by Red Marks

Ilustration by Stag

Originally published in Bondage in the Buff, Vol. 2, No. 1

transcribed by guardian46w

Story codes:  M/f, bdsm, cons, torture, impaled, XX

Three men emerged from the dense jungle and approached Sharon Marvin.  She turned, but before her legs could move she heard the Cessna' engine and the fanning of its propeller in the thick tropical air.  She returned her gaze to the men, as the sound of the plane taxing down the runway filled her ears.

Up close, the men to right and left looked even worse, but the one in the middle was different.

"I'm Miguel Sanquin," he said pleasantly.

About six feet tall, though not as big as the gorillas to each side of him, he was nattily attired in tight black pants and a billowy white shirt, left open at the collar.  His handsome face was deep complexioned, his eye's dark and flashing, his straight mustache black and thick but neatly trimmed.  Despite the intense heat and humidity, he seemed cool, unruffled.

The American girl thought Miguel resembled Juan Valdez in the coffee commercials, the original ultra-handsome Juan Valdez.

"I'm Sally Marvin," she managed to reply, extending a nervous hand.

"A delight to have you, " Miguel replied.  "Take the senorita's valise, Carlos."

"Oh, I can carry it," she said, but one of the monsters was already removing it from her hands.

The four of them strolled toward the wall of jungle, Miguel smiling and chatting beside her, his two assistants walking heavily behind.  A last glance over her shoulder, and the girl saw the single-engine Cessna rising from the foliage-covered portion of the runway.  How she wished to be on it, free, hopping over the jungle into the dark, blue tropical sky, rippled by intense heat.  She felt uncomfortable in her tight traveling dress, unsteady on her high heels and tight in the pit of her stomach.

"It takes courage to venture down her," Miguel was saying.  "You must like playing games a great deal."

"Oh, I dig it," Sharon said, recovering.  She must remember to be Sally Marvin, party girl.  "I'm into it.  It's my life."

The man forced a quick smile, but looked unconvinced.  They walked on in silence.  Sharon took a deep breath, inhaling the rich fragrance of strange plant life and driving down the rising fear.  She could do it; she was sure.  He would become convinced.  She would win his confidence.

"I,I visualized a house," she said, looking into the dark blue-green foliage ahead.  "A very large dudgeon facility was described to me."

"Ah yes," Miguel said with satisfaction, as if suddenly thinking of something exceedingly pleasant.  "By Senorita Denise.  Denise....?"

"Corwin," she said, supplying the name.

"Yes.  Senorita Corwin.  A beautiful woman, and a good slave."

"I'm better," Sharon snapped.

He laughed.  "I'll settle for equally good.  The facility, as you call it, is directly ahead.  By the way," he added, "You realize you must never speak of this place.  You must never describe it and certainly never reveal its location."

"I haven't the foggiest idea where I am," she said, and that was the truth.  She knew only that she was somewhere in the southeastern Colombian state.  "A slave never betrays a master, even if he's not in the line of work you're in.  My lips are sealed."

"I appreciate that," Miguel said.

Of course, he could kill her.  Sharon's hope lay in gaining his trust, his complete faith in her.  She would be his sex salve for a few days, then be set free.  She would have her story.  And if the homing device in the high heel of her left shoe worked, and wasn't discovered by one of the men, her visit would be followed by a raid - from a combined force of special agents from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency and the elite troop of Colombian Army 'untouchables'.

Before she could trigger that device, however, she had to see evidence.  She'd been told, "get proof first, with your own eyes, Sharon.  Commandos mustn't raid the plantation of an influential citizen and not find cocaine."

The four of them were now beneath the cover of jungle growth, walking in deep shadow.  The tropical sun left her body, but the atmosphere was no cooler.  If anything it seemed more humid, reminding her that the heat belonged to the very air she was breathing; it needed no sunshine to warm it.

