Retaliation

by Jurgen von Stuka

  “Please, Honey. Those are all just business. I wasn't screwing anyone.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Prove I was.”

  “You're done, Dickhead. Done. Get out of here. The lake house is mine. The Palm Beach estate, in case you've forgotten, went into my name when you were worried about the IRS discovering your dalliance with that Columbian fuckhead, Carlos. The pitiful mortgage on this dump is in my name. The cars are mine. You have your puissant bank account and your passport. That's it. Luanne, my attorney, who I am reasonably certain you haven't fucked yet, will be in touch. You have ten minutes to get out before I call my father and his guys, who will redesign your oh-so-hip face, break your knees and dump you in a ditch.”

  Hank knew Her father, Tony, “The Phony,” Lianetta. He was, according to the local newspapers, a second tier hoodlum who got his nickname when he went before a Supreme Court judge on a tax evasion charge. The judge was unimpressed with Tony’s state tax returns and branded him a phony and a sham, fining him fifty thousand dollars for poorly cooked books. But Hank also knew Tony had a bad temper and tended to overreact when something annoyed him. Three times in three years, the best efforts of the district attorney had resulted in Tony barely avoiding indictment on major criminal charges, including assault and real estate fraud. So Hank tried to steer clear of his father-in-law whenever possible.

  “Come on, Melinda. You’re over-reacting to this. I can prove it to you. You can't throw me out. Where will I go?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” She replied and strode out of the kitchen, her long, tanned legs flashing through the hip-high slit in her Japanese gown, her full and gelatinous breasts bobbing enticingly about under the thin silk.

  Henry Rostrom stood in the kitchen, wondering if perhaps this time he had gone too far. One too many bimbos in his bed at the fancy hotel and the wrong friends, all buddies with his wife, were finally doing him in.

  “Now what?” he thought. “I can't go to Cindy or Georgia. They know Melinda and would text her the second I showed up in the driveway. They probably already know. Oh well, Five Seasons Towers, here I come.”

  He went upstairs, packed as many of his valuables as he could locate and stuffed them into a leather carry-on bag She gave him for his birthday. His gold initials were neatly embossed on the side: HHR.

  He opened the dresser drawer, removed the polished walnut watch storage box with its twelve automatic Swiss timepieces and unconsciously noted that if he had to sell them, the box full of stainless steel, Carbon Fiber, Platinum, Pink Gold and black watches would easily net him something close to seventy or eighty thousand dollars, even at the city's least desirable jewelry pawn shop. On the Internet market, he was sure that the Blancpain 50 Fathoms with rose gold trim alone could bring twenty grand and his prized Jaeger-LeCoutre Master Compressor perhaps half that amount, assuming he had time to list them and patience to await a legitimate buyer. Among the other jewelry watches, he picked up the gold Vacheron Constantin Overseas Chronograph, his prize timepiece that he only wore on rare occasions that seemed to merit showing up wearing a fifty thousand dollar watch. He stuffed all three into a soft, velvet, draw string bag and left the rest in the case.

  From the pocket of the Hermes black woolen blazer in the closet, he slipped out his emergency getaway pack, a thick leather packet that looked like a fancy cigar case with three bogus cigars. The secret compartment containing his passport and twenty, brand new, five-hundred Euro bills, the highest value currency available in Europe, was ingeniously incorporated to look like soft padding for the cigars. He opened the calfskin packet, quickly counted the stack of bills and placed them inside a rolled up black sweatshirt.

  From an inside pocket on the blazer, he removed a clear plastic zip loc bag with the details of an electronic airline ticket, first class with a sleeper berth to Quito, Ecuador. A stack of shorts, socks and white T-shirts went into the bag, followed by a small box of gold cuff links, a few rings, including his old school signet ring and a silver chain bracelet from his San Francisco years. Dress shirts, two pair of shoes and two pair of slacks followed. The bag was brim-full, so he pulled out a larger duffel and emptied his dresser and closet into that as well; leaving what he figured was of minimal value. Then, for a moment, his dominant sadistic side took over and he took a heavy leather bag full of what might have looked like mechanic’s tools and placed that next to the duffel.

