The Puppet Master

She awoke suddenly. The last thing she remembered was the ether-soaked cloth pressed against her face as she breathed in the fumes.

She looked around her. She was strapped naked onto a wheel-like device. Her limbs were bound, and some sort of metallic exoskeleton covered the backs of her hands and ran up her arms. Her face, breasts and legs were pressed tightly against the cold steel of the wheel.

She heard a voice behind her.

"Wakey, wakey, my little Valentine."

She heard a machine start up and her legs were pulled into a spread position. Then more gears tumbled, and her torso was pushed back, raising her ass, offering it to her unseen assailant, while her face remained tightly pressed against the wheel.

Then the wheel itself began to rotate, bringing her body down to cock level.

She felt jelly being applied to her ass. It looked like somebody was going for a ride.

Then she felt his cock, hard as a rock, as it penetrated her up to the hilt. The pain was excruciating as her assailant began to shove it in and out of her at a faster and faster pace.

Then a motor started up and her legs were spread even further apart. Her lower torso was lifted off the wheel, and her arms were pulled down between her kneeling legs. Her fingers began to move until they encompassed his balls. Her fingers then involuntarily began to stroke and massage his balls, as he continued to pound his steel-hard cock in and out of her.

The agony continued for what seemed like hours before he finally drove himself deeply within her and poured his despicable essence deeply into her bowels.

He stood there for a few minute with his slowly wilting cock still inside her. Then he withdrew, and more motors started up. Her body was rotated so that her naked back was now pressed to the wheel. Another motor started up and her legs and arms became spread-eagled. Her breasts and hardened nipples jutted out in her assailant's direction.

He stood naked before her, holding a large gun in his left hand. A very large gun. He walked over to her and took one of her breasts in his mouth, biting it enough to make it bleed, as he grabbed her other breast, cruelly squeezing it, mashing it and tugging it in time with his bites. He stepped back from her. She could see that he had already grown hard again.

"Know what I'm gonna do to you, bitch?" he asked her. "I'm going to cut those tits off you slowly, one bit at a time, as I fuck you over and over. I'm going to cut off little parts of your body for weeks and eat them while I fuck you. You probably won't like that very much. Toward the end, I will get to your eyes. I'm going to take them out and eat them while I fuck you with this gun. But not until the end. I want you to see me, to feel what I am becoming, as I eat you piece by piece, and then pour you back into yourself through my cock. But don't worry, my little doll, your corpse will have the eyes of a cat, vertical slits where your ugly blue eyes used to be. You will then be perfect, as you were always intended to be.

"Do you know what they call me?" he asked her.

"Sure, Harold. I watch TV," she said. "They call you the Puppeteer."

"How do you know my name/"

"I know a lot of things, Harold. You may be the Puppeteer, but I am the Master."

"I think maybe I'm going to harvest those eyes right now," he said, reaching for a scalpel on the table.

"Eat me, Harold."

He advanced toward her, and brought the blade up to her eyes.

"You are not listening to me, Harold. I said 'Eat me.' Now!"

He suddenly felt his mouth opening of its own accord, and his right hand went weak, dropping the scalpel, which clanged on the tile floor. He watched incredulously as his hands were somehow involuntarily lowered from her eyes to her breasts. His mouth was then shoved upon her pussy against his will, as if by some invisible force. His tongue emerged from between his lips, seemingly of its own volition. Against his will, he began to lap her and suck her like an obedient dog, while his hands involuntarily cupped her breasts, teasing their tips, pawing them, crushing them against her, as his tongue darted over her clit and in and out of her pussy. His head was pressed tightly against her as though by an invisible hand, and his tongue began to work her harder and harder, while his hands squeezed her breasts tightly. She began to moan. She arched her back, thrusting her crotch harder against his face as he felt his mouth opening to take her all in, his tongue working her faster and faster, as she cried out in ecstasy, spilling her juices across his face.

Her breathing slowed, as she just lay there, taking in the pleasure.

"Release me," she told him.

His body did just that. Then they stood next to the wheel, naked and facing one another, puppet and master.

"You know what time it is, Harold?"

Harold was surprised to find that he could shake his head back and forth in reply.

"It's time to fuck the gun, Harold."

Harold retrieved the gun from the floor and brought it up to point it at her. His fingers trembled as he tried to pull the trigger, but without success.

His hands rotated the gun so that it pointed at the ceiling, and then lowered it. He felt his body crouching as he was compelled to lower himself upon the 12 inch muzzle of the gun.

"I said fuck it, not tease it," she said.

The pain was excruciating as he impaled himself on the barrel, taking all 12 inches in his ass.

"I said, fuck it Harold. It's not a lollipop; it wants to be fucked."

He felt the tissues of his colon being torn apart by the gun's sight, as his body began to bounce up and down on the barrel violently, and his blood began to pool on the floor.

"Don't tease it, Harold. The gun wants to cum. Let it cum."

Harold's trigger finger trembled as he fought to regain control of it, but it was no good. The finger jerked, and the gun exploded.

Harold's last thoughts were somewhat disorganized, which was understandable in view of the fact that most parts of his brain were flying up to their eventual roost on the ceiling of the chamber.

Like a shortstop, she deftly caught one of Harold's eyeballs in each hand as they were blown free of his skull. She gave them some thought and then threw them into what was left of Harold's mouth.

She mentally crossed Harold Wertenheimer off her list. That made the count 39 assholes down, approximately 999,961 to go.

She smiled as she picked up her clothes.