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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Story : Fantasia - The Truck (TXT) - truck [01/01]
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Date: Sat, 20 Aug 1994 22:24:00 UTC
Subject: FANTASIA: The Truck
Lines: 874

WARNING: All Fantasia stories contain some or all of the                      

following: Non-consensual sex, rape, bondage, heavy pain,                     

torture, incest, degradation, underage characters. If these                   

things offend you, do not read.                                               

...............................................................



                       THE TRUCK

                    by V.P. Viddler



                        Part 1



     Mrs. Hanningbold was half-hanging, half-lying across the 

front of the truck as it rolled slowly down the dusty, solitary 

street of the town. They had tied her onto the tubular iron grill 

that projected from the high front of the truck. The three of 

them had spread her out and lashed her wrists and ankles to the 

thick bars. Her arms were pulled back, so that her upper body was 

half bent backwards, her head hanging back and her long brown 

hair blowing in the air. Her legs were wide apart. And Mrs. 

Hanningbolt was stark naked.

     They had put her up there and then cut off her clothing. I 

had watched. Mrs. Hanningbolt had screamed and struggled. She was 

still trying to scream, but it was mostly crying. She was still 

trying to struggle, but it was no good.

     They drove that truck down that hot street with the sun 

shining as it always did, shining on the naked body of Mrs. 

Hanningbolt, and all the townspeople came out to look, and they 

stared and stared. Mrs. Hanningbolt's naked breasts, looking so 

big and round, stood out like headlights, bouncing and rolling 

with the bumping and swaying of the truck. Her long naked curvy 

legs strained and writhed, stretched so wide and so tightly, and 

the brown hair at her crotch was glistening in the sun.

     Mrs. Hanningbolt was beautiful that way.

     I had always thought she was beautiful, always. A young 

widow was Mrs. Hanningbolt, a beautiful young widow, who had come 

to stay in this ouback region and study our wildlife. But when 

the hunters came, Mrs. Hanningbolt had fought with them from the 

beginning. It had been conflict and turmoil, and sparks had flown 

back and forth. Mrs. Hanningbolt fought the three hunters at 

every turn, trying to guard the animals and wildlife. Until at 

last it got too much for them. They paid Mrs. Hanningbolt a 

visit.

     I was there, I saw it all. They had been drinking. I heard 

shouting and threats, and finally an ominous quiet. And Mrs. 

Hanningbolt's voice, sounding funny and scared. And then Mrs. 

Hanningbolt ran out of the house, running with that long hair 

streaming, and the men came after her. Laughing. She ran and they 

laughed. And they caught her. Laughing, they caught her and held 

her, and then they didn't laugh, and Mrs. Hanningbolt was 

fighting and struggling, and saying, No, no, but they didn't let 

her go.

     That was when they tied her to the front of the truck. Bart 

gave an order and the other two hoisted Mrs. Hanningbolt up and 

pulled back her arms and tied them. And then spread her legs 

apart and roped her ankles. And she was fighting and kicking and 

twisting around and shouting at them to stop, to let her go, but 

nothing stopped them. I saw it all. God she was spread across 

that grill and squirming and writhing and I couldn't stop 

watching.

     And then they stood back and looked at her and suddenly it 

was very still. Donal and Hitch looked at Bart.

     "Damn!" Dona said. "Look at that pretty thing!"

     "I want her," Hitch said, and I heard it all. "I want to 

fuck this bitch now."

     It was a long still waiting, and then Bart said, "Cut her 

clothes off."

     Now Mrs. Hanningbolt began to plead. She was pleading and 

begging and she started to cry. Hitch took out his long sharp 

hunting knife. Mrs. Hanningbolt said, "God, you rotten filthy 

animals, don't, please don't, you dirty bastards, rot in hell, oh 

Jesus don't do this, no, I'll kill you, all of you, I swear it, 

no please please don't no don't no..."

