Steven Lance

IF ANYONE SHOULD ask Vicente Caldera Viejo if he supports the military junto, this educated, mid-fifties, upper middle-class married man of respectable ancestry, employed as he is by the current regime, will not hesitate to praise the take over by force of the recently elected government.

It was necessary, after all. In the six months they had ruled, the nation's populist, civilian leaders, had been totally ineffective against radical student demonstrations let alone against the anarcho-Maoist rebel forces of La Large Marcha de Año Cero. Worse, they had broken their promises to the business sector. Rather than concentrate on growing the Gross Domestic Product, the Alejandro government had immediately acted to dust off the machines of a welfare state; growing the bureaucracy even faster than the upward benefits adjustments to more and more citizens via lowering the eligibility requirements. Coupled with its aggressive rhetoric aimed at the IMF and World Bank and its shameless, ludicrous appeals for voluntary top-down redistribution of income, the nation's wealthy elites understandably could not allow the Alejandro Administration to serve out its full term.

If anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo, he will no doubt admit that a coup d' état is never the best option, although so often the only option available.

For the economic well-being of any nation demands certain conditions be met. A bottomline is not merely some elitist fiction used to exculpate guilt. Investors invest for ample return. Wealth creates all labor. Without capital investment, there would be no jobs, rather than simply not enough to go around.

Yes, if anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo, he would whole-heartedly concur that the economic well-being of any nation demands the financial well-being of its tiny elite sector. Stability sows trust which entices thrusting influx of capital; to be withdrawn at a panicked moment's notice; only to settle back in once calm is restored; this in-and-out, the ultimate expression of economic stimulus; such exquisite friction, well-lubricated as it is with investors' money; a dance that culminates in explosive burst of prosperity thereby preparing the field that is stability for new generational seeding.

And this junto with each branch of service represented will assume fiduciary responsibility thereby restoring discipline which will assure continued fecundity of elite prospects.

Of course, if anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo, he will tell them boats of all shape and size lift with a rising tide. And he believes it. He must believe it. His own good fortune is proof.

Twelve months ago Vicente Caldera Viejo had been a stodgy old poorly paid tenured professor at Universidad Cristiano, widowered years before, living alone and miserable.
Nine months ago he remarried an especially gifted student well-along with his child; love at first sight for him, for sure; for Tina Luisa, so she has consistently maintained, claiming his heart-bound initials tattooed on the hood of her clitoris as proof positive.

Of course, if anyone should ask, and he could speak in complete confidence, Vicente would tell them the horrors of wondering if you can satisfy the sexual cravings of a beautiful woman less than half your age at the very zenith of her desirability and fully conscious of her power over men. A man in such a situation must keep himself ready for any and many sexual demand(s). That is why for the past year he has consumed vitamins and pornography in copious quantities: All the better to raise the flag, as it were. Thereby hoping to maintain his claim upon her extraordinary body.

Today, Vicente Caldera Viejo's life seems absolutely blessed. His unrivaled expertise in electro-biology, particularly human physiological and psychological responses to various stimuli, has finally paid off. His new employment is extremely satisfying on many levels. He earns nearly double his University salary. He holds a position of quite some authority; commands quite some respect. And, perhaps not so surprisingly, his libido of late has been luxuriating in a hot tub of testosteronic replenishment. Just the thought of his wife naked sparks a sweep of ecstasy as his mind tongues her every curve and finger-hold.

Of course, certainly here in South America, such unbridled joy in sexual acts of coarse theme and exquisite duration inevitably serve in some next breath as an invitation to the rein of religion, the yoke of repression, to be sternly applied lest one lose focus and stray; to be forever lost along the Primrose Path. Reason enough for Vicente to spill his guts at confession this very evening. For he can no longer countenance Tina Luisa's steady escalation into more and more aberrant fantasies, 'meant to illuminate the many facets of her personality,' as she is prone to say. Especially not now that she is the mother of their first born, Ana Emilia. Getting off on kinky sexual hijinks is not what a mother and father should be doing.

Vicente loves Tina Luisa deeply, profoundly, as if his cherry had been taken by her. And, in effect, it had been. For she had brought the light, the glorious colors of unleashed eroticism, into his dismal fading life. Since the first day he had seen her in his class, her long legs so innocently parted beneath her short, school-girl skirt, his life had become livable again.

Nodding to the entrance guard he thinks to wonder if he is simply out of date. Perhaps the young men of today have no problems with women dictating pace and position or with black leather moods to match their penchants for obedience training: Not as the trainee, but the trainer.

If anyone should ask, Vicente Caldera Viejo would absolutely and unequivocally deny that he allows such debauches even as the fact of the matter is that he has never felt more stimulated, more able to satisfy a woman than when he, on bended knee, is under her persuasion to make it so.

