Well you did set up a great scenario!!!
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P
Pia
Guest
It might annoy me if it was coming out of my mouth. Couldn't you just arrange for it to come out via the side of my body, and place it vertically with the charcoal (or whatever) around the base? I'd like that a lot more...
hongzu117
Magistrate
It seems that all of authors like such things，so that we can legally do something……anything like that to ladies.
hongzu117
Magistrate
No matter is that normal or necro，the dead and dying women are not entitled to complain.Yes, you can ... almost anything
P
Pia
Guest
I suppose I knew from that morning at school. In gym class. On the climbing rope next to Judith. Judith with her long dark hair. And I felt myself getting wet. I was so embarassed. But then I knew. Both things. Hanging from my arms on the rope and the shape of Judith's breasts, pressing against her gym slip. And her hair.
Anyway, things progressed in the usual way from there. Exams. Uni. A few easy-come, easy-go girlfriends. A few girlfriends who were into the same things as me. Once in a while a boy, just so I was sure. I was.
And toys. Then harder stuff. Stuff I could still do to myself.
I freelanced. Perfect really. A bit of writing to pay the bills. My time when I wanted it. No questions asked if I came into the office with marks on my wrists (or marks on my back, if they could have looked there). No office. Perfect.
I tried out clubs and things, but it really wasn't my gig. Scene is so boring.
Then I found a few folks I could trust on the web. (You can't trust anyone. Some people you can trust a little bit, but not really).
I guess the playing got more serious.
And as I knew I could never have Judith, and I only really wanted Judith, I decided I'd find someone I could trust to let me have the thing I wanted second most in the world.
There are some people who will do this, you know. You have to find them and trust them.
I talked to a few. Some were shits. Some were weird. OK, so you think I'm not entirely not weird I guess.
They had proposals. Mid-West or some corner of the old Soviet bloc seemed favourite. Empty spaces and cops that take bribes.
I decided on this guy in Belarus. Made the plans, got the visa. Two days holiday in Minsk. It was anticipatory fun.
Then we met up. I talked it all through and he agreed. He had some friends. They'd film it. That was the deal.
So we went to the forest.
I forgot to mention, he had a girlfriend. Blonde. Beautiful. We made out in the back of his old van. Just once. I was glad we did.
Then it was time.
He'd arranged for a doctor, someone who'd been a doctor anyway, to come along and check me over. Seemed to me an odd precaution, given what was going to happen.
The stuff was ready. He'd had the St.Andrew's cross made in Minsk and brought it on top of the van, in two pieces. A cross on a van would look odd. And the wagon wheel was already there. From a village near the forest, he said.
We sat around on canvass chairs for a while. Coffee, a bottle of water for me. It was early morning and the mist was still around the birch trees and the dew was wet on my feet. We waited for his friends to arrive and set up. And his girl made them coffee too. They joked in their language. I felt so amazingly calm, so amazingly excited.
At a certain point he said they were ready and told me to get myself prepared.
I was so wet, so fast.
I took off my clothes and folded them neatly on the chair. Then I walked over to where the cross had been set up and I stroked it.
I was perfect.
I lay down on it, my arms outstretched, and the girl came and tightened the leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists. She touched my lips with her fingers. I think she wished she could do what I was going to do. I think so.
They were in a circle around me. The camera was ready. He asked if I was. I was.
He had a bar, a long one, just like I imagined.
The flash of white was brighter than any light I had ever seen, the agony sharper and more exquisite. He smashed my left shin with one blow. Seven more to go. I gasped and screamed and felt my skin burst with sweat. I raised my head to look at my broken limb. I was so happy.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I felt myself flying out of myself and back in. My body heaved in pain. I was so happy. I think I loved the smashing of my thigh bones most of all. Such a deep, tranquil ecstacy of pain.
