tidal wave. He does it three more times until she is racked with sobs, her face red from straining against the hemp ropes. He puts the cane away and finds a pair of pliers, carefully taking her right nipple between its jaws. He squeezes and pulls up at the same time, stretching her breast into a cone. Once again she's screaming into her gag, her body stiffened in agony. He stops before she passes out, and after a minute repeats the torture on the other nipple. This time she does pass out, but he simply tilts her body on its rod so her head is down until she revives.

When she's conscious again, he tears off the tape from around her head, jaw and mouth in a deliberately slow and painful manner.

She wastes no time or energy berating him for his monstrous behavior or begging to be released, but goes right to her most critical need. "Please! Water!"

"All in good time," he answers, "providing you learn to ask for it properly. But I insist you show respect by using the correct honorific. I trust you know what that is, Miss Primrose."

"Yes, Sir," she croaks more urgently. "Please give me some water, Sir. Please, Sir!"

"Better. But first you must ask me to fuck you."

She grinds her teeth, wanting to tell him off, but afraid of what he'll do.

"I see you need additional persuasion," he says, picking up the cattle prod.

"No! Please, Sir! Nooooo!" She squirms violently in her restraints, trying to get away from the inevitable.

He inserts the double pronged rod into her vagina and pushes it in until it bumps against the cervical wall. He punches the button.

Every vein stands out in her face and neck as she stiffens, screams and breaks into choking sobs. Her body is still shaking from the effects of the pain, the likes of which she had never dreamed possible.

"Would you like to repeat that performance," he says smoothly, "or are to ready to ask me to fuck you? Properly."

With a shuddering intake of breath she almost shouts, "Please, Sir, fuck me, Sir! Fuck me! Fuck me. Sir. Please."

"Happy to oblige," he says, opening his pants and tilting her to the correct angle for penetration. The sight of her — helpless and in agony, utterly at his mercy — has aroused him to maximum hardness. He plows into her, stabbing against her burned cervix, making her cry out with every thrust. "Enjoy it, bitch!" he taunts. "This will be your last fuck. The folks at Isis don't like semen mixed with the cunt meat. Actually, the women guests don't seem to mind — they're used to eating dick and cum, I guess. It's the males guests who get all bent out of shape." Her tears flow as he humps away in her injured pussy, until, with an animal howl, he fills her with his spunk. He slumps with the softening of his member and pulls away.

"Thank me, bitch," he says.

"Thank you, Sir," she responds through her tears, swallowing her hatred along with her pride rather than endure more bites from the cattle prod. "Please, Sir, may I have water now?"

"You may," he says. He takes the jar filled with her pee and pours some into a glass, mixing it half and half with water from the pump. He carries it over to her and touches the glass to her parched lips.

She looks at him aghast!

"Changed your mind?" he says, eyebrows raised innocently. "Don't want any water after all? Because this is all I'm ever going to offer you."

They both know she has no choice. She closes her eyes and lets him tip the noxious liquid into her mouth, wrinkling her nose as she swallows. Her disgust is more from the idea of drinking piss than from the actual taste, which is fairly bland. In fact, her thirst is so intense she finds herself asking for more. The next glass is three quarters urine and one quarter water, but she gulps it down and licks her lips.

"If you liked that, you're gonna love this next part," her tormentor purrs.

He rotates her on her axis so that her ass is pointed at the floor and slides an old fashioned chamber pot directly under her. Next he fills a huge enema bag and suspends it from a beam above her. She looks on in horror, but dares not object. He rotates her ass back up so that it's well presented for the nozzle, which he twists into her rectum, not bothering to lubricate it. She rewards him with a squawk of pain. He opens the petcock.

She feels the flood of cold water rushing into her bowels. They're already in distress from her refusal to empty them while pinioned to the innerspring. In short order she's ready to explode, can feel it leaking around the nozzle.

"You'd better hold it in!" he warns, the menace in his voice unmistakable. But holding it in is impossible.

"I can't! I can't! Sir, please, please, please! I can't!"

Much as he'd like to torment her longer, Byron can see she's about to gush all over him. He yanks out the nozzle and aims her asshole at the pot. With a cry she lets the contents of her colon spew out in a stream of broken turds and brown water. She is mortified. She has hit rock bottom. There is no greater degradation. Whatever happens after this, she will never be more deeply humiliated.

"You didn't hold it in," he says, bludgeoning her with the obvious. "You'll have to be punished for that. But not right now. You still have more to clean out. If this were hot water, one enema might do the trick, but I've got no way to heat water here without making smoke, which I'd rather not do. So we'll just have to keep flushing you out till you're empty."

