Bondage Place

by Bruce McLachlan

  “Ever been whipped with stinging nettles, slave? It’s an experience I think you need to have,” she said softly, stroking Lydia’s cheek with fondness. “Take this for me, slave?” she asked. Against all common sense, Lydia nodded.

  Without any betrayal of emotion, the mistress stepped to the struggling slave’s side and reached out with the long, lush stems. The fresh green leaves seemed so innocent and harmless, but as they followed Lydia’s bucking torso and brushed the tips of her breasts, they stung with a ferocity that made her yelp with a mixture of pain and delight.

  The light tickle was tom away and returned as a harsh lash. The nettles left small welts but their sting more than made up for their lack of discoloration.

  Lydia wriggled and squirmed afresh under this assault, the pulsating throb deposited by the venomous plants making her delirious with a new breed of suffering. Fragments torn from the bundle by the mistress’ enthusiasm fell about her, settling on her skin until her frenzied convulsions cast them off.

  Once her torso was a range of bumps and swollen ridges, the mistress knelt between her slave’s parted legs. Trailing the pernicious stalks across her pudenda, Lydia jerked and wept, the bite of the poisonous plants causing her mind to stew in her skull.

  “Shall I insert these? Would you thrill to such a deed?” she softly pondered, holding the stalks poised and ready to be plunged into the slave’s moist canal.

  Lydia’s berserk writhing was a genuine display of her response and she hurled herself against her bonds, her body flipping up and down as she languished like a beetle upon its back. Craning her head up, her eyes streamed with tears as she shrieked into her gag, trying to defeat its sterling duty.

  “Think of it, slave. The stinging lengths being stuffed into you until you are full, punishing your insides. I could add a chastity belt, with dildos attached to grind them in. The phallus and your womb would become a pestle and mortar to pulverize the plants. How does this sit with your mind?” she mocked.

  Trying to close her folded legs and deny entry, Lydia found that the mistress proved an excellent leg spreader.

  “Maybe next time. First, you deserve a treat,” she laughed and tossed the caustic vegetation aside.

  The mistress then slid her fingers into Lydia’s sex and upon her clitoris, exhibiting a skill and capacity to bring intense pleasure that had Lydia squirming wildly in her hog-tied pose.

  The pains of her ordeal were summarily forgotten as she lost herself to rapture a pleasure all the more intense from the closeness of the monstrous threat that was at last over with. Fear had indeed been an intense aphrodisiac.

  “Oh, you definitely like this, huh, slave?” she smiled. “So let’s make sure you have all you want.”

  With her most intimate tracts punished with fierce slivers of heaven, a small leather waspie belt was lifted up for the benefit of her water-filled gaze. The gleaming material embellished with a fixed strap to traverse between her legs and connect to three stout locks at the front. Upon this strap lay two fat dildos, and as the belt was secured about her waist, the twin rods were forced into her. The first entered in the wake of the enema and the second entered her humid sex. She erupted from both the pressure of its introduction and the bliss of its slide upon her erect and eager clit. But despite her eagerness to accept the toys, their dimensions were too immense for her. The initial pleasing touch changed into a storm of strain as they stretched her orifices, fighting to get in.

  “Take it!” growled the mistress, rocking them with more force, educating her membranes with stern lessons. Lydia gurgled as they were used as battering rams, fighting the limits of her sex and rear, demanding entry.

  “Come on, almost there!” commented the woman. Her voice was soft and purred at the sight of Lydia being forced to accept such massive partners.

  “No clenching!” she snapped, and swatted her hand across Lydia’s breasts. The spank made the flesh ripple and encouraged her to release her sphincters. Relaxing as best she could, the steady shove of them began to burrow deeper, her innards finally loosening up.

  Lydia arched her body upward and made the gag resonate with her drawn moan of violated ecstasy as they slid into her. The feel of the two massive rods gliding deep into her, hauling her open, choking her canals with their monstrous structures almost had her swoon.

  “There, that’s it, good slave,” gritted the woman.

