by Sansa Rayne
He says, “Okay, Mr. Ford. What do you have in mind?”
My entire body tingles. The burn in my ass lingers, and I can’t make it go away. I’m bound too tightly in this jacket and on this chair. Every motion I try to make reverberates in my rear, adding to my discomfort.
At least the shocks have stopped since Ingram destroyed the tablet. Everything still hurts, but it’s not getting any worse. I am sweating hard inside the jacket, though. My throat rasps. I could use a cold shower, followed by a warm bath — and a bed to lie down in for about a week. It doesn’t help that my pussy insists on clenching too, getting off on my helplessness and humiliation — on the danger and threat.
Of course I had to let loose about Victor. Of course I gave these assholes the unvarnished truth, despite the stupidity of it all. It’s a miracle I’m still alive, though that could always change. It depends on Anton’s proposal. When last I saw him, I could swear he was a liar — but if he wants to help me here, is it possible I misjudged him?
“Half of you want her dead,” he begins. “Half of you want her imprisoned. There’s no true middle ground here, but maybe you would be satisfied if Ms. Atwood was subjected to a severe, painful punishment. Nothing that would maim or kill, but a profound and excessive amount of suffering. By the end, she’d wish she was dead.”
“Absolutely fucking not!” Ingram snaps, inviting a chorus of murmurs.
“Let him finish,” Jamison says.
Anton waits for everyone to quiet again.
“Victor wanted her to pay, and she will. When it’s done, she’ll recover, but she’ll always remember the price she paid for taking his life. Then, the matter will be done, and the Masters can leave this episode in the past.”
All around the room, most of the men nod — including many who wanted to spare me.
“Kate,” says Anton, turning to face me directly, “You may know that I was friends with Victor, but the truth is I don’t think you deserve this punishment like the others. I believe you and Ingram, that you did what you had to. So while my proposal might not be fair from your perspective, or mine, it would keep you alive and allow all of us to forgive and forget.”
Anton’s missed his calling as a prosecutor. He’s acting like a DA offering a plea deal, he’s put the onus on me to take the easy way out, even if that means serving a sentence I don’t deserve. Thousands of people do it, accepting a few years in jail rather than take their chances with a jury.
Except, I’ve already gone before the jury in this joke of a trial. I know the outcome. Is this deal the best I can do? What are the odds one of the Masters will change his mind in my favor? Or is it more likely that one will turn against me and Ingram? I have no idea. Even if I did, is it worth the risk?
“I accept,” I say. “But only because-”
A mind-melting surge of heat erupts inside my ass, launching me into a fresh spasm of pain. I buck hard against the back of the chair until the shock ends.
Gasping, I inhale. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth — I’m lucky I didn’t bite my tongue.
What the fuck? Ingram destroyed the…
“Thank you, Mr. Traves,” says Jamison Hardt.
When I look over, Sidney Traves watches me, holding his phone.
“Any time,” he says.
I turn to Ingram, who glowers at Traves.
Hardt rises from his seat, saying, “It’s not up to you to accept, Ms. Atwood. This is our decision.”
I twist in my jacket once more, rather than letting loose a tirade. The motion twinges the prong in my ass, but it’s better than getting shocked again.
“Thank you for your proposal, Mr. Ford. Who votes in favor?” asks Hardt.
So many hands rise in my peripheral vision; Ingram doesn’t join them, but it doesn’t matter — at least fifteen of them have. It’s more than enough.
“The vote carries,” Hardt declares. “Ingram, you will be responsible for carrying out the sentence.”
“What?” shouts Traves. “He can’t! He’s not going to hurt her!”
“He’ll honor the conditions of our agreement. Won’t you, Mr. Dent?”
“Yeah,” says Ingram.
Hardt nods.
“Good. I trust you’ll satisfy everyone’s expectations in how you carry out Ms. Atwood’s punishment.” He turns to Anton. “Mr. Ford, this was your proposal. I’ll leave to your judgment the length of the sentence.”
A flash of excitement plays out on Anton’s face; his lips rise in brief ecstasy.
“Five days,” he says. “One for each bullet.”
