by Anton Palmer
Finally it was done. Victoria stood back to admire her work. “Oh sorry, Anna…I forgot – you can’t see your new face can you?” She moved behind her manacled victim and rooted around at the rear of the basement, moving various objects out of the way in order to retrieve the mirror she remembered being there. The mirror was tall and narrow with no frame, possibly it had once hung on a wardrobe door – Victoria had no recollection of ever seeing it in the house, maybe it had belonged to her mother and had been relocated to the basement after her death. She dragged the heavy piece of glass across the dirt and propped it up against the workbench.
There was no reaction from Anna.
Victoria frowned in annoyance and walked behind her victim. Standing on tip-toe, she peered over Anna’s shoulder to view what her victim was seeing.
The answer was nothing.
The angle was wrong – the mirror needed to be more vertical. Victoria returned to the workbench and made some adjustments, altering the angle of the mirror a bit at a time until Anna’s piercing screams threatened to shatter the glass.
Bingo!
Anna thrashed on her chains, hyperventilating loudly, quite literally spitting blood as the image in the mirror burned into her retinas: her beautiful, immaculate hair was gone, her mouth swollen, running red with blood and, carved into her extensively exfoliated and wrinkle-creamed forehead was the word ‘SLUT’. Blood was running freely from the letters, dripping into her eyes and causing her to blink frantically to keep the precious fluid from blinding her. She stared at the letters pared into her skin, the ‘U’ shaped more like a ‘V’ and the memories of uncountable sexual encounters flooded her brain in an instant, an avalanche or sordid back-seat encounters, pub toilet blow-jobs and bed-breaking sexual gymnastics. She stared again at her scorched and bald head, her ruined face and, opening her mouth to reveal the bloody stump within, the tongue she could never kiss with again.
She wept uncontrollably. What man would want her now? What man would ever want her again?
“I’ll give you a few minutes to grieve for your lost looks, Anna. I know what you’re thinking…no man will ever look twice at you again? Am I right?”
Anna nodded.
“I’ll grant you, the way your face looks and the fact that you can’t talk anymore is probably going to eliminate ninety percent of possible suitors. But, that still leaves ten percent. Those men who are so ugly, so inadequate, so fucking desperate that they would still take you to bed.”
The f-bomb again. Anna took a sharp breath – when Victoria swore, bad shit was about to happen.
“Do you want to know why they would still take you to bed, Anna?”
Anna shook her head, fresh panic beginning to set in at the thought of where this was all leading.
“They would take you to bed because of one thing – the ‘Pretty Pussy’ between your legs.” She watched Anna’s face, searching for any sign of recognition of the phrase Anna has used herself so many times in the video Victoria had found on Marcus’s phone. There was not even a flicker in her blood-stained eyes. “You do have a ‘Pretty Pussy’ don’t you, Anna? Let me refresh your memory…” She fiddled with the smartphone for a moment until she found the relevant place, then turned up the volume.
“Oh fuck…oh fuck…oh my god, my pretty pussy loves being filled with your cock…oh god, fuck me harder…fuck my pretty pussy harder…fill it with your hot cum…”
Anna closed her eyes, her head drooping momentarily, the shame clearly evident in her face.
“I think that without that ‘Pretty Pussy’ of yours, you might realise that there’s more to life than getting fucked.” Again, the f-word from Victoria’s lips sounded so utterly wrong, so bizarre – so terrifyingly insane. “So, I think it’s time we made that pussy of yours a little less pretty.”
Victoria knelt on the dirt, her face level with Anna’s shaven crotch. With the Stanley knife in her hand she attempted to press the blade into the top of her outer labia. Anna squealed and thrashed out her legs, kicking her tormentor on to her back. Victoria climbed back to her feet, rubbing her flank where Anna’s foot had caught her. She fetched the long nosed pliers from the workbench, opening and closing them as she crossed back towards her victim.