Then they unbound me and carried me, shrieking, to the wheel. I know I was shrieking. I was supposed to I think. And they entwined my smashed limbs in the spokes, and poured some water into my open mouth, and lifted the wheel up onto the post that fitted into the hub. The hub that pushed into my back, arching my back. My bloody, broken limbs dangling around the rim.
And at that moment, at last, I saw Judith, back on the rope, and she smiled to me.
Anyway, things progressed in the usual way from there. Exams. Uni. A few easy-come, easy-go girlfriends. A few girlfriends who were into the same things as me. Once in a while a boy, just so I was sure. I was.
And toys. Then harder stuff. Stuff I could still do to myself.
I freelanced. Perfect really. A bit of writing to pay the bills. My time when I wanted it. No questions asked if I came into the office with marks on my wrists (or marks on my back, if they could have looked there). No office. Perfect.
I tried out clubs and things, but it really wasn't my gig. Scene is so boring.
Then I found a few folks I could trust on the web. (You can't trust anyone. Some people you can trust a little bit, but not really).
I guess the playing got more serious.
And as I knew I could never have Judith, and I only really wanted Judith, I decided I'd find someone I could trust to let me have the thing I wanted second most in the world.
There are some people who will do this, you know. You have to find them and trust them.
I talked to a few. Some were shits. Some were weird. OK, so you think I'm not entirely not weird I guess.
They had proposals. Mid-West or some corner of the old Soviet bloc seemed favourite. Empty spaces and cops that take bribes.
I decided on this guy in Belarus. Made the plans, got the visa. Two days holiday in Minsk. It was anticipatory fun.
Then we met up. I talked it all through and he agreed. He had some friends. They'd film it. That was the deal.
So we went to the forest.
I forgot to mention, he had a girlfriend. Blonde. Beautiful. We made out in the back of his old van. Just once. I was glad we did.
Then it was time.
He'd arranged for a doctor, someone who'd been a doctor anyway, to come along and check me over. Seemed to me an odd precaution, given what was going to happen.
The stuff was ready. He'd had the St.Andrew's cross made in Minsk and brought it on top of the van, in two pieces. A cross on a van would look odd. And the wagon wheel was already there. From a village near the forest, he said.
We sat around on canvass chairs for a while. Coffee, a bottle of water for me. It was early morning and the mist was still around the birch trees and the dew was wet on my feet. We waited for his friends to arrive and set up. And his girl made them coffee too. They joked in their language. I felt so amazingly calm, so amazingly excited.
At a certain point he said they were ready and told me to get myself prepared.
I was so wet, so fast.
I took off my clothes and folded them neatly on the chair. Then I walked over to where the cross had been set up and I stroked it.
I was perfect.
I lay down on it, my arms outstretched, and the girl came and tightened the leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists. She touched my lips with her fingers. I think she wished she could do what I was going to do. I think so.
They were in a circle around me. The camera was ready. He asked if I was. I was.
He had a bar, a long one, just like I imagined.
The flash of white was brighter than any light I had ever seen, the agony sharper and more exquisite. He smashed my left shin with one blow. Seven more to go. I gasped and screamed and felt my skin burst with sweat. I raised my head to look at my broken limb. I was so happy.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I felt myself flying out of myself and back in. My body heaved in pain. I was so happy. I think I loved the smashing of my thigh bones most of all. Such a deep, tranquil ecstacy of pain.
Then they unbound me and carried me, shrieking, to the wheel. I know I was shrieking. I was supposed to I think. And they entwined my smashed limbs in the spokes, and poured some water into my open mouth, and lifted the wheel up onto the post that fitted into the hub. The hub that pushed into my back, arching my back. My bloody, broken limbs dangling around the rim.
And at that moment, at last, I saw Judith, back on the rope, and she smiled to me.
P
Pia
Guest
Tonight....hmmmm..... I think it might be a torture chamber during the Inquisition.... just possibly....if I can tell my dreams to dream that way...