     Mrs. Hanningbolt had on a dark blue shirt and a pair of 

black pants. Hitch cut them off her body. Slowly. Grinning at 

her. Baring her skin inch by inch, not caring about her begging 

or crying or struggling. Button by button he cut open the shirt, 

cutting and ripping, and Donal helped with the ripping. She had 

nothing on under that shirt, no brassiere, nothing. Hitch and 

Donal slowly bared those round thrusting breasts. Donal kissed 

one, and Mrs. Hanningbolt spit on him. So he bit her nipple, bit 

it hard, until Mrs. Hanningbolt cried out and pleaded with him to 

stop. And Hitch got up onto the lowest bar of the grill and 

leaned over Mrs. Hanningbolt and took hold of her hair and ground 

his mouth down on hers. I heard her whimpering as Hitch kissed 

her, holding her head in place by her hair. Until Bart said, 

"Enough! Get on with it." And Hitch cut Mrs. Hanningbolt's pants 

off, again slowly, baring first one long smooth leg and then the 

other, and then cutting, ripping, till she had only panties on. 

And Hitch cut those off too.

     "Now what?" Donal said, and Bart said, "Now we show the 

lousy bitch who owns her."

     And they all got into the truck and drove off, with Mrs. 

Hanningbolt riding naked on the front like a figure on the prow 

of a ship. Heading into town, and I rushed to my car to get there 

ahead of them, for I understood that Bart meant to ride Mrs. 

Hanningbolt through the town that way, showing her off as a 

trophy. Their trophy. Riding in triumph like conquerors, with the 

captive princess on display.

     And that's what they did.

     And the townspeople ate it up. Bart drove that truck up and 

down that hot dusty street, up and down, showing off his trophy. 

And at last he stopped, right in the middle of the town, and all 

three got out of the truck.

     "Now," Bart said. "Do it now. Let them all watch."

     Hitch and Donal tossed up for who would go first, and Hitch 

won.

     Mrs. Hanningbolt's eyes were wild, and she shook her head, 

saying, no, for god's sake, no. But Hitch got himself up onto the 

bar again and he unzipped his pants and pulled out his thing, and 

Mrs. Hanningbolt was moaning and crying and trying to pull away, 

but Hitch put his thing between her legs and pushed it into her 

and she screamed and Hitch started to hump, taking her hard and 

fast. At last he finished, grunting loudly, and got down and 

Donal got up and he did it to her too, but took longer. Then Bart 

took his turn.

     We all stood and watched.

     Nobody was going to do anything. The beautiful young Mrs. 

Hanningbolt was getting it good. It was exciting. So all of us 

watched it. And when Bart was done he took off his thick brown 

belt and started to whip her. Donal and Hitch did too, and they 

all beat at her with their belts all over her body, and Mrs. 

Hanningbolt screamed and screamed, until she was hoarse, but 

still screaming.

     "Now you know," Bart said.

     Then they cut her down from the truck and she fell on the 

ground, but Hitch said, "Not yet, baby," and pulled up on her 

arms until she was sitting up, then lashed her wrists to the 

grill bars. Hitch stepped up to her and thrust his thing at her 

mouth. Mrs. Hanningbolt turned away, and Hitch hit her body with 

the belt, hit it again and again, saying, "Do it!" until she 

couldn't stand it any more and turned her head back and opened 

her mouth and took his thing into it, sobbing and choking. Hitch 

did it to her mouth. It took a long time. He did it in her mouth. 

Then Donal did it in her mouth, and Bart did it too, and told her 

to swallow it. Then they cut her loose again and Mrs. Hanningbolt 

fell in the dust and lay there, crying and sobbing.

     "Crawl," Bart said. "Crawl down this street, you slut."

     And Mrs. Hanningbolt got up on her hands and knees and she 

did it, crawled down the street, naked, crawling in front of all 

of us, past all the people of the town. And back.

     And then they took her away. This time Bart tied her wrists 

together in front of her and hitched her with a long rope onto 

the back of the truck, and drove slowly out of town, with naked 

Mrs. Hanningbolt running along behind, running to keep up with 

the slowly moving truck.

