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Chapter 3 - Of Things Past
In the darkness below the ruins of Zhorun's castle, Kayleen hung by her wrists,
her chained feet dangling a foot over the floor. The ache in her arms, bearing
the full weight of her bruised yet shapely body, kept increasing alongside the
fiery pain in her torn wrists, and the iron band clenched at her waist made
her breathe in short, halted gasps and added its weight to her misery.
As anguish and hopelessness hung over her, something stirred in her mind. A
distant feeling, a warm presence she instantly recognized; Lyral was attempting
to extend her consciousness to touch hers. She had used the same power in the
past, to let Kayleen home on her quickly; this was of no use to her now, but it
brought a rush of hope, and waved the curtains of despair away as the Warrior
Queen rose her head again.
If Lyral was attempting to call her, the search was underway. They would find
traces or her capture, come to her rescue, and thwart Zhorun's plans. He had
hinted at "forces" at his disposal, but an army could not be hidden, so these
forces had to be of magical nature, and Zhorun's insistence on finding Lyral
meant that he knew the Priestess had the power to oppose them, although Kayleen
was not versed enough in magic to tell how.
She had to buy time for her friends, which sent her keen tactical mind back
into full gear. First, as long as she could hold out, the situation would not
change for the worse. Second, they had not left here like this to recover, so
they probably meant to weaken her resolve through exhaustion and lack of sleep,
and she had to avoid that if she was to hold out for some time. She also had to
think about what would come next; for example, she had to do something about
her wrists sooner rather than later, if she wanted to wield a sword ever again.
Her hands grabbed the chains above her wrist cuffs, easing the pull on her
bleeding wrists, a stopgap measure which nonetheless brought a relief which
almost made her cry. The hands would tire, of course. Her ankles were linked by
a short chain, so she could use her legs to some extent, but she saw no way to
remove the accursed waist band constricting her breathing. She could spin her
hanging body left and right, and using her legs she could spin it enough to
twist the chains she hung from onto each other. She then raised her long legs,
first to her chest and then above her head, her lungs burning and her heart
pounding as the waist band bit her muscles; she lost count of how many times
she had to give up, recover her breath and try again, but at last she managed
to pull herself up above her trembling arms, swivel her legs and rest on the
chains crossing below her.
Her position was precarious and uncomfortable, but at least her wrists were no
longer in pain, "Although I am now exhausted." she smiled to herself. She was
so tired that she actually managed a number of brief, fitful naps, always at
risk of losing the little balance she could muster, the throbbing pain from
the welts, bruises and chafed skin receding gradually.
Then she heard them coming; it was probably well past dawn, but she wished
they had stayed asleep. She lowered herself into suspension again, and closed
her eyes, as if to avert the ordeal to come. It was just Zhorun and the three
tormentors, this time.
The corpulent Southerner addressed her with mock joviality, "Good morning, o
Queen! Hope you had a nice night of rest, because we've got a full day ahead
of us. Unless you wish to tell us something, that is, but I really hope not."
Undeterred by her silence he brought her down, and she let herself collapse in
a heap, allowing him to drag her to the inclined ladder and tie her to it,
face up, her arms over the head and her feet a few inches off the floor.
To her disgust, the old fart had fondled her in earnest during all this, and
his member, bulging below his flowing robes, rubbed intently into her flesh
more than once. She shuddered when his hands grabbed her calves and then slid
up her thighs, his thumbs digging briefly into her sex, still smarting from
his former attentions before climbing up to her full, proud breasts and
sinking into the firm flesh. He turned to the robed figure and asked, "What
about bringing Her Haughtiness down one notch before proceeding, Master ?"
She clenched her teeth as cold gripped her stomach. For no sound reason, she
had thought she would be spared rape. The old man could have been three times
her age, and yet this. "By all means do, my esteemed guest," hissed the
limping figure, drawing closer. The swarthy man turned to her and gripped her
tits savagely, placing himself over her and then pulling up his flowing robes
to free his hardening member. As her gaze wandered away in despair, she
noticed Grod contemptuously muttering something to the Easterner, and a plan
started forming in her mind. Not one second too soon, as his throbbing manhood
entered her with unexpected force a split second later.