“Anna. Listen to me. This…” she held up the Stanley knife, “this is a very sharp knife. The pain you’ll feel when I slice your pussy to ribbons will be nothing compared to the pain you’ll feel when I crush one of your nipples with these pliers. Do you understand? It’s up to you…”
She knelt back on the dirt and replaced the blade at the top of Anna’s labia. She paused for a second, unable to prevent the thought of how recently her own husband had been this close to these very lips from forming in her mind. With bile rising in her throat, she sliced the blade downward cutting off a chunk of flesh.
Anna screamed, kicking and thrashing wildly once more.
“I warned you…” Victoria picked up the pliers. She tightened the jaws lightly against Anna’s left nipple, staring into her eyes, enjoying the sight of her terrified anticipation before suddenly squeezing the tool’s handles with all the hateful strength she could muster. Anna let out a gargled scream, her eyes rolling back in their sockets as Victoria continued to apply the pressure, twisting the implement from side to side and pulling the tortured nipple towards her. Stretching, twisting, squeezing until she thought her victim was about to pass out. The merciful Lord may have granted her cheating bastard of a husband the anaesthesia of unconsciousness, but she’d be damned if she was going to let him bestow the same gift on his whore of a mistress.
She released her grip and dropped the pliers to the floor, a warm wave of pleasure flooding through her at the sight of her victim’s crushed nipple, the swollen bud a deep angry purple, a few drops of blood leaking from the end like a she-devil’s colostrum. She turned her gaze to Anna’s face, pleased to see she was still conscious, although the glazed sheen of her eyes indicated that her mind might not be quite as alert as it was a few moments ago.
Satisfied that the chained woman was now more subdued, Victoria resumed her position in front of Anna’s bleeding sex, hacking at her outer lips with abandon until they lay in a pool of crimson slivers on the dirt. Her victim barely whimpered, her brain too overwhelmed with the excruciating pain in her throbbing nipple to pay much attention to the relatively mild discomfort of the razor sharp blade at her genitals - despite the massive damage being wrought there.
With the outer lips gone, Victoria turned her attention to Anna’s clitoris. The little pink bud, sheathed in its fleshy hood, was bathed in a pool of glistening blood. She retrieved the pliers from the dirt beside her and gripped the base of the clit, pulling it hard, stretching the erectile tissue as far as she could before slicing it off at the root with her blade. Anna screamed, the agony of this violation suddenly kicking the distress of her mutilated nipple into touch.
“Well I have to say…“ Victoria stepped back to admire her work, “it’s most definitely not a ‘pretty pussy’ now. However, I haven’t quite finished yet.”
Anna watched her tormentor through shock-dulled eyes, as she walked across to the shelves of tools on the wall.
“You seemed to indicate that you enjoyed something hot between your legs…”
She heard a hissing sound followed by the striking of another match and her body thrashed with a new found energy, her swollen, ravaged tongue uttering guttural grunts of horror as Victoria turned to face her, a lit blowtorch in her hand.
“Now I don’t know how hot a slut-whore’s pussy like yours actually likes things, but I’m fairly sure my father’s old blowtorch should do the job.” Anna’s grunts turned to screams as Victoria turned up the gas, the orange flame suddenly glowing blue in the basement’s dim light. She approached her victim and waved the flame in front of her face, the heat causing her to close her eyes to protect them.
“Gaaah…anga…ohhh…” Anna nodded her head towards her clothes on the floor, “Ing I baa…I baa…” S
he was deeply regretting her decision to not share her news with Victoria earlier, her lack of a tongue was making it seemingly impossible to do so now.