But, that was before. Now that Tina Luisa is a mother, she will have to act like a mother aspiring to sainthood. And, he? He will have to act his age. Be more of a man. And learn to be an even better father than he already is. For family is the cornerstone of society. It provides stability and order in chaotic times. It exemplifies the ideal state of social being: A benevolent male dictator administering, with God's blessing, sustenance, guidance, and destiny to his loyal subjects, to his property owned.

As Vicente Caldera Viejo receives his folder containing any/all memos, professional correspondence, bulletins, and daily schedule, he smiles amiably for the benefit of the desk officer but offers no relevant thought nor spoken word.

Per usual he flutters through the file to find his schedule. A glance alerts him to a busy day. Another crackdown by Los Padres Severo. He may not have a single break until sometime in the afternoon. He heads directly to the pay phone unable to wait until he reaches his office.

He cringes at the sound of her recorded voice. Where is she? And what is she doing? He waits. He rehearses a brief message. He does so again. The beeps are counted down by a metallic synthevocalized contralto, "Tres...Dos...Uno..."

Per usual he flusters, cannot put it all together to say what has to be said within the time constraints of a recorded message. He blurts out, "Está yo..." and feels stupid, dull, his age. His blood heats up. He tries again only to be mortified that he blurts out an apology. His blood boils. He barrels through his message: A change of plans. Busy day. Do the shopping. He will try and not be too late. Wait up for him.

Vicente Caldera Viejo hangs up, but that does not stop him from simmering. His pupils enlarge to iris-sized. It does not occur to him, however that he bubbles so because his machismo has been steadily undermined by a gorgeous woman young enough to be his daughter; her power over him, complete and humiliating in a delicious sense. This does not occur to him in his conscious mind because his bruised manly ego requires healing even as it dismisses any malady.

He is a man, after all. He is a man who commands respect and obedience among his subordinates, his not having fathered a son, notwithstanding. Of course he loves his daughter. But, in a son, a father lives. The paterfamilias endures. Tortuga to the beaches and all that. Yes, he must try harder to convince Tina Luisa to bear it all over again. And again, if necessary. After all, he is a man.


Vicente Caldera turns, looks down the corridor to see his on-base military attaché, Enrique De Rancagua, quickly approaching with hand upraised and waving. The young officer slides to a halt, executes a crisp salute. Which still paralyzes Vicente every time it happens. By the time he begins to lift his hand, without any clear idea of what he wants to do with it, he realizes once again the opportunity to respond has passed him by.

The officer fills him in on the details of this latest Severo roundup: A dozen suspected L.M.A.C. sympathizers. Vicente has already come to know this is a code phrase for young, radical University students, just as he knows, via his own work's contribution to the regime's data base-- which is steadily refined producing ever more precise profiles for prognostication to aide the state in apprehending criminals before their acts of criminality take place --that in all probability these students will prove to be much more young than radical, much more foolish than formidable, guilty of foul words rather than deeds against the ruling military cadre of Los Padres Severo.

But, his is not to question why.

Vicente Caldera Viejo asks the liaison officer if he has any verified names knowing full well the student tactic of saying nothing to anyone once in custody.

"No, Señor."

The professor dismisses De Rancagua with a salutation and a turn on his heel. "Buenos días." And as he heads towards his laboratory he calls over his shoulder a reminder, "Trágame nombres lo más pronto posible, por favor."

"No si tú eres primero," shouts the young officer, himself now hurrying in the opposite direction.

Vicente smiles. For he just might be first to get some names before the police or military intelligence division do. After all, he has been recalling more and more about being young and learning the lingua franca, so to speak, from his college aged wife; now, much better able to relate to the youth of today.

As he reaches for the door, heavenly transformation begins; so much does he love his work. Every day, no matter what personal baggage he may be carrying, as soon as he enters his chambers, all baggage is stowed far, far away.

For every day he takes science another step forward. Every day he adds gossamer strands to the angel wings of his own heroship which will one day propel him to soar among reputations of the very great scientists of all time and of every eco-, physio-, socio-, psycho-, pharmacologico- persuasion. No wonder his satisfaction is immense. Each and every day since his arrival here at CapCenReEd he has added to his bliss. If anyone should ask, Vicente Caldera Viejo will no doubt say 'blessed' is the word for him that describes his mid-life turn-around best.

And so his day begins.

In surgical scrubs, mask, and infrared night vision goggles, Vicente enters his domain: A small sterile tiled pitch black amphitheater. The concentric rings of seats, above and behind institution-green painted metal bar railings, are filled with only the highest clearance personnel having special authorization to attend. At the center of the venue an operating table mounted on a ball joint so that it can achieve any tilt desired rests midst web of wires and cables connected to a surround of electronic devices; most, state-of-the-art digital; some, hot-tube analog relics.