Kayleen had not been with a man since the death of his Walder, and still
longed for his strong yet tender embrace, but there was none of that in what
she was being subjected to, his rutting member trashing her insides in a
frenzy devoid of any love. She grit her teeth to quench any sound escaping
from her mouth, attempting to relax and ease the pain while the man panted,
grunted and pushed relentlessly. Imagination tricked her into hearing the
squirt inside her womb, making her almost retch, but she had managed to keep
herself immobile under his assault. It was now or never.
"Are you done already ?" she uttered, loud enough for all to hear, then added
"You must have wet yourself," as his disbelief turned into deep anger and a
red undertone grew under his swarthy visage. He slapped her hard, a backhanded
slap intended to draw blood; she expected more to follow, but he stopped in
mid gesture, composed himself and left, only to come back minutes later
pushing a trolley where a multitude of glass and ceramic jars lay scattered.
With a deft gesture, he selected a pair of tweezers, among many of differing
sizes, which once inserted inside a tiny jar produced an angrily buzzing,
yellow striped wasp, which he brought against the inner thigh of the bound
Warrior Queen. The angry insect stung her almost immediately, eliciting a brief
gasp. "She finds you irritating," snickered the aged man, and stuck the wasp
against her thigh again, and then again, a couple of times in quick succession.
Her gasps grew louder, but she could stand wasp stings.
The look in his eyes, however, told her that he knew that, and had more in
store. He replaced the wasp in its jar, only to produce a black, furry spider
about one inches across, musing "Maybe this one will like you better." After
savoring the fear in her eyes, he brought it against the soft flesh of her
underbelly. Her leg jerked as she cried at the stinging bite, and twitched as
the vicious pedipalps bit her again and again.
With a raptured expression, the old man dragged the angry spider down along
her leg, savoring each gasp and shriek, and then lingered under the left foot,
counting "One, two, three, ..." as each bite drew another scream. He then
picked up another spider, which bit her with unspent viciousness under the
right foot, and then his hands rose up her legs, slowly accompanied by her
hoarse cries as both spiders bit her mercilessly, nearing her crotch.
A cold fear gripped Kayleen at the thought of the spiders biting her down
there, and she bucked and twisted as his hands closed in, the bites landing in
her thighs, her plans now forgotten. But his hands reached there again, and
again she turned in her bonds to receive the assault anywhere but there. More
assaults followed, exhausting her to the point that she took a good while to
notice that he was no longer actually attempting to get her bitten, he was
just pretending to and enjoying the show.
With a gasping sigh, she let her taut muscles relax, praying between her lips
to gods whose beacon of hope brought no light there. "The show is not over,"
whispered the old Southerner, switching back to a wasp again. His skill with
the tweezers was amazing, and he seldom happened to squeeze one of his hand
picked specimens. She was almost relieved to see the spider go, but her relief
was short lived as he placed it behind one knee, and the soft flesh there
smarted under the sting. Replacing that wasp with a fresh pair, he snug one
under each foot, letting them take on their wrath on her soles as she tried to
stifle her cries.
The swarthy tormentor then procured another yellow striped wasp and brought it
against the tender flesh between her first and second toe, basking in her
surprised shriek and swiftly proceeding to repeat the operation between the
other toes in spite of her vain attempts to avoid his ministrations. After
declaiming "Not all feminine flesh was created equal," he brought a fresh
wasp against her left armpit, and then did the same on her right. Her attempts
at hiding her pain and fear were failing quickly; he was clearly targeting the
soft spots of the female body, and sting after sting reached the crease
between buttock and thigh, the ass cheeks, the navel, the flesh between the
fingers of each hand, the armpits and the lower belly.
Her fears came soon true as he brought a fresh wasp against the underside of
her right breast, wrenching a shriek from behind gritting teeth, and proceeded
to sting her proud mammary in tightening circles which betrayed his ultimate
target, trying to elicit from her a crescendo of screams as she writhed under
each sting in a vain attempt to escape the next. Another wasp was finally
let loose onto her nipple, but her screams were now hoarse and choked, as her
endurance was at the limit. Yet he proceeded to treat her other tit like the
first, each sting drawing less and less response, before suspending the
torment and freeing her from the ladder.
