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The Rules	By : sisterray Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 6177 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Rules
- 1
When I finally saw Mr. Wonka again in person, the first emotion I felt was desire. Not entirely in the conventional sense of sexual longing, but more a desire to exact revenge against the only person who’d ever denied me anything. In fact, he had denied me everything, from a stupid squirrel to my dignity itself. Such trespasses are not easily forgiven or forgotten. I no longer particularly cared for squirrels (the filthy little creatures carried rabies), but Wonka’s curt dismissal of my entire existence was still fresh in my mind. Every time I crunched a squirrel under the wheels of my Mercedes, I thought of him and his silly twisted smile and weird purple eyes that, even then, had made me shiver inexplicably. I thought of the musical lilt in his voice which had so convincingly lured us all in, like the pied piper leading rats to their death. Five naïve children who actually thought they were lucky. One of my favorite memories of the tour had always been the way I’d retaliated against him once. My own 11 year old voice rang in mind: “Youalready said that”, and I was filled with satisfaction as I relived the shocked and slightly hurt expression on his face at being so abruptly cut down.
He had the sort of accursedly beautiful face that cropped up recurringly in both my dreams and nightmares, but could never be forgotten. It was in this way, I’ll grudgingly admit, that Mr. Wonka became something of an obsession. I kept any pictures of him I could find; I would hoard them and admire them and moan in sadistic pleasure as I burned them, one hand on a lighter and the other between my legs. I hated him for what he’d done to me, hated myself for wanting him, and then hated him even more for making me want him.
I finally saw Mr. Wonka again in person, 10 years later at that ridiculous meeting between him and my father. It had, of course been my father’s idea; it was completely idiotic of course, as Mr. Wonka of course had no intention of forming any type of “business partnership” with anyone. Wonka was, of course, accompanied by none other than Charlie Bucket, the “good little boy” who had “won”. Naturally, Bucket had been the one who agreed to confer with my father, if for no other reason than to extend courtesy and politely reject his business proposal. Wonka, who was completely devoid of interpersonal communication skills, simply sat there and looked pretty, rather like a trophy wife.
The loathing I felt for Charlie at that moment was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. My hand compulsively flexed around the handle of my steak knife. Charlie had gotten everything, for doing nothing, being nothing. He was disgustingly plain and bland, and his appearance could be described as average at best. The squalor and filth of his upbringing only added to the coarse, vapid oafishness that clung to every aspect of him. He stood out like a dirty stain against Mr. Wonka’s opulent, refined presence. The fact that Mr. Wonka had chosen one of society’s lowest dregs to be his heir was a harsh slap in the face, especially since Bucket was now seated at my table, next to Willy Wonka himself. Surely he didn’t realize how dire of a situation he had put himself in. You see, he had something I wanted.
Mr. Wonka himself was as enigmatic and androgynous as ever. He didn’t look a day older than he’d been on the day of the tour all those years ago, and while some might chalk such agelessness up to plastic surgery, I knew better. Mr. Wonka had his ways inside the twisted and unnatural recesses of that factory, and god only knew what they were. My imagination ran wild picturing exactly what sort of ways Mr. Wonka might have, hidden from view of everyone else, in the secret catacombs of his factory.
A look over at Bucket provided an unpleasant reality check. The uppity little bastard sat there shamelessly sucking up to my father and amusingly over-compensating for Mr. Wonka’s well-known social ineptitude. I viciously slashed off the last thick chunk of my rare steak. Oh, how wonderful it would be to slide this razor sharp serrated knife into Bucket’s skinny chest, right between his ribs, and pierce his unworthy heart! Or perhaps simply slit open his throat and bleed out all of his filthy blood right in front of his eyes.

Business drivel continued between Bucket and my father. I didn’t listen to a word of it and spent that time watching Mr. Wonka, who was watching Bucket pretend to have some semblance of sophistication and class. The sight of Mr. Wonka just a bit more than an arm’s length away was more than enough to keep my thoughts occupied, though. I had such a good imagination, really, and I was quite eager to share some of my thoughts with Mr. Wonka himself. That dull Bucket probably couldn’t even conceive of half the things that had gone through my mind over the course of the past hour.