He tilts her back up, rams the nozzle home and lets the rest of the bag empty into her. She's groaning in great distress by the time he allows her to release it into the chamber pot.

The third enema fills her intestines with an entire bagful of cold water, making her moan and sob with the effort to retain it in her swollen abdomen. But it comes back out mostly clear.

"Well, that takes care of cleaning you out for the chefs. Time for your punishment." He slides the cattle prod back into her pussy, slippery now with his own ejaculate. "Ask for it."

She weeps. She knows there's no avoiding it, but asking politely for so terrible an agony is the most difficult thing she's ever done. Yet if she doesn't, he'll do it anyway, and keep doing it until she does. She bites her lip and says it, her words scratching her throat. "Please, Sir, give me my punishment."

A wolfish smile twists his lips. "Be specific. Say, 'Please Sir, zap my pussy with the cattle prod.'"

Anger bubbles up to her tongue, but fear holds it back. "Please, Sir, zap my pussy with . . ." she clenches her stomach, her voice trembles . . . "with the cattle prod."

White hot pain sears her delicate vaginal wall and explodes through her body. Her scream ruptures a vocal chord, shredding the sound into silence. She pants, pushing the agony down to a manageable level, able to think again, desperate for a way to make this man stop. She's ready to accept death, but not another zap from that prod. He's saying something to her. What does he want? She must clear her head, do what he wants, say what he wants, anything to keep him from using that cattle prod again!

He sees her head is lolling, her eyes unfocused, her breathing ragged. He'd better not hit her with another jolt, fun as it is to watch, because there's too much money riding on her safe delivery this afternoon. The Society of Isis has no use for damaged goods or corpses. They need live merchandise in good condition. Alive and beautiful and fresh.

He lifts her off the trestles, removes the metal bar and returns the shackles to her wrists and ankles. He stands her up and makes her hobble to the sink to brush her teeth. He makes sure she gargles and rinses out her mouth with Scope to eliminate any odor from the piss she swallowed. He personally douches her over a pail and cleans off all the encrusted remnants of his two orgasms. He provides her with an array of cosmetics gleaned from the belongings of the many women who preceded her in the cabin and orders her to make herself presentable.

It creeps her out to be using the stolen makeup of girls he kidnaped and may well be dead. But anything to make him happy, keep his hands off that damned cattle prod. He even makes her carry the chamber pot filled with her shit outside to dump. But she doesn't complain. He took off the ankle shackle, but there's no hope she can escape. He has her firmly leashed and holds the cattle prod at the ready. She meekly dumps the contents of the pot and returns to the cabin. Her opportunities to live are slipping quickly away and there's nothing she can do about it.

He eats a sandwich and sips a bottle of diet Pepsi while Lili sits tied to a chair and watches. When his lunch is finished, he removes her ankle cuffs, tapes a cotton rag in her mouth and marches her out of the cabin for the last time, dragging her along another circuitous route to where his SUV is parked. He wears comfortable L.L.Bean hiking boots. She is naked and barefoot, suffering the many punishments of the forest floor.

They arrive at the SUV which is already turned around, ready to take her to the next point on her final journey. He pulls a heavy plastic shipping crate from the back of the vehicle and opens the top. The container is lined with thick soundproofing material. Small holes are designed as baffles that allow a minimum influx of fresh air while keeping any sound from escaping.

"It's time, my pretty, to prepare you for shipment," he tells her gaily, and swiftly buckles a strap around her upper body, pinning her arms to her sides. Her hands have already been tied behind her. He binds her ankles and knees together, lifts her up and drops her into the crate, doubling her into a fetal position to fit. As a final touch, he binds her feet and legs to her body so she can't kick the inside of the container, then closes the cover and locks it in place.

Miss Lili Primrose won't be causing him any more trouble. Of course he'd have liked to have played with that nice pristine body and those extraordinary boobs for another week or two, mucked around in that juicy little pussy. But Isis is in a rush, what with their snuff banquet about to start in Munich and some asshole handler in Venezuela damaging one of their top acquisitions. Too bad for the injured cunt because now she'll have to put in six weeks of hard whoring in a sweaty Columbian brothel to pay for her upkeep until the next girl roast in Bogota. Good news for him, though, because Isis was forced to bid top dollar for a quicky top-of-the-line replacement. So bye-bye Miss Lili fucking Primrose. Enjoy your new starring role as substitute snuffmeat!