“Very appropriate,” Hardt replies. “Ms. Atwood, throughout the length of this sentence you are not to speak a word to Mr. Dent, or more time will be added. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Tears streak down my cheeks. I can’t stop blinking.
“Then the meeting’s adjourned,” says Hardt. “Mr. Lipinski, take Ms. Atwood to her cell.”
I nod to Ingram, trying to look brave. I want to tell him to do what they want, that I can take whatever he’s forced to dish out, but there’s no time. Within seconds Garth and his men free me from the chair and take me away.
—
They return me to the same cell and give me the evening to rest, though I have to settle for a five-minute shower. My ass aches fiercely, and I’m sore pretty much everywhere else too. I’d be glad for time to rest, but anticipation of the days to come keeps me from achieving any real relaxation. At some point I nod off.
In the morning, the squeal of my cell door startles me from a nightmare I forget within seconds. I’m more scared of what’s next.
Garth brings me a plate of eggs and toast and gives me two minutes to eat. As soon as I’m finished, he drags me to the dungeon.
Ingram’s waiting when we arrive. He clasps his hands behind his back, watching silently. His icy expression reveals nothing — no fear, fury or regret, just purpose. I know if he could Ingram would tell me that I’m strong enough to endure this. He’d say how mad it makes him that he has to do it, and that the ones who wanted me dead will pay. It must kill him not to be able to say so — I wish I could tell him he doesn’t have to.
Garth hands me off, then steps back. He doesn’t leave. Security cameras swivel to face me; the whine of their moving parts sounds louder than anything else in the room, save my heartbeat.
Ingram takes my hand and stuffs it into a sort of black, leather mitten. Its shape forces me to curl my fingers into a fist, one I can’t release after he tightens the strap around the wrist. He puts another glove on my other hand, then brings over a pair of black, knee-length matching boots. Heavy metal rings attach to rivets in the leather, allowing for more restraints to be added — likely the nearby pile of chains and padlocks.
Sure enough, Ingram uses a short chain to connect each of my mittens to hooks hanging from the ceiling, forcing me to lift and spread my arms. I stifle a gasp as a throbbing between my legs aches for relief. A sudden dread accompanies the sensation as I realize my sentence probably will not include orgasms. If I have to last five days being tormented without any release, that’s going to make this challenge even harder. That could even be the worst part, depending on what Ingram’s planned.
Hands securely bound, Ingram retrieves the boots. He doesn’t ask me to lift my legs so he can put them on me, he just picks up my feet and slides them on. I try to hold still to make it easier, and not groan as rows of straps tighten around my calves. I search the floor for pegs that my boots could be chained to, but see none. Somehow I doubt Ingram put these on me to give my soles some padding.
Then Garth steps in, and together the men lift me forward by my hips. I whoop in shock, taking care not to struggle and slip free. Ingram holds me while Garth chains my boots to another set of hooks hanging from the ceiling in front of me. Once he’s done, they both let go, leaving me hanging. My body bends at the waist like a V, dangling my ass several feet off the ground.
Sweat springs from my forehead and rolls
into my eyes. I’m not especially fearful of heights, but it’s hard to not feel like I might fall and break my spine at any moment. Suspended from my limbs, the weight stresses them painfully. There’s no way I can maintain this position for very long.
Mouth open, words want to form. A plea for mercy, a pledge to obey — anything — but terror seizes me. In this situation, nothing good will come from speaking out of turn.
Before my desperation overwhelms my sense, Ingram stuffs a big, black ball gag in my mouth and buckles it tightly. I whine unintelligibly; my pussy screams for Ingram’s touch. If he could just press one finger between my sodden lips…
I howl from an explosion of pain, caused by a slap from Ingram’s flogger between my legs. Shaking away tears, trembling in the air, I jerk from my ankles in a vain attempt to seal my legs. I can’t though, and the next swing of the flogger catches me on the same spot.
Torment and lust short-circuit my brain — another stroke sends me into a fit. My teeth squeeze into the rubber gag, releasing its chemically sterile flavor. None of it soothes the intense need pulsing in my warmth. Hot cream from my slick folds drips to the floor.
