Natalya interrogates

hero141 · September 04, 2026, 02:59:54 PM

Natalya interrogates

(and boy, does she love her job: contains sex and brutal violence)

The warehouse on the outskirts of Culiacán stank of diesel, blood, and fear. Fluorescent lights buzzed over a concrete floor already stained dark. In the middle of the room, a heavy steel chair was bolted down. The man in it—mid-thirties, lean, the kind who thought a badge and a clever mouth would keep him alive—had already been softened up by two lower-level guys. Split lip, one eye swelling shut, wrists zip-tied so tight the plastic had cut skin.

The door opened. Natalya filled the doorway like pure sexual fantasy made dangerous. She looked like she had stepped straight out of the filthiest high-end femdom shoot into a derelict warehouse, and the mismatch only made her hotter. Six-foot-four and nearly two-seventy of dense, vascular, super-ripped muscle packed onto a frame that was the perfect collision of supermodel beauty and pornstar excess. High cheekbones, flawless skin, full glossy lips and cold grey eyes gave her the face of a high-fashion cover girl, while the rest of her body delivered an exceptionally beautiful hourglass figure—narrow waist cinched between flaring, meaty quads and a heavy, perfectly round pair of enhanced tits that sat high, full, and obscenely inviting on her ribcage. Every inch of her skin gleamed under a thick, mirror-shine coat of stage oil that turned her into a living wet dream. Deep striations and thick veins popped like wet marble; the veins stood out in sharp, raised maps across her arms, delts, and abs, glistening with every breath. Thick traps rolled up into delts the size of cantaloupes. Her biceps peaked high and hard, triceps hung heavy and horseshoe-shaped, and her quads flared in thick, meaty shelves that rubbed together with every shift of her weight, oil shining between the deep cuts.

She wore a shiny white see-through bathing suit so sheer it was barely more than a suggestion. The crop-neck sat high on her collarbones before plunging into a deep, open cut that framed the over-inflated shelf of her chest. Those perfect, heavy, pornstar-grade tits strained against the transparent fabric, hard-as-nails nipples clearly visible and pierced with thick pins that held two sparkling diamonds on either side—jewels that caught the light every time she breathed. The suit was cut extremely high at the hips, exposing the full, oil-slick sweep of her glutes and the deep striations of her outer quads. On her feet were patent shiny white knee-high boots with brutal platform stiletto heels that forced her massive calves into sharp, diamond-hard peaks and made her tower even higher. Her face was Playboy-photoshoot perfect: sharp contour, glossy lips, smoky eyes that only made the cold grey irises more cutting. Long dark hair hung in a severe braid between those massive, gleaming shoulders. She smiled the smile of a woman who knew exactly what she did to anyone who looked at her—supermodel bone structure, pornstar assets, cartoon-level muscular perfection, and the kind of narcissistic, sexual arrogance that said every person in the room existed only to get hard, stay hard, and understand they would never be enough. Arrogance and raw sex radiated from every oiled, veiny muscle. She was a fetish-magazine cover come to life, only she was real, and she fully intended to make sure everyone in the room felt it in their cock.

- Good evening.

The Russian accent still thick under the fluent Spanish and English.

- They told me you won't talk. I agree that a man's tongue can be put to better uses, but we need the info.

She walked in slowly, her steps echoing. The two guys who'd been questioning the prisoner stepped back automatically. They had used violence on him, but nothing like what this woman was capable of. They knew. They had watched her work before—seen the way those dense, oil-slick muscles became instruments of pure, patient cruelty, the way she smiled while she did it. Behind the supermodel face and the heavy pornstar tits was something worse than the devil: brutal, sadistic, and aggressively in control. Their own methods looked almost polite next to hers. Natalya didn't even glance at them. Her attention stayed locked on the man in the chair with the calm certainty of someone who already owned him. The two men stayed very still, hard and terrified in equal measure, fully aware that the most dangerous thing in the warehouse had just walked through the door.

- Name's Natalya K***. Used to work for the Russian services—NSB, if the acronym still means anything to you. Specialised in people who didn't want to talk. I was the best they had. I made colonels cry. I made traitors beg to tell me things they didn't even know they knew. Then I discovered the cartels pay better than Moscow ever did, and they let me keep the toys I break for as long as I want. You can call me whatever you want while you still have a tongue. 'Goddess' works. Or just 'please stop'—men always end up saying it. 'Please, kill me' is another classic.