With help from Grod, the Southerner tied her ankle cuffs to chains winding
through pulleys which were then used to lift her off the floor, pulling her
basin up and splaying her legs wide, parallel to the floor, before cuffing her
elbows and her wrists together behind her and affixing both to a post hanging
from the ceiling, bending her in an arch which exposed her crotch and pushed
her full breasts forward and down.
She awakened while the old man was almost done rubbing a sort of jelly on the
wasp stings, but soon she shrieked in renewed pain as another yellow wasp was
brought against her labia, while his thumb started rubbing her love bud into a
more exposed position. This new position allowed her much less movement than
on the ladder, so the swarthy Southerner was able to place sting after sting
on her vulva, while she could only cry and shake her head. Her tormentor bid
his time, as she trembled in pain and fear, before delivering the dreaded
sting to her now throbbing clitoris, and paused intently before delivering the
next, and the others which followed among her anguished cries.
After finally returning his instrument to a jar, her tormentor uncovered with
a flourish a set of clear jugs, crawling with half-inch reddish ants. "Now we
introduce you to some new friends," he chuckled, drawing out one with a pair
of tweezers and letting her examine it up close before bringing it suddenly
against her nasal septum, which the mandibles promptly pinched as she gasped
in surprise and pain. The gasp turned into a shriek as the ant bent upwards to
sting her, just above the upper lip.
The swarthy man waited until the ant stung her again, then procured another
ant and let her mandibles sink into her left breast, followed by another on
her right breast, awaiting the unavoidable shriek before placing yet another
in her navel. The ants were clinching their mandibles tight on her flesh and
twisting them as they bent to sting, a sharp pain but no equal to the jolt
delivered each time they stung at random around the place they clung to. As
she hung there screaming, her tormentor clinched more ants to the front of her
thighs, her soles, her arms, her belly, one scream one ant, until she guessed
and stifled her cries in desperation, as if this could make him stop.
In spite of the dozens of ants hanging off her body, the Warrior Queen managed
to hold her wailing for a while, until her sensitive breast was stung again,
eliciting a strangled cry at which her tormentor promptly attached another ant
to her left nipple, already swollen from the wasp stings. Grinning as the
expected screech of agony allowed him to continue his game, he immediately
placed another on the right nipple. A howl of pain and despair left Kayleen's
mouth, but he bid is time until the next shriek, then hung one ant on each her
cunt lips, soon followed by one on the fold covering her love button.
Her cries of anguish turned into a screech of maddened pain as one of the ants
hanging off her vulva bent and stung her now exposed clitoris, and her
wailing turned to a howl as he hung yet another ant on the violated piece of
feminine flesh. She was now convulsing, which made the task of hanging two
more ants to her nipples considerably harder; her tormentor then leisurely
kneeled below her, to savor her body spasming in pain at each sting.
Finally, the old Southerner rose again and started pulling the ants off, each
one causing another screech as he turned and twisted to dislodge the fierce
jaws. He inspected with satisfaction the discolored spots where her body had
been assaulted by the yellow wasps, forming small turgid blisters which were
treated with more jelly. With help from Grod her slender body was lowered to
the floor and then suspended by her right ankle and left wrist, bending her
body backwards to tie the left ankle to her right wrist. A jug was brought to
her lips, the contents of which revived Kayleen from pain induced stupor
enough to let her eyes focus on the eight legged horror which the leering
Southerner held a few inches from her left breast.
Her mouth had just started forming a silent "No" when he brought it against
her tit, resulting in a convulsed twitch followed by a halted cry of anguish.
Spider bites were immediately and vastly more painful than wasp stings, whose
effect however mounted over time. "These were not done yet," he said turning
to the others, as he used one after another biting spider to savage her arms,
thighs and buttocks. He then paused, holding one near her panting chest until
she recognized it and attempted in vain to twist in mid air to get away.
