Dear Diary 1977

Jennifer Meininger was succumbing to a rising tide of intoxication, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird as she watched the grotesque, yet beautiful debasement unfold below. She was in a state of profound, suspended shock, her mind struggling to reconcile the gentle, polite father figure she knew with the brutal, feral beast currently defiling his daughter. Her perception of sexuality, a rigid construct she had built around her own morality, was fracturing and dissolving under the weight of the raw, taboo act taking place in the dim light.

Her right hand had slid beneath the elastic of her panties, her fingers diving eagerly into the damp darkness to steal over the slick, puckered outer lips of her mons veneris. She gasped, the air leaving her lungs as her middle finger traced the delicate seam, finding the hardened nub of her clitoris and rubbing it with a desperate, feverish rhythm.

Jennifer’s hand trembled as it pressed firmly against the soft, mound of her mons veneris. This expanse of her surface was physically connected to the delicate structures of her intimate anatomy, forming a single, responsive unit that pulsed with her arousal.  She dug her thumb into the center of the mons veneris, pressing down hard, and felt the subtle tug and vibration transfer directly to the underlying clitoral hood. The pressure radiated outward, stimulating the swollen, moist folds of her labia, pulling them tight against the sensitive tissue of her inner thighs.

She massaged the mons in slow, grinding circles, the friction stimulating the hood and the clitoris deep beneath, sending electric jolts of pleasure shooting through her lower body. The combination of pressure and friction caused the mons to swell and harden against her touch, reflecting the state of her entire groin. She slid the middle finger into the deep slick crack, shuddering as the cuticle brushed across the oily, erect knob of her clitoris. Waves of sensual excitement were coursing through her, and they heightened as she watched the torture scene unfold beneath her voyeuristic eyes.

Jennifer abandoned the delicate stimulation of her mons veneris, trading it instead for the urgent, deep friction of her middle finger plunging into the slick, clenched opening of her vagina. She watched with widening, dilated eyes as Kristy gagged and choked on the thick, white fluid, her own body mirroring her Kristy's submission. The graphic reality of the violation fueled a burning heat within her loins. With a shaking hand, she peeled the damp cotton panties down her legs, her skin scraping against the elastic as she discarded them.

The crotch of her panties was instantly overwhelmed by the heat and moisture of her arousal, a dark, stained patch that clung to the folds of her slit. The scent of her hot cunt rose up to greet her, a thick, pungent aroma of feminine musk and lubrication that hit her nostrils like a physical blow. She pressed the panties to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes rolling back as the sweet, musky smell thrilled her, igniting a fresh wave of desire. She gripped her mound in her hand, her fingers sinking into the soft, soaked body as she squeezed her pussy tight, reveling in the raw, animalistic scent of her own excitement.

Jennifer Meininger rammed her middle finger up her pussy and began to piston it. Intense juice dribbled down her thighs, as if her plunging finger had burst a small balloon inside her that was filled with hot melted butter. She moved her finger in circles inside her pussy as she finger fucked herself. Her middle finger moved in tight, vicious circles that dragged against the sensitive, velvety walls. The friction built rapidly as she worked her finger deeper, the squelching sounds echoing faintly in the quiet of the room, loud enough to match the wet, slapping rhythm of the scene below.

She curled the finger, hooking it high inside her, searching for the rough, hidden spot that always made her gasp, while her thumb ground against her clitoris, stimulating the bundle of nerves with blunt, heavy pressure. Her body jerked with every thrust, her hips bucking wildly to meet the rhythm of her own hand, the juices glistening on her skin as she watched Kristy’s humiliation with a mixture of awe and overwhelming lust.

~

Rudy released his daughter's hair with a rough shove, standing back abruptly to put distance between them, his hard dick slapping up against his belly with a heavy, wet slap. His cock glistened with her saliva and sperm, a chaotic mixture of fluids that clung to the angry veins of his shaft, turning his skin a pearlescent white. Kristy gasped for breath, her head bent low over her chest to hide her face, her body heaving in the aftermath of the brutal assault. Sticky strands of her father's sperm dripped from the corners of her mouth and over her loose lower lip, the clear fluid mingling with the tears on her cheeks and pooling on the cold basement floor.

His erection did not grow any smaller after he had his orgasm. Instead, it remained a towering pillar of cock, a testament to his inexhaustible, predatory stamina. He strode to a shadowed corner of the room where the wall was studded with rusted nails. Various lengths and widths of thick, black hemp rope hung in strands from the nails, alongside leather whips, heavy chains, and iron manacles.

