Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)


By Darkroom

Martel entered the room and removed his hat, showing little regard for the three other men waiting behind the door. Nor did he acknowledge the woman seated across the room, the yellow light above doing little to illuminate her presence.

Not until he lit a cigar did Martel take his first deliberate glance at the shapely figure seated in the center of the cellar. She sat in a white T-shirt and plaid skirt, hands cuffed at the wrists, arms folded behind her her back. A leather hood concealed her face – the hood buckled tightly about her neck with a wide leather strap.

The swell in the woman's T-shirt was undeniable and on most occasions, it would have brought a grin to Martel's face. But tonight his expression was stoic. There would be time to indulge.

"Is this the one?" he asked, turning to the men.

One of them nodded. Martel knew him as Ethan, the club's manager.

"It is," Ethan said. "My suspicions were confirmed tonight."

Martel took a gratifying puff from the cigar and let the smoke curl about his face. It danced away in a ghostly cloud and mixed with the room's dim light.

"How much?" asked Martel.

"Several hundred dollars. Maybe a thousand," Ethan said. "I caught her red handed."

Martel removed his coat and hung it from a bolt in the concrete wall. He held his cigar in one hand and worked the other through his hair. He was a large man who breathed loudly. He moved slowly, his actions almost deliberate.

Everyone knew him as The Boss, though few rarely saw him outside these "unusual circumstances," as they were known within the syndicate. It was code for something more dastardly and lucrative.

"And who do we have here?" Martel asked, stepping toward the woman in the chair. He rapped her temple through the hood. A muffled cry came from underneath. "Are you the one stealing from my club?" he asked, watching the woman shift uncomfortably in the chair.

The woman said nothing, though she shook her head and groaned as though she wanted to.

Martel grinned for the first time, noting how the woman's ankles had been locked together a the base of the chair. No wonder she hadn't stood to greet him, he thought.

"Who knows she's here?" Martel asked, turning to the men.

"No one," Ethan said. "After closing. Just like you asked."

Martel nodded with approval, puffing his cigar. He recognized the two other men as "Junta," the syndicate's muscle on the street, and Sonny, a self-proclaimed "filmmaker" who worked on contract.

"No one?" Martel repeated.

Ethan nodded, as did the others.>{? "Very well," said Martel, stabbing out his cigar. "Then let's begin."

Martel used his club as a lucrative cover for the syndicate's "other" endeavors – endeavors known only to the connoisseurs of certain underground films. The club sat two blocks off the strip and attracted its share of customers, along with the shapely dancers they came to see.

They were 20-somethings mostly, women looking for extra money, and Ethan rarely disappointed. After all, Martel had insisted he recruit only the best – only those who met the dimensions he longed to see.

But it was the syndicate's wealthy "clients" who really made the demands, Martel knew. He simply filled their requests. The woman in the chair was a lucrative catch – another sexy coed whose unwilling performance would earn thousands of dollars on the underground market.

Her name was Anya, though she went by Busty Mary on stage. She was a sassy dancer with mahogany hair, almost red under the stage lights. Full of energy, she could tease the crowd like few other dancers and leave them wanting more, all while earning loads cash by night's end.

Now the contents of her purse were strewn across the floor and that sassy, playful look she used to tease on stage sat buried beneath a leather hood.

"Stand her up," Martel instructed. "Let's introduce her to our viewer."

Ethan lowered a rope from the rafters and clipped it to the cuffs locking Anya's wrists behind her back. He gripped the rope and began to pull, lifting her from the chair, arms rising behind her.

Martel grinned and watched the woman struggle in those high heals, all while screeching under the hood. The proud mounds below her T-shirt quivered heavily with her frantic resistance. Her cries grew louder as her arms continued to climb. The tension forced her to bend at the waist, the joints in her shoulders burning with pain.

When Martel nodded, Junta removed the cuffs from the woman's feet and the hood from her head. Anya stood frozen in fear, hair tossed, a look of confusion cast across her pretty face. Ethan took her hair and pulled it sharply back. Sonny would frame her grimacing face with the video camera.

"Say hello to your fans," Martel said, joining the action. "It seems you have earned a following at my club. One fan in particular is rather fond of you. We'll call him Akio. Say hello to Akio."

"Please," Anya winced, struggling against the strappado and Ethan's grip on her hair. "I don't know … Akio! Please! I didn't take any money."

Martel chewed on his cigar, knowing the accusation of theft was a ruse to get her alone, to lure her in. The hold on her hair, the tension in her arms, the camera in her face – it took its toll and soon Anya's eyes welled with tears.

