I must be mad to come here for a second round but the more agonizingly embarrassing it is the wetter I get in my most sensitive place.
You will remember my telling you about the games which Mark, my husband, and I like to play and how we had found that Georgian house in Southampton where fantasies became reality. Of course, I had to pay a second visit and it was delicious to know that, when Mark made the booking, he will have chosen my inconveniences from a ticklist on the website so, in effect, it was he who would be inflicting my punishments that weekend.
As with last time, I left work early on Friday afternoon and took a train and a taxi to the imposing front steps of the property. I was admitted by the same hard-faced, middle-aged woman but this time she was dressed as a nun and she had a chain belt about her waist with a bunch of keys hanging down one side and a small, but wicked, flogger down the other.
Once again, she had me stand beside that little table in the hallway while she obtained my consent to all that would happen and set out the requirements for unquestioning obedience on my part. She was a very imposing and intimidating person.
She made me turn out all my pockets and place the contents beside my shoes and my bag on the table. Somehow the expression on her face said that she totally disapproved of all my pocket clutter and would be applying an extra punishment because of whatever it was that she had found wrong with my possessions.
Then she commanded me to follow her through the door off the hallway and down the cold, brick steps to the cellar. We passed along the corridor on the cold, concrete floor under weak electric lighting and came to a chamber which I had not seen on my previous visit.
It was like stepping into the Middle Ages. The walls were the original great stones which had been here since the eighteenth century and there was a high, stone vaulted ceiling. Modern electric lighting had been added high on the walls but the bulbs were low powered so the lighting was poor and did not overcome the flickering red light from the blazing cast iron brazier which stood in the middle of the stone floor. Along one wall was a long table with whatever it held hidden by a white sheet. Away in the gloom, I saw other shapes but did not register what they were. There were two wooden, throne like chairs. The iron rings set into floor and walls at random intervals were probably modern additions but they were of sufficient age to acquire a coating of rust.
“Take off that pretentious jacket and cast it into the fire.”
Was she talking metaphorically? She couldn’t mean it. Did she know what my jacket had cost?”
“You heard me girl. Get on with it.”
Reluctantly I took off my jacket and slowly moved it towards the brazier hoping, at any moment, to be told to stop. But that order never came and my work jacket went into the flames which immediately began to consume it.
“Well done. Now the skirt if you please.”
Were they going to send me home naked? You can have no concept of how humiliating it felt to take off my skirt in front of this horrible woman. Just an hour ago I had been a confident, successful solicitor and, by pure force of character, she had reduced me to…whatever I now was.
The fire made a whoomph sound as it took my skirt and then my tights and knickers went the same way. Responding to her commands my fingers awkwardly unbuttoned my cream blouse and put into the fire, almost burning myself as I had not expected the material to flame as violently as it did.
I was now in just my bra and, of course my breasts were soon on display as my bra went into the fire – and it had not been a cheap Marks and Spencer product. I just want to get that on record. The fact was not lost on me that I now had no clothing and would be obliged to remain in this house for as long as they chose unless I was so desperate as to run into the street completely naked.
She grabbed hold of my right hand and, before I could react, she had slipped a pierced cube of metal over my thumb and turned a screw. I screamed as my whole hand erupted in agony. She demanded that I hold out my left hand. She was testing her power over me. Would I voluntarily submit to more pain?
“I can turn the crew some more or you can give me your hand and I may reduce the pain. It is up to you, child.”
I offered my left hand and that was similarly attacked although she did slightly ease the screw on my right hand. The problem with opposable thumbs is that, if they are taken out of action the fingers cannot gain purchase on anything. While I stood there hopping from foot to foot and waving my hands around in the air, she took a hinged iron collar from the table and locked it around my neck with huge padlock. A long, rusty chain hung from the collar and she dragged me to the wall and chained my collar to a ring. I knew better than to beg for my thumbs to be released but I did try to signal with my eyes.
“You may stay and ponder for a while what awaits you.”
And then she was gone. Both my hands were giving a dull ache which caused me to turn my lip inwards as I tried to acclimatize to the pain. I could either lean against the freezing stone wall or stand upright; I settled for alternating between the two.
I have no idea of how long I stood there but I do know that my bare feet were numb from standing on the cold flagstones. When the “nun” came back she was accompanied by the man whom I had met on my previous visit. He wore a long black robe with voluminous sleeves. The front hems of the robe and the ends of the sleeves were trimmed in a deep, velvet green and, on his head was a huge beret but, unlike a military beret, it had much surplus fabric which hung down behind his head. You will have seen the sort of thing in Renaissance paintings. He completed the effect with sandals and no socks.
He stood in front of me and painfully squeezed my cheeks as he spoke to the woman.
“So do we have a witch to deal with?”
“She was in strange garb, my lord, and carrying unworldly devices.”
He released my face and then delivered two hard slaps which made my ears ring.
“Where are you from, wench?”
“W Winchester sir.”
He looked at the woman.
“And is she on the church roll in Winchester, pray?”
“She is not my lord.”
This seemed to make him very happy.
“We must put her to the test.”
The woman went to her table of toys and came back with two pieces of timber held together by screws and wing nuts. I was powerless as he fitted the slats above and below my breasts and began to turn the screws. In a very short time, my knees were bending and I was panting and trying to hold back the screams. He seemed to just keep turning as my boobs deformed in shape and went scarlet.
“Do you obey King Charles or the Parliament?”
How was I supposed to know the right answer but he insisted on a reply so I chose the king and he gave the screws another vicious turn.