Sworn to silence once this session begins, the heat- seeing crowd issues a hush of whispered conversations. If anyone should ask, Vicente Caldera Viejo would no doubt tell them that this moment every day thrills him. The crowd's sense of anticipation, their pent up excitement ready to spill out in grand cock-fight fashion, is always the same. When he provides the stimulus they will provide the response: Mass inhalation followed by gleeful titters, oohs and ahhs, and an over all excitation level increase.

Vicente savors the moment, feels his daily thrill of ecstasy chills shiver through him producing that euphoric testicular lift sensation males experience upon sudden free fall. He fingers the switch before letting himself get too far along.

The crowd of just under thirteen dozen react as expected as their night vision goggle view brightens immensely from the power-on lights and illumed meter screens of every one of the many electronic components.

The Professor glides on wings of satisfaction. This crowd is eager and spirited. They will appreciate his efforts. A loud echoing clamor of bolts thrust aside proceeds a door opening and three people entering the chamber. Two are uniformed military personnel wearing goggles. Held firmly between the jack-booted guards the third person is a hooded college aged male stripped down to his minimal body hair. The hood is removed. His eyes are wide from fear; the pupils huge in the dark. He tugs against his hold of first one, then the other, but does so so weakly as to convince the crowd that this subversivo has already been given his first CapCenReEd lesson per standard procedure. To wit: Resistance will yield only negative consequences.

As the student has his wrists and ankles buckled into the table's leather harness restraints, the crowd grows absolutely still and quiet.

Vicente very closely observes the subversivo's facial expressions plying his expertise in search of some portal unto the soul that he might exploit in order to obtain results more quickly via leverage against this young man's most deeply hidden vulnerabilities.

He shakes his head. Disappointed again. Such terror. If anyone should ask, Vicente Caldera Viejo would no doubt tell them that today's students are dismal examples, the culmination of all that is societally vile: They denounce everything. Stand for nothing. Are willing to sacrifice not at all. And, as for loyalty among them, like roaches. They have no trouble scurrying up from behind, in the dark, conniving cowards that they are. And they would slit the throat of their own mother if need be to save their worthless life.

No, the subversivos here today lack the moral strength of their convictions thereby putting the lie to their public outrage. They whimper at the first whiff of difficulty.

At his main console keyboard, Vicente inputs his first requirement.

Silently, invisibly from the rigging above, a body length spray of fine fibers slowly descends. He enters his next requirement via the keyboard and looks up from force of habit. Thousands of filaments with electro-shock tips are activated just as they begin to make contact with the bound student's body. They dance crazily about, everywhere upon his skin, stinging ever so lightly with each single touch.

Sound effects of terror are expulsed: whimpering, yips, grunts, cheek flatulence a-plenty. This young man believes-- as if Jesus Himself so proclaimed --that he is carpeted with and being eaten alive by insects. He screams out his name. His address. His parents' names. His brothers'. His sister's. As he begins to sob, he swears that he only joined the demonstration as a way to get out of class and meet some adventurous girls.

If anyone should ask the Professor, he would laugh, say, "See what caliber of subversivo we have today? Do not worry. Los Padres Severo will have things back in order very, very soon."

Vicente activates the call button and waits for the uniformed attendants. Years of experience has taught him well to distinguish quickly the many who will open up and tell anyone anything they want to know, from those very few who will not crack.

In his younger days Vicente looked forward to such challenges; always taking them personally; him against them, mano y mano. Now he knows better. Do not waste one's time and effort on the clam that refuses to open at the expense of so many clams easily shucked. You can only end up hungry and frustrated and with clam growth unchecked. Plus there is the ever present possibility that such failure to evoke the necessary response may lead to the creation of a mollusk messiah. Better to get results first. Then, if there is time left over, go ahead with the hobby of breaking unbreakables. But, of course, there is never time left over as there is never enough time as it is to do all that needs to be done.

The door bangs open and two attendants stride straight to the table. The young student, completely broken, sobs, is dragged unceremoniously away.

Vicente motions to his matronly assistant off to the side, who immediately hurries over to the table and gives the surface a good going over with her spray bottle of disinfectant and sponge.

The door bangs open once again as two attendants bring forth the next subversivo. Hooded, hairy, taller than the boy before and obviously much more grandly endowed, the young male is proof that the preliminary procedure of stripping them in mixed company, conducting cavity searches on each suspect in front of the others, applying the snapping slaps of leather riding crops against the most tender areas at random for precise reason, works quite well. By the time they reach Vicente, they are usually subdued; their bright hot campus zeal, now only smoldering.

Vicente, without needing facial expressions, already knows how he will proceed, what technique in his vast array he will employ; as much for the crowd's enjoyment as for results.

The Professor motions to his assistant that he expects her to assist him. For Vicente never handles the genitalia of subversivos unless they are female and worth the effort.

