The Date

 

Stories should be considered X rated and should not be read by minors.  Age is dependent on country and municipality.

 

Warning:  If you don’t like Dolcett, mutilation…  you probably don’t need to read this.

 

The Date

After a few dates, you’re starting to wonder if you may have gone on one too many with this guy. There’s just something about him that unsettles you, even though he’s loaded—really loaded. With connections to influential people, he has that allure. So when he invited you to an exclusive club downtown, you thought, why not?

Consistently, he expects you to meet him rather than picking you up. While you would typically drive, he insisted on a cab this time, citing the atrocious parking situation around the club. As the cab approaches, you spot him conversing with the bouncer by the entrance, looking like old pals. It’s none of your concern; all you want is to get inside. You’ve already set your mind on ending things with him after tonight.

As you near the entrance, you notice the bouncer discreetly passing your date a hefty roll of cash. A momentary thought crosses your mind: perhaps tonight isn’t the right time to break things off.

“Hey babe,” he calls out as you step inside. “You look stunning tonight! That dress is incredible!”

He better think so; he practically insisted you wear it. The low-cut, strapless design is aimed to impress and, if things go south, serve as a wonderful distraction.

“Hey honey, do I look sexy enough for you? Not too revealing, right?” you respond, knowing it leaves little to the imagination. It accentuates both your curves and assets, tits and ass that you’re not shy about showcasing.

The Dungeon had rapidly transformed into the go-to spot for dinner and dancing, beloved by all for its exceptional cuisine and lively entertainment. As you stepped inside, you couldn’t help but notice the bouncer’s lingering gaze, fixated on your chest. Not exactly your type, you thought dismissively. A quick glance around the venue confirmed your thoughts—nothing to write home about. You muttered under your breath, “It must all be in the entertainment.”

The maître d’ approached, escorting you promptly to your table. Just as he graciously pulled out your chair, you caught him eyeing you in a way that was all too familiar. “Do they all have a thing for breasts here?” you mused silently.

In no time, the waiter appeared, nearly out of thin air. Your date initiated the order with a request for wine and some appetizers. Just then, you could have sworn you heard the waiter lean in and murmur something to your date about you tasting as delightful as you looked. Your heart raced at the thought.

By the time you’d polished off three glasses of wine, your stomach was demanding food. An odd sensation washed over you, causing the room to sway first left, then right. Perhaps some sustenance would stabilize things, and you thought to yourself, “Thank goodness I took that cab.”

“Sweetheart, can we please place our order now?” you implored, urgency creeping into your tone. “I really need something to eat.”

His response sent a chill down your spine. “Eat? Oh no, dear. Tonight’s menu is quite different. You’re the one who gets devoured. If fortune favors you, that is. Otherwise, prepare for a life of servitude as a sex slave.” And with those harrowing words echoing in your mind, everything went black…

Awakening an hour later, you find yourself sprawled on a gleaming aluminum surface. Your clothes have vanished entirely, leaving you bare. A futile urge to escape rises within you, but your body betrays you, immobilized and refusing to respond to the instinct to flee. As you glance down, you notice peculiar lines covering your skin.

Curiosity piqued, you turn to the woman standing beside you. Clad in a skin-tight, glossy black latex suit, her bold outfit accentuates her form, with a prominent zipper at the crotch, her nice round breasts on full display, topped off with a black collar around her neck. A thought flickers through your mind: ‘This must be the Dungeon.’

Her smile is enigmatic as she addresses you, revealing the unsettling truth. “You’re oblivious to your situation, aren’t you? The butcher was just here, contemplating how to extract the finest cuts from your body—those delectable pieces of meat.” A chilling realization washes over you. The horrifying thought strikes: they intend to consume you.

She continues matter-of-factly, “Your breasts are drawing plenty of interest, and your thighs would yield exceptional rump roasts and ground meat.” Panic bubbles inside you.

“Wait, are you saying someone plans to turn me into hamburgers?” You can hardly believe what you’re hearing.

“Absolutely!” she responds with unsettling enthusiasm. “They’ll likely be exquisite! But fret not; you’re still alive. There are factions here. Some want to butcher you for leisurely dining later, while others wish to cook and serve you tonight. A few among us, however, think you should be given a fighting chance.” Confusion floods your mind as you wonder, ‘How can I fight back if I’m trapped and unable to move?’

Your gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the unsettling sights before you. On the distant wall, the unmistakable elements of a butcher shop come together: sharp knives glinting ominously, a sturdy butcher block, and an imposing meat grinder that looms in the corner. Directly opposite, a walk-in freezer with glass panels reveals a nightmare – female bodies dangling lifelessly from meat hooks, heads absent, a chilling tableau that grips your heart with dread.

Out of nowhere, your date materializes, a sinister smirk playing on his lips. “No need to rise, my dear,” he taunts, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Even if you wished to escape, that bottle of wine you drank was laced with a neuro blocker. You’ll be immobile for roughly five hours, but don’t fret. It doesn’t dull your senses; you’ll still feel everything. It’s just selective enough to allow you to speak and move your eyes.”

A wave of panic washes over you, prompting the desperate question: “Why are you doing this?”

His stare is unwavering, almost predatory. “You want to know why? Perhaps it’s simple: you and I were never meant to last. Or maybe it’s because you harbor a dark fantasy about being consumed.” Confusion floods your mind—how could he possibly know that? “Or maybe it’s just that I crave the thrill of playing with your body before feasting on your flesh. Then there’s the little matter of the $5,000 I pocketed from selling you.”

Shock courses through you as your voice rises in horror. “You sold me! You did this to me!”

‘Darling – I couldn’t help myself’ he replies with smirk on his face.  ‘Would you pass up $5.000?’

‘But you can’t get away with it!’ you yell back.

He stares in your eyes – ‘We already have, you slut.  You died in a horrible car crash while driving here to meet me.  I hear the body is burned beyond recognition.  It’s a shame.  The family can’t even have an open casket for you funeral.’

You stutter.  ‘The, the cabbie.  He’ll remember dropping me off.  He’ll remember.’

‘Oh, you mean Fred’ as he points to a figure standing in the doorway.  ‘He works for us.  He’s one of the many who have bids on you breast meat.’

You try to move, but can’t.  “You just can’t do this to me!‘ you sob.

‘The cunt can cry.  Dear, it’s done.  The only question is – how.’   He starts pacing back and forth.  ‘We are going to give you a chance.  Well, sort of.  There are three envelopes on the table.  A red one, a blue one and a yellow one.  One says you die tonight.  Either cooked or butchered.  That happens almost immediately after the envelope is opened.  That is after we clean you out and fuck you hard a few times.’