“Veruca dear, would you be so kind as to bring out the dessert platter?” my father requested.
“Of course, daddy!” I replied sweetly. I flounced off toward the kitchen, but not before dropping a curtsy at our esteemed guests. I held Mr. Wonka’s gaze for a long, tantalizing moment before he abruptly turned away.
As I ducked inside the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers, I heard my father extolling my virtues to our guests. As he should! That’s about all the old lout was good for; well, other than his money, of course. I hoped Mr. Wonka was paying extra close attention. Oh, how he was going to regret what he had done that day 10 years ago.
Rummaging through old silverware, my fingers finally closed over a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid. I poured tall, slender glasses of champagne. To the glass Mr. Wonka would receive, I added a carefully measured capful of the clear, odorless drug. As for Bucket’s glass, I simply tipped the bottle up and filled the glass nearly to overflowing. I wondered absently exactly how much of the stuff constituted a fatal dose. Bucket would soon be finding out first hand. I didn’t particularly care whether or not he ever woke up. While the thought of him dying in a drugged, comatose state wasn’t nearly as satisfying as my earlier thought of slitting his throat, it would still suffice. Dull, uncouth Bucket would be dead (it would probably take awhile for anyone to notice, given how boring he was), allowing Mr. Wonka to choose a far more worthy heir. After a moment’s hesitation, I added a splash of the liquid drug to my father’s glass as well. No sense in taking the chance that he might interfere with tonight’s festivities.
At the table, I served the drinks, a demure mask hiding the roiling excitement I felt. Mr. Wonka first, of course. His glass was on the left, closest to me. I stood closer to him than was probably necessary, but it was worth it to catch a small breath of his scent again. He delicately plucked the glass from my fingers, and muttered a shrill, awkward thank you.
When I had seated myself, Bucket lifted his glass. A toast, how perfect!
“I propose a toast,” the heir said, bubbling with cheerfulness, “to the continued prosperity of both Salt’s Nuts and Wonka Industries.” He was smiling broadly, a blank idiot’s grin. How appropriate that it was Bucket himself who proposed the toast!
The four of us tipped our glasses back, but after a small sip I lowered mine to resume my observation of Mr. Wonka as he emptied his glass. All that remained now was to wait.
________________________________________________________________
The waiting was by far the most difficult part of this entire little endeavor. It seemed an eternity before Bucket finally swooned a bit in his chair and excused himself from the table, stumbling down the hall toward his room. I hope you get comfy on that four-poster bed you never deserved, Charlie. You won’t be getting up from it anytime soon. Both Mr. Wonka and my father looked a bit perplexed at Bucket’s hasty exit. Without a mediator, Mr. Wonka squirmed awkwardly in his chair. He was clearly at a total loss of what to do now that he actually had to conduct himself in a social situation. My father cleared his throat awkwardly. He had always found Mr. Wonka to be a bit too eccentric and had never really figured out exactly what to say to the man. I choked back a giggle at the sheer awkwardness of the whole situation and made no move to intervene. It was just too funny. Seeing the flush of embarrassment creep onto Mr. Wonka’s cheeks didn’t hurt either.
My father was the next to fall. He rubbed at his temples, and leaned on the table for support as he stood up. “Veruca dear, do keep Mr. Wonka company. I’m not feeling too well either… perhaps it was the meat? I shall have to discuss it with the cooks tomorrow…” he announced in a slightly slurred voice.
Once my father had left, I simply couldn’t keep the grin from my face. I stared blatantly at Mr. Wonka, saying nothing, practically giddy with excitement. So close now! Wonka shrank back in his chair. I think he had gained a fairly strong inkling of what was going on. Mr. Wonka may have been a demented social reject, but he wasn’t stupid. A tiny flash of fear showed in his eyes. Even as he retreated to his room, he must’ve known there was no escape.
________________________________________________________________________
Strolling down the hall, I passed by Bucket’s room and looked in on him. He was completely still, comatose apparently. Hopefully dead. I briefly considered re-visiting him with a steak knife, as I’d imagined earlier, but since he was comatose he wouldn’t be able to fully experience his own evisceration. Instead I shut the door and locked him inside. If he ever woke up I’d make sure to stop by.