  Making an final mental check of his personal assets, Hank walked quietly down the stairs, put both filled travel bags into his Jeep SRT Cherokee and then, just as he was about to get into the car, he stopped. One other thing he could not resist taking was the case of the 1982 Lafite Rothschild in the cellar. That case of twelve bottles of the rare Pauillac wine, he thought, recently valued at over $3,000 US a bottle, would be his ticket to a good hotel room for at least a few weeks, perhaps months if he found someone who knew the real street value of the rare Bordeaux wine. Walking back into the house, he unlocked the cellar door, turned on the lights and went down the circular steel stairs into the basement. As he reached the concrete floor, he thought he heard something behind the stairs and then something hard hit him on the back of his head and the lights went out.

  Chapter Five

  Hank III

  “You really didn't think that you were going to just take off out of here with all the goodies, did you, Dickhead?” He heard the voice, knew at once that it was Her and slowly reassembled his blurry mind.

  What happened? He remembered going down to the cellar to get his wine and then nothing. Now his head still hurt and there was a bandage on his right arm, just above the wrist. He was naked and everything hurt.

  Once again, he knew: She had outsmarted him. She knew he'd go for the wine and while he was stuffing his personal possessions into the bags, She was lurking in the cellar, betting big that he'd come back for the wine. She won. He lost. Now what?

  Lying on his back, he tried to get up but found he was unable to move his arms or legs. He lay on a table of some sort, not any piece of furniture he recalled having in the cellar. He was blind. There was tape or something like it over his eyes. His limbs were strapped to the sides of the table and there was some sort of fabric stuffed into his mouth and held there with a strap that also held his head immobilized against the table between two padded cinder blocks, one on either side of his head. He stopped struggling and listened.

  “Welcome to your new and permanent home, you worthless fucker.” Melinda's voice was tinny, sounding far off, as if She was talking through some sort of electronic system. “Get comfy, Asshole, because you are going to be here for some time to come. How thoughtful of you to pack your traveling stash of hand cuffs, gags, hoods, shackles and chains in that lovely leather bag. You will note that I have taken the liberty of using a few of those bondage toys on you, just so you’ll be more uncomfortable knowing that I am fully wise to your weekend games with your stupid girl friends. Oh, and don't worry. I'll divorce you as soon as the proper amount of time passes in mourning your death and then I'll find some other moron who wants a piece of this body and this fortune. Meanwhile, you, my stupid former husband, will be enjoying the proximity to your precious wine collection. It's very close by. And you'll know it’s there, in the wine cellar with the rest of your collection that I paid for. But you will be on the other side of this stone wall, unable to reach it or anything else. You'll be part of MY collection. Later, Dickhead. You'll get a brief overview of the future that's in store. I have many plans for you.”

  The audible hiss of the audio system went off and the room was quiet. Hank heard his own heart and his shallow breathing. He heard the creaking of the thick leather straps that held him to the table and in the distance; he thought he heard the heating system switch on. He wondered what Melinda planned for him and knowing Her, he felt a deep pang of anxiety in his stomach. Hank knew only too well how truly vindictive his wife could be when She was annoyed. He had seen more than one of Her friends end up on the wrong end of Melinda�
��s plotting. Susan Cade immediately came to mind because Hank and Susan had a brief affair and when Melinda found out, Susan’s life took a curious turn for the worse. Her facelift of only a few months before became a mask from a horror movie and Melinda, all sympathy and concern, after reminding Susan that if She, Melinda, had done the work this unfortunate mishap might not have happened.

  Hank overheard one sob-saturated phone conversation where Melinda referred Susan to a noted plastic surgeon in Rumania, telling her that although She would prefer to do the repair work herself, Her schedule would not permit it and this repair needed to be done immediately.