Ignoring her victim’s garbled communications Victoria traced the tip of the flame along Anna’s left breast, an angry red welt bubbling on her skin in its wake. Anna’s cries turned to a high-pitched squeal as Victoria aimed the flame at her crushed nipple, almost giggling with delight at the sight of the fleshy tip shrivelling under the heat to a blackened stub, yellow drops of pustulant fluid dripping from the hideously blistered areola surrounding it. She repeated the process on the right breast before kneeling in front of Anna’s mutilated vulva, blood still running in streams from the ragged remnants of her labia majora and the hole where her clit used to be, her thighs coated in a sticky sheen of the drying fluid. The blowtorch might actually serve two purposes here, Victoria reasoned; the obvious painful punishment but also to cauterise the wounds and stop the bleeding – death, after all, was not part of her strategy for the slut - a lifetime of disfigurement, pain, suffering and anguish, however, was.
Anna’s screams resounded around the underground room. They bounced off every surface, building upon each other until the hideous volume disturbed decades old dust which fell in clouds from shelves and joists. The 1500 degree heat of the blue flame boiled and evaporated the running blood in an instant leaving the ravaged remains of Anna’s labia and clitoris scorched and withered. Victoria took great care to only aim the flame at the parts she wanted to hurt. She stayed away from the urethra – Anna needed to be able to pee if she was to survive - but below the urethra, Anna’s vaginal opening taunted her. This pink hole that her own husband along with heaven only knows how many other men had slid their cocks into. This fleshy tunnel that had willingly and hungrily devoured an ocean of semen – of hot cum – over the years while her own hole, apart from the painful violation of her wedding night, sealed itself shut tight at the very thought of penetration.
The assault between her legs had caused Anna to finally pass out, her head drooping loosely as the tip of the flame lapped her tender opening before Victoria thrust the blowtorch close, the hotter part of the flame eating away at her vaginal entrance, the fleshy rim bubbling and swelling. She withdrew the flame for a moment and placed the blowtorch on the floor and taking the pliers, she inserted the closed, slender jaws into Anna’s vagina, spreading the handles as far as they would go, gaping the blistered, suppurated tunnel wide open. Victoria picked up the blowtorch once more and directed the flame inside, the intense heat immediately melting the coating of the plier’s handles, the liquid plastic burning and melting into Anna’s vaginal walls.
***
“Finally. I was beginning to think I’d killed you.”
Victoria stood in front of the mirror and mocked her victim as she slowly came to.
“So, do you want to see the new you? The new and improved Anna? The Anna who is no longer a malicious, gossiping bitch? No longer a dirty, promiscuous slut? No longer a filthy, husband stealing whore? The Anna who no man on earth is ever going to want to fuck again?”
Without waiting for a response, Victoria stood away from the reflective glass, adjusting the angle slightly so that Anna could see the full extent of her remodelling, and waited for the screams.
But no scream came.
Instead, silent tears flowed down her victim’s face as she stared at her reflection, her brain slowly comprehending the horrific details of every mutilation – every atrocity – her captor had committed on her body, finally understanding that Victoria was right – no man would ever want to have sex with her again…and, as she gazed long and hard at the sickening, congealing black mess between her blood soaked thighs, she doubted she’d ever be physically capable of it even if they did.
She turned her eyes towards Victoria, defeated and empty, before nodding once more towards her clothes. “Aaag…”
Victoria followed her line of sight, suddenly realising what she was trying to say. “Bag? You want your bag?” Anna’s handbag was perched on top of the pile of clothing.
“Hmm!” she nodded again towards her handbag.
“What do you want your bag for? Do you need to touch up your make-up? Because a bit more lipstick is not going to make a great deal of difference.” She laughed as she picked up the expensive looking, designer bag. “Or maybe you want your phone? Are you thinking of calling someone, Anna? Because, again, I don’t think that’s going to work too well, what with your lack of ability in the tongue department – not that you’d get a signal down here anyway.”
“Ummm…ummm…” Anna continued to motion her head towards the bag.
“I’ll tell you what. How about I just take stuff out one item at a time and you nod when I get the thing you want – yes?”
She unzipped the bag and pulled out the first item her fingers located – Anna’s phone. She held it up. “Did you want your phone?
Anna shook her head so Victoria discarded the electronic gadget.
“Purse?”
Again, Anna shook her head.
