Rancho Diablo

by Michael O'Connor

  “We’re running to a tight schedule,” the visitor answered. “I need two of your finest gals, to ship out tonight, to a client in the Middle East. A very rich and very important client. Big asses and big tits - those are his main specifications.”

  “We have just what you’re looking for,” Troy said, leading him towards the corral.

  Three hooded Masters herded the slaves into line, using electric cattle prods on those who did not move fast enough. The fat man carefully inspected each girl, like a rancher at a fair. It took him only a few moments to decide on Paula, the plump new arrival, and a fifteen stone blonde with a butterfly tattoo on both enormous breasts.

  “We’ve had that one nearly two months,” Troy confided. “I was beginning to think we’d never get rid of her.”

  “You can always get rid of ‘em,” the Texan drawled. “One way or another. How old are you, girl?”

  “Twenty, Sir,” the buxom blonde replied.

  He smacked her branded cheek, then turned to his associates. “Boys, get these two into the van and tie ‘em up good. Troy, you step this way and I’ll write you a cheque.”

  The three men in suits hooded and handcuffed the terrified captives, then bundled them into the back of the van. They were gagged with ropes, their ankles tied, then a tarpaulin was thrown over them, completely hiding them from outside view. One of the men remained with them. The other two sat in the front of the van.

  Pocketing his cheque, Troy warmly shook the Texan’s hand.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, J.D., as always.”

  “I’ll be back this way again,” the fat man promised. “It’s a boom time for the slave trade, so you just keep on collecting those pretty gals.”

  Troy was tempted to tell him about the twins, certain he would be unable to resist them. He decided against it. For the moment, he preferred to keep them for himself.

  After J.D. and his men had driven away, Troy lined up the slaves, for their daily inspection. Even the new arrivals were already familiar with the drill. As one body, they bent over and touched their toes, offering up branded buttocks and shaven slits for inspection. As he walked along the line, carefully and intimately scrutinising each slave in turn, his cane cracked against his right boot. No inspection ever passed without one unfortunate being singled out for punishment, regardless of whether or not she had committed any offence. Today, Troy chose a girl at the far end of the line. She was a slightly built, almost bony nineteen year old, with a boyishly flat chest and curly brown hair that reached her buttocks.

  “You’ve been talking mutiny, I’m reliably informed,” he accused her, stroking the petals of her sex with the tip of his cane.

  “No, Sir!” she cried, appalled. “I would never do that.”

  The cane whacked her pussy, eliciting a squeal of pain.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Troy barked. “You talked to that frigid bitch. She was in the stall next to yours. You told her she could have her freedom back. Told her she would have to escape quickly, before she was sold.”

  He was referring to the redhead from the six recent arrivals, who had managed to escape, the previous night. The fault had been Logans. Reeling from the effects of too much tequila, he had taken the slave from her stall, with the intention of raping her in the yard, as was the right of any Master. But she had not been long enough on the ranch for her resistance to be completely broken. Seeing an opportunity, with no other Masters in sight, she had kneed her captor in the groin and made a break for the gate. By the time Logan had managed to raise the alarm, she was gone.

  At the crack of dawn, he and two hooded Masters had set off on horseback, to hunt down the escapee. One of the rules of Rancho Diablo decreed that no Master was to be held responsible for the error of his ways, in the business of slave handling for personal pleasure. A slave would always be punished for the sins of her captors.

  “I never spoke to her, I swear!” the thin girl cried.

  Troy suspected she was telling the truth, but it did not matter either way. When the escapee was recaptured, as she undoubtedly would, her punishment would be of the utmost severity. In the meantime, he could indulge his wrath on this helpless creature. He instructed his men to place her on the gallows, in readiness to be dealt with. Then, he commanded the other slaves to stand to attention.

  “Our foolish runaway will not get far,” he boomed. “She has no food, no clothes, no money. In short, no chance. When she is brought back, you will all see how those who rebel against their Masters are dealt with.”