     That night they hung her from the front doorway of her 

shack, hung her up by her wrists all night.

     Next day they put up a sign in town. A new business. Mrs. 

Hanningbolt was their stock in trade. Anybody could go out to 

that shack and have Mrs. Hanningbolt's body, for a price. Bart 

and Donal and Hitch took the money. Mrs. Hanningbolt did what 

they said to do. What anyobdy said to do. Anything. Anything at 

all. Bart and Donal and Hitch saw to that. If she didn't they 

whipped her. If she did, sometimes they whipped her anyway, for 

fun. It was fun. I did it a lot. I couldn't help it. I had to pay 

a lot for it, but I had to do it. Mrs. Hanningbolt was so young 

and beautiful, that body so curvy and thrilling. I would whip her 

and listen to her scream and beg and cry, and I would lie on top 

of that squirming, twisting body and I would do it to her, do it 

to her, and watch her hating it.

     But it was best on the truck. I had them put her up on the 

front of that truck, spread and stretched, and I took her that 

way. And then I would drive that truck into town, down the 

solitary street, with Mrs. Hanninbolt riding naked on the truck. 

My trophy. My captive princess slave...



                      Part 2



     "Don't,"  Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "Please don't, please, not 

that way, not again, I don't want to, please."

     "I have to," I said. "You know I do. I can't stop wanting 

you. It's your own fault, such a fabulous body, I want it now. I 

have to do it to you now. Lie down on the floor."

     "Oh don't," Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "For god's sake."

     Mrs. Hanningbolt was naked.

     I said, "If I call Bart and Donal and Hitch, you know what 

they will do to you."

     "No, please."

     "Lie down," I said. "On the floor. On your back."

     Mrs. Hanningbolt did it. She got down on the hard dirt floor 

and lay on her back.

     "You know what to do," I said. "Spread out. All the say. 

Spread and stretch."

     "Bastard," Mrs. Hanningbolt said. "Dirty filthy scum. All of 

you." And she spread out her arms and legs, spread them wide, and 

lay there all open and taut and waiting.

     "God," I said. "Oh my dear sweet god, such a pretty curvy 

smooth fabulous young body." And I got down and I lay on top of 

that outstretched body, lay myself right down over her, till I 

could feel all of it against my body, each inch of it, hard round 

breasts and soft curving thighs and smooth squirmy hips and 

belly. And I took her. I put myself right inside her and slid 

slowly, slowly in, watching her face and her eyes.

     "Oh god so fine, so fine," I said. "I can't stand how good 

it is. I love having you this way, Mrs. Hanningbolt, all spread 

out and having to accept what I'm doing to you, having to give me 

your luscious young naked body."

     "Damn you!" Mrs. Hanningbolt said as I slowly pumped up and 

down on top of her and into her. "Oh, damn you, damn you all!"

     "Move with me," I said. "Do it, Mrs. Hanningbolt, because I 

wouldn't mind watching Bart and Donal and Hitch whip you again. 

I'll ask them to hang you up by your wrists this time, with your 

feet off the floor so you can kick and thrash and twist around 

all you want. I love to watch you dancing in pain, screaming and 

screaming, and if I ask Bart and pay him enough money, they will 

put you--"

     Mrs. Hanningbolt was sobbing now, big crying sobs, but she 

did as I said, hating it all, I knew, but she moved for me, 

raising and lowering her body, twisting her hips, crying. And as 

she did, I told her how I was going to turn her over, lying on 

her stomach with her lovely face against the dirt floor as I took 

her from behind, as I did it in her ass.

     "Then I'll use your mouth," I said. "That fine gorgeous 

mouth. I'll do it to your mouth, all the way down your throat, 

and your lips and Jesus god I'm coming in you, I'm going to shoot 

inside you, Mrs. Hanningbolt, fine lady do it I love it I love 

you Mrs. Hanningbolt--"

     Actually Bart had told me not to call her Mrs. Hanningbolt. 

