Rancho Diablo

by Michael O'Connor

  “Tori would rip her to pieces,” said Clawfinger.

  Chaim grinned. “That’s pretty likely, seeing as she’s been wanting to do it ever since she set eyes on her. If she does leave her breathing, you can have the pleasure of putting her out of her misery.”

  “What if Tori loses?” asked another.

  “You know the rules,” Chaim replied. “Tori loses, I have a new Queen.”

  The entire gang agreed that this would be the most interesting way to resolve the matter of the unwanted slave. Not one man thought Jenna stood a chance in hell of defeating the reigning Queen.

  When Chaim informed her of the plan, Tori almost shrieked with pleasure. At last, she was being given the chance to get rid of the hated slave. Dreams did indeed come true

  Jenna was far less enthusiastic, but kept her misgivings to herself. Besides, Chaim was not offering her a choice. If she refused to fight, Tori would be allowed to kill her anyway. Her one and only chance was to fight and win. She had less than twenty-four hours to prepare.

  The following afternoon, the scene was set. The campsite was the arena, within which the combatants would fight a battle without rules. They could use whatever weapons came to hand and the fight would only end when either one was unable to continue. The Hell Kings would not intervene, unless one of the girls tried to escape from the ring of tents and bikes.

  Jenna’s chain was removed and she stood sweating and naked, facing Chaim’s tepee. The air was electric with the bloodthirsty anticipation of the spectators, who swigged from beer cans and exchanged bets on the duration of the contest. When Tori finally emerged, equally naked, she was greeted by a loud cheer. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail and she radiated confidence. Jenna’s heart sank. She knew she was not expected to win. She also knew her life depended on doing just that. Tori strutted towards her, wearing an arrogant smirk.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” she purred, when they were only feet apart. “I plan to take my time killing you and enjoy every second of it.”

  The first punch to the face took Jenna by surprise and sent her staggering backwards. Tori followed it with a high kick to the ribs that laid her flat on her back.

  “Not even going to put up a fight, slave shit?” she sneered, before hammering her right heel down into the soft of her belly.

  Jenna rolled to one side, nauseous and gasping for air. Tori grinned at the cheering bikers, allowing her opponent a moment to recover her breath, then kicked her full in the face. Crimson burst from Jenna’s nose and her head felt like it were about to explode.

  “Get up, you useless lump of shit!” Tori hissed. “Or do you want to die like a slimy little worm?”

  Spitting blood, Jenna raised herself to her knees. Looking up into Tori’s dark eyes, she saw only a murderous loathing. Pleading for mercy would only be a waste of valuable breath. Tori spat into her right eye, then grabbed her by the hair and began punching her face with her right fist.

  The smack of flesh striking flesh and the cries of the victim filled the campsite. With each punch, Jenna’s eyes rolled dazedly. The bikers shouted only half hearted encouragement. They had expected the slave to at least go down fighting, not submit with a whimper.

  Tori aimed her punches carefully for maximum impact, taking a pause of a few seconds after each. Jenna’s face was covered in blood. Her upper lip was cracked and her left eye was beginning to shut. In desperation, she scratched at Tori’s thighs with both hands, gouging two long, raging red welts.

  “That’s more like it,” the biker Queen hissed, kicking her back to the ground. “Come on, slave, hurt me. You do want to be Chaim’s Queen, don’t you?”

  Taking a deep breath, Jenna staggered to her feet. Tori danced around her, sneering and spitting, daring her to respond. She staggered as if to fall again, then suddenly flung herself at her tormentor, with an enraged cry. Both girls hit the ground, kicking and clawing like wildcats. Tori was caught out by Jenna’s violent response and had a bloody furrow dug in her right cheek, before she managed to throw her off. But now that she had finally unleashed her rage, Jenna was no longer a soft target. She barely felt the fingernails that raked her breasts, or the knee that slammed between her thighs. Her upward headbutt was right on target and Tori’s nose burst like a ripe tomato, showering her in blood.

