At 35 years old, Sally had done very well for herself. As the company's chief financial officer, she was really the only one who understood the company's finances, and she was extremely good at it. She was rewarded accordingly. Her very generous salary was pleasant enough. Frequent trips to exotic locations were even more pleasant, especially when she got to fly on a private jet. Her expense account not only allowed her to eat and drink in luxury, but covered her clothes and accessories too.
The company was completely legitimate, offering a variety of financial and other services. But she was sensible enough to realise that it was all just a presentable front to more dubious concerns. The details of what they did were never revealed to her, not openly anyway, but the web of overseas holding companies was enough to make even the most naive person realise there was something being hidden very effectively. She was very careful not to ask questions that her bosses might not want to answer.
Her current trip was quite typical. She'd flown - with an airline, but in their very comfortable business class - to the venue, a smaller city in what used to be called Eastern Europe. From there an equally comfortable black limo had taken her and another attendee to a small chateau an hour away. They made small talk as he admired her long stockinged legs and her just slightly enhanced figure. He was older than her but good looking and no doubt wealthy; she rather hoped that his advances would go further later on.
The first day went quietly, some rather dull presentations about figures and opportunities, couched in vague terms - at least in Sally's presence. Security was taken seriously, with the presence of two shaven-headed and very substantial participants who never said a word and whose role was quite evident. Her companion from the limo was busy talking business but over the excellent dinner she found a very acceptable alternative. He had obvious difficulty not admiring her generous cleavage too openly, in the black designer dress that her expense account had given her. Its message was clear, along with her black designer strappy heels and her enticing black stockinged legs. The end of the evening was very enjoyable, with the promise of more to come.
The next morning after coffee, one of her bosses asked her to go along to a private discussion. He excused himself then kept her waiting for a long time in the elegantly furnished office. For today she'd chosen a pair of cream linen trousers, almost brand new, purchased on her last trip to Milan, with a simple white silk blouse and beige open-toe slingbacks with a just not-quite-reasonable heel. She looked gorgeous. In a corner of the room was one of the security guys, which she thought odd. She tried to talk to him - he was nicely good looking - but he would do no more than grunt replies to her questions. It all made her a bit nervous - why was he there? And why wasn't he trying to pull her, as any reasonable man would?
Finally the big boss showed up. He apologised for the delay as he sat down. They spent half an hour dealing with routine stuff. She wondered why it had to be done in private, and why someone so exalted would be bothering anyway. He'd started to put away his papers, when he suddenly said,
"There is one other thing. We've noticed some anomalies in some of the international transfers. I was wondering if you knew anything about it? For instance this one, somewhere along the line between Azerbaijan, the Virgin Islands, and who knows where, it looks like about ten thousand went astray. Of course it's very complicated, all the agents and so on take a cut, but it just doesn't seem quite right."
Her stomach churned. That ten thousand had paid for a very nice holiday for her along with a very agreeable cock, with a nice enough guy on the end of it. She hadn't thought they'd notice, it was peanuts compared to the size of the transactions. She did her best to stay calm.
"Oh, that's not good. Do you know where exactly? I can have my team take a look, I'll call them today. These offshore banks are never very reliable."
It was true, too. Her team spent a lot of their time tracking down "commissions" and other strangely titled amounts that should never have been paid. She was shocked, but she was sure she could come up with a story. But he went on, pulling out some more papers.
"And this one... about twenty-five here, it should have been a simple transaction, yet somehow..."
That had been the down payment on her BMW. Still she kept her composure, as he showed her several other cases where money had gone missing.
"Look, I'm really sorry. I need to make sure people are watching this closely. I'll call them right away."
She had no intention of doing any such thing. She had been very careful, working evenings, to keep these transactions away from any other eyes. She would have to work by herself to invent the cover stories. Still she was sure it could be done.
"And this one, I nearly forgot. This one is a bit bigger, these people are getting greedy. Nearly half a million."
"Shit! That's in a different league. Let me call London and start digging into it."
