Snuff Chess Extreme Gore Story- Horror Fiction

Anyone wanna  play a game of chess? How about a game of snuff chess? How about a game of snuff chess with models? Okay! Let’s Play. Your move, supermodel!

The Nimzo Indian Defense Opening…

The players:

White

Matriarch (noted as “K” in archaic, phallocratic chess notation system): Echo Johnson

Princess (noted as “Q”): Barb

Matriarch’s Rook: Alley

Princess’s Rook: Holly

Matriarch’s Knight: Jennie

Princess’s Knight: Melanie

Matriarch’s Bishop: Erika

Princess’s Bishop: Angel

The Pawns: Eight would-be centerfolds, huge breasted, mostly blonde, 18-20 years of age

Black

Matriarch (noted as “K”): Onyx

Princess (noted as “Q”): Stephanie

Matriarch’s Rook: Elle

Princess’s Rook: Kim

Matriarch’s Knight: Tamara

Princess’s Knight: Amy

Matriarch’s Bishop: Lynn

Princess’s Bishop: Lola

The Pawns: Eight would-be Runway Girls, very tall, very thin, 18-22 years of age

“Let’s go, girl! The folks at home want to see the main event, not the opening act!” The named pieces chuckle at that.

“I guess they want me to do it quick,” the white pawn says reluctantly. “…which is better for you, of course,” she adds hastily.

The black pawn is a slender young thing in a dark two-piece swimsuit. She shrugs. “They’re right. Nobody cares much about us one way or the other. It’s the ranked pieces that matter. Still…”

“Yeah?”

“It would be nice to be able to put on a little show. I mean, it’s my last shot at the big time.”

“I know what you mean,” the white pawn agrees. She’s a sleek, eighteen year-old blonde in a translucent white one-piece suit that reveals pleasant, firm breasts and a shaven cunt. “I’ll be dead five minutes after you are, and then everybody will forget about us. It’ll be like we had never existed at all. It’s kinda scary…”

“Let’s get going, girls!” Echo calls out impatiently.

“OK, OK!” The blonde turns her face up towards the void above the board. “Um, let’s see…give me a five-minute…no, make that a TEN-minute injection.” She looks at her captive.

“So at least you’ll be able to put on a little bit of a show, girlfriend,” she whispers.

“Thanks!” the black pawn whispers with relief. “You’re a real sweetheart…”

“It’s no problem,” the blonde asserts. “I was hoping I’d get to see at least a LITTLE torture, before I went…”

A small stainless steel tray descends ominously. It carries an oversized hypo filled with blue fluid. “Where do you want it?” the white pawn asks, lifting the syringe.

“Oh, God…in the nipple, I guess. For dramatic effect.”

“You go, girl!” The slender brunette lowers her bikini top, revealing a small, hard breast. She hisses as the blonde slides the thick needle into her dark nipple. The deadly blue fluid vanishes into the firm tit.

The effects of the injection become apparent almost immediately. The statuesque pawn begins to hyperventilate. Her hand touches her breast, then her throat. She gurgles. Her legs quiver. Suddenly she falls to her knees, and then her legs slide out from under her altogether.

She’s flat on her back, her pale flesh kissing the cold, hard marble of the chessboard.

Now the convulsions begin. She thrashes about wildly, in obvious pain. The tortured contortions make her skinny body eminently desirable. She flexes her belly and thighs, perhaps involuntarily. Or perhaps she is simply making the most of her one and only chance at fame.

Her dark hair spreads out around her like a muddy pool. Foam-speckled drool runs down her cheeks. Her pupils are outrageously dilated. She arches her back, gurgles again, and falls limp. The game has claimed its first victim.

The marble square opens up beneath her, swallows her fresh corpse and closes again, leaving no trace of her. “I wonder what her name was?” murmurs the sad white pawn who has just snuffed her.

“Who cares?” Angel replies with cheerful bitchiness. “She was just a pawn. Anyway, it’s your turn now, honey.”

“It was sweet of you to let her do a little show,” whispers the emaciated pawn as she steps onto the blonde’s square. “I’d like to do the same for you.” Then, to the void above: “Garrote, please.”

The thin wire arrives promptly, delivered on another small tray. The black pawn smiles at her young victim. “On your knees, bitch,” she drawls, presumably for dramatic effect. She grips the garrote’s twin handles tightly.

The blonde complies readily, lifting her unruly mane of pale hair with a strange enthusiasm. The black pawn slips the wire around her throat, tossing her own dark, lustrous mane to one side.

“Oh, God! My big moment!” the white pawn whispers nervously.

“I’ll make you last as long as I can,” her captor replies, speaking softly into her ear. “But these bitches will want me to finish you quick. You know how it is. Well, do a good show, girl!”

“I’ll try!” the white pawn whispers, and these are the last words she will ever utter. For now the wire grows tight at her throat, cutting off speech, cutting off air, cutting off life. She goes into performance, thrusting her hard, stiff-nippled breasts up and out, spreading her thighs so that everyone can see her tight, hairless cunt through the crotch of the translucent white swimsuit. She works with her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. She makes the sounds you’re supposed to make when you’re being strangled to death.

The black pawn plays her role well, tightening the garrote, holding the tension, then loosening it a little, letting her victim breathe, making her last. The blonde raises her fingers up to the wire tentatively, anxiously, trying to loosen it. But it is a futile effort. The garrote digs deep into her throat. There is blood now, a small trickle at first, then more. It runs down the front of her chest, staining her white swimsuit.

“Let’s go, for God’s sake,” Kate says, exasperated. “If it takes ten minutes to snuff a fucking pawn, we’ll be here all night. Some of us have lives, you know.”

“Hopefully you won’t have one much longer, bitch,” the black pawn mutters between clenched teeth. “Sorry, girl. Time to go.” The wire grows tighter still, and now the young blonde begins to thrash and heave in desperate agony. At last her head rolls forward onto her pert breasts. The slender black pawn releases the handles of the garrote and steps back, breathing heavily. The marble square swings open, swallowing the blonde’s warm body.

“Riding crop, please,” Lynn says matter-of-factly as she steps onto Melanie’s square.

“So it’s the whip for me,” Melanie sighs, resigned to her fate.

“Yes, I’ve never whipped a woman to death before,” Lynn observes as they watch the crop descend. She plucks the whip from its chain, strokes the air with it. “It sounded enjoyable…shall I chain you before we begin?”

“I pride myself on my self-control,” Melanie says coldly. “Chains will not be necessary.”

Lynn smiles. “As you wish. Well, then, if you’ll put your hands behind your head, we’ll get started.”