‘Great! They eat me and all I get out of it is a few fucks’

He continues.  ‘One envelope states that we eat you after you have fun in our playroom.  Okay, we have the fun.  Such a nice body.  The third envelope – you don’t die.  But you become a permanent fixture somewhere.  George wants to bury you in concrete about up to here’ He touches your upper thigh.  ‘Legs would be spread.  Need access if you’re going to be a fucking station.  And our dairy farmer wants to milk you for about ten years.  Then butcher you.  So, as you can see all is not lost.’  He smiles at you.’

‘Great.  Either I die or I die.  Wonderful choices.’  You yell out ‘I pick the yellow envelope!’

‘Are you sure dear?  The yellow one?’  He has a huge grin on his face.

‘Yes Chad.  The yellow one you asshole!’

A smirk plays on their lips as they announce, “One thing’s for sure: you’ve got a few hours left to enjoy yourself. Let’s head to the playroom.” With surprising strength, they scoop you up and carry you toward the door. “Now, pick a number between one and ten.”

“Why should I?” you reply, sensing the predatory gleam in their eyes. Regardless of what you choose, it seems your fate is sealed. “What difference does it make?”

“Did I catch you saying five? Interesting choice,” they respond, the tone of their voice shifting ominously. “It seems your time is running out. You’re about to experience our Spanish Donkey, notorious for its unfortunate proclivity to split unfortunate souls in two.”

As you are led into a dimly lit room, a sight reminiscent of a gymnast’s apparatus unfolds before you, though it’s anything but innocent. A long V-shaped wedge rests atop two sturdy posts, its edge glistening with an unsettling sharpness in the faint light. Your heart races as the realization hits; you’re acutely aware of the impending dread.

Before you can fully grasp the situation, the first steps unfold rapidly. Hands are bound securely behind your back, and you’re lifted effortlessly, positioning you square over that menacing edge, icarpenter of your cunt.  But the torment doesn’t end there. Cuffs are fastened around your ankles, with ropes extending towards an ominous electric winch that looms nearby.

“This is simply to ensure your balance, sweetheart,” comes the wicked voice, as they fit a noose around your neck and pull it taut. The game has shifted, and you realize all too well the seriousness of the play ahead.

You mutter under your breath, “That bastard was right.” A flurry of sensations courses through you, igniting a mix of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment.

A woman approaches, her demeanor casual yet purposeful as she fastens clamps to your nipples. “Brace yourself, this might sting a bit,” she says, her fingers deftly securing the clamps with a pin that pierces through your nipple, anchoring it to the other side. “This ensures they won’t slip off—either your nipple or your breast will give way first.”

What an intriguing predicament, you think to yourself, glancing at the ropes tethered to the clamps that ascend to a pulley system overhead, leading down to a winch. A wry smile creeps across your face as you realize, “They’re planning to pull me in opposite directions!”

Chad, your date, saunters over with a confident stride, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s see how tough you really are,” he says, gesturing toward the winch that tugs at your ankles. “This one will gradually lower you by an inch every ten minutes. At the same time, the other winch will be drawing your nipples upward by two inches every ten minutes. We might just find out how far we can stretch things. Of course, we could also stop whenever you want, but I think I’ll contemplate our options over a drink.” With that, he walks away, casually signaling to the woman by your side. “Go ahead, activate them.”

The agony intensifies gradually as your body is drawn downward. At first, there was no sign of blood, but now you witness occasional gouts splattering before your eyes. Your breasts, however, are facing a far worse fate. Each mound stretches painfully, the nipples stubbornly arched toward the ceiling. A trickle of crimson begins to snake down the sides of your breasts, following the curve of your cleavage and tracing a path to your clitoris.

“Looks like he’s still enjoying that drink,” you remark mockingly to the woman nearby.

With a grin, she approaches, her tongue darting out to lap up the blood from your breasts. “Your blood tastes divine! So rich in iron. Too bad it won’t be of any use to you soon. But, I must admit, I could use some ground round. And you are incredibly delectable…”

Abruptly, the sound of the winches ceases. Relief washes over you as the stretching pressure on your breasts alleviates. The throbbing pain in your pelvis begins to fade. “Is there a god?” you whisper in confusion as you glance over to Chad. “That’s definitely no god,” you mutter under your breath.

“You didn’t think I could let you slip away without having a little fun with my favorite girl, did you? Alright, you caught me—my favorite body. I would’ve been here sooner but got sidetracked by happy hour and that second drink.”

Your gaze hardens at him as disbelief wells up inside you. “I’m being ripped apart, and you paused for a drink?”

“We’re taking you to the table now.”

Vivid images of the butcher’s table flash through your mind. “But I thought you wanted me to stick around for a while longer.”

“Not that table, darling. This is a special one where they can do all sorts of things to you, just as long as they don’t kill you. Of course, there’s always the risk of an accidental death. The toys they use can be quite… hazardous. If luck is on your side, perhaps you’ll even get a few moments of pleasure before it all goes downhill. First, though, we need to mend th

ose cuts. We can’t have you bleeding all over the place, now, can we?”

They carefully lift you off the donkey and carry you to the medical station. There, your wounds are cauterized, and you’re administered two shots—one for each breast—followed by a few sips of water poured down your throat. “They might split me open, butcher me, and cook me, but at least they won’t let me go thirsty,” you think with a strange sense of acceptance.

Next, they transport you to the table, which resembles a contraption with numerous mounting points for their tools. “This looks like it will be quite an experience,” you reflect cynically.

“You’ll need to assume the doggy position,” one of the voices instructs. Your calves and wrists are swiftly restrained, and they fit a harness snugly around your waist, tethering it to the ceiling to keep you upright. A flicker of recognition washes over you. “Isn’t that the same woman from earlier? I wonder if she’s back for more blood,” you consider.

Soon, you find yourself on all fours, bracing for whatever is to come. The presence of multiple people surrounds you, but you remain oblivious to their intentions. The first indication comes with tiny needle pricks scoring your breast. “My breasts, forever the target. What do they find appealing?” you ponder. Surprisingly, the sensation isn’t too painful. “Could this be some kind of acupuncture? Lord knows my poor breasts could use it.”

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, jarring pain pierces one breast. “Hope you enjoy pain,” the familiar voice taunts. “I’m driving a needle through the base of both breasts. Once it’s in place, I’ll attach twenty pounds of weight to it, letting it dangle between them.”

“Isn’t there an easier way to extract blood, you sadistic witch?” you shout back, frustration bubbling from within. “Or is this simply a display of your twisted brutality?”

“Relax, you little whore,” she retorts over her shoulder. “I’ll simply run the needle through both your nipples. Oh, and the weight? It’s actually forty pounds. That ought to do the trick.”

She wasn’t kidding. Blood began to seep from your nipples once more, and soon after, you felt her mouth greedily lapping at your sensitive flesh, drawing forth every drop.

