Utter Rot

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

Chapter I - Natasha Delacosta gets a phone call

Natasha looked damn good tonight, Marv thought. The eyes of the boardroom tracked her every gesture, the calculated swish of her hip, the casual shrug that lifted her shapely breast. The $12,000 Guicci suit brought out her curves with mouth-watering deftness, the short skirt and open blouse offering the barest hints of the lacy negligee Marv knew she wore underneath. Whatever the subject of her presentation was incidental -- by the time she was done, she would have them eating out of her hand. Another coup for Len Donnovan & Co. Another waystone in the upward rise of its beautiful CEO.

Marv let her presentation swell to it's climax, watched for the glint in her eye that he knew meant victory, and then he made the call.

Through the lense of his Cannon TX-11, he saw her freeze. Just a flicker in her confident mask; nothing the drooling old hacks in the boardroom would notice. He saw her smile disarmingly around the room, offer a gesture excusing herself, and then she was slipping gracefully out the white-paneled doors, hand moving to her purse.

A moment later, there was a click over the line, and he heard her voice, hushed in a fierce whisper.

"You fucking piece of trash."

"That's my girl. Knocking them dead in there, gorgeous."

"Fucking pig. What do you want?"

"Just wanted to let my best girl know that I'm proud of her. Those old scrotes look ready to toung your asshole. What the hell you saying to them?"

A pause. "Where are you?" She sounded unnerved.

"Oh, I'm always close. Got to keep an eye on you so bad men don't take advantage. You know that."

"I'm hanging up."

"The fuck you are." The words lashed out across the line, dripping with contempt. "You hang up on me, see what happens." Marv' lips curled in an ugly grin, showing yellow teeth.

From the other side, furious silence. But she didn't hang up. Rot snickered. "Thatta girl. Ain't I always said you were smart." He let out a long belch. "Now, how's about you and me get down to real business."

"You fucking pig."

"That's right girl. I'm a real life Fuckpig, and you've got me laid up with a powerful appetite. My office. 15 minutes."

He snapped the phone shut and let it fall into the greasy pile of waxy paper, french fries and stale mayonnaise in his lap. The El Camino growled to life and he pulled out of the parking garage, not hurrying. She wouldn't dare be late, but he could take his time -- after all, he was the one who called the shots. He had Natasha DelaCosta by the tits and she knew it.

It had started as a botched job. She had been only a junior executive then, ambitious, hungry, and utterly without scruples. She'd had her eye on higher stations, but there were obstacles in her way, among them the monolith of her boss, then CEO of Len Donnovan. She'd come to Rot with the job of sabotaging his career. He'd done it -- pretty damn well, too -- and when she'd come with his payment he'd laid out, step by step, the documentation for the whole process. Going public with the information would have ruined them both, so it was a kind of game of chicken -- but they both knew who had more to lose.

His price for silence wasn't just more money; that, she'd guessed from the outset. What she didn't know, that first night when he took her down on the floor of his filthy office, was that cameras were winking out at them from the desk, the shelves, the corners of the walls, capturing every heave of his bulk, every cry that escaped her lips. It was this that ultimately secured his hold on her. And every time he called in her endless debt, he added more hours of leverage to what he affectionately came to call his Wank Tank.

Blackmail was such a lovely word, he thought to himself.

When he reached the parking lot of his dingy two-story office building, her Lexus was already waiting for him. He grinned to himself, remembering the night two weeks ago when he'd forced her to drive them to a scrapyard out of town and spent the night trading her between the misanthropic trolls who operated the compactor. They'd left quite a mess in her back seat, he recalled, and snorted at his own double entendre. He made a mental note to beat off to the footage later in the evening. Maybe he'd even play it back to her as a special treat.

The elevator was out again. It took him almost five minutes to drag his bulk up the single flight of stairs to his second-floor suite, and he was panting and sweat-drenched by the time he reached his office. The door stood ajar, and for a moment he had the vision, not for the first time, of Natasha standing on the other side, the barrel of a revolver aimed at the crack, waiting to end things once and for all. But he knew better. The consequences for her, in the event of his death, were the same as if he ever decided to bury her. He gave a satisfied grunt and pushed on through.

She was standing by the window, half-lit by the amber light from the street. Shadows pooled in the hollows of her neck, traced the lines of her flat belly, fell along the inside of her thigh. Her thick, dark hair lay in ringlets around her shoulders, cascading over breasts held in a black lace brassier. He let out a gust of rancid breath. It is black, he thought with greedy satisfaction. I knew it was going to be black.

