Ademetos presents

Tanya - Part 3, The Other Guests

A Tanya series story
Extreme, F+, f, M+, Real Life, Pain, Sadism, Scat, Snuff, Water Sports, Non-Consensual
The Tour

"I can tell you don't really believe me about the way you're going to die. I'm sure you're thinking that nobody has used those methods for centuries. You'd be right, mostly speaking, but I'd like to show you what we're doing to revive the old customs. You're a bit of a special guest, what with your relationship with Carlos, so I'll give you a bit of a tour. A lot our guests don't get that, it's just the dungeons, slavery, torture, and then a hideous death, and they never get to appreciate everything we're doing here. It's a waste, really, although we do have plenty of other guests who just come to enjoy the sights. Well, they pay for it too, of course. Chatty can come with us too, she's seen some of it already but not everything. And the exercise will do her good, she seems to be a bit stiff lately."

So they set off to the yard outside that was used for executions. Tanya's body hurt with every step, the bruises from her beating, the throbbing pain from the charred flesh under her tit. She stunk all over, from her shit-filled jeans to her fouled head. If she paused even for an instant she got a whack from one of the guards. Poor Chatty was in even worse state. Even through her own suffering, Tanya could see that every step was almost a superhuman effort for her. Despite her mutilated throat she kept gasping in pain as her feet touched the ground.

The first sight in the yard was a horror beyond belief. The mutilated body of a young woman was lifted a couple of feet off the ground by a thick wooden pole that entered her body at the crotch and stuck out of her left shoulder, ending in a sharp point just above her head. The flesh had started to rot, the belly was bloated, the skin tight and starting to turn black. But the limbs were painfully thin, the outlines of the bones clearly visible. All four of them hung awkwardly, at odd angles. The feet were missing, and the lower part of the calves. The hands were still there but even the decomposition couldn't hide the crumpled mess that was all that was left of the smashed fingers and bones. The head lolled to one side, the eyes already pecked out by birds, and much of the skin too.

"As you can see, we decided to revive the lost art of impalement. She's probably the only person to have been impaled in the last century. It wasn't always like that, though. Once upon a time, Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for the Dracula stories, used to impale people by the thousands, his enemies and his own people alike, whole cities propped up on stakes like this in a single wild bout of sadistic mass murder. It wasn't so very far from here, so you could say I'm reviving a local tradition. It's really a terrible way to die, I think it may even be worse than crucifixion although it's hard to be sure without having personally experienced both. Which, of course, isn't very practical. She was a very brave and courageous girl, to be honest I rather admired her and I was quite reluctant to finish her off, but we can't go round bending the rules just on a whim, can we? It took her two days to die, two days of twitching up there on the pole, her insides torn apart and rotting inside her living body, two days of unbelievable agony. She screamed at first, but her strength didn't last long. If you look closely you can see that the pole goes in through her anus. I think that old Vlad preferred the vagina, for the ladies anyway, but I wanted to keep that free. When she was fading away, just barely conscious, I managed to keep her going a bit longer by pushing a red-hot iron into her, one last fuck for old times' sake as you might say. She was pretty torn up in there already, all my lady guests are by this stage, just as you'll be. But still I think she was fairly sensitive, because she did manage to scream for a long time. Go on, take a good close look. In fact, maybe her remains would like a good tongue fuck. Go on, give her a good licking, see if you can make her come one last time."

Tanya didn't dare disobey. She knelt in front of the rotting corpse, trying to ignore the stench which was much stronger up close. A thick, putrid ooze coated the pole, which was covered in flies. She pushed her mouth to the charred remains of cow's pussy. It was black and hard and smelled of burned meat. At a stroke of the Master's crop, she pressed her mouth to cow's clit, swollen in death but not burned. Trying to ignore the stench and the horror of the situation, she used her tongue just as she sometimes had on her girlfriends. The Master let her do this for a minute or two before grabbing and pulling her up, saying, "Seems pretty hopeless. Nice of you to try though."