She stopped in front of him, planted her feet, and flexed both arms hard. The biceps exploded into ridiculous, cartoon-thick peaks. She leaned down so her face was inches from his, letting him feel the sheer physical superiority radiating off her.

- You're going to tell me everything about the shipment. Routes. Names. Bank accounts. Every little secret your American friends whispered in your ear. Because if you don't...

She straightened, rolled her shoulders, and the muscles of her upper back shifted like living armour.

- I get angry. And when I get angry, men stop being men and start being fuck meat. I have had a lot of practice turning men into fuck meat. I spent the last two hours on a dozen of guys who thought they were brave.

He spat blood at her boots.

- Fuck you!

Natalya laughed—genuine, delighted, the laugh of someone who found resistance adorable.

- Oh, I was hoping you'd say that. The guys here hate it when subjects get creative with insults or keep their mouths shut. Me? I love it. Especially from little boys who think they're tough. Gives it that extra vibe to showcasing my skills--schooled at NSB and CIA, and perfected by years of practice.

- Fuck you! I won't say anything, you roided bitch.

- Mmm. Roided bitch. Muscle freak. Bodybuilding monster. Heard it all before. Over hundred thousand men have experienced the supreme quality of my skills. All would agree: talk while you still can to the roided bitch. Confess and hope for her mercy. But they cannot advice you, can they? They're all fucking dead. The muscle freak re-defined their conception of pain and suffering. And as you can see, I am built for the job. Designed to slaughter. Bodybuilding has transformed me into an unstoppable killer. Don't you adore my muscles?

She casually flexed her biceps, a true size monster, making its insane peaks rise in all its vascular glory. This babe wasn't a bodybuilder. She was more like a muscle Goddess: bodybuilding perfection personified, where pure size and brutal power go hand in hand. She must be so strong! Natalya grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped it open. Then she took hold of both his shoulders and squeezed. Not a casual grip. A full, crushing, bodybuilder's squeeze. Bone creaked. He screamed as the sockets protested.

- Feel that?

She leaned in again.

- That's just my hands and your shoulders. Imagine it's your cock. Or balls. I used to do this in cold basements outside Moscow for a government pay check. Now I do it in warm warehouses for real money and the freedom to take my time. I could snap you in half and fuck what's left—if there's anything left worth fucking.

She released one shoulder, drew back a fist, and drove it into his solar plexus. The air left him in a wet rush. His body folded as far as the restraints allowed. Natalya grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanked his head up, and slapped him open-handed across the face hard enough to snap his head sideways. The sound echoed through the warehouse.

- Any comments? We're just getting started. Sometimes I have a time limit, but no time limit with you. If you talk now, I may even grant you a little pleasure. I could fuck you. What do you think? A prostate blowjob? A tit-fuck? Some face-sitting while I jerk you off?

She stepped around behind the chair, planted one massive thigh against the back of it, and reached over his shoulders. Both arms locked around his chest in a brutal bear hug from above. He felt the hotness of her boobs in his neck. She squeezed. Ribs flexed. He made a high, animal sound.

- What's it gonna be?

She said this against his ear, the Russian accent thickening with pleasure.

- I like the sound things make when they break. Especially soft, inferior things that thought they were important. I once broke a man's entire ribcage one bone at a time while he was still trying to negotiate.

He gasped something incoherent. She squeezed harder. A rib popped with a wet crack. He screamed.

- Please—fuck—please, I don't know anything more than they already got—

Natalya released him, walked back around front, and casually kicked the chair—metal screeched as it shifted a few inches. She crouched, grabbed his knees, and forced them apart with easy strength. Then she drove the heel of her boot into his groin with deliberate, measured force. Not full power. Just enough to make him see white and force a broken cry out of him. God, that must have hurt.

- Don't fucking try to fool me! That's for the spit. Don't you have any idea how expensive these boots are, huh? Doing you doesn't even cover an inch for the heels... Every time you waste my time, I take something else. Next time it's a finger. Or an eye. Or your cock. They always make the same noise—like a grape under a boot. The service used to call it 'enhanced persuasion.' I just call it fun. And I like to have fun.

She straightened, pulled a folding knife from a little table, and flicked it open. The blade was short, sharp, practical. She used it to slice the remaining fabric of his pants and underwear away in slow, deliberate cuts until he was completely naked from the waist down, still zip-tied to the chair, cock and balls exposed.

- Some men think they won't talk. They really do. I know better.