  Soon they were all the way in, their tips leaning heavily against her deepest regions, the strip was locked into position and the waspie belt tightened until it was sure not to slip over her hips. The tight clinch kept the phalluses sheathed all the way in her. Two buckles across the front were sealed and also locked, imprisoning her with the internal weapons. No sooner had they entered than they sporadically began to vibrate, tickling her innards and causing her to gasp and choke back a renewed cry of ecstasy.

  With her torso coated from the marks of the nettle’s touch, the mistress concluded the session with the application of the brainwashing metal hood. She hauled open the lid of the pit before shoving the grizzling prisoner back in and locking the ceiling down upon her.

  Exhausted but not yet sated, Lydia relished the vibrations that began carrying her toward climax upon a warm, swelling tide. Relaxing onto the floor, readying to embrace her relief, she froze as they suddenly stopped. Lydia was left cavorting in denied rhapsody within her prison, wailing and fighting to exact the final motions that would grant her a final potent reward. Every move of her abdomen made the shafts tempt her, and the bliss being placed upon the throbbing nettle stings inflicted a powerful cocktail of pain and pleasure that was driving her mad with grief.

  Once her imminent release had slipped through her fingers and vanished, the dildos recommenced their glorious fits of motion. Rubbing themselves fondly against her, they rekindled the warmth in her belly. The pleasure spread, seeping through her, making her jerk with the shuddering riots of bliss until once more on the verge of explosive release, she was denied.

  Screaming her outrage, she pounded and fought her prison. The continuing frustration of her predicament was maddening. At least with torture there was relief when it ended. Even pleasure had been turned into a means to discipline and train her.

  The duration spent languishing in her cell was difficult to ascertain. Her thoughts revolved around the ordeal as the back of her mind was slowly infected with the quiet encroaching indoctrination of her mistress. With her battle to get free of the teasing underwear and her gradually increasing sense of starvation of growing concern, these thoughts were constantly repeated. All the memories of this trial were identical, making any retrospective look upon how long she had been in here seem like mere moments—or years.

  Deep metallic clatters from above signaled the removal of the lock and the lid arose before fingers played at the mechanism of her helmet. The black interior of the carved steel hood came away and revealed the glorious figure of her oppressor. Looking up with tear-filled eyes, she watched the woman in a sleeveless halter-neck top. She wore leggings of PVC with a mini skirt of the same laid over them, the short sheath laced at the sides. A studded leather belt with thin silver chains swung along the base and enclosed her waist. Patent-leather ankle boots lifted her further over the cowering slave via wicked heels. The extreme polish of the glossy material reflected the light and dazzled Lydia; the wrinkles and stretched panes mesmerizing her starved vision.

  “Is my slave hungry?” she crooned.

  Lydia snapped her gaze up and nodded frantically, her stomach grumbling audibly at the prospect of food.

  In response, the mistress merely presented her foot, an offering Lydia instantly accepted, her conditioned mind now eager to perform such debasing acts. Dropping forward, she balanced herself and began to fawn over the polished sheets of darkness, slithering her tongue across the smooth material and fixating her attentions upon the heel.

  Moving from one shoe to the other, she finished the humble devotions and con
tinued to linger, finding an intense arousal from this act of self-derogation.

  “That’s enough, slave,” the dominatrix purred and took out a can of dog food which she scooped into a bowl and presented as though it were the most succulent treat imaginable. “Go on then, it’s all yours, slave.”

  Shuffling forward, Lydia hesitated for a moment and looked over the thick, gelatinous chunks. The rumble in her stomach disallowed refusal, and she closed her eyes in futility before putting her lips to the meal. Taking down the repulsive fare was made with maximum effort and keeping it down required all her self-control as she defeated her own instincts to regurgitate the meaty chunks and viscous gelatin casing.

  “Good doggy,” she commented lightly, and as Lydia devoured, the mistress removed the belt, drawing free the dildos and making Lydia groan as she continued to gorge herself, unable to pause as she finally eased her famine.