Amidst this torment, another presence approached. Unceremoniously and with vigor, a powerful figure pressed against you, his hard organ going deep inside. The sensations were unlike anything you had ever experienced; the brutal force was overwhelming. “More!” you find yourself begging. And indeed, more was exactly what you received.

A sudden sensation surprised you, as something was forcefully inserted into your ass. It delved deeper with each passing moment, and just when you thought it couldn’t go further, you felt a distinct pulsation. The feeling was intense, resembling the act of being penetrated. Curiosity bubbled within you, prompting you to call out, “What’s happening?” The girl, who had paused her oral attention to yiur breasts, turned her gaze back toward you, intrigued by your question.

As the electrically charged device is inserted, the surprising length of the probe—an astonishing forty inches—hits you like a bolt. The words echo in your mind, disbelief mingling with apprehension.

“Indeed, it’s forty inches,” the speaker insists with a teasing tone, “thanks to the special properties of the drug.”

Then, an unfamiliar voice interjects, sharing the startling news that they’re about to push this invasive instrument in deeper—up to six feet, something unprecedented. “You should expect a surge of euphoria, along with a heightened sense of arousal,” they add.

As the probe advances further into your body, a wave of sensation floods over you, igniting a tremor that seems to resonate from deep within. This experience, so novel and intense, overwhelms your senses—a uniquely pleasurable uncertainty envelops you, unlike anything you’ve felt before.

It’s true what they say: every delightful experience eventually reaches its conclusion. You sense the removal of the probe, a sensation that leaves you feeling oddly vulnerable. This isn’t the encounter you anticipated; there’s no intimate connection here, no one engaging with you on a personal level. A wave of frustration washes over you. Thoughts race through your mind, spinning a narrative of despair. “Is this really how it ends?” you ponder. “It seems a bit too abrupt. Surely, there could have been more to enjoy.” The weight of uncertainty settles in as you grapple with the stark reality of the situation, an unsettling reminder that not all experiences live up to expectations.

A moment later, the female figure withdraws from sucking your blood and announces, “Time to flip you over.” With a deliberate choice, she removes the needles, favoring the most excruciating method. In an instant, the restraints are lifted, and you find yourself inverted, staring up at both the ceiling and the woman looming above you.

Members of the medical team swiftly approach to perform yet another cauterization on your chest. Soon after, they prepare you to receive the same dual injections.

Her gaze meets yours, and a confident smile spreads across her face. “Don’t fret, darling. I’ll still have my share of your blood; this time, we’re going vintage—with an IV.” With a twist of her wrist, she inserts the IV into your left breast, unabashedly indulging in her apparent fascination. To your astonishment, an additional IV is connected to each breast for fluid delivery; the liquid appears milky.

Noticing your astonishment as you observe the tubes, she comments playfully, “This will not only tenderize your breasts should dinner plans arise, but if not, consider it a bonus—your breasts will simply grow larger. Either way, it’s a win-win.”

A sensation thrn grips you as someone pulls your legs apart, their fingers teasing your clit with a tantalizing touch. Straining to see what’s unfolding, you attempt to lift your head, but your efforts prove futile. Just as the gentle caress ceases, a relentless rhythm takes over, pounding your cunt with a fierce intensity. The familiar realization then hits: once again, I’m being fucked.

“Absolutely and not,” replies Miss Cunt Girl with a smirk. “It’s just a damn machine. These fools expect you to orgasm every minute like it’s some kind of fantasy. Frankly, it’s a colossal waste of time. They ought to be using that contraption on someone like me, not on a lifeless wench such as yourself.” Her eyes flicker toward the wine glass, now brimming with your blood. “Ah, it’s time for a sip. Here’s to you – I’ll probably think of you while enjoying burgers over the next week or so.” With a swift motion, she downs the crimson liquid and returns the glass to the table, reattaching the IV tube with a strange satisfaction that radiates from her.

In the meantime, the machine relentlessly carries out its task. Astonishingly, you find yourself reaching climax nearly every minute—a feat you once considered beyond possibility. Yet, here you are, with undeniable evidence to back it up. An entire hour’s worth of proof unfolds before you, leaving you both bewildered and exhilarated.

Suddenly a  pair of large clamps closes around your breasts, their cold metal pressing down with a growing intensity. As they activate, they gradually tighten, eliciting discomfort and sharp pangs of pain with each passing moment, squeezing relentlessly.

“You really think cunt girl is going to appreciate this?” you shout, feeling the strain increase. “You’re cutting off her blood supply!” Unable to light you hesd, you can only picture what your breasts must look like—perhaps like two ominous blue peaks, swollen and throbbing.

Chad’s gaze suddenly locks onto yours, his expression both unsettling and captivating. “I simply couldn’t allow you to leave the table without some entertainment,” he says, his voice dripping with a dark amusement. “Let me introduce you to this little contraption. It’s called the Pear of Anguish, and it has a rather unique capability—it can expand within someone.”

With that, he strides away, his attention shifting down towards your feet. The fucking machine is abruptly deactivated and then removed.  It’s replaced by the invasion of a new, chilling object – the Pear of Anquish is thrust inside you.

Chad’s grin widened, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. “Soon enough, it will fill you completely, pressing against every inch of your cunt’s walls. If fortune doesn’t favor you, your body may not hold—there’s a real chance of rupture within about thirty minutes. I’ll be back in forty to check.”

Every time, he had a knack for draining the joy out of any situation. So here you are, with a pear nestled inside, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. The grip on your breasts feels merciless, likely leaving them bruised in shades of deep purple. Meanwhile, the creature draining your blood is enjoying its feast far too much. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, the unexpected arrival of two nipple clamps interrupts your thoughts. They are clamped down on your sensitive nipples, tightening their grip relentlessly and sending a shockwave through your body.  They mirror the torment your breasts are already enduring. The pressure builds, drawing you further into a whirlwind of sensations that blur the line between pleasure and pain.

Lying there, a whirlwind of thoughts races through your mind. You can’t help but ponder, ‘Will I feel my cunt ripped apart, or will it be my breasts that are torn away first? Will that girl drive me to the edge of oblivion, or will those clamps prove too much for my delicate nipples?’ The desire to move, to turn your head even slightly, is overwhelming, yet you remain still, gazing up at the ceiling.

In disbelief, you find yourself thinking, ‘Can you believe Chad put me in this predicament? Will my body just give in and explode? I wonder what will burst first—my pussy, my nips, or my tits? At this point, does it even matter?’

It’s then that you spot her, cunt girl approaching your feet with a determined stride. You can’t help but murmur to yourself, ‘Looks like she’s vying for the best view.’ Just when you think you’re grasping the situation, a sudden sensation catches you off guard—a pear being tugged from your cunt. A thought crosses your mind, ‘Perhaps she’s not such a threat after all.’