Ahead, a door appeared.  It had been there, but she hadn't seen it, a steel door with big rivet heads around its edges, painted the blue-green of the jungle wall into which it was set.  Sharon made a point of remembering it for the troops that might follow her in, a steel door, maybe a hundred yards perpendicular from the west end of the runway. Miguel kicked the door once with the metal tip of his boot, a signal.  A bolt could be heard clanging aside within and the door swung open.

They were in a freight elevator, the four of them and the other who had opened the door from inside.  Then they were descending.

The ride down was endless.  She understood now.  The biggest cocaine warehouse in Columbia was entirely underground no wonder it hadn't been found.  Denise had described only the dungeon room.

Perhaps three stories underground, Miguel escorted Sharon through the gate that now opened in the rear of the elevator.  They emerged onto a tunnel.  At last it was cool.

"You'll like my dungeon," Miguel was saying, as they walked.  The others were behind them.  "It's hidden, way to the rear."

At the end of the tunnel, Miguel kicked a steel door again; it opened from within.  They passed into a gigantic room.  The ceiling was so high it must have been just beneath the surface of the earth.  Its length and width were that of a football field.  They walked silently down the center, wooden skids on both sides piled high with paper-covered bales, crates and cardboard cartons.

She knew better than to ask their contents.  Even if Miguel were to say "coca leaves" or "processed cocaine" or "pure crack" it wouldn't have helped.  She had to see for herself before triggering the homing device.  And that would merely pinpoint the location.  To bring on a raid, she had to get out alive, return to army headquarters and assure them it would produce results.

Men were busy in the warehouse, riding fork lifts, moving loaded flats. Whatever was in those parcels, there were tons of it, piled almost to the ceiling in row upon row.

At the end of the main room, they moved through a section of throbbing machines, generators, pumps and such.  Then an office.  The men were dropping off one at a time, room by room, til Miguel left the last of them in the office.  He opened a hidden wall panel and escorted Sharon through a low passageway, and she had to bend to make her way down its length, to a back room.  The dungeon.

"It's impressive," she said in awe.  For the first time, she forgot fear.  An undeniable excitement, hot and insinuating grew within her.  In rooms like this she'd gained the erotic thrills of her life.

"It's my pride and joy," Miguel said, as he closed the door behind them.  His voice was genuine.  It moved her.

"I can understand it," she admitted, glancing at him, then around the room once more.  His strong good looks, combined with the sensuous surroundings, affected her deeply.

The chamber in which she found herself alone with this powerful man was a good forty feet on a side, with a 16-foot ceiling.  The walls were limestone-block, the floor flagstone.  Variously placed were every piece of bondage equipment she'd ever seen, every type of cross, pillory, table and rack found in a B&D playroom anywhere.  In the center of the room was something she'd never seen.

A pole.  Made of gleaming, gold-plated metal, probably brass, about as thick around as a man's cock, it stuck straight up from the stone floor, maybe four feet.  It was embedded in the floor.  About a foot up, six-inch long pieces of similar pole stuck out to each side.  Sharon went to it, running her hand over the top.  It was tapered and rounded, like the tip of a plastic vibrator.  She turned to Miguel, close behind her.

"World's Biggest dildo?" she asked.

"Ever heard of Vlad the Impaler?" he replied, and when she shook her head no, he went on.  "My greatest hero in world history.  Vlad was a prince of Transylvania.  There is such a place, in central Europe, now part of Romania.  They say the fictional Count Dracula was based on him.  Be that as it may, the Prince was an admirably efficient administrator, which I strive to be.  When he captured enemies in battle, or apprehended criminals and malcontents, he made good use of them."

"He put them on these?"

Miguel just smiled.

"I have designed a modern version," he said, "for pleasure.  Vlad was the Prince of Pain, I am the Prince of Pleasure."

"How does your version differ?" she asked.

"The originals were wood, about ten feet tall – with sharp points. Conspirators and captured soldiers, hands tied behind backs, had the poles thrust up their asses.  Once speared and ankles bound, they were displayed at court or on roads into the city.  It's said that naked men and women, on the ends of such poles and howling in agony, lined the bridges and entrances roads, to die of exposure and rot away.  Ambassadors were frequently entertained at the Prince's long table, accompanied by the moans of similarly impaled prisoners, decorating the refectory."