Somewhere on this island, nineteen men are watching. They’re probably sipping their finest liquors and smoking rare Cuban cigars. Maybe they’re at the harem, watching this on a phone while they fuck Madeleine or one of the others. They must be having a lovely time.
Ingram flogs my pussy until I’m writhing from a constant burn. Just when I think he might probe a finger deep into my soaked channel, he instead reaches up to my mittens. Garth holds me as Ingram releases the padlocks, allowing Garth to lower my upper body until I’m hanging upside down completely from my ankles.
I wail through my gag, flailing my arms wildly until Ingram locks them together behind my back. Then he goes to work on my ass, whipping the flogger back and forth. The slapping noise sounds off in a steady rhythm. There’s nothing I can do to evade them. I can’t beg. All I can do is endure the punishment.
Surrendering to the torture, as tears drip up my forehead, I despair at the sad, unavoidable truth that this is just the beginning.
After a day of whips, floggers, canes and paddles, Garth feeds me a dinner of cold tomato soup, then gives me a few minutes to wash up. In the bathroom, resting beside the sink is a metal contraption resembling a pair of panties. A note scrawled with soap on the mirror reads, Put it on.
What the fuck?
Examining the device, I figure out how the crotch piece slips into place, but there’s nothing to keep it sealed. Still, I do as it says, not wanting to disobey and get disciplined all over again.
Once I step out, Garth gives me a pair of small padlocks and points to the belt.
Understanding, I fit and lock them around the rods that connect the belt’s pieces. Once I do, there’s no taking it off. The waistband fits over my hips snugly enough to ensure I can’t pull the device off, and without a key there’s no opening it. Whatever the point of this thing is, no one’s told me. Once Garth inspects my work, he drags me back to the dungeon.
I wonder why I’m coming back here, rather than retiring to my cell for the night, but then Ingram opens a trapdoor in the floor. He points inside.
At first I assume it to be some kind of basement entrance, but it’s not. There are no stairs. It’s just a hole, a cube of space maybe four feet deep.
“In you go,” says Garth, the first time anyone has spoken to me all day.
My eyes are tired from crying — I don’t have any tears left — but Ingram has to tell by my face that I can’t do it.
He looks at me, but his expression doesn’t change.
Exhausted, sore and beyond furious at the Masters, I get down and then lower myself into the oubliette. As soon as I’m in, Ingram separates from the trapdoor a lid made of steel bars. Like the door to a cage, it clicks in place, sealing me in. He and Garth leave without a word.
After a few minutes, the lights go out, leaving me in complete darkness.
I feel around, acquainting myself with the tiny quarters. It’s too short for me to stand up, and too narrow for me to lie down. I could sit, but my ass aches too fiercely. My only real option is to curl up on the floor in the fetal position. Tiled in what must be linoleum, the ground isn’t soft, but at least it’s not as hard as cement. I work my way around with my hands, feeling every inch of the space, but find nothing else: no sheet, no pillow, no food or water.
And when my hands drift down to my pussy to at least grant myself a little release, all I feel is a flat band of metal.
That’s what the belt is for. I can’t touch myself.
I pound on the metal, but none of the sensation gets through.
All of my pent up need from the day’s suffering? It’s not going anywhere. I can’t expunge it with pleasure. And, as I quickly discover, the frustration of trying and failing only makes the situation worse.
There’s nothing for me to do but lay my head on my arms and try to sleep.
One day down, four to go.
And when this is over: revenge.
—
By my best guess, I only endured six hours of punishment on that first day; Ingram gave me lots of time between sessions to recover. Throughout the next three days, that balance shifts: more torture, less rest.
He doesn’t just bind me and have at it, either. On the second day, he collars and leashes me, then forces me to march around the island for hours with a thick plug stuffed up my ass. He flogs my rear every time I don’t walk fast enough, leaving me with a difficult choice: walk quickly and jostle the plug, or get flogged and jostle the plug. It goes on for miles. The Masters line the route, watching like spectators at a marathon. They hold out bottles of water I can’t accept with my bound hands or drink with my gagged mouth. They laugh as Ingram forces me to keep moving.
