Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  “C’mon Hillary, is that really necessary?” he asked nervously.

  “What? Did you really think I’d spare your life because you pretend to have an interest in me?”

  “I wasn’t pretending,” Dr. Bentley said, so unconvincingly, even he scowled.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “No...I...it’s just that Dr. Morrison was always in the way before...now that he’s gone....”

  “You’re so full of shit. I’m not buying any of it,” she said as she kneeled down beside the objects on the floor and started sorting her collection.

  From where he was seated, Dr. Bentley could only see a few of the items. His view was obstructed by the foot of the bed. He didn’t like what he saw: a small container of toothpicks, a scalpel and a pair of utility scissors. He could hear the clinking and clanging of several other unknown items as Hillary dug through her latest bag of newly acquired tools.

  “I thought we were just starting to get to know one another better,” he said a little more steadily.

  “Oh, I’m going to know a lot about you,” Hillary teased back, and thought, how loud you scream, whether you beg for mercy, how your flesh tastes....

  “So what are you going to do to me?” he asked, his anxiety level rapidly rising.

  “Patience, darling, I don’t wanna ruin any surprises.”

  As if to give him a clue, she rubbed the sharp blades of two knives together. The unmistakably sinister sound added to his apprehension. He was sweating excessively and breathing rapidly. His anxiety was further exacerbated when Hillary stood up and he saw a scissor clutched within her tightly clenched fist. She lifted it up as she walked toward him. Dr. Bentley held his breath as she approached, expecting her to plunge it deep within his chest. Hillary hovered over him and laughed. The scissor was still within her grasp, suspended just inches above his throat now. He was visibly trembling.

  “Aww, did you think I was going to stab you with this big, sharp scissor? You are so much fun,” she teased, then stabbed him just above his left knee. She purposefully didn’t plunge the scissor in too deep—just enough to break through his pants and skin and trigger a reflexive jerk of his leg. Dr. Bentley let out a sharp yelp along with a string of involuntary profanities. It made Hillary laugh out loud.

  “Well, I didn’t want to disappoint you,” she said, planting a quick peck on his pallid cheek.

  “Thanks for that,” he said sarcastically when the pain dwindled down to a dull throb. He wondered whether a series of deeper, more painful jabs would follow.

  “I really wasn’t planning on doing that, but since you seemed so ready for it....”

  “I’m not ready for anything else,” he said, in a jocular tone, though he was dead serious.

  Hillary swiftly moved the scissor about an inch away from his crotch. His face turned even paler and his stomach instantly knotted. He began breathing heavily. He knew Hillary wouldn’t hesitate to castrate him. She had brought the scissor over to him for some purpose, and he was sure he would dread it.

  She giggled as she watched him sweat. She loved making her victims cringe with fear. Their rising anxiety was nearly orgasmic for her. Especially now, watching her handsome doctor squirm. She had the power to make him experience heaven or hell and she fully intended to dole out heaping portions of each, particularly the latter.

  Hillary used the scissor to cut through the duct tape that had bound Dr. Bentley’s legs to the seat of the chair. He was surprised to see her do so. He wondered what she was up to. Surely she wasn’t setting him free. He sat quietly, staring at her as she continued to cut his legs free. When she was done, she kneeled before him and started cutting his pant leg from the hemline up. Dr. Bentley could feel the blade of the scissor brush and scrape against his leg as Hillary quickly cut through his pants. When she was done with the first pant leg, she moved on to the second.

  What the hell is she going to do? Dr. Bentley worried as Hillary unfastened the button on his pants and unzipped the zipper. She yanked at the waistband as if trying to remove his pants. Frustrated, she began cutting off pieces of his pants, pulling at the material, ripping it until the top half of it fell to the floor. He sat there nervously, sitting on the lower half of his pants, in his boxer shorts. He felt completely self-conscious and vulnerable.

  Hillary didn’t stop there. Without much of a hesitation, she went to work cutting off his boxer shorts until he was entirely exposed. It was a humiliating experience for Dr. Bentley, who could do no more than look away, embarrassed. But modesty was the least of his problems.