  The Hell Kings began cheering in earnest, as the pair rolled on the ground. Tori clawed at Jenna’s throat, her hands slick with warm blood. Jenna was momentarily overcome, before she managed to work her right hand between Tori’s thighs and get a grip on her pussy folds. The girl shrieked in agony, as she dug her nails in. Jenna kicked her off and staggered to her feet. She aimed a kick at her face, but Tori’s reflexes were still intact. She grabbed Jenna’s ankle and twisted, sending her sprawling back to the dirt.

  “That was your last chance, slave,” she panted, wiping blood from her face. “Now you die.”

  She staggered across to the tepee, reached inside and brought forth a short wooden handle, with a chain and spiked steel ball attached to one end. This was Chaim’s favourite fighting weapon. Tori had seen him use it often enough to know how to inflict maximum damage with it. Jenna only managed to rise to her knees, before the chain arced through the air and the steel ball ripped a gaping wound in her left breast. She howled in agony, clutching at the spurting blood. Tori swung again, tearing flesh from her right shoulder. Jenna managed to duck the third blow, which was aimed at the side of her head.

  She scrambled backwards, desperately seeking something with which to defend herself. All she could see was the thick chain that had been used to tie her up. As she grabbed for it, she felt a spear of white hot agony in her left thigh. Tori’s weapon had opened up yet another gushing wound.

  Jenna gripped the chain in both bloody hands and swung wildly, deflecting Tori’s next lethal blow, with a clang of metal against metal. The weapon slipped from Tori’s crimson slicked hands. Jenna seized the opportunity, rage overcoming the blinding pain. She and Tori scrambled for the fallen weapon. Jenna’s right fist closed around the handle and she wrenched it out of her opponent’s reach. Rolling onto her back, she swung blindly. The spiked ball caught Tori in the centre of the chest, as she flung herself on top of Jenna. She managed to sink her teeth into Jenna’s neck, before the slave pushed her off and rolled out of reach.

  Tori glanced at the blood oozing down between her breasts, in shocked disbelief. That second was all Jenna needed to swing the chain above her head and deliver a full blooded blow from the ball directly between her legs.

  It was the turn of the Queen to shriek in agony, as the cruel steel lacerated her labia and inner thighs. Jenna hesitated, unable to bring herself to strike the fatal blow that would finish the fight. That was a mistake. Ignoring the pain and the blood oozing from her wounds, Tori sprang like a panther. The weapon slipped from Jenna’s hands, as she was thrown onto her back, but Tori made no effort to retrieve it. She had vowed to tear the slave apart with her bare hands, and that was just what she would do.

  Fingernails raked Jenna’s face and Tori’s teeth sank into her left breast. She clawed and kicked, but to little avail. Her wounds had lent a new intensity to the Queen’s rage. Jenna felt her strength rapidly ebbing, as Tori’s fingers once more tightened around her throat. For all the effect her fingernails were having on her opponent, she might as well have been scratching herself. She turned her hands to scrabbling frantically in the dirt, but Chaim’s weapon was out of reach. The fingers of her right hand brushed a medium sized rock, half buried in the ground. The roars of the bikers seemed a thousand miles away.

  With every ounce of her remaining strength, she freed the rock from the earth, raised it and slammed it into the left side of Tori’s face. The grip around her throat loosened. She struck her again on the side of the head and she fell away from her.

  The slave had shown mercy once. She would no
t make the same mistake again. Gripping the stunned and bloodied biker Queen by the ankles, she began dragging her, the effort consuming virtually all of her flagging strength. Having dragged her only a couple of yards, she herself fell. Tori began to rise, the words she tried to utter emerging as a loud croak. Jenna knew she had to finish her off. She was not strong enough to continue the fight, for even a few minutes more.

  With hands like bloody talons, Tori lunged for her throat. Jenna scurried out of reach and gathered up a length of her chain. Grunting and spitting blood, barely able to see, she staggered to her feet. Tori’s fingernails raked down her belly. Jenna stepped back and swung the chain, striking her across the face. She fell back, with a hoarse cry. She rolled onto her stomach and made another effort to rise, but there was no mercy remaining in Jenna’s pounding heart.

  “You ... lose,” she gasped, throwing herself on top of her.

