My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images,
and sketches written for the amusement of and offered as tribute 
to my Liege and Lady.  A few selections follow.  They are generally 
cruel and nonconsensual and of interest only to sickphuxs, so please 
read no further if such doesn't appeal to you.

The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and
should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be 
imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward 
of the state.

Steven S. Davis

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Reprising Rape 

There was once a serial killer who preyed on a family over a long
period of time.  This was a family with a wealth of daughters,
ages 8, 10, 12, 14, and 17 when it began.  The mother was abducted, and
subjected over a period of several days to cruel torture and repeated
rape, the results of the former recorded in photographs, the latter
recorded on audiotape.  The records of the event were sent to the family,
along with a notice of the date and time of the mother's death (but the
body was never found).

A few days short of a year later, the oldest daughter, then 18, disappeared,
and the photos began arriving showing her progressively more tortured
body.  A message arrived reporting her death exactly one year, to the
minute, after the death of her mother.

Nearly a year later, the family was in a state of terror as the date
approached, but nothing happens.  But in the course of the next year,
the oldest surviving daughter turned 18, and on the anniversary of her
mother's abduction the young woman was taken, and subjected to the
rite of passage for females of this family.

By now the pattern was clear. The family moved, hoping to escape this
curse.  The next year passed without event, but all knew that the oldest
girl was still too young.  Her eighteenth birthday was a particularly
tense and joyless event, and the tension and sadness rose to unbearable
levels as the dread date approaches.  The family had heavy police
protection during this time, and for a couple weeks after the date.  But
it couldn't be continued indefinitely, and so when the dangerous period 
was past, the protection was lifted.  A few weeks went by, and the family
relaxed just a bit, even allowing themselves the luxury of thinking that
it was over.

And then daughter number three didn't make it home one day, and the
packages started arriving.  This time it was much more drawn out, the
girl was kept alive for many months.  Time passes slowly for the poor
young thing, trapped in her private hell and suffering unimaginable
torments day after day. But she does not lose track of time; her
captor makes it a point of being sure she knows what the date is of
each passing day, so she can track the approach of the day.  She's
never told what will happen then, but she knows.  When it happens,
she's glad it's finally over.  And when the family opens the long
expected note, though none will say it, they too are glad it's
over, for now.

And the two surviving daughters know what they have to look forward
to.

The family left the country, and lived under assumed names in a
foreign land.  They tried to cut off all contact with their past lives,
hoping to remain untraceable.  But that's not as easy as they thought
it would be.  They spent the date barricaded in their remote home.
But the father can't stay in there forever, and when he returns
with supplies he finds his 16 year old daughter tied to a chair,
"YOU'RE NEXT" written on her forehead in lipstick that, if he were
more observant, he might realize was his wife's shade, and his 18 year
old daughter gone.

His eighteen year old daughter at that moment was shivering despite
the tropical heat as she looked in horror at the family reunion to
which she's been brought, her mother and her sisters's bodies floating
preserved in large clear containers of fluid (it having been too hard
to locate a walk-in freezer similar to where they had kept).  The
containers add a new touch, as the wounds on her mother and sisters
can be pointed out before they are inflicted on her, and as they can
be kept in the dungeon with the prisoner (keeping the prisoner in a
freezer would have been counterproductive).  The girl was quite insane
before the date arrives, which is in some respects unfortunate.  But
being able to mail a family picture, mother and daughters floating
in fluid, makes up for it, as the last act begins.

Unfortunately, the long planned grand finale never took place.  On
the day before her 18th birthday, the last daughter hanged herself.
A couple weeks after the funeral, the father stopped to leave flowers
at the grave.  His scream brought a groundskeeper running.  He found
the man twitching on the ground by his daughter's open grave and
shattered, empty casket.  He's not moved or said a word in the years 
since, though the staff at the institution know that brainwave activity 
continues, so he can't be said to be vegetative.

I wonder what he dreams.
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"Stop"

The woman sat on a wooden chair, her arms pulled through the bars that
formed it's back, wrists handcuffed and elbows cinched.  Her ankles were
bound to the legs of the chair, spreading her legs for anyone who might
wish to look or feel beneath her short skirt.  Blindfolded, and with
headphones over her ears repeating endlessly a tape recording of several
different women being individually, and quite cruelly, whipped, she had
no idea who might be in the room with her.  Nor did she know where she
was, or who had brought her there, or how many hours she had been captive,
or why she had been abducted (though each time she heard a new woman's
voice on the tape and heard the crack of the whip on new flesh and the
screams and pleas of the victim, she felt more sure of what was to come).

