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Chapter 3 – The Morning After (or, They Seem to Like Hanging Around)
“I smell pee pee,” said Sam, as he entered his dungeon the next morning, nearly 10 hours later. He flipped the light on, and examined his latest catch.
Even though the nails were almost hair thin, they had put enough holes in Tamara's flesh that she had lost a dangerous amount of blood. Though she had made an honest effort to hold her urine, in hopes that she'd be allowed to use a restroom in the morning, once she had gone unconscious, her body had simply let go, and there was now a decent amount of urine on the floor underneath Tamara's feet.
For this exact reason, the dungeon floor was made of concrete with recessed drains. Therefore, it was nothing for same to grab the water hose and spray everything down, which he did, while whistling.
Tamara did not wake, but Sam wasn't concerned. She was pale from lack of blood, but as soon as she had gone unconscious, she would've let go of the bar above, thereby putting pressure on her feet, which would cause those wounds to clot fairly quickly. Her hands, being above her head, wouldn't have accounted for enough blood loss to cause concern.
After the floor had been sprayed off, Sam, still alone in his dungeon, as he would be for the next few hours, pulled on the rope attached to Tamara's breasts. Up she went, her dark purple breasts stretching. The board remained attached to the undersides of her feet.
Once he had enough clearance to remove the board, Sam tied the rope to a nearby anchor. The board slid off her feet, and again blood began dripping, but only from the most recent holes.
While Tamara was still swinging slowly in the air, unconscious, Sam used the opportunity to remove her shoes, soiled skirt, and hose.
He then let her down; slowly, so as not to aggravate the wounds on her feet, and let her crumble naturally onto the concrete floor.
Taking these clothes with him, Sam went into one of the many attached walk-in closets. He dropped these clothes in a semi-airtight hamper, which would soon be destined for a dry cleaner friend that was compensated well for not noticing urine and blood stains.
In fact, he'd been compensated just the previous night by Tamara's own mouth.
Returning from the closet, he carried a special set of shoes and leather mittens, a handful of small padlocks, as well as a large bottle full of a yellowish green liquid.
Sitting, cross legged, on a relatively dry section of the floor, Sam opened the bottle and set it aside.
He set the seven inch heeled ballet style shoes on the floor, then poured in a liberal amount of the liquid. Then, curling her leg at the knee, he crammed and shoved each foot into a boot, being sure to lose as little of the fluid as possible. Once both feet were secure, the tops of the boots, which were very low, only barely touching the bottoms of her ankles, were buckled and locked.
No matter how much she wanted those boots off, which she certainly would, for reasons other than that they were a size too small, they would be staying on for quite some time.
He then removed her blouse and bra, being careful not to get them bloody with her hands, and, after checking the blouse's tag delivered them to another hamper.
When he returned, he took the time to examine the beautiful blond.
Her hands, still covered in blood, were free, and they were beginning to move a bit as she slowly moved toward consciousness. Even in her current state, she still flinched and jerked her finger back any time she brushed the one with the pin in it against the floor.
Her calves already looked to be cramping a bit from the extreme position of her feet, and her breasts were still tightly bound, remaining a relatively safe deep purple.
There were bruises on her cheeks and stomach from the straps that had gouged them.
Though looking a bit used, Sam surmised, Tamara still had some fun left in her.
As soon as her eyes began to open, she winced and made a half hearted attempt to grab her foot. Her breathing, which had been steady and rhythmic, though shallow, was now shuddering.
Being left handed, she attempted to push herself up on her left hand, only to fall back down, clutching her left hand with her right, moaning. She opened her eyes to examine, and was reminded of her ordeal by the tiny silver point under her nail.
Though they were not quite as painful, her hands were pockmarked with tiny holes, caked over with dried blood.
The most intense pain, however, was coming from her feet. Laying on her side, she curled a bit to examine, and noticed Sam was sitting nearby, watching with interest.
Her feet were encased in locked, leather boots that forced them into the most awful position. There was no way she could stand on those heels; especially not with her feet hurting like they did. The raw, intense pain of having nails forced into their soles repeatedly had been replaced by an excruciating, sharp agony.
“Jalapeno juice,” Sam said, lifting the bottle so that she could see. “Also salt, and some lime juice. I keep it around for wounds such as these. I don't believe all that crap about it making them heal faster, but it does keep them disinfected, and also hurts like hell, if your face is any indication.”
A car horn sounded outside.
“Hmm, I wonder if that's the boys with your sister, or the doc? I hope it's the boys. I had something I wanted to show you two before the doc got here...” Sam said, presumably to Tamara, as he stood and walked to the exterior door and opened it.
She wondered if he was always so sociable with his victims. She assumed he probably was.