Laughing softly, the robed executioner started chasing her as she turned and
twisted in mid air to avoid the twitching pedipalps, scoring a few bites on
her belly but reserving most for her panting breasts, in a dance of pain
punctuated by her desperate sobs and shrieks. As he moved his attentions to
her feminine parts, changing spiders again, she was allowed some pause between
each bite as her twists turned into twitches and her screams into gurgles, but
he spared her nothing, whispering "I am not done yet" whenever the spider bit
into her love bud and her world exploded in a howl of pain and despair.
As if even the malevolent deities which overlooked this place could feel
mercy, her suffering was finally suspended and the old man again treated her
wasp stings with the same cold jelly he had used before, which caused them to
soften and recede. At the back of her mind, she noticed that he was doing
nothing for the ant stings covering her battered body, but at the forefront
she was attempting to collect the tatters of her pride, dreading what was to
come as her morning resolve was now lost in a haze of pain and humiliation.
Apparently, her three tormentors had decided to take turns, because it was the
Easterner who stepped in and, with help from Grod, dragged her to a wooden
tank, where she was tied face down with iron bands at her waist and neck on a
wooden bench, while her ankles were cuffed to her wrists and her elbows were
also cuffed together, straining her shoulders. The Easterner tilted the bench,
and her head was plunged in the freezing cold water.
The cold actually revived her at first, clearing up her mind, but soon panic
overwhelmed her as her burning lungs screamed for air. When the bench was
tilted back, her gasping for fresh air turned into a shrill cry as the switch
wielded by the silent Easterner landed across her stung feet with a whistle.
The second stroke hit her under her toes, but the third gouged her right
breast in the pink areola just above the nipple, on a spider bite.
The imperturbable Easterner lambasted her tit again, hitting on an ant bite,
then as her chest rose in a vain attempt to stem his strikes switched to her
feet, leaving angry red stripes but drawing no blood. As the quick strikes
made her pant, the bench was tilted plunging her headlong into the tank again,
the impact with the cold water jarring enough to warrant a shriek which
bubbled in the water. She was kept under much longer, until lack of hair
caused her to trash in her bonds and gurgle, but when the bench was tilted
back and her mouth reached for air the switch landed on her feet, forcing her
to expel precious air in a cry instead of drawing it in, and then the bench
was tilted back immediately, her lungs unable to replenish her air supply.
The Warrior Queen's mind raced while her throat burned, in a stupor induced by
the lack of air, returning to ordeals of the previous day. Details flashed in
her memory, details which she could not pay attention to as they occurred but
were now within her grasp ... and disappeared when her head cleared the water
and the switch stroke her thigh, on a spider bite just under the buttock,
shooting pain through her heaving body which screamed for immediate attention.
The bench was plunged in the ice cold water again, denying her the fresh air
she desperately longed for, bubbles rising to the surface as she half drowned.
The bench was raised again, her blonde mane drenched in water flailing about
as the tendons on her neck almost burst in her efforts to keep the head above
the water and draw in some fresh air in spite of the savage strikes of the
switch at the stings over her exposed breasts. She could not scream and
breathe at the same time, and this was what made this torture so devious.
Her breathing over time turned to a wheeze, and as her head was kept
underwater her body was wracked by choking spasms, water drowning her
piecemeal as her only chance to expel it was through screams. Her feet were
now crisscrossed by purple bruises, and the her tormentor had taken to
switching her swollen nipples instead. The cycle of drowning and lambasting
repeated itself while her mind span in circles, chasing a detail which
eluded her as each whistle heralded another wave of pain.
The bench was tilted again, and her head went under once more, water filling
her tired mouth still open from her latest scream, and burning in her throat
desperately gasping for air. When the bench rose, her pale face contorted in a
mask of pain as the switch hit her trashed nipple again, forcing her to scream
and splutter in spite of all her efforts.
Her tormentor put her down immediately and selected a meaner switch, which he
used on her soles after raising the bench, tearing the bruised skin, the
resulting spasm of her wracked body helping her cough out some water from her
bursting lungs. He alternated the new switch with the old when striking her
nipples, then after a number of strikes he dropped the old and used the new
one on her nipples also. Kayleen's lungs were on fire, her body bluish and
shivering, her shoulders ached because of her vain efforts to raise her head
off the tank, her nipples were purplish and swollen and yet the wry Easterner
tilted the bench again, and kept her under.