Illuminated by the basement light, casting long, dancing shadows, stood the stockade. It was a crude, brutal thing, fashioned from heavy, dark wood that was scarred and stained with the ghosts of past sufferings. The wood was old and grainy, its surface rough against the skin. It consisted of a heavy base and two vertical posts, connected at the top by a crossbeam. From this beam hung the main apparatus. A hinged wooden board, split into three semi-circular holes. One large for the neck, two smaller for the wrists. It was designed to clamp down and lock its victim in a posture of absolute submission.

Rudy stood next to it, his silhouette projected as an exaggerated outline on the dirty wall. He ran a hand almost lovingly along the edge of the top board, his fingers tracing the deep gouges and worn patches. Kristy watched him from across the room, her heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of her ribs. She was pressed into a corner, as if trying to melt into the cold stone. He commanded her to come over. His voice was a low, calm rumble that was far more terrifying than a shout would have been. He did not turn. He did not even look at her. The command hung in the air, absolute and final.

Kristy Blair shook her head, a small, frantic motion. Her eyes, wide and luminous with fear, darted from him to the stockade and back again. He walked back towards her. The fear broke her paralysis. Adrenaline surged through her veins, hot and sharp. She tried to run away, for the far another corner of the room, a desperate, animalistic scramble for any extra second, any extra inch of space. Her bare feet slipped on the floor, sending her sprawling. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

Before she could scramble away, his shadow fell over her. A hand like a steel clamp closed around her upper arm, hauling her to her feet with effortless strength. She cried out, a sharp yelp of pain and terror. He began dragging her toward the waiting wooden jaws of the stockade. Kristy fought, her body thrashing in his grip. She kicked backward, her heel connecting with his shin. He grunted, a sound of annoyance more than pain, and his grip only tightened, his fingers digging into her like talons.

She twisted, trying to wrench her arm free, but it was like trying to bend iron. She clawed at his hand with her other hand, her nails scraping uselessly against his tough skin. He stopped in front of the stockade and gave her a violent shake that rattled her teeth. He released her arm, but before she could even think of running again, he grabbed a handful of her hair at the scruff of her neck. The pain was sharp and abrupt, bringing tears to her eyes. He forced her head down, toward the lower half of the stockade, which rested at about the height of her waist. He pushed her toward the semi-circular openings.

"No! Let me go!" she yelled and cried.

Her hands were flying out to brace herself against the wooden frame. Her muscles strained, trembling with the effort of resisting him. She was like a feral cat, all desperation and panicked strength. She pushed back, her whole body screaming in protest.

Rudy sighed, a sound of profound impatience. He shifted his grip, grabbing her by her waist. With a single, brutal heave, he lifted her off her feet. Her legs flailed uselessly in the air for a moment before he slammed her down, her stomach and chest crashing against the rough wood of the lower board. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a whoosh, leaving her gasping and dazed.

He was on her in an instant, his heavy weight pinning her in place. One hand pressed firmly on the upper side of her back, holding her down while he used the other to grab her wrist. She fought him, clawing and scratching, her fingers finding purchase and raking down his forearm. He cursed under his breath, his patience finally snapping. He wrenched her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back. A sharp, searing pain shot through her shoulder, and she cried out, her resistance faltering.

In that moment of weakness, he forced her wrist into one of the smaller holes. He moved with a practiced, horrifying efficiency, immediately grabbing her other flailing arm, and shoving it into the corresponding hole. Now, it was just her neck. She thrashed her head from side to side, trying to keep it away from the waiting wooden embrace. He grabbed a fistful of her hair again, yanking her head back and then slamming it forward, forcing her neck into the central opening. The rough wood scraped against her throat, and she choked, her eyes bulging.

He held her there for a moment, savoring her helplessness, her muffled sobs. Then, he reached over and grabbed the top board. It was heavy, and it creaked as he lifted it. He lowered it slowly, deliberately, letting Kristy feel the weight of it as it came down. The edge of the neck-hole pressed against the delicate skin of her throat, then her collarbones. The pressure increased, pinning her in place. Kristy Blair was trapped. Her head and hands secured, her body bent at a ninety-degree angle over the apparatus. Her back was arched, her buttocks rose in the air, her legs dangling, her toes just barely brushing the floor.

He fumbled with the heavy iron latch on the side of the stockade. There was a loud, metallic clank as he slid it home, followed by the solid, definitive “thunk” of the lock falling into place. The sound echoed in the silence, a final, damning note. It was over. She was his. Rudy stepped back, his breathing slightly elevated from the brief struggle. He looked at his prize, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face.

