Pink

By Succubus

Marsha Bellows wore pink today.  Not just any pink, mind you, but ultra ‘look at me, look at me’ pink.  Usually, Marsha found pink to stand out far too much for her tastes.  The cheapness, the garishness, of such a pink, especially would have offended her sensibilities.  It just wasn’t tasteful.  But she was wearing pink today:  A short, tight, pink dress--heels too high and patent white.  The dress was nothing, really:  no straps, and the skirt short enough so that the slightest bend showed off all of her exposed charms. Even her lipstick matched perfectly that brighter-than-real-life color. 

If you had asked her, she’d have sworn she’d sooner be caught dead than in a get-up like the one she wore so enticingly today. 

But then, that was entirely the scenario, wasn’t it?

So while she walked about the room, a fake smile upon her face, her arms holding for dear life onto a tray of drinks, you’d have to look hard to see the anguish deep inside the girl’s eyes.    Most didn’t bother to look that deeply: after all, faced with a gorgeous brunette with a tight little body in a slinky little pink dress, would you bother to look past the tits to her eyes?  Would you care, even, should you happen to see deep enough to recognize her pain?  I doubt that many would.  Not with a heart shaped ass like she had.

Hands reached for Marsha as she walked about, bringing drinks, taking away empties.  Groping and fondling the girls was encouraged.  If the rare moment occurred and her hands were empty, one patron or another was sure to grab her up, make sure she stayed busy, productive. 

Then, with beer soaked breath, they’d pull her into their laps, or lay her out upon a table.  And there, before the sight of all, they’d have their fun with her.  They’d squeeze at her breasts, twist them, pinch them, torment them.  Even with the gentle ones it was difficult—night after night, hour after hour--it became so that even the softest touches hurt.  Her lips would swell; her ass would turn ever-brightening shades of pink from slap after slap after slap.  They’d often try to match the color of her dress, making a contest of it. 

But she had to take it; she had to submit to whatever these men decided to do with her.  There was only one other option.  With a shudder Marsha glanced quickly up at the wall, high above the tables and the shouting.  There hung a beautiful blonde, her figure lithe and youthful.  Her body sagged in a posture of exhaustion; her hair hung over her face.  She gazed down and Marsha though she looked a little like Jesus.  A sacrifice she was; that much was certainly true.

Every so often, Feesh, a big ugly idiot who was strong as a horse, would take up his position below the punished girl, whip in hand.  The room would quiet slightly, the yells dropping to murmurs, and a small ripple would go through the crowd as they anticipated the first strike of the lash.  They were never disappointed.  The girl’s screams would echo through the hall, the sheer agony she endured apparent in her nightmarish cries.  Marsha would flinch with the sound of the thick leather tearing into the tortured girl’s flesh.  And this was only her prelude. 

Often times the men would gather for a game of darts.  The girl would be stretched out taut, against the wall--shackles hung for just this purpose.  Wrapped round her neck was always a length of chain, tight enough to keep the girl gasping in discomfort, but not so tight as to really impair her breathing.  Her arms and her legs would be stretched far apart, giving the men a perfect target.  Of course, a shot at the pussy or on a nipple was an instant bulls-eye.  The men would play for hours, never tiring of the wails that came from the girl with each dart that flew.  Most of the men were pretty good players.  The worst was when someone missed and hit her face.  For some reason that always seemed so horrible to Marsha.  Not that the rest wasn’t.

Her torments would last throughout the night; she’d be tortured in a thousand fold ways, with no constraint.  No need to bother worrying over her, she would be dead by dawn.  Murdered like the rest at the hands of the owner, all for his pleasure--and for her punishment. 

The only way Marsha could keep from being that girl on the wall was to do exactly everything she was told, to submit completely to anything she was directed to.  And that was the worst part of it—to obey, to willingly walk, in the torturous high heels, to a pig of a man, smile sweetly, and beg to suck his filthy cock.  The utter humiliation and shame of it was far worse than the man’s greasy hands grabbing at her flesh too roughly.  The fact that she had to sit herself down upon his cock, and fuck him, of her own volition, was far more degrading than the act itself. 

