Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)
Stories



SOFT HANDS OF MADNESS

By Esso

Margaret is a private nurse to a patient in a large old house. Her employers seize her to be tortured until she is insane and then ordered to kill her lover, who is on the track of her captors who are Nazi war criminals. They have already don't this to her patient.


I felt Max's muscular forearm lock around my throat and at the same time the bruising pressure of a gun being dug into my side. I cried out in pain and kicked out at my attacker. Max's fiendish laugh burst in my ear. The pressure increased on my throat. I could feel my heart laboring as the air supply was cut off from my lungs.

As I struggled in his vicious grasp, I smelled Max's foul breath searing my face.

"Downstairs," Gruber ordered. "Greta's waiting!"

My body was swung up in Max's arms. His brutal fingers moved up under my skirt, causing my flesh to crawl at his obscene touch as he pawed at my panties. I tried to cry out, but his calloused hand was clamped tightly over my mouth.

"This isn't real," I said to myself. "This can't be happening to me. This is some type of hallucination. I'll wake up to find it's all a dream."

But Max's probing hands were very real. The fiendish snickers of Greta as she stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for us were very real. The barked orders of Dr. Gruber could not be a figment of my imagination.

Roughly I was hurled to the floor. My fists lashed out at my tormentors but Max grasped them tightly as Greta sat astride my heaving chest, a dirty cloth in her hand.

Wildly I threw my head from side to side on the cold stone floor, seeking to avoid Greta's cruel grip. It was useless. She grasped my hair to hold my head still while Max pushed down on my arms with his knees and pressed on my jaws forcing my mouth open. Greta stuffed the gag in and then tied it in place with a rope around my head.

"Be careful not to bruise her," Gruber barked at his hellish assistants. "She must show no marks."

What was their diabolical plan? Why were they gagging me this way? Why was Gruber so explicit about not marking my body?

I tried to understand these things. Some voice told me that if I did, I wouldn't succumb to the depraved insanity of this dungeon.

"Nobody will hear her now," Greta panted as she lifted herself to her feet. "We can keep her here forever and nobody will hear her."

The panic gripped me tightly. I realized how right this woman was. I had fallen into a bottomless pit from which there was no hope of escape.

Once again Max lifted me to my feet, keeping my arms twisted tightly behind me. Gruber moved to the wall switch of the basement and the room exploded into bright light. That was the first time I saw the device. It looked like some giant stocks of pre-Revolutionary times, except the heavy wooden frame was much taller than the ones I had seen in pictures. Inexorably, I felt myself being pushed towards the machine. Max's hairy arms encircled my waist as Greta and Gruber imprisoned my wrists. Slowly, ever so slowly, although I strained against them with every muscle in my body, my wrists were drawn over my head and placed in the holes in the frame. There was the snick of a padlock and I was held rigid, staring up at my extended arms.

Then as I watched, hypnotized by the horror that was happening to me, my ankles were seized and my shoes removed. Then my bare feet were spread far apart and locked into the leg holes. I was securely spread-eagled before my captors. Only the tips of my bare toes brushed the floor. I twisted in the frame as much as I could, trying to ease the strain on my stretched arms.

I stood panting and waiting, trying to understand what would happen next. Greta stood beside me, laughing deeply in her throat. There was a mad light in her eyes - a light that told me she enjoyed nothing so much in the world as seeing a victim stretched helpless before her. But what were they going to do to me. And why?

"She will feel nothing dressed as she is, Herr Doktor," Greta chided.

Those words brought home the horrible truth to me. I was going to be tortured. That was why they had secured me in the stocks, to hold me so I couldn't resist. Next they were going to strip me naked so they could reach me with their instruments of pain. I shook my head in disbelief. I was in the USA in the 20th century. It was too horrible to be true.

Gruber stroked Greta's voluptuous body, listening to her purr in his arms. "You really enjoy this, don't you my darling," he breathed.

"But of course. It's like the old days. It is like the times of our glory."

The nurse's arms encircled Gruber's neck, her hot lips demanding his. In disgust I watched their depraved embrace. Greta's fingers directed the mad physician's hand to the fasteners of her uniform. The white nylon fell away from her athletic body, revealing her smooth muscled jungle beauty encased in tight black bra and panties.

For some reason I couldn't explain, these fiends seemed to delight in having me witness their lust. I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes, trying to blot out the scene.

"Later," I heard Gruber whisper. "There will be plenty of time later. But now we do what you love even more. We begin the treatment. Margaret has waited long enough."

Gruber watched me - his arm still around Greta's waist, pawing at the nylon covering her hips.

