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Part 6 - Kirsten on the Wheel
Witchseekers personal journal entry, Wheel
Experiment
I
am, naturally, anxious about my experience on the wheel rack.
It
is an instrument of torture after all, and I have volunteered to experience
it. The logic is that, through better
understanding of the victim and the stages of psychological and physical
distress through which she goes, I can become a more effective interrogator -
able to gain confessions and information with minimal damage to the prisoner.
When Zell greets me in the private dungeon,
little more than a musty cave hewn from the bedrock beneath the Chateau, known
to almost no-one but ourselves, I am shivering with more than just the cold and
damp. Even so, I pull my silk dressing
gown a little closer around my body.
Zell
is dressed more appropriately for the dungeon climate. A heavy grey robe drapes his form, its hood
over his head. I have no idea what he
wears beneath, but I can only envy his warmth.
"This
way, Mistress Kirsten," he says with enthusiasm.
Lit
by torches on the walls, the wheel rack stands in the middle of the dungeon. on
a raised stone plinth, a macabre shrine to suffering and torture.
It
is just under six feet in diameter, although its slight elevation on wooden
supports from its heavy base adds a little height. It is crafted with skill; a thick, solid,
heavily-studded rim mounted on heavy cross-beam spokes. It is turned by an iron cog, in turn operated
by a ratcheted lever.
The
"rim" of the wheel, the curved surface of its circumference, is
nearly three feet wide. Near the upper
curve are bolted two lengths of chain, ending in open manacles. To the wooden base, immediately below the
foremost extreme of the wheel's rim, two more chains and manacles.
"Shit,"
I mutter. It is terrifying to see the
wheel rack up close. The iron studs in
particular look gruesome and forbidding.
"This
rack is turned by a simple gearing mechanism," Zell explains happily. "An easy movement of the lever – thus – causes the wheel to shift about one half of a
degree, effecting a stretch of one third of an inch." He cranks the lever to demonstrate, and the
big wheel groans, turns fractionally.
"So, should we get started?"
My
heart thumps. "But we haven't
discussed a safe word!"
Zell
rolls his eyes. "What do you want
with one of those? It's so … so … so
…"
"Safe?"
I try.
"Exactly! How about we decide on a number of
turns? No more than, say, twenty."
Quick
mental calculation. More than six inches. Jesus! "I want a safe word," I insist.
"Fine," Zell sighs, leaning against
the wheel. "What should it be? How about, 'eeee - aaaahh -
aaiiiiieee'?"
"'Eeee ahh aaiiiiieee?'"
"Eeee aaaahh
aaiiiiieee," Zell corrects. "It has to be right, or I won't
stop."
"That's crazy! We'll go with something sensible, but
something I wouldn't ordinarily say under torture. How about I
tap out?"
"'I tap out'? That's the best you can do?"
"When I'm this nervous, yes!"
"Then I suggest the word 'yellow,'"
Zell says.
There is no mistaking the look in his
eyes. I know Zell has had a crush on me
since he arrived – it's one of the reasons I trust him more than any of the
others – but his disdain for the idea of a safe-word is obvious. I feel utterly embarrassed as I accept the
label of cowardice. "'Yellow' it
is, then."
Zell gestures towards the looming monster on
its plinth. "Shall we get
started?"
I nod.
Here goes.
I feel sweat prickling along my hairline,
down my spine. My heart is pounding
almost painfully. My throat is suddenly
dry. I remind myself to remain
objective, to absorb each little sensation – the fear, the near panic – and to
remember it, so that I can exploit it when I have a witch to interrogate. Knowledge is power, and when I understand the
victim, I can break her so much more effectively.
With shaking fingers, I undo the silk tie of
my gown, and let the garment slide like liquid from my shoulders. It trails itself over my body as it falls
away, and Zell's eyes automatically stray downwards; to the small swells of my
breasts. My cinnamon nipples react to
the cold in the predictable way, stiffening and swelling so that they stand out
embarrassingly. Much to Zell's obvious
delight.
He continues his scrutiny; following the line
of my arms, my naked belly, the fluffy thatch of my pubic hair within the
cradle of my hips, the soft muscularity of my legs.
"Wow," he says. "Mistress, you are even more beautiful
than I imagined!"
"Thank you."
"I will be an honour indeed to stretch
you."