"I don't know – why are you – PLEASE!" she cried, unable to find her thoughts. She turned her head but Sonny followed with the camera. Filled with shame and terror, Anya began screeching for release.

"Since she won't say hello to her biggest fan, perhaps we'll offer him something more," Martel said, taking a seat along the wall. He lit his cigar and took another puff. "Let's see the goods."

Junto took a box cutter from his back pocket and grasped the hem of Anya's T-shirt. With one swift motion the blade cut through the cotton top, opening it from neck to navel. The swell of Anya's heavy breasts pearled above the cups of her black-lace bra – an image Sonny found in the camera.

"Continue," Martel said. "But leave the heals."

Junto used the same blade to sever the ribbon of that pretty bra, allowing the cups to burst apart. Anya cried at her cruel exposure, unable to free her hands and cover her dangling breasts. Martel whistled with approval. The evening's talent certainly met his preferred dimensions.

Stripped of clothing, Anya's tempting features glistened under the light. Her toned legs pranced at the air, her heals scratching at the floor. Her hair spilled over those flexing shoulders and her rib cage expanded nicely with her quickening breaths.

But it was Anya's breasts that Martel admired most, those luscious mounds that swung heavily from her heaving chest. They rocked with each motion, the skin milky white, tips capped with wide pink rings. In the cold air, those rings crinkled and tightened while her nipples swelled to a generous, almost unusual size.

Martel felt a tremor in his hands, one of excitement and rage. The savagery that brought him to power over the syndicate now coursed through his veins, and he could hardly suppress it. Poor girl, he thought for a moment, marveling at the scene before him. It's going to be a miserable night.

"Place the cuff's back on her ankles," he instructed. "We don't want her kicking like a frightened mule."

Anya squealed NOOOO as they snapped the cuffs around her left ankle, then right, fixing them tightly together. The tension in her shoulder's mounted when they drew the rope again, tighter, forcing her to stand nearly erect, arms rising high behind her. To her dismay, the short chain between the ankle cuffs had been fed through a bolt in the floor, preventing her from lifting her feet to relieve the stress in her shoulders.

Anya whimpered loudly, her cries growing more intense with each passing minute. And the minutes did pass. The men stood in the shadows. They delighted in her contortion, her pleas for release, the twisted expression on her face. The position alone sent waves of pain racing through her shoulders, her arms, legs trembling, calves twitching.

Yet it was the camera that caused her the greatest distress, that little device set upon a tripod just feet away with its red lighting blinking. The thought that others were watching, delighting in her nightmare, was like a hammer to her brain.

"Akio made an excellent choice, wouldn't you say," Martel said, rising from his chair to approach the frantic dancer. His beefy fingers traced the back of her lifted arm, down its length, down to the curve of her armpit, down the slope of her dangling breast, its swell warm and full. He cupped its weight in his palm. "My my. If only we got paid by the pound. Are you sure you won't say hello to your greatest fan?"

Anya recoiled from Martel's touch. Pain shot through her shoulders and in a brief moment of clarity, she witnessed the shameful swinging of her unsupported breasts. Martel smiled as she cried, knowing the slightest motion was both disgraceful and agonizing.

"Very well," Martel said, stroking the woman's heavy breast. "Let's give our viewers more of what they paid to see. Remember, no marks. At least not yet. Just tears."

Junto stepped to a locker set against the wall. When he turned, Anya winced with fear.

"What – nooo..." she pleaded, unable to turn away. "PLEASE PLEASE NO!"

Anya's green eyes shot open as Junto approach with pliers and a spool of black wire. She tried desperately to shift, to hide, but with her feet locked to the floor and her arms hoisted behind her, it only served to cause more pain.

"Even in bondage she dances," Martel said loudly, ensuring the dancer would hear him. "With tits like hers, I suspect she could use a little, shall I say, support."

Anya saw the pliers come closer before she felt a brutal tug on her hair. The tug remained constant, unrelenting, and within seconds they had tied her head back, preventing her from looking anywhere but up.

"Better than the hood," Ethan said with a grin. "We'll let her imagine what Junto has planned for those fat, teasing tits."

Anya didn't have to look – she could feel it – the wire circling the base of her left breast. She inhaled sharply, still unsure of what was happening, what was causing her breast to throb. But what began as a gentle squeeze grew sharper, more intense. It grew tighter, almost crushing, and it took the air from her lungs.

"PLEASE WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" she howled in one miserable sentence. "IT … NOOOO ... STOP!!!"

