AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 32

His hand was a killing pain, but the thought of hurting Courty right back brought a warm glow to Eric’s genitals, and a crazed smile of lust to his face behind the hood.  He had the persuader in his left hand.  It was flashlight shaped, long and lean, with sinister silver spikes in the end.

Courty was screaming like a banshee.

The twin probes of cold silver metal, an inch apart, touched Courty’s shoulder.

TZ-Z-Z-ZAT!!

Her skin erupted, her muscles threw her to the side of the companionway; it silenced her long screaming for help to a short, terrified squeak.

Again and again, he touched her flesh with the horrible electric pain, as she backed away, scrambled and fell, crawled frantically away from him.

TZ-Z-ZAT!!

It left virtually no external marks.  But where it touched, her skin exploded, as if a Waring blender churned into her muscles, cutting and slicing——and when a jolt stopped, where it had touched, it felt as if her muscles had been liquefied and poured into a wound there.

TZ-ZAT!!

She tried to put her hand in the way, but her hand BURST with awful pain, and then HER ARM, and then HER SHOULDER, and then HER BACK, as she scraped and slipped and crawled, still bleeding and tearing!  He was blocking the way, backing her into a corner.

TZ-Z-Z-Z-Z-ZAT!!  TZ-ZAT!!  TZ-Z-ZAT!! 

After an endless purgatory where he spiked her repeatedly with the jabs of HELL, the ordeal ceased.  Her flesh felt like a landscape of war wounds.  She cowered there, in the dark corridor corner where she had been driven, huddled in a crying ball of pain, hearing the distant commotion and arguing as if it scarcely concerned her.

She absolutely could not think.

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The first installment in The Wreck of the Courty Foulke Ryan was not going according to schedule.  Eric cursed himself for not rehearsing these hopeless incompetents; they couldn’t even gang-rape a girl without a fucking tutorial on the subject!  Did he have to tell them fucking everything?  It had to be the stupid, fucking camera.  Turn on the VCR and everybody gets fucking stage fright!

Can’t you REMEMBER what I Fucking Told You?  Stanley can’t even fucking get it up!  She breaks four of my God Damn fingers, bites off his cock for Christ sake!  A-Camera’s busted, she’s turning this into a fucking joke!  A simple, easy gang-bang, guys, am I asking too much?  Fuck!  Five against one, and We’re Fucking Outnumbered!

Eric turned the yacht around and headed back, with a curt slash of his left arm and a point: the pilot on the flying bridge immediately understood, and jumped to the helmseat.

He had to get back to a doctor.  Stanley’s penis was soaking in a glass of freshwater.  Les was with him in Eric’s cabin, still trying to stop the bleeding.  Eric’s own broken fingers were turning an ugly, deep, swollen blue.  Eric was controlling the pain with cocaine and percodain.

Eric put the hood back on, and went back down below, his anger was no longer a hot explosive, it was a low burn, glowing coals flicking off red ashes.  He was also angry with Phil for wimping out, and not helping him out here.  Phil had declined to participate, having decided that the planned activities were just a little too heavy-duty for his taste.  Damn him!

Eric wanted to knock the pedestal right out from under Courtney, drag her through a bottomless pit of torment and degradation, then——the best part——he wanted to fit her back into her little paper doll world . . . for awhile.  Take the square peg lady, whittle her down to a crude round, and shove her back into her former square hole.  She would never fit!  Never, anymore!  Eric wanted her to KNOW that, know it in her heart of hearts.  Such a clever first step to ruining her life.

Yes, that was the elegant beauty of the Proposition, the rhetoric shining like a rigorously logical, Euclidean Proof.  True torture is mental, with the ticking bomb of time exquisitely playing chords of unendurable heartbreak.  He wanted to escalate the horror and the terror slowly and gradually so that his victim could almost adjust to each new level of emotional and physical pain——Breathing Spaces——give her periods of pause and relief to contrast and compound the next round of his attack upon her psyche.  Unrelieved pain became as meaningless as unrelieved pleasure: it took contrast, the texture of extreme opposites to give full juice and effect to the sharpest physical and mental agony.

Eric wanted to reprogram Courtney.  She was too confident, self-possessed; a walking, breathing affront to his ego.  The way she stood, the way she walked, held her body, moved; it was an itch that bothered him.  Where did she get off——behaving so free and frisky?  The way she spoke, her inflections hinting aloofness, as if she refused to share a private joke with the world, but was amused by it all the same; and her words, chosen, cut and finely chiseled by her mind . . . her wit was like a slap in his face!  Her existence, an irritation.  Yes, YES, to pluck her from her pampered world, brutally gang-rape her, destroy her resistance until she performed like a seal, jumped through hoops of humiliation, And All For The Camera, YES, with an awful, permanent blackmail record of the degradations, YES, such a sweet nectar to contemplate——then releasing her unmarked . . . go ahead, try, just try to pick up the pieces of your life again.

Courty had been living the carefree young model’s life in Manhattan, feeling safe and secure, thinking the world a big and beautiful playground.  Famous Manhattan models lived in Disneyland, their lives insulated, separated from the real world.  They did not know of the real world, could not know of the real world, until the real world came along and sunk its teeth into them.  Pain was the real education of the world, and oh, did he have a course of education lined out for Courty.  A PhD of Pain.  And he was going to see that she graduated cum laude.