It takes every last ounce of courage not to
run straight for the door. Instead, I
take Zell's hand as he guides me up onto the stone plinth, and makes me stand
in place alongside the big wheel. Its
iron-studded curve brushes my shoulder blades icily. Zell kneels at my feet, gathers up one of the
manacles, and fits it around my ankle.
It is a long time since I have worn a
shackle. I am immediately reminded of
its heaviness, the solid metal weighty and cold against my skin. Zell locks it
shut, fastening it with a small padlock, and lets it drop; it rests against my
ankle bone and the top of my foot. He
places the second shackle around my other ankle, locks it, checks the chains.
My feet are now secured to the wooden base.
Gently, Zell holds out his hand again for
mine. I take his hand gingerly, and he
lifts my left wrist to the open manacle, which lies against the curve of the
wheel. He closes the thick, cold iron
around my wrist and locks it, again with a small padlock. He does the same with my right wrist, and as
the padlock clicks shut, I feel a fresh prickle of sweat over my body. With my arms slightly raised, I am now
completely helpless, utterly in Zell's power.
I automatically grasp the chains that run
upwards from the wrist manacles. My toes
curl and rub against the wood beneath them.
I am acutely conscious of my nakedness, my vulnerability. I am aware of how fragile my flesh must seem,
alongside the heavy mechanisms of the wheel rack.
Click - beep.
I lift my
head. "Zell! What are you doing?"
Zell looks at me over his digital camera,
then glances again at its little screen as he lines up another shot. "For posterity, Mistress. Forgive me, I cannot resist!" Another photo.
"Zell, stop that!"
Zell bows slightly. "As you wish." He tucks the camera into the folds of his
robe, and instead steps up onto the plinth again, going to the wooden handle of
the wheel rack. He grasps the lever, but
instead of turning it, simply agitates it back and forth slightly, drawing deep
clanking sounds
from the ratchet mechanism. It sends a
wave of anticipation through me, so intense that it seems to burn inside my
belly. My heart feels like a fluttering
bird in my chest. I move my hands a
little, the chains knocking on the wood above my head.
"Tell me how you feel, Mistress
Kirsten?"
"I'm okay." I don't know what he wants to hear, but I
find the question somehow humiliating.
Zell
pulls the lever.
The
wheel groans, creaks, and shifts, and I feel the chains draw on my wrists. Another notch. Then another.
Little by little, as the wheel rotates, my hands inch higher. Click,
click, click … the
anticipation deepens into a kind of dread as I begin to experience the slow,
inexorable progress of the turning rack.
As
my wrists are drawn upwards, they are also drawn backwards, following the curve
of the wheel. It arches me back, so that
the cold iron studs dig uncomfortably into my back and shoulders. My spine begins to extend, my breasts
lifting, my belly hollowing, my armpits and ribcage exposed, and my sense of
helplessness grows with my discomfort.
"Wow
… this is quite an experience," I say, trying to sound brave, as my
manacled wrists creep up, above and behind my head. The wheel continues to creak and groan as
Zell cranks the handle without hurry.
"What
do you feel now, Mistress?"
"Anticipation. Vulnerability. Fear."
A
fraction of an inch at a time, my arms are drawn to their full extent over my
head. My back arches more severely as my
body follows the curve of the wheel, my shoulders, shoulder blades, lower back
and now buttocks all pressed against the cruel iron studs, while my legs extend
straight down. With the next few
notches, my heels rise off the platform, so that I am standing on the balls of
my feet. It is very uncomfortable, even
the mere act of breathing causes the studs in my back to painfully press into
my flesh. The manacles are biting into
my wrists.
Zell
stops winding the handle, and steps down from the stone plinth. He takes out the camera again, lines up some
careful shots.
"With
your permission, Mistress?"
"Okay,
fine," I concede. I am no longer so
concerned about the photos; it may be interesting to have such documentation of
my session. I am here, after all, to
learn.
Despite
that knowledge, it is hard not to feel afraid.
A droplet of sweat slides down the arch of my ribcage from one
underarm. My whole body feels
unnaturally strained already. It is an
effort even to lift my head. My arms,
although not truly stretched, are feeling the pressure of my body's weight.
Zell
finally says, "Mistress, upon the wheel rack, you look more beautiful than
words can express. It fills me with a
desire that threatens to drive me insane."
"Well
just hang on to that sanity, eh?" I suggest in a shaky voice. "I'm kind of relying on you for
that."
