When a silver blade flashed up and cut the ropes at her neck she dropped back and collapsed, her body so long accustomed to a massive burden at her throat that she could not balance properly without it. Floundering on the floor, the Warden towered over her and spoke with subdued fury.
“Obviously it will take more than physical duress to crack you. Fortunately we have just the weapon to use, and though it will corrupt your very soul, you will tell us what we want to know. The chance for freedom is gone, we will have this information extracted, and you will be condemned to your new lot for the rest of your life,” growled the woman with a libidinous smirk, pressing her boot onto Lydia’s form to revel in her position of power over the helpless victim.
“Guardas!” roared the Warden, making Lydia flinch from the sudden volume of this bellow.
Two guards entered instantly and looked to the woman as she ground Lydia beneath her sole.
“Tomenla abajo.”
The moment the words left the Warden’s grinning lips, the two men marched forward and grabbed Lydia, lifting her lifeless frame up and dragging her off, her feet scraping along the floor as she hung as a stolid shell.
She was vaguely aware of passing rows of cells, where wretched figures hovered like damned specters and the stench of despair, misery, sweat, and filth was overwhelming.
A banded metal door was unlocked and drawn back, the massively thick entrance like a vault. Lydia’s feet rattled down a set of steps and along a ragged, roughly hewn tunnel where sporadic lighting did little to banish the gloom. Another iron portal was hauled open with difficulty and a light switched on, the flare of dimly unveiled detail causing her to gasp and struggle in mortified alarm at the sight of the Stigean torture chamber. The nightmare apparatus was arrayed with precision upon every wall, the engines of agony skulking amidst the copious shadows, the lack of light granting them an even more malignant appearance.
Her bearers drew her to the side where a row of eight metal panels followed the wall, their lids given fat hinges and a padlocked bolt. The cuffs at her elbows were released and the officers opened the locks and lifted the thick sheet to expose a crude stone pit. The dimensions were sufficient to keep a resident low with space enough for a brief shuffle in any one direction and the small grille of a drain in the center to permit sanitation. Casting her in, she landed heavily and awkwardly. Unable to use her cuffed hands to cushion her fall, she almost broke her arm from dropping upon it.
Without word the cover fell back into place with a near deafening clang, the sound of the weighty closure ringing in her ears. The prospect of confinement once more was abhorrent, her mind having developed a loathing and deep phobia for this mode of close incarceration. Frantically flipping over onto her back, her arms held beneath her, she threw her enfeebled legs up, pushing to the steel roof, trying to stop the guards from sealing her in. Lifting the lid a short way, she stopped them from throwing the bolt and for a moment her heart leapt with joy. The brief sense of victory she eked was stolen as the tyrant’s simply stamped onto the lid, the officer’s lending their weight to defeat Lydia’s chagrin efforts.
The locks were re-secured and the sound of booted feet began to fade until they were lost after the deep pounding slam of the vault door being shut.
With free flowing tears she speedily threaded her shackled wrists under her rear and over her feet, bringing them before her and banging her fists to the lid in unison as she begged for justice. The calls went unanswered and she sank into a despondent mire, rocking softly in a bid to comfort herself in this most heinous hour.
The minute sealed pitllowed her to reach a stooped squat and no higher and gave lease to a single shuffle in any direction before the rough teeth of the rocky confines denied any more. Despite numerous attempts to force herself upright and burst the locks she could not achieve this Herculean objective, the attempts further serving to make off with her energy. Surveying her prison with her fingers in the absence of light, she found only air holes and the small drain at the very bottom of her cell. Was this to be her cage from now on? Had they returned her to isolation with the threat of torture hanging over her until she was removed to be subjected to the purposes of the chamber beyond?
Curling up into a ball she vent her misery with sobs and weeping, her emotions in shambles, her mind reeling, her body numb from the abuses visited upon it.
