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I brought her too again. She kept passing out. You'd think it hurt or something worse. I told her I wasn't satisfied with the results. It simply wasn't enough, wasn't destructive enough. I could still tell she had genitals.

She was pretty well out of it by now, but when I held the two big crackers in front of her face she got the idea I wasn't done yet.

She screamed out like nothing I've ever heard before and didn't even start with the prayers again.

What good had that done?

I pushed two of the M80s together as far up into her as I could, lit them and watched in fascination, her finally being destroyed. I'd never fuck her again, that was for sure, at least not in the cunt because there wasn't one left. She couldn't even play with herself. From now on, I'd have to fuck her in the ass or across her tits but that would be OK too. I'd liked doing that almost as much, besides I knew she couldn't last too much longer with such damage and how was she going to piss anyway? All down her legs, as it turned out. Every time, or she sprayed like a garden hose on wide pattern. It was fun to film but not too close or she'd get it on the camera and me. I didn't mind on me but the camera wasn't partial to getting soaked.

I was so right.

I knew my craft.

In about a week I had to finish her off, but had a great time in the time she had left. She couldn't really walk, but I gave her a cane and made her sort of run around the room with me holding more crackers in hand and throwing them at her lit and threatening to stuff three of them into her at once. I went through about a hundred, making her hop and dance the jigs, which screwed up her hip joint again, and she tried to jump higher for the big ones, so eventually she couldn't stand at all on her own, cane or no cane. She just dragged herself around, on the floor, like an old bitch dog with dysplasia. Then too, me kicking her on her fracture with my steel-toed work boots didn't help either, but it left such well defined bruises.



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I was getting bored with her suffering and thought about it for awhile and upon closer probing and inspection, realized she still had a vaginal orifice of sorts. It hadn't completely disappeared, really how could it? So I decided to give it a go to see how much of a real fuck she still had in her. I'd let her heal, if that term could apply since her condition was all so grievous, for three days and felt she'd had enough of a holiday.

During her usual chorus of protests, I tied her on the bed, legs spread perfect and was into her in a jiff and couldn't get any sense of being contained. It was all lose and ragged and raw where once she'd been tight as a fist. So my cock couldn't grind against anything firm or remotely tight. My knob couldn't butt her. It was like trying to masturbate with an opened hand.

I decided to try a pint of vinegar, to see if I could tighten her up, like pucker her up and used a big basting syringe to squirt it into her.

Well, that worked, all right.

It was like I poured super glue, the Crazy stuff, into her. I almost needed a chisel and mallet to penetrate her since she'd swollen shut so tight. Her lining and lips were, like, fused and her canal super squished against itself. I think even her vix pushed back into her uterus trying to escape the stinging and swelling, which the stinging, my prick nob felt too.

Fuck, that was meaner than mean of me, but it got me the superb orgasm so she still had it in her. She was good for something still, so yet should be alive.

A day later, I did her from behind and it wasn't that great, even with all my extra threats. She was so messed up and compromised, it was like fucking a bowl of vanilla pudding. I did persist and managed her a few drops of my squirt, far from my usual gushers, so it was back to her front. It was time to do her twat again but without the vinegar.

Her condition made me have to do extra. I tied her to the floor using eyelets I'd anchored and got her pelvis arched about two feet up over a wooden box. Now my prick could ram against her bone structure, tickle her skeleton and I did her over two hours, the pretty good cum and left her well filled, - full filled, but not thankful. Three hundred and sixty thrusts to her soul, jaded her outlook. A year's worth seemed enough, I figured, and could count them from my video, I'd made. And I loved how my hips took aim and then plunged and how she lurched in reply. It was far superior to any phony porno movie.



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Fucking her across her tits was the easiest, but least rewarding, of my remaining options. Which got me to reminiscing, waxing nostalgic for when her tits were perfect.

I remembered well, the first time I saw her breasts, since I'd replayed the video recording I made of our exchange more than most other prime assaults I'd visited on her person or psyche.

In the van, when I raped her, it was dark and I just squoze her.

As I delivered her out of her bra, she entreated me with, 'Please listen. Please. My breasts get very tender when I have my period, which I've just finished. They also swell a little, sometimes quite a lot, and I bruise so easily you'd think something was wrong with me. But the Doctor says no, some women are just made that way and I'm one of the unfortunate ones, so please, if you're going to handle me, don't be rough or mean. OK. OK?'

I treated her to my silent stare.

She continued, 'I give off quite a bit of discharge too, from my nipples, so please respect.You can see there's a little there now.'

I was ecstatic with her appearance. She was beauty defined, with her nipples pointing just a little bit upwards and pale pink areola, like a faint pastel shade, all subtle and ready to crinkle.

'How about I lick it off? See if it tastes like milk?'

'Stop it. It's not milk, like lactation. It's discharge and not the same.'

'All I know is it's coming out of your hard little buds so it's milk to me.'

She'd erected up perfectly from the cool and the stress and I wanted to get the big toe nail clippers already. Maybe even just show them to her.

She was starting to crinkle up, only on one side about half way around a nipple. I moved in on her for a taste. You'd have thought my tongue was a snake. (which she feared them)

'Stop it. Oh please. You're scaring me with that look. I'm not strong about my chest. They're not strong.'



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'What, no slurping?' I said as I kept on tonguing the air.

'Stop being a pig. Being obnoxious.'

'Just one little taste.'

'I'm not brave about my chest, I told you.'