Bart and Donal and Hitch didn't want her to be given such 

dignity. They called her Nilla, her first name. Nilla. It cost me 

a lot of money to have my way with her, but I couldn't stop. It 

was almost that way with most of the men in town. Mrs. 

Hanningbolt--Nilla--was kept busy giving her body to all those 

men, and Bart, Donal and Hitch went on piling up the cash.

     But from time to time things would fall off and the hunters 

would take Mrs. Hanningbolt into town to drum up business. 

Usually they took her in as they had that first time, stretched 

naked across the iron grill of their truck, spread and bound. But 

sometimes she had clothing on, so they could make her strip down 

in front of the townspeople. All the townspeople got a thrill out 

of watching Mrs. Hanningbolt degraded and humiliated, simply 

because she had been so positive and sure of herself, had acted--

not snotty, for she was always outgoing and friendly--but 

independent. Poised. Quick and sure and all, confident in her 

glorious young womanhood. And now she was a captive, a trophy for 

the hunters she had fought so hard against, made into a slut for 

their profit and a debased plaything for their amusement. And 

ours.

     Last time Bart and Donal and Hitch had brought her to town, 

they had brought her into Billy's restaurant, and had sat down to 

eat as almost the whole town slowly filled that place up. Mrs. 

Hanningbolt--Nilla--didn't sit with them. They had her crouch on 

hands and knees by the table, and occasionally threw scraps of 

food on the floor, and Nilla had to eat them like a dog. Crawling 

around the table, with those full round bosoms swaying beneath 

her, that long soft brown hair dragging in the dirt, crying as 

she picked scraps up with her beautiful mouth.

     Bart put her up on top of a table and told her to strip in 

front of all of us, and when Nilla hesitated for a second Hitch 

took off his belt. So Nilla stood up there and took off all her 

clothes until she was naked.

     Then Bart said that his food was so good today that the cook 

should have a reward, and they brought out the cook and told 

Nilla to suck him. For nothing, Bart said, but it was really to 

get us all riled up so we would want Nilla again. Also it was fun 

for them, and for us, because the cook was a big, ugly, fat slimy 

disgusting guy. Bart told Nilla to lick him all over, and the 

cook lay down on the floor with his clothes off, and Bart made 

Nilla crawl to him and lick every part of him, lick him and kiss 

him, and he kept her doing it a long, long time. Nilla was 

gagging and begging him to let her stop, if only for a minute, 

but Bart didn't. On and on, until at last Bart had her suck the 

cook's disgusting thing, suck it lovingly and slowly, and finally 

he came in her mouth and Nilla swallowed it all.

     That made us all want her, and they tied Mrs. Hanningbolt 

over a table, with her legs far apart and her head hanging off 

one side, and all the men lined up to take her, lined up at her 

crotch and also at her head, so she could take their things into 

her upside-down mouth. This went on for hours. Hours.

     I knew what they would do with Nilla afterwards. Make her 

run all the way back home with her wrists tied to a rope attached 

to the back of the truck, running, running all the way to avoid 

being dragged along behind. And when they got to the shack she 

would be all out of breath, panting and gasping, and they would 

hang her up that way, hang her right in the doorway of her shack, 

hanging there by her wrists, taut and dangling, swaying and 

twisting, kicking and swinging, a living advertisement to anyone 

who came by. Bart and Donal and Hitch would punish her body for 

fun, whipping her, torturing that pain-filled body, touching 

their lit cigars to the flesh of her thrusting breasts or 

flailing thighs or anyplace that hurt her most.