Melanie complies wordlessly. Her white robe falls open, revealing her magnificently massive round tits. The nipples are flawlessly circular, red, very hard. Perhaps there is a bit of a chill in the air…or perhaps it is more than self-control that makes Melanie say that chains are not needed. A white g-string conceals Melanie’s cunt. Her sleek, slender body is deeply tanned from head to toe.

Lynn tests the crop in the air once more. Its sharp whistle assures Melanie of great agony to come.

“You’ll focus on the breasts, of course,” Melanie speculates.

“Of course,” Lynn agrees. “You have excellent breasts. They demand special attention. And if your body is anything like mine, the nipples are among its most sensitive regions.”

“They are,” Melanie confirms.

“Good. Well, then. Here we go!” The first stroke lands squarely across Melanie’s left nipple. She bites her lower lip hard, but does not scream. The second stroke lands at right angles to the first, forming an angry red “X.” The third and fourth lashes turn the X into an asterisk; Melanie’s aereola occupies the center of this pattern.

“For someone who’s never whipped a woman to death before,” Melanie gasps between strokes, “you have excellent aim.”

“Thanks. I didn’t say that I had never whipped a woman before…it’s just that I never got to snuff one, until now. It’s nice not to have to restrain myself. How is it so far?”

“Hurts…not too bad, though.”

“It’ll build. Here, let me do the other tit.” Lynn inscribes an identical asterisk on Melanie’s other breast; as she finishes it, a soft moan escapes her victim’s throat.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Tense up your abdomen; I’m moving down.” Melanie’s hard abdominal muscles ripple as she prepares them for the whip. The crop falls hard and fast now. Melanie realizes that the first few breast strokes were a mere introduction to a torture that has now begun in earnest. Lynn layers a complex pattern of strokes across her victim’s belly, opening her flesh one layer at a time. A rainbow of red welts, each darker than the last, grows around Melanie’s navel. She whimpers a little, but there are no screams, no howls. As promised, her self-control is admirable.

Lynn moves behind her victim. “Drop your robe and let me see your back,” she commands. Melanie lowers her hands eagerly; she has been holding them behind her head for some time now. The robe slips easily off her shoulders and falls in a puddle at her feet. She is now naked, apart from her white g-string.

Melanie holds her hands together just in front of her crotch. She tenses her shoulder muscles, accepting the whip. Lynn begins to stroke her back methodically, beginning at the top and working her way down towards Melanie’s firm, ready ass.

“You’re an awfully willing victim,” Lynn points out.

“You captured me,” Melanie gasps. “So I’m yours to snuff. That’s the game.”

“Mmm.” Lynn puts her back into her work, whipping Melanie with a strength that is surprising in such a slender girl. Melanie’s hands stray to her g-string. Her fingers remain above her panties–there is no question of impropriety here–but she is touching herself through the cloth, just a little.

Blood begins to splatter onto the marble chessboard. Lynn is working up a considerable sweat. “It’s a good thing I work out,” she gasps. “This is actually fairly demanding. How are you doing, Melanie?”

“I’m having trouble standing up,” Melanie admits weakly. “Is it all right if I fall to my knees?”

“Yes, of course. And you can put your hands up again. I’m coming back around, to finish you off.”

“Good. I’m ready,” Melanie whispers, sinking slowly to her knees. She kneels amidst the blood-stained white silk of her robe, and raises her hands unsteadily to the back of her neck. She interlaces her fingers, awaiting the whip. Her untidy mop of tousled blonde hair hangs in front of her eyes. She arches her back, thrusting her incredible tits towards the crop. She raises her head, looking up at her torturer. There is no fear in her eyes.

Lynn touches her chin, almost tenderly. “You’re a brave girl. You’ve earned this.”

“Thank you.” Melanie closes her eyes.

The whip falls very hard now, and it is aided by gravity. The sharp, stiff leather cuts deep; blood runs in rivulets down Melanie’s breasts and belly, spilling onto the marble. She endures a nipple stroke, then another, and a third, and finally the tender flesh peak bursts, exploding in a shower of crimson. Now at last there are screams, wild and undeniable. The death of her nipple has liberated Melanie, and she heaves and convulses as the whip thrashes her tits. Now the other nipple bursts, and her screams become fine and full. Her sweet breast melons bounce gently as her body begins to die.

Lynn whips her furiously, driving her ruthlessly towards her end. Melanie’s entire torso is drenched in blood now, but still the whipping continues, feverish and unstoppable. Lynn’s face is a sadistic mask; she is a whipping machine, lashing Melanie’s dying body with unnecessary fervor. At last the critical mass is achieved: Melanie twists and wiggles, throwing the ruins of her astonishing breasts into the air. Blood bursts forth from her mouth. She falls limp on the marble. Lynn stands over her fresh corpse, panting like a fevered animal. She looks down at the bloody crop, uncertain as to what she should do with it.

“Oh, wow!” the pawn gushes as she steps onto Lynn’s square, “I can’t believe it! I actually get to snuff Lynn! This is such an honor for me, Lynn. Can I call you Lynn?”

Lynn shrugs. “Sure.” She has perfected the supermodel’s trademark indifference. There is a long pause. “Well, what’s it gonna be?” Lynn demands at last. “Oh! Sorry.” The voluptuous, eager pawn blushes bright pink. “The noose.” Lynn nods calmly. “Yes, I thought that’s what you’d probably say.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I say so,” the pawn remarks timidly, “but in that outfit you’re just begging to be hanged.”

The ghost of a smile plays around Lynn’s lips. “Do you like it?”

“It DOES look great on you,” the pawn admits, admiring Lynn’s tight, cropped black t-shirt. “I don’t know how you do it…your tits are as big as mine, but you’re as skinny as a fifteen year old!”

“Well, the tits are plastic, and I systematically starve myself,” Lynn replies. The ghost smile is gone.

The noose descends slowly, dramatically. A pair of nickel-plated handcuffs dangles from the loop. The rope comes to a halt precisely in front of Lynn’s thin, sallow face. She stares at the pawn through the loop, still perfectly calm. “Would you like to cuff me?” Lynn asks softly.

“Um, sure. Turn around.” Lynn complies, touching her wrists together behind her back to facilitate the bondage. “You sure are taking this well,” the pawn remarks as she removes the cuffs from the noose and locks them into place around Lynn’s emaciated wrists.

“The rope can finish the job my anorexia started. It’s no big deal,” Lynn replies.

The pawn can’t see her face. “Are you kidding?” she asks.

“You’ll never know,” Lynn says coldly.