  Both of the mistress’ forefingers unexpectedly slid in and strained to part her womb. It made her whimper as her sex was rudely opened for visual scrutiny on some capricious intrigued whim. Satisfied with the cursory glance, the villain moved away and left her to eat in peace.

  Once the meager contents of the bowl were emptied, she lapped the few dregs away and moved back, the tang of the sustenance lingering on her tongue. Its deep penetration of her taste buds refused to be dislodged.

  The soft creak of stretching glossy fabric sounded and the mistress’ hands took hold of Lydia’s, lifting them up and sealing them in the stem cuffs that had been riveted to either end of a metal spreader pole. The interiors were lined with soft suede that seemed a negligible consideration for comfort and somewhat absurd considering the effects of lofty suspension.

  With her arms spread wide and trapped, Lydia awaited on her knees as the woman strolled away to the wall, next to the poised mechanism of the winch that held her restraints. Cranking the device, the ropes drew back and hauled Lydia up to tiptoe, her arms straining against their trammels before another tug lifted her fully into the air. Her toes flexed as she was suspended and rendered helpless to her mistress’ desire yet again.

  Locking the winch, the mistress took out a set of fetters and began to buckle the thick leather strips about her prisoner’s ankles. Taking up the ropes that were individually attached to them, she drew them out and threaded each coil through distant rings in the floor. The tightening of the lengths spread her legs wide and pinned them there, opening her fully into a stern mid-air spread-eagle. Any struggle of her legs increased the rending pull at her arms. The ligaments of her inner thighs ached from the lewd split she was forced to retain.

  As she dangled, she watched with a lustful glare as the woman prepared her abuses. The captivating sight of the shimmering form had Lydia breathing in low-drawn hisses, the discomfort of her confinement only made her desire even more potent.

  A frame was set up beneath her. Its tripod mount slipped into accommodating floor slots to render it stable and immobile. The base held a hand drill within its plexus of struts, the metal frame gripping the cordless tool whose head pierced a long plastic pole. The shaft rose vertically atop it and was armed with a rounded tip. The top three inches were smooth, but the foot below was covered in stubby spikes that grew more drastic the lower they went.

  As Lydia dangled, the winch paid out its slack and lowered her onto the device, the tip gliding into her sex and making her shudder sedately with covert bliss. The spikes kissed her lips and her feet settled onto the ground as the winch ceased all movement.

  The mistress swiftly stole away the accumulated slack at her ankles. This ensured she could not rise from the penetrating implement and then continued lowering the pole that was still responsible for spreading her hands, allowing her to sink onto the rod but not escape it or interfere with it.

  A squeeze to the drill set it running at a swift pace, the whirling rod dragging at her womb, making her gasp with shock at the sudden haul at her tissues. The whirling passage kindled a burning pain from the effects of friction until the stimulation it brought caused her to start excreting her own lubrication.

  While Lydia shuddered under this delectable travail, she watched the mistress fetch metal weights and tie wire to the heavy burdens. The cables were then looped and clipped about her waist, wrapping around her middle and tightening to forge a gnawing cinch before the weights were set free to drag at her. The constriction demanded that she sink onto the pole.

  Tracing the dark metal lines with her fingers, the mistress smiled and cupped Lydia’s chin, lifting up her face for scrutiny and examining the soft glaze of sweat welling across her brow.

  “Are you pleased with my rule, slave?” she asked.

  Rather than speak, Lydia nodded upon the hand. She stared lovingly at her oppressor, her heart now besotted to the point of obsessive infatuation with the one whom she could never attain.

  Snatching a massive ball gag, the mistress forced it into Lydia’s mouth, making her whimper as it nearly dislocated her jaws before it cleared her teeth and filled her maw. The buckle was tightened about her head and she leant her head back as lines of dribble started to stretch from her lower lip.

  With a sharp turn on her tall heels, the dominatrix wandered away and retrieved a heavy collar from the depths of the shadows. Taking the thick metal band, she locked it at Lydia’s throat. This increased the amount of weight Lydia was being forced to bear, making the demand of going deeper onto the rod all the more clear and difficult to resist.