"Fuck you," she hissed.

"Oh no," he grunted, tearing at his clothes as he surged towards her. "Fuck you."

He came at her like a bull, slamming into her with all 250 pounds of his sweating, naked bulk. They fell across his desk, scattering rancid rinds and half-empty bottles, piles of wadded paper and stinking take-out boxes. She twisted under him but he wrenched her still, large hands encircling her slim waist. He dropped his face into her cleavage, gobbling at her breasts, kneading urgently at the swelling curves. She writhed. He came up gasping, grinning. "On your stomach, bitch," he panted, then hauled her over unceremoniously before she could comply.

He came off of her for a moment to take in the sight of her ass -- the full, firm globes outlined by thin negligee -- before stripping her panties down in one violent movement. Then his engorged tongue was between her cheeks, forcing its way into the tight hole, moving down from it to her moist cunt. She moaned through gritted teeth as he reamed her greedily, hands pawing the firm flesh.

He straightened, lower face covered in spittle, a rope of saliva connecting his mouth to her cunt. She lay in front of him shivering, the smooth skin of her curving waist and back in stark contrast to the wreckage of his desk. "You taste goooood," he slurred. "Those old scrotes don't know what they're missing."

One hand still pinning her by the waist, he reached under the desk and produced a battered black TV remote. "Let's us have a little show," he wheezed. "You're gonna love this one."

He pressed a button and behind the desk a wide screen sprang to life. He flipped rapidly through the menus, only half conscious that his surging erection was slipping free of his filthy underwear.

"Lesse, lesse," he muttered. "So much to choose from... aha!" He clicked down on a file.

The screen flickered, and was suddenly filled with a murky image of surging bodies. The speakers barked with a sudden chorus of grunts and moans, the dull thwaks! of flesh on flesh. In spite of herself, Natasha raised her head.

The screen showed the back of her Lexus, its rear doors thrown wide. Inside, the cabin was taken up almost entirely by the wide, flabby bulk of the elder dump troll, Merl, his back to the camera. Tendons stood out in the cretin's thick neck and he rutted, bald head swaying. Natasha was visible only barely beneath him, her legs pressed together, one finely shaped wrist clenched in his thick-fingered hand. Then the camera was panning downward over the rolls of fat, down the wide buttocks and clenched scrotum to where the thickly veined cock pounded in and out of her ass. As she watched in horror, a hand as big as a ham came down on it in a stinging slap.

"Oof!" chuckled Marv. "Them boys was pretty rough on you, huh darlin? Guess we all had a little too much to drink that night."

He reached down, clenched a fistfull of black hair and wrenched her up so that her back was pressed against his thick paunch, both of them facing the screen. He slid his other hand between her legs and began to paw at the smoothly shaved place between her thighs.

"Tell me something, babe," he grunted into her neck. "What's it like to get fucked by a retard?" His own shaft was upright, sliding between the cleft of her ass.

On the screen the camera was moving around the car to the other open door, where hunchbacked Les crouched, egging his brother on. "Shift yerself, fucker," Marv's voice came from out of the speakers. "Lemme get this."

"I kind of imagine it's like getting fucked by an animal," Marv went on. "Although never having fucked an animal, I got nothing to compare it to. You ever fuck a dog, babe? You ever fuck that pretty pitbull of yours?"

"Fuck... you," hissed Natasha. Onscreen, the fucking was speeding up, Merl's ugly face contorting in a mask of brutal lust. One eye bulged; the other seemed to sink into it's socket. Thick lips peeled back over haphazard yellow teeth. Below the swinging mass of his gut Natasha was pinned face-down on the seats, her hips in the air, jolting violently under the barrage of his thrusts.

"Give it to 'er, boy!" Les crowed from off camera. "Give the bitch an enema!"

Merl gave a strangled, barely human cry and surged forward, and Marv could see, could actually see ooze spurt out around the base of his cock, splattering over Natasha's ass and onto the leather seats. The orgasm must have been enormous. "UnnnNNnhhh!" the cretin groaned, and thrust forward again. More cum splattered the upholstery.

With a shuddering groan, Merl collapsed onto the woman in front of him. She gave a small cry of surprise as they both slid down onto their bellies, she almost entirely covered by his misshapen bulk.

"Whooeee, what a money shot!" Les' voice crowed. "You get that, boy? You see him fill 'er up? That's all-American spunk, that is! Made right here in the USA!"

