Racked
by Seahawk
Racked by Seahawk
Seahawk@ukonline.co.uk
Water was dripping from somewhere. Drip, drip, DRIP. A steady beat, unchanging, unrelenting. The only sound in the complete blackness of the small cell in which I sat, back against a rough stone wall. Individual grains of stone bore into my skin, harsh, cold, damp.
Shifting position did not help. All that broke the sound of water was the clink of chains, the chains that secured my ankles to an iron ring set into the stone floor. Not much scope for movement, with only a couple of inches of slack between ankles and this hateful ring of incarceration.
Feeling had gone from my arms hours ago. Pulled taut up the wall by cuffs and chains attached to another iron ring above my head, not that it could be seen in that complete and desolate ink. Trying to see around me was futile. Were my eyes open or shut? The cell was small; senses worked overtime to compensate for the dark. My skin suggested an enclosed space – no draught, no movement of air at all. Stuffy, enclosed and damp. You could smell the damp. For this was a dungeon in the classic sense and my captors cared not a jot for my personal well being.
I was on the wrong side, the Laird had won, beaten the rebellion and to survive death was to survive to meet indescribable punishment. Each captive had glimpsed the rack, the whips, the chains and other instruments of torment designed for application to the soft flesh of men. I quailed, better dead on the flinty mountainside of here in the hands of the Laird and his cruel wife? What had possessed us to challenge the might of the Laird and the Highland clearances? Was torture the reward for trying to defend my croft, my land, my grazing: mine for through the right of the clans and heritage?
Drip, drip, drip! That thrice damned water. I needed to pee and that was not helping, not a bit. The humiliation, to be forced to piss oneself, naked, and stripped of kilt, clothes and weapons. The ultimate degradation meted out to a rebel: the denial of basic human decency. That will teach you I thought. I shifted in my chains again, trying to find a more comfortable position. Grains of sand rubbed my backside as I shifted an inch to the left. The bondage was complete: I was unable to stand, unable to lie flat on the dirty floor. I sat there, in the dark, awaiting my doom, dirty, clammy, cold. Dried blood covered my arms; most of it was not mine.
Drip, drip, drop. A slight change in the beat of this dismal place. I listened intently into the darkness. Silence gripped the dungeon. Not even the sound of anyone from my clan, no cries of agony from torture, no calls for mercy, nothing. It was torture that I feared the most. It was torture waiting for my turn on the rack. For I was not a ringleader but how could I convince my captors of my ignorance? I would probably be pushed close to death or insanity before they realised I was just a pawn. Then what? Heaved back in here, shackled, chained and left to die? Better to have died on the battlefield.
Then a thought occurred to me. The Laird’s wife had taken a hard look at me as I was pushed by his henchmen into the castle dungeon. ‘Tis was a small castle but heavily defended and well positioned against attack. She, the bitch, had a reputation. Young men disappeared for days at a time, turning up on the fells drunk from exhaustion or some devilry that consumed them. Some recovered but never set foot in the castle grounds again. The bitch was a wolf; she enjoyed the pain of others. Why had she looked at me like that? With her implacable yellow eyes that bored through me. I was truly frightened. When would they come for me? Not before my bladder burst from the effort of holding on. Shifting position just abraded my wrist and ankles with the cruel steel cuffs. I was in serious trouble; of that I was in no doubt.
How long had I sat here? Hours? Days? How could I tell?
Suddenly there was a sound, the sound of a door opening. My fantasy was interrupted by the sound of a car passing on a street above, interrupted as the door closed again. A second door opened: the one to my cell and light flooded in, blinding me. I tried to cover my eyes but they were chained overhead. A light flicked on.
“Well darling,” by the time my eyes had adjusted to the light, my captor was standing over me, whip in hand. A tall figure dressed in leather, my cruel mistress, captor, soul mate and wife. She looked me up and down.
“Time for your session on the rack, you worthless bastard.”
My fantasy, being born of darkness, had taken me back to a museum of torture we had visited; unrealistic scenes had been created to attempt the illusion of dungeon life but offering some interesting scene material which had fired my imagination. The damp dripping dungeon resolved itself into a modern dungeon of black walls, panelled ceiling with beams and hooks; a room filled with polished wood and chrome steel furniture of bondage, torture and pain.