Tamara considered screaming help, or something, since the door was open, but knew it would be pointless. He wouldn't have the door open, otherwise. Here she was, sitting there nearly unbound, door wide open, yet it was impossible to escape.
And he'd done it so easily, so simply, so...ritualistically.
She tried, instead, to see if she could remove the shoes to give her feet some relief, if only for a moment before he put them back on and slapped her across the room again. It would be worth it, the way her feet felt.
Unfortunately, the boots were locked, and were so small on her feet that they wouldn't budge in any way.
“It's your sister,” Sam said, conversationally, causing Tamara to lean over to see the two big men carrying the wooden box between them.
“Go in the bathroom there and poop,” Sam said, gesturing at the nearby open door, but still watching the men carrying the box.
As he'd heard very little movement, he turned to see what was slowing her. She looked like she was trying to stand.
“Crawl, dumb-dumb,” he said, as one would to a child, “you're not going to walk in those, not now, probably not ever.”
So she crawled.
In front of the toilet, no doubt put there on purpose, was a body length mirror. Tamara cried a bit as she looked at herself, and tried to put her head in her palms, but recoiled at the shocking pain, especially from that damned pin.
She considered pulling it out, throbbing as it had been all night, but there would be no telling what the consequences would've been. She doubted they would really go so far as to cut off Stacy's arm, but really didn't want to test it.
Her breasts looked unreal. So unreal, in fact, that the reality of those dark purple things on her chest being her own tits simply did not sink in.
She didn't even wash her hands. After a bit less than 24 hours in this place, she didn't know if Sam wanted the blood to remain on her hands, so left it where it was.
“He certainly knows how break someone's will,” she thought, though honestly believed that he wasn't particularly trying. This all seemed so natural to him.
“Tamara,” he called out, “no stalling. Come say 'hi' to your sister while I go get you some clothes, and that thing I wanted to show you.”
Tamara, afraid of worrying her sister, did not want her to see her in this state. She wiped as well as she could with her throttled hands, wondering at just how soft the toilet paper was, then crawled out of the restroom.
The men had apparently unloaded Stacy onto the floor, not even bothering to bind her, and left.
She was fully clothed, just as she had been the day before, minus the panties, Tamara assumed. That was about the only good she could say for her sister's condition.
She had two black eyes, one swollen almost shut, as well as a busted lip. She held her head a bit to the side as if she were having problems balancing, even though she was kneeling.
Her clothes, as well as her face and hair, were completely covered in dried semen. Her mouth was partially open, and Tamara could tell by this and the marks on her cheek that Stacy had been subjected to a ring gag recently; likely all night.
Her legs, which were generally a lovely shade of tan, were almost solid black and purple, with various five-point bruises indicating where hands had brutally squeezed, and likely held. Her throat looked similar.
Peeking out of her skirt, as she knelt with her legs slightly spread, were two large, cylindrical metal objects that very obviously plugged her two holes. Each had a loop on the back, and a chain running through them that connecting to a chain that tightly constricted her stomach.
Had they gang raped her all night, as it certainly appeared, Tamara found herself hoping they hadn't used the natural hole. Being raped with a broken and melted vagina would be...beyond horrible.
Tamara scraped her way across the concrete to kneel, as she figured was expected, beside her sister, nearly falling twice from being dizzy, even though she was only on her knees. It seemed she was still lacking blood.
Sam announced that he had something he wanted to show them, and that they were free to talk to each other as long as they were completely silent when he came back in to the room.
When he left, Tamara thought, for a very brief moment, that this was some sort of great opportunity. But then she realized...she had nothing to say. She wasn't alright. Her sister wasn't alright. She had no plans of escape. What would they possibly talk about?
“We're going to die, aren't we Tam?” asked Stacy, suddenly.
“I don't know, Sissy,” replied Tamara, using the name she had used as a little girl without even realizing it.
“I think so,” said Stacy, with a bit of a lisp, likely from some of the bruising around her mouth. “I think...I think if they let women go, they would've been caught. They'll have to make us disappear, somehow, or we could turn them in, right?”
“I...I don't know, Sis. Maybe they're just really good at hiding. Or maybe we're just across the border in Mexico or Canada or something, and they're safe as long as they don't go into the US. Maybe --”
“Tam?” the younger woman interrupted.
“Yeah, sis?”
“I want to die here. I...I don't want to live after this. I can't.”
For the first time during their conversation, Tamara turned to look at her sister, just as Sam came through the door with the object that he had so badly wanted to show them.
Stacy turned her head and vomited.
Tamara covered her eyes, oblivious to the fact that she had just slammed her pinned finger into her forehead, and screamed for nearly a minute straight.
It was, at that moment, that Tamara also decided she would rather die in that room than continue living.
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