“Whatever. Turn around.” Lynn obeys wordlessly. The noose goes easily over her head, as if all her years of life had been designed to prepare her body for this moment. The pawn pulls Lynn’s long, straight dark hair free of the loop. She begins to tighten the noose.

“Keep it loose,” Angel cautions from across the board. “So she lasts. We’ll make this bitch care, one way or another.”

“Right,” the pawn agrees. “OK, she’s ready.” The rope draws taut, pulling Lynn off her heels. She stands at attention on the balls of her feet, facing her fellow pieces.

“With eighty percent of her weight on her throat, she should be hurting plenty,” Angel observes with approval. “Eighty percent of nothing’s still nothing,” the pawn replies, demonstrating surprising mathematical ability. “Anyway, I don’t think she gives a shit. Do you get the feeling she’s used to being in pain?”

“Let’s give her a while,” Angel decides. “It’ll start to get to her soon.” Several of the squares open up; small cafe tables and wrought-iron chairs rise out of the floor. The tables are laden with tea and coffee, muffins and scones, vodka and marijuana. The centerfolds and Runway Girls make themselves comfortable.

Lynn gives very little outward indication that she’s being hanged. There is the perspiration. Her sleek body is slick with it; she’s clearly working hard at something, although she remains perfectly still. There are the sounds: coarse and ragged, wet and throaty, the sounds air makes when it’s forced through a constricted passage. Lynn tries to suppress them, but doesn’t quite manage it. A few get out, enough to betray her. She can deny them a show, maybe, but she can’t deny her suffering.

Her face, however, remains impassive. In this respect she is the ultimate supermodel. Even now, she has absolute control over her facial expression. Her eyes look straight ahead. Her brows are relaxed. Her lips are slightly pursed. Her hollow cheeks suggest starvation and blow jobs. No one who saw that face would guess that she was in any more agony than usual.

The centerfolds take their time with her, laughing and chatting and half-ignoring her as she suffers. If she refuses them a show, they respond by refusing to watch. They don’t care what she does, as long as she dies exquisitely.

That’s the only rule here, really. From time to time they glance up and admire her high, hard, spherical breasts, so perfect in their skintight t-shirt, so outrageously huge for such a slender wisp of a girl. A slight but very obvious tightness in her nipples suggests that her body accepts being hanged as a valid erotic activity. Between her breasts there are three perfect stretch lines in the black cotton of her t-shirt. Beneath, too-tight black shorts cling greedily to her slender hips and emaciated thighs.

No one is really paying attention when Lynn’s square opens up beneath her. “Oh, look!” Erika says a moment later. “She’s finally been dropped!”

The various pieces put down their tea cups to watch. At first it’s more of the same: Lynn’s limp, languid body hangs motionless from the noose. But as minuscule as her weight may be, it is enough to strangle her when all of it finally comes to rest on the rope-throat interface. And at last something seems to grow warm within her icy body.

There is movement now: just a little at first, then more. She begins to squirm like a natural woman. Her long, thin legs yearn for an absent ground. Her hips rock back and forth gently, seductively. Her handcuffs click behind her back as she pulls and tugs at them. Her spectacular breasts bounce braless, firm as melons, achingly perfect in their oversized splendor. There is a visible dent in her throat where the rope digs into it. Best of all, her granite-like visage has begun to crack.

Her lips twitch a little. Her brows arch slightly. And then it bursts out of her in a single great deluge: all the pain, all the repressed and concealed agony of the hanging, of her life, everything she has denied throughout her two decades of troubled life. The tears well up in her hollow eyes and flow down her sunken cheeks. Choking, gagging, drooling, she endures as all of it is torn out of her struggling body. She cannot resist. She cannot stop it.

It’s a good slow noose, and Lynn lasts. She has all the time she needs, and she needs plenty: the genie is out now, and she has to express herself. Lynn feels. Lynn hurts. And now everyone must know it. Lynn makes up for lost time now, putting on a show to end all others. Breasts bounce, hair flies, sweat and drool and tears run down her warm flesh in rivulets. Her tight, wet t-shirt hugs her slender frame like a lover.

Lynn dances for nearly forty minutes. There are murmurs of delight and disbelief among the others: no one remembers ever seeing anyone last this long at free hanging. Is it her low weight? Her determination? Whatever the case, there can be no doubt that she has earned her death.

And finally it comes for her. She tilts her head to one side at a forty five degree angle. Her tongue rolls out of her mouth. Her eyes grow wide. Her body twitches. She is a Dolcett girl made flesh: slender, round breasted, perfect. A dark stain appears at the crotch of her shorts. She gurgles softly, goes limp. And it is done.

Amy quivers in horror and disbelief as Erika occupies her square. “No…” she whimpers. “Please, I don’t want to die…”

“You should have thought of that before you joined the game, bitch,” Erika replies coldly. “I notice you didn’t mind watching Melanie and Lynn die. What makes you so special?”

“I…”

“Shut up. I’m trying to figure out how I should do you. Let’s see now…you’ve got the face, and you’ve certainly got the bod…I know! Let’s see what happens when we separate the two, shall we? Decap collar, please. With a pedal trigger.”

Terrified and teary-eyed, Amy stares at the thick steel collar as it descends. It dangles ominously from its hydraulic hoses, guaranteeing her death. The voluptuous but unsophisticated teenager is clearly unprepared for this reality. She has made the mistake of viewing herself as a person with rights, ideas, dreams. The collar instructs her otherwise. She discovers now that she is something less than an animal: a slender slab of animated meat, whose animating principle is about to be removed.

Erika locks the collar into place around Amy’s neck, taking care to pull the girl’s hair free so that the stringy, wet blonde mane won’t foul the whisper-sharp blades which line the inside of the heavy steel torus. Amy murmurs softly as the collar closes around her throat; she knows perfectly well that her life has just ended. The cessation of her heartbeat, the end of her brainwave activity, are mere medical formalities. She has already been snuffed.

Erika secures Amy’s wrists behind her back with unnecessarily heavy steel manacles. The hydraulic hoses tighten, pulling the whimpering teen onto her tiptoes.

Erika slips the pedal trigger beneath her victim’s heels. “The trigger’s armed, Amy,” she says cheerfully. “Your life is in your hands…or under your feet, actually.” The tension goes out of the hoses, but Amy is very careful to remain on her toes. “You can finish yourself off at your convenience.”