     Sometimes I would hide and watch, watch as I had done that 

first day they had come and taken her and put her up on that 

truck and cut her clothes off and driven into town with her. I 

would watch Mrs. Hanningbolt, Nilla, hanging there in that 

doorway, and I would watch them torture that body and I would 

listen to her screaming, crying, begging them to stop, howling, 

shrieking, and at last promising them anything, desperately 

telling them, yes, she would do anything they said, just take me 

down, she would sob, oh god all right I'll say it, I'm yours, I'm 

yours, I'll do it, anything, just tell me. "Tell us, Nilla," Bart 

would say, and hit her breasts with his belt. "Tell us what you 

are." And Nilla, once that proud laughing confident young lady, 

Nilla would say, "I'm yours. I'm your slave. I belong to you. 

Please no please no please god I'll be I'll do I'm just a dirty 

filty slut."

     "Say it, Nilla," Bart said, and Mrs. Hanningbolt screamed 

and then said, sobbing, "I'm shit, I'm nothing but shit and I 

will crawl for you. Anytime, anyplace, I will crawl for you, I 

will suck your cocks, I am a cock-sucking bitch. A bitch, don't, 

a cock-sucking, ass-licking bitch. Please don't hurt me anymore. 

Please don't hurt me any more. I can't stand it, please, I'm your 

bitch, you can play with me and--"

     "What about that proud snotty bitch Mrs. Hanningbolt," Bart 

said. "Who tried to fight us and run us out of this country? 

Where is she now?"

     "I'm sorry," Nilla screamed. "I'm sorry, I'm not that any 

more, I'm yours, you've broken me, jesus god christ, I'm broken, 

all right? I'm tamed, I'm yours to use, to have, to do anything."

     "Hitch," Bart said.

     "Yeah?" Hitch said.

     "Whip her."

     "No! No please!"

     Whack!

     Nilla screamed.

     Whap!

     Scream.

     Whapp!

     Scream.

     I could see Donal now, standing in front of that hanging 

form, and Donal was taking her, he was doing it to her as she 

hung there and as Hitch was whipping her back as hard as he 

could. "Put your legs around my waist," Donal said. Hitch hit her 

back again, hard, and after Nilla's scream Donal said, "Put those 

damn legs up. Right around my waist. Do it." And Nilla did it, 

hanging byh her wrists she raised those luscious wonderful long 

curving legs and wrapped them around Donal, pulling him into her, 

howing with the pain of it, and my thing was hard as anything, I 

wanted to be Donal, wanted to do it to Nilla that way, pressed up 

against her hanging body, that squirming, twisting, wriggling 

body, while Hitch whipped her and whipped her.

     And then I thought of how I could have Mrs. Hanningbolt all 

to myself. I could kill Bart and Donal and Hitch. Kill them and 

bury them and just stay out here always with my darling helpless 

Nilla. I would do it all to her. I had to. I thought about having 

Nilla hanging all night by my bed. I thought of raising her up 

the flagpole each morning, and lowering her at night. I thought 

of Mrs. Hanningbolt and that quick juicy body and those long bare 

legs and soft brown hair and her mouth, that tempting soft round-

lipped mouth, that I had felt around my thing, sucking, sucking, 

licking, kissing, and crying softly, sobbing as she sucked and 

sucked.

     Now Donal was grinning, and he said to Bart, "Put your cigar 

on her leg. Her thigh. Right here. Put it out, damn it!" And Bart 

put the tip of his cigar against the skin of Nilla's thigh, and 

Nilla yowled as if she was going crazy, and Donal finished.

     I waited until they cut her down, falling all over that 

broken, twitching collapsed body and taking her, all of them, 

taking her, making her take them, making Nilla do it all. Bart, 

lying on his back, made her crawl on top of him and put him into 

her, and then made her to it to him, moving up and down, up and 

down, crying, doing it to him. And Donal now crouched in back of 

her and did it to her in the ass at the same time. Nilla was 

howling in pain but still had to do it, up and down. Finally 

Hitch stood in front of her and took hold of her hair and put his 

thing in her sobbing mouth, and he did it to that mouth, they all 

did it to her.

