Claire

--WordCount:  1250--

The aged skin wrinkled and synched against itself as Natasha slid the phallic in and out of her cunt.  The base of the scrotum tore lightly at the stitches.  She stopped masturbating long enough to be expected.  Her breath came out in soft heaves.  The tears were barely noticeable.  She dropped her head back to the pillow, tightened her grip around the coarse black twine, and thrust the penis back inside her.  Natasha's hips quaked and shuttered as she reached orgasm.  She held her breath, pushing herself to cum again.  The penis slid deeper with each buck of Natasha's hips.  Her diaphragm went into convulsions, and as she reached a second climax Natasha released her breath with a scream.  Vaginal muscles contracted against silicone and flesh, and the penis was forced out of Natasha's pussy.  Airborne, the perpetually semi-hard shaft flipped end over end across the room, hitting Greg squarely across the eyes with a 'thwap' and landing in front of his bulging, skinless, cock-ringed manhood.  His stomach seized inward. A mouthful of vomit spewed from his lips and  splattered over his lap.  He writhed in pain, twisting on broken legs and pulling at cuffed wrists.  Natasha slid off the bed, standing at her feet.  Her boots thudded against the floor as she approached Greg.  She bent over at the hips, and locked eyes with Greg as she picked up her toy.  Her smirk deceived him, lying and showing pleasure in Greg's pain.  Her eyes were never dishonest.  Through her grey irises, and deep within her pupils, no measure of emotion could be found.  Natasha looked at the penis in her hand.  Her juiced tricked along the under skin, following gravity toward her wrist.  She blinked and observed the mess Greg left around him.

"Dirty."
  Her voice was monotone, like a British historian lecturing about the importance of potato prices.

Natasha straightened up, and took the penis into the kitchen.  Turning the water on to warm, she ran her toy under the faucet head-down, and with a gentle touch she wiped away her cum.  She let the dick air dry next beside a plate in her dish rack.  Her attention turned to Greg.  Taking a wash rag from below the sink, she wet the cloth and rubbed salt into its creases.  When she returned to the bedroom, Greg was coughing and wheezing.  The tension in his bare shoulders told Natasha the sedatives were wearing off.  He tried to speak, but wound up going into another coughing fit.  Natasha knelt beside him, holding the rag so he could see it.  Cold salt water dripped from a limp corner of cloth, landing with a shock on His thigh.

"We need to clean you up."
Greg moved to reach forward, pulling his cuff taut again.
"No - you stay still," her voice held the tone of a child caring for an injured animal, "Let me wash you off."

He took a deep breath, expecting a second shock from the cold water.  Dick flesh seemed to sear under the application of salt.  He screamed.  Tears ran from the corners of his eyes to his jaw.  Natasha wrapped the rag around his dick, and gave him an aggressive salt-water hand job.  His cock flinched, an instinctive reaction to a cruel variation of foreplay.  As she stroked his dick with the rag, Natasha used the other hand to release the ring at the base of Greg's shaft.  In anticipation he sucked in another chest-full of air, but was left to wait as Natasha left the room once more.  A minute later she returned with the still damp penis and a short, rope noose.  The noose was draped over Greg's head and tightened around his neck.  Under his breath, he laughed at Natasha's predictability.  The humor was short-lived, however, as she pulled him forward.  The weight shifted off his broken legs, reminding him they were there.  He winced against the pain - as minor as it seemed comparatively, it did hurt.  Natasha sat with her knees on Greg's shins, reached a hand around to the rag, and continued rubbing salt in his wounds.  Greg clenched his teeth together, bracing against the torture.  For a passing moment he thought he could hold out and find a way to enjoy the twisted game.  That idea went to the trash when he felt the silicon copy of his dick force its way into his rectum.  Against his own will, Greg watched a load of sperm shoot from his flesh.  As Greg went limp in Natasha's hand, Natasha crawled back in front of him, and pulled a ball gag out from beneath her bed.  Greg blinked in confusion, unable to recall when Natasha had ever bought, or even showed interest in, a ball gag.  She held it by the outer half of the ball, and rubbed the other side in the freshly spent semen and what vomit was left on the floor.  Realizing what she intended to do with it, Greg shook his head vigorously, panicking and screaming.

"No!  No!!!"
Natasha didn't smile.  She didn't smirk.  She just nodded, extending the gag toward his mouth.
"Why?" He began to sob as she tightened the leather around his head.
She rose to her feet and looked down at Greg - broken, bloody, and sobbing on the floor.  The silicon penis was still hanging four inches deep in his anus.  Greg heard her laugh for the first time in nearly five years.
"Why?!  You have the nerve to even ask?!?"  She turned and looked at the answering machine sitting on her desk.  A flashing red light indicated there was a message waiting to be played.  She pressed a button and left, closing the door behind her.

A female voice came on over the speaker.  "Hey baby!  It's Claire!"  She sounded chipper.  More so, she sounded young.  "I just wanted to know if you wanted to get together again.  I still have the other night running though my mind.  You know my number!"  She giggled briefly, and the answering machine beeped.  An automated voice announced the end of the unheard messages.  Greg searched his memories, desperately trying to recall any Claires he might know.  Nothing.  The only Claire that registered was a character from a book he had read.  His thoughts returned to reality, and mixed with the taste of his own body fluids he thought he smelled smoke.  His breath quickened.  He gagged as he took in more taste from the ball gag.  The room grew hotter.  'Had she set the house on fire?'  Minutes passed like hours.  Flames eventually flickered from around the edges of the door, confirming Greg's fear.  He screamed against the gag, pulling and tearing at his chains.  Within another two minutes the door was engulfed in flames and smoke began to fill the room.  Greg coughed, each breath a little more shallow that the one preceding it.  He grunted, lunging forward.  The steel cuffs gouged into his wrists.  Exhausted, virtually blind, and no closer to escape, Greg gave in and submitted to defeat.  The glow of fire faded to black.  His breath slowed.  As Greg drifted into oblivion, he remembered Natasha's friend.  The three of them had gone to the bar four nights ago.  What was it she called him?  Mister?  No, it was "sir".  But she insisted on calling Natasha "baby".  Natasha gave a false smile; she offered the introductions.  "Greg," she had said in a  polite, hostess voice, "this is Claire."