When the action was over, she held him tight to her and whispered in his ear. “I’ve never done that before.”
“What?”
“Made a man come twice without withdrawing. Thank you for a brand new experience.”
“You’re welcome.” He rolled off her and lay limp beside her.
“Wasn’t that better than coming in my mouth?” she asked.
He grabbed her breast and squeezed it firmly.
She took that as assent.
Mr. B wasn’t going to wait forever. After watching his friend get the royal treatment, he was ready to explode in his pants.
She slipped off the bed and took the stick of butter from his hand. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispered.
While he undressed, she lubed her asshole, not just coating around her sphincter with butter, but shoving a goodly amount into her colon with her fingers.
When she had been owned by men who used her sexually, she had used a butt plug every day to keep herself stretched. The professor didn’t provide such amenities, so she was tight. She would need all the lube that she could get.
She grabbed Mr. B’s cock and rubbed butter over the head and shaft, massaging him for a minute to make sure that he was as stiff as wood.
She dragged Mr. B to the side of the bed and bent over, putting her head near Mr. A’s and sticking her ass high in the air. She spread her legs wide to open her cheeks, and then she looked over her shoulder.
“Press into me slowly. Work yourself inside. Don’t try to do it all in one thrust. That’s the secret to ass sex. Lots of lube and give the woman time to accommodate you. Remember that if you ever talk your girlfriend into trying this.”
He did exactly as instructed. She took him easily. Though she was tight, she had better control over her sphincter than most other women. She had practiced this a lot.
Once he was inside, she said, “I got you. Now you can thrust as deep and fast and hard as you like.”
He began riding her hard.
She liked it. Getting butt-fucked was an acquired taste but, as a slave, she had been given ample opportunity to acquire the taste. And, as a slave, there was no such thing as being humiliated by any sexual act.
Her face was near to Mr. A’s. He turned and watched her expression as his friend reamed her asshole. He was fascinated.
As his friend came in her ass, she stretched her neck and kissed his lips. The intimacy at such a moment shocked them both.
When Mr. B withdrew, she rose and turned to him. “Let me do something that no other woman will ever do for you. Ever.”
She sank to her knees and licked his cock clean.
If it were legally possible for a man to marry a slave, both men would have proposed to her on the spot. But, if she were a free woman, she would have turned both of them down. She had been married to a lord. As a lady, she wouldn’t have given these unemployed young commoners more than a few sentences of casual conversation.
It pleased her to know that, as a slave, she could make a man happier than any free woman that she had ever met. Her level of sexual skill was a notable accomplishment.
Slavery appealed to her.
Except that it was time for her to return to the professor’s studio and wait for him to decide how he would torture her next.
But even that way of pleasing a man had begun to give her a certain perverse satisfaction. She was beginning to take pride in the amount of pain that she could endure.
She was becoming a woman for all seasons.
* * *
“My torture device is finished,” she said to the professor. “When can we try it out?”
“Any time you want, my dear.” The professor looked delighted.
“I’d like Moe to be here. I don’t think that anything can go wrong, but it wouldn’t hurt to have medical supervision the first time I try it.”
“Of course. He will be pleased to be invited to your vernissage.”
“What’s that?”
“Vernissage means varnishing in French.”
“I’ve already varnished it.”
“Varnishing is the last step in preparing an oil painting in the classical style. Artists would invite friends over to watch the artist varnish his work. Now it means any private showing of a piece of art before it is put on public display. It doesn’t have to be a painting and varnish need not be involved.”
The professor loved to lecture.
“Great. I’ll mount myself in my device whenever Moe wants to come over.”
“What about Carl?”
“You can invite whomever you like,” she said.
“This is your show so it’s up to you to choose the guest list.”
She knew that he liked to have Carl over. “Sure. Invite Carl, too. And Al if he’s interested in seeing how I’ve decided to torture myself for your enjoyment.”
“I think he might. How long do you plan for this to take?”
“I think an hour would be long enough for the initial trial.”
“Very well.” The professor excused himself to phone his friends.
It turned out that all four men were able to attend her unveiling that very afternoon.
She was disconcerted. She thought that she would have at least a couple of days grace before she had to suffer in her device.
She was too nervous to eat.
While the professor prepared lunch for himself, she went down to the studio to set up her device. She had designed it to disassemble into several pieces for easy transport. But that meant that it required about a half hour of assembly before it could be used. The pieces were heavy and some of the assembly took all her strength. The muscles in her arms and chest were tired when she finished moving the pieces into the studio and assembling them.
That was going to make her ordeal all the worse.
She threw the tarp over the assembled device and then went to her room to shower and rest for her ordeal. She didn’t bother putting on any clothes because she would only have to take them off again. Nudity was de rigueur for slaves being tortured.
It was ten to one when the professor came into her room. “Whenever you are ready, my dear. Your guests are waiting in the studio.”
Her guests – his friends – had arrived early because they were distressingly eager to see her suffer in some new way.