  Lydia’s knees started to tremble, her thighs afflicted with a prickling heat from the fight to keep herself upright. When she started to sag, the sudden rip of the first level of revolving studs made her yelp and spring up, renewing her efforts to haul at her wrist restraints in a vain bid to get free.

  The mistress snatched up clamps and flicked them open before catching Lydia’s nipples in the potent jaws, compressing them suddenly and making her squeak in shock. The thin chains at the end of the devices extended out and attached to the wall, the sound from the drag of the chains adding to her woes. The chains made the squeeze on her breasts all the more unendurable while also preventing her from toppling back or forward, effectively anchoring her to the spot.

  Lydia’s breathing sped into the mode of rapid panting gasps; her breasts drawn to pointed peaks by the searing nips.

  Lydia gurgled and fought to solicit her release, her eyes fixated upon the woman’s body as it sauntered within the plastic skin. Without a word, the mistress ran a hand down her slave’s shuddering flanks and then turned to stroll majestically from the room, hauling open the steel door and dragging it shut behind her.

  The last residue of the echoing clang faded and Lydia closed her eyes to weep bitter tears, the renewed fight to deny herself pain beginning again.

  As the hours dragged on, a few powerful orgasms were gained, but then, her sex became unbearably raw. The spinning device irritated the flesh, making it less of a pleasure and far more of a pain.

  She plodded drearily through this harrowing encounter; her body failed her and made her suffer for its own weakness, her limbs condemned to imprisonment. The weaker she got, the deeper onto the pole she would sink, until the increase in the number of spines became too much and gave her the energy to straighten. After hours of this travail, she was hanging on the first lines of spines, unable to get higher, struggling just to stay on the first nodules rather than sink onto the more baleful regions below.

  As she tumbled back into an exhausted fog, she heard the door open. She looked up to behold the return of her malefactor. The woman stepped into the light and revealed that her attire had changed radically.

  The mistress of this dungeon now stood in imitation of the standard military apparel, except that it had been crafted with a fetishistic quality in mind that had Lydia’s indoctrinated lusts raging.

  Her legs were sheathed in glistening latex; the tight embrace emphasized the flowing curves as they slipped into polished riding boots. A do
uble-breasted tunic hugged her torso, presenting her breasts beneath a tight pane of rubber. The high collar was rimmed with studs. Her fingers were sealed within gloves of the same and a peaked cap smothered her eyes in shadow. Her utility belt was armed with an array of tools, far different from that of an ordinary soldier’s. The baton was a phallic rod armed with a dense network of spikes and a line of acupuncture needles lay in neat slots like bullets. A crop resided within a holster and a set of clamps hung beside a pair of handcuffs in custom leather pockets.

  The clamps were set lose, causing Lydia to rise up from the whirling pole as the tempest of anguish pumped back through her long-compressed teats.

  A similar though less stern repeat was endured when the various weights were removed from the rest of her body. The loss of wire and weighty collar caused her to feel as light as a feather.

  The drill came to a swift halt against her sex and she was allowed to free herself of the burning device. Once her hands were set free, she collapsed onto the floor, seizing the chance to lay dormant and recover at least some shred of vitality.

  “This is your last chance to confess, slave,” announced the mistress after freeing Lydia, revealing the purpose behind this change of attire. It seemed that the age-old process of her interrogation was again imminent; only this time, she was ready to revel in it.

  “Now, slave. Who are you, and who sent you?” she said without inflection. They were the words of a programmed litany, spoken without any real concern as to the answer. Then, she unfastened the ball gag. Lydia retched as she regurgitated the massive orb and she finally closed her jaws letting them recover while waiting for the next time she would be silenced. It was a guaranteed eventuality, because she was being methodically punished, and gags were an eternal part of that fate.

  “No one, mistress. Please believe me, I wouldn’t lie to you, I swear it,” she implored, groveling at the woman’s boots, clasping them as tears welled in her eyes.