P
Piper Marie
Guest
Maybe you won’t be alone. Programming my dream controls now ...
Can you set it to include the three of us together?
P
Pia
Guest
P
Pia
Guest
...a waking dream. A dream that comes in that half-waking moment. A dream that wakes.
I am led by the man in the brown robes to the chamber in the Royal Monastery of La Encarnación. There is a long table. Behind it sit three men. They are priests, not monks. They wear rich clothes and jeweled rings and have sallow, long-nosed faces. They look kind.
I am bidden to sit down. I am in my morning gown, a fine pale fabric, beautifully embroidered with birds. My hair is dressed and wound on top of my head. I am perfumed.
But I know why I am here, and I know they know. And I know someone has told them. But how much I do not know.
They ask me.
I deny. I am a good Catholic. Of course I do not read the new books from Flanders. I am more practiced in the virginals and dance. Surely they know that?
I hope they do not know about Inma, my cousin. My half-cousin. Inma who I have loved since I was seven. Inma who I have slept with these last years, slept secretly, creeping into each other's rooms in our palace when the lights are put out. Inma who I have loved for twelve years and who I will always love. I hope they do not know.
They ask again. I deny. I put on my haughty face. How could they ask me such things?
They say they have information. And that I would be wise to confess and abdure my foreign beliefs. They urge me to speak honestly with them.
I cannot. I have my own truth.
They say they will ask the questions another way. A way that might help me to speak more freely.
I say they are welcome to do that, but I am speaking honestly. If their way will help convince them, then I am happy to allow them.
They rise. I kiss their rings. They leave the room. I am alone.
A man enters. He asks me to go with him. A side door is opened and we descend dark steps. Many flights. Deep into the Monastery. Deep into the cellars beneath. The air becomes cool. Torches in stone passages flicker. He takes me to a small cell. There are chains on the wall and straw lies on the floor. He asks me to enter, then closes and locks the iron-barred door. He says I will not have to wait long.
I am led by the man in the brown robes to the chamber in the Royal Monastery of La Encarnación. There is a long table. Behind it sit three men. They are priests, not monks. They wear rich clothes and jeweled rings and have sallow, long-nosed faces. They look kind.
I am bidden to sit down. I am in my morning gown, a fine pale fabric, beautifully embroidered with birds. My hair is dressed and wound on top of my head. I am perfumed.
But I know why I am here, and I know they know. And I know someone has told them. But how much I do not know.
They ask me.
I deny. I am a good Catholic. Of course I do not read the new books from Flanders. I am more practiced in the virginals and dance. Surely they know that?
I hope they do not know about Inma, my cousin. My half-cousin. Inma who I have loved since I was seven. Inma who I have slept with these last years, slept secretly, creeping into each other's rooms in our palace when the lights are put out. Inma who I have loved for twelve years and who I will always love. I hope they do not know.
They ask again. I deny. I put on my haughty face. How could they ask me such things?
They say they have information. And that I would be wise to confess and abdure my foreign beliefs. They urge me to speak honestly with them.
I cannot. I have my own truth.
They say they will ask the questions another way. A way that might help me to speak more freely.
I say they are welcome to do that, but I am speaking honestly. If their way will help convince them, then I am happy to allow them.
They rise. I kiss their rings. They leave the room. I am alone.
A man enters. He asks me to go with him. A side door is opened and we descend dark steps. Many flights. Deep into the Monastery. Deep into the cellars beneath. The air becomes cool. Torches in stone passages flicker. He takes me to a small cell. There are chains on the wall and straw lies on the floor. He asks me to enter, then closes and locks the iron-barred door. He says I will not have to wait long.
P
Pia
Guest
Time passes slowly, but not much time passes. My eyes adjust to the dim light of the cell and the passageway beyond. Soon, it really is soon, the man comes back and ushers me down a long corridor and into a chamber lit by candles on the wall. At one end is a long table covered in a red cloth, with pewter vessels and cups and a book, a large open book. I am asked to stand before the table. I stand.