“You will tell me who the ring leaders are!” God but she was really into this scene we had devised a few days earlier.
“If you do not talk, you will wish you were dead by the time I have finished with you!”
I wondered if she would push any hard limits.
“No!” I screamed in defiance. “Never!” To reveal the “secret” too soon would have been the end of the scene. I was intrigued to see how far she would go this time, how much I could take.
My ankles were released from a polished steel ring set in to the wooden floor. I was allowed four inches of slack to hobble along. My arms were also released. I writhed on the smooth clean floor as circulation returned and unbearable pins and needled attacked my hands and fingers. My leather-clad mistress flogged my back hard to make me come to attention on my knees. A chain was attached to my collar and I was half led, half dragged out of the cellar dungeon and into a side room, white washed and filled with our latest and most ambitious acquisition. The rack.
“No! Please, no, not the rack, “ I begged her. My erection at the thought of trying this new bondage experience spoiled the effect.
“Get on.” Five minutes of play struggle (no captive willingly goes to the rack or do they?) with whipping and cajoling had me on the bench with my arms above my head, wrists locked in leather cuffs that were locked onto chains fitted to ratchet pulleys, one at each corner. No escape from this, I thought.
My legs were spread with a bar of 2ft length and correspondingly locked to chains at the bottom of the rack, each with a corresponding pulley for tensioning the chain.
“Now I have you,” my blond beauty gazed into my eyes. The rack was 3ft or so from the floor, a perfect height for my captor and interrogator to practice the fine art of sexual torture.
Two turns of the pulley in each corner took up the slack. Another turn pulled me taut. She then tensioned me a notch at a time, my body stretching, skin taut, legs pressed against the spreader bar. I could not close them. Just as I wondered if she was going too far, she stopped and locked the pulleys. She carefully checked the tension of my body by running her hand along my legs, thighs and arms, making my skin tingle as she hooked finger nails into my skin around the inside of my legs. God but this was intense. Movement was impossible. I was a little frightened too. What was she going to do?
“So you won’t talk,” she said with a smile on her face. “Good, I like that. Can you avoid screaming too? I bet you a couple of quid you cannot go through this without screaming.”
Oh hell, what was she planning? Unpredictability was one of her endearing attractions but when playing scenes, it can be fraught with peril.
I felt my balls being gently massaged. My wife knows how to massage me to the brink and then stop. I was beginning to pant with the exertion, the tight bondage. She stopped and then plucked the cover off a steel tray I had failed to notice on my entry. I was on my knees at the time, remember?
The contents of the tray were now visible to me. It sat on a small table beside the rack. The packages were medical in design. I flinched.
“16th Century technology meets 20th Century technology,” she gloated as latex gloves were snapped on. One packet was opened and the contents held before my frantic eyes. A needle. A long one, about 2 inches long, with a loop in the end. I glanced at the tray again. How many needles were there? Lots by the looks of it.
“Oh, no, please, “ I groaned. This was pushing a hard limit to the limit. Was she mind fucking me or was she really going to try it? Needles were, no, shit, ARE a hard limit. Antiseptic wipes were produced. She wiped one along the length of my stiff cock; the cold feel was painful on the tip. She laughed.
“ Shall I do a little piercing down there?”
“Oh, please, no.”
“Please? Or no? Make your mind up.” She demanded. I was confused by this turn of events.
My erection was fading, going slack. My fear of needles was no secret. She wiped my thighs, flanks, belly and chest with the wipes, paying particular attention to my nipples.
I tensed as she picked up the sterile needle again and pushed it through a fold of skin, a shallow insertion in my leg just above the knee that made me jerk with the sudden sting. I muffled a scream of outrage.
Another followed it, about half an inch above the first, a stinging sensation that brought tears to my eyes. She was starting a pattern. The needles were pointing inwards. As she reached the more tender skin at the top of my thighs, she paused. My protests were weaker. The stinging pain of each needle was less than the last and I was beginning to ride on a wave of endorphins. She turned to my other leg and repeated the procedure, lifting me on a rush that felt as if the top of my head was lifting off. My eyes were unfocussed, I could see stars.