He whispers in her ear his commands. She immediately moves to comply. Her movements are swift and sure. As he watches her open a typical padlock, swing open the metal loop and hook the subversivo's scrotum just above the testicles thereby eliciting a howl of horror, Vicente Caldera Viejo wonders if his seminar assistant loves her work as much as he does his.

She swings the padlock and snaps it tight with the butt of her hand.

The student's howl transforms distinctly to a yowl.

She grabs a box with joystick and brings the chromium ball-jointed table to life. A pleasant hum of micromotors sound in harmony with macro precision gearing as two panels to which the subversivo's ankles are strapped begin to rise and scissor apart and move so that he becomes spread-eagled with his legs well up and back over his head.

The subversivo's yowling is replaced with choking jags of throaty sounds of utter terror whimper-tainted with hope that this nightmare will not continue. He spats out his name and address and pleads in almost a girl's high-pitched voice to the Assistant to spare him further indignity.

She grabs a plastic squeeze bottle and twists a thin flexible nozzle into place. Just the touch of the blunt tip directly applied to his anus provokes a blood-curdling wail even as the next breath has him screaming his willingness to cooperate, to do anything they ask but this; as if he had any idea of what is to come beyond this invasive violation.

But Vicente will not turn this one over to Junto officials for interrogation just yet. For in the audience today there are a number of men and women who are able to influence the regime's money decisions. Also, many in attendance are budding practitioners in the Professor's field of expertise. Vicente wants to impress one and all: Let them learn something. Let others be entertained. Still others, let them see how well spent is the money from Los Padres Severos.

Vicente nods to his assistant who gently squeezes out drops of oil that drip onto target.
The subversivo makes guttural noises, strains in vain against the harness leather.

She inserts the nozzle and gives a good squeeze. She can feel him grabbing it. She delicately pumps the nozzle in and out a few times to her own satisfaction.

His staccato whimper signals all is ready.

Vicente Caldera Viejo steps quietly to the table. He nods and his assistant responds. She withdraws the nozzle with a sharp squirt so that warm glowing oil oozes from his anus down across his strangulated blue balls, along the shaft of his penis, dribbling from the blood engorged head of his cock.

The Assistant now begins inserting small pill-sized objects one at a time, plunging each item much deeper than a finger length with a well-lubed sword-handled silicon aide, thin shafted and ball-headed. With each down stroke, the subversivo grunts. With each popping withdrawal he issues a shuddering intake of breath. The Assistant now positions one of the objects directly at the anal opening.

As the subversivo grips against further invasion the object bobs in and out of sight in occluding cycles of contraction and relaxation.

Vicente moves to the side, bends lower, reaches in and retrieves one of three specially bred ferrets.

The crowd reacts with a mass gasp of horror.

The subversivo immediately senses his predicament. He begins a siren of a scream that only reaches full throated climax sometime after the ferret disappears in its quest for more food pellets.

Such agony so vividly rendered is more than a few can stand. They leave their seats in a rush as the rest rush to the seats they leave.

An oath of silence notwithstanding, the crowd, upon the ferret's abrupt reappearance, explodes in applause and laughter.

The subversivo faints dead away; his spirit, crushed.

Vicente Caldera Viejo signals his assistant even as he presses a call button.

Crowd noise dissipates, falls back into silence as soon as the doors to the torture chamber are thrust open with banging authority and jack-booted guards stomp quickly over to the detainee. They drag his limp body away leaving behind a trail with every occasional drop of oil to leak from him.

Vicente feels good. He had never tried that before. Those ferrets have only been used in non-human experiments of a completely different nature. But, the crowd this time is very responsive. By their reactions already he knows he can be as creative as he likes. Today should be a very good day, indeed.

The Professor revisits his decision to go with the darkened ambiance approach rather than with the harsh light condition he usually uses for times when males predominate. For his years of conducted studies has yielded many useful behavioral traits associated with humans under various stressful stimuli situations. He knows, for instance that hooded humans, once their hood is removed, react one of two ways: When there is light, they implode, folding and shielding themselves from view. When there is darkness (relative, of course, to the human eye) they reach far out hoping to touch-orient themselves thereby fully exposing themselves to infrared viewing on-lookers.

Today, with at least a third of the crowd female, Vicente once again confirms his sound logic in choosing the darkened ambiance technique, playing to his female audience; the solid majority of which somehow figure into Los Padres Severo's equation for loosening or tightening the funding purse-strings to facilities like CapCenReEd. Yes, he will entertain them, keep them hot for the cause.

Bolts clang and the doors are once again banged open as the jack-boots return with another subversivo, this one the most spirited yet. The struggle makes it very obvious that this subversivo is female; a very finely shaped female; tall and thin; with firm, well-proportioned breasts topped with thick, chill-stiffened nipples as big as black berries; sporting a completely hairless body; with a derrière of such ethereal quality that it purses the lips of either gender.