Natalya tilted her head, examining him like a piece of meat at the market. Her expression shifted from amused interest to open disappointment, then to something close to offended contempt. She reached down with two powerful fingers, pinched the head of his cock, and lifted it so she could inspect it from every angle under the harsh lights.

- Is that it?

Her voice rose with genuine irritation.

- Seriously? That's what you're packing? Look at this disgustingly small thing! Two and a half inches on a good day, maybe. I've had better from skinny little betas who at least had the sense to apologise for it. You don't even look ashamed. That's disrespectful. Men should be ashamed of offering me something so useless. And if you're hard? How big are you then?

She gave his cockhead a hard, dismissive tug, then squeezed the shaft between her fingers, rolling it back and forth like she was testing the quality of cheap meat.

- Jeez, and it's hard already! This IS a hard-on! Two and a half inches in fucking erection! How dare you to walk around with a penis like that, huh? You should be ashamed and apologize permanently!

She began to stroke him deliberately hard, enough to get him near orgasm.

- What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Stick it in and feel nothing? I've got a pussy that can crush a steel dildo. I need something that actually fills me. Nine inches. Ten. Thick. Something that stretches me when I decide to ride it hard. Not this ... cocklette. What do you expect me to feel with that? It's like offering a starving woman a single grape.

She kept stroking, watching a droplet of pre-cum forming at its tip.

- Don't fucking dare to cum! Don't you have any decency?

When she felt himself losing control she gave the head a sharp, stinging slap.

- Cumming without permission means spending the last moments of your life in my dungeon. It is hell on earth. Reduced to a gory heap of bloody meat only capable of experiencing pain.

She released his penis and it bobbed. Natalya snorted in open contempt.

- Men are so disrespectful. If you had a real fucking cock—something thick and long enough to actually stretch me—I'd almost give you a chance. But with this?

She straddled the chair, sitting on his lap facing him, her heavy weight settling fully. The steel groaned under two hundred and seventy pounds of dense female muscle. Her thick, powerful thighs clamped around his hips hard enough that he felt the bones protest. She reached down, pinched his shaft upright, and began to grind the heavy, muscular mound of her crotch directly against it, using her full body weight in slow, deliberate circles.

- Feel that, huh? That's two hundred and seventy pounds of perfection using you.

She started moving—slow, deliberate, full body weight. Every downward thrust drove him deeper into the chair and ground her powerful body against his cock. She reached one hand down between his legs grabbing his balls, stroked him in time with her hips for a few seconds, bringing him right to the edge, then stopped and gave his balls a sharp, crushing squeeze, her long nails expertly manipulating his scrotum, hurting him so much to prevent him from cumming without doing permanent damage to his balls. He could feel the heat radiating off her heavy, oil-slick tits, see the way the oil ran in thin shiny rivulets down the deep cleavage and disappeared under the crop-neck of the suit. It was pure sensory overload: the visual of those perfect, oversized tits so close he could have buried his face between them, the slick sound of her oiled skin, the constant pressure of her muscular glutes grinding down on his aching cock. Holding back became its own kind of torture. The expert fingers hurting his balls helped, but those soft, heavy, gleaming breasts filled his entire field of vision and made the denial feel almost impossible to endure.

- What is it you don't understand when I order you not to cum, huh? Inferior piece of shit!

He was already pleading, voice cracked and wet.

- Please—please stop—fuck, it hurts—I'll tell you everything—just don't...

Natalya kept grinding her exquisite ass, stroking him back to the edge again, then stopping, then crushing his balls, then stroking again. She never let him finish. Every time he got close she punished him with pain—twisting, squeezing, digging her nails in—while she mocked the size of what she was playing with.

- Tell me about the warehouse in Nogales.

She said this conversationally, still using him, still edging him.

- The one with the false floor. Who owns the trucks? Who's the American contact?

Natalya's smile didn't change. She ripped the zip-ties from his wrists in one sharp motion, shoved the chair over so he crashed onto his back on the concrete, and pinned his arms above his head with one dense, veiny forearm. Then she straddled his face, the shiny white see-through bathing suit still clinging to her super-ripped body. She hooked a finger under the tiny strip of fabric between her legs and pulled it aside, revealing a pristinely shaven, dripping-wet pussy.

- Eat.