  Hillary tugged at the cloth underneath him, trying with all her might to pull it free. She sighed heavily in frustration.

  “Do you really need to be so difficult?” she huffed.

  Dr. Bentley shrugged.

  “Lift your fat ass up already!” she shouted.

  “It’s not as easy as you think,” he replied, arching his back and digging his feet into the floor to propel his posterior slightly from the seat. He grumbled as Hillary tugged and yanked at the lower halves of his ripped pants and underwear. There was something holding his pants back. It was his wallet. Hillary shoved her hand underneath him to pull it as he involuntarily collapsed down upon the seat, crushing her arm in the process.

  “Ow!” she yelled as she attempted to recoil her hand slowly from under his rear end. “Get off!”

  Dr. Bentley struggled to lift up and Hillary pulled her hand free, along with the rest of his pants.

  “I’ll make you pay for that,” she said angrily as she examined and rubbed her reddened arm.

  “It was an accident,” he explained.

  “I can have accidents too,” she hissed, as threw the remains of his pants to the floor. “Don’t let it happen again,” she warned.

  As he strained to keep his rump off the seat, Hillary pulled the remaining shred of his boxer shorts free. He was completely naked from the waist down. Feeling ashamed and degraded, he looked away from Hillary as she leered down at him lasciviously. She dropped the scissor to the floor.

  She bowed her head down, buried it within his crotch and sniffed. Dr. Bentley was mortified, horrified. He felt more violated than he’d ever felt in his life.

  “Mmmmm,” she said with a soft moan, “I love how you smell, like sweat and man.”

  She stood up and slowly disrobed, tossing the dress to the other side of the room. Dr. Bentley could see that in addition to showering, she also shaved. Her entire crotch was hairless. She looked like a small child from the waist down.

  Dr. Bentley quickly averted his gaze. He knew he should be taking advantage of the situation, just as he had planned. He knew he had to be strong, had to go along with her games, but he could not bring himself to say anything. He felt mentally paralyzed.

  Hillary fondled his limp penis, massaging it—surprisingly gently—within her savage hand. After several minutes of unsuccessfully trying to get Dr. Bentley aroused, Hillary sighed in frustration then resumed fondling him. Dr. Bentley looked away. He did not want any part of what she planned to do, despite what he had told her earlier. He could not bring himself to participate in such a sick, twisted affair.

  Hillary rubbed her breasts along his still-flaccid member. Dr. Bentley could feel her hardened nipples brush along the most sensitive part of his slowly stiffening penis. He had absolutely no desire to become erect, but he was losing his battle. Once Hillary leaned over and took him in her mouth, the battle was over. His repulsion gave way to his innate biological urges. Hillary could feel him throbbing in her mouth. She pulled away, not yet ready for him to explode. She stood up then straddled him, guiding him into her. She thrust her pelvis down firmly, allowing him to penetrate her deeply. It was even more pleasurable for her than when he had fingered her. In fact, it was the first time she had ever enjoyed sex.

  Dr. Bentley, on the other hand, while physically stimulated, was mentally and emotionally revolted. It was wrong on so many levels. Even though he was an unwilling par
ticipant, he was still having sex with a fifteen year old girl. A small part of him found it perversely exciting and he opened his eyes to stare at the beautiful creature atop him. It was the only reason he was able to attain and maintain his erection. Yet, the predominant part of him wanted to shut his eyes and disassociate himself from what was happening because the truth was, he wasn’t making love to a beauty, he was being attacked by a monster.

  While Hillary pleasured herself with his amply rigid erection, he began thinking about all of the rape victims he had counseled over the years. Until now there was no way he could truly comprehend their plight. Now, as a rape victim himself, he could completely empathize with their sense of helplessness, anger and self-loathing. Dr. Bentley was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even realize that Hillary was saying something to him.

  “sky...” she panted, grinning madly as she threw back her head and cried out in ecstasy.

  What did she say? Dr. Bentley wondered.