Zell
says nothing more, but smiles, and returns to the lever.
I
close my eyes.
The
wheel shifts as he hauls on the lever, and on its studded rim, I am lifted a
little further by my shackled wrists. My
body, curved backwards, stretches a little under the gentle urge of gravity;
but I know there are much crueller forces waiting to act upon it. Another notch, and I am on tiptoes. My legs are at full stretch. I can feel the muscles of my calves knotting
with the strain. The iron manacles seem
to burn into my wrist bones, my hands tingling.
Zell
draws the lever again. The wheel groans,
and my toes clear the ground. For the
first time, I am half-suspended over the circumference of the wheel. It draws a grunt from my throat. The studs in my back and the iron on my
wrists are painful, the arching of my back a considerable discomfort also. Another notch, and with ease, the wheel lifts
my body back-and-up on its arc. I can
feel the weight of the fetters and chains hanging off my ankles. The position is seriously uncomfortable to
the extent of being a battle to endure.
I
flex my toes, trying to reach the ground as Zell cranks the lever again. I cannot touch it. Looking down, I can only see my own naked
chest, my breasts drawn almost flat into my ribcage, but my nipples jutting
like fat berries into the air. The curve
of my body is such that I can see no further without lifting my head.
Another
notch, and I feel, for the first time, the tug of the manacles on my
ankles. It is only subtle, but enough to
tell me that the chains have drawn taut.
My toes must be at least six inches off the ground. The discomfort through my arched body is
severe.
"What
is my beautiful Mistress feeling at this moment?" Zell asks, his hand
waiting on the lever.
"Some
pain," I say. My breath is short
from the strain of my position.
"Fear, still. And I feel
exposed … very vulnerable …"
"Your
words fuel my desire so!" Zell sighs, and pulls on the lever.
The
rack begins its work.
The
manacles on my wrists haul my hands a fraction of an inch further, while the
manacles and chains on my ankles hold my feet in place. Tension translates all along my arms, my
spine, and down my legs; the tension of a yoga stretch.
"Ahh…" It is only a forced release of breath from the awkwardness of my
arched position, but it prompts Zell to take his hand from the lever.
"I
believe it is traditional at this point," he says, "to let the witch
dwell on her pending agonies for a time?"
"That
would be right," I agree readily.
"But … we can skip that, okay?"
Zell
looks disappointed. "Okay
..." Instead, he takes out his
camera again, and takes a dozen high-resolution shots. Close-ups, full-body shots, from different
angles and vantage points. I am his
helpless subject, arched over the wheel, locked in an instinctive battle
against the strain, the pain of the iron studs in my flesh.
Zell finishes with his photos. "Before we continue, Mistress, please
just give me two minutes; I have to go to the bathroom."
"Okay
– but hurry back," I grunt.
"This is really uncomfortable!"
The
dungeon door thuds shut. I hear the clunk of its bar sliding into
place.
Then,
silence. Utter and absolute.
I
am naked and cold, half-hanging across the curve of the wheel, shackled at
wrists and ankles and mildly stretched.
And utterly, completely helpless.
The iron studs dig into my back, but I cannot move to relieve their
painful pressure, nor can I ease the hot bite of iron on my wrists and
ankles. I can only endure.
Minutes
pass. I do not have any way of gauging
time, but I know it has been more than two.
It has been more than five. And still no hint that
Zell is returning. The pain is growing
worse as time passes and the cold gnaws into my body; I am fighting the urge to
shiver, which would only make things worse.
Minute
after slow minute.
I
estimate ten minutes have passed when I begin to wonder if Zell will
return. Fuck, what if he doesn't? I can't possibly get free – I know that already. Even so, I tip my head back, an effort in
itself, and look towards my own shackled wrists. The heavy iron sits snugly around my wrists,
locked shut with the padlocks. I could
not, in a thousand lifetimes, free myself.
"Zell!"
My
voice barely even reverberates in the dungeon enclosure, muted by the thick
bedrock from which it is hewn. I doubt
that it would even be heard beyond the door; let alone along the narrow
fifty-foot tunnel that leads to another heavy wooden door, beyond which is
labyrinthine gloom of the Chateau's dungeons.
I could scream and yell, but I would never be heard. Nobody but Zell knows I am here - and nobody
ever comes in here by chance.
"Ze-e-ell!!"