Everything intensifies again on the third day. I spend hours on the dungeon floor, wrapped head to toe in chains, hardly able to move. Ingram alternates between whipping me and spraying me with the hose. The chains rattle with my shivers long after he shuts the water.
For the fourth day, Ingram tests my endurance not with impact punishments like floggings, but through twelve endless hours of impossible strain on my body. For what feels like ages he leaves me to stand on my toes — the strength in my feet only lasts so long, but if I drop more than an inch, a cord slides deeper between my legs, tormenting my aching pussy. The hours leading up to lunch I spend brutally hogtied, bound with hundreds of feet of stringent rope.
After feeding me a bland turkey sandwich, Ingram binds my legs and arms to themselves with duct tape and sets me down on my knees and elbows. Though I can stand on them without too much pain thanks to some padding under the tape, I can only move by crawling. Then Ingram bunches my hair into a ponytail and ties it to a long, metal hook with a small metal ball at the curved end. I groan as he slips the hook into my ass, then prods me along with a cane. I crawl around the dungeon, making more loops than I can count, all the time feeling the hook shifting in my rear.
Dinner consists of raw vegetables and a bowl of baked beans. I spend the rest of the night after that on my back, strapped to a table with electrodes stuck to my breasts and inner thighs. Every sound I make shocks me — the slightest sigh or sniff. If I scream, the pain lasts even longer. I can’t help trying to wrench free of the heavy leather restraints, but to no avail. My mind reels with terror, imagining that Ingram may leave me like this all night.
This makes me realize something, though. Despite all the pain, the worst part of all of this is the loneliness. I’ve never spent so much time completely alone. People have called solitary confinement cruel and unusual, and I have to believe it. I’ve seen Ingram for hours every day, but he’s held true to Hardt’s order not to say a word. His face betrays no emotion — no pleasure at enjoying my suffering, no fury at being forced to do this to me — nothing. He may as well be a machine. Garth may smirk sadistically when he sees me, but at least he’s acting like a person.
A million times I’ve wanted to tell Ingram that I’m okay, that I can handle the punishment. But, if I do, he’ll have to make it worse — and for another day. I can’t do that to him. He hasn’t done it to me.
This will be over soon. Alone, in the dark, I fantasize about what we’ll do together once these five days are behind us. Most of it involves a warm bed.
I wake up on the fifth day back in the oubliette. I don’t remember Ingram moving me. Excitement about finishing my sentence — surviving it — can’t overcome my mind-numbing fatigue. At any moment I could pass out in my cereal.
The second I’m done eating , Ingram binds my wrists and neck into a rigid, steel yoke. I can flap my hands around, but my arms are fixed in position. He locks my ankles into a similar device. Then he puts me on yet another leash and leads me out of the dungeon.
The daylight stings my eyes. When I can open them properly, I see the Masters have gathered outside. They drink in the sight of me, lingering over my chest and hips. I don’t utter a word. I don’t even make a nasty face. I’m above all this. They’re throwing the worst they can do at me. All they’re doing is making me stronger.
Ingram shows me a pair of small, metal clips connected by a thin chain. I know what they are, I’ve experimented with nipple clamps before. When he attaches them to my sensitive, erect buds, I’m prepared for the pain. I wince, but don’t complain.
However, what comes next is something new: a short, shiny white stick of some kind. It’s too small to be a toy, and there’s a strange, dark misshapen end to it — almost like a tree root.
Then I pick up the smell: ginger.
I hold my breath as Ingram inserts the exposed end of the root into my ass. Within seconds I’m sweating, stifling a scream as pain spreads through me. I’m actually glad when Ingram stuffs a ball gag in my mouth, giving me something to bite down on.
“Don’t let it fall out,” says Sidney Traves. “Or we’ll come back and start again.”
Come back?
Ingram tugs on my leash. Thanks to the yoke, I can only walk one leg at a time. Left, right, left, right. Keeping my balance becomes my top priority — I don’t even want to imagine falling in this state. Each movement disturbs the ginger, exacerbating the pain of its chemical reaction. Tears run down my cheeks, and I constantly have to fight my instincts to expel the root.