I found the bathroom. Did I dare have a shower, I asked myself? Yes, was the cacophonous reply from my mind, and I stepped into the shower, and stood under the steaming water. That felt good, and I stood silently, unmoving for almost 20 minutes. Finally, as the water started getting cold, I got out, dried, and put on the clothes I had taken.
That felt better, the t-shirt was loose enough not to hurt the welts I had all over my body, and it also provided enough decency for me for now. The shorts were a good fit, surprisingly, but I didn’t give it any further thought.
I covered the whole house, and found nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the house was spotless clean, and fresh.
Walking around, I felt my body respond, and I was slowly working the kinks out. I was always reasonably fit, and despite being tied up for at least a day, I was coping well. The clock on the wall said 3:12. I had been a prisoner for over 24 hours.
The phone, where was the phone? I looked around everywhere, but could not find a phone. Fuck! He had a phone, or he said he did. It had to be here somewhere? No matter how hard I searched, I still couldn’t see a phone, or even a wall plug, that a phone might plug into.
Later, I thought, I’ll look again later. I had more searching to do. I went out the door, and stood in the same place I had stood the day before. Everything looked so peaceful and tranquil, not real.
Where was my car? Ah yes, down by the road. But no, I had a feeling he would have brought it up here, away from prying eyes. I saw the barn/shed, and went to look there. The door was unlocked, and I went in.
No car. The only thing in the garage was a small truck, attached to a trailer, and a motor cycle.
Where had he put my car?
I went back into the house, and started looking for a phone again. Nope. I went through every room, on my hands and knees, moving every piece of furniture, but no phone. He had to have a phone, every one did. I heard it ringing, didn’t I?
I went back down the stairs to the basement, unlocked the door, and I stepped in.
He was awake, and blubbering like a baby.
“Peter sorry if Peter hurt cun . . . uh, pretty lady. Peter no do it anymore, honest.” He looked pathetic.
I walked over to him, and slapped him across the face. He yelped.
“Listen up, fucker,” I said, “I couldn’t care less how . . . Peter feels. I feel violated, and I won’t take any more shit from you. Got it?” I said, as I slapped him again.
He blubbered more, and started sobbing.
“Where’s the phone?” I asked firmly.
Still sobbing, he looked up at me and said nothing. If he was trying to be defiant, or strong, thinking I didn’t have it in me to be as cruel as he, then he was sorely wrong.
He was worse than pathetic. I hit him again, and he cringed away from me.
“I won’t ask again, you little turd. Tell me now where I can find the phone, or I’ll really hurt you.”
Still he said nothing. I waited patiently until he stopped sobbing, and was composed, then I asked him again. “Where have you hidden the phone. I know you have one, I heard it, and you will tell me. Or I will hurt you very badly.”
No words, but this time he did look up defiantly. “Fuck you,” He finally said.
His cock had withered away to nearly nothing, and looked funny all shriveled up. I looked into his eyes, and then spat on his cock.
I really don’t know when the idea came into my head, honest, but I decided I wanted some payback.
“I told you I would hurt you. I gave you your chance, shitter, which is better than you gave me. Too late now. Prepare to feel pain, fuckwit,” I said with venom rising in my words.
I looked around, and found the clothes pegs where I had thrown them. Why not have a little bit of fun, I thought sadistically, and picked up the pegs. I roughly clamped one, then the other, to his own nipples, and he let out a yelp of sheer pain. I laughed.
“Don’t bother speaking, asshole, I’m not gonna listen to anything you say,” I said. “I’m gonna be too busy hurting you to listen now. You had your chance,” and I spat on him again, this time his face. I had great satisfaction watching my spittle slide down his nose towards his mouth.
Then without warning, or alert, I slapped his cock. That got a response, he buckled up, and over (as much as the restraints permitted), and I saw real tears flood his eyes, as they nearly bulged out of his head. [Once, many years ago (I must have only been about 14), I was walking through a major store, swinging my arms, like a good marching girl, when I accidentally ‘clipped’ a young guy, walking behind me, right in the balls. He went down immediately, and lay there sobbing, clutching his balls, for over five minutes. I must have hit him in the balls just right, and it was the first time I really knew how delicate men’s balls were, lol.]