She was feeling physically sick. That had been a big chunk of her beautiful new flat. She had gone to a lot of trouble to conceal it, involving several extra banks they didn't normally deal with. This was getting dangerous.
Then his phone rang. He walked into an inner office, leaving her alone with the guard.
"This looks very bad," he said, with a heavy Russian accent. "Very bad. I hope really is mistake. Otherwise can end very badly. You remember Gary?"
She did. Gary had been one of the top financial people in New York. Then it turned out that over several years he had spirited away over two million. She had been peripherally involved in the investigation, trawling through some of the complicated transactions that he had set up. He even had his own "bank" in Something-stan. She knew that he had very suddenly not been around any more.
"Gary made silly mistake. If he confess, maybe he could still be alive. Or at least his death might have been less unpleasant."
"What do you mean?" Inside she was really panicking now, it was taking an effort not to throw up. She took deep breaths.
"He pretended to know nothing for a very long time. They tried very hard to get him to admit. At first they were gentle, a little burning, a fingernail or two. Then they get serious. By time they finish, nothing worth saving. Still they made it as painful as they could. Horrible, horrible. Let me show you."
He pulled out his phone and fiddled with it, turning the screen towards her. There was a man, maybe 40 or 45 years old, good looking, in a smart suit, looking a bit worried but no more. He fiddled with the phone more. There was a terrible, horrifying noise, instantly recognisable even through the phone's tiny speaker as a human in unimaginable pain. He showed her the screen again. There was a naked body, covered in blood, but it wasn't very clear what was happening. He pointed.
"See, they crush his balls. One at a time. Very painful. He confess soon after that. But by then... nothing left to save. So they finish him off, punish him."
He showed her a couple more clips. In one there was a huddled body, covered in blood, trembling and whimpering then screaming as a whip cut into the pulp that was all that was left of his flesh, leaving a trail of blood. The second was much, much worse. The bloodied body was hanging, suspended by the arms behind the shoulders. A hand appeared holding a blowtorch, which was applied first to the remains of the victims genitals, then held steadily against his feet. The screams were awful, echoing in her ears. Surely nobody deserved to die like this, no matter what they had done.
She sat trembling, desperately trying not to burst into tears. The guard was silent now, sitting in his corner again.
The door opened and the big boss reappeared.
"Look, don't start calling London, creating consternation and panic over there. I just want you to sit quietly and think about what this could be, whether you're absolutely sure you can't remember anything. Pavel, take her downstairs to do some thinking."
The guard pulled her out of her chair and led her out of the room. Along the corridor, behind a door, a grubby old wooden staircase led down to the cellar. As soon as they were inside the door he grabbed her arms and handcuffed them behind her back. Despite her terror she cried out indignantly. He kicked her leg from under her, so she stumbled and nearly fell. As she recovered he slapped her face, hard, so her head jerked to one side. Suddenly her vision was cut off by a cloth sack, tugged down over her head. It wasn't completely opaque but she could make out nothing now.
"Shut up, bitch. Boss say sit and think. You sit and think, no fuss or noise, OK? Remember Gary?"
She was furious but didn't dare say anything. With horror she realised she had wet herself, the warm piss soaking into her elegant linen trousers. He tugged her down the stairs and led her into a small room. Her cuffed wrists were locked to a chain attached to the wall.
"OK, now you think. You think lots, decide whether you want to end like Gary."
With that he shut the heavy door. It was dark and silent. She could sit on the floor, or lay down. The chain was too short to stand up, or to move away from the wall. It smelled of damp and dirty drains. It was cold. She slumped down onto the floor and burst into tears. Now that there was no longer any reason to maintain her self control, she sobbed and sobbed. She knew she was in deep, deep trouble. Yet still she was sure she could talk her way out of this, come up with a way to make the money magically return, or at least appear to. She tried to control herself by thinking how she could pull it off. But the image and worse, the sound of Gary's awful last moments kept returning to her. She wet herself again, hardly caring as the warmth soaked around her pussy.