Vicente instructs the guards to strap this one face down. Her high-pitched wails are significantly muffled by her hood and a gag. That she arrives gagged is testament to her use of vile language and loud, annoying tone of voice during the initiation lesson.

If anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo he would never confide that times such as this one are moments of sheer ecstasy for him. Total and utter subjugation of the female to the male, her every orifice defenseless against invasion by man, animal, or humiliatory implement. And, so-- just as the Professor knows it must be --his guinea pig braces against penetration by any foreign body; her fierceness, directly proportional to her likelihood of being broken.

For Vicente's decades of studies have assured him that such zeno-ferociousness in female guinea pigs is quickly quelled if her own body betrays her.

The Professor grabs the remote control and adjusts the ball-jointed hydraulic table by folding it in half as its center is raised until the young female is quite bent over, jack-knifed face down, with long thin legs spread, gorgeous ass prominently displayed as is the hairlessness of her plump, pouting vagina. He rotates the table so all can get a good look at the exquisite predicament she finds herself in. He knows the reactions will swell loud enough to be heard by this girl, filling her with dread and intimidation, making the interrogators' job of extracting information and names of her higher-ups that much easier.

Vicente notices she no longer growls, though she still mumbles passionately against the gag and continues to struggle against her restraints.

He buttons the remote box and the top half of her body now raises to the horizontal. Another button pushed has the top sixth of the table separating into two halves which move forward and outward until her arms are fully extended in a 'Y' with wrists still harnessed tight. Her ample breasts now free to wobble.

Vicente, ever after the perfect aesthetic, now buttons the split table pads to rise to a forty-five degree angle so that her chest is thrust forward and her arms raised wide; as if she were mounted on the prow of a ship. He stops the movement, rotates the glorious spectacle once around to whispered oohs and aahs from the men in attendance while the women partial to rape fantasies silently grow more and more wet.

The Professor finds even himself captivated by such a magnificent sight. He chides himself for losing focus. He will see what he can do to remove the pride from her bearing. He quickly instructs his assistant who hurries to the task.

First, the Assistant liberally smears conducting jelly on the girl's stiffened nipples. Next, she applies the grease to the girl's vaginal lips and pays particular attention to the clitoral hood. Her soft, slick rubbing begins the process of breaking the girl's spirit. Evidence shows itself.

If anyone should ask Vicente, he probably would hesitate to tell them that the sight of a pearl of womanly juices sliding down a female's thigh never fails to arouse him. So, bent slightly forward and red from embarrassment, he approaches the table.

His assistant now attaches an alligator clip with coil of wire to each berry-sized nipple (causing the girl to sharply react both times). She next takes both coils and crisscrosses them down the girl's back, wraps them in opposite directions twice around the girl's waist, then pulls them snug into the crack of the female's ass leaving the plug-ends to dangle just tapping the floor.

The Assistant moves to one knee behind the girl. She attaches an alligator clip to each puckered labia, draws up the slack in each wire and pulls them taut before spiraling each wire around the girl's thighs thus setting off a hip-bucking and -swaying protest; which only serves to advertise her humiliation; waving her splayed pink possession-no-longer. By the time a long-fingered, hairpin-like wired U-clamp is secured over the girl's clitoral hood, there is only mild movement as it no doubt begins to settle in: She will be violated. Prepare herself.

And so, the subversivo braces herself to withstand any brutality against her body and/or mind.

Or, so she believes.

Vicente stands centered, behind the girl. If anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo what he thought about this sight, he would likely respond that as a scientist he sees nothing. Of course, as a man he beholds a glimpse of heaven. He bends forward to grab the dangling nipple wires. Suddenly closer in proximity he smells the female's scent. He must close his eyes against fainting, touch down one hand on the floor to steady himself against swooning; so taken is he by her feminine aroma. Vicente pushes through the pheromonal fog. He stands with wires in hand. He plugs the jacks into an electronic box, takes deep breaths. He is bothered by what has just occurred. He scolds himself for not focusing. He returns to the fully displayed female and literally does not breathe while he gathers the three genitalia-attached wires. He cannot, however avoid coming face-to-'face' with it hotly staring at him. He is bothered by it. In a fog of confusion, the Professor approaches another electronic component and concentrates on plugging the three jacks in their proper places.

Unnoticed to all in the crowd, except only the most observant of the Viejo wanna-bees, both components are of old manufacture with analogue delivery of signal. Apparently the Professor has opted for his maestro-esque approach. He will dial into and out of pure tones of bliss and/or agony with such grace and charm that he will create an operatic symphony of electro stimulated howling and wailing and gnashing of teeth. But, that will require removal of gag, and for clarity sake, the hood as well. Time enough for that. She must first learn that every Right carries with it responsibility, and that one must bear responsibility for one's words and deeds. And by her own words and deeds she has shown she is not yet ready for freedom of speech.

