by Cecilia Tan
But anyway, back to Victoria. She’s pissed off at Ned because it took an awful lot of fancy footwork for her to get the week off from her job in the accounting department of the Silicon Valley computer firm where she and Ax-Murder work. In fact, it took more than one blowjob under her supervisor’s desk before he finally agreed to give her the week off. But she isn’t telling Ax-Murder that—after all, they’ve been going out for only two months since Ax-Murder’s wife left him for a Sausalito plastic surgeon and Leatherbitch’s boyfriend dumped her for a fourth-string runningback on the 49ers. This was Victoria’s chance, maybe her last chance to finally become something better than she was, something more dangerous and romantic and frightening and really hot. That’s why she adopted the name “Leatherbitch” and had it tattooed in cheesy Gothic lettering across her ass-cheeks (“Leather” on the left cheek and “Bitch” on the right) and just over her freshly-shaved pussy. She’d maxed out her credit cards buying skull-rings and death’s head jewelry as well as brand new chaps, boots, and other improbably leather accouterments, piercing her nipples and getting the tattoos at Dangerous Larry’s Biker Tattoo shop up in Hayward. The nipples had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. “You know no self-respecting biker lets his bitch go around without having her pierced, right?” Dangerous Larry himself had asked her that while his youngest apprentice, Reckless Fred, was finishing up the “Bitch” on Victoria’s right ass-cheek. Dangerous Larry was a portly sexagenarian with a vast number of tattoos so faded as to be totally unreadable—the number of his tattoos rivaled only by the amount and thickness of his body hair, all of which probably would have added up to about one-third of Larry’s body weight if he were to have been stripped, shaved, and weighed, a job no one was volunteering for. Reckless Fred, on the other hand, looked like if he had been born 20 years earlier he could have gotten kicked out of Sex Pistols for having an attitude problem and no fashion sense.
“Huh!” snorted Dangerous Larry and then spat on the floor of his shop. “If you were my bitch, I’d have your pussy pierced and lead you around on a leash.”
“Really?” Victoria asked naively, gulping and then giggling. “I’m kind of new to this. My boyfriend’s one of the Murderous Torturers. You think he’d like that?”
“Those pansies? Then you better make it your nipples. Those limp-wrists are all a bunch of faggots, so he’ll never get to see your pussy.”
Victoria reluctantly agreed to get her nipples pierced, and surprised Ned with it that very night. Of course she also let Ned know that Dangerous Larry had ratfucked the Torturers.
Boy, was that bastard Larry sorry. Late that night Ax-Murder Ned, Cannibal George from Customer Service and Rotary Saw Dan from Corporate Accounts busted their way into Dangerous Larry’s tattoo parlor. By the time they roared off into the night, they had not only Larry’s water cooler, but the microwave and autoclave from the back room. The three fearsome bikers dragged Dangerous Larry’s appliances through the streets of Hayward, proving to all who witnessed the display of raw violence that to ratfuck the Torturers is to flirt with disaster.
“Maybe they’ll have a phone,” grumbles Ax-Murder Ned as he knocks on the huge iron-shod door. He’s in a piss-off himself mostly because now the fine Humboldt weed in his vest pocket is soaked-and he could really use a doob right about now.
Victoria shoots back with “They fucking well better,” and then, under her breath, “or I’ll make them sorry!” She gets unbelievably bitchy when she’s cold and wet.
They hear footsteps from inside. The door creaks slowly open.
In the doorway stands a diminutive black-haired wraith, college age and pretty, perhaps five feet tall and eighty pounds, about half of it in her enormous tits. She’s wearing a simple, short black dress and a black leather corset, and every protruding part of her anatomy is pierced.
“You rang?” she asked.
“Well no, I knocked,” mutters Ned. “I’m Ax-Murder... uh, I’m Ned, and this is my wife, uh, girlfriend Victoria—”
“The name is Leatherbitch,” cuts in Victoria, extending her hand. The diminutive wraith-girl shakes Victoria’s hand weakly. “And I’m not his girlfriend.” She leans forward and whispers conspiratorially in a stage whisper: “I don’t date men who forget to pay their cell-phone bills.”