If only they would just force her.  Just make her do these things.  But they wouldn’t, that wasn’t how they worked.  The pleasure of violating her flesh alone was not sufficient:  they must take it all away, every piece of who she had once been, every scrap of the individual.  She’d have to smile at the beasts, pretending to love whatever they did to her, mewing and moaning like a good little actress, while their beer-scented breath blew in her face and her bile rose in her throat. 

When Marsha was done being used for the night, and the patrons all went home, then her ordeal really began.  That was the owner’s personal time with his creatures.  This was when he really got his enjoyment.  First would come the punished girl, led along, half-dragged, in chains, blood oozing from the many cuts of the lash, from the punctures of the darts, and from whatever other horrors she had been subjected to.

Feesh would drop the poor girl at the owner’s feet while he thought of what new and exciting death the girl should perform for him.  A punished girl was always a special thing for him, and aroused him greatly.  Often he would have two or three girls pleasuring him while he watched the girl’s execution, his excitement greater than at any other time. 

When her blood began to flow, his began to boil.  The torments he would heap upon Marsha and the other girls then, were beyond compare.  Fucking them with anything he could get his hands on, filling any hole he could find or create. 

One night she watched him break a leg off a table and shove it deep between one slut’s thighs.  The girl had screamed to heaven, her body arched and taut, then her eyes had rolled back in her head and she had passed out.  The owner kept slapping her to try her bring her to.  Blood oozed slowly from around the wood, buried as it was inside her womb. 

That girl had been ‘punished’ the following night.  Marsha suspected that the owner’s treatment of the girl had mortally wounded her.  Bleeding to death from a splinter filled cunt would have been a slower more painful death than the strangling she received at his hands the next day.  Small mercies, Marsha thought.

When he’d strangled that one, Marsha had been sure she was going to strangle as well, for he had buried his cock in her throat, blocking all air, suffocating her.  This was as he wanted, though.  The entire world to the girls was his cock.  The sooner they learned it, the better.  Marsha understood completely this fact as she choked and spluttered, wondering if he would allow her air or kill her too.  Black spots had danced before her eyes before he pulled back allowing one quick gasp before burying himself in her throat again.

The night was growing late; the customers were slowly trickling out the door, two and three at a time.  The noise in the room was diminishing from a roar to a steady hum.  Marsha bent over a table, smiling like an idiot as one more old man penetrated her sore and over-fucked cunt.  The smile was survival; it was painted firmly in place.  The more Marsha felt like crying, the bigger her smile would get.  Amazing how one can train their responses, when properly motivated. 

The man’s strokes grew more urgent, then he paused, his muscles tight, and Marsha felt the heat of his sperm as the man came.  The nausea that swept up in her was firmly pushed back down.  As quick as she could manage, she disengaged herself, said the proper “Thank you” to the leering monster, and scampered away, pulling the tight skirt of her dress down over her ass.  Just push it away, she thought, don’t think about what you just did--don’t think about all the men who used you, don’t think about any of it.  That way, it didn’t really happen, not to her, at least.

Walking as fast as her high-high heels would allow, Marsha headed for the backroom, eager to leave off the duties in the hall.  As she whipped around the corner, she bumped straight into the owner.  Marsha gasped as she saw him, and he smiled at her.  His smiles were the scariest thing Marsha had ever seen.

He grabbed the girl by the hair, bending her half over.  He yanked her dress up, around her waist, then down, exposing her breasts as well.  Marsha tried for the smile she had learned and hoped that it was firmly in place.  She stifled the yelp that had wanted to escape as he hands twisted cruelly in her hair. 

“Ah, my slut,” he said.  Roughly he shoved his hand between her thighs.  Marsha stumbled slightly, trying to open her thighs to him, bent over as she was, in the murderous heels.  He yanked harder at her hair.  “Stay still,” he ordered.  Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes.

The owner took Marsha’s pussy between his fingers:  he fondled her cunt, stroking at it, petting it, then grabbed it with his fist, and twisted hard, pinching her tender lips.  Marsha bit her lips tight, eager to be as silent and acquiescent as possible.  Roughly the owner shoved two fingers into her still-dripping cunt, then three, then four.  Small cries were making their way past Marsha’s lips, try as she might to remain quiet. 

