by Pat Powers
Four women dressed in skintight black spandex ninja suits followed her into the room. They wore mirrorshades over their eyes, giving them that forbidding, insectoid look that all the women so dressed had. They pushed her down on a pillow. There was a ring in the floor by the pillow. They tied her hands to it. Then they tied her feet to it, so that her body was bent backward in a cruel bow. But they weren't through with her. They put ropes around her knees and tied them to rings set on either side of her so that her knees were pulled wide apart though her feet were tied together.
Finally, they looped a rope around her neck and tied it to her collar just inches away from her neck, so that if she tried to move her head and shoulders away from the ring, she was half strangled. But they used a knot that did not tighten when she did so.
It was a very painful position to lie in, her arched back forcing the weight of her torso onto her shoulders and neck, her leg's weight resting on the sides of her feet and her lower shins because her feet were forced sideways by the ropes that pulled her legs apart. Her inner thighs were strained too, because her legs were pulled so wide apart.
The women seated themselves around her, two on either side, once they had her restrained and spread. Eileen moaned and writhed, trying to shift her weight to ease the strain on her joints, but to very little effect.
"That's it, get comfy," said the woman sitting near Eileen's head. She took off her gloves, but otherwise remained invisible. The others took off their gloves as well. "OK, the reason we're here. My name's Laurel, this is Willow, Cinnabar and Holly. We're all sadists, Eileen. We like to cause pain. We're also strictly consensual sadists -- we only cause pain to those who enjoy it. We're very good at what we do --we're sought-after for our skills.
"One thing you should know about us, Eileen, is that we despise non-consensual sadists," Laurel continued. "We have reason to hate them more than most people do, because people often confuse us with them. We'll put it to you very bluntly --people who engage in consensual sex are known as lovers, people who engage in nonconsensual sex are known as rapists. The same difference applies with us. Imagine if people really did as some feminists advise and treated all men as rapists. Men would think that was unfair. But they'd also be pretty damn pissed at the rapists, wouldn't they, for doing the things that made them suspect by association.
"Now, we know you're not here consensually, Eileen," Laurel continued. "But you do present a special case. Legally, you have no consent to give. You don't have any rights as a person -- you've lost those. The judge took them away. So in a legal sense we CAN'T treat you in a nonconsensual manner -- you've no consent to give.
"But there is still the matter of ethics. Ethically, this is definitely a nonconsensual matter. But it is also a special case. You see, you have hurt so many of us so deeply that no amount of torture could equal it, even if we tortured you to death and took months doing it. We have all been imprisoned, or had loves one imprisoned, by your Obscenity Laws.
"In particular, there was one among us named Rosie," Laurel continued. "A submissive who was dear to all of us in this room except you, and to many others. She modeled for some of us who published on the Internet, and wound up in jail for it, where she was repeatedly raped by guards. She killed herself because of it. Rosie had been whipped and spanked and caned and fisted and fucked while gagged and tied like an animal -- but always by choice. Always, her choice, and the knowledge that she could say "no" and her "no" would be respected. But she couldn't handle the sheer nonconsensuality and brutality of the rapes she endured in prison, so she hung herself from the bars of her cell one night. We are sure she found death a blessing.
"We blame you for that. And we're going after the guards, too, in a different way, if that's any consolation to you -- didn't think it would be.
"So in all of our names, but particularly in Rosie's name, we can't just let the matter drop," said Laurel, a hard edge creeping into her voice. "We thought about it, and we've decided to hold a special memorial service for Rosie, and you are going to be the guest of honor for it. We are going to tell you about Rosie and some of the others who've suffered under your hand, and while we are doing it, we're going to teach you a thing or two about suffering. Because you really need to know about it. That is why we are going to make this exception to our rule against nonconsensuality -- because you need to understand what suffering and humiliation is, so that you can never again treat human beings as you have in the past."
"What we are about to do is to soil ourselves for your sake, and for Rosie's and for everyone else you have injured or may injure in the future," said Laurel. "We don't think you have any idea how much suffering and pain you've inflicted on others, or really, what suffering and pain is. We are going to teach you about that."
"These are our tools," said Holly, opening a black canvas back and pulling out a roll of dark cloth. She unrolled it and saw an assortment of very nasty looking objects indeed. Whips. Floggers. Paddles. Needles with wooden handles. Clothespins. A couple of electronic devices with alligator clips. Alligator clips with chains attached to them. Round spiky wheels. A lot of other things, all of them very clean and shiny but with a patina of use.
Eileen looked at the array of devices spread out on the cloth and grew very, very afraid. In fact, she began trembling.
"There, there," said Laurel, "I guess it's reasonable for you to be afraid under these circumstances, but you don't have to be that afraid. We are not allowed to maim you, and we won't. We won't even affect your appearance, really. We may break the skin here and there, but nothing that won't heal up good as new in a couple of days. You're going to get through this physically unharmed. Psychologically, well, that's a different matter. We're hoping to make a few changes there, and that's gonna leave some deep scars. Surgeons leave scars, too, you know. Sometimes you have to leave a scar to heal."
