The Count of Monte CristoChapter 58 M Noirtier de Villefort
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I would have stayed to watch my new plaything eat, but something she said gave me pause. I returned to the study and opened the box containing her clothes, more importantly her purse. Just as I thought, the names did not tally. Amazing how a little stress can make one slip up. A rapid online check of the city newspapers revealed the truth. My new plaything had used a fake name at her interview, not to mention dying her stunning blonde hair a dark chestnut, but not her public hair, neatly trimmed as it was, it gave away her true colour.
Well, well, well, right here in my dungeon, the recently infamous escort who inspired such banner headlines in the national gutter press as, "Tart and depart", "Escorted to heaven" and possibly the worst of all, "Laid to rest." Little wonder she attended the interview really, after both the notoriety, and the incident itself. Having a cabinet minister expire whilst your are impaled and riding him in 'reverse cowgirl' does not make for a happy memory.
A quick check of the screen revealed my plaything had decided to skip breakfast, her choice, and a bad one, but she would learn. Time to return.
"Walk to the door, hands through the slot." I waited, tapping my foot as she complied, a mixture of reluctance and rebellion, not to mention a tired aching body slowing her compliance. Snapping on the winch link to her still linked cuffs, I paused as she obediently stepped back, allowing the door to open. "Follow." I turned and the winch kept pace with me, a double click as it diverted onto another track, towards a different part of the dungeon, a clear open area.
Having stopped the forward motion of the winch, the first task was attach a spreader bar between her ankle cuffs, another between her wrist cuffs, deftly transferring the winch hook to the ring half way along the bar. Next a quick press of the remote to raise it further, until she was fully extended, but feet still flat on the floor. A nearby cabinet provided a set of modified clover clamps. I enjoyed the look on her face as each clip tightened over her nipples, the comments ignored as I attached the chain from each clamp to the spreader bar above, adjusting them so the chains pulled on her nipples enough to lift her breasts, of course by standing on tip toes she could relieve the strain, until her ankles tired.
Finally a little something to get her attention, the stout bar fitted into a slot in the floor, the top fitted with a cone dildo, not very long, but with a wide flare, just beneath it, a horizontal bar, two inches in diameter. A quick height adjustment and the tip of the dildo was pressed firmly against her, spreading her lips, of course in the process she had gone up on her toes, trying to avoid being impaled. I locked the height adjustment and stepped back, ignoring her antics. Eventually her ankles would tire, the cone would impale and stretch her, until finally she rested on the horizontal bar, rounded so as not to cause harm, but to narrow to be comfortable.
A quick visual check to ensure all was as I wished and I left her to enjoy herself. As I exited the dungeon I noted that the mess she made yesterday had been washed away, I locked the door and adjusted the thermostat, my plaything would soon be warmer, in more ways than one.
Ughh. This is going to be messy. And uncomfortable, or rather painful, I think as she throws a last look at me and then turns and walks away, the clicking of her heels on the tiles receding. I'm alone again, facing yet another ordeal. This is tiring, to say the least. Tiring, painful and humiliating. But mostly it's just plain wrong. You don't go snatch someone and subject that person to all the crap I've been subjected to.
It's sick, to put it in a nutshell. However, as sick as she might be, as ingenious she is in what she's doing. I look down to see the tip of the cone shaped dildo buried between my pussy lips. I try to move my pelvis a bit so that the dildo won't bury itself in my pussy, once I can't stand on my toes anymore. But there's no slack in the restraints. As soon as my feet get tired, I'm going to impale myself on the cone.
I've got a pretty good idea of how this all will play out: Sooner or later I will lower myself on the dildo to rest my weight on the bar between my legs until that hurts too much, get up on tiptoes again, down again, up, down, up, down...
And all the time the chain attached to the clamps on my nipples will make sure the pain in my breasts doesn't end. I almost screamed out loud when she put them on my nipples. The bitch just smiled.
I'll literally fuck myself on that artificial cock. And she will probably watch me all the time. The thought makes me cringe. No, not the thought of fucking myself on a dildo, it's not the first to go into my pussy. I also don't mind too much if she watches me. No, what really pisses me off is the inevitability of it all.
And what's even worse: I still have not the slightest clue what all this is about. Does she just enjoy watching me suffer? Does she want me to beg for mercy? Is it about money? Or what else does the bitch get out of this?