'So what? I retorted. 'How about you express yourself to get a bit more of the juice out?'

'No. No I can't. I won't. I can't.'

'Come on, you can do it. You'd be amazed what you can do when faced with the crisis, faced with the motivation.

'Is that what this is, a crisis? She added, 'For me?'

'I'd say for your tits it is, like worse than a cancer or a mastectomy if you don't fucking listen and obey.'

She started to mewl, just a little, and went all little-girl don't like, like 'Why are you touching me down there?' Instead of squeezing her legs together to fend off unwanted advances, she tried to diminish the presence of her tits, suck them inwards to her lungs. Like inverted nipples but the whole fucking mounds. She tried to concave her chest and it just made them look all the more vulnerable and inviting which was my perfect catalyst.

'You'll be OK.' I said knowing full well she wouldn't be.

'You'll be stronger than you think. You'll see. You'll see. They're just tits. Tits. Tits. So nothing I do to them will kill you.'

'My God, kill me?' she blubbered.

'But I really love your shape. They're classic, like exquisite. Just movie-star perfect, but natural. You're not very big. What, a 34B? But still you look heavy. They hang heavy and look at your bottom contour. No sag. No silicone. Just full flesh meat. And shit, you side profile, ever so slightly dimpled. Geeze I want to squeeze them, one of them between my legs. Mash my cock against it and just grind away until I soak you. Do you think you'd like that?'

She just looked at me wordless and annoyed.

'No? Then maybe I should suspend you by them. Tie you up so they're all forced out and hang you right off the floor by them.'

'You're nuts.' (Then she had such a way of stating the obvious.)



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'And see what they look like then, all purple and blown up like sex balloons, like toys.'

'Where do you get such talk and ideas? Such filth?'

'From my head, bitch. And from this one too.' I said as I grabbed my crotch.

I pinched and twisted her nipple and she squirted a stream.

'Fuck, that was nice. Like a jet stream, a water gun. Oh fuck. Let me see if I can squirt it into my mouth.'

'My nipples, my nipple. Please don't. They're even more tender. Please leave it be.'

'You think it matters? I could cut it off, even bite it off and you wouldn't miss it at all. Or maybe I could crush it, fucking stupid leaky fawcet.'

I looked her straight in the eyes, 'You're so stupid to think anything about your tits matters to me, except how much I can hurt them.'

'You're disgusting and a jerk as well.'

(Well maybe a jerk-off, but a jerk?)

'And just so you know, that all goes double for your cunt.'

Now I had her attention, and fear, in my hands.

I'd since proved well up to the task of torturing her tender chest and she'd held up better than some of the teenagers.

I was thinking too about how her days would start.

When she'd first awake, on her own, from having passed out during an extra fine torture routine, it often was like a heavy, dark veil just waiting to descend, even pounce. First were the moments, precious seconds of unawareness, followed by confusion and then the intense awareness of some new pain location. Then would the screaming erupt, like a searing hot volcano of raw emotion and despair, of ineffable disbelief, or sharp belief, I had outdone myself at being a bastard again.



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She'd come to the realization that what was hitting her wasn't a dream, but me. Only once before in her life, just out of college, a boyfriend had slugged her and she thought nothing of having him charged and spend a month in jail. She'd never been struck since and then along came my bolt. And she'd awake to scream some more.

Shit, she'd even shit herself, more than once, within twenty seconds of reviving. Talk about your effective enema. That's when I knew I'd really gotten her good. When she shat herself with her disgusting feces. Oh well, what else could I expect from nothing but a low cunt life. I thought about gluing her anus shut with the super glue just to avoid the mess and then for the sport, of seeing how big she would expand before she blew up.

Another day, a better way, to be mean to her.

Still again, did I really want shit on the ceiling? With her buggered hip I wouldn't be able to force her to clean it up. And I had to question, if she was out living her usefulness, if she couldn't even clean up her own shit mess.

I didn't think the adult diapers would work either. How would I explain that warranty claim?

'Incidentally, I glued her arse shut.'

'How did that happen? Was it an accident?'

And there went my whole beef.

Silly assed woman, time to get another playmate.

And I already knew who she was.

Her daughter was fifteen and her spitting image. Well not exactly anymore, but she had been and could be made so again. She really loved her mom and missed her. I'd even struck up a conversation with her husband and the kid in a coffee shop and he was devastated by her disappearance, confused and hurt that she would abandon him. They both were.

Who elected me, his cancer? I wondered.

And I'd never abandon the kid.

Amen and amen to that.

Now it was back to the present.



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I'd dreamed up another miserable idea I wanted to try out on what was left of her.

I wanted to use her for target practice.

With my twenty-two rifle.

I wanted to trim her cunt neatly back to the bone, tidy it up, one little bullet at a time, all controlled and exact and heartless. Like nip and nip and tuck. And like shoot her baby fingers off, one joint at a time and, of course, areate her tits and maybe see if I could cut one of her legs clean off with the shots.

I knew when I did this, it would be her last day and set aside five hundred bullets for the task. I intended to use every last one of them. I went to sleep, in her bra and panties, the ones she'd had on that first day when I snatched her from the safety of her garage, and dreamed of lots of gunshots and some woman screaming, way off in the distance, unseen and unhelped and unconsolable.



The day of the hunter.

The spray of the bullets.

That day, her day,

Was a day away.

Geeze, what a poor sport I could be -

And I always won.