"The confusion is leaving you, little pigeon. You are beginning to put little pieces of unrelated information together. Let me save you the trouble, since our secret will be forever locked in the recesses of your maddened brain.

"It is unfortunate that you must lose your mind, Margaret. However there is no other way since McAllister recognized Greta this afternoon."

"He was the one who dug up the witnesses at Ravensbruck. He was the one who would have turned me over to the hangman."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Greta a wanted Nazi war criminal? Dr. Gruber her paramour? Bill McAllister a threat to them? Whether I could believe it or not, it was true.

"And now Mr. McAllister must die," Gruber cut in. Otherwise he will remember where he saw us. Then there will be an investigation. Everything we're doing here will be exposed."

Greta laughed deep in her throat. I felt her hand touching my hip ever so lightly. "But our pigeon will see to it that none of this will happen. Our pigeon will have a breakdown. She will become a homicidal maniac. She will kill her lover in an insane rage. Our pigeon will do anything we tell her to do for she will have no mind of her own. Pain will be the master of her mind. When they find her, she will talk only of the pain of the hands. Only when she kills will we take the hands away."

Cold fingers of horror gripped my heart. Now it all fit together. In some way these fiends were about to hurt me - to break my mind - without leaving a mark on my body. I twisted and writhed in my fetters. I shook my head from side to side, pleading mutely for some show of decency, some human compassion. My captors' steely eyes mocked my efforts. They were true sadists. And they had learned torture from the Nazis. My heart stopped; it was a nightmare I couldn't have conceive of an hour ago.

Gruber nodded to Max. I felt his claw-like hands hook into the front of my silk dress. I felt the material bite into my neck as he clutched the bodice. Then the pressure grew and the material gave. The cloth ripped slowly down my body.

Sweat stood out on Max's face at the sight of me hanging there clad only in my pink bra and panties. His foul breath swirled about my face as he reached around me, fumbling for the fasteners of my bra.

"I will have her," he growled.

"Of course you will, Max darling," Greta giggled. "Just as you had those French women at Ravensbruck.. You will have her when her mind is an agony crazed mass. You will have her when she will do anything to delay the pain, even for a few seconds. You will have her when it's time."

I felt the cool air of the basement caressing me. In terror I looked down to see my bra straps being twisted from my shoulders. The devils were stripping me naked.

I could do nothing but hang by my arms looking down at my stretched body, now naked to the waist. I saw Max's huge paw grasp the waist band of my panties. One wrench tore them down over my thighs. The second wrench ripped them from between my knees. I was completely nude before the demons who held me.

Again the detachment took over. I knew as I studied the preparations for my torment that only death would release me from my bondage. But whose death? Certainly not Bill McAllister's. No matter what they did to me , I would never do their bidding. I would let them torture me to death before I would bring harm to the man I loved.

But these were brave sounding thoughts. Already the discomfort from my stretched position and the thick gag was taking its toll. I was conscious of a burning thirst. If only I could have a drink of water.

Gruber read my thoughts. "At first it is the little discomforts," he sneered. "Later you will wish for them as Janice Coleman and the others do. Think about Janice Coleman. Think of how effective our treatments have been on her. Do you know there was nothing wrong with the woman when she was first brought here? Janice Coleman has been with us only a month. You have seen her - she is a raving lunatic. The pain did that, along with our very special technique of inflicting that pain. Think of what you have to look forward to."

"Fiends out of hell!" I sobbed into my gag. Only the devil himself could have thought of a plan to drive a normal woman insane in such a short time. The ex-Nazi beasts were well versed in the crushing of human minds and bodies.

I felt Max's hands running over my naked body, bringing me back to my own peril. He stroked my breasts and his fingers searched between my wide-spread thighs for my sex. The outrageous thought crossed my mind that thankfully I would be crazed when the hideous brute raped me.

Worse than Max's pawing me was the way Gruber and Greta stared at my naked body. At least Max's lust, no matter how obscene, was grounded in biological need. The other two were taking joy in my body as an object on which they could inflict pain.

In horrified fascination I saw Gruber and Greta pushing a gigantic grandfather's clock toward me. It was such a preposterous thing in this dungeon that I almost felt like laughing. Yet knowing these sadists for what they were, I knew the clock had some special purpose in my planed torment.

The clock was rolled into position scant inches away from my face. I could hear its steady ticking and see the minute hand jump nervously forward every sixty seconds.

Then from a corner of my eye I saw the real implement of my torture. Max was uncoiling it with loving hands. Hanging loosely it looked like harmless strips of an old inner tube. Yet I realized they had been braided together and attached to a short handle in a way that the strips formed a cat o' nine tails.

