Cruel Devices: Taboo Punishment Collection (Extreme Bondage)

by Cirque, Jacqueline D

  But what’s this?

  A finger scoops the wetness between our bodies and screws itself into my ass, pushing deep into my stink hole, only a thin wall separating it from the monster that rides my cunt below.

  It is the final straw. I let out a stream of obscenities as a fresh coating of cum covers my hair and open mouth. Colours fly inside my head and my cunt clamps down and releases violently on the giant’s still pumping member, the finger in my ass copping mutually attractive treatment as I lose control of my body and feel a wave of pleasure and virginal ecstasy flow through me in one, steady stream.

  Just as the giant seems to move past this barrier, the rubbery plug to my womb, just as he guides himself right into my stomach, I faint. The final image I see as I look out between the webbed strands of seed are cocks surrounding me on every side, building again, growing to attention by their masters’ hands and preparing to ravage me once more.

  I drift in a black void, loosely aware of weight, of bodies being pressed against me, my orifices filled, emptied, over and over, only hours ago so pure and tight being pulled loose and stretched wide.

  The heckling is distant. I am under the dark water of my mind, men collecting into the murky depths of consciousness above.

  I snap awake to a clear moon drifting between fleeting clouds.

  Strands of saliva and seed reach to the ground from my mouth. My hair is matted and dry, thick with it.

  My legs are splayed wide apart, a cavernous throbbing between them.

  My body now longer shakes but quivers in loose spasms, a poor imitation of my earlier convulsions.

  My head is foggy. Through the mist another man approaches. He is dressed in black from head to toe, a mask over his face – Death come to claim me.

  With a single blow, Death strikes the lock that binds the stocks and lifts the top bar away.

  I’m too weak to move, too spent to lift my arms and heads.

  He aids me, wrapping my arm around his neck and dragging me across the barren earth of the square, lifting me by my bruised buttocks onto the back of his horse.

  The horse moves below. The village vanishes into a pale grey dot as we move into the woods, damp and mossy.

  Everything blurs into a seamless stream of consciousness. My sex is numb, my ass still wide. The bush of my sex is sodden with seed and virginal blood.

  Death takes me from the horse over shoulder and places me against a tree. A fire starts and I am grateful for it, grateful for this chance to be warmed prior to my ultimate consumption, to be finally free of this world, but when the stranger crouches beside me, removing his mask, I stare into his anvil-coloured eyes and realise the worst is yet to come.

  Punished By The Guillotine

  The crowds are out in force. Flags waves and children scurry along the streets next to the parade.

  Months of planning have come down to this moment, to me.

  I press myself against the wall of the alleyway and look out over the heads gathered by the streetside.

  The procession approaches. I spot the pig immediately, his belly bloated with spoils of the Aristocracy and the suffering of others, of his entire country. The general is about to taste the wrath of the sans-culottes.

  I bring out the knife, holding it low as to avoid suspicion. I will have to strike fast if there is to be any chance.

  On the opposite side of the street a barrel explodes, splinters of wood showering over the crowd. People scream, run in all directions, but my eyes are focussed on just one man.

  I steal through the crowd with stealth, an arrowhead with knife extended driving right for the general’s heart.

  No one sees me coming, a young urchin girl. No one sees my dark hair whipping behind my head as I rush towards destiny.

  I have visualised this moment so many times, the press of the tip against his coat, the sinking as the blade slides into his flesh, between his ribs and stops his beating, blackened heart.

  A revolution will only come about if the brave act.

  I am doing my part.

  The general turns just in time to see the knife soaring towards him.

  It presses forward against his coat just I have imagined so many times. I know I am about to succeed.

  Viva la France.

  But just as I am about to press forward, to drive the blade deep, the knife goes flying from my hand.

  A tall man in blue stands to my side, his sabre raised and his entire face a smirk. He has thwarted me, a single man.

  Shock remains on the general’s face as two soldiers seize me by the arms.