Harder he pushed, forcing his fingers deep inside of her.  She could feel his nails scratching at her inside, could feel his knuckles smashing against her mound.  Marsha’s legs were screaming from the position, shaking from the pressure of keeping her body still.  Twisting his hand inside the girl, the owner shoved harder, forcing his thumb into her beside his fingers. 

The fist being pushed deep inside of Marsha would have killed her two weeks ago.  But after the constant use she suffered since coming here, she could take a fist, even if it did hurt like hell. 

Her head was arched back, her hair pulled so tight by the owner that she could arch no more.  Deeper he forced his hand, grabbing at her cervix, seeing how deep he could get it.  He twisted it painfully inside of her, rotating it, scraping her with his nails, with his knuckles, working it ever deeper.  Marsha cried audibly now, though still the noise was softened by her biting her lips shut.  She thought she tasted blood but bit all the harder, forcing her mind to think of other things, things that had nothing to do with the thick forearm this man seemed determined to fit inside her. 

It was almost a relief as his hand slipped inside, the lips of her cunt resting against his wrist.  The smaller wrist was not as painful as the rest of his hand had been.  He stopped for a moment, moving his hand the small amount he could.

With all the force he could muster, the owner punched into Marsha, banging his fist off her uterus, making room for another inch of his wrist to slip inside her pussy.  Over and over he punched, hard, rocking the girl.  She sobbed openly now, half gasping for air.  Her eyes were squinted from the hair being pulled so hard.  Each thrust rocked her away from him, pulling out pieces of hair, yanking on it hard with the weight of her own body.  Her legs would collapse any second, she was sure of it. 

He let go of her hair, positioned himself better behind her, and used all his strength with one last punch.  Marsha screamed out in agony, her body flying towards the wall.  Impaled on his arm as she was, the movement only served to move his fist around inside of her, it was too thick to allow her to dislodge it.  Instead, Marsha stumbled to the stone floor, landing ass-up in a heap at the owner’s feet, his hand still moving inside her womb. 

Her body ached from the fall, her knees screamed, but, relentless as ever, and now pissed as hell, the owner renewed his assault.  He fucked her hard with his fist, twisting it around inside of her, trying to spread his fingers and open her over-stuffed cunt even more.  With his other hand he began to beat at her, slapping at her ass, her back, her thighs. 

“Fucking whore, I did not tell you to move!” he screamed. 

Marsha wept openly now, desperate to please him, anxious not to incur his wrath.  Still he lashed out at her, hitting her over and over, holding her in place by her cunt, like a hand puppet.  Roughly he pulled his hand from her, bruising her more as he did.  He grabbed her hair, spinning the girl around and slapped at her face, hard, over and over.

Marsha heard a buzzing in her ears and watched the world through fuzzy blackness as the slaps came, one after another.  She fell back, trying to escape the blows now, not thinking, just reacting.  Enraged, the owner slapped her all the harder.  Finally she lay against the cold stone floor, at the owners feet.  He paused for a moment, his breath ragged and rough, and stared down at the girl.  His eyes glowed with his anger, but also with excitement. 

Marsha’s fear welled up inside of her.  The girl trembled, helpless now to stop the tears that coursed down her face.  She gazed up the owner, terror in her eyes.  He recognized her fear and smiled slightly, feeling an answering twitch from his pants.  Abruptly he grabbed again at Marsha’s hair, twisting its soft length around his hand, and walked towards the kitchen, half dragging the stumbling girl. 

She scrambled to follow him, half crawling, banging her legs upon the stones, upon the tables.  Her hands reached out trying to balance her, for she knew that if she didn’t keep up, he’d simply drag her by her hair to where he wanted her.  He kicked open the kitchen door and tossed the poor girl inside before him.  “Feech!” he yelled out for his henchman.

Terrified, Marsha started blubbering, reverting back to her former ways—ways the owner had carefully tried to train her out of.  It was always a disappointment when one of his girls let him down.   “Please…” she begged, “I’ll be good, please…” but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

Feesh arrived, the kitchen made immediately small by his hulking presence.  “This one is to be punished, Feesh,” the owner said, watching the girl’s face closely as her fate was sealed. 

“No!” Marsha wailed out.  Her face crumpled and fell; huge tears flowed from her eyes.  Her sobs were in earnest now, her fear greater than it had ever been.  Her entire body shook as the giant approached.