The centerfolds chatter amongst themselves: “How long do you think she’ll drag this out?” “She should just do it; we have a game to finish.” “Well, would you do it fast, if it was you up there?” “Hell, yes! Get it over with…” “I don’t know, it’d be hard…”

“Please!” Amy screams suddenly. The tears are flowing freely. “Please, stop talking about me like I’m not even here! We can still stop this thing…oh, please, just unchain me, get this thing off my neck…I don’t know how much longer I can hold on…”

“Is she serious?” “Can’t believe she’d actually SAY something like that…” “…really too young for this kind of game…” “…ask me, decapitation’s too good for her; she should be flayed alive, or at least eviscerated…”

Amy hovers over the pedal switch, a perfect body under perfect tension. Lean legs ripple with hard muscle. Her firm, supple round breasts are sheathed in a tight, translucent black leotard.

The small, red nipples are hard, of course, for Amy is always ready, even now. The naive, innocent face is a perfect picture of terror. Sweat runs in thin rivulets over her tanned, muscular frame. She squirms gently in her chains, but she doesn’t move much. The slightest pressure on the pedal will kill her, and she knows it.

She stands there for a brief eternity. She is a sweet, slender living statue, with only her terror for company. No one speaks to her, for one does not speak to objects.

Her muscles ache. She wants very badly to end it, but she lacks the strength. And so she continues to hover and hope and pray to a dead God. And her legs twitch. The sinewy ropes of her muscles spasm as she attempts to hold her position. It is a battle she cannot hope to win. And yet she fights it anyway, with the hopeless, helpless optimism of the very young.

The end comes quickly and without warning, when it finally comes.

There is a soft click. The hoses fill with hydraulic fluid, pressing the blades into and through her throat. Bone, meat and blood part like water before the unstoppable steel. A look of surprise suffuses her sweet face. Her head rolls forward onto her chest, as if she had fallen asleep. But then it keeps going, tumbling down, down, down, smacking the marble with a wet THUMP. The severed skull comes to rest on its stump. It is obvious to all who observe her that she is still conscious; the look in Amy’s eyes tells the other pieces that she is watching her body die.

Amy’s corpse dances in its chains as blood fountains out of its severed neck stump. Flawless breasts bounce and jiggle. The blood bubbles down over her torso, painting her splendid round tits bright red. The horror on her face is palpable.

Her body falls to its knees, pauses, then collapses. She lays on her back, blood spreading around her in an expanding crimson circle. There is some twitching, some convulsing. And then she is still.

The slender, supple pawn strides onto Erika’s square, a wicked grin on her perfect face. “Baby, I have wanted to snuff you for a long, long time,” she purrs. “All of you Baywatch sluts need to die in as much pain as possible for what you’ve done to world culture. I’m so glad I’m the one who gets to execute you. Now, the only question is, how should I do it? There are so many beautiful possibilities…oh, wait, I have it. The perfect death for a blonde beach bimbo. Lower the tank, please.”

“No, wait, please!” Erika protests, moving nervously towards the edge of the square. “Can’t you choose another method? I’ve had nightmares about drowning since I was a little girl.

Please, can’t you guillotine me or electrocute me instead?”

“You know the rules, girl,” Onyx calls out from across the board. “The capturing piece gets to choose how her victim dies. And if you step off your square, every female member of your family dies exactly the same way.”

A sleek, transparent cylinder descends from the darkness above. Anxious and jittery, Erika watches it with tears in her eyes. She turns her frightened gaze back upon the pawn. “Please!” she sobs. “Don’t do this to me! I’m begging you…use any other method you want; I don’t care how much it hurts! Please, anything but this! Don’t you understand? I can’t drown!”

“Oh, yes you can,” the pawn murmurs. “And thanks…because baby, you are making this GOOD.” She steps delicately off the square, her black heels clicking dramatically on the marble. The see-through cylinder drops down around Erika’s head and keeps right on going.

It descends past her splendid breasts and her full, womanly hips. Inside the tube, Erika whimpers in abject terror. She presses her hands up against the glass in a futile gesture of resistance.

The rubber gasket at the bottom of the tube makes a soft WHOOSH as it presses against the marble chessboard. A gentle rainfall begins within the cylinder. Droplets bead on Erika’s tanned flesh. Her bright red nipples are rock-hard against the thin fabric of her translucent white swimsuit; apparently, the water is quite cold.

The rain begins to fall more rapidly now; already there is a substantial pool around Erika’s flawlessly manicured feet. Her palms press insistently against the glass. The other chess pieces listen attentively to her pleas for mercy; muffled by the tank, they are nonetheless audible. No one makes a move to help her.

The rainfall becomes a downpour. Erika’s shoulder-length blonde hair is plastered against her skull. Now her cries are lost beneath the roar of rushing water. Her soaking-wet swimsuit becomes a second skin. She is beyond naked, for the garment conceals nothing, but rather calls attention to her genitals by “covering” them. Her firm, round Playmate’s breasts are eminently visible.

“Did I say ‘blonde beach bimbo?'” the pawn purrs, gazing at the dark spot where the drenched swimsuit rides up tight and hard against Erika’s crotch. “I meant to say, ‘BLEACHED blonde beach bimbo.” There are a few giggles from the contingent of Runway Girls.

The water has reached Erika’s supple waist. The rate of flow is still increasing. Within moments, her pert, proud breasts are submerged. The icy water makes her nipples harder than ever.

Erika seems to be screaming, though no one can really be sure. Her face is almost invisible behind the waterfall. What IS clear, as the water rises towards her neck, is that she has lost all control. Her fists pound against the glass in desperate, impotent panic. Her girlhood nightmare is being realized at last, and that is far too much for her surprisingly fragile adult mind to take.

She feels the water on her chin. She draws a deep breath, her last. Her huge, splendid round breasts bulge against the skintight swimsuit as she fills her strong, healthy young lungs. The water rises to cover her smooth pink lips, and then her nostrils. She closes her eyes in anticipation of the death that awaits her.

The water rises above her head…and stops.

The sudden silence is dramatic, incredible. All eyes are on Erika; hers are closed. For a long moment she does nothing, and the other pieces begin to whisper amongst themselves: “What’s wrong?” “Can she be dead already?” “How is that possible?” At last her soft green eyes snap open. She stares in horror through water and glass. Her hands move languidly through the cold fluid, pressing once more against the walls of the tank. She arches her brows, forming the universal pain signifier. And now the others hear her eerie underwater whimpering.

The seconds crawl by. Erika’s sweet face speaks of growing pain and desperation. She spreads her legs wide, planting her feet firmly against the sides of the cylinder. Her arms press out against the uncaring walls of the tank. It’s a dramatic gesture, one which emphasizes just how helpless Erika’s body is against the machinery of death in which it is imprisoned.