When she came to, she was hanging upside down from a rod snug under her cuffed
knees, her elbows shackled together behind her and her wrists chained to her
ankles, bending her backward. A smaller tank opened below her, apparently just
the mouth of a deep pit in the floor. Her eyes went to her tormentor's hands,
which no longer held a humble switch, but grasped a four feet, wicked cane.
With a sudden clanking, her aching body was dropped head first into the pit,
impacting the water with surprising force, and she was unprepared she found
herself gasping for air again. She started choking, although in this position
water did not flood her mouth, and at length she was finally pulled up, her
dread of the wicked cane not materializing as she was allowed to breathe
unmolested and even take a deep breath before being dunked again.
While she held her breath, an atrocious pain shot through her when the cane
smacked against her right tit, forcing her to scream in bubbles and expel her
precious air, letting water in. The cane then stroked the front of her left
thigh, with similar effect, and then struck full force across her ribcage,
just under her breasts, savaging the ant-bitten flesh there and forcing her to
waste her last gasps in a scream while water filled her nostrils. In spite of
her buckling and trashing, she was pulled up only after half a dozen strikes
later, her eyes injected with blood and water spurting from her mouth.
"Next time longer," stammered the Easterner, although the Warrior Queen was
apparently not paying much attention. He let her gather some breath, but then
dunked her again and slashed the cane across her taut stomach, preventing her
from holding her breath, and then on the soles of her feet, drawing blood but
concentrating on the bubbles in the water, gauging the time for each strike at
her arms and then counting those on her lower back and buttocks, her body
contorting and buckling deliciously but unable to bring her head above water.
Only he could bring her fresh air again, which he did only after caning first
her left and then her right breast, targeting the ant stings in their exposed
lower halves because the nipples had taken a real beating before and he wanted
to save them for later. She was now expelling water in sobbing gasps, and he
attempted to gauge her resolve, dismayed to notice that not only there was
still fight in her, but she had somehow recovered.
He cut her respite short and dropped her in the water again, submerging her to
her ribcage, and started caning the front of her thighs. Kayleen's mind was
drowning in a watery mayhem of pain as her exhausted lungs desperately
attempted to draw in air and water filled them instead. The cane had moved to
her ass cheeks, and then visited her feet again, her screams lost in bubbles
as she dropped any pretense of stifling them.
He raised her, but her hope was immediately shattered as he just caned her now
exposed breasts without giving her the fresh air she agonized for, at least
not before half a dozen strikes at the stings on her generously proportioned
globes. Unlike the switch, the cane tore the skin, and she was now bleeding
from a number of welts, many of which across her still proud breasts.
She was dunked again and again, each time prolonging her dunking for one or
two additional strikes of the cane, the ache in her knees steadily increasing
as they bore her weight without interruption, her flesh turning pale and then
blue as air deprivation took her toll, yet reddening under the cane and the
drops of blood from her torn skin. The brunt of the assault landed on her feet
and her cramping abdomen, her muscles on fire in the effort to breathe.
Strangely enough, she did not pass out, so when she was finally lowered from
her position, gasping for air, the Warrior Queen recovered some semblance of
resolve as she caught a comment from Grod, "Impressive. Her endurance and
willpower are unmatched in my experience." Her mind cleared somewhat, and as
they wrapped iron bands around her torso, the detail which had been haunting
her became obvious: they were doing their best not to kill her. It was not
just keeping her alive until she talked; as they cuffed her arms along her
sides, she vaguely recollected her wounds being treated last night, as if
after a combat, to prevent festering. They fed her food, liquid food, maybe
honey and herbs. There was some ulterior motive behind Zhorun's actions.