She settled her weight down. The moment her heavy, oil-slick thighs clamped around his head and her wet heat pressed against his mouth, pure panic hit him. His eyes went wide. His body jerked hard under her, but the dense muscle of her forearm kept his wrists pinned and the sheer mass of her pinned him flat. He couldn't turn his head. He couldn't breathe freely. The thick, gleaming quads on either side of his face left only one option: open his mouth and take what she gave him. Fear flooded in right behind the panic—raw, animal fear of the woman who could crush him without effort, who had already edged him to the edge of sanity and was now using his face like a seat. Every slow, deliberate roll of her hips ground her dripping pussy harder against his lips and tongue, forcing him deeper while her heavy enhanced tits swayed above him in the sheer white top, diamond piercings flashing with every movement. And under the fear sat the humiliation, thick and total. He was on his back on cold concrete, arms pinned, cock still aching and denied, while this towering, oiled, super-ripped woman rode his face and casually mocked him.

- Not bad. Probably forced into plenty of oral practice by your penile inadequacy. Hahaha!

The laugh sank into him like a blade. His face burned. He could feel how wet she was, could taste her, could hear the soft, contemptuous amusement in her voice while she used him. The knowledge that he was hard—still hard—while she said it made the shame even worse. He licked because he had no choice, because her weight and her strength left him none, and every reluctant stroke of his tongue only deepened the core-deep humiliation of being reduced to nothing but a wet, panicked mouth under her. With a smile revealing sheer pleasure the busty bodybuilder suddenly took his hand and broke his thumb. She simply bent it in the wrong direction. Just like that. His thumb being no match for her beautifully manicured fingers with the long sexy nails which have probably driven tons of men into utter bliss. Now they were the instruments in a horrific torture and you could see she enjoyed every moment of his suffering. His body convulsed under her, licking stopped as he screamed into her pussy.

- Did I tell you to stop licking? I tell you when to stop.

He resumed licking, much to her satisfaction. You could see how she ground her crotch harder into his mouth, dominantly riding his face, cutting off oxygen--or at least making breathing difficult for him. She only cared for her own arousal mounting, feeling her own orgasm building. And then Natalya casually broke another finger. He went berserk under her, and stopped pleasuring her, much to her mounting frustration.

- Fuck, who told you to stop licking? You simply ask for it, inadequate asshole.

And she broke a third finger. Not only breaking it, but she simply ripped it off. He squealed in pain but never stopped licking her.

- Stupid fuck. At least you got my point. Now suck my clit too.

He did. Diligently. Despite the pain. Hoping his obedience would buy him mercy. But she kept toying with him. By the time she broke his fourth finger, his dick had gone limp. The pain was too much to bear or the lack of oxygen showed its effects.

- Did I tell you to go soft, huh? Did I?

And she continued breaking his fingers. Slowly. One by one. The eerie sounds of bone breaking, of tendons ripping, of a man whose screams were muffled filled the room. Shockwaves of pain rippled through his whole body each time Natalya destroyed a finger. The two accomplices watching the scene couldn't avert their eyes, however they wanted not to watch the torture. You could tell they were horrified. And aroused. The sheer white suit, the platform boots still on her feet, the arrogant set of her glossy lips—all of it stayed perfectly in place while she brutally mutilated him and forced him to serve her. She put up quite the show as she started moaning in orgasmic pleasure. A brutally erotic spectacle.

- Almost there. Mmmm. Yeah, suck my clit harder. Do it!

And then orgasm hit her. Hard. With visible pleasure she grabbed his wrists--his ten fingers had all been destroyed and were dangling in the strangest angles from his hands and she had already crushed what was left of his hands in hers, grinding his hand bones into a gory, bloody mush. The gorgeous hardbody easily held his wrists in a vice-like grip and he knew what was coming.

- You don't want your wings clipped, do you? I love it. The sound. The pain it causes. The helplessness it produces. Two lame arms. How are you going to jerk off now, huh? Hahaha!

His body squirmed heavily, but there was nothing he could do to prevent anything. Natalya was just too strong. She gave his arms a tiny but forceful jerk. You wouldn't believe this little jerk really mattered, but the horribly crunchy, tearing noise accompanied by her moans of bliss testified of the brutal fact that she had simply ripped his arms off with it! Both arms. Off! His squirming reached another level, but she easily held him quiet under her sexy hardbody.

- Are you going to talk?

She released him from his suffocating position and he nodded in total panic while his screams reverberate through the warehouse. Icy. Chilling. Shock and terror are written all over his face. She urges him to shut up and talk.