“Of course,” says the wraith girl with a wry smile. “Nor would I. You’re quite wet, please, won’t you come in? My name is Angelique. But you may call me Miss DiMonŽ.”
“Whoa, cool name,” says Ax-Murder Ned, quickly and nervously, as if trying to impress Miss DiMonŽ. “My name’s really Ax-Murder. Ned is just a nickname.”
Angelique ignores Ned and says softly “Come with me.”
Leatherbitch shoots Ned an evil glare telling him to stay three steps behind her, and she follows Angelique into the depths of the castle.
“’Scuzzi Moi,” mutters Ned under his breath, which only brings an exponentially more-evil glare from Victoria.
Ned stops for a minute and cocks his head-he could have sworn he heard a scream. There it is again! Ned shrugs and follows the two women.
The three of them reach a large drawing room richly-furnished with Victorian antiques and decorated with tapestries, red velvet being the dominating theme. Angelique turns to regard the two visitors as another scream echoes through the room.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” sighs Angelique. “The Mayor is paying us a visit.” She says that as if it’s supposed to explain the screams, which to Ax-Murder and Leatherbitch it just doesn’t.
Angelique sits down in a high-backed red velvet armchair and begins to stroke the arms quite suggestively. Both Victoria and Ned are watching her hands, and Ned immediately grows a woody in his skintight leather pants. Victoria’s seething rage softens and her knees wobble a bit as she watches.
“Oh, but I’m being rude,” says Angelique with a smile. “Perhaps you would like to take off those wet clothes.”
“Oh yes, that would be great,” says Victoria. “I’d really appreciate that.”
“Well, certainly,” said Angelique with an appropriately devilish smile. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Victoria just stands there for an instant, feeling the heat and weight of Angelique’s gaze on her breasts, which are largely revealed through the skintight leather bustier she bought at Be A Biker in the Westpoint Mall in Santa Clara. The salesgirl talked her into buying it three sizes too small, so it doesn’t hide much, and she can feel her nipples straining to poke through.
“Like I said,” growls Angelique, her mouth still twisted in a smile but her voice radiating cold menace. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Victoria feels her face flushing hot, which she realizes in an instant is totally inappropriate behavior for someone named Leatherbitch. “Uh... do you have a room somewhere... like a bedroom or something... where we could get some privacy? And maybe some clothes we could throw on?”
“Hey, is this real velvet?” asks Ned, inspecting one of the couches as if this were an estate sale.
Angelique throws back her head and cackles wildly.
“There is no privacy for guests of the Doctor!!” With that, she touches a hidden button in the armchair, and immediately several tapestries vanish with a faint whoosh. In an instant, perhaps a dozen young women clad in black leather jumpsuits appear all around the two guests. Then suddenly a black sack is thrown over each head and bound tight, while lightning-fast hands work the shackles around wrists and ankles before the two guests can even start to struggle. And at the moment that both Victoria and Ned realize they should be struggling, they realize that they have been totally immobilized. The two shackled captives are hoisted by three leathergirls apiece.
“Take them to the laboratory!” shrieks Angelique, pronouncing the word, predictably enough, with the accent on the second syllable. “The Doctor is waiting!”
Now, there is no mistaking the screams which fill the two visitors ears as they are carried through the sliding panels, which then disappe
ar with a single hiss—leaving Angelique alone with her delighted laughter in the richly-furnished room. In fact, she laughs so hard she starts to cry and feels vaguely nauseous, like she might toss a few cookies.
“Leatherbitch indeed,” Angelique sobs, dabbing tears out of the corner of her eyes with a black lace handkerchief. “We’ll see, we’ll see.” That just sets off a new paroxsysm of laughter, which Angelique works desperately to stifle as she leaps out of the chair and hurries for the staircase.
Victoria and Ned are carried through what must be miles of corridors, ever down, down, deeper into the bowels of the mountain. They pass torture chamber after torture chamber, hearing the screams and wails of the Doctor’s unfortunate captives.
“No, no, Nurse, not an enema! Anything but that!”
“Officer, officer, I swear I’ll never smoke crack again! But please, don’t tell my parole officer!!”
“Madame Supervisor! That can’t be—an egg beater? Nnnnnnnnoooooo!!!”