Still the full intent of the plan didn't dawn on me, even as Max strode toward me, the vicious whip slapping lightly against his thigh.

Gruber held up his hand triumphantly. "One further word of explanation," he smirked. The pain will be somewhat the less because your flesh will not be cut. But we will compensate for this, never fear."

I threw my head wildly around trying to determine when the blow would come. Queer things were happening to me. After the suspense of the preparations for my torture I would almost welcome something as tangible as pain.

Greta must have sensed my feelings. She took the whip from Max. Her arm cording with the effort, she brought the whip around her back. My eyes bugged out of my head and I flinched at the impending shock. But the rubberized lash slapped the post of my stocks with a resounding smack.

Greta's breasts heaved with the lecherous delight she took in my terror. Still we waited. "Why don't you begin?" I cried into the gag. "Anything would be better than hanging here waiting."

Suddenly the room was plunged into total darkness. Behind me I could hear the quick breathing of my captors, but I could not see them. My eyes focused on the luminous hands of the clock which quivered and jumped.

One minute went by...Then two...Then three...

By now the hands stood on the hour.

Searing, indescribable pain blasted across the small of my back. I thrashed against the stocks, convulsing with the agony. My mind had merely time to register the excruciating sensation when the second blow crashed around my naked hips, the ends of the lash striking my belly. The pain raced through me like molten lava. I couldn't be sure whether it was in my outstretched finger tips or my quivering toes. Seconds went by and the third blow slashed at my buttocks and thighs.

I tried to tense my body - to be prepared for the next lash of the whip. Perhaps it would help to lessen the pain. I hung suspended, my head twisted over my shoulder trying to judge where the next blow would come. There was nothing.

Nothing but tick of the clock and the jumping of the luminous hands.

The minutes ticked by. I stared unblinkingly at the clock's face. When would they lash me again?

At the quarter hour exactly the tails of the whip crashed into my naked shoulders, causing me to gasp for breath. I tugged at my arms trying to free them from the stocks. The whole wooden device creaked with my struggles. The pain was even worse now than it had been the first time. The blows seem stronger. Was it because they fell on already tenderized flesh? Or was it my imagination?

Even the gag in my mouth could not still my screams as the whip rained down on my naked back again and again.

Then as suddenly as the second onslaught had begun, it stopped. I was hanging there once more, staring at the hands of the clock The hellish hands were my only companion in the torture chamber.

Again I waited. The hands jumped onwards towards the half hour. Slowly I began to realize they heralded some particular pattern. I found myself anticipating the half hour as it approached. The correctness of my guess was transmitted to my brain in a welter of agony. The whip sang through the air again and again bringing new waves of nausea and faintness.

Yet I didn't faint. I stayed completely conscious through the whipping, waiting for it to subside. By now the pattern was clear. I was to be lashed every quarter of an hour until my mind was smashed completely. The jumping hands of the clock were to signal the resumption of my torture.

As the sessions went on, the torture became worse. First the number of lashes increased. Soon it was not three or four, but six and then eight. The whip now fell on flesh already scourged. And my poor body was stretched by the stocks so my skin was taut for the lash.

As the hours wore on I found myself concentrating on the hands of the clock to the exclusion of everything else. If only there were some way to stop those hands. If only I could hold them back.

But steadily they ticked onward. As the quarter hour approached I found my whole body going rigid. I dwelled on the pain to come. I couldn't tell which was worse: the torment in my mind or the terrific impact of the blows.

The hour hand was meaningless, all my eyes saw was the steady progression of the minute hand to the next quarter hour. I didn't know for how long I had been spread-eagled in the stocks. All I knew was that the clock read 29 minutes after some hour. My next lashing was to start in less than a minute. Once again I started to struggle, to pull my wrists free of their restraints. The hard wood that held my wrists and ankles had been lined with leather and soft cloth to protect my skin when I fought to escape. They wanted no marks.

The minute hand clicked onto the half hour and I screamed in terror, stiffened my body and waited for the lash to tear into my back. It didn't; the heavy cords of the whip slashed into the front of my thighs. Before anything could register in my mind the whip tore into my stomach, then again into my leg above the knee, but this time wrapping around so each individual strand of the flogger ripped into the soft flesh on the inside of my thigh.

They were whipping the front of my naked body! A voice inside my head screamed that they couldn't do that. Now the whip fell on my hips again and then on my belly. I was shrieking into my gag at the top of my lungs, wordless screams trying to voice the most hideous pain I had ever felt, while my brain told me the flogger was moving up my body. It bit into my stomach. My breasts! They're going to whip my breasts! The whip slashed at my stomach again but higher, most of the cords crashing against my ribs. I heard my voice scream "No! Not my breasts!" while my torturers heard only my muted cry of pain.