Her mind returned to her current predicament as she was pulled by chains
cuffed at her ankles and brought over the accursed pit again. Her torso was
tightly encased in iron bands connected by rods all around her, her arms tied
along her sides, meaning she was essentially unable to move or bend from her
waist up to her neck. Her legs, on the other hand, were half spread, not
painfully but enough for a caning of her private parts. She sighed. At the
end, her tormentors ended up always targeting the same spots.
She was not surprised when her head was lowered into the cold water again, and
did not protest when no cane landed on her body. As time passed by, however,
the almost familiar burning in her lungs appeared and mounted, with no other
torture forthcoming, "Just dunk me to exhaustion ?" she mused to herself. As
her air supply dwindled, she could not help but kick with her legs, hoping
they would notice and raise her, but nothing happened. In panic, by chance,
she found out that pushing her legs wider she could raise herself up, so she
put all her strength in her legs and opened them wider, managing to pull
herself up enough to take a breath.
As she replenished her air supply, her muscles started to ache under the
strain, and she had to let herself under again. She held her breath as long as
possible, then repeated her feat, her thigh muscles flexing like steel cords
as they lifted her to breathe again. She could imagine the sick bastards
leering at the show, above, but for now that was all they would gain from her.
Her mind examined her options, as a shorter time underwater would mean less
strain but more frequent exertions, when pain exploded in her crotch and her
legs gave, dropping her into the water as her breath turned into a scream.
She held the little breath she had, dreading the cane she could not see, but
as time passed her lungs screamed for air and she had to push against her
ankle cuffs against, raising herself up again to draw an anxious breath which
turned into a strangled cry when the cane landed on the tender flesh of her
left thigh, dropping her in the water, again and far too soon for her burning
lungs. She was soon forced to pull herself up again, but this time her unseen
tormentor bid his time. She strenuously pushed against the chains, breathing in
short gasps as fear gripped her, but nothing happened until she let herself
down into the water.
A split second thereafter, as her thighs burned because of the prolonged
effort, the cane landed on her crotch, her air supply bubbling away in a
silent underwater scream, immediately followed by a strike on her left thigh
and another on her right as she twisted her pelvis attempting to get away from
the swings she could not see coming. Her tormentor was lambasting the very
muscles she used to lift herself off the water, although on occasion he landed
a few blows elsewhere.
Pain wracked her when she had to pull herself up again, and even when the cane
landed on her breasts her thighs turned from ache to agony, as their strained
muscles had to bear her weight again. Her stay underwater was becoming shorter
and shorter, but still she found the strength to lift herself up each time,
only to meet the cane. Blood dripped from her torn skin, pooling between her
legs and flowing down her caged chest, but the real pain was in her agonizing
thigh muscles and the dwindling air supply in her lungs. When she was finally
released, unable to lift herself up again, her lower half was a canvas of
bloody welts, an accursed testimony to the endurance of her fit body.
She welcomed her release from the bands around her chest, until her eyes
focused on the hairy forearm unlocking them and traced it up Grod's determined
countenance. Fear gripped her as he brought her under a a waist band hanging
off a chain from above, clinched it around her, cuffed her wrists and ankles
to rings set in the floor, then pulled on the other end of the chain until her
slender limbs cleared the ground, suspending her spreadeagled in mid air, face
up. Her eyes left the ceiling to follow him around and bulged as he fetched a
table where dozens of pliers of mixed sizes and shapes were neatly arranged.
He took a midsized pair and without much ado seized her left nipple, already
ravaged by stings, switch and cane, keeping his grip until her hiss turned to
a gasping cry and then to a veritable howl, which he unflinchingly protracted
before releasing her punished flesh. The Warrior Queen would later find her
observations confirmed in the fact that the jaws were sheathed in wood, but at
the moment Kayleen could only sob in despair at the ordeal lying ahead of her.
He selected another, larger pair and sank it in her forearm, twisting and
pulling at her marked flesh as her head shook in agony, and then repeated his
assault all over her arms, her fists clenching as her muscles were torn by the
wooden bite. Dread overwhelmed her again when he moved between her legs, as
the pliers bit into her calves and then assailed her thighs, the muscles still
burning from her exertions twisted and knotted under the unyielding jaws.