  “The clinic is high in the mountains where the thin alpine air will work wonders for your recovery, Susan dear.” Hank heard Her say. “Doctor Evans is an old friend and has agreed to take your case, but you must leave at once before the tissue degenerates any further. I recommend that he work on the botched breast augmentation first and then on your face. That way, your chest will begin to heal sooner and the multiple surgeries on your facial tissue will take some time,” she added.

  Susan left for Belgrade the next day, but returned a few months later in a coffin, complications from the surgery apparently being too much for her. Hank knew this was a plot that Melinda was responsible for but could never be connected to, but it served as a warning as to what might happen to anyone who crossed his wife the wrong way.

  Chapter Six

  Curtains For Curt

  A somewhat more sober Curt Centrum tugged uselessly at the cuffs and chains holding him to the cement wall and muttered obscenities into the penis gag inside the leather hood. He had only a vague memory of leaving the club and then nothing until a few minutes ago when he awoke pinned like a captured butterfly and unable to see, hear or speak. He knew he was naked and that was about all. He had no clue as to who put him in this position, but as the minutes slowly clicked by, it occurred to his normally slow, football fractured mind that this might just have something to do with a recent episode in which he lost his temper after his team blundered its way to a 14-6 loss to Dallas. When he left the locker room that evening after getting a thorough ass-reaming and termination notice by the owners and coaches, Curt took a cab to the Panama Club and proceeded to drink himself simple. He recalled, vaguely, asking a pretty young woman to dance and when she refused and called him an asshole, he took a champagne bottle and smashed it into her head. There was blood, screaming and, while Curt continued pouring one double shot of the tequila after another down his throat, two of his team mates grabbed him in a choke hold and hammer lock, guided him up the back stairs and out the door into a cab. Later, the police searched in vain for Curt, but he was gone. Surprisingly, no one at team headquarters seemed to know who he was, or even remember any sort of incident, the team’s millionaire owners having quickly handed out tiny packages of ten one hundred dollar bills to the witnesses in the club while announcing that the drinks for the rest of the night were on the house.

  That was it. He remembered nothing else, but getting loaded after losing a game was such a common occurrence that Curt had trouble arranging the time and place in his alcohol-soaked head. After a few minutes of pondering his present situation and wondering whose dick was jammed into his mouth, he went back to sleep and was later awakened by someone doing something painful with his junk. His penis was being handled roughly and something was being placed around his genitals. It hurt more than the usual steel jock he wore to practice and games to protect his precious organs.

  What the Hell is this? He wondered. Some sort of cold metal ring was tightened around his scrotum and cock and it felt like the entire package was being slowly ripped from between his legs.

  Who’s fucking around with Mister Bob and my balls? he pondered, still tugging at his chained hands and feet. His overall bondage had been enhanced sometime during the last twenty-four hours and he was now more strictly connected to the rings on the concrete wall by a heavy chain around his waist and a short single link from his collar.

  Never being the brightest bulb on the team Christmas tree, Curt survived high school and three years of college by being enough of an asset to the schools’ football teams to assure his continued retention in the student body, but not much more. His athletic scholarships were threatened from time to time, , especially when he drove his birthday gift from the university fraternity alumni association, a new bright yellow Corvette, across the freeway median and into a station wagon full of Fundamentalist Baptists on their way to church one evening. Curt survived with a few minor scratches, mostly because, as usual, he was drunk. The Baptists didn’t fare as well and Curt lost his driver’s license for three years. An anonymous alumnus of the university arranged for the story to be hushed up and paid the Baptists off handsomely for their injuries and losses.

  Curt was a survivor, if nothing else, but as time passed, he got an offer he couldn’t refuse, left college and took the highest paying football contract he could find. He settled into a routine that caused his coaches and other players considerable concern. Curt was a liability, a deadly one, and the list of people and organizations who wanted to see him pay dearly for his errors and be gone grew monthly.

  “Well, look who’s here,” a female voice filtered through the leather hood and into Curt’s ears. “Someone must have left us a new soccer practice dummy,” the voice continued while Curt felt a hard jab in his washboard gut. His breath came back quickly because he was used to having the wind knocked out of him in practice and real time games, but this blow was unexpected.