  They turn to the man in the blue uniform beside me, who’s looking me curiously up and down as if I could not possibly be the assailant.

  “What should we do with her, lieutenant?” the guards query.

  He smiles. “Bring her to the dungeons.”

  *

  “Revolution!” the lieutenant cries. “There is no revolution. You are but mice, scampering around under the city, you and your sans-culottes.”

  The lieutenant’s uniform is bold blue, pressed neatly and free of dirt. It is perhaps the only thing in this interrogation chamber that’s clean, myself included.

  He stands from across the desk, hands behind his back and paces until he’s beside me. I look down at the chains that bind my wrists, their cold iron.

  “I do admire your bravery, mademoiselle. As far as assassination attempts go, it was daring, if ultimately foolish.”

  He stands closer still, perhaps to peer down into my cleavage. I’ve heard of his deviancy. “You understand the penalty?”

  Death.

  “We will see to your execution in the morning.”

  He places his hands on my shoulders, kneading my tender flesh. “It is a shame,” he remarks, “for such a dove to be extinguished so young.”

  He releases me and I catch my breath. He sits back behind the desk. In any other circumstance he would be a regular, handsome man, but I cannot get past his eyes. They appear to suck the very light from the room, black as ash.

  “For now, back to the dungeons.”

  *

  I’m awoken by a clanging next to my head. Someone is hitting the chains that bind me to the wall with a sabre. It’s dark and I struggle for bearing. Is this it? Is it time to face my execution?

  A key rattles in a lock and I’m temporarily freed from the wall, led by the irons around my wrists from the dungeon and into a narrow hallway that runs down the gaol.

  The corridor is quiet. I see prisoners sleeping, curled up like babes against the cold and constant wet that so pervades these subterranean quarters.

  I’m led by the guard up a series of stairs. I struggle to climb them, breathing hard against the pillowed front of my tunic, the cold air sweeping underneath and bringing gooseflesh to the fore on my skin.

  Another door is unlocked and we come out into a square courtyard, cobblestone and walls rising perpendicular around it. There are no windows. There are no spectators. There is simply the guillotine.

  For a moment I’m choked with fear as I stare upon the giant structure. It rises from the ground like a wooden colossus, the blade at the top glinting in the moonlight with sinister intent.

  The guard turns and I see now that it is, in fact, the lieutenant. He has a smile on his face that instantly sends tendrils of ice into my belly.

  He leads me towards the erection as my heart gallops ahead. My head pounds as I try to focus, to be anywhere but before this pillar of death.

  The lieutenant leaves me standing as he walks around the guillotine, running his hand over the wooden columns that support it.

  “My darling,” he says, stroking it, “I have brought you a gift.”

  He turns to me. “Did you know this very guillotine was designed by a harpsichord maker? I must confess I much prefer the music this machine makes.” He points to the crossbar and angled blade that hangs from it. “As you can, mademoiselle, the blade design is much refined. It is placed at a perfect forty-five-degree ang
le so as to sever the neck cleanly,” he claps his hands together, “fully, efficiently, as is the French way.”

  A rabbit has caught in my throat. I gulp it down.

  “Typically, the condemned would be brought here at dawn, a crowd summoned and the execution carried out for all to witness, but you, mademoiselle, are no typical prisoner.” His eyes slide to the area between my heaving breasts. “No, for you I have arranged a rather more private affair. Let me show you how capable my darling is.”

  He selects a melon from a basket beside the machine. I realise that it’s the same size as my head. He places it in the lunette and clamps it down. With a pull of the release lever the blade drops and the melon is split in two, half of it rolling away towards the gates.

  He pulls the blade back into position, the rope straining against the weight of it. When it hits the crossbar at the top, he ties the rope back and once more the guillotine is set.

  All I can hope is that the blade falls true, severing head from body quickly. I quiver, wrists trembling in the irons.

  “Sometimes,” continues the lieutenant, now stroking the release lever, “for those truly debase criminals, we remove the blade altogether, allowing the weight to crush the windpipe, though it does not always do so completely.” He laughs. “It can be rather amusing, I assure you.”