"She wasn't just impaled though. That'd be a bit of a waste. We put her on the rack first, and tore all her joints apart. That's why her arms and legs look funny, the joints are all burst open and just dangling. She made a lot of fuss about that, too. Her feet disappeared a long while before, she insisted on wearing unsuitable shoes and in the end we had to remove them for her. We only did this last weekend, that's why the body is still in such good shape. If you'd arrived a couple of days earlier you could have seen it for yourself. It was quite a show. Anyway, let's move on."

The next horror they reached was the remains of a crucifixion. This had taken place a few weeks earlier, so the body was just a skeleton with a few rags of flesh hanging on it. The major bones were still joined together, but the smaller bones from the hands and the feet had fallen to the ground and were lying in untidy piles under the body.

"I want you to look carefully at this. Crucifixion has rather gone out of fashion, which is a great pity. You'll see that the nails go through the wrists, not the hands like you often see. That's much stronger, and has the added advantage of being unbelievably painful because of a nerve that passes through there. The nails through the ankles make the punishment much, much worse. Without them, the victim dies of asphyxiation, because the chest muscles aren't strong enough to keep him breathing. But with those extra nails, he can push himself up. The pain is terrible, but he can last for two or three days like that. I say 'he', but it could be a woman too. Maybe the next one will be you. That would be lots of fun, wouldn't it? I expect you'd enjoy being crucified, hanging from the nails in unbelievable agony for a couple of days."

Tanya was sobbing. She had never imagined that such terrible cruelty was still practised. She'd watched television programs about unspeakable things happening in third-world jails, but nothing as bad as this. And the thought that it could - probably would - happen to her! And that this brute could describe it with such pleasure, as though he was talking about his stamp collection.

Torment of the Living

Next they came to a treadmill, a huge wooden wheel about ten feet tall. Inside, a naked man walked, turning the wheel at a steady pace. His body was bathed in sweat.

"This is how I keep my guests fit. He's been in there for about a day so far. He's completely exhausted, every muscle in his body is screaming with exhaustion. He doesn't stop, though. If he's tempted to, various electrodes in sensitive places remind him to keep going. Watch."

One of the guards walked over to the wall and pressed a big button. The man physically jumped, screaming at the top of his voice, flailing around as the shocks tore into his anus, his balls, his urethra, and other places too. Then as the button was released, he collapsed, restrained by straps somehow attached inside the wheel. His feet were dragged along by the still-turning wheel for a few seconds before they found their place on the rungs again and started plodding.

"Shithead, let's see you do that. Go on, press the button."

She walked over to the wall and put her hand over the button. But she couldn't bring herself to press it. She wasn't a monster, like these characters. She immediately felt the crop, once then again and again, on her back. She pressed the button and watched the totured figure screaming and flailing around. She took her hand away and he stared to recover. But the crop hit her again, on her tits this time. She pressed again, and this time held her hand there. Some mechanism increased the power of the shocks as time went on, his screams and contortions becoming more and more violent. She was horrified to realise that she was getting turned on watching him suffer, under her control.

"I bet that's making you all damp, Shithead, all wet on the inside watching your victim suffer. I'm right, aren't I?"

She nodded, in shame.

"You can stop now, and watch him struggle on the wheel. He'll be there for another day or so. At the end he won't be able to walk, or even stand, it'll be days before he can walk, maybe never again. But I know he'll keep going, because he knows what'll happen if he doesn't. He knows that his feet and legs will be crushed, as slowly and painfully as we know how. He knows he'll die soon anyway, but that's human beings for you, they just never give up hope."


They went a little further and Tanya was surprised to see a girl, a working girl, dressed like a street whore and tottering up and down in high heels.