  Why is someone beating on me? He wondered. But then, Curt felt something much more painful in his groin. More painful than the full impact of a three hundred pound tackle hitting him in the kidneys. The pain did not abate. It was rhythmic, there was a kind of back and forth motion at his groin. It hurt terribly. To Curt, it felt like someone was sawing off his male package with a tool that felt like a chain saw or, better yet, an electric carving knife that badly needed to be sharpened. The pain increased, Curt screamed into the gag. When he felt the avalanche of his own blood running down the inside of his thighs, Curt knew that his sex was being cut away. The pain went on and on that then he felt something else as his crude surgeon applied a strong anticoagulant to the sprouting wound in his now vacant crotch while she tied off blood vessels and stitched up the incision.

  “Don’t worry, Curt Honey,” the voice next to him said soothingly. “You are far too useful to us for a small surgery like this to be fatal. In fact, millions of men have endured this minor physical adjustment and lived for years afterwards. The key to making it successful is controlling the leakage from a couple of arteries. As long as we do that, you will feel every slice and dice of the scalpel, every cutting tooth of the saw. If you pass out, we’ll revive you and, of course, stop work until you are back with us and fully aware of what is going on. As I said, plenty of males have had this operation done. Some even without anesthetic like you. Some of them even lived out their lives as men, but others, like you, discovered the harsher aspects of the TS life,” the woman’s voice narrated.

  “When we finish with you, Curt, you will be worse than just a wimp; a sniveling, one hundred-thirty pound sissy with a burning need to take one dick in your mouth and another in your ass. You won’t recognize yourself in the mirror when we’re done,” the voice continued.

  “In fact,” the narrator went on, “I can show you before and after photos of other males who have gone this route before you. In the end, you will be nicely packaged in a heavy latex suit that will emphasize your new tits and ass, have convenience zippers for immediate access to your new pussy, your accommodating asshole and your mouth. We’ll see what else may work with this costume, but it’s a starter anyway.”

  The voice continued: “The best cosmetic surgery is effective if it is done slowly, one stage at a time. You will undergo several stages: You will lose the junk between your legs not in one operation, but in several while in between cuts we will be shrinking your entire testosterone-
deprived system. Your weight will slowly drop as we feed you only what you need to survive. No carbs, no fats, few calories and plenty of fruits and vegetables to work with the hormones. Your face and waist will grow slimmer, your hips increase a bit, your ass will enlarge, but in a proportionate way, we’ll restructure your cheekbones and remove that nasty Adam’s apple. In the end, you’ll look and feel like a helpless, manikin-like female who craves cock and will willingly do almost anything to get it. Women who you once knew will now pay plenty to ass fuck you while their boy friends pump your mouth with their own dicks.

  “All of this sounds like a nightmare and Curt, buddy. It is. But you will know in your empty head that you once had a cock and balls where now you now have only a small slit that will eventually be surgically enlarged, deepened and functional enough for you to pee from it and get screwed in it.”

  This monologue was wasted because Courtney/Curt had already passed out, but her/his captors in their surgical scrubs and masks went about their tasks unconcerned about the possibility of Curt being found in their care. No one really cared anyway.

  A few months later, the abduction team got an offer they couldn’t refuse and sold him to Melinda for a few thousand dollars, once they told her about his crimes. Melinda, always anxious to experiment, of course finished the conversion/transition job that had been started, making sure that this new “girl” was all she could be.

  The final result was pretty impressive. When she got her first opportunity to see herself in the mirror, Courtney, (the new name assigned to the previous football star), went into shock and had to be revived. What she saw was a black, rubber-enveloped figure of medium height and weight, totally enclosed in shiny black latex. With the eye covers on the hood removed, she saw an imposing figure with substantial breasts jutting from the chest, a perfect ass, tightly contained by the shiny rubber and a head fully enclosed in a rubber mask and hood with small cat ears at the top on either side. A special breathing control apparatus was attached to the front of the mask and Courtney quickly learned that any attempt to touch it had perilous results.