  He places a key into my irons, removing them and casting them onto the cobblestone with a ‘clank’. My wrists are red, ringed raw.

  I spy the sabre swinging against his hip, the gilded hilt begging for me to grasp it and strike, but I know he is too quick. He would take great pleasure in cutting me down before I’ve even reached for it.

  He moves me towards the guillotine and I begin to tremble. Be strong, I tell myself, for the others if not yourself.

  He instructs me to lie on the bench, placing my neck in the lunette. I have no choice but to comply, feeling the solid weight of the bench below as I lie down, the worn ring of the lunette against the back of my throat, the scent of the melon just cut, its juices staining the wood.

  The bench ends just after my buttocks. My feet are planted on the ground, knees bent.

  The lieutenant lowers the top of the lunette. It sits against the front of my neck and now I am at the mercy of the monster, caught within its wooden grip, unable to see my body, to see only the paper thin blade that rests above, swinging ever so slightly in the breeze.

  It is an uncommon position to be lying thus, facing the blade, but I would rather see it coming, to know the implement that will strip me from this world. Such is the way of the sans-culottes.

  I am unsure what to do with my hands, so I grip the sides of the bench below. I grip it until my knuckles harden and my nails dig into the wood fibres.

  I can hear the lieutenant’s boots on the cobblestone as he rounds the machine. Quietly, I detect his fingers tracing their way down my tunic, running over my breasts and down to the hem. Slowly, he lifts my tunic upwards, pressing it over my body until it’s collected against the lunette and I am exposed to the night air, naked and afraid.

  There are no undergarments for prisoners, no such luxury in the dungeons. My nipples stand stiff against the night, the breeze blowing against the dark fleece between my legs that marks my sex.

  The lieutenant is there, at the end of the bench. I hear him removing his pants, cloth and buckles, leather.

  No.

  There’s a sharp ringing as he pulls his sabre free of its sheath. The sound continues to echo around the courtyard as something cold and firm rests against my hole.

  I inhale sharply with realisation. He has placed the tip of his sabre against my opening, resting the blunt back edge against the floor of my sex, pressing downwards and stretching my slit. He presses forward slightly and I can feel the tip slide inside.

  I dare not move, or breathe. The smallest motion and I will be cut.

  Does he mean to skewer me? Gut me like a fish?

  The lieutenant laughs, withdrawing the sabre and allowing me to breathe once more.

  “You have a beautiful cunt, mademoiselle.”

  I feel fingers against it, pressing through my folds.

  It does not surprise me that the lieutenant is well versed in female anatomy. He knows exactly where to press, to stroke, to elicit reaction.

  Infuriatingly, I grow wet under his touch. He strokes my slit and my heart pounds.

  Looking at the blade above has turned me giddy. I wonder if, when the blade parts my head from my body, I will remain conscious, spinning on the ground below.

  I’ve seen it often. Heads roll only to blink and twitch at the crowds. There is life after the separation. I have witnessed it with my own two eyes. The heads are shocked into a kind of alert indignation. ‘What has happened?’ they query of the greedy onlookers. ‘What have you done with my body?’

  The lieutenant’s fingers tangle in the silken black between my legs, running through my moistening lips.

  He steps forward. Out the very corner of my eye I see his hand on the release lever. He pulls it slightly and the blade groans in the crossbar above.

  My body pulls tight, my spine pressing off the wooden bench.

  There’s a scream in the distance. Another woman has come to blows.

  Time stretches, becomes infinite. How long does he wish to wait, to extend the torture?

  Fingers curl around my wrist, lifting my hand and placing it on the lieutenant’s hardening cock.

  “Your choice is simple, mademoiselle. Pull my cock, or I pull the lever.”

  I’ve only ever given hand jobs to stable boys, fellow conspirators in hushed corners under blankets. My technique is simple. It may not please the exotic tastes of the lieutenant.