That last one had to be the mayor—Victoria was sure of it. She recognized his voice from the evening news. Not that it was a surprise, really, she always figured the smug weasel was probably corrupt as hell and needed a good thrashing.
“Look here,” Ned is mumbling into the sack over his head. “I don’t know where it came from! We picked up a hitchhiker, see? A hitchhiker on the bike, and he just asked me if I would hold this oregano for him, in my vest pocket, so like, it didn’t blow away, and I figured, hey, what’s so important about oregano, but I said, sure—”
“Shut up!” shouts one of the leather-clad girls, and whacks Ned so hard on the ass with a ping-pong paddle that he actually does shut up, except for a faintly-moaned, pathetic “Owwwwwwwwwww.”
Victoria, unable to think of anything to say, is just squirming in the iron grasp of the leathergirls. Secretly, she’s glad she wore clean underwear.
Finally they have reached the torture chamber. Victoria and Ned are dragged inside and before they know it their shackles have been yanked over their heads. They are bound to a side-by-side pair of whipping posts, facing outward.
The sacks over their heads are removed, and the two blink into the lights of a brightly lit room, furnished in white. It looks like some kind of a medical facility. Victoria gasps as she gets a look at the giant machine in the center of the laboratory—a complicated array of shining silver metal with black fixtures—and numerous portruding implements.
“What the fuck is that?” murmurs Victoria.
“Quiet!” snaps one of the leathergirls, putting the ping-pong paddle to use so that Victoria gasps and falls silent. “The Doctor is here!”
In this position, Victoria is incredibly uncomfortable. Her chaps are so skin-tight that she can hardly move in the best of times, and it feels like the rain might even have shrunk them again. She can feel the uncomfortable twists of the skimpy cut-off Levi shorts she’s wearing under the chaps, and the tiny G-string underneath. Well, the salesgirl at Be A Biker said all the biker chicks wear G-strings!
Meanwhile, Ned is just staring, wide-eyed, at the black-clad figure who has entered the laboratory. His mouth drops open in amazement at her beauty. One of the leathergirls takes this moment to ram a dildo-shaped gag into Ned’s open mouth and buckle it to the whipping post so that his head is immobilized.
The Doctor stands there, her wasp-waisted hourglass figure mesmerizing both Ned and Victoria. The slit in her full-length dress reveals her delicious leg right up to the thigh. Ned definitely has a woody now, and it’s quite plainly evident through his tight leather pants.
“Listen,” says Victoria nervously. “He already told you, we didn’t know it was weed.”
The Doctor throws back her head and laughs evilly. “Allow me to introduce myself,” she says, her voice dripping with wicked menace. “I am Dr. Lascivia Blonde, the owner of this castle. And you have arrived on a very important night. I am about to perform an... experiment. It was so kind of you to volunteer.”
“Volunteer?” asks Victoria, her eyes wide as she feels her libido stirring at the sight of Dr. Blonde. Now this is who I should be like, Victoria is thinking to herself. This chick is a lot more bad-ass than any fucking biker slut! Pierce my pussy indeed! She thinks of Dangerous Larry and the brutal consequences of his ratfucking the Torturers, and how she brought him to justice. She feels a little quiver underneath the cut-off Levi’s.
“That’s right, Mr. ‘Ax-Murder.’ Miss ‘Leather Bitch,’” Lascivia offers a contemptuous sneer. “We’ll see how tough you two wimps really are. I’ve devised a new prototype-a full-service machine for inflicting human pleasure. With or without the cooperation of the receiver.” She laughs with pleasure.
“This chick is crazy,” Ned tries to say, but it comes out as “Mmmmm Wwwwww Nnnnnnn Vvvvvvvv” through the dildo-shaped gag filling his mouth.
Victoria is thinking the same thing.
“We’re going to see just how far your ecstasy will take you—or if my machine can truly break you. We’re going to see how much pleasure you can stand... until you beg for mercy.”
With that, Lascivia gives the order:
“Strip them!”
And the leathergirls set mercilessly to work.
They remove first Victoria’s bustier, which is strapless and therefore easily dispensed with, revealing Victoria’s erect and freshly-pierced nipples, which two of the leathergirls immediately set to work on with their mouths, eliciting moans from Victoria’s lips. Ned’s leather vest is somewhat more trouble, so the girls merely leave that hanging open as they unfasten his leather pants and quickly pull them down.
