Retaliation

by Jurgen von Stuka

  “Put him on the octopus,” Melinda said without missing a beat.

  Silence overtook the room. No one spoke until the Chief Technology Officer, Penny Long, spoke up: “May I respectfully suggest that this may not be a good idea. It’s still experimental, Doctor. I’m not sure we want to test it quite yet.”

  “Now is the time and ex mayor, Phil Jackson is the person to do it,” Melinda said. “Get it ready. Put him in solo, category five restraints and have that thing ready for demo by Thursday. Okay, Penny? I really don’t care if it takes this asshole apart piece by piece, but it’s perfect for someone guilty of the crimes he’s committed against the people.”

  Jackson, who had just won a second term the week before he disappeared, had been caught forcibly raping a newly appointed high school teacher. The press got hold of it, but the city’s wholly corrupt governmental system quickly moved to hush the whole thing up. The administration had enough dirt on every judge and prosecutor in the county to be able to threaten and blackmail them all over the mayor’s “minor indiscretions” as they called it. That was when The Switch teams moved in and Jackson disappeared…forever. He now occupied a damp cage in the firm’s suburban cellars, a huge cock up his ass and one in his mouth, his nipples ringed and chained to the floor and his neck collared in steel. The politician of course knew nothing of what had happened. The Switch protocols assured that he would not know anything further until the time was right, preferably after he had undergone a complete gender change and reeducation. As a charitable move, Melinda had quietly asked the rape victim if she would like to have a bit of revenge on Jackson before the Switch team took over. Surprisingly, the young woman, just out of teacher’s college and a bit more cosmopolitan than many of her peers, immediately agreed.

  “What would you like to do with him,” Melinda asked Donna, a good looking and athletic brunette.

  “I’d prefer to treat him as I would a misbehaving kid. A good spanking followed by a strap on his sorry ass.”

  “I think we can accommodate that,” said Melinda. “We’ll put him in the Whine Cellar. One of my favorite places for contemplation. My staff will prepare him and then you can have the room as long as you want. The only caveat is that you don’t kill him. Tan his ass and any other parts you want. If you need him repositioned, press the bell and the crew will come in and help reset him. I suggest you work the back sides first and then we’ll flip him over and let you perk up the front. Okay?”

  “Great,” the teacher said with an evil grin. “I have a pair of gloves my daddy, who was a cop, gave to me. I think they’ll work just fine for openers. Call me when he’s ready, please. And thanks. This means a lot to me. I have imagined revenge since that day in the gym. I never thought I’d get it.”

  “Get the asshole prepped for the experience of his life,” Melinda ordered. “Make sure you have it all properly archived and then ship hard copies and dupe disks to the usual storage resources.”

  Years before she engineered Hank’s demise, Melinda set up a network of secret storage facilities both domestic and international. The sole purpose of these hidden safe houses was to securely store for decades if necessary, records and graphics that were hard evidence of misdeeds carried out by criminals and government officials. From time to time, Melinda needed to delve into these achieves and provide uncooperative groups and individuals with the reminders of their past misdeeds. It always worked. On occasions, some foolish targets of her reminders took it upon themselves to order Melinda’s termination and the destruction of the incriminating evidence.

  The outcome of these foolish plots was always the same. The individuals involved disappeared entirely or had serious accidents that rendered them senseless and without memory. It helped that Melinda’s father and older brother were well known, but silent underworld characters who provided the resources to eliminate anyone from the head of a government agency on up or down the tree, with little expense or inconvenience. Planes crashed, trains derailed, cars got squashed by busses and bigger trucks, medical personnel made serious mistakes in treatment and people sometimes just vanished forever. Daddy was always happy to help his celebrity surgeon daughter, no matter what or who it involved. Thus, vermin like Jackson were easily and happily dispatched or delivered based on Melinda’s whims.

  On the appointed day, Donna Winter arrived at The Switch’s offices and was led to the cellars where Phil Jackson was being kept. He was tightly tied to the “hitching post” with his legs spread wide and his offending luggage dangling enticingly in the open air where he was able to see them.