- Please Goddess—mercy—please—it hurts so much—please let me talk. I'll tell you everything.

Natalya grinned.

- Of course, you will. Didn't I tell you? But I don't feel like listening. I feel like showing you why they call me the Goddess of Torture. Aren't you curious why?

- No, please! Please, Goddess! O my God... I'll talk! O God, please!

Natalya ignored his pleas. He was in so much pain; his arms useless. Totally at the mercy of a gorgeous sadist, an ultra-muscular female top-predator.

- You had your chance to talk earlier, didn't you, inadequate fuck! Or do you think that wasting my time goes unpunished, huh?

The oversized muscular beast reached around behind him with one hand, forced two thick fingers into his ass without warning, and began to work them in and out. His resistance was gone--how could he resist her with his arms torn out of their shoulder joints and with hers pure cartoon violence made real—biceps that ballooned into ridiculous, beach-ball peaks the second she flexed, triceps so thick and horseshoe-heavy they looked like they belonged on a different species. Her forearms were even more extreme, denser and wider than most men's thighs, packed with rope-like veins and so massively built they turned her entire arm into a living battering ram. When she raped his ass those impossible proportions did all the work: the oversized forearm stretching him to the limit while the cartoon-sized biceps and triceps flexed and gleamed, turning every thrust into a display of pure, exaggerated dominance.

- Your ass is mine too. Jeez, you're tight. Relax.

She added a third finger, stretching him, curling them against the prostate while she stroked his cock again, getting it hard in seconds! The sexual expertise of this über-babe was simply mind-blowing. Every time he got too close she stopped, crushed his balls, or twisted her fingers up his ass hard enough, using her nails to make him scream. He was crying openly now, pleading in broken Spanish and English, begging for mercy, for her to stop, for permission to tell her everything, for anything except more of this. Telling how sorry he is for wasting her time.

- Good boy. But there is no way I can let you away with this.

And she gave his cock a contemptuous tug, stretched it toward her, and let it snap back. He wailed in pain. Then she twisted her fingers hard inside him one final time—hard enough to make his whole body seize—and pulled them free. She crouched beside him, still gleaming with oil, the sheer white bathing suit clinging to every exaggerated curve, and took his cock and balls in her hand again--her hands were so used of handling cock--, squeezing it and rolling them between her powerful fingers while he kept talking, voice cracking with pure desperation.

- Please... spare me... spare it... it's not that small, I swear... it's normal size... look at it... please don't keep punishing it... I'll talk, I'll give you the warehouse, the trucks, the American contact, everything... just don't hurt me anymore...

Natalya laughed—low, rich, and full of open contempt. The sound alone made him flinch harder than her hands.

- Not that small? Not hurt you any more?

She lifted his cock as if it were a disappointing scrap of meat.

- You're actually trying to convince me this is normal? This little thing?

She squeezed harder, thumb digging cruelly under the head.

- I've had toothpicks thicker than this. You're insulting me with your inadequacy.

Her expression shifted. The amusement stayed, but something colder and sharper slid underneath it. She leaned in close, cold grey eyes locking on his wet, panicked face. He started crying again.

- Hurting men is my job. Now, let's see. Want me to jerk you off?

He nodded quickly and started talking hoping she might be merciful on him, but she ignored his confessions. Instead, Natalya took his cock in her hand with deliberate, almost clinical care. Her powerful fingers closed tightly around the head, pinching it hard enough to make the little shaft stand rigid and exposed. This was a sex goddess at work, easily getting him rock-hard, whenever she wanted. Whatever the pain he was in.

- You're so fucking aroused it's ludicrous.

She studied his erection for a moment, cold grey eyes full of amused contempt, then extended one long, sharp fingernail. She pressed the tip of the nail against his slit and began to push. The fingernail was narrow but unforgiving. She worked it in slowly, expertly, forcing the hard edge deeper into his urethra while her other fingers kept the head locked in place so he couldn't pull away and stayed harder than ever.

- I had my nails done yesterday. Had them extended and sharpened. 750 dollars. You like my long nails, baby?

He nodded again in absolute terror. Natalya pushed it in deeper. The stretch was immediate and vicious—far thinner than a steel sound, but sharper, more intimate, more humiliating. His two-and-a-half-inch cock looked even smaller with her thick, manicured finger dominating it, the nail disappearing millimeter by millimeter into the tiny opening. He wailed. The sound that tore out of him was pure panic—high, broken, and desperate. His body jerked hard against the concrete, hips trying to twist away, but her grip on the head was iron. Every tiny movement only drove the fingernail deeper. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed and begged, the words dissolving into raw, panicked cries each time she twisted the nail inside him or pushed it a fraction further. Natalya watched his face the entire time, smiling that cold, absolute smile, clearly savouring both the pain and the complete humiliation.