Ned’s prick has stuffed its way right through the fly of his jockeys, and his hard-on bounces freely before the leathergirls.
“Want to play, little boy?” chuckles one of the girls as she grabs Ned’s cock and gives it a vicious squeeze. “We’ll see just how much that big dick of yours can take!” The girls get Ned’s leather pants off and produce knives from holsters in their combat boots. The knives flash, and Ned’s jockeys drop away in tatters, leaving him nude except for his knee-high motorcycle boots and the black leather vest with his colors on the back.
Ned is unshackled and dragged away from the whipping post as the leathergirls finish with Victoria. Her nipples are now fully-erect and glisten with the leathergirls’ saliva. Her skin is flushed with arousal and her pussy is beginning to moisten. Her chaps, being set up to breakaway, would be easily taken off, but no one bothers, since the cut-off Levi’s are made short work of by the leathergirls’ flashing knives. This leaves Victoria wearing only a G-string and her girlie, pointy-toed biker-slut boots from the mall. And when her G-string is quickly sliced away, her naked pussy is displayed, smooth-shaven and pink.
“Not only nipple rings, but a nice, shaved pussy,” laughs Dr. Blonde. “Always be prepared in case you’re in an accident, my Mother always taught me! Wear clean underwear and shave your twat, she always said!”
Victoria turns bright red and begins to blurt an explanation. “Look, the girl in the biker shop—you know, at the mall—she said all the biker chicks shave their pussies, you know? I just wanted—”
“Silence!” shrieks Dr. Blonde. “Strap her to the machine! It is time for the experiment!”
The two helpless captives are dragged across the brightly-lit laboratory and shown the machine in close quarters while each being kept in a headlock by a leathergirl.
“My assistants are all martial arts experts, as you no doubt noticed,” clucks Dr. Blonde pleasantly. “It is useless to even think about struggling against them!”
Victoria’s and Ned’s eyes are opened wide as they take in the complicated machine in the center of the lab. It looks kind of like two motorcycles had a head-on collision, but instead of being smashed they fused together. But then someone went around the resulting mechanical mess and super-glued on a bunch of forks, pincers, restraints, straps, padlocks, electrical contacts and—Victoria isn’t quite sure, but they certainly look like it—big r
ubber dildos in strategic places.
“Oh my,” whimpers Victoria. She’s heard about such things, and she figures if she were a real biker chick she would own about a dozen of them. But of course she isn’t a real biker chick, so she’s never even dreamed about using one.
Well, maybe she’s dreamed about it a couple of times. More than a couple. But she never would have imagined—
“Strap them in!” cackles Lascivia. “And let’s begin our little experiment without delay. Science must march on!!”
The two captives quickly discover that Dr. Blonde was telling the truth about the leathergirls—their expertise in martial arts makes struggling pointless. Or maybe it’s that neither Victoria nor Ned really wanted to struggle, and so their efforts are less than wholehearted.
“No, no, no,” Victoria is muttering weakly as the leathergirls force her onto the machine and then strap her limbs into the restraints. They lock her in with bright-chrome padlocks. Victoria realizes that one of those horrible dildo-things is positioned on some sort of a hydraulic arm mere inches from her pussy.
Which, Victoria realizes with dismay, feels oddly warm and liquid at the moment.
“Please, please please,” moans Ned, but it is unclear to the leathergirls, Dr. Blonde, Victoria and himself whether he means “Please yes” or “please no,” for his dick is still hard and throbbing. So everyone ignores him. The leathergirls force his prick into a black plastic sleeve which clamps down in three sections around the base of his cock, his balls, and the head of his dick. Ned, too, is padlocked into the restraints so he is as fully immobile.
Both of them moan uncontrollably as the leathergirls set about attaching all the remaining parts of the machine to its unfortunate victims. First there are the dildos, of course, positioned in several interesting places for both Victoria and Ned. Then there are the rubber and metal clamps on the nipples and the electrodes on Victoria’s clit. Beyond that, neither victim can classify the bizarre and varied items which seem elegantly poised to poke and prod their flesh.