Just down the hall from Bucket’s room was Wonka’s. I had selected this room for him myself. This wing had been added to the house fairly recently, and after the construction was finished I had persuaded the workers to leave some of their more useful equipment behind. Namely, lengths of thick, heavy chain hanging from the ceiling which could be raised or lowered by turning a crank. Initially I considered having to entire lifting apparatus moved into my private quarters. However, the thought of my private space, my private things, being looked upon by those inferior to myself quickly caused me to change my mind. The old idiom of not shitting where one sleeps sprang to mind. Instead I simply utilized this guest room as a play room of sorts, and it had served that purpose quite well.
I stepped through the open door and beheld my prize. To my relief, Wonka seemed far more, well, alive than Bucket had. Wonka was breathing deeply, sound asleep. He had apparently collapsed in quite a hurry, as his long legs hung off the bed and the hat had fallen from his head. With his lips parted and shiny hair all fanned out like that, he looked almost innocent. Cautiously I laid a hand on his chest, feeling his even heartbeat and the rise and fall of his breathing. Oh, where to begin! I had so many ideas. My hand flexed viciously into a fist and I heard a slight ripping sound. Oops, I tore a seam on his shirt. No matter, he wouldn’t be wearing it for much longer anyway. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand and eyes away from him and went to work.
____________________________________________________________________
After gathering a few accessories and hastily changing into more appropriate attire, I set about relieving Mr. Wonka of his. This task was a bit more difficult than I had originally planned; Mr. Wonka was heavy, and he wore entirely too many layers of clothing. I worked as fast as I could, though, practically breaking a sweat. It simply would not do to have him regain consciousness prematurely.
Finally, I had every last one of his silly, womanish frocks heaped on the floor. At this point, I took a break from my near-frantic work to admire the fruits of my labor. My heart pounded even faster as I lost focus momentarily, overwhelmed by the physical thrill of the whole experience. I impulsively reached out a hand and traced the outline of his slender hipbone. God, his skin was so soft! It was fantastically pale, and glowed ethereally in the dim light. The perfect canvas.
Without thinking, my hand crept its way up his side, feeling the steady pressure of his breaths and the hard outlines of his ribs. It wasn’t until my hand reached his long, smooth throat that I realized how ragged my breath had become, or how the dull ache of need between my legs had suddenly grown rather… insistent. Abruptly I tightened my fingers around his throat. No, I was not going to lose control again at the hands of this insipid fop of a man. Wonka began to squirm slightly and I jerked my hand back, tingling with excitement at the sight of the long marks my fingers left on his delicate skin. To complete the preparations, I looped the chains tightly around his wrists. I already noticed that he bruised rather easily. The chains would leave beautiful marks.
Once they were securely in place, I crouched silently behind him for another waiting game. Wonka groaned and slowly hauled himself into a sitting position. He slowly became aware of his condition: naked, helpless, inferior. I could not see his face just yet, but his frantic attempts to cover himself, the quick movements of his head, and finally (and most satisfyingly), the slump of his shoulders and droop of his head as he resigned himself, were clearly visible. Watching this was more tormenting than I had ever anticipated. I could practically smell his fear and it was better than any incense or ambrosia. I needed to retain focus and control now more than ever, though. I sank my nails into the edges of my robe and tried to concentrate on my breathing instead of my desire. I needed him to be completely lucid before making my first move.
“Charlie…?” Wonka called weakly. His voice was tiny and terrified, but also held a note of inscrutable sweetness, which I longed to taste. It was finally time.
I rose to my full height, amplified by the tall, stiletto heels I was wearing. “No, Willy,” I replied, pouring all of my power and need and hatred into my voice. It echoed sepulchrally around the room. Wonka shrank back.
“It’s me,” I continued, nearly dizzy, “V-E-R-U-C-A. Veruca Salt.”
A squeak of surprise slipped out of Wonka. “What… what’re you… where….”
“All in good time,” I replied mockingly, “Now, stand up.”