My mind races as I'm trying to find an explanation for all this until eventually the muscles in my calves begin to twitch and I know it's only a matter of minutes until I have to lower myself. I dread the moment the dildo slides into me, not because I'm afraid of the dildo, but because it means the ordeal is starting. For a moment I feel tears well up in my eyes, but then the emotion is washed away by another one, a stronger one: Anger. Flaming hot anger at the bitch who does all that to me.
I might go down, but I won't go down crying. Instead I shout: "Hey, gorgeous, how about some music so I can fuck myself with a good rhythm. 'Let's get fucked' up by The Cramps would fit perfectly." It's not funny at all, yet I laugh out loud as I slowly let myself down on the cone, feeling it stretch and fill my pussy just as I start to wince when the chain attached to my nipples begins to pull them upward.
Back in the study the screen showed my plaything as she struggled against the inevitable. A keen student of body language and long experience allows me to almost read her mind. The tears come earlier than expected, I'm glad to see that they last only briefly, this girl is made of stronger stuff.
Turning up the volume a little, trusting it to alert me to each new development, I allow my gaze to wander to the pictures, old memories. The children's nursery rhyme fits each perfectly, maybe now I can...
The shout is amplified and jerks me back to the present. "Hey, gorgeous, how about some music so I can fuck myself with a good rhythm. 'Let's get fucked' up by The Cramps would fit perfectly." Oh how I love this girl's spirit... !! I am not without humour myself, and with the control panel so close at hand, it is the work of moments before the dungeon is filled with music; "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" from The Nutcracker by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, I select 'track repeat' and turn down the volume, but only in the study, my plaything can enjoy it for the rest of the morning...
Tchaikovsky ... Hum. Not bad, but not really the right kind of music to fuck yourself to like I'm doing it now. It's up and down, up and down, just like I had thought it would be. Only more painful than I imagined.
Everything hurts by now, or maybe it's not everything but I'm only aware of those parts of my body that hurt. At least there's one good thing about hurting everywhere: It's hard to decide which part hurts the most. That's not much, but it's the only positive aspect of my current situation, so I cling to it. Desperately, too.
For a while I tried to concentrate on the part of me that hurt the least, but that didn't work, what with the pain and strain shifting all the time. From the calves to my nipples to my crotch and pussy back to the legs and feet.
Maybe I'll eventually lose consciousness, but until then it's just pain, pain, pain. And Tchaikovsky. Mustn't forget Tchaikovsky. If I ever get out of here again, which I heavily doubt at the moment, I'll have a serious aversion to his music.
By lunchtime my plaything was hanging limp from her wrist cuffs, hips no longer rising, just rocking slowly back and forth, fully impaled upon the cone, spread wide and stretched, the rocking now almost a reflex, trying to shift the pressure from public bone to ass and back. Her ankles had long since tired, calves shivering with tension, but now to tired to lift her enough to relieve the inevitability of gravity. I doubted her arms were in much better shape, shoulders to, time for a change. Having skipped breakfast, my plaything would also miss a return to the cell, no need.
Quality costs, but pays dividends, it was the work of moments to release the girl from everything but her wrist and ankle cuffs. The winch chain now serving more as support than restraint, though it served that purpose as well. Even after suffering so much, unconsciousness just around the corner, a girl with this much spirit might yet do something stupid, or at least attempt to.
The winch followed a new route, towards a seemingly innocent padded table, half leading, half dragging the girl who stumbled along, her aches and strains obvious, skipping breakfast was a very bad idea. Once alongside the padded table, a simple button press lifted her into the air, allowing me to take her abused feet and swing her across the table, before lowering the winch so that she lay lengthways upon the padding. The restraints were ready and fitted in moments. A wide padded strap across her lower belly, ankle cuffs snap-linked to convenient rings, her wrist cuffs remained attached to the winch, now positioned directly over her head and raised to pull her arms straight, whilst leaving her tortured shoulders flat upon the padding.