The priests enter, and another man. He is hooded and his chest is bare. He looks strong.
The priest in the centre speaks to me.
'Joana' he says 'We do not need to be here. You can confess now and we will return to the appartment we came from. We will talk to you and you will be free. There will be but a small pennance. You can trust me. The Church is kind.@
I say nothing.
'Or we can remain, and ask you the questions again. This man will help us. Let him show you around.'
The man in the mask takes my arm. I resist. He takes me again and holds tightly. I let him lead me. The priest speaks and describes the instruments in the room.
'Joana. You can see the things in this place. They can be cruel. I hope we can agree not to use them.'
The man, I presume him to be a torturer or executioner, points out the chains and ropes, the rack, the chafing dishes with their small charcoal fires, the small brazier, the irons and spikes and tools that look meant to tear. Tools like a butcher's shop. He points out a strage wooden device, like a pyramid on legs, with fetters hanging above. He points out a pulley.
The priest tells me how these tools will hurt me and that how I will cry and be in so much pain and that I will tell the truth and confess.
I remember my teacher. How he used to beat me with the switch when I misunderstood my Latin lesson. How he pulled my dress over my head and beat me on my bottom. I remember that it hurt but that it never made me say that I was sorry. I dimly recall how it thrilled me.
'Joana' he says 'spare us the sight of such a lovely body in pain. We do not wish to hurt you. Confess and we can be done here. It gives me no pleasure.'
I pull my arm free. I am burning with anger within. I stare at the priests.
'I have nothing to confess. I am a true Catholic. Do what you will with me. I am not afraid.'
He sighs. 'Joana, you will soon understand that the Church has only the future of your soul at its heart. Please think again. I do not wish to harm you my child.'
'I have thought. I know that you will cause me pain, but I am not afraid. You may begin, if you wish.'
The priests enter, and another man. He is hooded and his chest is bare. He looks strong.
The priest in the centre speaks to me.
'Joana' he says 'We do not need to be here. You can confess now and we will return to the appartment we came from. We will talk to you and you will be free. There will be but a small pennance. You can trust me. The Church is kind.@
I say nothing.
'Or we can remain, and ask you the questions again. This man will help us. Let him show you around.'
The man in the mask takes my arm. I resist. He takes me again and holds tightly. I let him lead me. The priest speaks and describes the instruments in the room.
'Joana. You can see the things in this place. They can be cruel. I hope we can agree not to use them.'
The man, I presume him to be a torturer or executioner, points out the chains and ropes, the rack, the chafing dishes with their small charcoal fires, the small brazier, the irons and spikes and tools that look meant to tear. Tools like a butcher's shop. He points out a strage wooden device, like a pyramid on legs, with fetters hanging above. He points out a pulley.
The priest tells me how these tools will hurt me and that how I will cry and be in so much pain and that I will tell the truth and confess.
I remember my teacher. How he used to beat me with the switch when I misunderstood my Latin lesson. How he pulled my dress over my head and beat me on my bottom. I remember that it hurt but that it never made me say that I was sorry. I dimly recall how it thrilled me.
'Joana' he says 'spare us the sight of such a lovely body in pain. We do not wish to hurt you. Confess and we can be done here. It gives me no pleasure.'
I pull my arm free. I am burning with anger within. I stare at the priests.
'I have nothing to confess. I am a true Catholic. Do what you will with me. I am not afraid.'
He sighs. 'Joana, you will soon understand that the Church has only the future of your soul at its heart. Please think again. I do not wish to harm you my child.'
'I have thought. I know that you will cause me pain, but I am not afraid. You may begin, if you wish.'
P
Pia
Guest
'I regret your choice. Please remove your clothes my child, and we will begin.'
I did as I was told, holding my arms across my breasts, conscious that no man had ever seen me in my nakedness. Yet I felt no shame. I felt only shame for these priests.