She followed the professor out of her room and downstairs.
The other three men were standing around the device. They were as curious as cats but they had resisted peeking underneath the tarp.
“It’s big,” Al said.
He was right. Assembled, it was a shade less than eight feet tall and equally wide. It required a big space.
“It will fit in a gentleman’s billiard room, but barely,” she said. “It really requires at least a ten foot ceiling or it’ll look cramped.” The studio was a converted warehouse and had fifteen-foot ceilings. “It will be in perfect scale here.”
With a flourish, she pulled the tarp away to reveal a giant balance scale. A horizontal beam pivoted on a single upright pillar. The pillar was secured to the base with buttresses that would easily take the weight of a woman without being pulled over.
One side of the scale held a wooden pan, secured to the beam by three chains. The pan swung freely, a few inches from the supporting platform. The other side had a short bar suspended a few inches from the beam by two chains.
Al noted that she must have weighted the beam so that it was in balance despite the obvious asymmetry between the large wooden pan on one side and the short bar on the other. He could not see how the weighting was done. He presumed that the beam must be loaded with lead shot on one side.
Irene handed the professor a long soft leather strap. Then she stepped on the platform and reached high overhead to grab the bar. She could pull it down with ease, raising the pan on the other side of the platform. “Professor, if you would be so kind as to bind my hands to the handle.”
Once the leather strap was wound a
round her fingers, she could no longer open her hands and let go of the bar. “Gentlemen, you will find a stack of twenty-pound weights piled over there. If you wish to put tension on my body, you can place some of the weights on the pan.”
Carl did so wish. He picked up one of the weights and placed in on the pan, as instructed.
Irene still had her hands at the level of her chin, but the men could see that her muscles were tensed to hold the twenty-pound weight that was pulling upward. “I can hold twenty pounds without too much trouble,” she said, “but it is tiring. Eventually I will have to relax and let the weight pull my hands over my head.” She didn’t mention that she was already tired from moving and assembling the device.
Carl didn’t wait see how long it would take her to tire. He put a second weight on the pan.
Irene had to expend a noticeable amount of effort to hold forty pounds. Her biceps were knotted and her elbows shook. To avoid tiring herself prematurely, she stretched her arms above her head.
She noted that Moe was admiring her nude body, now stretched taut. He was particularly fond of watching her full breasts when they were pulled upward.
Al, on the other hand, was looking at the pan swaying gently a few inches above the platform and extrapolating the effect of adding more weight. He already appreciated the devilishness of Irene’s device.
The professor was admiring the overall aesthetics of the slave being weighed in the balance. Not only was it a lovely metaphor, but the tableau was physically attractive. The device had been finely designed with pleasing curves and detailed adornment. Irene had probably found a picture of a balance scale in the one of the encyclopedias in his library.
He was also happy to finally find out why Irene had asked him to buy the weights along with the wood and chain. His curiosity had been eating at him for weeks.
Carl added a third weight.
“That makes sixty pounds,” Irene said through gritted teeth. “About half of my body weight. I can pull the bar down.” She pulled the bar a few inches. “But it takes a lot of effort. I couldn’t hold sixty pounds for long at all. Not more than a couple of minutes, I’d think.”
Carl added a fourth weight.
“I’m not even going to try pulling eighty pounds,” she said. “I could do it, but it’s much easier to relax and let the weight pull against my arms. My muscles may be relaxed but my arms are taking a lot of strain. The weight is already hurting my shoulders quite a bit.”
Carl added a fifth weight.
“Now that really hurts,” Irene said. She moaned softly for a couple of minutes.
Carl added the sixth and last weight.
“Ouch,” Irene said. It took effort to speak through the pain but she wanted to explain. “I weigh slightly more than a hundred and twenty pounds, so I only have about five pounds of my body weight resting on my feet. I’ve adjusted the chain for my height so that I can take all the weight off my arms by standing on my toes.”
She demonstrated. By standing high on her toes, she could lower the heavily-weighted pan all the way to rest on the floor.
“That relieves the painful stress on my arms and shoulders,” she said. “But the obvious cost is that my calves are now under stress. They’re going to tire quickly. I might be able to stand on my toes for ten minutes but not much longer. I now face a dilemma. Rest my arms or my legs? Soon a painful degree of fatigue in both my shoulders and calves will make my dilemma severe.”
“It’s the same dilemma as the crucifixion,” the professor said.
“Similar,” Irene responded, “but not identical. In crucifixion, the pain in the shoulders is so severe that the slave doesn’t have to think about her dilemma. She will simply stand on her toes until her legs give out. Then she can’t do anything more than hang in the frame. Here my arms aren’t outstretched. I’m in a better position to support the weight so I’m not automatically forced to relieve the pain in my arms as much as possible. I have to consider my optimal balance between stressing my legs and stressing my shoulders. If the weight were less, say half my body weight, and the time were longer, say two hours, I would be trying to calculate the optimal amount of time that I should stand on my toes compared to enduring the weight on my arms. You get to choose how what kind of dilemma I face and for how long.”