"Ah, this is Trixie, Madame Trixie. She ran the biggest and best brothel in town - not this town of course, somewhere quite big and famous. She had the best girls, the best parties, everyone knew Trixie and her house of ill repute. There were ministers, top businessmen, film stars, everyone. She was rolling in money and everyone loved her. But then silly Trixie got greedy. She started a sideline in blackmail. All those rich and famous people, I suppose it was just too much temptation. And one of her blackmail victims decided she should spend some time with me. So now she gets to walk the streets all day. Take a good, close look at Trixie, and see what she's become."

Close up, Tanya could see that Trixie wasn't at all the teenage streetwalker she appeared. Despite the short denim skirt and the unbuttoned PVC jacket, she was a lady of a certain age. As she turned around at the end of her walk and her face and body became visible, even her heavy make-up couldn't hide it, she was in her fifties at least. Her fat, wrinkled thighs wobbled with every difficult step. Her big belly drooped down towards her knees, but her enormous tits were completely rigid, like balloons sticking out in front of her. Ribbons of blood trickled down her fat thighs as she teetered painfully on her heels.

"No spring chicken, is she? She was always quite fond of the choccies and such, but since she's been here we've fattened her up even more. We keep her tits nice, too - a couple of times a day we inject them with salt water to keep them firm. She's really quite sexy, don't you think? And she likes to fuck, don't you Trixie? We try to fuck her at least as often as her own girls got fucked. Must be about time for it now. Trixie! Time for a fuck!"

Trixie started to cry and to beg with the Master. Tanya wondered why, after all a fuck isn't that bad. The Master pushed her over so her flabby bottom was exposed. He grabbed something and showed it to Tanya.

"Look Shithead, she has her very own little fuck-toy. She loves being fucked with this, don't you Trixie? It reminds her of her customers, all those people she blackmailed and swindled."

Tanya saw with horror just what the fuck-toy was: a brush with a long handle, and thick, hard, sharp bristles, a couple of inches across. Trixie was soon bent double, and the vicious object was shoved into her. He fucked her with it over and over, thrusting it into her then dragging it out, twisting it round and back. Poor Trixie screamed and cried, to no avail. After a couple of dozen thrusts, he yanked the evil dildo from her, covered in blood, and tugged her upright again.

"There Trixie, that was good, just like old times, eh? You can get on with attracting your clients again now, maybe there'll be another one along soon."

She was sobbing, bent nearly double in pain. Blood was running freely down her thighs. He sent her on her way, staggering along in her pathetic imitation of a girl on the street. She tried to relieve the pain with her hands, struggling against the cuffs that held them to her waist.

"It's not fair that Trixie has all the fun, though, is it?" he said brightly. "I bet Chatty would like a nice fuck, too, wouldn't you Chatty? Come on over here."

Chatty looked terrified but she knew better than to hesitate, and she couldn't beg anyway. She came over and the Master pushed her over.

"Shithead, you can do the honours, anything for a friend, eh? Make it nice and hard, now, if you show any mercy it'll be worse for you."

He handed Tanya the brush, but she couldn't bring herself to do such a terrible thing to poor Chatty, who had enough problems already. But soon the crop on her tits convinced her, and she very carefully eased the tip of the brush into Chatty's tender little pussy. She had it just inserted when the Master shoved her elbow, ramming the brush right in to its full depth. Chatty screamed, as much as she could, and then the Master yanked Tanya's elbow, in and out.

"Like that, you stupid tender-hearted bitch. Like a big fat cock, just before it comes, in and out." Tanya did the best she could, trying to ignore the awful rasping sobs coming from Chatty. Soon the hard, sharp bristles wete covered in blood. He grabbed her hand and gave it a quick, vicious half-turn, provoking another whispered scream. Then he told her to take it out and lick it clean.

"Your turn now. Chatty, I'm sure you'll return the favour? Nice and hard now, like a girl really likes it, a bit rough."