Unexpectedly,
panic arrives. It is overwhelming. My heart-rate surges. The sweat bursts from every pore. The adrenaline pounds and gives my muscles
new strength; the pain of my strained position is immediately forgotten. I begin thrashing as much as I can, which
amounts to little more than tensing my arms, and waggling my feet slightly
against the tension of the chains. I
twist and turn my hands in the manacles, reaching my fingers for the padlocks;
I catch the lock on my left wrist-manacle between two fingers, but all I am
able to do is tug at it feebly.
So
I grit my teeth and put even more effort into it. Every last ounce of my strength, until my
muscles are pronounced and hard with straining, my limbs shaking in the effort
to pull myself free - even though I know, as a torturer myself, that I will not escape. The iron studs bite and press into my flesh,
only bringing more pain.
I am helpless.
The
panic ebbs as quickly as it began, but it is replaced by anger. Zell
has betrayed my trust - and there isn't a thing I can do about it,
except wait for him to come back.
"Zell, you insubordinate shit!
I'll have your balls for this!" I snarl at the ceiling. At the same time, I realise how pathetic that
must sound, coming from a woman arched naked over a wheel rack.
I
brood and hold on to my anger for longer; maybe forty minutes. Maybe more than an hour. But even that eventually dissipates, until
there is nothing left but the chill eating into my bones, the iron studs boring
into my flesh, the shackles eating into my wrists and ankles, and the ache of
fatigue eating into my muscles.
I
knew that pain would come. I have
observed it a hundred times in victims of the rack, and suspension. But in my earlier panic and then anger, I had
forgotten about it. Now, though, more
than an hour after Zell left me alone down here, it begins to gnaw at me. My back is hurting. Not just the flesh where the iron studs are
digging. But a deep pain in my spine, in
the muscles of my shoulders and lower back.
In the tendons. Being arched
backwards for such a long time is an unnatural and forced position, and my body
is feeling it.
It
is the same with my arms. They
ache. The muscles, the joints, the
tendons. A dull, deep ache, as if there
are bone-deep bruises. Only my legs,
stretching down towards the ankle manacles, are relatively free of pain.
I
have lost count of the minutes. But it
seems that at least another hour crawls by, and I remain secured on the wheel
rack, helpless, and in silence. Down
here, it is cold; barely sixty degrees Fahrenheit, and the chill seems to eat
into my helpless body. My nipples stand
hard on my flattened chest. Goosebumps
texture my bare skin. My teeth start to
chatter. But I am helpless.
Perhaps
another hour passes. Perhaps two hours.
Perhaps only half an hour.
I
have no way of knowing. It feels like an
eternity. I begin to feel detached from
the real world, detached from my own identity.
Being like this, arched and naked on a device of torture, I am reminded
that all I really have in this world is my own body. And even that, even the temple of my flesh
and blood, can be ripped apart.
Time
creeps.
I
am in a numb daze when I hear sounds. A
rattling at the dungeon door. The bar is
drawn, and I hear the door creak open.
"How
do you feel now, Mistress
Kirsten?" Zell enters, re-locking the door behind him, then stepping up onto
the plinth. "You look cold,"
he says, noting my chattering teeth, my bullet-hard nipples.
"You
left me alone," I shiver in a weak voice.
"Why did you do that?"
"Forgive
me, Mistress. I simply mean to make your
experience authentic."
"Take
me off, now, Zell. Please." Fatigue and pain have drained my tolerance
for this experiment completely, and all I want is to get out of here.
"No,
Mistress."
Zell
looks straight into my eyes. I look into
his. There is absolute seriousness in
his tone. Is he playing the game? Or
is this for real? I am suddenly more scared than I have ever been. There is only one way to find out: to say the
safe-word. But to do that would be to
end the experience now, even before the rack had truly started to turn, and it
would defeat the very purpose of this exercise.
His words are not a denial, they are a challenge. I turn my face from his.
"Then
do what you must," I say.
Zell
moves to the lever of the wheel rack. I
have already tested my restraints many times, and I know myself truly helpless,
but my heart quickens with an impulse to try and escape as he grasps its stout
wood.
"Confess
that you are a witch," Zell says.
"I
am not," I say.
Zell
pulls the lever. The mechanism of the
rack groans, the wheel shifts, and as my body is wrenched upwards, my legs feel
the stretch most, as they pull against the ankle manacles. He finds another notch, and with the wheel's
next shift, I feel a hot, burning pain deep in my hips, mirrored by pain in my
lower back.