Junto looped the wire around the base of the dancer's breast. With each pass he used the pliers to draw it tight, so tight it sunk deep into the soft white skin. The woman twitched and howled but Junto was unmoved. He looped and pulled the wire with each pass until the woman's breast was fully caught in its grip.

The smoke from Martel's cigar clouded the room, and the sadistic tremble in his hand grew more pronounced. He marveled at the scene before him, the once sassy dancer now screeching in fright, her proud tits on full display, one of them sickly distorted.

"Yes, see how it balloons," Martel said. "See how it darkens."

Anya whimpered, then released an agonizing sob. Her shoulders had grown numb and still she feared to move, afraid they would pull from their sockets. But it was the pain in her breast that held her attention, the ache and throb growing more intense as the seconds passed.

"Now for the other one," Martel said. "Just as tight."

Anya screeched NOOOO and PLEASE when she felt the wire circle her free breast. The painful constriction she'd experienced minutes earlier was repeated, that terrible pressure that refused to abate.

Martel watched with approval, feeling something dangerous bubble though his veins. Junto's handy work had left the dancer's tits fully constricted, the twin globes thrust from her chest. It was a beautiful sight that caused her a pleasing amount of distress.

But even that wasn't accurate, Martel knew. Her breasts didn't appear as globes at all, but rather as spoiled fruit, each looking as if they would burst with the slightest tough. The skin appeared hard and painfully so, and it had blotched and darkened, almost crimson in color.

As Martel moved closer, he noted the veins now crossing just below the skin, surely an effect of the building pressure. The woman's billowing cries confirmed his suspicions.

"PLEASE I CAN'T STAND IT GET IT OFF PLEASE!" Anya cried, her words again rambling one into the other. She shuddered and groaned crying NOOOO GAWD PLEEEEEZZZ! without taking a breath.

If Anya had been afraid of the pain in her shoulders, the pressure now building in her breasts proved more urgent, prompting her to thrash and twitch in a vain effort to shake free. Her desperate pleas were met with laughter, those bellowing voices mocking her cries.

Ethan laughed at the way the dancer's fingers curled for the rope, the way her heals scratched the floor. Martel too was delighted, and he released a rare chuckle of amusement.

"So proud on stage," he said, stroking the dancer's tear-stained cheek. "If only you could see your prized assets now. How they darken. How they swell. Your fans will be impressed. And look here ..."

Martel looked into the camera and grinned while pointing to the dancer's nipples. They had swelled atop the pressure as two distended nubs, each as large as a man's fingertip.

With delight, Martel extended a finger and began tickling one of those turgid buds. The reaction surprised him. Anya erupted with a billowing scream, something he hadn't expected.

Unable to resist, Martel began tapping and tracing the woman's sensitive nipples in a rhythm timed to her screams. And scream she did, nearly tearing her hair from the rope. With her breasts so cruelly constricted, each the color of a plum, Anya's nipples had emerged as an irresistible target, and simply caressing them sent erratic, if not violent cries pouring from her lungs.

"Are you ready to say hello to your fan?" Martel sneered, stroking and tapping Anya's turgid nipples. "Are you ready to dance for his amusement? Or would you like to confess to something else?"


Martel withdrew his fingers and pulled the cigar from his lips. He considered holding it to the dancer's teasing nipples to see them blister and bubble. He longed to hear her scream, a desire driven by the pressure in his veins, the pulsing of his temples.

That would come soon enough, he thought. And besides, the task wasn't his to do, at least tonight.

"Since she refuses to show some common courtesy to her fan, then we'll continue with the wire," Martel said. "Junto, do your work. Draw them together."

Anya screamed for release and pleaded for them to let her go, to stop. "NOT THAT!" she cried, though Martel was certain she had no idea what that was.

Junto placed the first cut of wire around Anya's left breast, then right, so that it encircled both swollen mounds. With the pliers, he began twisting the two ends of wire, causing the loop to tighten.

"Like a ligature," Martel said. "It only grows tighter."

Anya gulped at the sensation, unable to decipher what was happening. She tried reaching for the cuffs binding her wrists – the rope holding her arms high behind her – but doing so was futile. Even her feet were locked to the floor. She whimpered please, unable to gain her breath. And when she found it she screamed wildly, "PLEASE GAWD NO WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

Junto twisted the wire until the woman's already bound breasts were drawn tightly together. Unmoved by her cries, he repeated the process a second time, then third, placing each new wire loop further up the length of the dancer's tortured breasts before twisting it closed with the pliers.