“Diary?” She held up the little black book with its tiny pencil housed in the spine. Again she threw the item onto the dirt as Anna shook her head. Her fingers clasped around the next item and pulled it out, it was long and slender; “Pen...” the word caught in her throat as she realised it wasn’t a pen. “Pregnancy test?”
Anna nodded her head, a smile on her lips.
Victoria stared at the little LCD window – Positive. 6 weeks. She stood and faced Anna. “You’re pregnant?”
Anna nodded slowly, fear creeping into her eyes as she waited for Victoria to join the dots.
“Wait a minute - you texted Marcus and said you had some ‘good news’…is it…” she could hardly bring herself to verbalise the thought, “is it…Marcus’s baby?”
Anna nodded again, the movement of her head barely perceptible, her breath tight in her throat as she realised that this could be the point of no return. The moment when her captor’s final screw would come loose…
Victoria stood still for a moment, the realisation slowly sinking in. Marcus – the man she married in order to have the child she so desperately wanted had impregnated his mistress instead. She felt suddenly sick and clutched at her stomach as she fell to the floor, retching into the dirt.
Marcus’s baby – the baby that should be gestating within her womb - was instead growing inside this filthy, fucking, whore. The hate began to boil within her once more; her chest tightening; skin becoming hot and clammy as her jaws locked tight. She grabbed the blowtorch and matches, hurriedly relighting the device.
She’d burn the baby out of this bitch, this slut. Melt her insides into liquid jelly until they ran in foul, steaming rivers from her openings…
Victoria faced her enemy, her visage a mask of absolute hatred, disgust and loathing, the bright blue flame burning in her hand as she stared at Anna’s belly, visualising the foetus within. The ball of cells that would grow and develop into a child – an innocent child, oblivious to the fetid roots of its creation.
She turned the blowtorch off and dropped it to the ground.
She’d lost.
Despite all the horror she had inflicted on Anna’s body – it would be her victim who would have the last laugh.
She would be the one having Marcus’s baby. Experiencing its love - it’s unconditional love – its arms around her neck, hugging, cuddling, not caring a jot about its mother’s disfigured face and mutilated body.
Despite the hatred, the anger, the envy she now felt - she couldn’t murder a child.
Anna had won…
…or had she?
It slowly dawned on Victoria that this could be her big opportunity. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, maybe this was his plan all along – to help her punish her cheating bastard of a husband and his whore of a mistress, while giving her the child she had longed for.
The original plan had been to kill Marcus and defile Anna so badly that she would be dama
ged for the rest of her life. Well, okay, Marcus was dead – too late to do anything about that – but what about Anna? Instead of just letting the slut go and handing herself over to the authorities to face the wrath of the law, what if she kept her here, in the basement, until she delivered the baby? Victoria could then dispose of Anna and keep the child for herself?
Could it really work?
The basement, hidden behind the false wall of the pantry, was unlikely to be discovered by the police unless they were actually looking for it and no-one else knew of its existence, as far as she was aware. She would have to cover her tracks – send text messages between Marcus’s and Anna’s phones to make it look like they had changed their plans and were meeting elsewhere…she could leave both her husband’s Mercedes and Anna’s little Ford in the rough part of the city – both vehicles would likely be stolen and stripped down before the authorities even started looking for them…and as for the baby? Mandy was already suspicious that Victoria was pregnant – all she had to do was play along, get one of those fake ‘bumps’ used by TV and film companies…
Her heart was racing. It could work. If this truly was God’s plan, then it would work…at any rate, she had nothing to lose.
Epilogue
“Something’s wrong!”
Anna scrawled the words in black ink on the whiteboard Victoria held for her before dropping the pen onto the blood soaked mattress as another powerful contraction hit her.
Her screams were loud enough to wake the dead, but the thick basement walls ensured that every agonised decibel remained cocooned within the small, underground room. Panting hard, her hair was matted with sweat, her face burning and sheathed in perspiration, droplets of sweat tracing the lines of the word SLUT carved into her forehead.