Olivia woke up, walked to the wash basin and splashed water on her face and looked in the mirror. She examined the woman staring back at her. Now forty, the features were hardened by life, though there was no mistaking the beauty that once was. The piercing brown eyes were softened by streaked auburn hair that cascaded straight down past her shoulders. The skin, tanned by hours in the sun, showed the tell tale wrinkles near her eyes and mouth but did not make her look old, just animated. She smiled at her own image; a warm smile with full lips and sparkling white teeth.. “Love those teeth,” she thought.

She lifted her night shirt over her head. She starred at her breasts. The stretch marks from their weight etched deep grooves into her chest. Their size had always been a problem for her; the way men noticed and stared, or made suggestive comments. Once, when she was young and easily embarrassed she didn’t know how to handle the advances; now an off color remark was greeted by a cold stare and a vulgar expletive or sometimes something much more. Her mind drifted to a time not that long ago. After buying supplies in town she went over to a bar near the bus depot to unwind with a drink. It had been a long hard week on the farm and despite the late hour, she needed to relax. The bar was located on a dark alley but she paid it no mind ignoring a group of young punks that hung out near the door. One of them, a lanky pimply faced kid, was feeling his oats and showing off to friends at her expense.

“I’m so tired, can I rest my head on those big tits of yours,” the young man taunted.

“Shut the fuck up, you prick,” Olivia shot back with an icy glare as she walked past.

Undaunted, he ran up behind her and reaching around to her chest, grabbed one of her breasts. It was the last thing he remembered as she quickly whirled and brought her knee up into his groin with crushing force, mashing his testicles into the pubic strut of his pelvis. Crumpling to the ground, he felt the full unleashing of her ferocity as she repeatedly kicked him between the legs with her heavy boots. When she was convinced that she had destroyed his manhood she stopped and stared at the slack jawed friends who watched in disbelief. She left them to tend to their ruined friend.

Her mind snapped back to the present. The violent thoughts had aroused her sexually, and she instinctively felt between her legs where the wetness had already moistened her thighs and her swollen clitoris begged for relief. There was no time for this now, though. Too much to do today she thought. She wiped herself with a tissue and walked back to the bedroom, slipped on her bra and panties and continued to get dressed.

She walked to the door of the cabin and flung it open. The sun was just peeking over the far mountains casting a pink hue over the farm. She ran her fingers through her hair so it fell back on her shoulders. In this hardscrabble part of west Kansas, the farming life was difficult and at times hunger was more plentiful than food but at least this place, all 25 acres of it, was hers. She escaped to Kansas when she was little more than a teenager running from an abusive family where a drunken stepfather, would grope and sodomize her on too many occasions to count. Her mother, high on drugs, would turn a blind eye to her suffering and pleas for help as long as the stepfather continued to pay for the mother’s drug habit. Hitch hiking (easy in 1960’s America) she traveled west from Georgia to Kansas. In Wichita she was able to find odd jobs to tide her through while cheap room and board put a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

For a decade and a half she scrimped and saved eventually amassing enough money to buy a farm for 10 cents on the dollar at a bank foreclosure sale. Here she grew enough produce and raised sufficient livestock to sustain her, though there was little left over for anything beyond the bare necessities.

She wanted no relationships with men, other than what was absolutely necessary. She loathed men, hated the fact they were ruled by their cocks, eager to find relief from the constant pressure that gnawed at their balls; all at the expense of women. She was fortified, however, by the knowledge she was able to run the farm by herself without them, but the isolation and loneliness was difficult. Like any woman she had needs and desires, but only herself to satisfy them. She repeatedly tried to pleasure herself but her history of sexual abuse dulled the sensitivity of her most private parts. Her inability to achieve orgasm frustrated and angered her, and she cursed men in general for causing her such despair. The loathing festered and turned her thoughts dark - thoughts of revenge. Remarkably, these blacker images provoked a tingling in the deepest recesses between her legs and she found that the more violent the images she could conjure, the greater the arousal, though she still was unable to achieve orgasm. That was soon about to change.

Reading provided a much needed comfort against loneliness and she took it up with a passion. Once a month she would drive the 5 miles into town to pick up needed supplies and always make a stop at the library where she’d pick up a few books. She’d look for pulpy novels about women who didn’t take crap from men and who showed no mercy if punishment had to be meted out. Quite by accident, poring over the stacks, she found a book – A History of Torture. Glancing through it, she thought it might help her create more realistic fantasies which she could use to heighten sexual stimulation. She was eager to get home and give it a try. Her eyes skimmed the pages looking for keywords that would excite her. Having lived a somewhat sheltered life, she was shocked at the depths of cruelty which human beings inflicted on one another. Tortures that involved the hacking off of limbs, or the gouging out of eyes or the burning or tearing of flesh revolted her and she did not linger over these types of descriptions. Nor did she dwell on the numerous and lurid recounting of the tortures woman were forced to suffer involving their breasts and vaginas Yet much to her amazement, if her eyes spied the words penis, testicles, scrotum, male genitals or castration, a rush of excitement would come over her. As she read those passages, her pulse quickened and she could feel the moistness building between her legs. When she reached down with her fingers to spread her labia, the wetness there excited her even more. Now she had no trouble finding her clitoris as it was swollen and ached to be massaged. Once she found a passage that excited her, she would bend over the page at the corner to mark it so she could return to it again and again.

Amongst her favorites:

The Chinese penchant for inserting a glass rod in a victim’s penis then shattering the rod by pounding the penis with a mallet.

Another was reading the accounts of the horrors suffered by Napoleon’s troops at the hands of the Spanish when France was at war with Spain.

The captured French soldiers would be beaten and dragged to one of many trees lining the beaches where the French army had disembarked from landing boats. There the soldiers would be stripped naked, and their privates would be encircled by loops of barbed wire. The unfortunate infantrymen would then be hoisted in the air by their genitals and left to hang, screaming, until the weight of their bodies caused the wire to completely cut through the flesh. Their severed genitals, dangling from the barbed wire served as a grim reminder to the fate that awaited the next group to land.

End Part 1.

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