Hours passed. She was cold, thirsty and hungry, but most of all she was afraid. The images and the sound of Gary's torture would not leave her. She tried and tried to think of ways out of her predicament. Maybe she could pin the blame on someone else? What about Alex, the brash young guy who had just bought a fancy Jaguar that he surely couldn't afford?
She had drifted into a trance when she heard the door open, and the light came on. Another voice spoke.
"Had long enough to think yet, bitch? Made up your mind to confess? Or you want to end like Gary?"
"Please," she whimpered, "please... I'm so cold, and I'm so thirsty. They said I was to come here to think, and I've thought a lot, but please help me."
"Thirsty? I can help with that."
There was a pause, and a noise she didn't understand. Then the stream of his hot piss hit her straight in the face, flooding through the thin fabric into her mouth. Instinctively she swallowed the hot, bitter fluid. She was so thirsty that even this was a relief. But then her body reacted. She retched, and the hood was filled with her puke. Still the piss splashed against her face, dribbling down and soaking her once-elegant silk shirt, mingling with the vomit that was slowly oozing from the hood. She started sobbing, violently, uncontrollably. The bag was yanked off her head, leaving her face covered in vomit and piss.
"You want to drink, drink".
Beside her on the floor, unseen until now, was a metal dog bowl full of water. Gratefully she dropped to the floor and plunged her mouth into it, gulping down the warm water as if it was nectar. But quickly the guard diverted his stream of piss into it. Still, she was desperate and carried on swallowing.
"You need entertainment," he said. On the opposite side of the small cell was a huge television screen, which came to life. To her horror it showed once again the awful images of Gary's torture and suffering. His screams were ten times louder and a thousand times more terrifying.
He left. With the hood removed she could look around the room. It was small, maybe ten feet square, and completely empty apart from the huge screen. The floor was cold stone flags, the walls unplastered brick. There was nothing to distract her from the awful scenes on the screen. She tried to close her eyes, but it was hopeless. At every new scream she simply couldn't help looking. The video wasn't sequential, it hopped from one scene to another, frequently repeating the worst ones. At the third repetition of the ball crushing, at its most awful scream, her bowels gave way. She felt and smelled the warm runny shit flooding around her pussy and filling her elegant trousers. She burst into tears from shame and terror, even the video didn't distract her.
After an hour or so the video stopped. With nothing now to distract her, she started to think again about how to get out of her predicament. She began to see a way, a combination of mistakes and other people's greed. As the time passed it became clearer and clearer to her how it would work convincingly. But her discomfort was getting worse and worse. The damp shit was irritating her cunt horribly. She was cold, hungry and uncomfortable. Her arms ached from being pinioned behind her, the cuffs were biting into her wrists, there was nothing she could do to relieve the discomfort. With the screen off it was almost pitch dark, just a glimmer of light from under the door.
Despite everything she was starting to drift off to sleep when the door burst open, dazzling her with the sudden bright light. It was the guard again. He sniffed and studied her.
"You stink. You shit yourself, right? Disgusting bitch. You decide to confess yet, shit cunt?"
She hadn't. Now she was sure she had a convincing explanation that would survive scrutiny, with some subtle manipulation of accounts and so on. She shook her head and mumbled no.
"Pity. Maybe you need more encouraging."
He took a sharp knife and sliced through her shirt and then her bra, leaving her naked from the waist up, exposing her perfectly shaped tits. Reaching behind her, he shortened the chain that held her to the wall. She could sit, with her arms stretched awkardly behind her, or with a lot of wriggling around and pain in her shoulders, she could get her head to the now-empty drinking bowl. He opened his fly and pissed in the bowl until it was full, then splashed over her tits, the stinking liquid running down and soaking into her soiled trousers. When he had finished he pushed his cock in her face, demanding a blow job. She turned her head to one side but he grabbed her hair and tugged her mouth into the right position. Still she kept her jaws clamped shut, until he grabbed her nipple, digging his nails in hard and twisting. As she screamed he thrust himself into her mouth, his cock quickly swelling between her jaws.
"Don't even think about biting, bitch, unless you want those pretty tits hacked off."
