Devastation Pt. 03

The longer and more intensely that Petra pleasured herself, the messier she became between her legs. The whole of her vagina was saturated with thick slippery juices. The more vigorous her finger-work became, these juices spilled over and coated the toilet seat and swirled there. It became an endless cascade. Slow but continuous until her buttock- flesh slid and skidded, making the need to adjust herself continuous. Despite this continuous readjustment of herself, she made sure it didn't destroy her rhythm. The juices also coated her inner-thighs, making them as slippery as her sex and the toilet seat. There was an associated, slushy, bubbling noise, and the occasional expel of air from her vagina. And the crotch of the dishevelled, saturated thong twisted, and became a thin string-like piece of material, extremely slippery and useful only for being hooked by one of Petra's free fingers and pulling sharply between her sex lips as she worked herself, adding an extra welcome source of friction for her.

As Petra brought herself closer to orgasm, she rubbed directly over the tip of her clitoris. And also the finger rimming her bottom occasionally slipped inside, and was feeding an increasing need for her bottom to suck on the finger. To chew it. The tightness this created intensified the feeling of the need to orgasm. That tightness was a slippery tightness. Almost a virginal tightness, and a link to her glowing clitoris. Virginal tightness, in the willing sense of the word.

Petra fed her own head with fantasies as she approached orgasm. In this particular one, a somewhat large black man was feeding his thick, long, brutal cock into her stretched mouth and she was sucking it hungrily. Using her tongue to wrap around the shaft, then tightening the wrap of her tongue as it slid up over the massive bell end, ensuring she scooped up pre-cum leaking from the monstrous cock. As her own clitoris erupted into orgasm, so the black man erupted in Petra's mouth. First just a high-pressure jet of pre-cum in the back of her throat and then the main jet of thick, creamy, gluggy semen filling her mouth; her swallowing, then the second mouthful; the swallow, then the third mouthful, which she is unable to keep up with as it overspills her red lips and down her cleavage, coating her mammaries. The one bared breast coated in a thick wave of cum, the other breasts still inside the red silk blouse saturated and stuck to the sensuous material. It's just at that time that Petra erupts in that toilet cubicle. A long long continuous wave of orgasm that seems to emanate from the very tip of her clitoris.

"mmmmmmgodddddddddd mmmmmmmmmmnnnngodddddddddddddd..."

Petra panting and mewling through what, up until then, is one of the most intense orgasms she has ever experienced. Her fingers working vigorously, feeding the orgasm, until it begins to subside, the flow of juices, thick and creamy at their height as she reaches the peak of intensity. Flooding the seat, flooding the valley between her bottom cheeks and her forefinger slipping in and out of her anus.

Petra comes down slowly. The comedown is accompanied by a low, rumbling groan.

"noooooooo nooooooooo noooooooooo."

She doesn't recognize that deep-seated nag in the pit of her stomach as guilt at this point. To her, it's just a slight dread. Shame even. But not guilt, not yet. As she slips her dripping fingers into her delicious mouth and sucks them clean, she unfolds herself, slides to her knees on the marble tiled floor of the cubicle, and begins to lick at her own spilled juices on the toilet cover. The sight is almost wretched. This mature, high-power woman reduced this way, by a need she can barely contain. Her wet tongue, long and thick, dripping with its own saliva, sliding over the toilet cover and scooping up the juices and secretions her sexuality has produced. Her full, pouty lips sliding through the wetness also. There is an urgency to her actions. Like she doesn't want to miss any. Like she doesn't want to waste any. Or more like she doesn't want to leave any trace of her DNA for anyone else to find, for anyone else to discover. Or that 'secret,' that terrible 'flaw' in her, will be found out and exposed. If that were to happen, her world, as she knew it, would be shattered. In a way, she felt, she would be finished.