"Awright, you ugly little freak, it's your turn," came Marv' reply. "And when you bust a nut I want it outside, you hear me? It ain't money if you just shoot it up her ass."

The camera panned up and left to where Les was struggling out of his clothes. The hunchback was, if anything, uglier than his brother, though smaller and less grotesquely fat. The hunch on his back -- and much of the rest of him -- was raw and oddly lumpy, the rubbery, warped flesh glistening with weird slime. In a horrible way, he looked almost impish, Marv thought -- like some kind of twisted mutant sprite vomited up from the lower pits of imagination. "Hear that, honey?" the hunchback was leering a crooked grin towards Natasha, still trapped under the mountain of fat that was Merl. "Your boyfriend's gettin' jealous. Thinks if you get a taste a'my cocksnot you might just fall in love with me."

With a bound, he leapt forward and seized Merl's shoulders. The giant didn't budge, seemingly drained by his exertions. Muscle stood out on Les's gnarled body as he wrenched at the heavy bulk, a goblin wrestling a lethargic troll.

"Gittoff, fuckwad!" He gibbered. "It's my turn!"

"You already done 'er once a'reddy," muttered Merl without raising his head.

"Jerkin' off in her face? That ain't the same thing!!" Tendons stood out all over the imp's malformed body as he struggled to raise his brother. "That's called foreplay, iggit! Read a magazine once'n a while!"

Slowly, like a pig hauling itself from a wallow, Merl pushed himself off of Natasha and backed out the opposite side of the car, fat cock trailing a mucoid strand of cum. "Doncha worry girly," he lisped, squeezing one of her ass cheeks on his way out. "You and me gon' do that again, soon as I have me a lil' drink."

No sooner was he clear then Les was on her, erection in hand, shoving it towards her face. "Roll over gorgeous," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm gonna fuck those tits, babe. I'm gonna fuck 'em but good!"

"Christ, those boys were hornier 'n a couple of muts, ain't they?" Marv mused. "Not surprisin' seein as how they look. Hell, a two-dollar hooker wouldn't screw those freaks through a plastic sheet. And you took both of 'em at once!" In his grip Natasha twisted and moaned under the assault of his fingers, her ass feeling firm around his upright cock. He was speeding up now, felt himself close to coming in spite of himself. No good wasting a load on a dry hump, he reprimanded himself, and slowed his strokes.

On-screen, Les had clambered astride the prostrate woman, straddling her chest, gnarled fingers kneading hungrily at the smooth curves of breasts as his spit-slicked cock drove in mad rhythm between them. Natasha's mouth was set in a grimace, her eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the thing's next orgasm. Or perhaps, Marv thought, simply trying to block out the sight of the gibbering imp as it lunged above her.

The camera swung left to where Merl stood, grotesquely naked, a few feet away. He was putting down a handle of the brothers' home-brewed whiskey with slobbish alacrity, much of the amber liquid spilling down his flabby chest and oversized gut. "Hey, pass the head kicker," Marv's disembodied voice wheedled. They had all been drunk as lords, he recalled now... all except her, of course.

How long had it gone on? Two hours? Three? The brothers had quit taking turns about the time the whiskey had run out, the two of them gang fucking her on a dirty mattress someone had hauled from the trash heap. Marv had joined in a couple of times, just to let off the pressure in his raging hard on. But mostly he'd just watched, and filmed. He liked to watch.

Suddenly, Marv's need was keen, flaring, insuperable. He shoved her down onto the desk with such force that garbage and papers scattered away from her, and began to lay into her upturned ass with a barrage of sharp slaps. She cried out in outraged surprise but he ignored her, only seizing his swollen cock and setting it in position.

Her slit was still wet from his greedy reaming and to this he added a new wad of phlegm that rolled like jetsam down the length of his cock. Natasha gave a gasp as he grunted forward, using his considerable weight to drive his swollen member into her up to its base. He seized her coal-black hair with both hands, wrenching up and forcing her to arch her back, and began to pump in and out of her tight, hot cunt.