He ran the knife across her tit, drawing blood. She gave him the best blow job of her life and she didn't think about biting at all, trying desperately not to retch as his cum filled her mouth.
As he left he brought the screen back to life again. At first the image was exactly what had just happened, him pissing on her then getting a blow job, repeated over and over again, reminding her of how she had been degraded. Eventually it switched to the same awful scenes as before of Gary's torture, with the same awful screams filling her head. And then, something new, scenes of a woman being interrogated. It was nothing like the torture scenes, but much closer to home for her. She was naked, bent double over a desk and tied in place. They asked her the same question over and over again, slapping her face, caning her thighs and bottom as she screamed and squealed in pain. Then all three men took it in turns to rape her as she sobbed and begged for mercy. Then they asked the questions again, and so it went on.
This time, there was a voiceover from time to time, saying "Do you really want to end like Gary?" or the woman's voice saying "Do you really want to end like me?". When she first heard the woman she shit herself again, her bowels letting loose a flood of disgusting liquid, mingling with the half-dried mess that already filled her trousers.
The video ran on for a long time, switching randomly between the three subjects. Finally it played her own debasement dozens of times, before turning off again. By then her bowels had emptied over and over, and she had puked down her bare tits. She was a stinking mess, she had cried herself hoarse, she was shivering with cold now and starving hungry. She'd drunk the bowl of cold piss, almost gratefully, and now it was nearly empty. Her arms and shoulders ached terribly but she could do nothing to relieve them, she could hardly move at all. She sobbed, unable now to think about anything at all, dozing fitfully.
Time passed like this, a long time, she had no idea how long except that her whole body ached, the ever increasing filth in her trousers was torturing her cunt, she was cold, hungry, thirsty, and above all terrified. She tried to focus on her explanation, on making sure it had no holes in it, that it would pass even the closest scrutiny. But when the videos were running, as they did about half the time, it was impossible to think of anything at all except the screams and agony of the victims, or her own humiliation and degradation.
A guard came in every few hours. He'd adjust her bondage, sometimes loosening it, sometimes making it worse. She spent several hours almost suspended by her arms, her feet just barely touching the floor. Another time her feet were held far apart with a spreader bar, her cunt completely available to anyone if it hadn't been covered by the shit-filled trousers. He'd torment her physically, slapping her face, whacking her tits with a stick. He'd humiliate her, pissing on her, spitting on her, making her lick his boots or give him a blow job.
Her drinking bowl was generally full, sometimes with water, sometimes piss, though there were times when she couldn't reach it. Just once she was brought food. She was starving and would have eaten anything. Which was just as well. It was a big bowl of food slops, scrapings from plates that people hadn't wanted to eat, all mixed up together. Then he put it just out of her reach. She begged and begged, until finally he put his boot into the mess, and held it so she could lick food from its dirty sole. When she'd cleaned it up, more or less, he kicked her out of the way and emptied the bowl where she had been sitting, into the disgusting, stinking mess that had oozed through her trousers. Still she ate ravenously while he looked on, goading her about how disgusting she was.
Each time the guard would ask whether she was ready to confess. But she wasn't going to confess anything, she knew she could talk her way out of this one, if they would only give her a chance. Once she tried to explain that. He just told her to shut up, but still she tried. She spent the next few hours gagged with a dirty cloth soaked in her own filth. She didn't try to explain again. She knew she would get a chance in front of one of the bosses, not the guards.
She had no idea, but in fact three days had passed before finally she was removed from the cell. With no explanation she was unlocked, hooded again, led to another room in the cellar, and chained up again, standing, her hands still cuffed behind her. She was even more terrified, more runny shit mingled with the foul, rotten mess that had now run down her trousers and was trickling around her feet. Her naked upper body was cover in her own dried vomit mixed with dried piss from the guards. Her stink was overpowering, like a hundred blocked toilets.
She stayed like that for several hours. She was terrified, but she tried to focus on how she would explain everything. Then people started to arrive, talking quietly among themselves, moving around the room. Finally a voice asked,
"Now you filthy stinking bitch, are you ready to confess or not? Do we have to try a bit harder to get you to see what you should do?"