Petra knew she was highly sexed. She didn't know why. She just knew that she had to keep it in check. Under control. Keep it very much to herself. She could do that. She had been very successful at it. Every so often, she needed to relieve herself. And she did. She couldn't help that. It was a need that built up inside her that she could do nothing about except relieve herself. Occasionally, with carefully chosen partners she would indulge in full graphic and often seedy sex. She couldn't help it. She had to. She had considered therapy, but that would mean confiding in someone. She couldn't do that. She found it difficult, if not impossible, to trust anyone. There wasn't one single person that she could consider a friend, a true friend. In lots and lots of ways, she was a loner. But her issues, her flaws, were so well concealed that nobody but nobody ever penetrated her smooth and polished exterior. As she cleaned up the cubicle, wiped down, readjusted herself, reapplied her makeup, checked herself in the huge mirrors, she was back to a professional, absolute power-woman. Impeccable. Immaculate.

Just as she was leaving the restroom, so the early morning cleaners were beginning their day. She smiled and nodded curtly at one overweight negress as she passed in the corridor. Maybe it was her husband, or her son, that Petra had just fantasized about. Who knows? In another hour or so her colleagues would start arriving. She took out her iPhone as she flopped back into her office chair, fingered the touch screen and speed-dialled one number.

"Hi honey, it's me.. yessssss, your personal wake up call...... You have a good day and I'll catch up to you tonight once I'm done here.....ok......bye."

She sat thoughtfully as she hung up the call to her daughter Stefani. The rasp of nylon against nylon distinct as she crossed her legs slowly. Another day beginning.

TWO - Petra & Victoria

Sabirah's subterranean facilities had been designed and built by her with a single premise in mind. That is, that one day, she would find The One. Her ideal subject. The One who she would slowly and deliberately dissect, molecule-by-molecule via intense and complete, utter, inhumane torture and psychosis.

The world below her clinic, and below the facilities, where she ran her research programs, in itself was an intrinsic part of the terrible torture. A treatment so inhumane of another human being that words alone cannot describe it. It is impossible to overstate the cleverness involved in creating a world that simply drips with despair at every turn, and on every level, the ability to exclude the outside world in its entirety, a feat in itself. But at the same time to keep that outside world existing, in a faded grey inside the victim's head, testament to Dr. Sabirah Najwa's skill and determination in inflicting the very worst, the very pit of torture and despair, on the mind of the victim. The victim knowing that the normal world exists but getting to it, or any hope of getting to it, so distant, so utterly hopeless, that the misery just piles on top of misery.

A very simple and precise rule: once the mind is taken, the body will follow. Sabirah worked the mind and the body of her victims at the same time... because she could. Because she knew how. Keeping another woman JUST on the side of 'sane' was a very fine balancing act. A balancing act that Sabirah was an expert at. She was a clinical psychologist, a consummate professional and yet committing the cardinal sin. Likened to a martial artist using her skills outside of competition, or training, or tournament. She was a medical, clinical, and psychological professional utterly abusing her skills for her own gain. That is the gratification, or at least in search of the gratification of her advanced sadism.

There was only one place beyond those bondage and torture rooms below Sabirah's clinic. Well, 'another place-plus-one,' but that is for a future chapter. For this one, one place beyond where the most absolute of tortures takes place. That place is the Storage Facility. A further level below even the hell visited so far and yet, even more secluded. Yet more detached from the outside world. A rubber-world. Pod-like cells of pure latex. In effect padded cells. That is, windowless pods padded with pure latex. The stench of latex so strong that it is inescapable. An atmosphere dripping with pure latex. Each 'pod' no more than a human 'kennel.' And yet, not one that the occupant can leave and enter at will. Locked and sealed pods. Absolute exclusion from a normal existence. A latex vacuum-seal. Soundproof. Airtight. Escape-proof. Despair-proof. That is, sealing the despair in with nothing leaking out. The latex, a feed. A trigger that would forever be associated with the misery and torture of this place. And yet, also associated with the warm comforting confines of the womb. Mixed messages. Mixed signs. Confusing signs, feeding the confusion washing around the head of the unfortunate one. Feeding also the addiction and sexuality of the unfortunate occupant.

By its very nature the Storage Facility is larger, more intense, than actually required. Designed for The One, and yet giving the impression that many such victims could be placed into isolative latex storage. Indeed, this section could house up to twenty unfortunate people. Not really a deception at all. Part of the creation of a place that can only be labelled Hell, and yet is so much further beyond hell. Nothing really for the occupants to do here. Prevented from doing anything of their own free will. Just existing. Breathing and existing in this latex place. The Storage Facility.

