DAY FOUR
A big part of the preparation for her time in The Pentacle was figuring out the range of limits, her existing interests, and having potential scenes and encounters vaguely described to her. The Summoned adopted the outward detachment of the Society interviewer but determining the parameters of her inevitable sexual torment was deeply erotic.
Once a week for a couple of months, S had what could be described as a deeply weird job interview or maybe an equally weird therapy session and was edging the whole time. The moment the PNS rep closed the Skype call, she would grab the nearest toy and rub one out. It was the most sexual she'd ever been on her own. It was also a time of deep self-reflection she hadn't experienced since college.
Her image in the mirror didn't change at all. If there was a Dorian Gray-like painting of her somewhere, it was now naked and wearing a ball gag, harness, collar, restraints, and a knowing smile.
Three days in, two days left, she found that the anticipation was sweeter, and somehow even more painful, than the execution. Her tormentors were all masters of keeping her on that edge, so that the quiet time following her release from each chamber made her feel like she had truly earned her freedom.
Two days left, two more ordeals.
The Summoned's first moments in The Pentacle were spent crafting a kind of mantra:
THE BED, THE CROSS, THE TABLE, THE STOCKS, THE CHAIR.
She thought that memorizing the big picture would help her in the moments of doubt. She also knew, deeper down, that it kept the edge ever nearby. The points of The Pentacle had been presented to her out of the order that she had assumed. She didn't know which would be next, THE CROSS or THE STOCKS, and she wasn't really looking forward to either. Or was, but the edge seemed harder and sharper when her mind played out the possibilities in those chambers.
Based on the quick view from the spiral staircase, THE CROSS was of the St. Andrew's variety and would probably be another session of impact play. Oof.
THE STOCKS appeared to be the kind you might see in the town square of a medieval village; anything at all might happen in there.
On the morning of the fourth day, the anticipation of two terrible paths had left the Summoned feeling edgy. Music would help, so would binging some Criminal Minds.
Out of curiosity, she decided to try to get some music while she went about her morning routine.
"Alexa, play Lana del Rey."
To her surprise, Born to Die began playing, surrounding her in a familiar soundscape.
S cleaned herself up, ate some cold pizza, and even tidied up around her living quarters. Lost in the music, she found herself finally able to focus on one brainwave at a time.
She also contrived a new pastime for herself. Among the sex toys filling the nightstands of her bed were an assortment of gags, including a softer, and slightly larger, version of the penis gag from the previous day.
The sex toys and lube were just too much, S thought. Who on earth is still horny between their ordeals?
The gags were enticing, though. She had always had an oral fixation, and it was the height of indulgence to walk around wearing a gag while she busied herself around the Pentagon. The ball gags were fun, the dog bone-like bits were pleasantly uncomfortable. She couldn't manage to get the dental gag to fit right, but the ring gag worked well enough. Tonguing and biting down against the various implements was a nice distraction.
The best was the penis gag, though. A vague Freudian thought flitted through her mind as she washed the accumulated dishes, suckling on the ersatz cock that was firmly strapped to her head. She would have to get one of these for her apartment.
How funny/sexy/disturbing would it be to greet the next Postmates delivery at home wearing it? S thought.
Hours deep into Lana del Rey's catalog, the lights finally flashed GOLD, and the instructions were given.
The Summoned was going to THE CROSS.
-
The instructions regarding her makeup and wardrobe for the GOLD ordeal were absurd, and the results were laughable.
S stood in the Gold Bathroom, regarding her full-length reflection in the outer glass walls of the shower. She fiddled with the controls to get them to turn black to get a better look. She stepped back and guffawed.
Shiny black latex, everywhere. Her short hair slicked back with product, bright red lipstick, smoky eye shadow; she felt ridiculous. A college girl with an Instagram following playing dress-up.
The latex outfit was just too much: thigh high stockings, a sort of garter belt thing holding those up that was wide enough across the waist to suggest a super short skirt, cheeky briefs, bustier and bra pushing up and squeezing the girls together, all while she tottered atop stiletto heels. The return of the steel heart and pink leather choker was a nice touch, if a little out of place. It took a bunch of baby powder and endless straining, grunting, and swearing to pull it all into place. Restricting and hot, but not in a fun way.