I was a bit surprised as he slowly stumbled to his feet of his own accord. That type of obedience was very appealing, though certainly not expected. I turned the crank on the wall to raise the chains (and his arms) and then watched, delighted, as Wonka realized that his movement had been severely limited and he could no longer cover himself at all.
Before addressing him again, I knelt down and selected one of the accessories I’d brought in earlier. My hand shook with excitement as I gripped a hard leather handle and raised a long, supple whip.
“You’ve made a dire mistake, Willy,” I continued huskily, “You’ve made some very poor decisions. One in particular, ten years ago, springs to mind. Now, since you’re my guest of honor, I’ll play by your rules. When uppity little children have the nerve to enter your factory and behave poorly, what happens to them?”
No response. The moment I’d been waiting for.
Crack!
I bit back a moan as the whip snaked out and left a long, bright red line on the perfect white skin of his back. Wonka literally screamed.
“Answer me!” I fervently hoped he didn’t notice my ragged breathing.
He was whimpering softly, and when he finally spoke, something that sounded deliciously like a sob laced his voice. “They get… punished…”

I simply had to see his face now. With slow, measured strides I slid in front of him, whip in hand. Timidly, he raised his eyes to meet mine, but only for an instant. In that instant I saw those violet eyes glitter with tears, and that was more than enough. The hot flush on his cheeks and ragged gasps were icing on the cake.
“That’s right. And now you have the nerve to show up in my house with that arrogant rat bastard Bucket hanging on your every word!” I screamed at him as anger took center stage. The whip lashed out again, painting a lovely red streak across his chest, accented by another one of his delicious cries.
“Now what the fuck do you think is going to happen to you?” I roared, allowing myself the momentary release of absolute rage. My knuckles were white as I lashed another pattern of stripes across his chest.
“Well? What the fuck do you think is going to happen?”
I really couldn’t make out much of what he said then, other than the word punishment. That was enough for now. I checked my anger; the pecking order had been clearly established.
“That’s right, Willy,” I replied, almost gently. I stalked closer to him with the whip dragging sibilantly on the floor. He tried uselessly to shrink away and could do nothing to resist when my hand slid around his trim waist. Once again, a moan threatened to slip out as I felt his silky skin, now damp with sweat. I could see tears on his cheeks now and feel his fluttery breaths. My self control had been admirable thus far; it was time for a small reward. I pressed myself against him, ignoring his feeble struggles. Taking a step back, I loosed the cord of my robe and allowed it to slide down. All I wore underneath was a tight, gleaming waist cincher and matching garter belt clipped to the tops of my lacey white stockings.
I crouched down to run my tongue over the hip I’d explored earlier with my fingers. His skin was immaculate, and even more arousing under my lips and tongue than my fingers. I slid my mouth up his abdomen until my mouth met the raw wounds left by the whip. I paid special attention to them, relishing in the whimpers that resulted from the sting of my teeth and saliva. Slowly, I found my way to his nipples, which hardened instantly beneath my fingertips and teeth. As I ran my tongue across the over-sensitized flesh, Wonka groaned softly through clenched teeth. Oh, yes. He was mine, in every way I knew. Upon reaching his neck I bit down hard, drunk on the scent and taste of him, inexplicably differentt than that of any other man. He cried out as my teeth sank in and god that was a sound I wanted to hear again and again. The temptation to kiss his rosy mouth was almost overwhelming. I reined it in, however, as kissing would make us far too close to equals for my liking. I wrapped my fingers around his budding erection. He squirmed with discomfort as it swelled fully in my hand. After a few strokes, however, he seemed to momentarily collect himself. Not enough to shut off his body’s reactions, as he probably would have liked, but just enough for insolence.
“Where’s Charlie?” Wonka asked in a whisper. Helpless, but somehow still defiant.
Blinding white rage ripped through me. I slapped Wonka across the face as hard as I could. The shriek of sudden pain and red hand print blossoming on his cheek assuaged me somewhat, and I regained my cool for the time being. Another transgression, another punishment. Very simple.
“Willy,” I began, “Bucket’s not going to be alive for very much longer, I fear. However, if you really insist on joining him, I’d be happy to help you with that. But first, I get what I want. It’s about time you learned that.”