"You do that to those who betray you?"

"No, I shoot 'em.  I reserve my impalement pole for beautiful, masochistic women like you.  Please, disrobe.  I'll lubricate the pole and help you onto it."

Dry-mouthed and moist-palmed.  Sharon swallowed hard.  Her heart was pounding.  Her excitement had evaporated, replaced by fear.  Her fingers, however, worked with a mind of their own, unbuttoning her dress.  She must establish herself, now.

At first, Miguel stood back watching, that smile stuck to his face and his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure.  When Sharon was down to a bra and half slip, he went to a shelf and returned with a tube of K-Y jelly, a small towel over his arm like a waiter arriving with a bottle of French wine.

Now that she was down to her underwear, the mesmerizing excitement of this handsome man and his subterranean dungeon began to creep back into the girl's body.  She hooked her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her slip and drew it over the smoothly rounded curves of her hips.  Then she lowered the silky garment to her ankles and stepped out of it.  Her clothes were puddles of colored fabric on the flagstone floor.  She stood before her new master in bra, panties, garter belt, and hose.

"You have a marvelous body," he said, squeezing lubricant onto the palm of his hand and rubbing it over the tip of the gilded pole.  "Don't take off the rest of your things, yet.  I want to do that myself."

"Yes, Master," Sharon heard herself say, automatically.

Miguel wiped his hands with the towel and tossed it aside, then strode to the girl.  He put his hands on her shoulder, slid them to her upper arms, then behind to undo the bra.  He pulled it off, freeing large, firm breasts.

"I love them," he purred, dropping the flimsy bra and cupping her tits.

He hefted them, tested their firmness, squeezed them excitedly.  Sharon gasped aloud.  Her nipples were hard, her pussy on fire.  The man lowered his hands to her panties and slid them over the twin humps of her ass.  They fluttered to her ankles.  She kicked them off.

When Miguel stepped back to get a good look at her, she noticed a stiff hard-on in his black pants.  Aroused, she undid her stockings and rolled off first one and then the other, putting each bare foot back into its high-heeled shoe.  Off came her garter belt, and she was naked for this man's approval.

He gazed at her nude body with an expression of deep pleasure, then closed the distance between them and took her in his arms.  His lips found hers, electrifying the girl.  When the kiss broke off, Miguel guided her to the pole.

In a single swoop, Miguel lifted the girl and set her, asshole first, onto it.

"Relax your sphincter," he commanded, and she did.

She felt it, a cold metal cock sliding up her ass.

"Ohhhh."

The cry that escaped her lips was half-discomfort, half-delight.  She was on the pole now, feet on the crosspieces.  Miguel was moving about swiftly, expertly.  Having done this many times, he went to the shelf and returned with a leather sleeve, open at both ends.  He pinned Sharon's forearms behind her back and worked them into the sleeve from either end.

After clasping it tightly over the arms, he added leather cuffs to the ankles, chaining them to the pole, then swung around in front of her and screwed miniature wood clamps.  All the hardware was gold-plated brass.  As he tightened the tiny clamps, Sharon screamed.

"Good," the man said, "Now I know they're tight enough."

Tears stained her cheeks.  The pain of the pole up her ass, the growing ache in her back and the tight clamps on her tits were getting to her.

"Enough," she gasped.  "I can't take it."

"Can you take pleasure?" he asked.  "It's pleasure most people can't take."

"I, I don't' know what you mean," she said.

Miguel Laughed.

"A good fuck, for example," he said.  "Most never experience it fully.  They're slaves to a vestige of inhibition.  Of the pleasure of hurting a weaker person, such as I'm getting right now. Most men say, 'I couldn't do that.  I'd get no pleasure from it.'"

"You'd never say that," she gasped.