Vicente Caldera Viejo will win her slowly but surely over to the idea of cooperation. He begins to turn dials ever so minutely; the orchestra warming up as it were. He reaches for his remote and buttons the ball-jointed table into slow rotation.

The audience watches her gauge-illumed breasts with their black berry nipples begin to noticeably increase with a jagged pace of rise and fall as she sporadically pants for breath as his every touch of every dial shocks her limbic-deep pleasure centers with delicious hints of ecstasy.

She violently grunts and struggles against her restraints to no avail. Of course, she does not struggle to escape so much as to occupy her mind and body in an exercise of control over both, to countermand sensual impulses.
And, of course, it is Vicente's intention to render her efforts null and void.

He lovingly tweaks the knobs on his side-by-side machines until he silences her grunting; simultaneously altering her movements; from brute, coarse, and chaotic, to a definitely more sensuous, serpentine, slow-motion straining against her bonds; her grunts having surrendered to slight moans in search of trueness of tone.

But, Vicente does not stop. He precisely augments the voltage flowing through each wire until he begins to see her splayed pink wetting itself. Vicente does not stop. He continues his ministrations until he hears her slight moans replaced with involuntary rib-vibrating m-m-m-ming hums caused by such sweet electric sensation. Vicente does not stop. He continues until waves of chill-bumps begin to sweep across her body and her nipples tauten to near bursting plumpness.

Now, Vicente stops. In fact, he turns the dials down a tick. For he knows just where her threshold is. Better to keep her simmering so the audience can enjoy her progressively more erotic movements; as she is turned slowly around for all to see; her skin taking on a sheen of perspiration; her dance, all the more horrific to her for its independent nature.

Vicente feels some vague apprehension, some gnawing unease as he gazes upon the captivating vision of her full-bodied contortions against indignity. He is suddenly startled by his full erection, falls to one knee, pretends to busy himself with his machine. He casts furtive glances upwards and all around. He breathes a sigh of relief. As he hoped, all eyes are on the bound and gagged female of lovely form. No one seems to have noticed his faux pas.

If anyone should ask Vicente Caldera Viejo, he will never admit to this second lapse in professionalism as evidenced by his already-shrinking-from-hard member. Never before has he lost focus, become sexually aroused at work. He ponders, why here? Why now? Why twice?

And the reason strikes him like a rubber mallet to bell; a procession of vibrations culminating in the clear trill of truth. He has not resolved this morning's spat with Tina Luisa and until he does he will not be able to concentrate sufficiently to assure his focus does not again wander into a zone of unsavoriness that results in visual demonstration of his member's ill-discipline.

Vicente Caldera Viejo does not think to consider how his anger at himself for suspected moral failings has, over the months, been steadily projected onto his beloved wife so that he might redirect his inner hostility outward at Tina Luisa as if it were her moral failings on trial. He does not think to consider this because to do so would quickly put the lie to his beliefs on the subject. He would much rather rehash the facts: She does not adhere to religious dictates of right and wrong. She is not intimidated at all by engaging in behaviors judged sinful by the Church. She sees nothing wrong with gender/power role reversal and, in fact, considers it as healthful, beneficial, as a gift from 'Tierra Madre'. She would rather spend her time fucking than mothering. She has emasculated him.

He must, after all, find some way to avoid the reality that his hostile thoughts have begun to breed erotic desires when he is working. A situation that is totally unacceptable. Especially for one in his position.

But his guilt over his nasty thoughts about his wife, as it always does, now presses in on him with suffocating effect.

In need of air and able to stand without embarrassment at last, Vicente moves to his assistant's side, tells her to keep watch over the sensuously squirming subversivo while he repairs to his office for a brief moment. He quickly moves to the inconspicuous doorway and exits. Inside the closet-like transition gauntlet, he puts his hand on the doorknob before removing his night vision goggles. He opens the door, squints against the seeming bright light of a dimmed desk lamp, and moves directly to the phone not even bothering to sit.

Vicente dials home and waits. The recording plays. He curses, waits, hopes she will pick up. The metallic sounding synthesized voice counting down elicits a lip-curling snarl from the Professor. He fights the compulsion to follow his worst suspicions down horrid avenues of her unfulfilled lust being satisfied by some other younger man or men or with those of her own sex.

This time, when the signal sounds, his mind clears and his usual fluster is replaced with an intimate avowal of his love and undying commitment before he pleads for Tina Luisa's forgiveness. He did not mean to get so angry and yell at her. But, to deny Ana Emilia her baptism, is going too far. He begs Tina Luisa to reconsider. "If in the future Ana Emilia rejects Catholicism, so be it. But, what if she embraces the faith? Would she not resent our intrusion, our presumption upon her soul? Could Ana Emilia ever forgive us our/..."