Behind him again, I wrapped one hand around him to resume my caresses. In my other hand was clasped another of the accessories I had brought. I pressed the tip of the vibrator behind his balls, and then slid it slowly along his ass. I had considered using lube for this, but Wonka had certainly done nothing to show he deserved such niceties. To the contrary, in fact.
With a single stroke I shoved the vibrator inside him, forcing past his body’s tension and resistance. A ragged scream ripped from his throat at this sudden violation and he thrashed in a vain attempt to escape it. I repeated this several times until his breath was laced with sobs and his body slick with pained sweat. When I saw streaks of blood decorating the vibrator’s shaft, I felt satisfied with my work and left it inside him.
By now, my own body was demanding attention almost desperately. This whole endeavor had turned out so fantastically. I definitely deserved to enjoy the fruits of my labor. They looked quite delicious indeed: striped with angry red whip marks, glistening with sweat, gasping for breath, and looking on the verge of collapse. Absolutely amazing.
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you wanted to leave, Willy,” I chuckled. He nodded miserably.
“In order to do that, you’ll have to behave a lot better than you have been. If I hear Bucket’s name so much as once more, I’ll replace that dildo with something else.....” I fished for ideas. “…like, say… one of those nice long butcher knives from the kitchen, or maybe one of those fire pokers over there. I can still have my way with you when you’re dead.” I could feel a grin lighting my face now. I was almost painfully aroused; I needed release, and he was going to give it to me. And I had to admit that my newest idea about the fire poker was nothing short of thrilling. Wonka made such a wondrous and exotic pet.
I slackened the chains a bit before commanding him, “Kneel”.
Immediately Wonka dropped to his knees. Even though I knew that his abrupt response had more to do with his legs simply giving out than any desire to obey, I still found it pleasing. My fingers wove into his once-perfect hair and forced his head back. His lips were already parted, and perfectly positioned as I moved closer.
“Earn your freedom,” I whispered hotly. A shaky sigh was his only response.
It wasn’t going to take long, I knew. When I felt his tongue slide over my clitoris, I groaned loudly and tightened my fists in his hair, just at that moment realizing how close I was. Again and again he teased me with his tongue and as I felt hot shudders building up inside me I could barely hear my own voice, breathy and frantic, urging him on. Lost in his purple eyes I never remembered looking into, spasms of pleasure ripped through me. My voice cried out his name of its own accord, and when the crashes had resided to tremors and I could see clearly again, I found myself on the ground eye to eye with him. Slowly he licked his lips, and was that a smug expression on his face?
I jumped to my feet, somewhat displeased with my momentary loss of self control. Worth it, though. God, where had he learned to do that? All the more reason Bucket simply wasn’t good enough for him. Ah, I’d forgotten all about Bucket for a bit. Time to attend to him, as well.
Grudgingly, I slid the vibrator out of Wonka, and the small whimpers he made as I did promptly re-ignited my lust for him. I unsnapped the chains from around his wrists. My worries of his escaping were quickly eased as he slumped to the ground. I watched amused as he made several attempts to get up, until he finally surrendered and collapsed back to the floor. Trickles of blood ran down his torso and inner thighs. I’d never seen him look more alluring. I wanted him again, but there were other matters to attend to first. Namely, making sure Bucket never again left the bed he lay in.
I squatted beside Wonka and stroked his hair. “Excuse me for just a minute, Willy. I think it’s about time to check in on your… heir,” I growled, and turned my back to him.
I had crossed the full distance of the room, and as my hand closed on the door knob, I heard his voice from behind me.
“Oh, Ms. Salt?” he sounded surprisingly… energetic. And close. Feeling slightly unnerved, I turned around and found myself looking directly into his eyes. I gasped in surprise; when had he moved? Hadn’t he been unable to stand just a few moments ago…? I glared at him. This defiance was unacceptable. I raised my hand to slap him again, only to find it captured in a vise-like grip.
“If you’re going to play by my rules,” Wonka hissed, his voice suddenly sounding far more threatening and masculine than usual, “don’t expect to win.”
- 1
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The Rules