With an air of unexpected boldness, she exclaims, “Don’t you dare think I did this just for your benefit! Do you even grasp the consequences if something were to go wrong with your… cunt? There would be serious repercussions, you know. Imagine what it means if everything goes haywire down there—it translates to no more ground beef for me. No hamburgers at all! If things spiral out of control, your flesh would be contaminated, rendered useless, or worse yet, discarded entirely. Or, heavens forbid, offered up as a feast for piranhas! I refuse to sacrifice an entire month’s worth of prime beef to those little aquatic monsters!”

Her gaze locks onto yours, unwavering. “Now, when it comes to your other assets, that’s an entirely different tale. I can’t help but feel a bit of excitement at the thought of those nipples flying free. I’m actually placing bets on it. Mark my words, those little suckers could soar eleven feet or more!”

Unfortunately, she continues, “Chad insisted I take off both the restraints and the clamps. I was itching to see just how far they’d bounce!” With a quick flick of her wrist, she deactivates the clamps, partially opens them, and pulls them away with a sudden force.

“Appreciate the careful approach,” you reply, drenching your words in sarcasm.

“Not a problem at all, darling,” she says, lifting another wine glass filled with your blood. “This is absolutely delicious! You really ought to give it a taste.” With a mischievous smile, she dips her finger into the crimson liquid, letting it drip into your wide-open mouth.

As you savor the flavor, a realization hits you. “Wow, this really is incredible,” you think to yourself. Turning your gaze towards her, you inquire, “So, what’s next on this wild ride?”

“Well, you unfortunate soul, it looks like you’re nearing the five-hour mark. We certainly can’t allow that drug to fade, so it’s time for some shots. And trust me, it’s quite painful!” With a sudden movement, she reaches for a syringe on the nearby tray and forcefully plunges the needle into your breast. “I can’t let him experience all the excitement,” she adds, snatching another syringe and swiftly inserting it into your other breast.

She has a point; the pain is truly excruciating. “Why does everything have to revolve around my breasts?” you cry, tears cascading onto the surface of the table.

“Oh, come on!” she retorts with a gleeful laugh. “When it comes to my culinary preferences, nothing beats tit meat—it’s only second to a juicy burger. You could say I have a penchant for tit and ass!” With a mischievous grin, she glances back at you. “Chad will arrive soon, and trust me, you’ll need to make some decisions, my dear cow. You definitely don’t want him calling the shots; he seems quite bent on your demise.”

It feels like an eternity as you wait for Chad to make his entrance. Finally, he strides in, flanked by his entourage. “Enjoying yourself, darling?” he mocks, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I told you this place would be a riot. Now, it’s your turn to select your next adventure. If you’re feeling eager to get it over with, I suggest the circular saw. It makes a beautifully clean incision, starting right between your legs. I’ve heard you’ll probably survive most of it, thanks to the drugs they give you.”

A wave of frustration washes over you, and you curse under your breath, “Damn this drug!”

Chad continues his twisted monologue, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “We also have the classic method of being drawn and quartered, which has always intrigued me. We may not use horses for the process anymore, but our machines do a stellar job. I’ve seen people endure for days on end. Just look at Debbie,” he smirks, glancing toward her, “she doesn’t seem to have any qualms about it. The meat stays fresh, you know. If that’s not your style, there’s always the guillotine, or I could simply impale you. Believe me; there are countless methods for that, and generally, you’d remain conscious for at least five days.”

After a brief pause, he inhales deeply. “Should you wish to cling to your delusions of surviving this ordeal, consider the rack, a bed of nails, the wheel, a dartboard, or even the infamous sex and milking stations, just to name a few. Yet, personally, I can’t get enough of the drawn and quartered option. Why hesitate when the end is so imminent?”

With a slight exhale, he proposes a rather disturbing offer. “How about this? To spare you from feeling left out, we could prepare one of your arms for butchering, then serve it to you for your final meal. You could actually savor the flavor of your own flesh, experiencing what others will indulge in after you’re gone. Seems pretty fair to me, right? So, what’s your choice?”

Worn out by the entire situation, a nagging thought begins to take root. Maybe Chad has a point. “If I’m destined to die, why prolong the inevitable?” you ponder. “What’s the point of enduring all of this torment?”

A sudden voice dances into your ear, sneaky and mischievous—it’s Debbie, better known as cunt girl. “He never looked inside the envelope. How can he possibly know what your fate is?”

Memories flood back, stretching over what feels like endless time. “She’s absolutely right. He never did!” But the question lingers: why is she coming to my aid? Is this just about a month’s supply of hamburgers? “I hate to break it to you, Chad, but I have plans to…”

“The dart board,” Debbie chimes in, her grin infectious.

Chad glances your way, eager for confirmation. “The dart board?” You nod in agreement with Debbie’s suggestion.

“Then that’s settled. Just be prepared for the kind of pain you’re about to endure,” Chad remarks as he exits the room.

Before long, it becomes crystal clear what cunt girl has in store for you. The reigning dart champion of the Dungeon, Debbie boasts an impressive track record—hitting the bullseye every single time. And in this twisted game, the bullseye happens to be your nipples. It seems her desire to toy with your body surpasses even Chad’s.

They wheel you over to the dart wall and begin preparations. Instead of a traditional board, they paint it directly onto your skin. Uniquely, this dartboard features two bullseyes, one over each nipple. As Chad had warned, while the darts won’t end your life, the pain will be excruciating. Each dart measures two inches from its tip to its base, meaning the most it can penetrate is just two inches. Chilling, to say the least.

To heighten the suspense, a helmet is strapped onto your head, shielding your eyes from what’s to come. You’ll be left in the dark until it’s far too late to react—though even if you could, what difference would it truly make?

The judge reminds the staff that today’s match carries a unique twist. Each turn will now see an addition of ten darts, along with the introduction of a third bullseye on the target. That target, of course, is you. The staff positions you on the floor, legs spread wide, as they set the paint the bullseye over you cunt.

Frustrated, you mutter under your breath about the relentless drug. Once everything is in place, they lift you and prop your body against the wall, but you quickly sag to one side.

Now, the moment of truth arrives. They secure cuffs around your ankles, connecting them to chains that are anchored to rings embedded deep in the wall. Instinctively, you notice the familiar position—your legs are once again spread apart. The routine is far from new.

With practiced efficiency, they attach cuffs to your wrists, hoisting your body upwards until it is tightly pressed against the wall. The judge moves about the room, ensuring that your body remains immobilized, and to that end, it does not budge.

Cunt girl with an air of mockery approaches, brandishing your helmet. “You really are a foolish cow,” she scoffs, laughter spilling forth. “When are you going to grasp that everything I do is for my own benefit, not yours?”