“You said that this was going to last for an hour.”
“You own me. It’s your decision. Now that I’m here, I will endure this for as long as you wish.”
“Then we’ll see how it goes.”
The professor began chatting to his friends about the show.
After a few minutes, Irene’s legs were tiring from the effort of standing on her toes. She lowered herself, pulling on the overhead bar, so that her arms were taking some of the stress off of her calves.
That allowed her to extend her time on her toes but at the cost of stressing her arms and shoulders.
She was looking for the optimal balance.
Eventually, though, her legs gave way completely. Her heels hit the deck and the pan rose.
Her shoulders were screaming in pain.
Throughout her ordeal, Moe had been chatting with the professor, but he kept staring at her taut nude body. Her full breasts hadn’t looked so perky since she was a teenager. And her abdomen was pulled flat. Moe was almost drooling over her.
She had not the slightest doubt that he was a sexual sadist.
Carl, though, was the sociopath. He had no more weights to put in the pan so he put his hand on top of them and leaned down to press the pan to the floor. On the other side, Irene’s heels were pulled up off the floor. He was adding only a few pounds to the weights but she screamed at the unexpected increase in stress on her shoulders.
The professor chuckled. This was the kind of pain that he liked to see.
Irene struggled with her aching calves, forcing them to take some of the weight off her arms. Tears began flowing down her face.
After a few minutes, Carl released the pan and allowed Irene’s heels to return to ground.
But there was no relief. She was still straining against a hundred and twenty pounds of weight. The pain was fierce and unrelenting.
“How long can we keep her there safely?” the professor asked the doctor.
“It’s essentially a suspension. With the weight taken by her hands, not her wrists, there’s not much risk of damage to the radial nerve. By the usual standards, half an hour is no problem. I’d think that an hour is unlikely to cause any permanent damage. Even two hours wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.” Moe kept staring at her body like a hungry dog.
Irene groaned. Easy for the doctor to say that a half-hour was no problem. She’d been stretched taut for almost that long and could testify that the problem was significant.
The professor nodded at Carl. “I’m curious to see what happens if she has to deal with a little less weight for a lot longer. Take a couple of those off the pan.”
The expression on Carl’s face clearly indicated that he wanted to see her deal with all the weight for a great many hours. Maybe see if her shoulder joints would eventually dislocate as her muscles tore and her ligaments stretched. But Irene was owned by the professor and he was only an invited guest. He removed two weights, one at a time.
“How does that feel?” the professor asked Irene.
“It still hurts almost as much. My shoulders are so sore that they don’t really feel the difference.”
“Good,” the professor said. “Don’t forget. Tippy toes if you want to rest your arms.”
She hadn’t forgotten. But her calves were aching from when Carl had been leaning on the pan. It would hurt to try to rise on her toes. She nodded and croaked, “Okay.”
The professor addressed the others. “Friends, we have some time to kill and scotch to drink. Shall we adjourn to the study for an hour or so?”
The lure of scotch drew them from the room, leaving Irene to suffer eighty pounds of strain on her shoulders.
After a few minutes
, she tried rising on her toes just far enough to relieve some of the strain on her shoulders but soon gave that up as a bad job. A few minutes after that, she tried again and achieved the same result. She recalled hearing someone say that insanity was repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome.
Maybe the pain was making her insane.
She prayed that her shoulders would grow numb but they did not. She prayed that she would faint from the stress and pain but she did not. Her ordeal went on and on with no relief in sight.
Her tears flowed freely and continuously.
By the time the men returned, almost ninety minutes later, she was exhausted from her efforts. She was no longer trying to rise to her toes to relieve her pain. She simply hung limp from the bar and wept.
“My dear, are you satisfied with your torture device?” the professor asked.
She nodded. “It works. I am being tortured.”
“You look like it.”
Carl leaned on the pan and pressed it down to raise Irene’s heels from the floor.
She screamed in pain.
“That looks like it smarts,” he said keeping the pan pressed down.
“Do you think that you could stand another hour of this?” the professor asked.
She shook her head.
“No? Well I think you could. Carl, remove another weight. Let’s give her sixty pounds for sixty minutes.”
Carl complied.
Irene could barely feel the difference between sixty and eighty pounds now. At the beginning of the afternoon, that twenty pounds had felt significant. After two hours, she was so weak from exhaustion that she felt like she was trying to pull the moon out of the sky.
The hour passed in a fog. Irene’s world narrowed to a pinpoint of agony. She couldn’t have said what the professor and his friends discussed as they watched her suffer for their pleasure.
She was barely aware of what was happening when Carl began removing the last three weights from the pan. She screamed at the new pain when she lowered her arms back to her chest. Any movement of her arms in any direction hurt.
After the professor unwrapped her hands, Moe had to pry them from the bar. The two men guided her to the whipping bench and laid her upon it.
The Fine Art of Torture (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 12