She had been practising her speech for hours.
"Please, I can explain exactly what happened..."
Then she screamed. The thin rod cut viciously into her belly, once, twice, three times.
"Yes or no, are you ready to confess? We don't want to hear a load of clever concocted bullshit. Confess, yes or no?"
She burst into tears, sobbing under the hood, her tears wetting the dried puke. She was so sure she could explain, if only they would let her speak. Softly she said no again, shaking her head feebly. She screamed again as the vicious rod cut into her belly and her tits, over and over. Then another voice spoke.
"No, let her explain. I want to hear this. I'm sure it's very clever. Go on, tell us."
She struggled to get her breath back. Just as she started to speak, she screamed again. Her tits were on fire, the pain was terrible. Another squirt of stinking liquid shit escaped her and oozed down her thighs.
"I want to hear it, but I haven't got all day. Those clips on your tits should encourage you to get on with it. They'll stay there as long as you're yakking away with your stories. So get on with it."
The pain was terrible but this was her only chance. Desperately she struggled to ignore it, to get the words that she had so carefully prepared together. She spoke for ten minutes, about transfers and accounts and other people's actions, in great detail. She explained how Alex had extracted money for himself. It was a very comprehensive explanation, convincingly described despite her ordeal. But the pain in her tits was getting worse and worse, she had to rush the last part before it became overwhelming.
"Very good. Very very good. That was very convincing."
Her heart lifted despite everything, despite the pain, the stink, the humiliation and fear. She so much wanted to see their faces, to see how they had reacted.
"Total bullshit of course, but very clever bullshit. I can see you've used your time alone very constructively. And as for Alex, he was our first suspect. He's in Colombia now, for the last few days of his life. But he denied everything, and it all adds up. We know who took the money, we're just waiting for her to confess."
She started sobbing again, still hooded. She had been so sure it would work.
"I have better things to do than listen to this bitch's nonsense, trying not to puke at her stink. Get her to confess."
The hood was yanked off her head as he left the room. She gasped as she saw the huge metal clips that were torturing her nipples. The room was a lot bigger than her cell. At one edge was a cheap metal desk, the first speaker sitting behind it. Three other men stood around the room. On the other side was a rough wooden bench.
"Come on, confess, get it over with. We know you're guilty, you heard how your story went down."
Still she was sure that somehow she could convince them. One more time she shook her head feebly.
"OK, we'll have to help you change your mind. We all know how difficult it is, once you've decided something, to look at it differently. But I really don't think you want to end up like Gary, do you? You're a beautiful woman, it will be such a shame to destroy that lovely body, to waste all that potential. And you're smart, your story was really very clever. I think if I didn't already know what bullshit it is, I'd really have believed it. Let me show you how we can help you change your mind.
"You know about this one already." He held the cane, gave her a couple of strokes on her tits. "We can use it much, much harder. And we have lots of others like it too, each one hurting a bit differently.
"Then there's this." He held up something that looked like a small knife. She peered at it. There was a handle, and a narrow, thin blade, with a slight point at the end. She was wondering how it would be used to torture her when he slipped it under her thumbnail, and pushed hard. She screamed as blood oozed from under the nail.
"Hurts, doesn't it? And you've got twenty nails, and we get several goes at each one. I think this could easily help you change your mind."
The he showed her another mystery object. He explained that it was a small gas-powered soldering iron, as he switched it on. He ran it across her belly, leaving a red burn and the smell of burning flesh. She screamed, and emptied her bowels and bladder yet again.
"That's nothing, just a little demonstration. Imagine how it feels when we hold it inside your cunt. And speaking of your cunt..."
He held up the final object, a long wooden stick, thicker at one end. She guessed straight away what that was. The thick part was huge, over two inches across, covered in sharp bumps. She retched at the idea of it inside her, adding a dribble of puke to her stinking body.