A whisper escapes your lips as realization washes over you.

With a swift motion, she places the helmet firmly atop your head, securing it in place. This isn’t just a piece of protective gear; it shields your eyes and keeps your head from drooping in defeat.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the tension, listing the competitors for today’s event. Ten participants, each armed with thirty darts, means a staggering three hundred projectiles headed your way. You can’t help but think, “It can’t be that bad,” yet the nagging voice of doubt lingers.

The first thrower makes a choice, aiming directly for your cunt. A couple of darts sail high, striking your abdomen, while one ricochets off your pelvic bone. Two find their mark on your thighs, and shockingly, two more bullseyes are scored right in the center. The marksman seems to excel around your breasts; six darts find their target perfectly on each side, while two veer slightly off, catching the edges of your breasts. Five more bounce off your cleavage, leaving you to wonder who is really behind this onslaught. Deep down, you harbor the unsettling knowledge that it’s not the girl who mocked you, cunt girl.

A similar fate awaits the next eight contestants. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself. Trouble is definitely on the way.

An unsettling aura surrounds her; a dark presence radiates from her being. Could she possibly be a manifestation of pure malice? The first dart strikes your right nipple, followed quickly by another hitting your clit. The next shot connects with your left nipple, and the pattern continues. Out of twenty-seven targeted shots, every single one finds its mark on your most sensitive areas. It’s a flawless performance.

As she saunters in front of you, a mocking tone fills the air. “See? I told you, you cow. Everything I do is for my own pleasure. Don’t forget that!” She callously extracts the thirty darts embedded in your body.

An inner voice urges you to brace yourself. “Just wait for it. Wait for it…”

She begins to taste the blood dribbling from your nipple. “Looks like those nipples don’t need any tenderizing, you cow. And believe me, when I suck on them, it’s going to sting like crazy. Are you starting to understand?” With that, she clamps down fiercely on your right nipple.

The harsh reality dawns on you. You’re nothing more than a piece of meat, waiting to be devoured by these unhinged individuals.

Eventually, you’re escorted to the medical unit for necessary treatment. A bit of cauterization here, a dab of special cream there. Regular injections in your breasts seem routine, and every now and then, someone stops by for a quick fuck. Then there are the neuro blocks, meant to numb your senses. Gradually, you find yourself adapting to this new, surreal existence, feeling more like a limp fish than a person.

Days slip by in silence until that trademark grin appears once more, and there he is—Chad. A thought crosses your mind: why can’t he allow someone to endure their suffering in solitude?

“I warned you, my dear,” he teases, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “There’s no escape for you. It’s destined to happen, whether today, tomorrow, or within the week. Sooner or later, you’ll be caught in a bubbling pot or sizzling over a fiery blaze. The situation you find yourself in? That’s on you. Had you listened to my advice, Debbie would’ve had her share of hamburger meat. We could’ve relished a delightful feast, savoring that enticing body of yours, and you wouldn’t be writhing in agony here.”

If only you could move, you would wield a hammer against his skull, jab him with needles, or ignite him in flames. What else is there to say to Chad? “Do you want me to admit defeat? That will never happen.” A newfound determination resonates in your words, and you add, “I take it you’re here to discuss the next game. Let’s get to it!”

This time, however, the decision is out of your hands. They’ve eliminated the cow farm option for now. “Her nipples require at least a week to heal,” proclaims the girl who relishes calling herself “cunt girl,” a sense of pride evident in her tone. “We really did a number on her, not that she didn’t deserve it. If only I had thirty more darts!”

Classic “cunt girl,” always focused on her hamburger meat, your thighs and ass, and is oblivious to your plight as they plot your next move.

They approach you with the announcement, informing you that it’s time for the rack. A sultry voice leans in close, murmuring, “I tried to give you a chance to regroup. This is the best offer I could muster. There are some advantages—you’ll be fucked for nearly twenty-four hours straight.”

A flicker of a smile crosses your lips as you respond, “So, this does come with some benefits? Is that setting a Ripley’s record?”

Yet, she conveniently omits the downsides. Having gone without food for a few days isn’t favorable in the Dungeon’s eyes. You’re rolled to a preparation area where they suspend you from the ceiling by your ankles. A substantial tube is inserted in your ass, winding deep into your body. It appears to stretch over twenty feet. Suddenly, freezing water courses through it.

“We need to clear you out. Can’t have any messes,” the attendant explains. “This tube reaches all the way up to your stomach, so expect a bloated sensation for a while.”

After a thorough cleansing, they extract the tube and replace it with an inflated plug, which fills you to near your limits. The sensation is both overwhelming and strangely pleasurable.

As another staff member approaches, he informs you, “Your digestive system is set. Now we’ll insert a catheter and slide a feeding tube down your throat. On a bright note, they’re discontinuing the neuro blocker. Instead, you’ll receive stimulant doses every twelve hours. This will heighten your sensitivity to touch, pain, heat, and cold…” He trails off, leaving you to ponder the implications of his words.

Hours have passed, and now you find yourself trapped on a contemporary version of the rack. Your wrists are secured firmly above your head, and soon your ankles follow suit. Surprisingly, the straps feel loose, almost uncomfortably so. If you were able to move, it seems like you’d have quite a bit of room to wiggle around.

“This doesn’t feel right,” you murmur to yourself, a growing sense of unease washing over you.

Without warning, the device whirls to life, and an overwhelming pressure grips your limbs, yanking them as though it aims to dislocate your arms and legs. The sensation deepens as the machine begins to stretch your legs further apart. A nearby staff member casually mentions that this particular rack possesses the ability to “draw and quarter” a person—a detail you certainly didn’t want to hear.

Gazing down at your feet, you notice they’re positioned alarmingly high, almost at waist level. A sudden realization jolts through you: you managed to tilt your head, something you hadn’t done in what feels like an eternity. “Fantastic. I finally get to move just when they decide to treat my legs like a wishbone.”

Gradually, the relentless pulling slows to a near halt. In your mind, you envision Chad looming over you, taunting: “Your legs will fracture in twenty-one hours. Don’t worry, I’ll return in twenty-two.” The sheer audacity of him fills you with rage—“What an absolute asshole!”

A collar is fastened around your neck, and the cold, unyielding fucking machine between your legs serves as a grim reminder of your predicament.

Cunt girl saunters toward you, a devilish grin painting her face. Today felt different; she had paired her daring outfit with a set of nipple clamps, each adorned with hefty weights that swung gently with her movements. Surprisingly, rather than discomfort, her expression radiated mischief.