This was his favorite part. Not the pain, not the screaming, but this moment. The moment of absolute control, of total possession. The transformation from a fighting, defiant creature into a captive object, ready to be examined, to be understood, to be broken. He began his inspection.

He walked around to her side, his feet scuffing softly on the floor. He stood for a long moment, just looking. Her position was one of profound vulnerability. Her body was stretched taut over the wood, the muscles in her back and legs straining. He could see the frantic rise and fall of her ribs with each ragged breath she took.

He reached out a hand and placed it flat against the small of her back. Kristy flinched violently, a muffled cry coming from behind the wood. Her skin was cool and damp with sweat, but he could feel the frantic heat of her body beneath his palm. He let his hand rest there for a moment, feeling the tremors that ran through her, the silent sobs that wracked her frame. He slid his hand upward, slowly, tracing the line of her spine. Each vertebra felt like a small, hard bead under his fingers. He could feel the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, sharp and defined.

He moved to the other side, his gaze sweeping over the exposed curve of her buttocks. He slapped her buttocks. Kristy jerked and whimpered. He did it again, a little harder this time, enjoying the way her body tensed at the sharp, unexpected sensation. His fingers trailed down the back of her thigh. Her skin was soft, impossibly so. He followed the line of her leg down to the hollow behind her knee. The skin there was even more sensitive, and she tried to pull away, a futile gesture that only made the wood of the stockade bite more deeply into her neck and wrists.

Rudy let his finger linger in the sensitive hollow behind Kristy's knee for a moment longer, feeling the frantic, trapped pulse of her body against his touch. He was a connoisseur of fear, and the subtle tremors that ran through her muscles were a vintage he had spent a lifetime learning to appreciate. He straightened up, his shadow falling over her bent form like a shroud. The inspection was far from over. It was merely moving to its next, more intimate phase. He took a step back.

His eyes fixed on the back of Kristy's head, on the cascade of her red hair that spilled over the wood of the stockade. He walked around to the front of the stockade, his steps slow and measured. Kristy, her head immobilized, could only hear his approach. The soft sound of his feet touching the floor was a countdown to a horror she could not see. He stopped directly in front of her, so close that she could smell the musky, masculine scent of him, a raw, animalistic aroma that made her stomach clench with nausea.

Tears of terror and humiliation blurred her vision, but she forced her eyes upward. And then she saw it again. His giant cock, jutting out, hard and imposing. Her breath hitched in a choked sob, and she squeezed her eyes shut, a desperate, futile attempt to block out the reality of her situation. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed a handful of her hair at the crown, yanking her head back. The pain was sharp, but it forced her eyes open again.

He held her gaze, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He enjoyed the terror in her eyes, the way they darted from his face to his cock and back again, like a trapped animal looking for an escape that did not exist. He took a step closer, angling his hips. With his other hand, he guided the head of his cock toward her face.

The first slap was not hard, but it was shocking. The cock struck her cheek with a wet smack. It was a blow of pure degradation, an act designed to strip away every last shred of her dignity. Kristy cried out, a strangled, humiliated sound. She tried to turn her head away, but his grip on her hair was absolute.

He did it again. And again. He established a slow, rhythmic cadence, swinging his hips to slap her first on one cheek, then the other. The sounds were obscene. It was wet, smacks punctuated by her choked sobs and his low, guttural grunts of pleasure. He would rub the head of his cock against her skin, smearing a trail of slick fluid across her tears, before pulling back for the next impact. He slapped her forehead, her chin, the delicate skin under her eyes. Each blow was a violation, a brand of ownership. Her face became a canvas for his depravity, marked with the evidence of his arousal and her own tears.

He grew harder with each strike, the blows becoming firmer, more insistent. The head of his cock, dark and engorged, left angry red marks on her pale skin. He was no longer just slapping her. He was beating her with the most intimate part of himself, turning his own body into a weapon of humiliation. Kristy's cries dissolved into a series of ragged, hitching gasps. She was beyond coherent thought, her mind a maelstrom of pain, shame, and terror. She could feel the sticky wetness on her face, the mingling of his fluid and her tears, and the thought made her gag.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally stopped. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his cock still hard and glistening, just inches from her face. He released his grip on her hair, and her head fell forward, her forehead resting against the rough wood of the stockade. She was trembling violently, her body wracked by silent, convulsive sobs. But he was not finished with her face. Not yet.