Bondage Place Read online

  Her ankles were set loose and dropped to the floor, followed by her distorted arms. This last anchor caused her to crumble into a slack pile, all life having been drained from her frame by the abuses. But the mistress did not require exertion from her slaves, only their flesh.

  Lydia shifted her arms forward to gain some slack and to release her breasts from the cord. The incoming tide of burning rushed back in. It left her quivering and also oblivious as her manacles were parted and re-secured in front of her. Fresh rope was applied to the cuffs and with the signal of woven threads flying over the iron ring, the mistress hauled her back into the air.

  “Up you come, slave, we’ve still got things to do. No rest for the wicked,” she smiled.

  The first tug jerked her arms up. Another lifted her head and shoulders from the floor. Her abdomen and legs scraped forward loosely until she was hoisted fully off of the ground and held aloft by her wrists. Her arms were drawn out straight until her whole body was dangling from them. As she swung softly upon her last dregs of feeling, she closed her eyes and tried to rest in order to ready herself for what was to come.

  She heard the shrill sound of a wooden pallet being dragged from the darkness and placed beneath her. A hole at the center accepted the pole that the mistress quickly screwed in. The metal shaft rose vertically and erect with fetters attached to the base by short chains, while the highest foot of the rod was adorned with savage, outward-facing studs.

  “You’ll enjoy this toy, my slave. I think it’ll help you learn your lessons very quickly,” she beamed, eager to see Lydia endure.

  A converted battery was set to one side, the insulated cables reaching out to feed the conductive rod. A set of dials and switches on top allowed alteration of the frequency and intensity of the voltage.

  The merciless spire lay directly beneath her, ready to impale her the moment she was lowered. Her thighs brushed against the dull studs as she moved slightly and felt them touch her. Looking to the latex-clad form, Lydia eased her worry by marveling at the refraction of light upon the black skin. The fabric shifted with the efforts of the woman. Her deep, dark eyes filled with adoring malice, her knuckles pushing up against the taut gloves as she held the rope and readied herself to serve Lydia to her fate.

  The towline began to pay out slack and the mistress guided Lydia’s abdomen with her hand so that the rounded tip of the metal pole began to slide into her womb.

  Lydia dropped her head back and released a groan of despair as the crooked teeth ran into her.

  “That’s it, slave, take it all the way in, swallow it,” ordered the woman. And just after gaining entry, the descent stopped. On the verge of being skewered, Lydia felt the mistress draw up the fetters and apply them to her feebly resistant feet, their chains pulled taut by her elevation.

  Secured between floor and ceiling, her drop onto the device recommenced, the links at her feet going slack with her passage down onto the pole. Lydia jerked and wailed as the barbed exterior grated at her insides. As it reached the limits of her ability to swallow the pole, the rope stopped and held fast, leaving a few moments of tense silence.

  A short electrical burst ravaged the pole and poured into her womb, making her jolt and unleash a subdued yowl. The spasm of its bite made her throw herself against the vengeful fangs of the rod.

  Clawing at her cuffs and wiggling her toes, her womb pounded from her reaction to the shock. As she wriggled her hindquarters, she could distinctly feel the myriad studs rubbing against her internal canal. The sensation was awful and unbearable.

  “No sight for you, slave. You need to study in darkness, with no distractions,” warned the mistress. She reached up and flipped something on her helmet, causing two panels to drop across her eye slits, cutting off the brief blessing of sight and plunging her back into oblivion.

  The end of all movement and the clicking departure of the mistress from the room caused Lydia to comprehend her torment. Her choices were simple and grim. Either she chose to lay upon the rod and endure the voltage nips that made her jerk against the jagged teeth or haul herself up with her hands by lifting herself from the pole and have the voltages move to the current lesser electrified areas. She could not fully haul free because the restraints on her ankles would not permit it. But while she could hold herself aloft, the pain was gone. Mostly though, she was too feeble to get off the electrified areas, leaving her to endure the pain that grew to such an extent that she would somehow find the energy to lift herself up again.