  With that, he turned on his heels and swaggered from the corral, towards the terrified girl who was being secured to the gallows. Her arms were raised high above her head, the noose drawn tightly around her elbows. Kurt and two hooded Masters stood back, bullwhips at the ready.

  “Four lashes each,” said Troy. “Make every one count. I want this bitch to be heard screaming a mile away.”

  He kicked up the wooden latch and the trapdoor fell open, leaving the screaming slave dangling by her arms. Kurt rolled up his sleeves, uncoiled his whip and sliced the warm air, with an expert flick of his right wrist. The lash burned bright red across both thighs and the girl howled at the top of her voice. As soon as he was finished, the hooded men took their turns. Each explosive lash was rewarded with a full blooded cry of pain. Troy went last, concentrating his four lashes on her buttocks, the whip making her dance like a marionette on the gallows.

  “Toilet duty for you today,” he told the sobbing girl, when she had been taken down from the gallows, prodding her rear cleft with the spiked toe of his right boot. “Better do an exceptional job, unless you want much more of the same.”

  The task she had been assigned was the most demeaning of all slave duties. Each captive had an iron bucket in her stall, which had to be emptied each morning, then cleaned. Troy always took great pleasure in selecting a slave for this unpleasant task.

  “Thank you, Sir,” the whipped girl whimpered, crawling towards the barn.

  A sadistic kickstart to the day always gave Troy a healthy appetite. He returned to the ranch house, where Zoe had his breakfast ready. While he ate, she crouched on all fours beneath the table and polished his boots with her tongue. Afterwards, she was permitted to eat her own breakfast, from a dog bowl on the kitchen floor. Troy lit a cigar and contemplated a most promising day ahead. He had sold two slaves and whipped another, before breakfast. Before lunch, he confidently expected to be meting out justice to the recaptured escapee.

  The three riders did not actually return until late that afternoon, with the dazed and exhausted redhead stumbling behind. She was tied to the saddle of Logan’s black stallion, one rope attached to the halter around her throat, the other binding her wrists tightly together, stretching her arms out before her. Dressed in his Master’s uniform of cape and loincloth, Troy emerged from the ranch house to greet them. Zoe crawled behind him, collared to the chain gripped tightly in his right fist. A black rubber ball gag was stuffed into her mouth and held in place by a steel clip on her lower lip.

  “She got further than we expected,” Logan said, dismounting. “A few more hours and she’d have made it to the highway.”

  “Wouldn’t have done her much good if she had,” Troy replied. “The cops would probably have picked her up and had a bit of fun with her, before bringing her back. Or maybe they’d just get rid of her somewhere. Give you any trouble?”

  “There’s no fight left in this one,” Logan answered. “I think she was almost glad we found her. The great outdoors is a scary place for a city girl.”

  The exhausted slave was coated in sweat and dust. Her legs were covered in bloody scratches from brambles and rocks. She slumped to her knees, chest heaving, and regarded her Masters with a mixture of fear and resignation.

  “Did you really think you could escape?” Troy sneered. “There’s no escape from s
lavery, you dumb bitch. Don’t you know what that brand on your ass signifies?”

  “Yes..... Sir,” she croaked.

  “Tell me what it means,” he demanded.

  “I am your property, Sir.”

  “Bought and paid for,” he added. “I don’t buy slaves, in order to let them run away whenever they feel like it. You have committed a crime against Rancho Diablo, for which you will now pay dearly. Take her to the hill.”

  “No, please, have mercy on me!” she wailed.

  She must have known her pleas would fall upon deaf ears, but she still cried out, as she was dragged behind Kurt’s horse, across the rough ground that peeled the skin from her knees. Tugging on Zoe’s leash, Troy dragged her along in the small procession towards a nearby hill, on top of which stood a high wooden cross. Zoe saw her sister watching her from behind the barbed wire. The gag prevented her from even returning her smile.

  At the foot of the hill, a makeshift altar had been erected, in preparation for the runaway’s punishment.