As she moves into her fifth minute of submersion, Erika begins to move as only a dying girl can. She thrashes about wildly in the cylinder, creating strange ripples and currents. Her breasts bounce with a surreal slowness which is possible only under water. She parts her lips, allowing a few bubbles to escape. She fights against her body. It wants to breathe. It needs to breathe. It WILL breathe.

She denies it for as long as she can…and then there is a rush of bubbles as her last gasp escapes. Her exquisite body convulses as she draws the deadly, ice-cold water into her lungs. She twitches and goes limp, vacant eyes staring straight ahead. There are scattered applause from the black pieces. Erika’s square drops away, and with it the water and her corpse. The cylinder rises and disappears. The square clicks shut and the board is restored.

The pawn takes her place on the captured square with a confident smile. The game resumes, with only a few scattered puddles to remind the centerfolds that Erika was once among their number.

Stephanie smooths her short, slick hair back against her skull. Her magnificent body is naked except for a tiny black g-string. Her breasts are so high, so firm, so proud, so perfectly spherical, that they cannot possibly be real–and yet they are. Her small, dark nipples are quite stiff. Her belly is taut but not hard; it has a slight curve to it, which makes her infinitely feminine, infinitely desirable.

The protruding button of her navel stands out from the very center of her abdomen, drawing attention to the sleek, supple, slender perfection of her bare midriff.

“What did you have in mind for me?” Stephanie asks her captor calmly.

“I thought perhaps the branding iron,” comes the soft, respectful reply.

Stephanie nods. “Yes, I thought it would be something like that. Nothing else would really hurt enough, I suppose. Do you wish to bind me?”

“What would you prefer?”

“I’ll remain unbound, if you don’t mind. I think I can control myself adequately. Oh, I would like something to hold onto, though.”

“Yes, of course. A long chain and a hot iron, please.” Two chains descend silently from the dark rafters above. One is empty, and Stephanie reaches for it, gripping it tightly with both fists. The chain dangles between her breasts, plunging past her navel and the crotch of her g-string, symbolically bifurcating her exquisite body.

Barb carefully removes the instrument of Stephanie’s demise from the second chain, and turns to the fallen Princess. “Are you ready?” she asks gently.

Stephanie nods regally. “Please begin.”

The brand is cylindrical, about the size and shape of a very large cock. Barb presses it suddenly into Stephanie’s abdomen, just to the left of the navel. Stephanie winces in agony; a sharp hiss escapes between her teeth. Barb pulls the poker away. There is no scream, not yet.

The branding iron has left a dark, angry mark on Stephanie’s skin. Both women look down at it, and something flickers in Stephanie’s dark eyes: a profound awareness that she has been scarred. Whatever else happens, her body will never be the same again.

Barb mirrors the deep, wicked blemish on Stephanie’s other side, and this time there are tortured whimpers from the captured Princess. These seem to excite Barb. She begins to get a feel for the torture. She discovers that she can press the poker lengthwise against Stephanie’s cool skin and roll it around, creating a very wide burn area. She employs this technique to draw a teardrop shape which encloses Steph’s beautiful belly button.

Where the searing hot metal touches her, Stephanie’s flesh turns red instantly. If the brand remains on any spot for more than the briefest moment, that region begins to swell and boil, to bubble and crack. Stephanie is screaming now, quite convincingly and at the top of her lungs.

Barb takes a moment to admire her weapon. It is a potent instrument, capable of reducing calm, elegant Stephanie to helpless howls in almost no time at all.

The tortured Runway Girl dangles from her chain, sobbing softly. The brief respite gives her what she does not want: time to rest, to recover, to order her thoughts. “Please,” she begs, “don’t stop.”

Barb nods. The poker finds a nipple. The surviving chess pieces nod sympathetically as Stephanie shrieks in horror.

Barb moves up now, allowing Stephanie’s single pristine nipple to contrast with its ruined black twin. The brand touches the Princess’s shoulder, then moves around onto her back. She is drenched in sweat. Her firm, naked round breasts gleam and glisten.

Barb brands wide swaths of Steph’s back as the tortured supermodel squirms and struggles and screams. Steph slips down the chain, then catches herself. She’s having trouble retaining consciousness, much less holding onto the steel links in front of her.

“Maybe I should have chained you after all, huh, Steph? I’m hardly even halfway done, and here you are about to pass out on me. I guess I’d better give you another break.”

“No…” Steph whispers weakly, but to no avail. Slowly the red haze in front of her eyes clears and vanishes. She sees Barb. She sees the poker. She whimpers gently. Seeing that her victim is fully alert once more, Barb resumes her work. Now Stephanie’s strong, limber thighs get their turn. Barb is very hard on this part of her victim’s meat. She holds the cheery-red steel against Steph’s trim, toned thighs until the sinewy flesh begins to blacken and char. And then the poker moves down the model’s long, powerful legs. Here Barb does not linger or tarry.

“How are you holding up, Steph?” Barb asks with a laugh.

“Please…end me…” Stephanie begs.

“Come on, Steph! You’ve still got some life in you. I haven’t even been inside any of your orifices yet! Speaking of which…why don’t you give this poker a nice suck, Steph?” Barb holds the glowing phallus close to Stephanie’s cracked, dry lips.

“Please…no…” Steph gasps.

“Oh? Then you’d prefer to fuck it?” Barb moves the poker a fraction of inch downwards.

“No!” Stephanie whimpers, and seizes the poker in her mouth. Her screams are muffled as she locks her lips around the near-molten steel. The air fills with the bright sizzling sound of Steph’s succulent tongue searing. Barb moves the poker in and out of Steph’s mouth in a crude yet somehow arousing parody of fellatio. Steph begs with her arched eyebrows as the ruthless iron rapes her.

Suddenly Barb withdraws, laughing. “You do that really well, Steph! I bet the boys just love you.” Stephanie tries to reply, but her tongue is ruined. Still, the tears streaming down her cheeks make her meaning plain.

Barb presses the poker against Stephanie’s pristine breast, eradicating her other nipple. And now the sweet flesh around each aureole receives the brand; very soon her pert, proud breasts have been reduced to dead, black husks. Stephanie looks down at the remains of her tits in wordless horror.

“I wanted you to see that, before I put your eyes out,” Barb explains, and proceeds to do just that, holding the poker in front of each fragile orb until the fluid within boils and bursts forth. The sizzling eye fluid burns Steph’s cheeks.

“I’m afraid I’m about out of ideas,” Barb admits. “What do you think, girls?”

“Finish her!” comes the reply.

“She’s had enough!” another voice adds.

“For God’s sake, just snuff her and get over here, will you? All this torture has made me so horny I can’t stand it!”