  In the midst of her orgasm, she yelled out, “it’s me, Daddy, Amber Skye...oh, you feel so good, Daddy...soooo gooooddd....”

  Dr. Bentley, who had heretofore assumed an inactive role in Hillary’s perverse frolicking, began pulling forward against the duct tape, trying desperately to break free. How dare Hillary say such a thing? How dare she sully Amber Skye’s name like that?

  “I’ll kill you,” he threatened superficially. His idle threat only fed Hillary’s sadistic appetite.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she continued in a small, child-like voice, “don’t I feel good? You like little girls, Daddy? Are you going to come in your little girl?”

  Dr. Bentley felt sick to his stomach at the mere suggestion that he could ever molest his little girl. All trace of the primal libido that had allowed him to attain an erection was now completely lost. Hillary could feel him softening, shrinking within her.

  “You’d better come!” she warned as she roughly propelled herself forward as if trying to prevent his rapidly withering penis from slipping out of her.

  There was no possibility that Dr. Bentley would ejaculate, as there was no chance that he would become erect again—not after the disturbing thought Hillary left festering within his brain. Like a venomous neurotransmitter poisoning his neurons, Hillary’s sexually twisted game was sure to render him impotent for a long, long time.

  Yet Hillary tried tenaciously to reestablish his erection nonetheless. She fondled his testicles, caressed the shaft of his penis, even placed him in her mouth again—to no avail. His disinterest infuriated her. Dr. Morrison was able to achieve an orgasm with her, why couldn’t he? Her ego could not—would not—accept this rejection. If she couldn’t make him feel pleasure, then she would make him feel pain.

  She grabbed on to his scrotum and squeezed it as hard as she could. She could feel his testicles constrict within her hands as he cried out in intense pain. Tears filled his eyes and he felt as if all the air in his lungs had been extracted, leaving him to suffocate slowly.

  “Are you going to get hard again and come?” Hillary shouted.

  Dr. Bentley couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. He was in more pain than he had ever experienced...so far. He tried to open his mouth to say something, anything, but he could only moan and whimper. Hillary’s hand was still firmly clutching his most delicate area, threatening to cause greater harm and pain, and he was powerless to stop her.

  Miraculously, or so Dr. Bentley thought, Hillary released the hold on his scrotum and dismounted him. As she turned to walk away, her stomach cramped up and she doubled over. She began throwing up violently. It gave Dr. Bentley a much-needed moment to recover his senses.

  After nearly ten minutes, Hillary sat up on the floor, facing Dr. Bentley.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she demanded.

  “How would I know?” he answered, not concerned about sounding unsympathetic. Then his mind raced frantically, trying to formulate a plan to use her condition to his advantage.

  “You’re a doctor aren’t you?” she barked.

  Yes, I am, he thought, attempting to figure out his next step. He was sure that her infirmity had to do with the fact that she had ingested human flesh and blood after several weeks of surviving solely on intravenous nutrition. Her body did not have sufficient time to process the complex proteins and amino acids present in what she had feasted upon.

  “What are you feeling?” he asked, faking concern as he stalled for more time to think. Should he say that she was poisoned? What then, though? Would she just kill him quicker than planned?

  “My stomach hurts, it’s cramping up and I feel nauseous.”

  “Why don’t you lie down and rest a while?”

  Hillary rolled her eyes. She was still on the floor, holding her stomach.

  “I don’t have time for a nap,” she snapped, “how can I feel better now?”

  “You’ll just have to wait for it to pass,” he replied.

  “I can tough it out,” she said, as she slowly crawled over to the bag and the objects on the floor.

  “There’s no way I’m gonna let a little pain interfere with a lot of pleasure.”

  Oh, shit! Dr. Bentley thought, cursing himself for not having a plan, some way to keep her from inflicting more pain. He quickly realized that he was not good under pressure, nor did he have a tolerance for pain.