  With disgust, I begin to pump my hand up and down his erection as much as my bondage will allow.

  The bare heat of his cock is in strong juxtaposition to the taciturn night. My breath comes out in clouds as I labour to jerk the lieutenant off, ever-present of the blade that hovers above and the pressure of the lunette against my tender neck.

  The lieutenant moves his hips in rhythm with my hand. I pump him harder, keen to finish him and submit to Death, but he does not come swiftly.

  I work on his bulging glans, rolling my hand over his knob and gathering the moisture there to hasten my work, but still he remains composed.

  Damn you, I think. Is this not humiliation enough?

  I stroke firmer down his pulsing length, running my nails down his shaft, cupping his balls.

  The lieutenant pulls away, his cock slipping from my grasp and his hand leaving the release.

  He laughs. “Your hand pleases me, mademoiselle, but if I’m afraid it is your pussy I desire.”

  No!

  “Yes,” he affirms. “The blade itself is not punishment enough. The humiliation, the cleansing, must be absolute. Besides, I simply cannot resist your cunt.”

  “Please!” I shout, throat pressing against the underside of the lunette with my words. “Just let me die”

  “No, no, no. I can practically you’re your cunny whispering to me, begging me to fill it with true French cock.”

  I hear him moving to the end of the bench, my bare bottom settled on the edge. He pushes my knees apart and steps between them easily, even as I try to close my thighs.

  The round shaft of his cock parts the moist lips of my pussy, but he does not immediately penetrate me. Instead he reaches forward, stroking and playing with my breasts, running his fingers down the bellow-like breathing of my stomach to stroke the lingering bud hidden at the top of my sex.

  My loins light up. There is nothing I can do to restrain my body from responding to his touch no matter how much I detest it.

  I pant, pleading to the heavens to forgive me as my core melts and desire flows around the intruder at my lips. My body begins to writhe on the bench. I twist my neck in the lunette as my pulses races with the shocking pleasure developing in my pussy.

  Cunt pulsing with need, hips lifting from the wooden plain
below, the lieutenant shifts forward and fills me with his prick in one long slide that pushes the air from the lungs.

  My cunt holds him in tight possession as he grasps my hips and begins to thrust against me, each pressing my shoulders against the lunette and causing the crossbar to shake above, the blade quivering with the action.

  A moan escapes my mouth as I rock against him, shifting my hips as much as my bondage will allow to take in this final act of pleasure, a final, dreadful capitulation.

  As he thrusts, his practiced touch runs circles around the bud above his skewering cock. My cheeks burn against the cold as shockwaves pound through my body with the lieutenant’s every brutal stroke, his cock running through me long and deep to tap against the rearmost wall of my cunt, knocking at the very door to my virgin womb.

  I close my eyes to blind out the blade above. I picture better times, lovers, quiet fuckings by the river as we stole into the night. With these images foremost in mind, the feelings grow bolder between my loins. It feels wonderful, this fucking, a divine gift.

  Blotches of distant colour ring around the blackness as the entire contraption seems to shift on the cobblestone. The lieutenant bucks forward yet harder, throwing obscenities at me, spitting at my body as he grunts and bellows into my pale form.

  The surroundings leave me. The guillotine evaporates and it is only my lover and I, the golden bliss warming us on this winter night.

  As I dream, the lieutenant’s fingers continue to circle my bud with relentless precision. He flicks at it, sending a thunderbolt of pleasure that tips my senses towards abandon.

  He speaks as he fucks me. “Your kind disgusts me. You think you will put change in motion, but you are wrong. You serve only to please your masters, and right now your master is my cock. Can you feel it, fucking your villainous body? Are you getting off being railed by a real man and not another sewer rat that will end by the same blade?”

  He shifts position, angling his cock upwards against the sensitive roof of my pussy. “Let me tell you, mademoiselle, of the many women I have lain waste to on this splendid machine, the many bodies I have broken and ravaged only to have each beg for more, asking me to drive my prick into them over and over.”