"Ah! You bastard!" Natasha gasped, but he was beyond response -- his balls felt like cantaloupes, his shaft a hydraulic piston. Harder and harder, faster and faster he rutted, the desk pitching forward with each thrust. He heard a sound like the voice of a suffering lunatic and realized it was his own, wheezing and grunting. Veins pulsed in his skull; his eyes felt ready to pop and it occurred to him that his clogged and flagging heart might simply burst, that he might drop dead with his cock shooting gouts to the ceiling, killed, at last, by she who most wanted him dead. But before the thought could leave his mind his lower anatomy gave a tectonic lurch and the locked reservoir inside him exploded out into her in a torrent. His hands wrenched at her hair spasmodically, making her cry out, and her body clenched around his surging member, heightening the sensation. The feeling was incredible, like hot lava spitting through fissures in solid rock. Marv' eyes rolled back in their sockets and he groaned.

He was dimly aware that she was making sounds, though mewing cries or muttered abuse he couldn't tell. He was aware that on screen, the malformed Les had let loose across Natasha's face and breasts, and that Merl was bellowing with idiot laughter:

("Can't hold it fer shit, cain ye?" the elder brother was crowing.

"Shut it," from Les. "I ain't givin' her back till I get what I came for." And leaning in close to Natasha, hissing, "You hear that princess? The next one's goin' up yer ass.")

Marv let his cock hiccup its last gouts, then pulled out. Her face was down but he could see her shoulders rising and falling, hear her shallow, panting breath.

Sluggishly, Marv groped up the remote and clicked the television to a standstill. Les' ugly face froze in a grin of wicked anticipation, the head of his slime-slicked cock poised at the hole his brother had so brutally filled a moment earlier. Natasha's eyes were wide with surprise, her lips parted in a frozen cry of protest.

Marv dropped the remote back onto the desk and took Natasha by the waist, pulling her backwards with him. They collapsed into his enormous, beer-stained easy chair, he sprawled, she twisting away. Much of the fight seemed to have left her for the moment, and Marv held her easily with one thick arm.

He nuzzled his grizzled jowls against her neck. "You know what I want?" he breathed. She struggled weakly, arching her away from him, and he realized with gloating delight that he was hardening again, that his cock was pushing against her like a blind, hungry worm.

"I want to play a game," he slurred, his voice muffled by the dark forest of her hair.

"No," she moaned.

"I want to play a game," he insisted, giggling, louder now. The hand that held her slipped down to her lap and resumed it's groping, while it's counterpart found her breast and pawed hungrily.

"No," she moaned, "No games. Not tonight."

"I want to play a GAME!" Marv chortled, almost bellowing now. "PIGGSY WANTS TO PLAY!! OINK OINK OINK!!!"

And suddenly they were up off the chair, she slung bodily over his shoulder, and he was striding across the room to the sliding panel door -- something more suited to an industrial plant or a warehouse than the office of a cheap PI -- and the room behind it. The room was where he kept all his favorite toys, and Natasha knew it. She sprang back to life, bucking and kicking, unleashing a torrent of pleas and abuse. He neither noticed nor cared. A switch had been thrown in his head and Marv was no longer Marv -- he was the great, the terrible, above all the playful god Piggsy, and he was going to play a Game. He wrenched open the sliding door, stepped through and closed it with a bang.

On the other side was a cement cell, bare save for a tall cabinet at the back wall. The room was lit by a fluorescent bulb in one corner. Hanging down from the middle of the ceiling, threaded through a thick eyelet, was a chain, a pair of leather cuffs dangling from its end.

He let Natasha slide off his shoulder but caught her wrists as she lunged away from him. She was in a spirited mood tonight, he thought. Perhaps they'd play the chasing game later. But first... first there were formalities to attend to. First he had to put on his costume.

He dragged her to the middle of the room and snapped the cuffs around her wrists with a single practiced movement. Then he took hold of the other end of the chain and heaved, yanking her arms above her head. He kept pulling till she was on tip-toe, then fastened his end of the chain to a second eyelet in the floor.

He stepped back to admire his work. Natasha's black hair was loose around her face and she looked wild, lips crimson, dark eyes flashing hatred. He could see the marks where his fingers had dug into her flesh, the rising color where his slaps had connected. Her breasts were drawn up in curving globes; her lithe body twisted at the end of the chain.

She was perfect, he thought, and lust ran through him in a shiver.

A voice that was not his own gurgled up out of his throat. "Enjoy the show," it burbled. "PIGGSY's gotta put on his FACE."

Next to the sliding door was a small hole, the eye of a projector poking out of it. He stepped to this now and flipped a switch, and the still image from the TV outside was thrown up in magnified dimensions on the wall opposite. The overhead bulb dimmed and Natasha was suddenly silhouetted by the huge image of Lester's ugly, purplish cock, its head pressing greedily against her own ass.