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The predicament is a classic which dates back to the days of the inquisition. The principle is simple: two point bondage, one ligature around the wrists, the other about the ankles. Each pulls in the opposite direction stretching its victim right up to the breaking point and sometimes going beyond. The head is the only part of the body that remains free. No doubt, there were many more effective ways to torture and maim, but the rack served a greater purpose. It robbed its victims of all of their strength, and reminded them, in a very physical way, that their own lives were rather small, and that their very existence would be utterly dependent upon the mercies of a force far greater than their own.
Such is the story of poor Cindy Sanders, a delightful young girl who had been captured only days before. She was called Slave Four by her keepers. They had just bound her to that very same dreaded machine. This modern derivative, however, had been upgraded by twenty first century technology. There was no windlass or capstan. There were no heavy ropes or chains, only stranded steel cables. Three small electric winches did all the work. A simple touch of an electronic keypad was all that it took to draw Slave Four into that awful position and summarily take all control away from her tender body.
Slave Four lifted her head (like so many others had done in times before) and watched in disbelief as her naked body began to stretch before her very eyes.
“Please, Mistress,” she cried.
Her tears had already started to flow. They stained her makeup, mixed with her mascara, and ran down her cheeks and the sides of her head in little of rivulets of black liquid almost like an ad hoc water color effect. Instinctively, subconsciously, her slender body began to rebel. Every major muscle group, arms, legs, and torso fought the cables for all they were worth. Cindy was young and fit, but her struggles, however heroic, would soon begin to fade under the persistant work of the two winches. Her muscles soon began fail, trembling and even spasming until the all of the fight had gone.
Her diaphragm had also begun to stretch. Her breathing became short and shallow. Fear swept through her nervous system like a flash flood which had overflowed its banks. Her limbic system pumped prodigious quantities of adrenalin into her blood stream as her heart beat like a jack hammer. Her lungs called out for more and more oxygen that she would sorely need but never get. The adrenalin worked its way out to her soft skin too, which, in turn, began to tingle and shiver. Cindy searched her mistress’s eyes for some sign of mercy, some softening, perhaps even just the smallest shred of humanity or simple creature kindness.
But there would be none. Mistress (call her X) was lost in her own thoughts. A closet lesbian in the formative first half of her life, she had secretly fallen in love with almost every attractive girl who had undressed thoughtlessly in front of her in the locker room. It was a sad scene which tragically played out time and time again. X would hope against hope that one of them (just one!) would notice her, maybe just share the least little bit of intimacy or friendship, only to discover that they didn’t care. Her school girl hopes dashed, X felt like a little girl lost in a world of prom queens whose only cares were boys and back seats of automobiles. She never got over it either. It only got worse. until one day when something deep inside of her snapped. Love turned to hate somehow and she began to find her power. She became a dom, created her new personna: Mistress X. And she would never look back.
She had become a major subcontractor in the sordid business of female slavery, training, and trafficking. She loved to torture, especially loved to force herself on innocent straight girls who had been unwillingly carried over the threshold of her well equipped high tech dungeon. Her passion had become her career and she profited mightily.
Every woman is, of course, an individuated human being, often blessed with great sensitivity and sensibility. Every woman, of course, has something very special to offer the greater society. Mistress X never saw things this way. Deep inside of her warped and twisted world view, every girl was her slave. Every girl was a former cheerleader, or homecoming queen who needed to be taught a special lesson in female discipline. And, in this brave new world, she would make them all become her lovers. A few might hesitate or even rebel, but she would break them all, and even make them eager participants in their own debauchery. Then, when she would get tired of them, she would cast them aside like yesterday’s trash and begin the whole sordid story again.
Mistress X had never even noticed the pleading eyes of Slave Four. Her own were preoccupied, eagerly drinking in every detail and curve of Cindy’s straining body: the flattened stomach, the delightfully full breasts which sloshed lazily back and forth on her heaving chest, and that glorious little cleft, the seat of her sex and the doorway to pleasures that can never be described in mere words.
No doubt about it, the suffering body of Slave Four had a potent effect on Mistress X. It almost like a strong drink, a heady cocktail mixed with her own feel good pheromones that were stirred up from somwhere deep within. Mistress X had become high as a kite, drunk on her own power and the possibility of sex with this new reluctant girl who had no other choice but to please her, even worship her as if she were a goddess.