The priest nodded and the executioner took me by the wrists towards the centre of the chamber, where a rope hung from a pulley. He was not rough with me, I did not resist.
He held my arms behind my back and tied the rope around my wrists, my palms pointing outwards, my exposed body facing the table where the priests sat.
He moved to the shadows. I turned and saw him at the wheel of the pulley. At a signal from the priest he began to turn.
At first my arms just straightened, then began to lift. My back arched and my face bent towards my feet, my hair falling over my eyes.
Then I was on my toes. The ropes burned into my wrists, my shoulders pulled together, my chest opened and tightened, the skin pulled tight over my ribs.
Then I was off my toes and I understood the pain this simple tool could cause in me. I felt my body become damp with sweat. I felt my lungs begin to burn, my shoulder blades almost touching. I felt pain in my back, in my arms, in my very stomach.
He lifted me until I was my own height from the floor, then locked the wheel.
'Joana', the priest said 'this is but the beginning. It is to help you to find the truth inside yourself and to tell us. Confess now and this will all stop. I plead with you Joana. Do not make this pointless pain continue.'
My lips moved. My eyes dropped tears.
'I have nothing to confess' I gasped.
'Then we shall leave you for a little while to reflect', he said.
And the priests and the executioner left the chamber. Left me hanging there in my pain. The torchlight flickering over my shinging body as I gasped air into my lungs.
The pain was terrible. Yet somehow I knew that this was somehow perfect. I swallowed my pain, let it find its home within me. I looked down at the way my body had become tight and hard and somehow I knew that I would not stop this thing they were doing to me. I thought of Inma and the soft sheets we had shared and her lips and her breasts. I dreamt of Inma in my pain and wished I could share this sweet ecstasy with her.
I did as I was told, holding my arms across my breasts, conscious that no man had ever seen me in my nakedness. Yet I felt no shame. I felt only shame for these priests.
The priest nodded and the executioner took me by the wrists towards the centre of the chamber, where a rope hung from a pulley. He was not rough with me, I did not resist.
He held my arms behind my back and tied the rope around my wrists, my palms pointing outwards, my exposed body facing the table where the priests sat.
He moved to the shadows. I turned and saw him at the wheel of the pulley. At a signal from the priest he began to turn.
At first my arms just straightened, then began to lift. My back arched and my face bent towards my feet, my hair falling over my eyes.
Then I was on my toes. The ropes burned into my wrists, my shoulders pulled together, my chest opened and tightened, the skin pulled tight over my ribs.
Then I was off my toes and I understood the pain this simple tool could cause in me. I felt my body become damp with sweat. I felt my lungs begin to burn, my shoulder blades almost touching. I felt pain in my back, in my arms, in my very stomach.
He lifted me until I was my own height from the floor, then locked the wheel.
'Joana', the priest said 'this is but the beginning. It is to help you to find the truth inside yourself and to tell us. Confess now and this will all stop. I plead with you Joana. Do not make this pointless pain continue.'
My lips moved. My eyes dropped tears.
'I have nothing to confess' I gasped.
'Then we shall leave you for a little while to reflect', he said.
And the priests and the executioner left the chamber. Left me hanging there in my pain. The torchlight flickering over my shinging body as I gasped air into my lungs.
The pain was terrible. Yet somehow I knew that this was somehow perfect. I swallowed my pain, let it find its home within me. I looked down at the way my body had become tight and hard and somehow I knew that I would not stop this thing they were doing to me. I thought of Inma and the soft sheets we had shared and her lips and her breasts. I dreamt of Inma in my pain and wished I could share this sweet ecstasy with her.
...and we hope you dream on!!!
P
Pia
Guest
I don't know how long it was they left me alone. But they came back, and sat at their long table, and poured themselves wine and looked at me. At me hanging there, my legs swinging slightly as my toes tried to find the ground they couldn't find. At me gasping and twisting. At me drooling from my lips.