  Tori struggled violently, but Jenna’s body kept her pinned to the ground. She wrapped the chain around her throat and began pulling tightly with both hands. Tori’s struggles progressively weakened, until she finally bit the dirt, with a last croak of defiance. Jenna continued pulling the chain tightly around her throat, only letting go when her wrists began to ache.

  The Hell Kings stood in stunned silence. Leaving her bloodied and battered opponent sprawled motionless on the ground, the victorious and equally blood drenched slave crawled across the arena, to collapse at the feet of her new Master.

  Chapter 12

  Zoe pressed her hands over her ears, in an effort to block out the terrible screams emanating from the room at the end of the narrow corridor. But she could still hear them. She had been forced to hear them at frequent intervals, since her arrival in the basement of the lair of the Ringmistress.

  She had been thrown into a tiny, windowless cell, furnished only with a dirty mattress and an iron bucket. There she had sat, for how long she could not guess, blind in the pitch darkness. Occasionally she would hear footsteps, followed by the jangling of keys and the creak of a cell door being opened. There were cries of protest, as a captive was dragged along the corridor, then another door slammed. Soon afterwards, the terrible screaming began. The ritual had been performed three times already. Zoe knew they would be coming for her next. Whatever hideous tortures were being inflicted on her three fellow slaves from Rancho Diablo, she herself would presently be experiencing. There was absolutely nothing she could do to avoid it.

  The silence that finally fell was even more terrifying than the screams that had preceded it. When the victims fell silent, it could only be because they were no longer able to scream. Hearing the approaching footsteps once again, Zoe drew her knees up to her chest and trembled uncontrollably. The door of the cell adjoining hers slammed shut, then she heard the keys rattle and her door being unlocked. It creaked open and she was blinded in the glare of a flashlight beam.

  “Up!” barked a harsh female voice.

  Zoe found herself unable to respond. The guards stepped towards her and something metallic was jammed into her left side. She uttered a short cry, as an electric shock coursed through her body and knocked her flat on her face. She was barely conscious of being lifted by the arms and dragged down along the corridor. From one of the three other cells, she thought she heard an anguished sobbing.

  One of the guards kicked open the iron door at the far end of the corridor and Zoe was dragged into a brightly lit room that resembled a depraved operating theatre. Fresh blood was splattered on the white tiled floor and the pervading smell was more toilet than hospital. The Ringmistress, wearing a bloodstained white coat and studded black leather face mask, stood by the red rubber sheeted bed.

  “I thought I would keep the best until last,” she said. “Strap her on and we shall begin.”

  Zoe was lifted onto the bed by the two female guards and laid face down on the cold, sticky rubber. While one secured her wrists with the leather straps on the sides, the other did the same to her ankles. They then stepped back, leaving the Ringmistress to her work.

  “You will be the star of my Sado Circus, sweet child,” she told Zoe. “It’s such a shame I could not have your sister too, but fate can be cruel sometimes.” She smacked Zoe’s branded cheek. “This will have to be removed. You belong to me now.”

  A trolley of instruments stood by the bed. The Ringmistress took a black leather gauntlet from it. The palm was made of cheese grater metal, dark with the blood of the girls it had previously been used upon. The woman made sure Zoe got a good look, as she fitted it over her right hand. Realising what was about to be done to her, she screamed.

  “Such a baby!” the Ringmistress tutted. “Save those screams for the operation.”

  Zoe started to beg for mercy, which amused the Dominatrix and her two khaki clad guards. She patted Zoe’s branded cheek with the cold metal, before flattening her hand and pushing it slowly down over the sweat sheened globe. The captive now had good reason to scream, as the grater tore away her skin, ripping the flesh underneath, like barbed wire. Blood oozed into the cleft of her buttocks and down her left thigh.

  “Salt!” snapped the Ringmistress, proudly surveying the damage.

  A silver shaker was handed to her and she sprinkled a liberal coating of salt over the bleeding cheek. Zoe screamed until her lungs ached. When she stopped, the Ringmistress resumed her assault with the grater gauntlet, ripping every trace of skin from the three inch brand and the surrounding area. Whenever she paused, it was to sprinkle more salt on the raw flesh.

