You awaken fitfully, your mind fuzzy. You feel like the morning after an all-nighter, but you know you didn't have
that
much to drink last night. Biting your lip, you try to remember....
Images swim back into view, slowly. You remember the gray-haired man at the bar... you remember drinking a LOT of rum... and after that - nothing.
Your shoulders are aching, so you stretch out your arms - and your hands encounter a rough concrete wall. You open your eyes for the first time and find that you are manacled to this same wall, the chains somehow attached to a large iron ring embedded in the wall.
Immediately the last of the stupor flees, replaced by stark terror.
What the hell is this place?
Your heart pounds painfully in your chest and you tug on the manacles, looking for a weakness. There is none, and for several moments there is nothing but panic. You scream for help until your throat is raw. Only the fact that the manacles are lined with something soft keeps you from scraping your wrists bloody.
When rationality returns, you examine your prison. The light is dim, coming from low-wattage bulbs sunk into the ceiling every six feet or so. The room is perhaps twice the size of a two-car garage, and as your eyes become accustomed to the dimness, your breath catches in your throat. There's something that looks like the upper half of a pair of stocks, attached to the top of a post, six feet or more tall... and good God, is that a RACK? As your eyes rove the room, you see more and more strange-looking devices, and it's the ones you DON'T recognize that frighten you the most. What the hell have you gotten yourself into? Is the gray-haired man behind this? Hell, you were going to go home with him anyway - he didn't need to drug you for that.
Belatedly, perhaps because your mind is still catching up, you realize that you're now wearing some kind of one-piece garment with a wide neck and a hem that ends at mid-thigh, and you're naked underneath. That, at least, is no big surprise; it's not like you were wearing underwear before, at the bar. Your mind whirls, panic taking over again....
"Good morning."
You didn't seen him come in. Suddenly he was just there, and - oh God, this doesn't look good.
The figure that now approaches wears a robe with wide bell sleeves, made of some shiny black material. There's a rope belt cinched tight at the waist. On his head is an all-concealing executioner's hood made of the same fabric. But what mainly disturbs you is the nasty-looking cat-of-nine-tails in his right hand.
He moves confidently to the wall next to you as if he knows you're too afraid of him to resist. With one hand he takes the chain to your manacles, giving them some slack; the other is invisible behind the sleeve. You hear a snipping sound and feel that at last you are free.
But the masked man still grips your chain and he uses it to drag you to the stocks-looking thing.
He forces your neck and wrists into the yoke, then closes it and drops a bicycle lock into the hasp.
"This is called a pillory," he says conversationally. "Are you familiar with the term?"
Your mouth is dry as you mouth the word,
no
.
"The pillory, like the stocks, was designed to punish by public humiliation. Those placed in the pillory were forced to stand, sometimes for days, to face whatever the mob chose to do to them. The least of it was verbal insults. Sometimes they threw rotten vegetables. Sometimes they threw stones. Sometimes people sentenced merely to public exposure died from what the public did to them while they were confined. And the pillory served one other purpose as well."
The man in black unfurls the full length of the lashes. "It made an ideal whipping post."
He walks behind you and you feel your single garment pushed up above your waist, baring your buttocks to the lashes.
"I won't mark you this time," he says in the same conversational tone. "This is just to warm your blood for the main event."
For a moment there is complete silence, punctuated by the thudding of your heart in your ears. Then the lashes sing through the air and crack across your buttocks. Your back arches and you scream. Again the whistle of the lashes; again the pain; again the scream, and the hooded man is apparently tireless. Over and over and over again....
When the whipping ceases, there are no screams left, only hoarse ragged sobs. The lashes never touched any part of you but your buttocks, but they touched them a LOT, and you're sure they could glow in the dark by now. Still, despite the pain, you can feel that no actual damage has been done. Once the redness fades, there won't be a single mark.
The masked man blindfolds you, then frees you from the pillory, only to handcuff your wrists behind your back so you're as helpless as before.
"We're going to play a little game now," he whispers. "You are the witch; I am the Inquisitor."
With that, and without any warning, he rips your only garment from you. It comes away so easily you realize it must be breakaway. Without a word, he affixes what feels like a crocodile clip to your left nipple. The pain is exquisite, and then he does the same to the right nipple. This time you scream.
He removes your blindfold. The hooded man is naked now save for the hood, and the nipple clamps are connected by a chain. The pale gray eyes behind the hood, which looked so kind at the bar, are cold, glittering, fanatical... mad.
"On your knees, witch." Another scream rips from your throat as, using the chain, he forces you to your knees. His arousal is evident, and you know what he wants.
"Open your mouth."
Your mind spins with half a thousand plans, all quashed by sordid reality. He knows this place; you don't. Even if you could escape, where could you go, naked, not even sure where you are? And if he caught you again... you think of the devices you've seen and a shudder ripples up your spine.
In the end, your survival sense prevails, and you open your mouth.