To Eric’s great surprise, Benjamin and Matthew were not fucking the living skylights out of Courty.

Ben was wearing pants, futzing with the VCR knobs; and Matthew in his underwear, leaning against the bulkhead with his limp dick tangled in his shorts; and Courty, her dress back on properly per social specifications.

“What do you fucking mean, you don’t feel like it?” he whispered, actually enraged.

Even under the nylon stocking over Ben’s face, Eric could see the guy’s look of helplessness.

Courty was sitting up against the headboard.  They had allowed her to clean up her face with a washcloth.  ALLOWED her to put her dress back on properly.  Her eyes and nose were somewhat dark and swollen, with traces still of the blood and tears.

Raped & abused.  Triumphant!

Eric couldn’t BELIEVE the way she sat there, up against the headboard on the bunk.  She was so coldly indifferent to whatever might happen next, that as a sex object she was completely undesirable.

Oh?  Rape?  Go ahead without me.

Eric recalled how Courtney had screwed that man Byron Reed.  That savage sex scene that stayed in his mind, that he kept witnessing over and over in his memories.  How she had gone out of her mind with lust.  That womanly passion in her, especially that, he hated in her.  It was an ironic part of the essential makeup of the archetypal Lady: to be an inspired chef in the kitchen, an extroverted hostess in the living room, one of the boys while at the office, a nurturing mother in the children’s room, a graceful ornament in the rarefied high society chambers, and a rollicking, boisterous whore in the bedroom.  Eric wanted desperately to ignite that passion in her, here, for the camera; a blowout rape that would bludgeon her into acquiescence, acceptance, into giving a vibrant performance, becoming an enthusiastic participant in an obscene manic-obsessive sexed-up spaced-out sexual odyssey.  Eric wanted to take her pure & private bedroom passion, adulterate it, pollute it, subvert it, and display it in the public theaters.  Oh, and he would be sure to send this Byron Reed character a copy.

Eric had dreamed of orchestrating raunch interracial cocksucking sequences for the videorecorder; that long, Black sexual organ deepthroating her white mouth, or her pink tongue licking the spurting white cum off his pulsing Negro tool.  But there wasn’t a penis on the yacht that was going to go anywhere near that mouth.

Eric looked down at her, wondering if he should whip off his hood, here and now.  At least it would get a fucking reaction out of her.  Maybe he should tie her up and bullwhip the bitch.  Just the thought of it made his half-hard dick pump with renewed vigor.  Zapping her with the persuader had been a blazing thrill of sadistic sexual excitement.  He had almost come in his pants.

Yes!  I’ll get the bullwhip!

No.  No.  Not just yet.

That was not what he wanted to accomplish at this point in time.  It would only defeat his ultimate objectives.

But what to do with her?

It was her eyes, that unblinking, frigid stare; it was a wind-chill blast up against his testicles.

How can you rape someone who looks at you like that?  Might as well fuck a gallon of vanilla ice cream.

Even the Afro was completely flummoxed, standing there as if he didn’t know what to do with this cock-crunching female white menace.

Eric grabbed Ben’s arm with his left hand, and pulled him close.  He quietly hissed, “I want her raped up the ass.  And I want the two of you fucking her at once!  And take off her fucking dress.  Get her naked.  I want you to make her fucking scream with pleasure and pain!  I want some good stuff for the camera.  I can’t use a frigid bitch on film.  Now, Just Fucking DO IT!”

Eric got even angrier when he discovered that he couldn’t operate the hand-held camera without mounting it on the stationary tripod.  His right hand was too mangled.

Eric took off the dysfunctional A-Camera, and put the portable B-Camera on the tripod.  He turned all the equipment on, and started taping again.

Useless: these guys couldn’t turn on a nymphomaniac if they had two vibrators and the Kama Sutra translated to the American vernacular.

As usual, I have to do everyfuckingthing myself.

Eric sat on the bunk, between Courty’s spread legs.  He began to gently masturbate her.  But having to get her hot, left-handed . . . he needed to get more comfortable himself, and he needed better access to her pleasure points.

He had them rearrange her body, turned Courty over onto her tummy, and then pulled her hips up, supported her by her knees, held her there on her elbows and knees, while Eric sat between her legs.  He reached toward her vagina, bending his head closer to see, marveling at how charming and delightful her pussy was——he started to get hard just looking at those lovely, ripe lips, opening for him:

An ocean of piss!  Forty days and forty nights of bladderworks, the likes of which has not been seen since the time of Noah.  Courtney’s deluge of urine discharged directly onto Eric; a splattering warm flood that splashed all over his black hood, soaking onto his face through the cloth, stinging his nose and eyes, slopping down his shirt, drenching his pants, saturating his underwear.  The sheer OUTRAGEOUSNESS of the surprise was so stunning that he just sat there and took it, far longer than any sane man would have.

An Eric Des Barres baptism——while the thin Black man absolutely CONVULSED into laughter.

Blind with rage and urine, Eric grabbed hold of the persuader.  “Hold her, Ben,” Eric snarled.  “Just like that!”

TZ-Z-Z-ZAT!!

Courty screamed & jumped.

TZ-Z-Z-Z-ZAT!!  

COURTNEY, Chapter 33
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47