  The passage of her loins over the blunt spikes formed a despicable punishment with her every flight up and down the pole. But the worst moments came when she tried to lift herself up and failed. What a wasted exercise it had been as she sank back down onto the scepter of her torment.

  Once more, her delirious condition held strong, for within total darkness, nothing could be discerned except the intense sensations of helplessness. Every moment seemed infinite and she felt her sanity dissolving with each fight to climb from the pole. When the tormented state of starvation and pain returned to haunt her so too did the effects of the electrical messages. The helmet was filling her as an empty vessel, reshaping her thoughts while they were locked upon the ordeal, and her resistance was at its weakest because of the diversion brought out by her pains.

  Time and time again, she danced on the pole, her arms vibrating from exhaustion as she sought to hold herself up and ward off the effects of the electrical assault for just a few seconds more. The tissues of her womb felt frayed from the piston pump thrusts onto the rod, the studs having scratched and chafed horribly and making her more sensitive to their passage with each rise and fall. The fact that she could not get off the dildo was the worst infliction of all, and often she wailed and wrenched herself against it, trying to break free. The frustrating madness of its presence and her inability to get away made Lydia berserk with fury.

  Chapter Two

  When the mistress returned after what seemed like an eternity, Lydia was barely conscious. Her thoughts were polluted with alien fantasies concerning her tormentor. She hung limp, her arms torpid, leaving her slotted deep onto the pole. Her abdomen convulsed as the voltage bites mindlessly ate at her.

  “Lift yourself up, slave,” the dominatrix softly demanded.

  Lydia tensed and tried to pull, but her muscles were far too enfeebled to aid her. A stripe of pain drew across her flank, as a cane slashed into her.

  “Come on, you can make it, slave, unless you want to stay on there longer? Is that it? Perhaps I should leave you here,” threatened the mistress.

  Straining with all her might, she squeaked as the ragged teeth chewed on her womb. The shocks made her spasm while the cane continued to mercilessly drive her onward. Blow after blow fell, the attacks depriving her of vitality and causing her to drop back into position with an anguished cry of pain and desperation.

  The lambasting continued without mercy, and again, she tried, only to fail once more as her lips cleared the last few spines. With a reckless plummet, she fell harshly back into place, the rod jamming home and the whiplash snap of her drop almost made her faint. On her third attempt, she drew on all her resolve and the suffering of her trial granted her a fleeting adrenal surge.

  “There, I knew you could do it. Good slave,” purred the woman and patted her with fondness. “Now, stay there while I unfasten these.”

  With Lydia holding herself up, the mistress leaned in and unfastened her ankles.

  She let her acquire the last few centimeters needed to be free of the rod.

  “You can come down now, slave,” she permitted.

  Her arms gave out suddenly and she hung despondent and drained. Wheezing softly, her body was awash with residual distress.

  “Time for some attire, I think,” pondered the woman. “You’ve been naked for long enough.”

  The helmet was not removed and no food was given to her. Instead, the mistress drew a latex catsuit onto the inert prisoner, the sweat
of her hardship easing the application. Dragging the garment on and then releasing her arms to finish the task, she zipped up the back and then locked it to the helmet. The tight-fitting garment incorporated gloves and socks, leaving her no inch of bare skin. Her body was lost within a cocoon that left her skin without sensation.

  “There, now back you go into the pit to consider your slavery to me. You’ve done well so you may have a study aid with you,” said the mistress, and again, Lydia was cast back into her pit. This time, something was thrown in with her before the lid was closed. Lost within the dark, she groped with senseless digits, fearful of what she might find. Searching the floor, her fingers closed around a vibrator.