She yowled in pain as he selected a small yet massive pair and grabbed her
toe, tightening his grip almost to the point of crushing it only to release it
and move to her next toe, then the next, slowly turning toe after toe to
molten rods of searing pain. Her ass cheeks were not spared, as a pair of wide
pliers bit into their firm flesh repeatedly as she bucked in a vain attempt to
escape the wooden tormentors. She was already hoarse, and the pliers could be
applied for extended periods with little actual damage, so Grod worked almost
without interruption, hurting her even in places she had forgotten about.
Of course he also tormented her in places she was painfully aware of, such as
her battered private parts, letting his grip linger on as she screamed herself
hoarse and pain numbed her mind. Kayleen twisted in her restraints as the
pliers grabbed her left labia again, but his muscular hands twisted in the
opposite direction forcing her to turn around, always a step behind as he
reversed his twist without releasing her mauled flesh.
She found a little respite when he switched to a set of large pliers which he
applied under the base of her left breast, cupping it before the grip
tightened and her firm tit bulged, squeezed agonizingly by the relentless jaws
of the hellish instrument. He subsequently applied it to her other tit, slowly
turning it left and right, and then with a pair in each hand returned to her
other breast and applied them both, twisting back and forth in opposite
directions as she howled and gasped, bereft a mercy which would not come.
The relentless torture continued without interruption as he switched from one
breast to another, then Kayleen was given some respite as he moved between her
legs with a pair of pliers in each hand, each with a short handle and wide
jaws made to crush a woman's nether lips. He literally lifted her higher up by
pulling on her lips, letting her fall back painfully, repeatedly, but in spite
of the devastating pain she neither fainted nor failed her friend.
When her torturer lowered her on the floor she just lied on her back, still
spreadeagled, whimpering and moaning, but she was dragged to the post where
the Southerner had ravaged her with his rollers but yesterday, and she was
tied in the same fashion, arms above the post and legs painfully bent outwards
at the knee, her pelvis pushed forward by a wooden wedge. The eyes of her
tormentor locked into hers, and he slowly showed her a pair of pincers, pliers
whose narrow wooden head had untapped depths of pain in store for her. He knew
that showing the victim what would befall her next could be very effective.
As she shook her head, he moved behind her and pinched the flesh between her
middle and ring finger, pain shooting from the crushed wasp sting sending her
head banging against the post as drool burst from her mouth in a yowl of
despair at the never-ending inventiveness of her assembled tormentors. Instead
of pinching between her fingers again, he moved immediately to her front and
closed the pincers on the fold over her love bud, twisting it as she gasped
and screamed her lungs out, then pinched her left nipple as bile gurgled in
her mouth, already beyond screaming as the pincer heads savaged the flesh
which had been stung, bitten and caned without mercy all over the day.
Yet he moved the pincers back to her love bud, and then to her other nipple,
and repeated the pattern a few times over before moving to her foot and
pinching the flesh between her toes, the renewed pain no respite for her
screaming throat but intended to prevent her from being overwhelmed. With a
pair of ordinary pliers in the right hand and the pincers in the left, he
moved back to her vulva, grabbing and pulling with the pliers to close the
pincers on the distended flesh where the discolored stings and spider bites
could be easily seen.
Kayleen's eyes were clenched shut, her beautiful face contorted in an
uninterrupted scream which no longer resonated in the chamber but gurgled in
her throat, her head shaking and the blonde mane drenched in sweat and drool.
Grod pulled savagely at her love button with a pair of pliers, pulling it out
from under its hood, and pinched it, the heads closing over a sting. She had
to be broken now, now that her voice rose again from the depth of the hell he
was subjecting her to, and even the robed Zhorun closed in as his unyielding
grip brought her to new heights of agony and each twist elicited a howl which
should have cracked the chamber open.
Even her incredible endurance had to end at some point, yet Grod was acutely
aware that she was not yielding yet. He did not fancy killing his Master's
prize before his eyes without obtaining what was wanted from her, and the girl
had already taken an unbelievable amount of punishment, although damage had
been limited as much as possible. Yet the pliers, among all methods, were the
least likely to kill her, although a heart attack was always possible.