The dial tone of disconnection tells him he had too much to say and too little space in which to say it. But, Vicente feels better. Not great. But, much, much, better. He had, after all, apologized. He smiles and breathes deeply. For he knows how his begging for her forgiveness gets Tina Luisa excited. He looks forward to seeing his wife this evening.

Vicente walks to the transition gauntlet and, in the dark, pulls on his goggles.

Upon re-entering the chamber he is again simply swept away on waves of eroticism, so stimulating is the subversivo's exquisite body so vulnerably positioned and displayed. He checks the crowd. It is obvious that this audience has still not yet drunk in its fill of her squirming predicament. In fact, they are at the verge of transition from warming up to almost boiling.

Vicente Caldera Viejo feels a most pleasant shiver course through his body as he walks to the table. He feels wonderful. Unburdened. Revivified. His creativity soars. He knows just how to proceed.

The table, at his buttoned command, moves forward on its ball-joint even as its central piston shaft rises, turning the subversivo nearly upside down with her spread legs at a forty-five degree angle and her ample breasts sliding closer to her hooded chin.

He is not pleased with her positioning, so once again remotes the table, not stopping until he has it at a flat, waist-high level, with the girl lying face down. Vicente whispers his orders to his assistant and she immediately sets about to implement them.

The Assistant buzzes the guards. Having been waiting patiently outside the chamber, they already slam the door open and enter.

This audience senses the abrupt change of plans. The ambient noise level rises from a whoosh of hushed commentary and speculation among the crowd as they move forward in their seats.

Instructed to do so by the Assistant, who has removed the alligator clips from the girl's nipples and unwound the wires they are attached to from around her waist, the burly guards make quick work of unshackling the subversivo, turning her over onto her back and, never taking their eyes off her still wired and clipped nether charm, strap her wrists and ankles tightly back in place; arms and legs spread into an X of total exposure. The guards just begin to step away as the micro-hum of fine-geared motor smoothly raises the bottom half of the table to ninety degrees; her body held in an L position. He now very slowly lowers her head which sweeps her upthrust legs like a minute hand from twelve o'clock high at three o'clock to nearly quarter past six. He sees her ass nearly lift from the table top cushion and takes some time off the clock, to ten past five; just back far enough to maintain a proper balance but not so far as to lose the desired angle.

Upon the Professor's look, his assistant reattaches the alligator clips to the large nipples, then turns to a cabinet and rummages through its contents until finding just what the doctor ordered: A clear, jelly-rubber plug shaped like a short, fat, curled finger. She grabs her squeeze bottle of lubricant and liberally applies it to the hefty little plug. She walks to the girl and easily hooks it into position between labial folds, now slides the implement inside the dripping wet vagina up to its hilt, careful to keep the crooked finger's tip on the proper spongy spot. She plugs the plug's small wire into an extension, the end of which Vicente now slips into the panel of one of his machines.

His first touch on the gush plug's dial shows itself in the girl's head to foot shiver; makes itself heard in the first mewing notes of her arietta, already impressive despite having to form themselves against the gag.

Vicente smiles at the obviousness of her pleasure as the subversivo begins to even more seductively writhe against her restraints. He attends to his dials with an artiste's passion for perfection. And she now responds with moaning so suggestive that even the dimmest members of the crowd must now fully understand what she is feeling: Pre-orgasmically great.

Ergo, her ultimate betrayal is being forged in the heat of maximum sexual arousal. For she involuntarily enjoys this humiliation. So much so that she might very well pray against its surcease if offered the option, enlisting any god's help to get her to peak.

But, of course, Vicente's job here is to remove all options save one: To eagerly and thoroughly cooperate with the Inquisitors de Los Padres Severo.

He tweaks his dials to add to the mix.

She arches her back in wonderful response.

His assistant waits patiently off to the side watching for the Professor's hand signal.

Vicente now adds a little more juice to the jelly-rubber plug.

The subversivo's waves of mewing and moaning now become rhythmic as her ecstasy swells ever closer to great upheaval. He motions to his assistant without taking his eyes off the console's gauges.

The Assistant approaches the table, makes quick work of removing the hood. She looks to her boss for further permission.

Vicente begins his final dial twisting assault on the subversivo's dignity. He looks up, nods to his attending matron.

She removes the ball-gag from the girl's mouth even as the Professor makes his final adjustments.

The beautiful young woman sings operatic with orgasmic intensity demonstrating yet once again exactly how the crooked jelly-rubber plug got its name: A wet, gushing discharge of glandular fluid bursts from her urethra in a copious spray that showers her breasts, face, and hair, with her own juices; her spirit, crushed by this most intimate betrayal.

A single chests-expanding gasp escapes the audience, is followed by a pause of a heartbeat or two. Now, the crowd's approval makes itself known through the many whispered exclamations and long whewing exhalations.