I
feel my head move suddenly with the sharpness of pain. "Oh, that hurts!"
"How
much?"
"Like
a strong cramp."
"Not
bad!" Zell seems impressed. "So, do you confess?"
"Not
yet, Zell -" I warn, and he turns the rack again.
I
am stretched, and a fiery pain fills my hips and lower back, and seems to
spread up my spine. I feel it in my
shoulders, now, too; quickly overshadowing the pain of the manacles and the
iron studs that dig into my flesh. The
pain of being stretched is far more intense, like fire along my bones.
"Ohh!! Zell!" I gasp. "I meant 'don't turn it yet!' I was trying to - uhh - adjust to the
pain!"
"I
understand, Mistress," Zell says, and cranks me another notch. The wheel creaks, but I also hear my own
spine pop, and hot pain flashes along my back, down through my legs. It seems to tear up through my shoulders,
too, and I give an involuntary groan.
"Zell,
please, stop, stop for a
moment! God, it really hurts now!"
"So
you confess?"
"Seriously,
Zell, it hurts!" I can feel my
body's response to pain, now; sudden profuse sweat all over my bare skin. I feel hot, even in the dungeon's chill. The pain is intense, fiery, worse than I had
expected it would be this early into a racking.
"Oh, shit … that's bad …"
My breathing is shallow, my ribcage already expanded by the arching of
my back, and I can feel my pounding heart thumping against my spine.
"Confess!"
"No
- Zell, no!" I
shout, but he pulls the lever anyway. As
the wheel moves, my wrists are dragged a fraction of an inch further, my ankles
remain anchored, and my body is stretched.
New pain fills my hips, spreads up my back, breathtakingly huge. I feel my eyes widen, and I give an
involuntary groan. Quickly, there comes
an intense agony in my arms, too, seeming to spread from my armpits up to my
elbows, hot pain as if a scalpel has sliced along the bone.
"Oh
Jesus, Zell! Fuck! This is really, really painful!" I
squeal. "Ahh, shit!!" I start to shake my head. "No, I've had enough. Enough!
Yellow!" I can feel droplets of sweat running down my
face, beading up on my drawn breasts and my taut belly.
Zell
lets go of the handle, but leaves the rack secured.
"Zell!
What are you doing?" As I
remain arched and in pain, he walks around me.
The digital camera is out again; he is snapping off shots. I try to follow his movements, but the roar
of pain is too distracting. There is no
longer any question of being objective or detached from this experiment. It hurts too much. "Zell, come on!"
"But
Mistress, it has only started!" he says.
"I would be so disappointed if you gave in so quickly!"
"I am giving in, Zell! Yellow!
Please, let me go!"
"How
can it be an authentic experience if you control it so easily? When the going gets tough, you just give
up!"
"That's
because it really hurts!" I snap.
"Let me go now!"
"I
think we should talk about that," Zell says.
"What?" I am incredulous. "For fuck's sake, Zell!"
He
is returning to the lever. I suddenly
find myself gibbering. "Zell - no, no, don't touch that, don't you dare, don't do it
Zell -"
He
cranks the lever.
The
wheel groans around, and my body is stretched.
As the pain flares brutally down through my legs, up my spine, up
through my arms, it is liberating just to let out a shriek of pain, although I
am able to stifle it quickly.
"Why
are you always so cold to me, Mistress?" Zell suddenly asks.
"What?" For a moment I can't comprehend the question. I can feel the sweat running off me, now.
"I
try so hard to please you – but you treat me like all your other minions!"
"Zell! Shit –
please – what are you saying?!"
"I
think it's time you did something for me," Zell explains calmly. "First, I want to be promoted to
'Torturer.' I want to conduct my own
interrogations."
"You
have to be kidding!" I manage to say.
"Why - aahh!! - why would I do that?"
"Why?
Because of this,"
Zell says. Another notch of the rack,
and my scream is high and frantic, my mouth wide, as the fire intensifies along
my limbs. I hear my joints crack in succession, a creaking from my tearing
spine.
"Oh God!! Zell!!
Aaah!!"
"Second, I want to be Tina deDance's
executioner."
"We'll
talk about it!" I squeal. "Okay? We can talk about it!"
"We
are talking
about it," Zell says. "All you
have to do is say 'yes.'"
"Zell,
please, please, I
can't stand the pain," I babble out.