     I waited till they finished, but I had crept in and got hold 

of Bart's hunting rifle, and when Bart came I shot him and Nilla 

screamed and I shot Donal and Nilla screamed and I shot Hitch and 

Nilla screamed. I saw them die. I looked at Nilla, Mrs. 

Hanningbolt, lying among the bodies, with their things still 

inside her.

     "Don't stop," I said. "Do it to them."

     Nilla was almost out of her mind as I made her suck Hitch's 

dead cock. And kiss the dead bodies. Lick them. Nilla retched and 

gagged. But she did it.

     Then I made her dig the graves. Naked. Then we buried them, 

and I took Mrs. Hanningbolt, took her and took her, all night 

long. Nilla never stopped crying.

     In the morning I put her on the front of the truck and drove 

to town. I drove up and down the street, as Bart and Donal and 

Hitch had that first day, and when the people were all watching, 

I got out and said, "Mrs. Hanningbolt is mine now. Watch." I cut 

Nilla down and told her to crawl, the way Bart had made her 

crawl, and Nilla did it, crawling up and down the street, and I 

said, "Anybody who wants this lovely lady can have her now. Any 

way they want to. For nothing."

     That way I won the town to my ownership of the proud Mrs. 

Hanningbolt. Now I own her body and soul, and I love watching the 

hatred and shame in her eyes as I do it to her, doing it on and 

on and watching her hating it and still I make her say all the 

things that tell her degradation. "I love you," Nilla says, 

hating me. "I want you to do it to me, I give you my body, do it 

harder, hurt me, please hurt me," and she starts to cry.

     I do it to her as she sobs with humiliation and hatred and 

pain, and I say, "Go on. Tell me how you want me to whip you."

     Nilla says, crying harder, "I love you to whip me, please 

whip me, whip my body hard, my breasts, my legs, hurt all of me, 

oh bastard, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, whip me, I love you to whip 

me, I'll do anything."

     "Light me a cigar," I say.

     "Please," Nilla says. "No. Please not that."

     "Mrs. Hanningbolt," I say. "Tell me you want me to burn 

you."

     "I--I want you to burn me," Nilla gasps.

     "Light me a cigar," I say.

     I still do it to her as she lights a cigar, watching her 

hands shaking, watching the fear.

     "Give it to me," and she does. When I burn her with it, 

again and again, it is the biggest thrill I know, as beneath me 

and around me my gorgeous luscious naked Nilla, my crawling, 

cock-sucking, curvy Mrs. Hanningbolt, is twisting and squirming 

and bucking and wriggling and writhing and jerking and spasming 

and flailing and kicking, screaming and shrieking and howling and 

yelling and screeching.

     If a visitor shows up, I make her strip. Visitors love to 

see my Nilla bending over a chair with her ass sticking out for 

them to use. Hanging from our ceiling, twisting slowly, waiting 

for the whip. Crawling, rolling, scrabbling along the dirt floor.

     Tight thighs clutch me in the night, begging me to have 

mercy.

     Mrs. Hanningbolt.

     Nilla.

     Walking in the town street with hands lashed behind, body 

moving so lusciously beneath her clothing, which I will make her 

take off in front of the townspeople. Walking in fear, knowing 

that soon she will be lying naked for all to watch, to take, to 

enjoy.

     My plaything.

     My captive princess.

     My trophy.

     My Nilla.

     I kiss her lips and fearfully Mrs. Hanningbolt opens that 

mouth for my tongue, giving me her mouth to plunder, not wanting 

to be whipped publicly again, knowing she will be whipped, 

knowing she will be tortured, knowing I want to watch as she 

allows everybody to have her body.

     Mrs. Hanningbolt.

     Hair flying. Arms and legs spread. Riding on the grill of 

that truck, breasts thrusting out like headlights, screaming, 

struggling. Nilla now my girl, my toy, my thing. Always always I 

will whip her and hurt her and burn her and kiss her and take her 

and watch her hating it all.

     Nilla...
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	"Remember the Lion"
	ddtjb@hunterlink.net.au