It was Tanya's turn to scream - and she did. It was like hot knives being pushed into her, each thrust or tug or twist set her whole belly on fire. It seemed like it would never end, but when it finally did she was hoarse with screaming. She could feel blood running down her thighs. She collapsed to the ground but vicious kicks in her ribs made her stand up again. She cried not just in pain but at the realisation that her cunt would never be the same again, even when Carlos did finally rescue her, would they ever be able to fuck like they had before? She started to sob, ignored by everyone else. What was it like for this Trixie woman, being fucked like that dozens of times a day? How long could she stand it?

They saw a couple of other slaves toiling in impossible conditions and pain, but she barely noticed now through her own pain and misery. Soon they were back inside.

A Real Shithead

"Well, that's been fun, hasn't it, meeting your fellow guests, and even getting laid? A nice outing. But you've had it pretty easy these last few days. I bet you've never really done a proper day's work in your whole life. Soon you'll find out what hard work is. But first, I've got another treat for you. I know how much you like your new name, but you're not really a proper Shithead if it's just your own shit, are you?"

Soon she was strapped into another awful device. In case it wasn't obvious to her, he explained exactly what it was. Her head was inside a box, face down, inside a bowl just slightly bigger than her face. A tight collar held her firmly in place, and a clamp pressed against the top of her head. Any movement was absolutely impossible. In the bottom of the bowl was a puddle of filthy, stinking liquid. She clamped her lips together and tried to pretend it wasn't there. The top of the box was open, and from the outside it it looked exactly like a normal toilet, with a comfy seat that could be open or closed. From the back of the box her body stuck out. She was on her knees, a sharp wooden bar holding her in position, her legs spread wide and her ankles clamped in place. Her once-beautiful filthy jeans were bunched up around one ankle, her shit-filled tights cut open around her crotch. She was available to be raped in her bleeding pussy, or her filthy anus, or to be beaten with any of the whips, crops and so on which were conveniently next to her.

Once she was fastened in place, one of the guards stood and pissed into toilet. His hot, stinking piss soaked the back of her head then dribbled round her ears and into her eyes and mouth, forming a puddle under her face. Soon, she had to start swallowing it to be able to breathe. It tasted foul, especially mixed with the filth that was already there. She started to cry, but that was cut short by the crop that fell again and again on her exposed bottom. The lake of dirty piss bubbled and splattered everywhere as she screamed in pain. Once the guard had finished he came round and fucked her hard, torturing her mutilated cunt. Then she was left alone.

She sobbed pitifully. Was this really the way she was going to die, weeks and months of humiliation and pain and then something terrible like the poor girl who'd been impaled, who'd taken two days to die in unspeakable agony? Surely Carlos must have heard by now, heard their demands or realised she was missing, or something. She drifted into a delirious half-sleep where once again she saw him storming the chateau, guns blazing, his men swarming in from their Humvees or their helicopters, shooting at random until they found her and rescued her.

She was aroused from this reverie by the sensation of something heavy and slimy landing on her head and slithering round. With horror, she realised that someone was using her to shit. The stink was awful, but the feeling was even worse. She heard a long fart and then another pile of stinking shit landed. She couldn't move and it mostly stayed where it had landed. Then she heard a hiss, and felt piss - woman's piss - running over her head as well, washing the shit down as well. Soon her mouth and then her nose were under the surface of the puddle of shit and piss. She refused to drink it, keeping her mouth clamped shut, until she just couldn't resist any longer, her lungs bursting. Then she swallowed as fast as she could, until she could breathe again. Gradually the pile of filth slithered round her head until her nose and mouth were surrounded by it.

It wasn't until her next visitor that she was forced to eat it all, when another puddle of piss carried it into her mouth. In the meantime she'd been beaten, and raped with a club that had been left inside her for what seemed like hours. She sobbed in pain and misery, but of course nobody was listening.