Meditating on what her fate might be, she let herself drift into a shallow sleep, her thoughts afflicted with anguish as to the prospect of real torture. What were they intending to do to her? Would it be an inquisitional hell, with brands and racks, fire and knives, or were they more evolved in their torment, pushing their expertise into surgical abuse? What was to befall her? How long would she last? Hundreds of nightmarish possibilities crept through her thoughts, the fear eating at her from within, the sheer dreadful terror of what inhumane atrocities were to be inflicted upon her helpless flesh. She had wanted to be in a cell of her own, to be freed of her harridan companions, but now that it had been granted she only wished a return. At least with the two jungle born bitches she knew were she stood and what to expect, whereas here only slow and ugly death hung in loitering expectation.
The sound of heels clacking upon the stone floor under a measured tread stirred her from her worries, and she thought perhaps she was to be set loose, the threat being the means to make her talk. Instead, another of the pits was opened and the occupant drawn out.
Intrigued, she put her ear to the cool metal and listened, having been unaware that others dwelt here. She was inclined to find out what was to be done to them and thereby gain insight into what was to be her own destiny.
The sound of trammels being affixed about limbs had a quality distinct enough to recognize, and while she continued to listen, she heard a momentary whistle of displaced air and the loud crack of a whip biting into flesh. The gagged feminine cry that followed was an interlude between the next lash, and the beating continued without remorse or relent, a savage flogging that had the damned prisoner squealing against her muting gag.
Anguish flooded Lydia’s thoughts at the prospect of such archaic methods, and she was soon pressing her palms to her ears in the hope of fending off the hated sounds of torture—the pitiful scream, the whiplash snap of the weapon being employed, the metallic clatter of a struggling body as it writhed against unforgiving restraints.
The signal of the scourge passed, but the maimed shrieks continued as other means were employed. The malaise she felt was all the more grave for the mystery of the acts being deployed to coax forth such howls, leaving Lydia to conjure her own possibilities, to concoct the deed that were drawing out such harrowing wails. Her imagined afflictions had her cowering in alarm, her belly fluttering as her mind swam with nausea from the prospect of being mutilated thus, her thoughts showing her no mercy and bringing forth visions of acts so nightmarish she almost swooned.
The subject was eventually set free and dragged back to her cell, where the thump of a leaden form had her pondering whether or not they had survived the ordeal.
Chapter Seventeen
The tune of the locks above her being played filled the shallow pit with noise and her heart bloated with trepidation. The creak of metal issued as the veil was removed, exposing her jailer and imminent torturer. Shielding her eyes with her hands, the shackles clinking softly as she peered up from her dark dwelling, Lydia was not surprised to find that a female was to be her nemesis.
She had a curvaceous figure, one she had little concern about flaunting, either to tease her prisoners or to pander to her own ego. Her shapely legs were bare, her feet slipped into patent court shoes with stiletto heels. A peplum latex miniskirt clutched tightly about her abdomen, giving way to a matching zip front bodice which vanished beneath the cropped hem of a gleaming rubber biker jacket. Her long sable hair fell about a stern visage and her gaze was piercing and intense, the stare adding to the aura of intimidation she generated like a physical force.
In her hands she
clutched an elegant riding crop, a weapon with which she indicated for Lydia to exit with a whistling wave.
When she did not move, the instrument flashed downwards, leaving behind a deep purple welt and a storm of pain.
“Out!” spat the woman, and threw up the crop in preparation for a fresh strike.
Cowering with her linked arms raised for shelter, Lydia scuttled from the pit, permitting the woman to throw down the lid and scrutinize the new captive in a stronger light.
Lydia knelt and cringed, her manacled hands between her knees as the woman paced thrice around the naked form, her eyes taking in the details of the prisoner, conjuring schedules and torments, horrors to inflict and abuses to instigate.
Reaching down, fingertips brushed Lydia’s cheek before skipping back to close about her hair, the grip pulling at her roots and making her scalp burn. Instinctively her hands leapt up to try and remove the hold, only to receive stinging blows from the crop until they ceased their interference and moved away. Wincing from the severe hold, Lydia gritted her teeth and paused, gripping her palms between her knees to help defeat any more instinctive responses.