"Or cocaine," he said.  " A harmless pleasure.  All we do is spread pleasure.  Why are we condemned for that?  I'm the Prince of Pleasure."

"You mentioned that," Sharon replied.

Miguel reached for the golden wood clamps and tightened each one.

She screamed.  She wasn't pretending.  The agony wrenched her whole body.  She jerked on the pole, deepening its penetration and increasing the discomfort in her abdomen.

"Enough," she begged.  "I can't take any more."

"It's not enough," he said coldly.  "Pain enhances pleasure.  When I fuck you, pain pushes you to a peak of pleasure.  Did you know that a female cat feels terrible pain at the very moment the tomcat has his orgasm?  It's true.  The cat has tiny spikes on his cock.-- like this."

He took a step back and unzipped his fly.  Sharon's mouth fell open.

"You're not going to, with that!"

"I am," he said and approached her.

His rod had sprung out his fly, fully stiffened, the head bloated with excitement.  Around the stalk, just below the crown, was a golden ring, and around the circumference tiny metal points.  He stood in close, between her knees, and aimed the tip of his cock for her vulnerable cunt.

Then he penetrated.

"EEEeeeeee!!!!"

Her scream filled the large basement room.  The pain was terrific, as the man jammed his cock into her cunt, all the way, then pulled partly out and began to thrust.

Holding her waist, he powered his rod in and out, in and out.  At first, Sharon thought she'd faint from pain.  In the past, she'd been able to handle anything a master had thrown at her, and she'd enjoyed it. But this was different.

Miguel fucked blindly away, mercilessly.  The more he fucked, the more it hurt.  In time, however, a weird sensation began to fill the girl's body.

The accumulation of fear, the strange place she was in, the roughly handsome, dark-complexioned man, and the madly painful pole-in-the-ass fuck, all piled up on her.  Her tits, her asshole, her cunt, all gave her the same wild sensation.  From sessions past, she knew what that feeling meant.  She was about to climax.

"Ohhhh," she groaned.  "I'm going to cum, Miguel.  Keep fucking me like that.  Oh!  I'm going to cum."

"I knew it, he grunted, as he fucked faster and faster."

"Ho!" she cried out.  "Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  I'm cuming!  I'm cuming!  I'm c-u-u-u--ming!!!"

And then he was cuming too.  She could feel the squirting of his semen into her pussy.

When it was over, the man pulled out of her pussy, removed the metal ring from his softening cock and flipped his organ back into his pants.  Then he removed her tit clamps, uncuffed her arms and ankles and lifted her off the pole.

She fell into his embrace.  They kissed, long and hard.

"I'll show you to your sleeping room," he said.

On the way, passing through the warehouse, he stopped to show her the fine quality of the cocaine.  With the claw end of a big hammer, he pried open a crate.  "Pure," he boasted, as he removed a bag and gave her some white powder.  She took it, and smiled.

She snorted it.  "Pure," she granted.

"I'm not as highly placed in the family as I should be," Miguel confided.  "For six years they've stuck me out here in charge of this warehouse.  I should be in Medellin, where the night life is.  If the men above me knew that I brought women in here, especially Americans!"

"I'll keep your secret," Sharon lied.

He put a fond hand on her upper arm, then added, "Without girls like you, Sally, I would go crazy out here."

"I understand," she said.  He showed her to her room.

That night Sharon slept well.  She'd won Miguel's confidence.  There would be more sessions, which she would enjoy, and the plane would arrive.  He would kiss her goodbye.  He would let her go, because, no matter how carefully the men searched her possessions, they wouldn't find the homing device.  She had already removed it from the high heel and triggered it.  She had already flushed it down the toilet, from where it would send out its relentless signal.

Sharon sighed.  She was safe, and she had her story.  It was all very satisfying.  Yet, somehow, she felt sad too.  Sharon knew that, not matter how long she lived and no matter how widely she traveled, she'd never meet a master equal to Miguel.  And poor Miguel was well on his way to a good shafting.

THE END