"Yes, you get the idea. It's a fucking-stick. Imagine it thrusting up and down fast inside you, tearing you apart, until blood runs down your thighs. We've got more, too, in case these don't help you change your mind. But you're a smart girl, and I think you're beginning to get the idea that we're not interesting in your pathetic made up stories, no matter how ingenious they are. Now, bend over the bench."
Soon she was bound over it, her wrists and ankles fastened to its legs. Her filthy trousers had finally been removed, leaving her naked though covered in a thick, stinking film of her own disgusting filth. The stench had been truly awful, enough that one of the guards had thrown up. Then, worse, they rubbed the pants on her face, pushing three days worth of putrid shit into her mouth and up her nose. The vicious clips, still on her nipples, were pressed into her tits, hurting more than ever.
"Are you sure you won't confess now, before we have to use any of these on that pretty body of yours?"
She was weakening, she was beginning to understand that it was hopeless. But still she shook her head, still she held a scrap of hope.
The guards went to work on her helpless body with the canes and a whip. They beat her hundreds of times, until blood oozed from every patch of exposed skin. She howled until she was too weak even to scream. Still they worked on her, the cane falling over and over again on her bottom, her thighs, her calves.
Finally they stopped. He didn't even ask her if she wanted to confess. With the soldering iron he burned an X onto her belly, two inches across, very slowly, the iron crawling across her flesh. She howled and howled as smoke rose from the burn. But still she said nothing.
He left her to think for a few minutes, talking with the guards about what they would do to her next. She was barely conscious, and didn't hear as they talked about thumbscrews, hot pliers and other delights.
Then she howled again as the fucking-stick was thrust inside her. It was even worse than she had imagined, a thousand times worse than the clips on her nipples, even worse than the burn as the stick thrust into her, ramming into her cervix, twisting around. Finally she knew it was over.
"I confess, I confess, please stop, I'll take my punishment, please..."
She stood naked in front of the desk, back again in the elegant upstairs office. She had been cleaned up but her body was a bleeding, bruised mess, oozing blood everywhere, dripping onto the plastic mat that was protecting the expensive carpet. They'd fucked her a while longer with the stick, until she shouted her confession at the top of her voice, and blood was still dripping down her thighs as well.
The big boss from days ago, or a lifetime, sat behind the desk.
"I'm glad you had the good sense to confess, instead of sticking with your story. Though it was a brilliant piece of imagination, it makes me appreciate even more what a good brain you've got there. You can still be very valuable to us. Still, if you were a man... your friend Alex is already in Colombia, even though he didn't even do anything. He'll die very horribly, thanks to you. We'll let you watch, no, we'll make you watch. But you... we can use you as a woman, as well as a brain. You'll carry on working, harder than ever, but you'll be a sex slave, a fuck toy, a plaything for anyone who wants you. And of course you'll still be severely punished before you leave here. Your life will never be the same again, you'll be our possession in everything you do. You're not really a human being any more, you have no rights or self determination or anything like it.
"And you'll give us the money back too."
"But I can't... I don't have it..." she whimpered.
"Well, you've got quite a bit of cash and investments. Oh yes, we know all about you. And you've got a house, and a fancy car, and jewelry, and lots of designer clothes. They'll all be ours now, you won't need them. We'll pay you a very good salary, more than you've been making. But you won't actually get any of it, or only a tiny allowance. So we will get our money back, over time."
He explained at length what her destiny would be. Or if she didn't like what they were suggesting, she was free to join Alex in Colombia. The people there were quite keen on torturing a woman to death, they hadn't done it yet. So if she wasn't sure...
She was sure. She was too dazed to think about the reality of her future life, but surely anything was better than dying like Gary or Alex. He made her sign dozens of documents. When she protested that they were only blank paper, he explained gently that everything else would be added later - the gift of her house and car, the emptying of her bank and investment accounts. He demanded all her mail and social networking accounts and passwords, which she gave. Well, almost - she planned to keep a couple to herself. But when he asked her if she was really sure she had given all of them, and the guard started to push the fucking-stick into her again, she gave them too. Her willpower to resist had been completely broken.