Inexplicable.
She longed for the business suit of the day before, or the hospital gown.
"Who do I have to blow around here for a simple schoolgirl uniform and comfy panties?" she said to no one in particular.
The door slid open, as if to answer. Her heels sounded like gunfire across the metal catwalk, which would have been a nice effect if there was anyone in THE CROSS chamber to experience it other than her.
The Summoned took in her surroundings and nothing she saw offering any real answers.
THE CROSS had a single device in the middle of the chamber while the walls were lined with racks full of every kind of kinky tool, toy, and torture device imaginable. The backlit gold walls, tasteful lighting, and complete lack of other adornments made the chamber feel like an exclusive shoe boutique where there were no price tags; all that was missing was haughty store clerk.
The device itself was the highest tech St. Andrews Cross that S could imagine. The arms of the cross were stretched out in a Y above a torso with the legs in an identical V below. It was padded with gold vinyl and had plenty of black nylon belts to make sure she wouldn't move around much. Two belts for each arm, plus posts for her to grip. Three belts for each leg at the thigh, knee, and ankle, plus more posts as a footrest. Two wide belts for the torso, one low on the waist and one that would go high on the chest. There was a gold padded headrest with its own belt that would go across her forehead. The whole thing was held aloft by an enormous robotic arm.
Circling around the back of the thing, S could see that it would be able to move and twist the cross around in just about any direction, even being able to lower nearly flat to the ground or raise a couple of meters in the air.
She found the controls on a nearby shelf, a smartphone that was displaying a big red button. Cute.
"Alright, what now?" S wondered aloud.
The member door opened, answering her again. Odd.
A young, familiar looking woman emerged and cautiously started up the stairs. She was naked and trembling and seemed unable to meet the Summoned's eyes.
The Summoned watched the woman mount the stairs, stunned. She appeared to be her doppelganger, so close in build, face family, and hairstyle that she knew that her presence here had to be some sort of horrible joke. Little details were different, like the blue eyes, or the lack of freckles, or the missing birthmark on her hip, and the nonexistent cutting scars on her upper thighs. Her lips were fuller and her cheeks thinner, but the resemblance was uncanny.
S had no sisters or female cousins at all. The Perfectly Normal Society had found and sent a woman to sexually torture her on THE CROSS that could be the Summoned's twin.
"What is this?" S asked the woman. "What are you doing here?"
"I was summoned to THE CROSS to please you, master," she replied, as if that fact was self-evident.
At least she didn't sound like the me, S thought. Wait, what the fuck?
"Wait," S exclaimed. "What the fuck?"
"Do you prefer mistress? I will call you whatever you wish, or you can command me not to speak at all."
"I, uh," S stammered. The weight of what was happening, what was supposed to happen, fell on her all at once.
"I'm supposed to put you on this thing and do stuff to you?"
"Yes please, mistress," the woman pleaded. Unreal.
S turned away and chewed on her lip, mind racing. She'd never once thought to be the dominant, ever. Strapping this woman to the cross, hurting her, fondling her, using toys on her to make her cum, using whips on her to make her cry, it just wasn't on the menu.
"What's your name?" she asked to buy time.
"I surrendered my name when I came to The Pentacle. So far, no one has called me anything other than 'The Summoned'."
"I'm the Summoned," S insisted. "You, you are you, you're supposed to be my, uh..."
The woman stood there, hands open palms out at her side, legs slightly spread, eyes downcast.
"You are supposed to be my slave then," S concluded. "You're my sub and I have to put you on there and do things to you."
"You can do as you wish, mistress. 'Slave' sounds good to my ears, please call me that."
The Summoned stared at the woman in wonder.
"What don't you like?" S stalled again. "Like, what are your hard limits."
"Oh? I thought you would know already."
"Indulge me."
"Um, no toilet stuff, no anal without lube, no cutting or piercing the skin. No choking."
"Same as me, it seems. How about what you like?"
"You really want to know?" her slave responded, surprised.
"Tell me what makes you hot?" S demanded, adding "Slave. What turns you on, slave?" S could barely hold back the wave of manic discomfort.