My struggles became crazed as I imagined the agony that I would feel when they began to whip my breasts. And there was nothing I could do to stop it, nothing except lose my mind. But the whip did not fall. Once again I was left watching the hands of the clock as they carried me toward the torture of my breasts.

My struggles ceased and I just hung there weeping. The pain of a thousand bee stings slowly dissipated, only to be replaced by the agony of hanging by my wrists for hours. My screams under the lash were replaced by gagged moans of pain as I hung there. It wasn't only the strain on my shoulders and arms, my own weight stretched my body as though I were on a rack. While I hung from my wrists waiting for the whip, I had to periodically pull myself up the small amount allowed by the stocks to ease the pressure on my chest and allow me to take a somewhat fuller breath. When my captors had first locked me in this hateful device, my bare toes barely brushed the floor. But after hours of hanging my body had stretched to the point the last joint of my large toes now touched the cement surface but gave me no support. This in itself was torture; the touch of the floor promising relief only millimeters away that I was not allowed to reach.

But no matter what the torment, my attention never wavered from the hands. When the hand reached the one minute remaining mark, my struggles began anew. I was unconsciously counting the seconds to go before the whip found my soft unprotected breasts. With ten seconds left I started to scream, arched my back and pulled on my fetters with all my might.

The whip struck the small of my back and knocked the air from my lungs. I drew in a breath and shrieked in pain as the knout curled around my shoulder blades and cut into my underarms. The braids lashed my thighs and the bottom of my buttocks, and a second later, my poor breasts.

There were two of them whipping me now and their whips tore into me without pause, alternating between my back and my tits, my thighs and my belly, with no pause between. I was screaming continually, my body jerking and bucking in the stocks that held me open and defenseless. I suddenly felt as if the world was slipping away from me and I became disconnected from reality. My last thought before I passed out was who was the second person - the one whipping my breasts. Then the hands of the clock loomed up before me and I fainted.

My head jerked back at the smell of ammonia. I blinked my eyes, hoping, praying, but they were still there, the only thing I could see in the dark room - the hands. They told me I had not been out long, the minute hand had only moved to 25 minutes before the hour, ten minutes before my next session under the lash. This was when I first entered the murky area between sanity and madness. I forgot about my human torturers. It was the hands that were responsible for my whipping. As though looking from outside my body I saw the hands coming for me. I was spread-eagled naked in the stocks, unable to move my arms, unable to close my legs. I couldn't protect my sex. That was where they were going to whip me, between my open thighs.

The strands of the whip slashed at my back, then at my belly, then my buttocks and my breasts. Finally the whip came between my legs in a vicious uppercut from behind, tearing into my sex. Then again and again and again.

My brain was a red haze. My parched throat was raw from my shrieking that couldn't escape my gag. Still it went on. No voice did I hear. No sound other than my own tortured breathing and the ticking of the clock. I found my mind wandering. The hands of the clock took on human qualities.

"They're coming for me. The hands are reaching out for me."

"Stop the hands. Don't let them touch me."

"The cursed hands are whipping me."

I was going under. Soon I would gibber like Janice Coleman.

Time didn't matter. In the darkness I no longer knew whether it was night or day, only that soon the hands would deliver me into the torturing clutches of the fiends who were destroying me.

I tried closing my eyes. Once or twice I even dozed off a bit, my body completely spent by the pain. But that was even worse. The whipping started suddenly, jolting me awake, returning me to the sight of the jumping hands.

With my last ounce of sanity, I knew there was no possibility of not succumbing to the madness. I would do the hands' bidding. If the hands told me to kill, I would murder Bill McAllister. If the hands told me to submit to Max, I would go to him joyously just for a surcease from the pain.

Still the hands kept moving unrelentingly, bringing me to my next moment of agony. The tears would no longer flow. My parched throat seemed to be swelling closed. My back and hips and legs felt as if the flesh had been stripped from them. My belly and breasts as if they were being seared over roaring flames. A hive of wasps were stinging my pussy. Agony was personified by the moving hands.

I knew with the clarity of the dying that everything was over for me. My body might go on for years as Janice Coleman's had, but my mind had been completely torn apart by the hands.


Margaret is rescued by Bill but is half crazy. It takes years until she can tell her story, by which time Bill is married to someone else. She is to meet a blind date under the clock in Grand Central Terminal. When he is late she watches the clock, goes mad and is locked up for good.




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