“Morning, you cow! Just so you know, that collar around your neck? It tightens every ten minutes—an ever-present reminder of its grip on you. How much it squeezes is entirely up to your endurance. And as promised, the fucking machine will screw you for a full twenty-four hours, relentlessly. And don’t get it twisted; it’s nowhere near a Ripley’s record. The longest is thirty-nine hours, twenty-three minutes, and ten seconds. But if you’re feeling ambitious, I’m more than happy to help you aim for a new high.”

You respond with a grin, feeling the thrill of the challenge. “What else is there for me to do? Let’s stretch this to forty-eight hours.”

Her laughter bubbles up. “If you think you can handle it,” she retorts. “You’ll be cuming about once every minute for the initial ten hours, and after that, it’ll be an unending stream of ecstasy. That’s quite the adventure for someone like you.”

Curiosity sparks within you. “What did she mean by that?”

Squeezing your nipples firmly, she then explains, “They’re undergoing rehab. We have plans to milk these beauties eventually, and we need those sensitive buds to be in top form. After this session, you’ll be moving on to the water wheel.”

As she begins to pivot, cunt girl sneers, warning, “Don’t be misled. The rack is far from being inoperative. In roughly forty-one hours, it will wrench your legs from your body. Consider your options: Ripley’s or your legs.”

You murmur under your breath, “Why does it always conclude with such delightful tidings?”

Now, five hours have slipped by, and you notice an increase in your muscle control — not that it matters since movement feels completely out of reach. The rack continues its relentless grind, and you could swear you hear the unsettling sound of cracking bones, despite the attendants insisting it is far too early for such occurrences.

Cunt girl, insistent on her blood supply, comes along to set up a new IV, directing it into a small, chilled pitcher. “Don’t worry, I promise you won’t be completely drained,” she assures, though you’re not entirely convinced. A nagging thought reminds you that a lack of blood means subpar meat, something this girl certainly craves for her own purposes.

You feel the familiar sting of your regular injections, but this time there are two extras. When you inquire about their purpose, the attendant shrugs, replying, “I’m not exactly sure, miss. I’m just following orders.”

“Miss?” you think to yourself, noting that this guy must be a newcomer to the scene.

Time creeps forward, and around ten hours have elapsed since you were secured to the rack. You catch sight of cunt girl, practically skipping toward you with the exuberance of a child who has just discovered Santa Claus. Of course, in her case, it seems she has slain Santa and taken all the treasures for herself.

“How are you holding up, cow? I hope the pain isn’t too unbearable… but I bet it is, right?”

You can’t help but wonder if the girl has completely lost her grip on reality, as if she’s become intoxicated by your blood. A quick glance at the chilled pitcher brings a twinge of apprehension.

“Do you recall Sandra?” she queries, a devilish grin spreading across her face. “You know, the blonde that had the voluptuous figure?”

What could she possibly mean by “had”? You find yourself questioning. “Oh, I remember her well,” she replies, a mischievous glint in her eye. “She struggled to find a latex outfit that fit her properly.  Big tits”

“Interestingly, there was this unfortunate incident,” she continues, her tone shifting to one of morbid fascination. “She somehow managed to fall on an impaling pole, and let’s just say she got herself, well, impaled in quite the dramatic fashion. The pole entered through her cunt and exited through her mouth. Quite the tragic turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?” Her face lights up with an unsettling enthusiasm. “Honestly, we couldn’t have orchestrated it better ourselves, and it only took three days!”

“You’re telling me it was an accident?” you ponder aloud, suspecting that there’s more to the story, perhaps some unspoken vendetta against Sandra.

“Believe it or not, she did survive for roughly three hours after we got her to the butcher. He’s an incredibly nice man—he allowed me the privilege of exploring her body. What a thrill that was! I started by carefully removing one of her nipples with a scalpel, taking my time to amplify her suffering.”

“Typical,” you remark dryly, recognizing her flair for the grotesque.

Her smile broadens. “Then, I got curious and decided to put my clamp experiment into action. I managed to pop the nipple off neatly. Just for the record, it only flew a little over eight feet—not quite the eleven I had hoped for.”

At this point, you have to wonder if Debbie has truly lost her grip on reality. Surely, even this setting couldn’t endorse the macabre details she’s sharing.

“The stories get better,” she continues, undeterred. “After that, I used a breast ripper to tear her melons right off. You should have heard her scream then! Sure, there was a minor issue with blood, but the butcher handled that situation like a pro. Just so you know, her melons weren’t quite as impressive as yours.”

“I really enjoyed torturing her clit. You wouldn’t believe the results a butane torch can achieve on skin. First, I singed off her pubic hair, then I slowly cooked her clit to a perfect medium well. Of course, I had to give her a shot to keep her conscious throughout. Ultimately, I even offered her a taste of her own flesh. Can you imagine? She spat it right out! Absolutely no appreciation at all.”

The butcher moved to dissect her, but he permitted me to make the initial incision. The look in Sandra’s eyes was priceless, wide with shock. I turned to Bob, our butcher, and asked him to position her on her side. This way, she could witness the twisted fate of her legs as they were fed into the meat grinder. Her lack of gratitude was unmistakable. After extracting her tongue and removing an eye, we reached a consensus to end her suffering.

Her flesh was already being repurposed as hamburger meat for the restaurant. If you’re interested, I could have someone fetch you a serving?

You recoil in disgust, declining the offer.

Should you reconsider, let me know. I must mention that my primary reason for visiting was to collect a small vial of blood. For all it’s worth, we ought to keep you around solely for that reason. I swear, there’s nothing quite like it! Speaking of which, a decision has been made regarding your future. The good news is that you’re not going anywhere; you’ll be here for quite some time! However, on the downside, walking is no longer an option for you.

Cunt girl, brimming with a sense of twisted satisfaction, smirks at you, tauntingly bidding you farewell, “See you later, cow!”

“Not able to walk!” you shout, frustration simmering beneath your words. Ignoring you, she strides away, unfazed.

Now, you find yourself grappling with a haunting question: what is truly worse? The relentless mental torment, the unyielding physical agony, or the insufferable comments from that girl? Each departure of hers leaves you feeling abandoned, as if the final word was snatched away, adding to your mounting despair.

The clock now reads twelve hours on the rack, and the agony coursing through your legs and arms feels unbearable. However, the real torment stems from the relentless fucking machine that seems to have no mercy. You never thought it would come to this; the consistent climaxing overshadows even the fiercest pain. In a corner of your mind, you still cling to the hope of smashing the Ripley’s record. But questions begin to swarm: “Why would anyone keep track of the longest continuous screw? Who currently holds that dubious title? Was she once a visitor to this dreadful dungeon, and is she still alive to defend her honor?”

As the fourteenth hour ticks away, the familiar figure of a woman returns, a mischievous grin on her face and a digital clock in her hands. “How’s my favorite cow doing?” she exclaims with a gleeful tone.