There was a special sort of magic in this particular moment, difficult for X to describe. X may have had all the girls she would ever want. Some were pretty. Others were cute, even downright gorgeous, but Slave Four had something very special. She had a certain sexual je ne se qua which was ineffable but undeniable. X watched lovely feminine flesh writhing helplessly under the winch work. But, for one brief moment, however, X imagined her differently: it was almost as if Slave Four was in the throes of ecstasy, making love to her, as if her body called out begging for release, pleading and moaning from the very core of her being,”Fuck me.” X could think of no words for Slave Four. “Hot” was a cliché; “Fetching,” far too prim. In that brief moment, Mistress X had stumbled upon a new word all on her own: “Fuckability.”
Fuckability had great power over Mistress X. Fuckabiltiy made her fall in love again. Fuckability made her lose all control. And she hated Slave Four for it. She didn’t mention the word. Instead she touched the keypad and summoned a third winch which pushed up from the center of the table, lifting her squirming hips skyward, offering her sex almost as if in virginal sacrifice to some cruel but unseen supernatural force.
“Please Mistress, No!” implored the innocent girl, now wild with agony.
The word “no” came at a very bad time. Mistress X wanted to straddle her slave’s face and force her to make love. X wanted to rake her hungry hands all over her body. Unfortunately for her, “No” would have to be something that X would have to place first on her list of rapidly rising priorities.
“It’s time we had a talk,” said Mistress. Her voice was surprisingly calm and methodical, almost pedantic. She could have been teaching high school, but she was certainly no schoolmarm.
“I must insist on absolute obedience. Apparently you do not understand. No one ever tells me no.
No is not permitted. No is not a word in a slave’s vocabulary. And No comes with a price,”
X shoved a large red rubber ball deep into the back of Slave Four’s mouth and held it in place. Her hand pressed Cindy’s head hard against the table taking her last vestige of freedom, covering her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath. Cindy went wild terror. Her eyes turned as big as saucers. Her body screamed for air. Her entire life was held in her keeper’s hand.
“But I’m a generous woman,” observed Mistress X as she added “Not a word slave. Your future depends on it”
X withdrew her hand. Cindy dared not spit out the ball. X produced a meat skewer and waved it before her eyes.
“I’m going to give you a choice. First you can wear that red rubber ball.”
She pressed the tip of the skewer hard against the girl’s cheek; “One good shove all the way through your cheek, through the ball, and out through your other cheek, and you become a human shish kabob. The ball will stay in forever… Or I can whip you from head to foot, but I warn you. Each stroke will leave a welt, parallel to the first and evenly spaced from your head to your feet. Let’s call this little excercise the Red Zebra…I’m going to remove the ball now. I want to hear only two words: Red Ball or Red Zebra.”
“Red Zebra! Red Zebra!” cried Slave Four as soon as the ball left her mouth.
“That’s four words,” replied X. “You will never learn.”
“I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to give you a second chance. I’m going to whip you just as you asked, but after every stroke, I expect you to say these words: Please Mistress. Please whip me harder. That’s six words, more than enough for a chatty little girl like you.”
She struck her slave across the thighs.
“Oh” cried Cindy in shock, but she quickly recovered, repeating the words, “Please Mistress. Please whip me harder!”
“Say it like you mean it,” ordered X as she struck again, this time across the stomach.
“Please Mistress. Please whip me harder!” said the slave now with even greater urgency.
“I can’t hear you!” The whip fell again.
“Please Mistress. Please whip me harder!”
The whip fell again and again all in a regular cadence. And, with each stroke, Slave Four faithfully repeated awfulwords, each time louder than before, each time as convincingly as possible. X continued. Rivulets of tears had turned to rivers. Strangely after a while, those six words had become a kind of a therapy, an opportunity no matter how irrational, to release a small part of part of her agony.
Red weals and welts had begun to rise up across the entire body of Slave Four. She became lost in the unreasoning world of subspace. Her voice had cracked, but she still whispered, “Please Mistress. Please whip me harder!”
But the ordeal was over. X put down the whip and hit the keypad again, this time tipping down the head of the torture table. She straddled Cindy’s mouth, pressed her sex against her slave’s lips, and looked down across Cindy’s body. It had been transformed into a veritable pink and red zebra, a new feast for the eyes. Mistress X took a deep breath and exhaled. This time she said the word out loud: Fuckability!
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