Eileen was comforted to know she was not about to be maimed, but not all that comforted. It wasn't just the instruments that frightened her. It was the way these women moved. They began putting electrodes on her, after dotting her skin with ointment where the electrodes would go. They moved with practiced skill and grace, like an operating team working over a patient. There was a certain calm familiarity in the way they put their hands on her body, as if it were already familiar territory to them.
They stroked her skin sometime as they put the monitors on, but it was a very possessive touch they had, as if they were claiming her body as their territory.
"EKG monitor,"" Laurel explained. "We don't want your heart to give out or anything like that while we play. And you'll be glad to know that Holly here is a licensed paramedic, so if you do have any sort of cardiac problem, we can get you taken care of."
This frightened Eileen more. They were going to be doing things that might make her heart give out.
Without really thinking about it, Eileen began struggling against her bonds. She knew it was hopeless, but she was frightened at such a deep level that her body was struggling without any conscious intervention on her part.
Knowing glances among the women.
"You don't really want to be here, do you, Eileen?" asked Laurel. "Well, Rosie got to feeling the same way about her prison cell after awhile, but you know, they never did let her go. She had to go to some drastic measures to manage her escape."
"You can call us the Sisters of Mercy," said Laurel. "We'll be taking you to the point where you know that you just can't go on, and beyond."
Eileen was now officially terrified. Her nakedness, her helplessness, and the calm implacability of the women who surrounded her was too much. She began to make terrified noises that her homouth converted into pathetic bleats.
"Let's start with a little breath control, that always gets the attention," said Laurel. She pinched Eileen's nostrils shut with one hand and put her other hand over her homouth, shutting off her breath completely. Eileen twisted her head this way and that, but bound as she was she couldn't get her shoulders into it at all, and Laurel kept
her hands in place with practiced skill.
Eileen kept waiting for Laurel to remove her hands from her face, but she didn't. Her twisting stopped being just a matter of her head, with her whole body now writhing to get free of the life-threatening hands on her face, but the chains and the iron ring held her in place easily, and Laurel's hands stayed in place easily, and Eileen's heart seemed on the point of bursting and god she had to breathe, had to breathe, had to ... everything went black and ...
She was awake again. Her face was wet. Someone had poured cold water on it. She looked up and saw her frightened face reflected in Laurel's mirrored shades.
"Well, now we now what your limits are, we can skate right up to them and dance away," said Laurel. She put her hands over Eileen's face again.
Once again Eileen was being smothered and helpless to prevent it. It couldn't be happening again, it was too horrible! But it was. She struggled and writhed anew, but with no better result. Then, just as the blackness was descending to give her welcome respite, Laurel removed her hands and Eileen was able to sluck in one glorious breath through her homouth, and then Eileen's hands were back and she was smothering and god, she was DYING, this crazy woman was going to kill her! She had to breathe! Breathe! Breathe!
At the same time, another set of hands began to expertly manipulate her vagina. She felt fingers gently stroking her libia, probing her clit, and finally entering her vagina and probing her in a way that roused her in a way that she had never been roused before, sending white hot surges of pleasure to compete with the the red hot sparks of pain. Soon she was orgasming helplessly even as she struggled to breathe, her body a helpless toy in the hands of these women who so expertly manipulated it in every way.
Eileen quickly lost track of time under this regimen. There was only the hands that smothered her and the hands that made her cum. She wanted to give up and let them kill her or maybe turn her into a mindless sex toy, which was what she felt like, but her body fought far past her mind's power to endure. That was in part was what was so horrible about it -- somehow, they were extinguishing her mind as they tortured and pleasured her, she was just a body responding frantically to competing sensations of pain and pleasure.
The breath control ended, but her torment did not. They kept torturing her and making her cum. They used floggers and canes and whips and needles and dildos and vibrators and butt plugs and their tongues. They knew all of her sensitive areas -- her inner thighs, the soles of her feet, areas near her armpits -- but they also concentrated on her sexual areas.
And each of MacCammon's tormentors, it turned out, had a homouth of her own. They would unsnap some snaps near their ears and the lower part of their hoods would fall away, leaving a mask still covering all of their face above the nose. While the others tormented Eileen's body one of them would sit astraddle her chest, lean over, and place her homouth right over Eileen's in the equivalent of a kiss. Except that both of them had a clitoris just below her nose. And instead of probing each others' mouths with their tongues, they rubbed their facial clits and labia against her facial clit and labia.
The women, having homouths of their own, knew exactly how Eileen's homouth was wired, and they expertly pressed, probed and rubbed against her until the pleasurable sensations from the homouth actually overcame the pain sensations that were coming in from the rest of her body. She came, time after time, from this deeply unnatural contact of organs that did not belong on a woman's face, she came with moans and slurking sounds beneath the women who tormented her.
To surrender so completely to people who hated you and hurt you was horrifying, terrifying. But they gave her no choice at all. Naked, bound, her body arched and totally exposed to them, she had no defense, and no recourse. She writhed and shuddered and made pathetic little screams inside her homouth when they wanted her to feel pain, and she writhed and shuddered and arched her body even more when they wanted her to come. Eileen's will, Eileen's interests, had nothing to do with it.