Barb giggles. “OK. Here it comes, Steph.” With her free hand, Barb peels Steph’s g-string off her sleek hips. The cunt beneath is perfect: very small, very tight, completely bald.

The poker fits in nicely. Barb thrusts it all the way in, giving Steph a full twelve inches of searing hot thickness. She fucks her gorgeous victim gently, then harder, faster. Stephanie is beyond screams now. Indeed, she is beyond everything. Her hands slip off the chain at last and she falls onto her back. Barb moves down with her, pushing the poker ever deeper. Now she holds it firmly in place as Steph twitches and wiggles and begins to die.

Stephanie is without speech, without sight. There is only the pain, and now even that fades as her body spasms and convulses and finally relaxes into a gentle, smoldering death.

“You know, you look pretty good in lingerie,” Tamara admits as she steps onto Barb’s square. The exquisite blonde Centerfolder is wearing a translucent white bra and panties; an oversized, white button-down shirt is draped casually over her shoulders, but it conceals none of her splendid attributes. “You really should have been one of us. Oh, well. I guess it doesn’t really matter any more, does it?”

“How are you going to do it?” Barb demands quietly. Her voice is steady, but there is an undercurrent of tension. She knows that there are no good answers to her query.

“Good question!” Tamara puts a slender finger against her cheek and gazes thoughtfully at her lovely victim. Barb squirms uncomfortably as the seconds tick by. Is Tamara really considering her options, or is she being deliberately obstinate in an attempt to increase Barb’s unease? There’s no way to tell, of course.

“You know, I think I’d like to put some current into you,” Tamara finally decides. “Yeah, I’d like to see how you move when the shocks hit you…chains, please. And a prod.”

The manacles descend silently from the darkness above. The prod dangles from the chains; Tamara grabs it greedily. “Do me a favor and chain yourself up, would you, Barb?” she asks casually.

Barb hesitates, but only briefly. Resistance will gain her nothing…and might cost her sister her life. She locks the thick steel around one wrist, then the other. Tamara adjusts the settings on her prod. “Let’s see,” Tamara purrs. “That’s ‘on’…ooh, I’d better turn this down a bit! It’s set on ‘lethal…’ you won’t be ready for that for quite a while, will you, Barb? Let’s start with ‘low pain’ and work our way up, shall we? There!”

Tamara turns towards her victim. The frightened Playmate stands before her, nervous and expectant, like a virgin about to be deflowered. Barb holds her shackled wrists in front of her belly, as if unable to determine what she should do with them. All at once that question is answered for her: the chains grow tight, pulling Barb’s hands up over her head. She whimpers as the shackles pull her onto her tiptoes; the sharp steel cuts into her wrists.

Tamara approaches. “Where to start?” she wonders, but really there is no question. The tip of the prod brushes lightly against Barb’s bra, finding a hard, thinly sheathed pink nipple. Barb’s scream is pure and feminine. Tamara applies an equal shock to the other tit, and now Barb’s body begins to move in response to the torture. It’s instinctive, automatic; no conscious thought is required. Together with the prod, Barb forms a simple stimulus/response circuit. Pain goes in, motion comes out.

Tamara plays the prod over Barb’s lean, flat belly. She pokes the tip of it playfully into Barb’s navel. The gorgeous Centerfold’s sleek, lightly furred pubic lips are quite visible through her translucent panties; they make an easy target. Barb howls like the animal she is as the prod touches her clit; Tamara has found the greatest concentration of nerve endings in her victim’s entire body. The electro-clitoral interface is the perfect point for the transmission of limitless pain.

Barb dances with the energy and enthusiasm of the most talented stripper. Breasts, waist, belly and hips bounce and twist and gyrate as she suffers. Tears stream down her face, and her cries speak of a tremendous desperation.

“God, this is fun!” Tamara squeals. “You really have some moves, girl! Let’s see what happens when we turn this thing up a little!”

Barb’s eyes widen in horror as she realizes that the astonishing agony she has been experiencing have been produced by the prod’s “low” setting. She grits her teeth in anguished anticipation as Tamara adjusts the implement, but its touch tears a scream from her nonetheless.

Her dance becomes more urgent now. The shocks produce spectacular spasms and convulsions. Barb nearly passes out as the prod touches the sweet pink terminals of her nipples. The thin fabric of her see-through bra provides almost no protection. Of course, Tamara is too cruel to let her lose consciousness; the prod moves on, down her belly, across her thighs. Blue fire arcs out from the steel to meet Barb’s sweat-drenched flesh.

Tamara continues in this vein for what seems to Barb a tremendously long time. Then, finally: “OK, I think this cow is ready for ‘high.'” Barb tries to brace herself for what is coming, but she is too weak; her lithe, fuckable body dangles limply in its chains.

The prod’s “high pain” setting is enough to revive her, however. It is the most excruciating thing she has ever felt. Where the prod touches her, she feels a deep burning agony which continues long after the device has moved on. Tamara is careful to play the prod over all of her tenderest spots. She knows Barb’s body well now. She knows just how to hurt it, how to maximize its pain. She focuses on the firm, round breasts, the strong, supple thighs, the hard belly. On this setting the prod causes Barb’s lingerie to blacken and char. Her blonde hair stands straight out from her head like a halo; blue flame dances along her pearly white teeth. There is no longer room in her mind for anything but pain.

“Time to finish you off, girl,” Tamara says at last, much to Barb’s relief. The brave centerfold takes a deep breath and closes her eyes as Tamara adjusts the prod for the last time. As with the first shock, there is no question where this one will land. Tamara presses the prod against Barb’s panties and holds it there. The prod nestles up against tight cunt lips. Drenched with sweat, the panties only amplify the charge.

Barb’s eyes and mouth open wide, but there are no screams, no tears. She’s beyond all that now. Her lips twitch slightly. The pain floods into her nervous system in quantities great enough to burn out her brain.

Tamara holds the prod in place for a few moments more, just to make sure, then removes it. Barb’s body continues to convulse in its chains, and a few Runway Girls whisper to themselves: “Is she still alive? How could she be?” But no: it is simply an autonomic response. The force which animated Barb’s lovely form is gone, leaving only a magnificent shell.

“All right!” she squeaks. “It’s my turn to snuff!”

“Can’t WAIT to see her go,” Onyx mutters.

“Just get it over with,” the captured black pawn says dejectedly.

“Are you afraid of spiders?” the white pawn asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Spiders. How do you feel about them?”

“I hate them,” the captured pawn admits.

“Me, too. Spider tube, please!” her captor says cheerfully, turning her face up towards the darkness above.