  “He’s all yours. Ring when you want to change the position or need help,” Melinda said. “Over there on the counter you’ll find an assortment of tools to assist you. I see you brought the gloves. Those are weighted, right?”

  “Weighted and also improved with a special palm. See this,” Donna said, opening the glove and displaying a leather palm covered with sharp metal studs.

  “Perfect,” said Melinda. “Make sure you show him that before you begin. Give him something to look forward to. Take your time. Do not release him under any conditions and push the emergency red button over there if he gives you and trouble. We will monitor your progress, but will not interfere unless you get into trouble. Have fun.”

  Jackson was quite surprised to see Donna Winter when she entered the soundproof room. He gurgled into the inflated rubber gag and shook his head, as though it probably hadn’t ever occurred to him that his victim would ever have the courage to face him again. A true politician, Jackson always assumed that once he carried out a rape, the victim would be too ashamed and intimidated to ever show up in court or any other confrontation. Now he was thinking otherwise.

  The first tool Donna chose was a sturdy fiberglass meter stick. She knew that it was almost indestructible and began by applying it to one of Jackson’s buttocks, one stroke every few seconds. When the one side was glowing beet red, Donna switched and delivered blow after blow to the other half of the ex mayor’s ass. Jackson howled, whimpered, screamed into the penis gag, tugging endlessly and without effect on his leather bindings while Donna intoned a long list of his crimes against her and other teachers at the county’s school.

  “The next four are for Connie La Grange,” Donna said, as she switched to a riding crop with an especially nasty leather loop on the end. The crop literally sizzled in the air as Donna applied one stroke at a time to Jackson’s now freely bleeding thighs.

  The climax of the session came after Melinda’s crew was summoned to the room and released the whimpering Jackson from the rail and retied him to a large wine barrel so that his beaten ass and thighs rubbed against the rough barrel surface and his already damaged cock and balls were well displayed between his spread thighs.

  “Have at it, Donna,” Melinda said as she left the room. Use the cork remover for some interesting effects.

  The Octopus was a joint venture, designed by Melinda and Penny, the CTO. Its functions were many and thus the name. Built from the floor up, in a secret, sealed room at the farm, the device had thus far only been tested on life-like dummies. The key function to this thing was that it would and could bring physical and mental distress to the victim for as long as his or her sanity allowed, while leaving little or no physical evidence. When finished, the victim would be a semi zombie and capable of whatever the training regimen of his treatment had imbedded in his tormented head. Among its primary functions was the ability to masturbate the victim endlessly while filling his/her mind with scenes and suggestions that made the entire idea of sex with anything, male, female or otherwise, a horrible experience. The goal was to render the subject incapable of any sort of sexual experience. Being jerked off hours at a time and drugged to the point where there was continuous pain and suffering, plus unrelenting sexual abuse, would, the designers hoped, leave them with a very malleable, empty-brained manikin of either sex, capable of doing whatever it was told to do, as long as it wasn’t sex.

  Strapped and secured wit
h chains to the huge, ugly machine, Phil Jackson persisted in threatening and disbelieving that anything serious would be done to him.

  His favorite retort when he wasn’t gagged was that Melinda and her crew would be fucked unless they let Jackson go at once. This kind of unlikely and unfounded threat simply served to drive his captors toward keeping the bastard’s mouth plugged along with his ass. When they dragged him to the subterranean room and began to attach Jackson to the machine, he slowly came to realize that his future was not as bright as he had once hoped. When the first tentacle of the thing was shoved unceremoniously up his ass so far that he feared it would come out of his throat, Jackson finally got the message. Whining and pleading into the cock gag in his mouth, he no longer threatened. When another tentacle when down his throat behind the gag, he became frantic, tugging and thrashing in his chains and straps. When they fitted the combination ball compressor and cock milker to his sweaty crotch, Jackson degenerated into a struggling mass of terrified man flesh.