  “Observe and learn,” Troy told Zoe, securing her chain to a hook in the trunk of a tree.

  Turning to the escapee, sprawled face down in the dirt, he drew the knife from his boot sheath. Sunlight glinted on the blade, as he wrenched her to her knees by the hair and held the knife before her face.

  “Oh God, no, please don’t kill me!” she begged.

  “You’ll soon wish I had,” he replied.

  With deft slashes of the razor sharp blade, he cut away the young woman’s flowing locks. She wept, as the hair piled around her knees. Within minutes, only a ragged crew cut covered her scalp. A hooded Master stood ready with a battery operated sheep shearer, which took care of the remainder of her hair, leaving only a dark stubble. Troy then took a silver crown from the altar. This was made of chrome plated iron and lined with brambles. He placed it on the freshly shorn head of the slave. She shuddered, as the thorns pricked her scalp.

  “The Titty Devil,” Troy demanded, holding out his right hand.

  Logan handed him the required instrument from the altar. The Titty Devil was a fiendish contraption Troy himself had devised, for use in the torture of well endowed women. A steel bar with two U bends was fitted under the slave’s breasts and held in place by a chain around her neck. A second, matching bar was fitted to the uppers of her breasts. Three iron bolts were pushed down through the holes in the bars, one on either side and one in the centre. Wing nuts were attached to the ends of the bolts and tightened, until the slave’s breasts were clamped tightly between the bars, swelling like a pair of pink balloons.

  Next, a pair of iron cups was added. These creations of a Master sadist had tiny metal spikes on the inside and holes through which the captive’s nipples could protrude. They fitted the redhead so perfectly, they might have been made for her. She wept in agony, as the spikes gouged the flesh of her breasts. Troy secured the cups in place with a leather strap at the back. Kurt was holding a pair of nipple clamps at the ready. Troy dismissed them, with a wave of his hand.

  “This is a crucifixion,” he growled. “Pass me the nail gun.”

  Kurt did as instructed. Troy pulled the woman’s right nipple between thumb and forefinger, pressed the muzzle of the nail gun against it and squeezed the trigger. A three inch metal bolt skewered the brown nipple. Troy shot a second nail through the left, withdrew both nails and threaded two large silver hoops through the nipple holes. The hoops were joined by a chain, which hung low over the captive’s belly.

  The halter around her throat was removed and two hooded Masters hauled her to her feet. Holding an arm each, they dragged her up the hill, to the foot of the cross. Troy followed.

  “The slave shall be anointed, before she is risen,” he announced, raising his loincloth.

  Urine sprayed from the slit of his stiffening cock, over the head and face and into the mouth and eyes of the condemned woman. When his bladder was empty, he ordered her to be raised. Realising only then the true horror of her fate, she began a last desperate struggle against her captors. But her remaining strength was that of a child. The two hooded Masters raised her onto their shoulders and carried her up the nine wooden steps, to the top of the cross. From this vantage point, the grim panorama of Rancho Diablo spread out before her. Even had her vision not been blurred by tears, she would not have appreciated the view.

  The head of the cross was carved into a phallus, nine inches long and as thick as a man’s forearm. It had been greased earlier and glistened in the bright sunlight. The captive uttered one last cry for mercy, the plaintive sound reaching the ears of the slaves huddled in the corral, far below.

  She might just as well have begged to Satan himself. The two men held her above the cross like a trophy, gripping her spread thighs. At a nod from Troy, they lowered her onto the head of the wooden phallus. Two pairs of hands forced her down onto it, opening her so completely that every muscle of her lower body screamed in protest. The base of the phallus tapered outwards into two sleek curves that blended into the horizontal pole. The captive came to rest on these, with the crown of the cross buried deep in her belly.

  Her ankles and thighs were secured to the horizontal pole by strands of barbed wire wound around them, just tightly enough to pierce her flesh. She lurched drunkenly on top of the cross, but was in no danger of falling off. She would remain there until Troy decided to take her down.