It's nothing I haven't done before, and nothing I won't do again,
you tell yourself. He enters your mouth slowly, almost gently, and you treat him as you would any other lover, caressing, teasing, taking him deep, all the things you know how to do so well. Truth to say, even though your nipples ache and your buttocks burn till it feels like Three Mile Island, there's something oddly arousing about this whole situation. To be taken roughly by someone who neither knows you nor cares for your satisfaction... you're startled to realize how wet this has made you, and you continue to work toward his climax, your fear almost buried in lust.
It seems like hours later, and you're thinking,
My God, how long can this guy last?
and then the end comes. With a cry that makes him seem more human than he has since the bar, he jerks out of your mouth, but not before you've tasted the result of your efforts. The proof is in your mouth, on your forehead, in your hair, and on your lips, cheeks and chin.
The eyes behind the hood are normal again, and the masked man helps you to your feet. This time he doesn't use the chain, even though your knees are groaning in protest from kneeling so long.
"Such an effort requires a reward," he says gently. "Come with me."
You follow him until it becomes evident that he's leading you to the rack, then you dig in, dragging your feet, only delaying the inevitable. Your hands are still locked behind your back. and he has all the leverage he needs.
He forces you down upon the rack, first forcing your ankles into the shackles, then quickly removing the handcuffs and shackling your wrists.
Now you're helpless as never before, naked, shackled to the rack spread-eagle, and your adrenalin level soars until you're dizzy. You know what this hideous machine can do.
The hooded man kneels at the foot of the rack, doing something underneath, and suddenly the lower end folds down like a drop-leaf table, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.
"I mentioned a reward, did I not?" he murmurs. The hood is removed and it is, as you suspected, the gray-haired man from the bar. He stands and comes over to the rack by your side. He removes the nipple clamps gently, sets them aside. His eyes drink in your nakedness and his hands are surprisingly gentle now as he runs his hands up the sides of your breasts, his thumbs circling your maltreated nipples. He pinches one gently, and a moan half of pain, half of lust escapes your throat. His lips fasten onto the other - so gently compared to before! - and his tongue reaches out to caress it lingeringly, gently, his fingers moving lower, seeking out your center, probing. You're so wet his finger enters easily and a second finger soon joins the first. Your moans are wholly lust now, almost growls as his lips and fingers and tongue tease you, while you can do nothing, confined by the shackles at your wrists and ankles.
His lips and tongue are working their way down your body, leaving a trail of liquid fire in their wake. Somehow the torture broke down inhibitions you didn't know you still had and screams of pain and fear have become screams of lust and passion. The fingers inside you are suddenly replaced by a hard, stiff, darting tongue and you feel yourself building up to a major explosion. Gentle but ravenous, he attacks your pussy with his mouth, his tongue lashing at you like the whip lashed at you before. Ripples of pure pleasure run through you, centered on his tongue and what it's doing to you. He seems to be in no rush, working you higher and higher with fingers and lips and tongue, exploring your every intimate place. Your skin feels so hot you think you could ignite; you can no longer hear your own inarticulate sounds; and suddenly you're THERE, and you S-C-R-E-A-M; but it's not over, and he continues to pleasure you and another climax explodes throughout your body, making you light headed, and then yet another before the aftershocks die down to tremors, and the tremors to ripples, and finally you come back to yourself, feeling so relaxed you're practically boneless.
There's a clanking sound from the foot of the rack and your ankles are released. He rises and unshackles your wrists as well. You should rise and run, naked or no, but you have neither the energy nor the desire. He lies beside you on the rack, moving your body to the right side, cradling you loosely in his arms, smiling. "You forgot to be afraid," he says in almost a whisper. You stretch languorously, amazed - because it's true.
* * * * *
You awaken with a sore back from sleeping all night on the rack. Your ass feels sore from the whipping and your nipples are more pleasantly sore. You get up, noticing that the Inquisitor is nowhere to be seen. Unconfined for the first time since you came here, you roam around your "prison". There are various nasty-looking devices, the purposes of which you can't even begin to guess, laid out on a plain rough workbench. Among them you see the nipple clamps from the day before. On a sudden whim, you attach them to your nipples.
The pain is immediate and electrifying. You bite back a scream and quickly take them off again.
"Too close to the tip."
You blink. The Inquisitor is somehow back in the room, back in his uniform of robe and hood, with the cat-of-nine-tails again in his hand.
"The closer to the tip of the nipple, the greater the pain. The closer to the breast - here, let me show you."
He picks up the clamps and affixes one to the base of your right nipple, the other to the left. You make no effort to stop him.
He's right. It's still painful, but much less so than before. He watches your face closely before removing the clamps and putting them back on the table.
"When can I go back home?"
He cocks his head to the side. "What, my dear? On the eve, perhaps, of salvation - and you wish to leave?"
You have no idea how to reply to
that
, so you remain silent.
He stares at your nakedness, seemingly lost in thought. "The Inquisitors of old would have clipped the nipple off completely, believing as they did, that having fornicated with the Devil, your milk would be transformed into some kind of venom. The thought that your breasts could give or receive pleasure would not have occurred to them. They understood pain well enough, but pleasure was a mystery they could not solve."
He turns back to you, his eyes focusing again.