  “Warm him up,” Melinda said to the three muscular young women who were busy attaching the machine’s other unoccupied mechanical arms to their victim. Two tentacles attached to the wrists and elbows of the subject, pulling the arms back and allowing no movement in any direction. Two more electro-mechanical arms clutched his legs at the ankle with another tentacle duo wrapped tightly around his lower thighs, just above the knees. With the two greasy remaining arms stuffed up his ass and throat, an observer might assume that the octopus was fully extended. Not so. From the center console of the thing, another slightly different, snake-like branch appeared and proceeded to wrap itself around the throat of the now nearly fear paralyzed victim.

  “Is there another arm or is that it,” asked Andrea, one of the ex mayor’s victims. She was a cute, twenty-something, single mother who had endured endless abuse from The Mayor before he forced her out of her public housing apartment.

  “Ah yes, there is. I mean, there are, Andrea,” Melinda said with a wide grin. “In fact, the beast has as many extensions as you would ever need. In this case, I can activate another that will, if so directed, literally tear off his dick, slowly, and painfully.”

  “Thanks, Doctor,” chirped Andrea. “I have a lot more revenge scheduled for this prick before we use that.” She selected a stiff willow cane from the basket on the wall and proceeded to slowly and accurately apply it to The Mayor’s exposed thighs and lower legs. Each careful stroke was accompanied by Andrea’s short narrative of what the stroke represented: the three a.m. raid by the mayor’s bully cops, the shutting down of her meager bank accounts, the threats to take away her two kids and put them up for sale in an orphanage, the repeated rapes in his honor’s plush offices and the illegal imprisonment in his private closet where he kept her for further sexual use.

  When Andrea was finished, the machine took over, reviving the tortured man and feeding him restorative substances through his ass probe and the thing down his throat. Andrea left the room and said she’d be back later to watch the next session. They left him there over night, in vicious and uncaring custody of the computer-driven machine.

  The next day, Cathy, another one of The Mayor’s victims, took over where Andrea left off, only this time she used a small version of the Cat-o-Nine Tales and concentrated on his puny, shrunken junk that dangled from the already whipped crotch and hung fully exposed in its wire cages for dick and balls.

  “Leave just enough for me to reconstruct for the next session,” Melinda told Cathy. “Don’t let him faint or bleed out, so call in the medics when it looks like time to revive him for more tomorrow.”

  “Delighted, Doctor,” said Cathy.

  The Octopus served many functions, but this kind of punishment was reserved for the worst offenders who already had, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, left the planet and were not scheduled to return.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chain Gang

  The occupant trainees at Melinda’s New York remedial education facilities were generally not difficult to control and maintain. Most of her acquisitions quickly succumbed to the unwanted attention paid to their sexual organs and accepted their fate. Only a few persisted in trying to escape or find some way out of this dead end situation they found themselves in. However, those who were repeatedly recalcitrant eventually wished they had not resisted and just gone with the flow. In one section of the farm, Melinda kept the Chain Gang. This unique assembly of recidivists lived together in squalor and extremely close proximity to each other since they were all joined by a single chain. What was truly unique was the manner in which the chains were attached to their bodies.

  Ned Gossen was one of the Gang’s members and every day he remembered how this came to be.

  A promising young bank executive in Zurich, Cossen made several mistakes, among them taking Natalie, Vice Direcktor Klaus Hefferman’s 19- year old daughter on a weekend river cruise without her father’s permission or knowledge. They shared a modest stateroom and bed on the river boat and decided that they would tell her father when they returned. As fate often intervenes in these matters, another couple who were bank customers saw the pair and noted, for their own future benefit, that this information might be useful in their banking transactions and relationship with the Vice Direcktor. A few weeks after the cruise, Hefferman summoned Gossen to his top floor office in the bank building.

  “You’ve been fucking my only daughter,” Hefferman said without prelude.

  Cossen cringed, knowing only too well that his future, and probably his life were hanging by a thread.