“Are you having fun yet, shit-for-brains?” I taunted him.
Without waiting for any answer, nor caring if he did answer, I punched the little fucker directly in the balls, and he screamed. Revenge is sweet (but revenge served cold is sweeter still). I hit him again, and then once more, and his face started to turn purple. I hoped he was in agony. I looked closely, and his balls seemed swollen. I picked up his cock, out of the way, and gave him one more mighty punch, straight to his balls. This time he passed out on me, lol. And this time his balls were definitely swollen.
I went and got some water (not using the hose. If that was how my bonds became loose, I wasn’t about to perpetuate stupidity), and I threw it over his face. He revived, and started sobbing all over again.
I lifted my hand to hit his cock, and balls, and his eyes bulged. Good. He was a quick learner. Instead, I turned and pulled hard on the ‘make shift’ tit clamps. I pulled both clamps at the same time, and he howled anew. I was enjoying this, and was going to give better than I received, if he didn’t tell me where the phone was.
I had left the knife in the small room, and went to retrieve it. I came back in holding the knife menacingly near his cock, and said, “Last chance, asshole. No more warnings. No answer, you lose your cock!”
Was I serious? Yes, I was very willing to castrate him, if I needed to; but I needed the phone first, so I knew (but hoped he didn’t) that I wouldn’t do that (yet).
I stood back, looking down on his scrawny body, shriveled cock, and swollen balls. His own nipples had started to bleed, and I knew he was hurting. The question was (well two questions actually), was I strong enough to really hurt him as I threatened, and conversely, how stupid was he willing to be to, to resist me?
Still nothing from him, so I took the knife, and picked up his cock in my hand. As I held his cock, I started stroking it, pulling my hand up and down the entire shaft, and like all dumb men, he started getting erect. I stroked his cock more, then lent forward and dripped some spittle on it, and he hardened more. I kept stroking him until he was fully erect, and I kept jerking his cock for a few minutes more, as he obviously was getting very excited.. When his cock was fully erect, I took the knife, without saying a word, or looking at him, and starting to slice slowly into his cock, about an inch above his shaved base. He bled like a stuffed pig, and screamed over and over. I sliced some more, and the blade was probably about an eighth of an inch in, when he yelled, “Laundry, you cunt. Look in the laundry, you fucking slut cunt. Behind the clothes hamper, you whore cunt.” And then he passed out.
I didn’t look back. I ran up the stairs, energy renewed, straight to the laundry, and pulled the clothes hamper away from the wall. He was a crafty little shit. There in the wall was a small door, and as I opened the door, the phone.
I grabbed the phone, listened for a dial tone, and rang the police emergency number.
They listened in incredulous silence, as I briefly relayed my dilemma. No, I told them, I didn’t know where I was. Yes, I told them, a prisoner, Yes, tortured. Yes, I escaped, tied him up, and then used a knife to get the phone. Yes, Yes, Yes.
After what seemed an eternity, they told me to sit there, don’t hang up, in the house, and they would be there immediately.
I dropped the phone without hanging up, and started crying. Then I remembered my cold revenge notion. Right fucker, time for dessert!
* * * * *
I raced back down the stairs, knife still in hand, and he was lying there, looking at me.
I didn’t waste time, I didn’t dither. My aim was true, and my goal unswerving. I grabbed his still semi-erect cock, and . . .
I sliced the fucking thing off. I didn’t care about his shrieks. I tuned out to his howls. I ignored the spouting blood. I took his cock, and went to his head. Slowly, in front of his eyes (and he did watch my every move in total disbelief), I threw his cock straight at his mouth, laughing as I did. Let him think about that for a little while, I thought in calm disgust.
I turned and walked out. Glad it was all over.
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