The cylinder is familiar; it is practically identical to the one in which Erika so recently drowned. It descends over the captured pawn–an anorexic redhead wearing nothing but a black g-string–and seals itself shut against the marble board.

The pawn presses her hands against the glass. She is clearly terrified. “Please…couldn’t you just drown me, or…”

“Nope!” the white-stockinged brunette replies brightly. “Sorry!”

It begins. A tarantula falls through the tube, and lands on the pawn’s shoulder. She screams in primal terror. Two more spiders–black widows this time–land in her curly red hair. A brown recluse bounces off her flat, naked tit and falls onto her thigh.

She panics. Screaming wildly, she tries to brush the spiders off of her pale flesh. But the arachnid swarm has become a deluge now; the spiders descend upon her by the dozens.

Her panicked motions insure her doom. The spiders begin to bite, first here and there, then everywhere. They bite her nonexistent breasts, her sleek thighs. They fill her with enough venom to kill a dozen emaciated models. She flails about wildly in the tube, smashing the spiders, crushing them, but to no avail.

Each time she kills one, a dozen more take its place. She is, in any, case, quite dead; her body simply hasn’t slowed down enough to realize it yet.

Gazing down at her hands in horror, she sees that they are covered with dozens of deadly bites. She begins to hyperventilate. Her body starts to twitch. She sinks to her knees, falling into a sea of spiders. She raises a desperate hand. And then she slips away into the arachnid ocean, into her doom.

“Baby, has anybody ever told you you’d look great in an electric chair?” the thin black pawn purrs as she steps onto her opponent’s square.

“You really think so?” the white pawn gushes. Her brown hair and naked pussy make her stand out among the centerfolds.

“Oh, yeah.” The marble square drops away; the chair rises from below and locks into place. The brunette sits down eagerly, ignorant of her destiny, or perhaps eager to meet it.

The black pawn fastens thick leather straps around the voluptuous model’s neck and wrists. She pins the electrodes to her victim’s large breasts, sliding the thick metal needles right through the tender pink flesh.

“Ow!” the white pawn protests. “That hurts!”

“No shit. I’m snuffing you, you stupid bimbo.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so mean about it…”

The black pawn laughs. “You’re hilarious. OK, bitch, open wide.” The third electrode is a long, thick steel cock. It’s been greased, and it slips easily into place.

“That’s better,” the brunette whispers. “Oh, that’s not bad at all.”

“Enjoy it, honey. It’s the last fuck you’ll ever feel.” As the black pawn steps away, the shocks begin. This would-be Centerfolder is more outrageous than the rest; her only concession to her team colors is a pair of thigh-high white stockings with a floral pattern. But her body is worth displaying.

Her breasts are quite large; flawlessly round, they ride impossibly high on her chest. The nipples have managed to grow hard in spite of, or perhaps because of, the thick metal needles which have penetrated them. Her belly is flat, her waist tiny. Her legs are muscular and strong. Her pubic hair has been shaved down to the requisite rectangle of short fur. She is, in short, ideal Centerfolder material.

And now she can prove it. The amperage of the shocks increases slowly. She may be just a pawn, but she must still suffer, or her splendid body will be wasted. And so this chair, which could kill her in an instant, takes her slowly to her death.

Her body responds well to the shocks, twitching just as it was meant to. There are no men present. But if there were, they would surely appreciate the way she moves around her cunt ‘trode. Her body rides the electrode gently, moving up and down in time to a familiar rhythm. The meaning of this is not lost on her female audience.

“Now, that’s a bit much…”

“It’s a nice touch, though…this girl’s got the moves…”

She lifts her hands impotently; with her wrists bound, they can’t go anywhere, but they can flex and grasp, to show just how powerless she is.

The amps increase. After all, she IS only a pawn, and there are more famous women who still need to be snuffed tonight. Spittle drips down the girl’s slack chin. Wisps of smoke drift lazily up from the places where her meat is cooking: her nipples, her twat. She arches her back and initiates a final series of convulsions. Her head snaps back, then forward, with a delicious violence. And her short career ends, as quickly as it began.

“What will you do to me?” Jennie asks softly, sounding very much like a terrified little girl.

“I’m going to stretch you,” Lola replies simply.

“Do you suppose it will take very long? And hurt very much?”

“Yes to both. Chains, please.”

“I can’t believe this is happening…I’m actually going to die…” Jennie moans.

“Only after a great deal of pain, baby,” Lola points out.

“You could have a little sympathy,” Jennie says. There are tears in her steely blue eyes, but there is anger in her voice.

Lola shrugs. “You know the rules. If you’re scared, you shouldn’t play.”

“You might get captured too, you know,” Jennie reminds her.

Lola locks the steel shackles tightly around Jennie’s wrists. “And if I do, I’ll die like a woman, not like a whiny little bitch.” A second set of shackles connect Jennie’s slender ankles to a previously invisible hook in her marble square. “So long, Jennie. I hope it really, really hurts.”

The chains tighten in response to some unknown program. It’s slow and subtle at first: a little tension, just enough to get her attention. Then a little more, to put some pain into her magnificent young body. She parts her pouting red lips slightly, issuing soft feminine moans. She arches her pencil-thin eyebrows. Her piercing blue eyes remain open.

The chains lift her heels off the marble. Her arms are pulled high over her head. Jennie is almost completely naked. She has chosen to “wear” her team’s colors in the form of a tiny white tank top. This hangs precariously from her left shoulder; she hasn’t made even the slightest effort to keep the right strap in place.

The top hangs down beneath her world-class breasts, revealing them in all their splendor. They are immense, perfect. They are not quite round, in the way that only the best breasts can afford to be: in their slight deviation from the spherical, they attain a kind of mammary satori to which lesser tits can never aspire. Her nipples are red and hard. She has completed her breasts by threading a steel ring through her stiff left nipple.

Her waist is tiny, her belly flat, her hips full and womanly. Her legs are long and getting longer all the time.

The stretching becomes more serious now. Jennie’s whimpers modulate gradually into tentative screams. She’s new at this, but she’s learning fast. The tension in her muscles and tendons is evident. Her body ripples with desperate, hopeless fear.

She squeezes her eyes closed, as if she could shut out the pain so easily! It continues to haunt her, of course, despite her best efforts. There is no escaping it. It permeates her body, suffusing every inch of her. As her muscles stretch and start to tear, the pain very quickly becomes what she is. Jennie realizes to her horror that from this moment forward, she will be nothing but agony.

She howls as the chains pull her inexorably towards her tortured fate. Her magnificent young breasts bounce, huge and firm. Her lips twitch. She is stretched almost too tightly to move, but she can still squirm a little, and she does. Her flat belly undulates.