With a sharp pull she was led aside, forced to crawl and keep up the demanded pace to ease the strain. Shown to a rounded pole that ran from floor to ceiling, her captor hauled upwards until Lydia was erect and then placed her back to the wood.
Afraid to resist for fear of the consequences and knowing that any attempt at escape would be useless while she was naked and bound, she did nothing, allowing herself to remain as a passive subject. Her elbows were maneuvered back until the chain of her cuffs was taut across her belly, the metal edges sawing painfully into her joints. A rigid leather manacle was applied above each elbow and connected to its fellow via a short coil of rope. With a stern pull they were dragged up to be secured to a protruding hook on the far side of the pole. Her shoulders throbbed with a deep ache from the twisted position, but there was little she could do, the elevation of the hook was far too high for her to get off of it. Still not satisfied with Lydia’s helplessness, the woman began to buckle thick fetters to her ankles, the feel of the suede interior upon her skin causing Lydia to believe that they were a tool to trap her feet to the base of the pole. When rope was threaded through the D rings of the cuffs, she still continued with this notion until a yank to the rope hauled her feet into the air. The villain dragged them up and slipped the length of rope connecting her feet over the same hook that held her elbows, suspending her upon the anchor, her limbs contorted painfully to hold her as the pole pressed firmly to her spine and rear. Gasping, she gritted her teeth and held to her silence, intending to deny this woman the pleasure of her begs or howls.
However chilling the bondage was, her resentment of this affair only boiled over when she saw the woman set aside her crop and select a short brass pole. Over a foot in length, a leathery waterfall of yard long strips spewed from the tip, the impassive torturess combing them through her fingers, the metal stave that was the hilt sparkling in the weak light.
“You can’t do this, I’m innocent, I—” she began, her dissent being transformed into a croaking yowl, the whip having laid a plexus of angry weals following a capricious though heavy-handed flick.
Another followed, and another, the flat leather tentacles making her breasts and belly reverberate with pounding waves. Lydia stretched her fingers out onto her chest to take away some of the assault, but the weapon afflicted such a large area with its searing touch that she only really succeeded in opening her hands to harm.
Throwing herself wildly in her bonds, her wrists were plagued with gnawing agony, the cuffs responding to her dance with mordant intensity. Her legs kicked into her bonds, the muscles straining, the flesh rippling with her battle to evade the methodical targeting of her body, her breasts bouncing wildly, her eyes clenched shut within her mask of duress.
The flogging ended abruptly and Lydia sank upon her bonds, torpid and phased, having wrenched her muscles and ligaments with her fight upon her bonds.
Hanging upon the hook, her body held like a stringed puppet awaiting use, she dimly noticed the woman fetching something new, and then as the fires of her trial started to ebb, her hair was being smoothed back before being trapped in a stern pony tail. The sides of a latex hood were gathered in and the garment forced down over her head with careless intensity. As the contours of the molded item were steered to the correct positions and her mane hauled from the designated opening with a brutality that made her wince, she found that it offered no sight.
“Open your mouth,” demanded the woman, cradling Lydia’s chin and lifting up her slothful head upon a curled forefinger.
Rendered cooperative by the abuse, she willingly parted her jaws, her chest still possessed of penetrating rawness. The opening was not satisfactory so the woman sank her fingers into Lydia’s cheeks and squeezed, forcing her maw to its limits, the nails digging spitefully into her cheeks to leave flushed indentations.
A flaccid balloon slipped in, borne upon a plate of metal. The riveted straps that were thrown from this barrier were cast about her skull and tightened by degrees until she feared her head would implode, the leather creaking with the heavy stresses being placed upon it. The restraints were secured and then locked to prevent any interference, each buckle and strap ready and able to provide such security.