  A long hook was attached to the chain dangling from her nipple rings and an iron bucket hung from it, swinging two feet above the ground. To prevent her leaning forward to take the weight off her stretched nipples, her wrists were tied behind her back and the rope knotted to an iron stake driven into the ground. Secured in this fashion, her power of movement was severely limited.

  Troy inserted a two inch wide hollow black rubber dildo in her rectum and pinned the testicle shaped attachments to her buttocks, with the two protruding tiny gold spikes. By then, she was near delirious with pain and certain it no longer mattered what they did to her. But Troy had yet to administer the coup de grace. Logan handed him a hammer and four long, sharp horseshoe nails. He climbed the steps to the top of the cross and leaned over the captive.

  “Did you ever imagine such pain?” he asked, quietly.

  “Please ... stop ... this,” she croaked.

  The Masters looked up, in eager expectation.

  “I’m almost finished,” Troy promised.

  The pink folds of her labia were stretched over the tapering bar of the phallic cross head. Holding the remaining three nails between his teeth, Troy pressed the point of one against the flesh of a nether lip and drew back the hammer.

  “No!”

  The only word she could manage emerged as a strangled cry. The hammer fell, metal striking metal. The nail impaled her tender pussy flesh and sank into the timber beneath. A second blow struck it fully home, leaving only the rectangular head protruding from the captive’s pussy. It took her a few seconds to react to the unspeakable agony, but when the scream did reach her lips, it was a bloodcurdling sound. To Troy, it was sweet soul music. He hammered a second nail close to the first, then used the last two to nail the opposite side of her labia to the cross.

  “Consider yourself crucified,” he told her, before climbing down the steps.

  “There she stays, until noon tomorrow,” he told the others. “She can have one meal of dry bread and water, but otherwise, she is not to be interfered with in any way.” He turned to Zoe and leered. “One day, my sweet thing, that could be you. Remember it, should you ever feel any rebellious urges.”

  Zoe felt sickened by what she had just witnessed. Even by the standards of her own treatment at the hands of Troy, the punishment visited upon the runaway was shockingly barbaric. She vowed there and then never to give them reason to do that to her.

  One by one, the slaves were led to the foot of the cross, to vie
w the bleeding and weeping figure impaled upon it. The savage punishment was intended not just as a lesson for the runaway. While she stood before the cross, each appalled slave was ordered to urinate into the bucket hanging from the victim’s nipples. By the time the twentieth pilgrim reached the vessel, it was already overflowing. The nipples of the crucified woman were stretched to such an extent, they seemed in danger of being ripped clean away from her breasts.

  As she walked towards the hill, Jenna stole a sideways glance at her sister. Zoe was still tied to the tree and sprawled face down in the dirt. Troy had his right foot planted on the small of her back and was smoking a cigar. A bullwhip sliced the air and Jenna’s tender buttocks.

  “Keep your eyes on the cross,” Troy barked. “Unless you wish to join her.”

  Jenna shuddered, as she gazed up at the pathetic figure. She made a silent vow that she would hang on no cross. When she made her bid for freedom, she did not intend to let herself be recaptured.

  Chapter 5

  Word of the beautiful twins in the herd of Rancho Diablo travelled quickly through the slave trading grapevine. They had been in captivity only a fortnight, when Troy received a call from a client he knew only as the Pirate.

  “I shall be setting sail for the Caribbean, at the end of this month,” he said, in his unmistakable gravelly voice. “I’m assembling a crew of six young girls, to tend to all my needs on the voyage. I’m prepared to pay a handsome sum for your twins, provided they’re as beautiful as I’m led to believe.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” Troy promised. “May I ask what you intend to do with them at the end of the voyage?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Of course not. Forget I asked.”

  “Let’s just say they’ll be taken care of,” the Pirate replied. “Now, to business. What is your price for these girls?”

  “A hundred thousand for the pair,” Troy answered.

  “That’s the price of an entire crew,” said the Pirate.