  The entire operation took less than ten minutes, but Zoe was driven almost insane by the agony. When she was finished, the Ringmistress removed her gauntlet and replaced it on the instrument tray, along with the salt shaker. Her girls did not need to be told what to do next. They unstrapped Zoe, dragged her off the bed and across the white tiled floor, leaving a thin red smear in her wake. Her ankles were raised and placed in manacles dangling from two lengths of braided steel in the ceiling. She hung so that only her shoulders and the back of her head touched the floor.

  “Phase two of your operation,” the Ringmistress announced, wheeling forth her trolley. “I think I ought to shave you first.”

  Zoe was sprouting a four day growth of pubic stubble. The Ringmistress lathered it with shaving foam, then removed it with several practised strokes of a cut throat razor. This done, she sprinkled it with salt.

  “I am a firm believer in the cleansing power of salt,” she explained. “And it hurts like hell, of course. Gina - needle and thread.”

  “Ready and waiting, Madam,” the skinheaded girl replied, handing her what she required from the trolley.

  “Stop hurting me, I beg you,” Zoe sobbed.

  “Stop hurting you!” the Ringmistress exclaimed. “My dear, you do know where you are, don’t you? My Sado Circus will make Rancho Diablo seem like Disneyworld.”

  With that, she plunged the long, thin needle into Zoe’s labia. The two guards watched intently and with obvious pleasure, as the outer folds of the slave’s sex were tightly sewn together, leaving only the tiniest of holes for her to urinate through. Zoe screamed through every second of the operation. When it was completed, the sadistic surgeon turned her attention to her nether orifice, which was slick with blood. She probed it briefly with a long finger, then held out her right hand. A grease gun was handed to her. She inserted the nozzle in Zoe’s anus and squirted a fistful of thick grease into her rectum, as well as spreading it over the surrounding area. The grease gun was then swapped for a clear rubber tube, twelve inches long and three in diameter. She pushed it up between her buttocks, until only half the length remained protruding.

  “Proceeding nicely,” she purred. “We will have you back in your cell in no time, my dear. I just have to deal with your hands. I would not like to have you trying to undo my hard work.”

  “I won’t,” Zoe swore.

 
“Of course you won’t, my dear. I shall see to that.”

  The guards took Zoe’s right arm and placed her hand over her breast, spreading the fingers. The Ringmistress carefully pushed the needle through the soft skin of her globe and back out again, drawing the strong black thread through. Before snipping it, she knotted it tightly below the knuckle of her small finger. She repeated this process with the three remaining fingers, securely threading them to Zoe’s breast. The left hand and breast were dealt with in a similar fashion. Whatever pain the girl was experiencing at that moment, it was nothing compared to what she would feel should she attempt to pull her hands free.

  “That’s the best one you’ve done yet, Madam,” complimented the skinheaded guard.

  “You may be right,” agreed the Ringmistress. “It is so easy to work on a nice ripe pair of tits. How are you feeling now, my dear?”

  Zoe’s only reply was an anguished sob.

  “Walk her back to her cell,” the Ringmistress told the guards. “If she gives you any trouble, bring her back and I will sew up her lips.”

  For a full week after that, Zoe remained confined to her black cell. Three times a day, a guard would come to spoon feed her. The uniformed girl was always masked and never spoke. Once, when Zoe pleaded to have her hands freed from her breasts, the guard responded by plunging her head into her overflowing toilet bucket and holding her down until she almost drowned. When she was finally taken from her cell, along with the three other captives, who were similarly bound, sewn and tubed, it was the opening night of the Sado Circus.

  Seventy men were assembled around the sawdust covered ring, eagerly awaiting the commencement of what they had been assured was the most depraved show on earth. All rose from their seats, as the strains of Wagner’s March Of The Valkyries boomed from the sound system and a quartet of spotlights illuminated the centre of the ring. The Mistress of ceremonies made a grand entrance, resplendent in top hat, thigh boots and black rubber catsuit, riding on the back of a naked and hooded slave. Around her waist hung a huge black dildo, which was connected to a tube inserted in her vagina. Dismounting centre ring, she cracked her riding crop across the buttocks of the slave, then turned to address her audience.