“She will be tomorrows entertainment.  For now, we’ll just give her a taste, to think about until then, shall we?” So saying, the owner gestured to Feech who grabbed up the girl, holding by the waist with one beefy arm.  Futilely she began to struggle, her mind no longer thinking clearly as she lashed out kicking and hitting against the brute. 

Feech chuckled at her ineffectual blows and easily held the girl firm, carrying her across the kitchen to drop her unceremoniously upon the counter next to the stove.  He pushed her down on her back with one big paw and held her in place.  Marsha could feel the heat coming from the grill beside her, could feel the heat rising from the ovens below her. 

The owner grabbed some lengths of rope from the storage closet and approached the girl.  Carefully, with Feech holding the girl tight, he wound the rope around each of her ankles, leaving plenty of rope between them.  He cast one end of the rope up and over a beam in the high ceiling, and caught the end of it.  He handed the rope to Feech, who grinned in response and started tugging.  Slowly, one of the girls feet starting rising into the air. 

With her hands braced on either side of her, Marsha struggled to pull her legs loose.  She wiggled against the ropes as higher and higher her foot was lifted.  Panic filled her as she tried to stay balance.  Finally she lay on her back, one leg extended toward the ceiling, the other dangling off the countertop, her hips just slightly raised. 

The second rope followed and to Marsha’s horror, she watched as that leg too was lifted into the air.  The pressure on her ankles grew greater and greater as the men tugged on the ropes, lifting the girl’s legs high, until her ass was well off the counter.  Marsha squirmed, her legs spread wide, giving the men a delightful show of the pink between her thighs.  Her legs and ass flexed, working to find some more comfortable way of maintaining this position. 

The owner chuckled, warming to his game as he pulled a few ice cubes out of the freezer.  Smiling down at the tormented girl, he placed his hand between her thighs and spread her lips apart, opening her.  Feech laughed as the owner shoved the ice cubes inside Marsha’s cunt, laughed at the way the girl wiggled even more.

“Maybe that’s too cold,” the owner said to Feech.  A devious light filled his eyes.  Marsha saw him hold up the baster, but didn’t shudder in fear—after all, there were far more menacing items than a turkey baster inside a kitchen.  It took her only a moment to know how wrong she was. 

Carefully, the owner filled the baster from the pot of boiling water, taking care not to burn himself.  With a wicked grin, he forced it inside the girl.  Marsha yelped out when she felt the heat of the baster, but it wasn’t until he squeezed its bulbous head and a rush of boiling-hot water filled the girls abused cunt that she screamed.  Her body shook and shuddered, her ass tightened and flexed, desperately working to try and force the water out, to move away from the scalding and the burning.

Her screams echoed through the building, warning the other girls that it might not be the best time to be anywhere near the kitchen. 

The owner removed the baster from Marsha’s cunt, then slapped at it, playfully.  The girl’s cries softened and mellowed again to pained moans.      

The owner gestured to Feech and Marsha felt herself being moved by the giant, her upper body gathered into his arms.  He lifted her off of the counter and let her body dangle towards the floor, releasing the girl so that her entire weight now hung upon her bound ankles.  Her thighs were stretched apart, pulling on the muscles of her inner thighs.  Again, the men started lifting her into the air.  Each tug on the ropes brought her another inch higher and her thighs another inch apart from one another.  The muscles were so tight in her thighs that she was sure they would pull them loose.  The slightest movement of her body intensified the pain her legs were enduring. 

The owner appreciatively eyed the girl, exposed so completely as she was to his sight.  He slapped his hand against her pussy, loving the smacking wet sound it made.  Enjoying himself, he spanked at her pussy, each slap harder than the one before.  Before long, he was flailing away at the girl, spanking at her cunt as hard as he could, seeing if he could get a new noise from her. 

Glancing over at Feech, the owner was again amazed at the size of the man.  His hands were huge, the forearms monstrous.  That was what gave him the great idea.  Stepping back from the girl, he ordered Feesh to fist her, telling the giant to try and force as much as he can of his arm inside of the girl.

Marsha started whimpering louder, her noises not quite human anymore, as she realized what was going to happen to her.  Feech approached, terrifying as ever, and all she could do was stare at his hand, her body twisting it it’s bondage to try and see.  There was no way he could fit it inside of her.  Flexing his fingers, Feech began to do as he was told. 