But this moment of triumph is frozen in the mind of the Professor as horror. As genuine, paralyzing horror. For that primal arietta has delivered a wallop of sensations-- of sight, smell, and sound --of the female's body, scent and voice, that combine all at once to tell him a fact that he can never allow himself to know.

Numbed, terrified at what he must do, hoping against hope that he is wrong, Vicente remotes the table to a quarter to five position before he approaches the sobbing victim. He is able to lean close to the girl's vagina without her being able to see him.

An icicle of realization pierces his heart and soul as he sees with his own eyes his heart-bound initials tattooed on the girl's wet clitoral hood: This girl, so lewdly displayed to this crowd, electronically raped, dripping wet from her own climactic release, is none other than his own Tina Luisa.

* * *

Vicente Caldera Viejo repeatedly thrusts his key at his front door's lock without entry, so upset is he. His mind swarms with angry thoughts; imprecations; scenarios for revenge, to force Tina Luisa to repent her sinful ways once and for all thereby restoring his machismo.

For he desperately needs to re-establish his dominance, his absolute authority over his female after today's humiliation of having to prostrate himself before his Los Padres Severo superior to plead for an exception to the rules, this once, for his wife.

But, even as Vicente's thought puts a torch to his raw, tortured mind, he is driven to reconsider once again Tina Luisa's innocence. After all she still takes one course per semester. She had every legitimate right to be on campus. It was a mix up, an accident. After all, just as he had argued, surely he should know--he has staked his reputation on it -- that his wife has no affiliation whatsoever with La Large Marcha de Año Cero.

He cools, calmly breathes, thus completing yet again the cycle he has been repeating since this morning's unfortunate incident.

Vicente's key slips into the lock, turns easily. But as has happened over and over again he begins to think how he will have to explain himself, his job, his daily duties, those infidelitous pleasures taken will need to be fully defended. Which starts to reheat him in a quick burn.

As he twists the knob and begins to swing open the door he starts to boil wondering why Tina Luisa had not sought to start things off right with her waiting to let him in. Surely she cannot expect him to apologize.

The door is difficult to swing. Something grinds underneath. He drops to one knee, reaches in and around behind the door to feel for the cause of the problem.

A metallic ratcheting sound accompanies a cold steel feel around his wrist. His arm is nearly yanked from its socket as he is pulled inside and thrust to the ground on his stomach; the door slammed shut; his left hand already grabbed and brought around to his back where the remaining steel handcuff is snapped shut.

"¡NO AHORA!" he rages.

If anyone should ask, Vicente Caldera Viejo would state unequivocally that for Tina Luisa to even consider conducting her emasculating games as if nothing has happened is an abomination. So inappropriate as to verge on the surreal.

He hears duct tape unrolling fast before he realizes his ankles are being bound. Vicente strains against the wrapping to no avail.

Vicente opens his mouth to demand she stop her insanity this instant and feels a leather gag slapped across his face, pulled securely into place filling his mouth with a short, fat phallus facsimile.

His fury explodes. But, with Tina Luisa straddling his buttocks, riding him like a cowgirl breaking a bronco, he only manages a short burst of what amounts to worthless protest before his rabid mumbling against the gag is replaced with the whimper of his subjugation.

Vicente hears a razor drawn across fabric as the seat of his pants is cut through at the seam; now, ripped wide open. His underwear is rudely yanked down.

Tina Luisa raises herself off him, steps over his body and walks away. Vicente looks up just in time to see her turn the corner of the living room and head down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He tries to free himself but can only manage to flop around like a fish on deck.

He hears Tina Luisa returning, looks up to see his gorgeous young wife holding a giggling Ana Emilia at waist level. She places Ana Emilia on the floor very close to him. Upon her stepping back, Vicente sees his Tina Luisa is fully covered in black leotard and tights and wearing a harness with large, flesh colored, real looking dildo.

The sight/thought of dildo brandishing mother makes him rage against the gag.

He smells his daughter's dirty diapers, sees her watching her mother as Tina Luisa thrusts her fake cock home without so much as spittle to ease the way. He screams against the gag.

Vicente sees blinding white as the assault goes on. He hears her begin to moan; soon, wail.

As suddenly as she had begun Tina Luisa stops, fully penetrated. Vicente hears the beginning of her orgasmic scream and d-rings jingling as she unbuckles the harness.

But as she rises, he realizes she has left her toy behind, fully buried in place.

He stares past his tears to see his daughter smiling, gurgling. She says her first words. "Da-da..."

Vicente Caldera Viejo hears Tina Luisa's shuddering cry of release even as she yells, "En el nombre de La Large Marcha de Año Cero."

Deafened by a blast, he sees his daughter's head disappear in a bloody splash; unable to absorb the full reality before his wife, Commander Viuda Negro completes her mission, parts his brain with a bullet at close range.++

Steven Lance has published a book of short stories entitled "Vulgarian Goulash," now available at and

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