- I guess you do.

Then she brutally pushed in her finger and turned her nail, making the cockhead simply explode in a geyser of blood, destroying his glans! The man screamed an otherworldly scream. With the pitch of a squealing pig.

- Oops. Now it's even smaller! Hahaha! Stop screaming and talk. Now. Or I'll rip it off completely.

He cried in pain, but deep down a little voice told him she could do worse. He spilled out everything he knew. And more. The two accomplices had written everything down and had checked what they were able to verify. By the time she had started to manipulate his balls again, he had given locations, addresses, names, passwords. Whatever she wanted. This woman was a pro. Every movement was controlled. Economical. Deliberate. So he kept talking. Anything she asked, he answered. Anything she hinted at, he supplied before she had to ask twice. He confessed things he had sworn he would take to his grave, then volunteered details that hadn't even occurred to her. Natalya toyed with him psychologically, letting silences stretch until his imagination did the work for her. She would casually flex an arm, adjust her posture, or simply stand there in full view of him, making the sheer physical contrast between them impossible to ignore. He hated how frightened he was of her. Most of all, he hated that she seemed to know it.

- Good boy. Now we're getting somewhere. See that wasn't so difficult.

He allowed himself a smile. A glimmer of hope.

- The cartel doesn't need you breathing anymore. But I do. I'm going to play with you some more. Would you like that?

He did not know what she meant. The pain prevented him from thinking straight, but he assumed she would either fuck him or torture him some more.

- But I told you everything. O my God. Please!

She squeezed his jaw with her free hand until it clicked, then gave his mutilated cock a hard, twisting pinch that made him scream again.

- Your intel is great, but I just want to play. Don't you want to fuck me? Worship that ultra-sexy body of mine? I have been honing and training my physique for years. Don't you want to experience how it feels to be fucked by a muscle goddess? By someone who has done more men than most people will ever meet?

Natalya lifted one arm and flexed. The bicep exploded into a ridiculous, cartoon-thick peak—dense, oil-slick muscle ballooning so high and hard it looked almost unnatural. Thick veins snaked across the swollen curve, standing out sharply under the stage oil. She held the pose for a long moment, then slowly turned her head and dragged her tongue up the gleaming muscle in one long, sensual lick, eyes half-lidded with pure narcissistic pleasure.

- I'll show you how I treat inadequate men—just for the insult of offering me something so useless. Big Natalya doesn't like small cocks.

The ultra-muscular she-beast rose to her full six-foot-four height, every dense, oil-slick slab of muscle shifting and gleaming. She grabbed him by his hair and hauled him upright with one hand as if he weighed nothing. She didn't even look like she was trying. Then she came so close her heavy, enhanced tits in the sheer white suit almost touched his face. One massive hand clamped around his jaw, the other around the back of his head, and she kissed him hard—possessive, crushing, all tongue and dominance and the clear message that his mouth belonged to her for as long as she wanted it. When she pulled back she bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, holding the bite a second longer than necessary while her cold grey eyes stayed locked on his. His little cock twitched and began to rise again, helpless and obvious.

- I see you like me. Well, I can tell you: any form of masturbation is forbidden in my dungeon. Even touching your penis is considered an offense punished brutally. But with your arms broken that won't be an issue. Hahaha!

- O please, Natalya. Have mercy. I can still be of use.

Natalya grinned.

- How then? Tell me: how exactly? You already spilled every secret you had. There's nothing left inside that head worth keeping. And with a dick that small the only place you're useful is strapped to my torture table. Hahaha!

She addressed the two men who had checked his confessions.

- Clean him up.

Both were visibly mortified—and just as visibly hard. Their faces had gone pale under the harsh warehouse lights, eyes fixed on the floor, yet the tents in their pants betrayed them. They had watched every minute of what she did to the prisoner, and the mix of raw fear and unwanted arousal was written all over them. Natalya's cold grey eyes flicked over their bodies with open amusement, reading the conflict like a book. She stepped toward them, still gleaming with stage oil, the sheer white bathing suit clinging to every exaggerated curve and dense muscle. The two men flinched as she closed the distance. They knew the rules. One wrong word, one hesitant movement, one failure to obey instantly, and she would turn that same casual brutality on them. They had seen what she was capable of. They knew she would enjoy it.