Suddenly she felt hands untying left ankle, then slipping a cuff around
it.  Tying a rope to the cuff, the rope was then pulled back, pulling
her ankle with it, and then tied to the back of the chair, leaving her
foot dangling.  The same process was repeated with her right ankle.
Then hands fondled her breasts through her blouse, then the blouse
was ripped open, and then... nothing.   More waiting.  Squirming in
the chair from tension and fear as well as discomfort.  Time passed;
30 minutes, 300 minutes, she couldn't tell anymore, her only measure
of time was the torture tape she was listening to, and someone changed
that too often for her to adjust.

Then the sound stopped, and her high heels were removed.  "When you
want it to stop, say so", a voice said, and skillful hands began
tickling her right foot, making the ticklish lady squirm and scream
and quickly cry out "Stop !".  And the tickling stopped - and the voice
repeated itself, and a riding crop crashed down on the sole of her left
foot, then struck again, and again, and again, and she shouted 'Stop"
and the tickling started again and she instantly screamed "stop" then
screamed again as the crop cut across her foot, and now she understood
what was happening, and said stop, again.  As the tickling started
again, she kept quiet, reasoning that the less destructive torment was
better.  But she hadn't counted on her ticklishness or her captor's
talent, and no matter how she madly she twisted her foot on it's short
leash there was no escaping the torment and soon she was weeping and
screaming as the agony became unbearable and her pleas went unanswered
and at last she screamed "Stop" and the crop struck again and her new
screams merged with her old and she knew there was nothing she could
do to avoid or mitigate her suffering.

This went on for  - well, she had no idea how long it went on.  But
when they slipped a garrote around her neck, and the voice said once
again, "When you want it to stop, say 'do it' ", she was almost
grateful, though still not ready.

A few cycles latter, screaming and squirming and sobbing from the
tickling, and dreading another stroke on her horribly beaten foot,
she said "do it", and the steel collar began to close, and soon
her struggles came to a stop.
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A simple pleasure

The black pump jerked upwards, tugged at the taut cord that linked
the ankle cuff to the "O"-ring in the floor, rotated a little, then
stomped back to the floor as the blonde victim glared at me through
her teary eyes.  As many times as I'd seen that action repeated, it
never failed to excite me, so I suppose I couldn't fault my captive
for repeating it over and over again when the single tail whip touched
her thigh.  By now she knew that the bounds that kept her long,
slender legs spread would not be effected by her strongest efforts,
but her appendages responded as involuntarily to the pain of the whip
as did mine.  In the hours that she had stood there, naked save for
her black high heels, leather ankle cuffs, steel handcuffs, the steel
thumbcuffs fastened to an overhead chain that kept her arms high above
her head, and the tongue clamp that held her tongue out of her mouth
and prevented her from speaking but did nothing to muffle her screams
(and, coincidently, made the prim and elegant lady unable to control
her drooling) each shapely thigh must have been hit at least fifty
times, changing the smooth white surface of her thighs to an intricate
and multicolored pattern of angry welts, and each time her foot jerked
at the cord holding it as if this time it might give.  It never did, of
course, not then, and not when the whip bit across her flat little ass
and she did that funny little dance where each foot alternately stomped
several times.  I was glad I'd put the tile down around the "O"-rings,
the sounds high-heels made stomping on tile were much nicer than the
sounds they made on concrete.

She'd gotten a little smarter about her responses to the crack of the
whip across her smooth white back, which, not yet so densely marked
as her thighs and ass, was currently my favorite target, as I could
appreciably alter the pattern by adding another angry stripe (a pity
these "canvases" can never be shown, they beat any Pollack).  But I
couldn't resist occasionally whacking those thighs again from time
to time, even if it was adding a stripe over a stripe, for I did so
like to see those high heels jerk and twist.  It had been fun watching
her shoulders shake back and forth when the whip bit into her back,
but her wrenched thumbs now hurt so much whenever she did so that she'd
begun exercising some restraint when the leather touched her back.  Silly
of her.  Any restraint I wanted I'd apply; I wanted her to respond to
the whip.  If she was strong and brave enough to hold still when the
whip kissed her bare back, there were other places to stroke to my pretty
plaything.

She did a fair job of holding still when the tip of the whip ripped
her ribs, but when it struck her tender tits she went into a most
satisfying dance, shoulders shimmying, breasts bouncing, hips swaying,
feet stomping, and head wildly shaking, as if the thousand and first
time she said "no" was going to be the charm.  Her eyes were now too
moist to read well.  At different times during the hours that I'd
been torturing her I'd seen resolution, anger, calculation, pleas,
confusion, and terror in those eyes.  She'd never been able to speak,
having been gagged when she was abducted and her tongue clamped
throughout this ordeal, but I'd been able to see the offer in her eyes,
the surrender of what she thought I wanted in exchange for an end to
the pain.  As lovely as she was, at other times I'd have melted to see
that in her eyes.  But I could have that whenever I wanted, I could
have anything I wanted from her, and what I wanted from her was pain
and despair.  The pleading changed to confusion (so surprised was she
at the rejection of the offer of what she expected men to want) and
then to terror as she began to realize she had no control over her
fate, and that the pain could go on indefinitely and there was nothing
she could do to end or mitigate it.  And as the whip kept seeking out her
soft spots, making her squirm and dance despite herself, unable even to
control her own body's responses, sweet despair slipped into her lovely
eyes.