A look of relief upon my playthings beautiful face faded as I continued my preparations, her hopes of much needed comfort and sleep were beginning to fade away. First the clips, unlike the clover clamps, these were of the crocodile variety, but modified to suit my purpose, the serration's sharpened, the spring weakened, they would bite with such gentle pressure as to become forgotten, yet the tiny sharpened teeth would ensure they stayed in place no matter what gyrations the body might perform. Both nipples, both outer labia. Then the gel smeared pads, one applied to the back of each knee, another pair to the inside of each elbow.
A tens unit can be a very useful device, this one has been adapted to suit my purpose. Once triggered, it has a random delay before activating, which combination of clips or pads is also random, as is the strength. The trigger is the pressure of my playthings head on the separate pad upon which it rests.
Of course my playtoy might try to sit up, indeed that is possible, but the weight of the winch chain being pulled at that angle would put a constant pressure on her back and arms...
Satisfied that all is in order, I turn to leave "Sweet dreams 'gorgeous'" her response drowned out by the click -click of my heels on the stone floor. I walk past the long wall mirror, complete with it's ballet barre. My reflection is of little interest, though the juxtaposition of white leather and black lace does make for a striking contrast. The distinctive house style that earned the nickname 'Magpies', although spoken only with great care, lest it's use offend. I smiled at the thought, I secretly thought it apt, not just for the obvious look, but because of the shared habit, the love of pretty things, the urge to collect them. My plaything was indeed a pretty thing. Pretty and soon to learn her fate, but first she must suffer, and I knew even now that suffering had started again...
I'm going to die. I'm sure of that. The bitch is slowly torturing me to death. I don't want to die at all, but if this goes on for much longer I'll probably look forward to it. She's found some new way to torture me, a really perfect way. If I'd have any strength left for unnecessary feelings or thoughts I would admire the woman for her ingeniousity. She should apply for a job with the CIA, they could certainly use her knowledge.
But I have no strength left. I thought that was already the case when she took me off the dildo an eternitiy ago, but I had been wrong. Back then, I was at my prime, compared to now, although I had been barely able to walk when she lead me to the next ordeal. Unsteady and broadlegged because of the pain from the dildo and the bar that had ravaged both my pussy and my pubic bone I followed the tugging on the chain. I had made an attempt to hold my head high up and at least for a while I had succeded. But it didn't matter anyway. It was obvious that I was close to breaking. She didn't even have to wave the cattle prod anymore to get me to do what she wanted me to do.
There's just so much a human being can take and I am fast approaching the point where it was too much. I haven't slept since the morning of the day I went for the interview and since she had abducted me I hadn't had one minute of peace except for the ten minutes when I showered. All the rest of the time I had spent in agony. Of course I have no clue how long I've been kept captive here. I can't be more than two days, but it feels like an eternity.
And now I'm experiencing the worst agony so far. Every time I lay down my head some part of me gets shocked. It took me some time to figure it out, too. But of course that knowledge doesn't help. I can't hold up my head all the time and I can't sit up all the time either. I tried, of course, and for a while it worked quite well. But then first the muscles in my neck cramped and then the pain in my arms and my back got too much and I had to lie down. And now I can't raise them anymore and every now and then an electrical shock makes me twitch. The worst is that I never know whether it's my legs that get electrocuted or my arms or my breasts. Or my pussy. That gets shocked too. Sometimes it's even all of them. In the beginning I screamed, then the screams became hoarse croaks and by now it's a barely audible groan.
I never believed it possible, but I long to see the woman in the white leather and black lace outfit.
The big screen of the monitor showed every twitch, every strain, the speakers turned down so my plaything's screams were muted. My eyes focused not on the screen but on the row of pictures, six frames filled, the seventh as yet empty, a reminder of my purpose. There is no pleasure for me in this final stage, it is just a necessary step, designed to break down my plaything and demonstrate exactly what she can expect in future, if the rules are not followed. Respect must be earned, it cannot be forced, but obedience is a horse of an entirely different colour.
Eventually the girl's endurance faded and she drifted into unconsciousness, immediately the tens unit was disarmed. The staff knew exactly what I required, and the necessary modifications were completed with the expected efficiency. The cell was equipped with a bed, sturdy and fitted with restraint points of course, the steel slats provided an uncomfortable surface upon which to sleep, but the padded mattress was orthopaedic foam, my plaything would sleep in comfort, so long as the mattress remained. The sliding panel remained open and toilet paper and towels were added, as well as the hot water being made available.
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