The sweat is stinging my eyes, so that I can barely see.
"Third, I want to see Tina get publicly
tortured before her execution. Maybe get
Kelley or someone to do it."
I say desperately, "Zell, we can discuss
it, please, just loosen the rack!"
"Please,
Mistress, let's discuss it now," Zell insists, and, to my utter disbelief, he cranks the lever
again. Raw and terrible agony explodes
along my legs and arms, and it feels as if my abdominal muscles are tearing, my
spine breaking apart. I am not even
aware of screaming for the first several seconds; it is a completely
involuntary reaction to the pain: I am making woooaaah
- woooo - ooooh - aaaahh noises at the top of my
lungs.
When
at last I can contain my screaming, the tears flood from my eyes, spilling down
my cheeks.
"Oh
God, Zell, please, please stop," I sob.
"I'm begging
you, now!"
Without
hurry, he steps from the lever and stands close to my wrenched body. Even stretched back over the wheel, with my
toes high off the ground, his face is level with mine.
"Oh,
Mistress Kirsten, you look so beautiful, suffering like this. I wish it would never end!"
"Aahhh … " is all I
can say.
"Shall
I repeat my demands?"
I
realise I am in no position at all to deny him. "Zell, ple-e-e-ase," I
wail.
"So beautiful." He puts his hand to my solar plexus. Stretched this taut, I can barely breathe,
only my drum-tight belly shifting with desperate little fish-gasps of air. He trails his fingers up over my ribcage - bump-bump-bump over each
rib - then the slight swell of my breast.
His palm brushes the hard pencil-eraser of my nipple, but I am unable to
flinch from his touch.
Finally, he leans in until his nose is almost
touching the taut, pale bed of my sweat-shining
armpit. He inhales the scent of
my suffering; then licks slowly along the taut ravine of straining tendon and
muscle. His eyes close as he savours the
taste. "Oh, Mistress! The sweat of your torment is sweet
indeed!"
I feel utterly humiliated; but it is nothing
compared to the agony in my stretched body.
"Please, Zell, just loosen it a little," I sob.
"Why do you deny me, Mistress?" he
whines. "You know, you leave me no
choice."
As he steps back to the lever, fresh terror
hits me. "Zell! No!
No!"
But I can't stop him; the cogs turn, and the
big wheel shifts slightly with a sailing-ship creak. The hot, tearing agony that explodes all
along my limbs and torso is incredible, intense, overwhelming, and this time I
can't stop my screams.
When I don't have enough breath, I simply
groan in agony. I am sure my back is
about to break. My hips feel as if they
are being ripped apart, my shoulders likewise.
The ravaging agony is so intense that I can't even feel the manacles on
my wrists and ankles any more.
"Okay!" I manage to squeal. "You win! Anything you want!"
"You will promote me to Torturer?"
"Yes!"
"You will let me be Tina's
hangman?"
"Yes!"
"And you will have her publicly
tortured?"
"Yes!"
"There, that wasn't so hard, was
it?" Zell asks smugly.
I can barely speak. "Please - Zell, please - loosen it, you
promised … oh God, I can't stand it … it hurts so much …!"
"Tell me, Mistress. Tell me how it feels." Through eyes swimming in tears of pain I see
Zell's blurred shape move away from the lever, and I give a wail of horror,
knowing that he isn't going to ease my agony yet. Instead, he snaps more photos. "What thoughts are going through your
wonderful mind?"
"Oh God, Zell, I don't know, I can't
think, please, you're killing me!"
"Tell me how much you want me," Zell
says.
What?
I
can't believe what I am hearing. "Zell …"
He returns to the lever, grasps it, and hauls
another notch. It seems impossible that
I could be stretched any further without being torn apart; but the wheel
shifts, and I stretch. The agony is
doubled and I am screaming dementedly.
An instant later, there is a crack! from my left shoulder and my whole arm feels as if it has been
electrocuted. Then, a feeling like a red
hot spike driven directly into my shoulder joint, and the pain is so severe
that my breath is stolen from me. I
simply lie, arched over the wheel, gasping at the ceiling.