Lydia detected the application of something to the exterior nozzle and suddenly the trespasser was welling in her mouth under a steady rhythm of pumps. As her tongue was ground beneath the globe and her jaws were strained against the straps, panic set in and she began to jolt against her limb-warping cuffs, her fingers clawing at her skin as sheer panic descended within her. After imposing a slight crimp to her breathing from its bloated bulk pressing against the back of her throat, the procedure stopped.
Battling to find a way to defeat the gag, she wheezed through her nose and listened as her captor spoke, her senses reduced to this last one, for it was certain that her sense of touch would be occupied with trauma at any moment. Drool started to escape the gag and stretch from her chin, her body reverberating with discomfort and heat, her skin growing damp with sweat.
“I am your Mistress. I do not care if you are innocent or guilty. I am not here to determine verdicts I am here to break the enemies of our country. Now, you will eventually be conditioned to adore me. The program works just as well for women as for men, and once you are groveling at my feet in worship, we will determine your final fate.”
The song of metal being moved permeated the muffling hood and she felt some sort of full steel helmet being closed about her head. The item fitted snugly, its structure sculpted delicately to follow the contours of human features. Hinged at the crown into two halves—that of the face and the back of her skull, the seams of the device closed over her ears and the latches were firmly and irrevocably locked at her neck. It was light, but the added weight was still unwelcome in her current suspended predicament.
It was only in the quiet after it was installed that she heard the whispers. Just at the very limit of her hearing she could detect words, a seductive litany that continued without pause. As she slowed her breathing and listened to the audio-education she began to discern the sentences contained therein. The subliminal brainwashing was not to pledge her allegiance or give up her supposed secrets, it was to inspire devotion to this woman.
“You can feel your lust burning when you look upon my body. The contours that entice, presented in latex to shield me from your worthless presence. You will do anything to grovel at my feet, to abase yourself and lap at my heels, to taste the gleaming fabrics that coat my frame. I am a goddess, a divine empress who you will do anything to please, endure anything to gain the most meager favor from. You are a worm beneath contempt, lower than a slave, and you are blessed beyond measure when I give you attention, and you will obey without pause or question to show how much you love me. You w—”
She shook her head to dispel the sounds, so offensive did she find
them. Noticing the excessive volume, the Mistress decreased the tune slightly, reducing it to an almost inaudible murmur in the background, a weapon to assail her subconscious without relent.
A cry left Lydia’s lips as the woman grabbed her ankles from behind and stole away yet more rope, lifting her feet higher from the ground and then fastening them at this increased height, her buttocks being splayed against the beam. The ascent in twisting pain gnawed at her joints and her teeth chattered uncontrollably upon the gag, her breathing quickening into uneven rasps.
A jolt traversed her hovering form as a terrible bite drilled into her nipples, the clamps the torturess applied being drawn tighter by the effects of a leaden weight that dangled from their chains, stretching the pert assets downward, the cold burden chilling her whip-marked torso. She spasmed again with greater motion as another set of cruel jaws nipped her clitoris, the sensitive morsel throwing out more pain than she could stand and maintain her silence. Her shaking fingers clawed for the implements, the one hanging from her sex far out of her range. When she reached for the ones blighting her mamilla, all she could do was snag the weight and its chain to bring more pain as she tugged on it, failing to get access to the actual clamp or any chance to get the terrible tools off.
Gurgling upon the gag, she cried desperately to get free, all to no avail, the woman being a veteran of such abuses and so her callous heart was as stone to them. The sharp initial shock of the clamps began to settle into a dull heat that bore its own lethargic pulse, one that was slowly starting to ascend in potency. The mechanisms were stashing away a secret reserve of anguish that they would save for her when they were removed, each minute they remained with her boosting this stash.
Blind, mute, and near deaf, Lydia’s first awareness of the incoming strap was gained only when the stiff appliance impacted upon her presented belly, the smooth surface applauding the virulent blows with thunderous claps and a vehement maelstrom of havoc.
Condemned to Slavery Page 16