Struggling to maintain coherence, your response comes out shaky. “I guess I’m okay.”

“Ah, I see,” she replies, her amusement unwavering. “Too much pleasure, right? A constant screw can really take its toll, can’t it? Are you certain you want to pursue that record?”

Reluctantly, you acknowledge the truth: the pleasure is insatiably overpowering, starkly contrasting against the pain. Yet, you refuse to give her the satisfaction of giving up. “No way, I’m determined to break that record!” you assert defiantly.

“I suspected as much,” she says, her eyes twinkling with delight. “To aid in your quest, I brought you a gift—a countdown clock. The top displays the time remaining to shatter the record: about twenty-five hours, thirteen minutes, and nine seconds. Next, the middle number reveals how long you have until your legs might be torn from your body, roughly twenty-seven hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-five seconds. And the bottom registers how long you’ve endured this torture: a mere fourteen hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds. I’ll have Frank install it directly above you so it stays front and center.” Handing the clock to Frank, she skips away, her laughter lingering in the air.

Your eyes rise to meet the clock’s numbers, noting the time—fifteen hours, sixteen minutes, and seven seconds have elapsed since the rack became your prison. That leaves a daunting twenty-four hours, seven minutes, and merely three seconds—no wait, it’s two seconds. “Damn!” you exclaim, the word escaping before you can catch it. Suddenly, a harsh tightening encircles your neck, compressing with a ruthless grip. “Someone must not appreciate that word,” you muse, while the constriction finally loosens, leaving you gasping for breath. “I certainly hope I don’t have to experience that again,” you whisper to yourself, anxiety creeping back in.

As you reflect on the earlier conversation with vunt girl, a sense of unease settles in. ‘I’ll be here for a long time but won’t be able to walk?’ you ponder. ‘What exactly do they have in store for me?’

Frank approaches, busy with setting up three new intravenous lines. “Before you jump to conclusions, miss, let me explain. The one in your groin is a nerve stimulator designed to amplify your sensations. You’ll keep receiving this until your legs give out completely.”

Anger wells up as you connect this to cunt girl’s intentions. ‘It’s all part of her plan,’ you think, feeling the weight of the situation. ‘She doesn’t want me to set any records.’

He continues, unfazed, explaining, “The lines in each breast contain a potent mix of hormones, vitamins, and essential minerals, like calcium. Looks like the staff intends for you to be treated like livestock, loke a cow. This blend is aimed at boosting your milk production.”

A chill runs down your spine as the reality sinks in. ‘Great. She genuinely sees me as a cow.’

Hours drag on, and the apparatus keeps pulling at your body, yet she remains conspicuously absent. Frank has diligently replaced the IV bags at least once for every line, and a strange sensation begins to blossom in your chest, your breasts—bloated and uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the stimulation in your groin escalates, creating a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You seriously doubt your ability to endure another eighteen hours or more. If you somehow survive this, you vow to avoid sex for at least a week or two.

The medication has intensified not only nausea but also the pain radiating from your hips. In the quiet moments, your mind races through memories, searching for answers, questioning what led to this predicament.

Now, twenty-five hours in, cunt gitl decides it’s time for another visit. “Hi, cow,” she greets nonchalantly, her tone bordering on mocking. “Just checking in on you. I see you’re still breathing.” With that, she turns to walk away, leaving you alone with your torment.

“You can’t treat me like this!” you shout, frustration rising in your voice.

Cunt girl, unfazed by your outburst, halts her movement. After a brief silence, she turns, her voice a calm whisper, “What exactly can’t I do to you?”

“This!” you exclaim, gesturing emphatically. “The torture, the rack, the intimidation!”

Approaching you, she holds your gaze with an intensity that feels almost lethal. “And who do you think you’re speaking to?” she softly inquires.

“You, of course! I can’t fathom how Chad allows you to behave this way,” you reply, a mix of anger and disbelief in your tone.

A mischievous smile spreads across her face, as her voice escalates, “You really believe I’m submissive to Chad? Just one of his lackeys?”

“Absolutely!” you retort, fueled by defiance. “If Chad were here…”

She cuts you off, her confidence radiating. “Oh sweet cow, would a submissive know that Frank refers to you as ‘miss’? Would a subordinate get you into the dart match, all without any pushback from Chad? Can you honestly think a mere helper holds such sway over your destiny, all for a bit of ground rump?”

Before you can process her words, she leans closer, her breath brushing against your ear. “This domain is mine to command, along with the farm. Chad exists beneath me; he’s my subordinate. I alone will decide what becomes of you.”

A pit forms in your stomach as fear cascades over you. She continues, “And believe me, provoking my wrath would be a grave mistake. Do you remember Sandra? She learned that lesson the hard way.”

With a final, dismissive glance, she adds, “By the way, this is not the rack you imagine. This is the quartering machine. You’re being drawn and quartered.”

Your thoughts wonder.  ‘Shit!  It’s probably too late to call her Mistress Debbie.  I wonder what Sandra did to piss her off so much?  I’m being drawn and quartered?  How can I be around for a long time if I’m drawn and quartered?  Damn!’

An hour later Frank comes by and adds a second IV to your groin.  ‘Same stuff as before.  Your sensations are going to go through the roof if they’re not there already.’

‘I pissed of Debbie, didn’t I’ you ask.

Frank laughs.  ‘Nah.  She just wants you to enjoy your last hours.  If you had pissed her off, she would have you in the butcher shop.  Being skinned.  Alive.’

‘That’s good to know.  I guess this is the better way of going’ you comment.

Hour twenty-nine.  And your favorite groupie, cunt girl arrives.  ‘My! How your tits have grown.  You’re becoming a cow, you cow’ she laughs. ‘But, to more important things.  I just came by to see if you want to be part of the wager.  I’m considering your legs a wish bone and am taking wagers on which side will win?  Your right leg or your left leg?  If you win I will let you decide what we do with you.  Game?’

‘What the heck, I’ll take the left.’  It’s always been your stronger side.  You wonder what she’ll do next.

‘Cool!  I took the right!  Later, cow!’ as she prances away.

It’s now hour thirty-six.  It’s amazing that you’re not hungry.  Then you remember the feeding tube jammed down your throat.  ‘Wonder what they’re feeding me. Whatever, it’s working.’

Frank arrives, adjusting the butt plug with precise care. He inflates it further, a smirk playing on his lips as he remarks, “We can’t have any leaks now, can we?”

The playful tormentor is gone, leaving thoughts swirling in your mind—the tantalizing presence of the “cunt girl” lingered, and her absence feels like an eternity. Hours slip by, but inevitable pain awaits, reminding you of the breaking point that looms ahead.