He started slowly, with one finger, snaking it inside her cunt, wiggling it around.  Marsha’s eyes went wide, for it felt like a cock inside her—and that was only one finger!  Carefully he wormed a second finger in beside the first, still stroking at the girl’s cunt.  Marsha began to whimper more, struggling to deny the henchman.

A third finger followed the second, and by the time a fourth had made its way inside of her, Marsha felt stuffed to over-full.  Still, slowly, he fucked his fingers in and out of her, four of them relentlessly twisting and sliding into her wetness, stinging from all the abuse, burning from the boiling water.  Marsha’s face was flushed dark red, both from the blood rushing into her brain from her position, and from the constant attention on her bruised and burned cunt.   There was no way she could take any more, she thought.

And that was when Feech pulled his hand from her cunt, flattened his thumb against his palm, and forced his entire hand inside of Marsha.  Marsha screamed out as she felt the hand slide into her, felt her pussy convulsing and squeezing, the lips wrapped tight about Feech’s wrist.  Her whole body was flushed; her eyes kept losing focus.  Feech pushed harder, pushing and pushing, until inch by slow inch, he started trying to fit his forearm into the girl. 

The owner looked on, his cock rock hard from the show.  The enormous hand shoved into the girls cunt looked bizarre, abstract.  The forearm was huge against the size of the girl’s cunt.  The lips looked stretched beyond belief.  It was extremely exciting to him, seeing this enormous thing buried inside the girl.  He rubbed at his cock through his pants.

With a final thrust of effort, Feech bottomed out, unable to force another single inch of his arm into the girl’s horrible stretched cunt.  Quickly, savagely, he yanked his hand free.  Marsha screamed as it felt like her insides had all just been ripped out of her.  Her body shook from the ropes; her tears fell into her hair and upon the floor. 

His passion raised by the girl’s torments, the owner grabbed at his belt, loosening the thick leather, pulling it free of his pants.  His cock pressed harder against his pants and throbbed as he began to beat Marsha, taking long powerful strokes with the belt, swinging it for all he was worth against the girl’s body.  Leather ripped against her breasts, tore at her thighs.  Louder and louder Marsha cried. 

The owner didn’t stop until he was out of breath.  And then, he only stopped to pull his member from his pants and stroke at it, his breath ragged.  A few strokes were all he needed and Marsha was rewarded with his hot seed splashing across her skin, stinging into her cuts. 

She barely moved as the men untied her.  When they dropped her to the ground, she lay where she fell, unmoving.  Feech slung the girl over his shoulder and followed the owner into the main hall and chained her there to a wall, where she would spend the night.  The men walked off and left the girl, hanging alone and crying into the darkness. 

Marsha wept bitterly, knowing there was nothing before her but more pain and then, finally, death.  There was no point to her life; she’d never got to live it.  The only meaning left to her was the enjoyment she would provide to the inn, the pleasure her death would give the owner.

 Marsha sobbed into the night, not sleeping, her body sore and aching in a million ways and places.  Even the pain was welcome now, though, for tomorrow there would be nothing.

Sometime in the night, the cries of another woman’s agony and despair reached her ears.  She hung, defeated and lost, knowing that in a few hours, her own cries would be echoing through this same hall. 

Though she’d never would have wished to believe it, though she’d have sworn it would never happen, Marsha was stabbed to death, dressed in the pink which flattered her so well, looking for all the world like the slut she had become.  By the time the blade sunk into her, she welcomed its warmth, sought out its solace, and greeted its kiss with a smile.

The red of her blood darkened the pink of her dress. 

She hung there beautifully as she died:  her breasts thrust out, her skin shining it’s fading pink.  Her ass looked as incredible as ever, peeking out at the crowd, as her breaths grew shallow and slow.  The pink of her nipples seemed almost surreal to the watching crowd, vying for brightness with the slutty shade of lipstick that framed her dying gasps. 

Her last vision before the darkness was of the owners cock, hard as ever, held tight in his fist.  His face wore a mask of desire and in it Marsha saw her strength—Marsha saw her meaning.  In the hard cock spewing forth seed as the blood drained from her body, Marsha found the power she had never known she had.  Marsha learned the beauty, the horror, and the power, of the color pink.