  “I intend to marry her,” he said. “We planned to ask your permission at once, sir.”

  “Oh, you did? Where was I?” Hefferman said.

  “I couldn’t get in to see you, Sir,” Cossen whined.

  “No matter, Cossen. You are, effective immediately, assigned to help open a new bank branch in Kozmanistan. You must leave immediately,” Hefferman said as he studied the young man standing nervously in front of him.

  Having no clue as to where Kozmanistan was, Gossen protested and then confessed his love for the man’s only daughter.

  “I’m aware of your relationship, Gossen. The entire sleazy history of it,” the VD said as he studied some documents on his massive desk. “You and Natalie should be planning a wedding when you get back from this assignment, don’t you think?”

  “Uh, yes. Of course, Sir. We hoped that that would be agreeable to you,” Gossen stammered.

  “Good,” said the VD, barely looking up from his papers. “This new job will last perhaps six months, assuming that the rag heads we have hired there are able to figure out how to run a branch profitably without dipping into the vault to fill their own sleazy pockets. When you return, I will consider your proposal to my daughter. My admin has your tickets. Goodbye, Ned.”

  Gossen gathered his few necessary possessions and rushed to the airport just in time to catch a late Lufthansa flight that took him to Frankfurt where he would have an overnight layover and then fly onward the next day on a flight with an airline he had never heard of.

  His hotel in the airport area was also a mystery to him, but a driver and car met him as he left the arrivals area and so he didn’t concern himself with exactly where he was going at that hour of the night. He never was heard from again, but the details of how Ned Cossen went from the private car at Frankfurt International to the Chain Gang on Melinda’s upstate New York country farm were no mystery to Natalie’s father who had arranged for his official demise. The private car simply dropped the somewhat bewildered young man off at the gate of a country estate a few kilometers northeast of the airport and drove away. Upon gaining entry, Gossen was accosted and subdued by three athletic young women who quickly stripped, gagged and bound him with wire, stuffed him into a fitted body bag and placed Cossen in a steel shipping container that made the trip back to FRA early the next morning. The container was consigned to an air freight flight that left before sun up and arrived nine hours la
ter at JFK International Airport in New York. US Customs scanned and passed the shipping container, said to hold furniture, and it was picked up within hours of arrival and taken to a transfer warehouse, then trucked onward to Melinda’s facility.

  It was several days later that Ned Cossen became lucid enough to realize that he was incarcerated in some sort of prison and was being forced to eat and swallow a ghastly diet of some sort of fiber material that resembled spaghetti, but was in one long strand. Once the process of convincing him, with some encouragement from a cattle prod, to eat this substance was accomplished, the string of material went down his throat and remained in his digestive system. No matter how he tried to cough it up, Ned found that he still had this string in his mouth and down his throat. Worse yet, he discovered, as he sat strapped into a heavy metal chair with his arms and legs secured to the chair’s sturdy frame, the string seemed to be getting thicker as it was forced down his throat. Cossen was being force-fed nutriments and liquids to ease the passage of the now ropelike fiber, but eventually his keepers substituted a well lubricated light chain for the rope and he was obliged to swallow that instead of the rope.

  To his horror after about thirty-six hours of this forced feeding, Cossen was also urged to expel the contents of his bowels, much as a dope mule was expected to expel the rubber balloons of cocaine from his body. Ned objected, but the addition of a strong laxative to his oral intake soon left him no choice and he discovered that there was a hole in the seat of his chair and a bucket intended to capture anything his body excreted. For a few more days, while Ned struggled uselessly in his bondage, a much larger and thicker chain was passed and by this time he was terribly aware that he now had this chain entering his mouth and exiting his rectum. That was when he finally gained a bit of enlightenment about where he was and why.

  “Ned, dear stupid Ned,” Melinda said to him early one morning when She had made a special arrangement to visit The Gang and to check on Ned’s progress. “You are, naturally, a bit concerned about your situation, I imagine?”