A moment later, a softer pop and my right shoulder dislocates. The pain is a thousand times worse than
anything yet, and I can feel my eyes bulging in agony. It is a few more seconds before I am able to
fill my lungs and start screaming.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" My own
voice echoes off the walls of the small dungeon. My own mindless, wordless agony. Zell pulls the lever again and the wheel
turns, further drawing my shoulder joints apart, the tendons and ligaments
straining, pain beyond belief. There are
tears streaming down my cheeks, sweat rolling off my ribcage and belly. I finally manage to howl, "stop, Zell, please, stop, stop, I'll do anything you ask,
anything at all!"
"Surrender to your feelings. Say you will make love to me," he says.
This
time I don't even hesitate.
"Yes! Yes, I'll do it with
you, Zell! Please - aaaahh it hurts, you're killing me!!"
"How do I know you'll keep your
word?" Zell is suddenly asking.
"What if you're just saying what I want to hear?"
"Zell I swear, I swear, I'll do anything you ask, I'll suck you, you
can fuck me in the ass, anything, oh God,
just end the pain!!"
"Oh, Mistress Kirsten! That sounds like an offer I can't
refuse," Zell bubbles happily.
Stepping from the lever once again, he pushes my saturated hair back
from my brow. "I'll tell you what
I'm going to do. I'm going to write up
an agreement for you to sign. I'll
loosen you from the rack and unchain one arm so you can sign it - okay?"
"Yes!" Even speaking seems to send shock waves of
pain through my limbs. I try to lift my
head, try to blink the tears and sweat from my eyes, but I am still half-blind,
still in agony beyond endurance.
"Tell me who is your master."
"You are, Zell," I gasp. "You are my master!"
"Now kiss me."
Even in such extreme agony, I can't believe
the humiliation he is putting me through.
But I cannot deny him a single thing.
I give a frantic nod. He puts his
mouth to mine, and I battle the agony that tears every fibre of my racked body
to kiss him. I slide my tongue into his
mouth, suck on his lip, let him know that if only he eases my agony I will
reward him so very well.
When the kiss is over, Zell has a satisfied
look on his face. "Thank you,
Mistress Kirsten."
He returns, at last, to the lever, and
finally begins to ease the tension on my body.
But even as the wheel inches forward again, the shifting of my joints,
the contracting of muscles, is pain itself, and I shriek and gasp.
It has to be done a fraction at a time.
Stretched so taut, but also held so perfectly
in place, my disjointed shoulders all but reset themselves; it only takes a small
push from Zell and each one clicks back into its socket, bringing relief that is almost
orgasmic. My arms seem to buzz as if
electricity tingles all through them.
He locks the wheel again when my heels touch
the ground, but leaves me with arms shackled over my head, half-hanging off the
curve of the wheel, still locked in padlocked fetters and helpless, while he
snaps the last few photos and goes off to prepare the agreement.
I, Kirsten Smart, declare the following:
That Dungeon Assistant Zell has demonstrated
extraordinary skill in the torture chamber, and will hereby be promoted to
Torturer, so that he may carry full responsibility for interrogations.
That, by way of acknowledging this
promotion, he also be named honorary Executioner, tasked with carrying out the sentence of Tina
deDance.
On the strength of his advice, I will also
have Tina tortured publicly before her execution, as an added entertainment to
those who have come to watch.
Furthermore, I have decided to offer a more
personal show of my appreciation; a night spent in my private quarters, during
which I will willingly and gladly grant Zell any pleasure he may want from me.
I affirm that these decisions are of my own
volition, and that should I renege in any way, I authorise Austin, Steve, and
any other representative, to be chosen by Zell, to participate in my public
racking as punishment, to a degree determined by Zell alone.
Kirsten Smart
He
reads it aloud to me slowly, while I remain hanging in a painful arch over the
torture wheel.
"Will
you sign?"
"Yes,"
I say. My voice is heavy with
resignation; I know that to refuse will only prompt Zell to begin turning the
rack again, until unbearable agony forces me to concede to anything he may ask.
And next time I may not escape so
lightly.
Producing
a key from beneath his robes, Zell reaches up and unlocks the padlock from my
right shackle, then presents me with the declaration, fastened to a
clipboard. Bringing my arm down, it
feels as if my shoulder joint has been packed with broken glass. It is almost more than I can bear; I have
barely any strength. I manage to rest my
hand on the clipboard while Zell slips a pen between my fingers. Weakly, I scratch out my signature at the
bottom of the page.
Zell
smiles. "Thank you, Mistress
Kirsten. Now, let's get you back to your
quarters … and get some ice on those aching joints."
Kirsten Smart
18 October 2004