By the time the occupant reaches this area of Sabirah's facility, she is far from the person she once was. Of course, Petra had ceased to be that a long, long time before she reached here. The confident personality gone. The sparkle gone. The control gone. The power gone. Qualities taken away, and replaced with a shell. A hyper-accentuated piece of femininity just about holding onto reality. Just about permitted to keep those memories of her former life inside her very diminished mind. Those memories feeding her despair. And her latex pod, her padded latex cell, feeding an already established addiction for the latex she so adores. So needs. Her double latex cat-suit and hood, the padded latex walls, and floor and ceiling, so close to her, and closing in all the time, making her feel like she is back in the womb. Back safe in the womb. But this place... this place so dripping with her own misery. Her own despair dripping from the latex walls and ceiling like a condensation, and soaking back into her to start the whole cycle, the whole process starting all over again.

It is in here, in Petra's storage pod, that she can just about curl up into the fetal position. Relatively free of the agonizing bondage. Only relatively free, of course. Ankles remaining hobbled with short chain and the knees also hobbled to stop them from opening wider than the nine inches or so of the chain length. Or attempting to create any friction that would lead to a pleasure that she, herself, was creating. That would be a no-no. Petra being allowed to pleasure herself. Or accentuate the pleasure already being fed to her by those ever-present throbs fed into the base of her clitoris. Likewise, her wrists, just attached, clipped to the steel rings at her hips. If her wrists weren't secured like this, she would slip her hands, and her long slender fingers between her legs, and pleasure herself this way. It wouldn't be that it was her fault. It would be a natural, absolute reaction to her deep-seated and established addiction. But such self-pleasuring was not permitted. This maddening this denial caused was very much desired by Dr. Sabirah Najwa. She liked this easy way of inflicting the basest of torment.

Turmoil in an already tortured mind. Deeper feminine turmoil and the knowledge that it was being caused -- that it had been created -- by another woman. And then, also, the highly inflated appendages remained inside both of Petra's most intimate holes. The vaginal appendage stretching her inner-walls to the maximum, making her musculature tight, taught, and with the occasional spasm, making her wince and twitch, even in her partial sleeping state. It was only ever a partial sleeping state. Petra hadn't slept properly since she arrived at the clinic. Even more so since she was taken down level by level. The vaginal intrudence having grown in girth and length as it was inflated with a feed of compressed air, then nudging up against her cervix. Pressing into it ensuring the discomfort was permanent, and a constant reminder of her deeper intimate femininity. The anal appendage fully inserted, then inflated, elongated, thickened inside her. Stretching her and nudging deep, then deeper, against her colon. A discomfort yes, but also a feed, a sexual feed to her clitoris. That nudge and spasm into her colon, a most definite sexual feed into the base of her clitoris and those ever hungry, ever-present, throbs.

Petra wasn't gagged. Sabirah liked all of the noises and sounds to escape that delicious mouth. Even in the womb-like confines of the pod, she liked to hear the little gasps and whimpers and mewling of her victim as she tried, always unsuccessfully, to sleep, and adapt to her ever changing state. Her mind in a constant, absolute whirl. Her body, the same. She would never absolutely totally adapt to her state, or her status. It was part of the torture. Part of the permanent turmoil created deliberately by the Sadist. And besides all of that, Petra's 'bad red lips' had to protrude and be exposed through the rubber hood. Deliciously exposed, free to communicate her distress to her captor. Or at least try to communicate it. Bizarre, such an attractive, educated woman who had previously been able with ease to communicate on all levels. Always choosing the right words. Always conveying the tone, the emotion. And yet here, the real communication coming from the empty, pool-like eyes. The lips, just another 'bad' bit of herself. Even in the rubber womb, the pod, such a vision did not escape Dr. Sabirah Najwa. Such gratification for such a complex sadist.