There is a sharp POP as her shoulder dislocates, and her screams attain a new urgency. Her other shoulder soon follows, and then her hips. Jennie’s body is twisted into an impossible configuration now, stretched like a rag doll into a position which it should not be able to achieve. Her mouth stretches open around a wordless, silent scream. In place of speech she has only drool, thick and wet, running down her chin. Her eyes, hard and flinty, speak of a pain beyond comprehension.

The chains slow, prolonging Jennie’s final minutes. She is at the apex of her suffering. Ideally she would remain here forever, but she is only human, after all. The tendons rupture one by one. On the outside, Jennie’s body remains pristine, flawless. But inside, it is a ruin. And there’s more: her respiratory muscles are stretched too tightly to allow breathing. This is how she will die, in the end: of a beautiful, magnificent asphyxiation.

There is no sound, no whimper, not even a gurgle. Nothing. Her lips part; she stares straight ahead. Her breasts quiver, the nipple ring glittering. Suddenly her chin falls forward onto her magnificent chest, and she is gone.

“Make it something special,” Echo says sweetly. Her light blue eyes are devoid of spirit. She is a body awaiting its end; the flickering of life in her breasts and womb exists in radical disharmony with the vast abyss that surely is her lack of soul.

“Don’t worry,” Onyx says. “I intend to.” As the victorious Matriarch, Onyx has earned the right to snuff her lovely counterpart. Perhaps she is reluctant to allow Echo too glorious a performance. But then again, she knows that whenever people speak of Echo’s final show, they will also be speaking of Onyx’s Runway Girls and their victory over the Centerfolds. Onyx understands that she must give Echo free reign, and let her die the most spectacular death possible. Only in this way will the memory of Onyx’s Runway Girls live forever, despite the fact that any of them might easily die in their next game.

“Fifteen caliber automatic pistol,” Onyx requests, “with five extra clips.”

“Fifteen–?” Echo repeats, mystified. “But there’s no such caliber…”

“There is now,” Onyx informs her with a sly grin. “I had it commissioned for this very occasion, Echo. Because I just knew my girls would wipe the board with your centerfold sluts.”

Echo’s face darkens at the slur. “I don’t see why you couldn’t just use a .22,” she protests.

“Because a .22 causes too much tissue damage, my love. How many hits can you take from a .22? Ten? Fifteen? Well, just imagine how many you can take from this little beauty.” She holds up the tiny pistol and lets Echo get a good, long look at it. “In fact, why imagine it? Feel it!” She levels the pistol at Echo’s taut belly. “You ready, girl?”

“Almost.” Echo is already naked from the waist down. She wears her tan line like a g-string; where the crotch of that garment would be, there is a tiny dusting of dark fur in the shape of a triangle. Her hard, flat belly is naked; her only garment is a tight, white tank top, which she now pulls up over her breasts. The breasts are of median size but exquisite firmness; the pink nipples are very hard.

“You can take that off, if you want,” Onyx says, gesturing at the tank top which now sits bunched atop Echo’s tits.

“No, thanks. I’ll keep my team colors,” Echo insists.

“As you wish. Where do you want the first one?”

“Why don’t you start with my hand?” Echo suggests, raising her palm towards Onyx.

“Good idea.” Onyx aims, fires. The tip of Echo’s index finger vanishes and is replaced by a thick trickle of red. Echo gasps, pulling her hand towards her. The surviving Runway Girls cheer. Slowly, Echo forces her hand back into position. Onyx fires again, putting a round straight through her victim’s palm. The wounded Playmate gasps in agony.

Her unmarred hand grasps the wounded one. It doesn’t matter, because Onyx is moving on. She fires into Echo’s forearm, then her upper arm. Each bullet makes only a tiny red hole as it enters Echo’s body, but the pain is written on her face. So now there is something beyond emptiness there. It’s only pain. But it is something.

The Runway Girls–and even the surviving centerfolds, who can’t help but admire the artistry of it–cheer Onyx’s expert markswomanship. She fires the tiny gun without doubt or hesitation, and every round finds its mark. She stitches the wounds up one arm and down the other, spacing them out evenly, giving Echo just enough time to feel each bullet before sending the next.

Echo is still standing when Onyx pauses to reload, but only just barely. She leans unsteadily to one side, blood running down both arms in thin rivulets. Her perfect face is stained with tears. “Onyx, I…” she begins, then cuts herself short.

Onyx slams a fresh magazine into her weapon and pulls the slide back. “Yes?”

Echo shakes her head. She will not mar her farewell performance by begging for mercy.

The belly is next. It’s a lovely canvas: toned, flat, inviting. Onyx inserts the bullets carefully, drawing a diamond around Echo’s navel, then putting a round right through that sweet hole, to the unrestrained cheers of the audience. Echo clutches her belly desperately, as if trying to keep her blood from spilling free. It’s futile, of course. The blood trickles out between her fingers, thick and luscious.

Now the thighs. Echo is beginning to crack. She has remained impressively quiet so far, with only the occasional soft whimper or sharp hiss to indicate the passage of each bullet into her flesh. But the thighs are too close to what she is, too near the thing that makes her matter. Now her mouth opens at last. Now, finally, Echo speaks her pain. It begins as a whimper, then grows into an uncontrollable scream. It does not stop as Echo falls to her knees, conquered at last by Onyx’s pistol.

Onyx reloads and advances upon her suffering victim. The tiny pistol, a mere scrap of steel in Onyx’s hand, puts her in charge.

“Why, I bet I could put one of these little bullets into your breast, and it wouldn’t even reach your heart,” Onyx says, and does. The bright red hole appears in Echo’s nipple; it’s larger than the rest, and bloodier. A second shot turns her breasts into a matched set. And now Onyx begins to pump the lead into Echo’s tortured tits, filling them. She empties her pistol into Echo’s firm, upturned breasts. The tiny bullets spin through the tender flesh, turning the tits into chopped meat.

Something snaps inside Echo, as Onyx pauses to reload once more. “Please…” she whimpers.

“Yes?”

This time she says it. “Please…end it…”

“Girlfriend, that’s all you had to say.” Onyx has won: not just the game, but this contest of wills as well. “Lay down, spread your legs, close your eyes, and it’ll all be over in a minute.”

“No…not like that…”

“Only way you’re getting out of here. Still plenty more places I can shoot.”

“No! Please…” Echo lays down in a pool of her own blood and spreads her legs in a very un-Playmate fashion. She squeezes her eyes shut. Onyx thrusts the barrel of the pistol into her. There is a dramatic pause. Then Onyx empties the weapon into Echo, ending her.

The End 😉

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