Of course, I didn't stop then.  She had discovered depths of agony
she didn't know existed, but there was still much more to show her.
She was already at the point of "I'll do anything", but all I wanted
her to do was suffer, and as she thought it couldn't get worse, to
let her know that, yes, it can get worse, and it would, and it would
get worse after that, and the pain would be worse than anything she
could imagine, and it would get worse than that, until every nerve
was screaming and there wasn't any place left to put any more pain
and the pain filled all her thoughts and absorbed her consciousness
and all that existed in the universe was pain.

But we had plenty of time for that.  That point had to be approached
slowly, lest she pass out or die or find a way to retreat into a shell
in which she could block the pain, and none of those would be permitted
her.  She'd be slowly pushed forwards and slowly filled to the brim
with exquisite agony.  We had plenty of time; we had the rest of her
life.

"Crack EEEEYYYY". I really loved it when her legs buckled and she hung
there by her thumbs.  Eventually she'd not be quite so sensitive to
the whip's exploration of her most private parts, so that pleasure was
best not overindulged.  After a little while the pain in her thumbs
and arms helped her find some strength for her legs.  Good, she didn't
need a recovery period just yet, not while she had a little strength
left to stand on those elegant feet.

The whip flew , and the black pump jerked upwards, tugged at the taut
cord that linked the ankle cuff to the "O"-ring in the floor, rotated
a little, then stomped back to the floor.

I really like that.
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Slow ride

Her eyes are scared.  She's looking down at me, trying to get some
idea what comes next.  Her back and buns and breasts and legs have
all been whipped, she's got pins under her fingernails, her toenails
are gone, and the bells hanging from the pins inserted underneath each
nipple are jingling pleasantly as she sways above me.  She is, one could
say, dying to ask what's going to happen next.  But the shotgun barrels
in her mouth don't make it very easy to talk, and the harness that I
put over her head and locked around her neck won't let the freshly
oiled barrel slip out of her mouth.  Bad way to treat a good gun, but
I'll take real good care of it afterwards.  The barrels do slip in and
out as she undulates, so the blood-red lipstick I made her put on has
marked the barrel in several places, but that would come off.  Worse
has.

She's doing real nice.  A smart girl, I liked that.  Doing enough to
keep me happy, but going slow to keep anything from happening soon.
Trying to delay the end, at least until she knows how this scene ends.
Until she knows whether, when I put this harness on her - one originally
designed to hold a shoe in a slave's mouth, but that I'd modified to hold
something with more kick - and told her to mount me and ride me till I
came, and said that would be the last thing I'd ask of her, I meant to
release her alive, or to release her from life.  Whether when I shoot
one load I'll follow with another.  Another two, actually.  My head
will be a little messy when she's done, but nothing like what may happen
to her's.

She's moving slow and smooth and it feels real good.  Neither one of us
wants this to end.  Tough job for her, make it feel good enough that I
don't want to get it over with, but not so good I can't wait for it to
end.  And all while trying to work her hands free and hoping I'm
too distracted to notice.  I don't mind; she won't get loose, so I can
admire her for trying.  Smart, cool, brave.  Oh, and a real good fuck.
I like her.

I always like a simultaneous release, lust and lead gone at the same
moment.  But maybe I'll keep this one alive.   Though that would be such
a cruel thing to do to such a sweet thing who's already suffered what
no one deserves to suffer.

Maybe that's why I like the idea so much.
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Rube de Sade ?

A woman lays spreadeagle on a large bed, naked, her wrists and ankles
in locked leather cuffs attached to the bedposts by taut chains.  Her
breasts and belly and flanks and crotch and thighs are covered with
rows of cruelly tight clothespins linked by nylon cords running through
holes drilled in the handles.  The rows are in turn attached to an
"O"-ring hanging from a chain about six feet above the bed, the many
cords running from the ring to the woman giving the impression of a
giant spider web.  The chain runs over a pulley to a large tub
precariously balanced on a large, strong spring, and kept in place
by a thick hemp rope tied to one side of the spring and running tautly
up and through one handle of the top, over the top of the tub, through
the other hand, and to the other side of the spring.

A hose hangs over the tub and trickles water into it, slowly increasing
it's weight and even more slowly compressing the spring, causing the
tub to lower, pulling the chain and raising the ring and painfully pulling
on the prisoner's pins.  She protests, but her pain being quite private
the process continues without regard for her plight.