“I notice that you have not used your safe word, slut,” she whispered. “You can take this. I have always wanted to pierce you. So I think that you are beyond revealing the ring leaders.”
I groaned as the needles were implacably slid under my skin, up my flanks and in an arc towards my nipples. I had given up fighting the bonds and was riding the chemical rush. She paused to massage my cock and balls again, bringing me close to orgasm.
“Open your eyes,” she commanded. I did to see two shiny rows of needles running from my knees, up my flanks and across my chest to my nipples, all pointing inwards. She had two left and for a second I did not twig onto why when she plucked at my left nipple with deft fingers and positioned the tip against my soft, pink flesh. I tried to squirm and failed, the rack holding me rigid.
“You cannot move, so think carefully. Who is the ring leader?” I paused. This was a trial, did I remain defiant and possibly experience my worst nightmare with the chance of the greatest rush of my life or would I back out?
“Wallace,” I said weakly, caving in, chickening out. This was the right code word. But something was not right. The cold glint in my captor’s eyes was enough to quail my thumping heart. My insides were liquid with dread. So far the tight bondage had ensured she had her way with the needles but would she deliberately pierce a nipple?
“William Wallace,” I repeated in a panic, “you know, Mel Gibson and all tha’.”
“You lying bastard,” she shouted, “tell me or you get it!” I realised that she would finish the job anyway. This is what she planned all along, safe word or no. The needle was pushed, very slowly through my erect nipple, right in front of my eyes. God, but this woman was awesome. She kept pushing it through as I writhed with the pain of it. All two inches, slowly and deliberately. I could feel the cold steel slide through my nipple, cold and…a fantastic feeling. A hard limit evaporated and I rode the high of pain and ecstasy of bondage and torture. The last needle slid home as I relaxed, ceasing to fight it. She knew my need for pain release would overcome my fear of needles. I had to be well-secured for this scene.
My captor, lover, soul mate wiped the sweat from my face and kissed me on the cheek. She massaged me again, then stopped just as I was about to explode. A thin cord was produced. This was threaded through the loops in the end of the needles, starting at my knees and crossing like bootlaces. She tensioned it at each needle loop, pushing them tight into my skin. For the needled faced inwards with the loops on the outside. If I moved my legs open, the cord would push them further in against my skin. She reached my chest, looping the cord through each of the needles piercing my nipples before tying the ends off on my collar. Then the rack was released and my ankles freed from their bonds. She left my hand secured to the head of the rack and made to leave me.
I pleaded for release, in both senses of the word but she tugged painfully at my bootlace bindings, shooting pain through my body. Any tension on the cord pulled the needles inwards against my skin.
“Not yet. I will leave you for a few hours to enjoy the pain. Don’t move your legs because that will pull on every needle. I am off to find the camera. Next time will be with a butt plug included in the game. One to make you writhe, I will be interested to see which wins, the plug or needles.” I cursed as I thought of the one she was thinking of. The one in that catalogue. The one that vibrated. Oh hell!
“I might use more needles next time, perhaps do the back of your legs to your shoulders and bum. But you won’t know when I will do it. I will surprise you!”
With that she left me bound to the rack and by my needles of exquisite pain. I lay as still as I could, for what would be an open ended length of time. I could not believe this complete demolition of my hard limits by the person I thought would not go this far. I was stunned, appalled, excited by the possibilities and in awe of my wife, lover, mistress. Oh God, did I worship the very ground she stands on. The sight of shiny steel piercing my body in forty-odd places was surreal; it pushed me further into sub space. I knew that photographs would be examined after the scene had ended, to assure myself this was real. Involuntary shifting of a leg brought further pain, a good pain and I resolved to lie still. Then I considered if my captor would give me release. Could I lie still enough whilst teased to orgasm by the very person that knows how to prolong release? With this needle and cord bondage securing my legs and preventing me from moving my neck without stinging sensations?
End.
20.03.04