He released her bud and grabbed the left nipple, again pulling at it and then
pinching it where a sting could be seen, listening to her screams and howls as
he twisted his hellish instruments, alert to any telltale of collapse. Kayleen
would have welcomed a heart attack, but her strong, fit body was enduring the
punishment better than even her tormentor could fathom, a quality which she
had been proud of in the past, but was now proving her undoing.
Grod, stymied at the lack of progress, switched to her inner thighs, then her
armpits, attempting a change of pace, but when no progress resulted returned
his ministrations to her nipples and bud. No woman could withstand the torment
of her feminine charms forever, so he concentrated on them to the exclusion of
everything else. His victim, however, was sliding into oblivion, cold water
notwithstanding, and his unrelenting pulling and twisting was no longer being
felt in full. He called her, breaking a long tradition of keeping absolutely
silent while inflicting torment in order to increase the victim's sense of
isolation and helplessness, but to no avail.
Kayleen was released from the post against Grod's better judgment, delirious
and barely conscious, her mind probably unhinged by the unrelenting pain. The
empty eye sockets under Zhorun's cape studied her silently, but Grod could not
fathom what was in his Master's mind as he brought the tall girl to iron
stocks hanging from the ceiling, locking wrists and ankles to the stocks, face
down, her back bent backwards, her legs open for more torture. Repeated
application of smelling salts brought her back to consciousness with a sob.
"Tell us what we want, and be done with it," said Grod, almost moved to mercy
at her suffering. Or so she thought, as no human being could be unmoved before
her ordeal. She drank from a jug brought to her mouth. Still shaking from pain
and despair, she uttered "Lyral ..." before catching herself and lowering her
head, sobbing and coughing. Another pair of pliers was brought under her eyes
then; their wooden jaws had been rasped and hacked raw.
A soft "No" left her lips, then another, sobbing "No" died in a whisper as the
girl hanging in pain closed her eyes. Maybe, if she had begged, Grod would
have spared her this. The question became moot as the pliers closed around her
midsection, gnawing at her punished flesh with wooden jaws which rasped and
splintered on each twist and pull. She had her voice again, and she let it be
heard, her wail lasting well beyond the bite of the bloodstained pliers and
blending into the shriek which followed the assault on her forearm, the first
in a sequence apparently meant to leave no spot of her arms untouched.
Buckling and twitching in her suspension, Kayleen withstood the subsequent
mauling of her bent legs, the chain rattling whenever she jerked in pain and
screamed her lungs out, her attempts to clench her thighs easily foiled as
their inside became his next target; his expert hand avoided the places where
blood vessels could be cut, but nothing else was spared.
The raw jaws of the pliers could tear the skin and draw blood, although deep
wounds were not a possibility, so Grod started alternating their use with the
use of the pincers as he did not want her to bleed into unconsciousness. He
targeted her back, the pincers lifting a fold of flesh which the pliers would
then maul repeatedly, and then carried through her taut buttocks, although
they were somewhat difficult to reach.
As her buckling receded, he pinched her love bud and squeezed her left tit at
the same time, lest she slid away from his ministrations, then moved to the
right tit while keeping the pincers closed on her feminine flesh, alert to
changes in her hoarse screaming which had to occur sooner or later.
But his victim was defying him, even as he used rasped pliers on both her
nipples, hanging his full weight to them and scouring her nipples as her
breasts distended into twin cones of searing pain, even as he repeated the
feat again and again, even as he repeated it on her labia and subsequently
alternated nipple and labia, even as he put all his weight under the pliers
scouring her clitoris and jerked repeatedly, lying under her battered body now
marked all over by bloody bruises of his own doing, her tears dripping into
his face as her heart rending howls echoed fitfully in the chamber.
His determination shaken, the torturer carried on his grisly task as if in a
dream, fetching pincers and pliers, targeting other areas of her body, going
through the motions of a script he no longer belonged to. Her pain subsided,
her physical limits again close at hand, her wailing turning to spent moans as
she wandered into unconsciousness, but somehow, before darkness swept over
her, Kayleen could sense, from his very hands, that doubt was creeping into
her tormentor.
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