As the spring sinks, it at last lowers a lever that fans a flame (from
a burner fastened to pole fixed to the floor) that rises to warm the
closed end of a glass tube tied to the tub.  The open end of the tube
is blocked by the rope responsible for the tub's remaining balanced
on the spring.  As the tube's temperature rises, the rodent determines
that despite the food which had kept him content till that time it was
best to depart, and begins to gnaw at the rope.  The water continues
to drip and the spring to sink and the prisoner's stretchable parts
to be prettily and painfully pulled as the rodent rips at the rope,
until at last it snaps, and as the rodent runs from the tube the tub
to which it is tied wobbles, then slips off the spring, falling several
feet to the floor and causing a sudden, sharp pull on the chain which
raises the ring and rips the pins off the prisoner.
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Taking a Spin

She was so, so sorry that she dared to raise her voice non-orgasmicly.
But her master was merciless, and so she *would* be punished.  But
not until he'd enjoyed her pleas for a time, and so the kneeling woman
wept and begged for forgiveness and pleaded for mercy until her pleas
became repetitive, and he said "Enough" and proceeded with the punishment.

He had a new device to use, one he'd been anxious to try (the difficulty
of keeping it ready to use had dictated that she would be found guilty
of *something* this weekend).  First he had to show her the partioned
room: one part filled with snakes, one part with rats, the last part
with large spiders.  Then he made her strip, flogged her, front and back,
then had her buckle on a pair of sandals with very high spiked heels,
and lowered her into the tube that was the hub of the partitioned room.

"Your punishment is quite simple, slave.  This tube will spin a few
times, then stop, and the door will open on one of the partitions.
Which one, chance decides.  You just have to walk through across the
room, open the door, and leave.  The door won't be locked, and you've
become quite skilled at using your hands even when they're tied
behind you.  Really nothing at all", he said before closing the hatch
and sealing her in the completely dark tube.  In which she waited, and
waited, and waited, and then waited some more.

At last it began to move, very slowly.  It turned around again and again,
very slowly, as she wondered when it would stop, and which fright she
would face.  Then it began to accelerate, and soon was spinning at a great
speed, and kept spinning and spinning until it came to a sudden crashing
stop that bounced her off the walls, and then the door opened and something
thrust her out of the tube.

The change from the total darkness of the tube to the powerful lights
in the room - which had been dimly lit when she been shown it - that
it blinded her, and as she staggered dizzily from the tube, barely
balancing on her high heels, she realized she had no idea which
partition she was in or which way the door was.  But as she wobbled
and fell onto a squirming mass of snakes the first question was answered.
She tried to rise to her feet, but was still too dizzy to manage that
feat, and fell on her ass on some displeased reptiles.  As her pained
eyes began to adjust to the light, she could see enough to tell that
there were a lot more snakes here now than when she'd first seen this
partition, the floor was covered with them, in some places it was
several snakes deep.  Most were small and she didn't see any that
were poisonous, but their teeth were sharp enough as some angrily bit
this rude intruder, and somewhere over all the hissing and the sounds
of snake slithering over snake she thought she heard multiple rattling
sounds (she did, via records piped into the room at several spots).
Forcing herself to her feet, still dizzy, nauseous from dizziness and
fear and the pain of her multiple bites, she wobbled unsteadily towards
the door, the moving floor on which she walked making her movements
her more unsteady, her sandals providing no protection from the wrath
of the creatures on which she stepped, and soon she ceased to feel any
guilt when she felt her sharp spikes cut into some unfortunate and heard
it's screaming hiss of pain.  Becoming a bit more steady, she was able
to sweep her feet before her as she made a slow progress towards the
door, the reptiles taking somewhat more kindly to being shoved aside
then to being stepped on, but with each sweeping step she sprayed blood
from her many small wounds across the floor.

At last she reached the door, swept clear a space before it, stomping
anthing that attempted to enter that space, and turned so she could
look over her shoulder as she reached for the doorknob to open the
door - and her fingers slipped off the smooth, and heavily oiled,
brass doorknob, and so she stood there for several minutes, struggling
with the slick knob, distracted by the continuous slithering intruders,
weak from her nausea and getting weaker from the continued bleeding
and getting more and more afraid that she couldn't open the door, her
legs becoming weak, more rubbery by the second it seemed, and she knew
she couldn't stand much longer and if she didn't keep her feet she'd
have no way to open the door and then her knees failed and she slid
crying frustation and fear to the floor and sat leaning by the door,
cursing and kicking and being bitten in return, and weakening,
realizing there was no point in resistance and laying still as the
lights dimmed and the blowers poured cold air into the room and the
snakes slithered over her warm naked body, and only hours later did
the door open so the pale and now unconscious woman could be dragged
from the room and a broom clear the snakes from her body.
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