- Put him in the back room with the others. I want him prepared for cbt and some anal work. And get rid of those erections.

Her voice was low and almost conversational.

- Chain him to the bed on his back, legs spread. I want what remains of his cock and balls completely available when I come back. And leave his ass ready. I'll be in later.

She let the silence stretch, then added, soft and precise:

- Don't fail me. Or you two take his place.

The threat landed like a physical weight. Both men nodded quickly, throats working as they swallowed. Natalya's cold grey eyes dropped deliberately to the fronts of their pants. Both were still blatantly hard.

- And get rid of those erections, Jeez!

They froze. Their hands shook as they moved to the prisoner, but their cocks stayed stiff, tenting the fabric. Natalya watched them work with that same absolute, narcissistic smile—enjoying their terror as much as their arousal, toying with the knowledge that every breath they took around her was borrowed. She could feel how tightly they were wound, how the fear of her made them harder even while it made them sick. She liked that. She liked knowing they understood that the smallest misstep could end them, and that she would not hesitate if the mood struck her. She moved without warning. One heavy, precise kick drove into the first man's crotch. The second kick followed a heartbeat later. Both men doubled over with high, animal screams—raw, panicked, almost pig-like as the air left their lungs. They clutched themselves and dropped to their knees, faces contorted.
Natalya stood over them, hands on her thick, flared hips, laughing softly. She flexed one arm, watching the heavy biceps and vascular forearm swell under the stage oil, clearly reveling in the power of her own hardbody.

- Listen to that. Screaming like pigs. You can't even obey a simple order.

She crouched slightly so they could see her face, the cold amusement, the diamond-pierced nipples still visible through the sheer white suit.

- I told you to get rid of them.

Natalya walked out laughing, rolling her neck, the heavy muscles of her shoulders shifting under the top. Behind her the prisoner made a broken, wet sound that was pure pain and pleading. She didn't look back.

--

When the police unlocked the warehouse, they found him. And hundreds of others. All were mutilated beyond recognition. Tortured like beasts. The victim chained to the bed was like a hunting trophy put on display. The ass was the first thing they registered, even from ten feet away. It was no longer an asshole; it was a horrifying pulped, gaping crater. The rim was swollen to the thickness of a thumb, split in several places, dark blood crusted down the cleft. Red streaks painted the inside of both thighs. Someone had been running a thick, ribbed strap-on in and out for a while; you could see the exact diameter of it still imprinted in the stretched tissue, like a brand. But the real damage was deeper. The whole canal looked fist-bloated, prolapsed slightly, a slick maroon ring of rectal lining pushed out an inch or so past the sphincter. When the light caught it, the mucosa glistened wet and angry, tiny capillaries burst into constellations of pinpoint severe hemorrhages.

Then they saw the cock and balls. They made the ass look almost restrained by comparison. The cops who first saw the scene still need counselling. Up to today. The shaft had been methodically degloved in a spiral. Someone took a very sharp blade or a razor and started at the base, peeling the skin in one long continuous strip that winded upward like apple skin under a paring knife. The exposed corpora cavernosa was exposed raw and glistening. Blood was crusted along the entire length. The cockhead was gone and peeled skin hung in a single bloody ribbon from just below the glans. The balls were worse. A heavy stainless-steel cock-and-ball ring—maybe two inches in diameter—has been ratcheted down so far the scrotal skin was stretched drum-tight and translucent. The testicles themselves were forced forward and outward, ballooned to the size of large plums, the surface mottled dark purple and veined like marble run through with lightning. Capillaries stood out in high relief; a few had ruptured under the pressure, blood crusted down the underside toward his perineum. Dozens of needles were still sticking out, like messages from beyond. His skull was totally crushed and had been hit beyond recognition with a blunt object. Death must have come as a relief for this man. For all of them. The other men were similarly mutilated.

--

A day later Natalya got a text from 'dirty cop' on her mobile: 'No investigation. Found scapegoat within force. At your service, Goddess.' She grinned and answered: 'Earned yourself dinner at the Y. Might hurt you less this time.' But Natalya was already fantasizing how she would impale him on her huge strap-on and fuck him to death, ripping his ass apart, destroying his abdomen, totally annihilating his guts. Chiefs of police were not so hard to seduce.