Martel nearly dropped his cigar. The scene before him sent a tremble of excitement down his arms. The dancer's proud breasts were now pressed together. They stood distended from her chest, looking like papaya, long and meaty, the fragile skin bulging between the wires.

"Another," Martel instructed. "With tits like hers, she needs all the support she can get."

Anya screeched and gulped for air before finding her breath. Her breasts were a mass of pain, throbbing under the grip of the wire. And still she could do nothing to stop it, to relieve the strain. Hot tears poured from her eyes – a sight to behold, Martel thought.

"We still have the matter of the money," Martel said, circling the dancer. "If my friend here begins with the piano wire, there's a good chance you could lose these precious charms."

Martel timed his words with his fingers, letting them dance down the length of Anya's distended breasts. They pointed straight off her chest, the single mass of twisted flesh bobbing as she sobbed. It was easy to imagine – the piano wire's grip, how it would first squeeze, the cut those luscious breasts.

"So hard and hot," he continued, his fingers tracing, tapping Anya's swollen mounds. "I can only imagine how this feels." He paused and puffed his cigar, releasing the smoke from his lips. "Such a simple method, it can only be applied to a woman like you, so endowed, tits so large."

Anya wailed loudly, still trashing in her bonds. She choked and wheezed OH GAWD IT HURTS and PLEASE LET ME GO!

"Tell me how much," Martel continued, his fingers sliding toward the tip of Anya's breasts. "Tell me how much you took."

Martel's fingers found the dancer's swollen nipples, and when they did, her cries came stronger, savage. She cried out suddenly, shrieking like a wild dog. ONE HUNDRED.

Martel grinned with satisfaction, but he wasn't done. "I didn't quite get that," he said, still stroking the sensitive tips of Anya's strangled breasts. "How much did you steal from my club?"


"Very good," Martel said, removing his fingers and reaching into his pocket. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He smoked his cigar with one hand and kept the other hidden behind his back. "It should make my second question easier to answer."

Anya babbled, trying to lift her feet, her lungs heaving with her sobs. The throbbing in her breasts continued to pound, the constriction pulling the air from her lungs.

"No one works alone," Martel said, still fiddling with his hand behind his back. He wanted to laugh, knowing the dancer had admitted to something she didn't do. But if she was forced to admit to one fictitious crime, then perhaps she'd admit to another.

"So tell me, dear," Martel asked. "Who were you working with when you took the money?"

Anya released a long, miserable cry, struggling to understand the question. Her calves burned and her arms felt numb. She gulped down air and was on the verge of hyperventilating. She had lost control of her emotions long ago and the results were beginning to take effect.

"I … I … DON'T KNOW … WHAT YOU'RE TALKING … ABOUT!" she sobbed.

Martel grinned and removed his hand from behind his back. He raised it high enough for the weeping, sobbing dancer to see in her contorted position. When she did see it, she shook her head violently, nearly tearing her shoulders from their sockets.

"WHAT IS … WHAT ARE GOING … PLEEEZZE … " Anya cried, unable to break free. "p – p – PLEASE DON'T"

Martel turned the device under the light, enabling the struggling dancer to get a good look. Still, she was as confused as she was terrified. The stainless steel tool with its notched tip, its spring-loaded handle, the little green band therein, was enough to send waves of panic racing through her trembling limbs.

Martel began lowering the instrument, removing it from Anya's field of vision. With a burst of air, she found new strength to fight. Her shoes slammed against the floor and the chain between her ankles rattled off the bolt. Fresh tears poured from her eyes, sending mascara streaking.

"Perhaps you'll give me the name," Martel said, shaking his head. "In fact, I'm certain you'll think of one rather soon."

Martel lowered the banding tool and squeezed the handle. The jaws opened, stretching wide the hard elastic band. As his captive pleaded and gasped, he positioned the band over her left nipple and released the handle.

Anya's reaction was immediate. She screamed hoarsely when the tool snapped and the band dropped into place, contracting sharply around the base of her nipple. The thick bud of nerves swelled like a mushroom, pulling tight the skin across the tip of her breast.


"What hurts?" Martel grinned, playing dumb. He wanted the bitch to say it. "What hurts?"


"The name," Martel said, holding the tool again for Anya to see, its spring-loaded tip armed with another elastic band.


Martel lowered the band with a grin, though this time he didn't hesitate in finding his target. As Anya pleaded and quivered, he slipped the tool into place and released the band, delighting at how it gripped her free nipple.

GAWD NO IT WAS ALTEA, Anya sceamed. Martel had his name, and he grinned.

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