And because she was so helpless and controlled and tormented beyond her ability to respond as a conscious human being -- reduced to just a body in the hands of fiends -- she had orgasms as she had never had them before. Complete, deep, shuddering orgasms uncontrolled by any conscious sense of shame or any awareness of who she was or what she was doing at all, except on the most basic physical level.
Unfortunately, this was also matched by complete, deep, uncontrolled surrender to the pain they were doling out to her so generously as well. If it were not for the homouth, the room would have been filled with hoarse, harsh, full-blooded screams. The thick tissues of her homouth acted as a gag, suppressing the screams to tortured moans welling up from her chest and throat.
The Sisters of Mercy went about their business calmly, implacably, and with a knowledge of Eileen's body and how it responded to pain and pleasure that Eileen herself not only did not have, but could not have conceived of. Eileen had next to no knowledge of pain. Childhood earaches were as far as her awareness of pain extended. As an adult she had occasional headaches and bouts of sinusitis, but she'd always found that drugs could handle that. She'd had a toothache once, but a dentist equipped with Novocain and laughing gas had taken care of it very quickly. Her children had been born while she was unconscious.
Her parents and everyone she had ever known had treated her with great respect and love and gentleness. She was in fact ignorant about pain and suffering. She understood that such things existed and were considered very bad things. She just had no idea what it was like to experience them to any great extent. It was part of the reason she had been able to so calmly prescribe suffering for others. She had understood suffering was bad, but only in the abstract.
Now, a screaming, moaning writhing thing chained naked to the floor and in the hands of her enemies, she learned what suffering and pleasure were all about.
When, some infinite span of time later, they finished with her, she was completely drained. Limp and helpless, she hung in the hands of the two large men who dragged her out. She didn't even shrink from their touch. Her eyes were half open, but they didn't move around or focus. She was too exhausted to actually look at things.
* * *
After they dragged Eileen out of the room, the Sisters took off their hoods, revealing themselves as women in early middle age with the same late blush of youth that the nanocytes had given Eileen. Nanocytes were cheap now, and everyone looked good. Everyone looked young. All were flushed and sweaty and they all looked unhappy. Sister Holly appeared to have been crying.
"Well, that was worse than I thought it would be, and I thought it would be very bad," said Sister Cinnabar. "I feel like a real piece of shit."
"Well, you are, and so am I, and I hate it," said Sister Willow. "I know we told them we'd do the whole thing, but I just do not know if I can do this again. That was too awful."
"What difference does it make?" Sister Holly asked dully. "We're one of them now. Might as well BE them if we are going to do what they do"
"We're not one of them," said Sister Laurel. "We talked about this. We figured it out. We made an exception. We are still OK."
"Well you may be OK, but I am not fucking OK!" Sister Holly snarled. "I am one long damned way from being OK! She did not enjoy that at all! We used her against her will. We fucking raped her, the lot of us. It's one thing to talk about, but now that I've done it, I just want to fucking shoot myself."
"Yeah," said Sister Willow morosely. "So we made an exception, and I know she was a stinking bitch and all that, but now I'm one, too, and even when I was in a jail cell thinking about my lover trying to get along without me, I knew I was a better person than the people who put me there, and that kept me going. Now I'm free, but I don't have that feeling about myself all of a sudden. I mean, is this how torturers get started? They make an exception. Then the next exception is easier to make, and the next and the next, and eventually you don't have to make exceptions at all..."
"So, look, we did a hard thing," said Si
ster Laurel. "It's not like none of us has ever asked any sub or bottom to do a hard thing, is it? And it was still a thing that needed doing. You know as well as I do that that bitch had no idea, not a single tiny bit of an idea, of all the suffering she caused. Sister Rosie and all the others were just distant blips on her radar screen. She didn't care because she couldn't understand what she was doing to people, or that it was people she was doing it to. Probably she'll never be in a position to harm people again. But we don't KNOW that, and so she has to learn. Even if she never harms another, she should KNOW what she did. She should KNOW it. And thanks to us, she will."
Chapter 5
She had forgotten how normal people responded to such things.
She woke up knowing that the best thing for her to do would be to kill herself. She knew she should because of something Sister Laurel had said before she left.
"Get some rest now," Sister Laurel said. "You'll need it for your next visit."
That meant that there would be a next visit for sure. In fact, when they came in to take her away, they might be taking her to them again.
That meant she had to kill herself now, before they had her again.
Unfortunately, whoever had put her in her stall had known how she would feel when she woke up. Because she found herself tied down spreadeagled to the ground, her arms and legs stretched wide, not painfully so, but not enough to give her any purchase against the ground.
What's more, a leather harness encircled her head. It's straps connected to a metal ring located at the crown of her head, and from that metal ring was hooked a chain, a very short chain connected to a metal ring set in the ground just above her head. There was absolutely no slack in the chain, which meant that she could not raise her head more than a fraction of an inch from the floor, which meant that she could not bash it into the floor.