She spent a day and a half in there, being used as a toilet by everyone. The worst was in the morning - not that she knew it was morning - when everyone got out of bed and had their morning shit. Their piss was much stronger, and everyone produced a big pile of shit. Some of it was runny and flowed straight into her mouth, while others produced hard turds that stayed on her head until something dislodged them, then wedged in the space between her face and the bowl. Several times she was violently sick, her shitty vomit mixing with everything else. She had no choice but to swallow it all. Sometimes when she was used, when she saw the shadow of someone sitting on the seat, she begged and pleaded for help, imploring her user to show mercy and release her, or at least not to defile her any more. But it was useless, people took no more notice of her than they would of any other toilet. Sometimes her user would tell her to shut up. Often he, or she, would walk round afterwards and rape her, with a cock or some other implement, or beat her, or both. Her cunt was bleeding from the abuse and from its earlier wounds. As the filth worked through her system, shit ran down her thighs and spread around her bottom, leaving her knees swimming in another puddle of filth. A few times two people worked together, one fucking her while another used her mouth, making her gag and retch as she swallowed the vile filth.

Hard Labour

By the end of her session as a toilet, she had lost all sense of time. When she was finally released she was barely aware of anything around her. But in any case she had no time to think. Roughly the guards yanked her jeans up around her waist again, soaked in shit and filth. With a long knife they cut around the crotch leaving a gaping hole that would be used to rape and torment her. They weren't too careful, and in places the tip of the knife cut into flesh as well. Her head, still covered in shit and with recognisable bits of turd attached to her hair, was left filthy. And she was dragged off to the quarry.

The quarry's function was to exhaust the victims completely, to reduce them to physical wrecks. Like the others, male and female, she slaved eighteen hours every day, from before dawn til after dark. The actual work was unimportant, it was decades since the quarry had produced anything. Sometimes she carried heavy rocks around with her bare hands, other times she pulled heavy wagons loaded with stones over rough tracks. When it was dark she was put to work breaking up stones with a hammer and an iron pick, then carrying the smaller stones around. Sometimes she had to climb rickety ladders to fill up a tub or a wagon. Anything to tire her. It was true that until now she'd never really done anything that could be called real physical work. Modelling could be tiring, but not a millionth of this.

With the continuous hard labour, she was beaten and brutalised unrepentingly. The guards used crops and whips on her and on all of the slaves. Since her bottom and legs were slightly protected by the tatters of her once-chic jeans, they beat her harder, or concentrated on her back and belly and tits. Her visible flesh was just a huge bruise. They raped her with their cocks and with clubs, dildos and whatever else came to hand, sometimes stretching her until it felt like she'd split in two. Other times they used dildos with blunt spikes, or sharp ones, that dragged her torn flesh or cut into it, making her scream in pain despite her complete exhaustion. They used her mouth and her anus too, threatening her that if she bit them they'd smash all her teeth on the spot.

She slept wherever she fell, when the guards let them stop for the day. Her hands and feet were bound to whatever was handy. She was so tired that even if she was lying on a pile of sharp rocks she would sleep until she was brutally awoken the next morning, with a kick in the ribs or the belly. There was always water to drink, filthy water from a trough where the guards would piss and shit, slurped up with her lips since there were no cups or anything like that. Food was a different story. Once a day, most days anyway, there was a trough of filthy swill that the slaves would share, fighting for space around it. It tasted of grease and rotten food. She was always starving, if a guard threw a scrap of rotten meat or dry bread at her then she would scoff it down quickly before anyone else saw. Sometimes they made her eat shit, hot steaming piles of it or half-dry rotten turds, and even that was almost welcome. They hadn't forgotten that she was Shithead, and they would make her rub it into her hair and around her head. Her once-beautiful hair was just a stinking lump of dried, rotten shit.

After three weeks of this, she was just an animal, barely aware of her own existence. She lost weight until her ribs showed clearly, standing out of her bruised flesh, and her filthy jeans hung loose around her waist. Her beautiful Jimmy Choo sandals were still strapped to her feet, but the heels had broken and dragged along behind the shoes now. The straps had cut into her feet and the flesh around them was bleeding and swollen. Her hands were just a bloody mess, torn and scratched by the rough rocks she carried all the time. She was a physical wreck, her spirit broken - which was just as it was meant to be.

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