So, Petra's ability to curl up into the fetal position was hampered. Restricted by default. And yet, after saying that, seeing her curled up, pressed into the smooth rubber corner of the pod, was an almost wretched sight. Heartrending. Rubberized head pressed into the corner and hobbled legs pulled up, almost doubled, and back arched concavely. Almost certainly the appendages inside her pressed right into her internal organs, and her muscles clinging to them, chewing them, sucking on them, as the throbs continuously reminded her of her 'illness.' Of her addiction. Elbows protruding back, since her wrists are secured to her hips. Head back. Long eyelashes fluttering in her partial sleeping state. Maybe dreams of her past life. Maybe dreams of that big black man feeding his thick, vein-ridden cock into her mouth once again. Or nightmares of her new life. Chest expanding and contracting with her breathing. Lips parting, then closing. The deep-red gloss visibly peeling apart as her mouth moves. Maybe uttering words of despair to herself. Her tongue, pink and wet, just touching the corner of her mouth every few breaths or so.

Petra didn't move as Victoria swung open the pod door. She remained in her semi-sleep state. Victoria didn't want to startle what was already a wreck of a woman. A wreck shrink-wrapped in latex and almost mindless except for her addictive needs and her latent dripping sexuality. Victoria just opened the door and looked at Petra inside. In her folded, fetal state, it was hard to comprehend exactly how tall Petra was. Even with her lower-legs extended more by the knee-high, impossibly high-heeled ballet-boots, she seemed small, fragile. Her feet, her toes, arched and pointed and kind of rigid. A further accentuation of her deliciously shapely legs. She was on her side, her extended sexuality and anal ring pouting back, exposed from the latex-wrapped shape of her bottom cheeks and thighs. Even in this bizarre latex-light, her sexuality dripped constantly. Victoria watched very closely, as that same sexuality twitched. Anal ring pushing out, then sucking back in. The same for Petra's labia. Victoria cocking her head ever so slightly to one side, listening. Listening to Petra's deep, slow, irregular breathing. In between breaths, the noises her sexuality was making. Wet noises, slippery noises. Seemingly breathing organs with a life of their own.

Victoria is a thirty-eight-year-old cardio-thoracic surgeon and Sabirah's most trusted and longest-standing friend. At one time, they had been lovers. Very close lovers. Victoria had no mental health or emotional issues whatsoever. In fact, very much like Sabirah, in her natural attraction to the fetish scene. An attraction born out of genuine interest, genuine desire to explore the darker regions, as opposed to submitting to those darker regions. Very level headed. Very English. Very attractive and yet, attractive in an understated way. Now very happily married and with children, twins actually, of her own, just about to enter the high school phase of their young lives.

In lots of ways, Victoria is more chilling than Sabirah. She exists and thrives in the absolute normal world. The hands she uses to feed and dress and look after her offspring are the same hands she uses very skilfully, in her fetishistic hobbies. It was always possible, after a short period of time with Sabirah, to feel that chill down the back of the spine, for some incomprehensible reason. Just something about her that told of a deeper self. A hidden self. But with Victoria, nothing. Not the slightest inclination that this woman had hobbies and past-times beyond the normal. A woman like Sabirah, who was at the top of her profession and one of the best in her field. It was always possible with medical and psychological professionals to make excuses, and explain that they needed an escape, a release from their very high-pressure daily lives. The thing about Victoria is that she never showed any signs of this pressure. At all. Cool and calm under all circumstances and with no exception. It was only after meeting Victoria, after discovering her interests outside of her profession, that a chill could form in the core of the spine and then travel up then down, ensuring the hairs on the backs of necks were pricked and raised.

Victoria, dressed in skin-tight leather pants and a tight waistcoat that appeared two sizes too small to contain her 38dd breasts, stepped into the pod, her stilettos sinking into the soft latex of the pod's floor. Petra stirred a little but didn't wake from her semi-sleeping state. Victoria moved in close and then got down, perched on her own heels, on her haunches, as she caressed a leather-gloved hand up over the arch of Petra latexed hip. A very gentle smoothing caress. Victoria's tongue ran out and across her own thin lips.

"Petra... Petra... wake up, honey."

Her voice was very low, very gentle again, so not to cause Petra to startle. Petra groaned. It was a long groan, like a groan of demonstration, a groan very much of dread of being woken from this partial-sleeping world, her only place of escape. Even then it was only partial escape. But a least some form of escape. A groan of exhaustion, a groan of utter distress that she was being brought back into her new real world. A world which, in the normal world, would be classed as a nightmare. For Petra this was a living nightmare.