  Think, think, think! He screamed to himself. He made a good effort to think rationally, to formulate some sort of plan that could give him the upper hand. He was beginning to feel a small resurgence of confidence when Hillary stood up and walked toward him. What lingering remains of his newfound confidence vanished instantly when he looked at her hands and the objects therein: Monica’s straightening iron and some metal skewers. His mind went blank as he braced himself for the unimaginable pain he was about to experience. Hillary plugged the straightening iron into the closest electrical outlet, stared back at Dr. Bentley and grinned chillingly. She was in pain now, but she would feel better in just a few minutes....

  ~18~

  The first thing Dr. Bentley became aware of was the sizzling sound—seconds before he was hit with the searing pain that threatened to steal away his consciousness. His moist scrotum hissed and crackled between the heated plates on Monica’s flat iron. Aside from hearing them blister, he could smell his testicles cooking, smell his singed pubic hairs. He would have happily succumbed to the numbness of unconsciousness but unfortunately for him, he was wide awake and experienced every ounce of pain as if time stood still and his senses had been amplified. What seemed like torturous hours was actually just torturous seconds. Hillary moved the flat iron away from his charred scrotum.

  “Now will you behave? Or do I need to burn your pecker too?” she asked sternly.

  Dr. Bentley’s wailing began quieting down to pained sobs. He did not respond. He was sweating excessively and breathing rapidly. Hillary grew angry. Adults were always a problem, with their fat bodies and frail hearts. Kids could tolerate so much more. When she tortured children, she never worried about them having a heart attack or a stroke. She exhaled heavily as she stared at Dr. Bentley’s blank eyes.

  “Can you hear me?” she yelled. She shoved the straightening iron into his chest. He barely felt it poke his sternum. He was in too much pain.

  “I guess you want more,” she said, holding the flat iron inches away from his limp penis, giving him an opportunity to protest.

  Tears streaked down Dr. Bentley’s face. He wanted to shout “NO! NO!” but was mentally incapacitated to do anything but shake his head wildly.

  “Too bad!” Hillary exclaimed viciously as she brought the open iron closer to his penis. He could feel the heat radiating off the ceramic plates. Hillary grabbed his penis with her left hand and was just about to enclose it within the flat iron when she heard music playing. Startled, she withdrew her hand and dropped the iron. It fell to the floor, hitting Dr. Bentley’s foot on the way.

  “What?” she asked quizzically, before realizing that the sound was coming
from a cell phone. It was Dr. Bentley’s ringtone. She walked to the rolling table where the phone was and answered it quickly.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh...who’s this?” a woman on the line asked softly.

  “My name’s Mary, who’s this?” Hillary asked.

  “Patty...Jake’s wife....”

  “Oh yeah, Patty,” Hillary said playfully, “I’d put Jake on, but he’s in the shower.”

  “What?” Patty asked, confused. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the girl your husband’s been seeing. Guess he’s bored with you, Patty.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Patty snapped, “where’s Jake?”

  “In the shower, didn’t you hear me the first time? Why don’t you be a dear and go take care of Amber Skye, I—”

  “You know about Amber Skye?”

  “I’ve been with Jakey for a long time. He’s almost done in the shower. Maybe I’ll tell him to call you back when I’m done taking care of him.”

  Hillary could hear Patty gasp just before she disconnected the call. She laughed maniacally as she placed the phone back on the table and walked to Dr. Bentley.

  “Your wife just called,” she said, as she approached Dr. Bentley. “I told her you were busy with your girlfriend.”

  “My wife…knows better than that,” he replied slowly in a pained voice.

  “When I’m done with you, I’ll pay her a visit and see for myself.”

  Dr. Bentley was overcome by a new, intense form of fear and worry. Suddenly, all of his concerns for his well-being—all of his fear of being tortured and mutilated—all of it became secondary to his concern for his family. Hillary read his expression like a book. She had acquired a whole new way to torture him: threatening his family.

  Remembering that his wallet was in the tattered pants she had thrown to the floor, Hillary quickly retrieved it from the back pocket and flipped it open. She pulled out credit cards, and dropped them to the floor. Then she pulled out the photos from a plastic sleeve within one of the slots.