As the clock ticks into the thirty-eighth hour, Frank returns, this time wielding two enormous syringes. With a casual air, he explains, “Nerve stimulants, my dear. Miss Debbie has plans for your upcoming hours, especially with that record in sight.” He gestures toward two precise spots near your clit, where the needles will penetrate.

Finally, at hour thirty-nine, the cunt girl bursts onto the scene. “Can’t miss the moment when a cow outdoes herself!” she exclaims, a glint of mischief in her eye. Without hesitation, she twists both of your nipples, a teasing gesture laced with ice. “Oops, still sore? Those darts really take a toll.” Squeezing and twisting, she awaits your reaction, but you remain resolute, unwilling to show weakness.

Her gaze roams down your body, and she muses, “Your breasts are certainly a delightful size. A new set of bras would be in order—oh, but I guess that’s not your concern right now,” followed by her trademark laughter. “I love when everything falls into place.”

Curiosity piques as you inquire about her plans. She merely responds with a finger to her lips, playfully teasing, “Shhhh, it’s a secret. Only I hold the answers.”

With each turn of her fingers, a mixture of pain and pleasure floods your senses, yet you continue to persevere as you surpass her record. A part of you wonders if she might be upset, though her attention seems diverted. Then, in a surprising twist, milk sprays from your nipples—a moment of unexpected relief. Her smile widens as she declares, “My cow, you’ve just earned yourself a stay of execution. For now, at least.”

As she strides away, the urgency of your frustration becomes palpable. “You can’t just leave me like this!” you shout after her, desperation threading through your voice.

Silence envelops the scene as she moves away, her head shaking in a resolute no. As the clock ticks over to forty-one hours, a thought crosses your mind: just sixteen more minutes. Suddenly, as if summoned, the girl known for her cruelty appears.

“Feeling lucky today, cow?” she taunts, a wicked glint in her eyes. “You chose the left, didn’t you? Well, let’s see what the right side has in store for you.” She raises a cup, crimson liquid sloshing inside.

Exactly forty-one hours and sixteen minutes in, a horrifying snap reverberates through your body as one of your legs fractures. The girl signals Frank, who promptly halts the machine, and she leans down to inspect your left leg. “I’m sorry, my dear cow,” she says with a mocking smile. “You’ve lost. Your left leg buckled before the right. I could have warned you about that.” With a gleeful shout, she instructs Frank, “Let’s prop her up! I don’t want her to miss a moment of this!”

Gradually, the machine adjusts, sitting you up for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Your legs are spread painfully apart, and you can’t help but wonder how they endured such torment for so long. “What am I about to miss?” you ask yourself, anxiety coursing through you.

You recognize Bob the butcher approaching with his cart. He rolls up, producing two heavy metal cuffs that he secures around your thighs, just beneath your groin. The cuffs shimmer ominously under the harsh lights above.

Out of nowhere, Frank injects something into the nape of your neck. “This will keep you awake,” he informs you bluntly. The familiarity of the situation sends a chill down your spine.

“Well, the end is nearly here,” the girl declares with a sinister satisfaction. “Step one is to take off your legs.”

“No! Please, no!” you scream, desperation clawing at your throat.

The large saw whirred to life as the butcher prepared to make an irreversible decision, guiding it to your limbs with chilling precision. A scream of agony escaped your lips, disbelief washing over you as you witnessed the horrifying scene unfold. Before you could comprehend your surroundings, the butcher swiftly attached caps to the remnants of your legs, securing them to the cuffs with clinical detachment.

“This will stem the bleeding,”  cunt girl reassures you, her tone unnervingly calm. “Once we transport you to the butcher room, Bob will take care of the rest.” A sinister grin spreads across her face. “You’re going to survive for years, and I get my hamburger meat.”

With alarming efficiency, they rolled you onto a cart, positioning you on your left side before transporting you to the butcher room. The atmosphere turned oppressive as they halted next to the menacing meat grinder.

“Hey, cow! Do you recall this?” she teased, brandishing one of your severed legs with barely concealed glee. “Guess what’s next?” The meat grinder roared to life as she plunged your leg into its ferocious maw. “No need to fret about the bone; this machine does the separating. It saves us so much time!”

Before your eyes, the mechanical beast churned your flesh into a grotesque pile of ground meat, while the bone emerged separately, transformed into unrecognizable fragments. After a quick sip of blood dribbled from her lips, she casually tossed in your second leg.

“Now you can’t escape,” she smirked, her eyes gleaming with malice. “This will be your new home, and you’ll be quite busy. We’re going to milk you, and you’ll serve as a toy for our workers, providing comfort and pleasure to those in need.”

They lifted you from the cart and positioned you on a platform, forcing you into a doggie-style stance. “Those stump cuffs will be fastened to the platform tightly, and we’ll secure your wrists with these cuffs,” she announced, the sound of metal clinking signaling your inevitable submission. A horizontal bar was placed across your chest, just above your breasts, designed to keep you upright and vulnerable.

With a satisfied grin, she declared, “Welcome to your new role as our living statue!”

‘So you can continue breaking records, you will be screwed continuously in the cunt and the ass by these electrosex probes.  So it won’t be boring, the intensity and rhythm will change.  And don’t worry.  They’re easily removable by our employees.’  Cunt girl continues to smile.  The probes are inserted and turned on.  ‘At least I got a few minutes of rest’ you acknowledge.

‘They are now inserting a catheter which will drain your bladder continuously.  As far as the ass goes, it will be rinsed out every other day.  But considering what you will be eating, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that end.  What they are doing to you now is snaking down the feeding tube to the stomach.  The wire gag is needed to prevent you from biting down on the tube.  It also pushes down on the tongue.  You might be able to make noises, but talk – no.’   Cunt girl gives your nipples a squeeze.

‘And we will be milking your breast with these suction milkers’ as cunt girl shows you one of the mikers.  ‘They might hurt at first, but you will get use to them.’  She places a milker over a nipple, it sucks what feels to be your whole breast into its tube.  ‘This milker also stimulates your nip to complete the sexual experience.  Cunt.  Ass.  Nip.  The only time the milkers will be taken off is when I want to play with those sexy boobs.’

Cunt girl describes some of the other IV’s being inserted ending with her favorite.  ‘And this IV is for my daily dose of your blood.  It drains into a chilled container on the platform.  So, the question of the day.  Where to put you first…’

Several hours later you are at the doors to the elevators, being milked.  An occasion visitor gives you a quick screw before entering an elevator.  Almost everybody gives your ass a feel.

Suddenly cunt girl appears dragging a chair behind her, carrying a bag.  She sits right in front of you, her and her devilish smile.  Unpacking the bag, she removes something and begins to unwrap it.  It’s a hamburger.

‘My favorite cow.  How are we doing today?  Stiff you say?  Guess what I have here?  You guessed it.  It’s a hamburger made from your meat!  Want a taste?’