  Puzzled, she made a quick check to her sex, where she found a tiny aperture, ready and able to permit the toy’s entry. Her musings concerning this act were interrupted as the mistress stepped onto the lid with the bright tone of a rapier heel. Then, she began to thread something through a breathing hole. Investigation found it to be a small tube, one through which water could be drawn. Through prolonged and desperate experimentation, she found that the only means to ingest anything was by sucking it through her nose in tiny measures and then swallowing before it entered her lungs. It was a difficult and often excruciating chore, but it, at least, allowed her to drink whenever she wished. But it also promised a longer stay within the pit than ever before.

  How was she to survive this dreadful fate? Already the programming was gathering strength at a phenomenal rate, the dark psychic cancer spreading throughout her mind, changing her orientation and making her obey. The rigors of the prison already seemed like a faint dream, a half-remembered product of her sleep that slipped slowly into forgotten depths. Engravings of her ordinary life were even fainter. All trace of normal existence kicked from her synapses, the eviction of the memories was made by the invading indoctrination. How long would it be before the original Lydia was gone and the new one remained unopposed without any recollection that she had once possessed an ordinary and bland existence?

  Hidden from view, she could not fend off temptation any longer. The audible buzz of the toy might reveal embarrassing use, so at first, she only used it as a solid phallus. She rocked it back and forth, her tensed legs pressing her feet and back to either side of the pit as she moaned onto the gag. The dissolute thoughts amounted only to submission to the mistress.

  Lydia tried to turn her thoughts away from her programming, but it was useless. Whenever she stroked herself, the conjured images of her dominant would appear. She could have refused to give in, but all she had known here was pain and the chance for a little ecstasy was too alluring. As she masturbated and dreamed of abuses and subjugation, of performing this act at her mistress’ feet, she could feel herself quickening the process. Every orgasm reinforced the programming, and soon, she was letting the toy hum with life, taking herself to new levels of euphoric bliss.

  Lydia caressed her second skin, squirming within it and feeling its tight folds stretch across the contours of her body. The interior was slick with her sweat, the moisture unable to escape the mummifying shell.

  Was her comrade in bondage performing thusly? Was she diligently attuning her own mind in a similar manner, thinking only of the mistress?

  Lydia found that she wanted the torture; she wanted the pain more than anything. It was unbearable at the time, but as soon as it passed, it became a thing to be craved, and a return to the dizzying heights of agony was all she could think about. Everything she had endured was now a treasured moment, removed from her nightmares and placed in the secure trophy case of her mind.

  Jealousy coiled in her stomach like an angry serpent as the sounds of the mistress selecting her fellow unknown captive for torture filled her ears. As the anonymous woman squealed under the lash and the mysterious tortures thereafter, Lydia held the vibrator closer and clamped her thighs together. Her hips rocked while her hands squeezed her breasts and pinched her nipples until they hurt. The vibrator thrummed against her clitoris, dissolving her with rapture.

  Eventually, the sounds passed and the clang of a lid being dropped declared an end to the other woman’s ordeal. So as hers passed, Lydia’s became due.

  Chapter Three

  The metal ceiling of her cell lifted and her entombed body was drawn onto the stone. Lydia was eager for the next period of castigation.

  “Out you come, slave,” the dominatrix said. The zipper of the catsuit was set free and hauled down, letting cool air descend upon her dampened skin, the flesh pruned from days spent in the wet environment.

  The suit crackled and stuck to her as it was drawn free, her body instantly starting to shiver when the cumulative warmth of her self-abuse was stripped away. Naked once more, her helmet was taken from her, leaving her gagged but at least able to see the grim deity responsible for converting her to a pitiless new faith of reckless hedonism.

  The mistress towered over her, set atop patent-leather ankle boots with latex coating her legs from ankle to waist. A latex leotard lay over her top, drawing her curves distinctly and presenting her cleavage for further adoration. In her latex-gloved hands, she held the enema kit and several coils of rope; the implements were ready for use as her eyes sparkled with malevolence.