'Now Joana, we have given you time to think. Will you let us stop this unpleasantness?'
I took a deep breath.
'Stop if you want to' I spluttered.
'But you do not confess yet I fear. So sadly Joana, we cannot.'
He gestured to the executioner who unlocked the wheel which held the suspension rope in place, and, turning, raised me towards the stone vault above.
'Now will you confess?'
I shook my head. They repeated the process. I felt my ligaments begin to tear. The pain was so awful, so beautiful.
I shook my head again. And he signalled to the executioner, who came to me with a stone, a rope looped through an iron loop sunk into it. And with the stone, which was so heavy he could hardly lift it, on the floor, he bound my ankles and tied the rope to them. And then turned the wheel. I felt myself stretching as he raised me, my legs being pulled by the weight from below. Higher and higher. Then I waited. I knew what would come.
I greeted the fall and the sudden stop with a great cry of agony as my shoulders dislocated.
They lowered me to the floor.
A doctor was summoned and my joints were reset. I cannot describe the pain. And then they lifted me again, and dislocated my shoulders once more.
'Will you confess now?' he asked.
I shook my head.
The priests talked quietly to each other.
'Then we will pause for today. Dear Joana, don't make this continue tomorrow. Pray and reflect in your cell. This can all stop. Just confess and it will stop.'
He waved a finger and the executioner raised me and dragged me back to the cell, where he fixed me in irons and left me.
'Now Joana, we have given you time to think. Will you let us stop this unpleasantness?'
I took a deep breath.
'Stop if you want to' I spluttered.
'But you do not confess yet I fear. So sadly Joana, we cannot.'
He gestured to the executioner who unlocked the wheel which held the suspension rope in place, and, turning, raised me towards the stone vault above.
'Now will you confess?'
I shook my head. They repeated the process. I felt my ligaments begin to tear. The pain was so awful, so beautiful.
I shook my head again. And he signalled to the executioner, who came to me with a stone, a rope looped through an iron loop sunk into it. And with the stone, which was so heavy he could hardly lift it, on the floor, he bound my ankles and tied the rope to them. And then turned the wheel. I felt myself stretching as he raised me, my legs being pulled by the weight from below. Higher and higher. Then I waited. I knew what would come.
I greeted the fall and the sudden stop with a great cry of agony as my shoulders dislocated.
They lowered me to the floor.
A doctor was summoned and my joints were reset. I cannot describe the pain. And then they lifted me again, and dislocated my shoulders once more.
'Will you confess now?' he asked.
I shook my head.
The priests talked quietly to each other.
'Then we will pause for today. Dear Joana, don't make this continue tomorrow. Pray and reflect in your cell. This can all stop. Just confess and it will stop.'
He waved a finger and the executioner raised me and dragged me back to the cell, where he fixed me in irons and left me.
P
Pia
Guest
I lay on the straw, barely able to move, my body wracked with the pain in my shoulders, my arms, my hips, my legs, my ankles. I was soaking in pain, drowning in pain. I closed my eyes to try to sleep, but the pain wouldn't let go of me. There was no place to find comfort, no place to rest. I was still being tortured. I could see the bowl of water beside me, but no matter how hard I wished it, I couldn't reach for it. I longed to sleep. I longed to dream of Inma, of comforting softness and damp lips, not lips ravaged with salt drool mixed with my own blood. I cried to sleep. I cried to be with her. And yet... and yet... I loved my pain. I was wrapped by my pain. I owned it as it owned me. I knew that tomorrow there would be more. New pain. Different pain. New tortures. I reached for the bowl and drank and drank again and I smiled. I was happy. I was happy to be here in this terrible place. I wanted Inma to know how happy I was, how lucky I was. I wanted to thank the person who had betrayed me, whoever it was. I twisted and turned and moaned and became wet with happiness. And I longed for the night to end and tomorrow to come.