“It matters not what you say since we do not believe you serve anyone of this world. You are a demon are you not?”
“No, no..please, for pity’s sake..stop.”
He stood back and admired his work then his hands went to my pussy and began to probe and stimulate. Once again, my body betrayed me and my legs were twisting this way and that as I moaned in pain, pleasure and humiliation.
He gave orders to his acolyte and she went to a wheel on the wall which lowered a chain and hook from an overhead winch then she freed me from the wall and hooked my collar to the chain. Then she began to turn the wheel so that my chin was oh so gradually pulled upwards until I was on tiptoe in an effort to avoid being hanged by my collar.
They pulled up wooden thrones and sat to watch me struggle and suffer. My calves were burning but to put my feet flat on the floor risked choking myself. My audience made approving remarks at my efforts and debated how long it would be before I succumbed.
Just for something to do, she removed my thumb screws. My thumbs were completely numb by this time but withdrawing the screws from where they had become embedded in my flesh caused me to cry out in pain.
She looked towards the brazier and asked him if she should brand me.
“No, not quite yet. Perhaps we should settle her for a while.”
This was her cue to lower the winch and bind a heavy chain around my wrists which were then secured to the winch and pulled upwards. Once again, I was on tiptoe but, at least this time, I was not at risk of death by choking. They left me alone to alternate between the pain in my arms and the cramps in my calves. I was alone for what felt like hours, hungry and thirsty and, at some point, I relieved myself down my legs.
She returned with a pewter tray bearing a water jug, beaker and some bread on a metal plate. She let me down from the winch and the change of position made me scream, she supported me as I was incapable of standing unaided and she lowered me to the ground with my wrists still chained. I took my meal while sitting on the floor under her hard eyes.
I was exhausted and had no idea of even what day it was. Was it still Friday? It may even have been Sunday. When I worked it out later, I decided that it was probably the small hours of Saturday morning. After I had eaten and drunk, she bound my ankles with rope and left me alone on the floor where, despite the discomfort, I soon fell into sleep.
I did not hear them return and was roused from my exhausted sleep by a pitcher of water being poured over my head from several feet above me. I sat up with my soaking hair sticking to my face. The nun went to the back of the dungeon and came back pushing a heavy wooden chair. Short dowl rods protruded from seat, back and arms and leather straps hung loose awaiting a victim to secure. Between them, they freed me from rope and chains and pushed me down into the chair and secured my wrists and ankles then pulled a broad strap across my body just beneath my breasts. Wherever my body was in contact with the chair, the dowls pressed into my flesh.
There must have been a very non-Middle Ages tap out of my view and the woman pointed an anachronistic hose at my face. When she pulled the lever on the nozzle of the hose a powerful jet of freezing water caught me full in the face flooding my nose and mouth and causing me to wriggle against the chair and throw my head about as I coughed and spluttered in terror at being drowned. The hose was inches from my face so, no matter what I did, I could not avoid the jet and the more that I struggled the more the dowls of the chair dug into me.
Sometimes she would stop the flow and I would take great gasps of air, relieved that the jet had ceased and then it would resume with full force.
After what seemed like a long time the man called, “Enough”. The hose was dropped on the floor and I was taken from the chair, twisted around and then secured by the straps while standing behind the chair and bent over the back of it with my face leaning down over the seat.
I did not see which of them landed the first blow with the thongs of the leather flogger but, against my already tenderized back and buttocks, it was agony. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that they were standing side by side and taking turns at my thighs, back and behind. My unheeded screams of pain and protest rebounded off the walls as, a few feet above us, Southampton went about its normal business.
When I had been reduced to a tearstained and sniveling mess, she withdrew pegs from the legs of the chair so that its own weight caused the legs to telescope downwards taking me with them. I was now bent much deeper with my bottom lower down that it had been previously. Once again, looking over my shoulder, I saw the man pull back his robes exposing his erect member and pendulous balls.
There was no preamble at all before he simply rammed into me using pure brute force to force his way past my fragile defences. He took me again and again and I felt as if I were being split wide open. My imagination conjured great torrents of blood coming from my torn flesh.
For a man of his obvious age, he had remarkable staying power, not that I felt like congratulating him. He took me over and over again before finally subsiding and collapsing onto one of the wooden thrones with a final command to the woman.
“Throw the bitch out into the street. We are done here.”
There was no attempt at cleaning me up or checking my condition. She unfastened the straps securing me over the chair, grabbed my arm and dragged me out into the passageway with tears streaking my face, snot running off my chin and his bodily fluids running down the back of my legs.
She walked briskly so that I often missed my footing and it was only her arm which prevented me from falling down. Very soon, we were back in the entrance hall with only the front door separating us from the outside world. My bag, shoes and the contents of my pockets were on the table and a random pile of cloth was on the floor. She pointed at the heap and told me to get dressed.
All of it was badly creased, I am sure deliberately so, and it had probably come from a charity shop. There was just a light cotton blouse in black and a too short skirt also in light cotton, red in colour. It was what a whore would wear as she stood on her street corner but, I hoped, only on a very warm day. As I put on the blouse, I took just a second to wipe it across my face in an effort to repair some of the more obvious damage.
And then I was shivering on the top step outside the door at mid Saturday afternoon in a residential street in Southampton. I knew that I could not face a train ride back home with the Saturday crowds staring at me like this but I would have to phone for a taxi as I had no precise idea of where I was.
I phoned home and begged Mark to come to Southampton Central to collect me in the car. The taxi took me to the station and I went onto the platform to find a seat to rest until I could come back out of the station to meet Mark.