  “Time for some internal cleansing, slave,” announced the dominatrix.

  Setting aside the bag, she took Lydia’s ankles and bent them back to her thighs, tying them there and snagging her wrists in the same comprehensive mesh to hog-tie her. Lydia was rolled onto her front, the nozzle was imbedded into her rear and secured with tape before jugs of water flooded into her.

  The sensation was not much different from the previous times she’d been cleansed. This time, she knew what to expect as her stomach began to groan and twitch under the punishing muscle pain of the strain and chilling pressure. Although familiar with the experience, it was no more acceptable and she burbled her pleas for an end to the session, wasting her efforts on the defiant gag.

  “Come on, slave. Take it all, we’ve plenty of room in here and I want you properly flushed out,” ordered the woman, watching until Lydia complied.

  With the cold water bag drained and the transference complete, the nozzle was tugged free and she was tipped over onto her back. Her limbs were pinned beneath her torso, her belly and breasts held high and ready for any attention.

  “Good slave,” added the woman.

  The gag was deflated with a soft hiss and removed, sliding from her listless jaws. Lydia closed her eyes and savored her ability to exercise her mouth, closing her eyes and trying to make the muscles obey her. Suddenly, a smooth plastic pipe was shoved into her mouth. Having skipped past her teeth before she could react, she retched and writhed. As it was pushed onward, the tip gliding down her throat, the tract flew into terrified spasm. Her eyes bulged at the sensation and she fought to force out the nauseating violator. But she lost her concentration, causing the enema to begin its escape until she clenched tightly. This distraction allowed the intruder to reach its goal unopposed.

  With the pipe sheathed by her gullet, it was secured with tape upon her cheeks. The wider and opposite end was shoved suddenly into her rear, its vastness threw her wide open and created an effective seal. Lydia gurgled with horror at the prospect, straining to keep back the tide for it would be channeled straight into her belly. The mistress stood up, admiring her handiwork, and drew joy from her angst-ridden slave. Taking up a cat-o-nine, the heavy pole of black steel flung out a cascade of leather strands, and combing her fingers through them, she readied the instrument for use.

  “Now it’s time to get those little belly muscles working, to churn up that water and ensure you’re all clean inside,” asserted the dominatrix.

  Swaying the long woven tendrils to further separate them, the mistress put a heel to Lydia’s belly and began to apply soft shoves, making her engorged stomach respond with outrage. An overhead arc brought a blizzard of zealous blows down onto her supine form. It caused Lydia to s
hriek and jerk under the dagger heel as she tried to eject the pipes before the whipping eroded her resolve and caused her barring of the flood to fail.

  Previously, the enema had been inflicted to erode her mental defenses. Now that she was aware of its straits, it was less shocking. So a new method had been devised to break her will—the infliction of something even more repugnant was necessary in the quest to reconfigure Lydia’s mind.

  With a look of utter fright, Lydia glanced at the tube with mortified eyes. The mistress stopped and stepped back as a grin of triumph bloomed upon her cruel lips from watching the waters flow along the transparent pipe.

  “There, that’s it slave. See? There’s no point resisting me. Whatever I want to do, I can. When I want you to do something, you’ll do it, one way or another.”

  The mistress left her with her self-loathing. The imminent ingestion of the enema reducing her mind to tatters, reeling from the horror of such a despicable act while her extremities throbbed from being pinned under her weight for the prolonged period. At the last moment, the woman grabbed the tube and tugged it from her mouth before connecting it to a rubber bladder she had covertly acquired. As the enema flowed into the bag, Lydia was all too ready to drop at her mistress’ feet in absolute gratitude for this act of mercy. Once all had been drained from her, the tube was completely removed and taken away.

  When the dominatrix next stepped into Lydia’s limited field of vision, matters quickly worsened. For in the featureless rods of latex that were her fingers, she clutched a bundle of nettles, holding the caustic, healthy plants in the same manner as one would wield a whip.