Tavy
Executioner
The first thing I was aware of was pain. As I slowly regained consciousness it first seemed to be everywhere, but then when I tried moving my arms I realised excruciating pain was shooting up my arms from my wrists.
I tried rolling onto my side, only to realise the bottom of my legs, my ankles to be precise, were another source of agony. Not that I wasn't stiff all over.
I tried to remember. But my mind was blank. I did remember being in the "Coliseum Cafe Bar". I tried to remember more. A tanned dark haired young man had tried chatting me up, not getting at all the fact that I'm not at all. interested in boys, even pretty ones. Though I have to admit he was pretty, with startling blue eyes and almost feminine lips.
That was probably why I had let him buy me a drink. That and the fact I was already a little drunk and wanting to carry on.
That drink. That was the last thing I could remember. Until I found myself sprawled on my back on the floor of my cramped filthy bed sitting room. Naked.
Had he drugged me and raped me? There was a full itching pain in so I tried moving my right hand to feel myself. But I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't feel my hand!
My breath quickened. I tried not to panic. I lifted my hand up in front of my face.
I panicked.
My wrist was wrapped in a blood soaked bandage, dried blood covered my forearm, but what shocked me was my hand. Dark greyish blue and contorted into a claw shape.
Using my elbows I pushed myself onto my side. Looking down I could see my ankles too were bloodily bandaged and my feet just as useless as my hands. The movement also caused a stinging pain in my vagina. My breathing had become short irregular panting.
I had the sense of having just awoken from a terrifying nightmare without being able to remember what it was about. I prayed that I was still in the nightmare and would soon wake up. I told myself to wake up. I tried shouting, but my throat was too dry to do much more than croak.
I had to get help. I had to get out. Even though I wasn't sure I would be able to open it I painfully wriggled towards it.
The handle seemed so high up. I wouldn't be able to reach it with my chin or mouth from a sitting position so I tried getting onto my knees. But even though I thought I had no longer any feeling apart from pain in my feet the moment my toes pressed against the floor an electrifying shock seemed to shoot straight from them up to my heart. I fell back onto my side and stared with hatred at the closed door.
Only then did I notice that someone had pinned a large glossy photograph to the door panel, of Christ hanging stretched out on the cross dripping blood. Except that, as I stared at it, I realised that it wasn't Jesus but me. Stark naked with rusty square headed nails driven through my wrist and ankles. At the bottom of the picture was printed 'passionstudios.com'.
I felt sick. I so desperately wanted to remember.
No wonder my cunt hurt. A curved piece, shaped like the horn of a large animal, with blood trickling down it extended from the timber upright up between my legs. The pointed end disappearing deep inside me.
Please, please let me remember. My movements have started me bleeding all over the floor and I am feeling lightheaded. Yet the greatest torture is the thought I might die before my memory of being nailed, stretched out and writhing in front of the camera to that ghastly rugged cross returns....
I tried rolling onto my side, only to realise the bottom of my legs, my ankles to be precise, were another source of agony. Not that I wasn't stiff all over.
I tried to remember. But my mind was blank. I did remember being in the "Coliseum Cafe Bar". I tried to remember more. A tanned dark haired young man had tried chatting me up, not getting at all the fact that I'm not at all. interested in boys, even pretty ones. Though I have to admit he was pretty, with startling blue eyes and almost feminine lips.
That was probably why I had let him buy me a drink. That and the fact I was already a little drunk and wanting to carry on.
That drink. That was the last thing I could remember. Until I found myself sprawled on my back on the floor of my cramped filthy bed sitting room. Naked.
Had he drugged me and raped me? There was a full itching pain in so I tried moving my right hand to feel myself. But I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't feel my hand!
My breath quickened. I tried not to panic. I lifted my hand up in front of my face.
I panicked.
My wrist was wrapped in a blood soaked bandage, dried blood covered my forearm, but what shocked me was my hand. Dark greyish blue and contorted into a claw shape.
Using my elbows I pushed myself onto my side. Looking down I could see my ankles too were bloodily bandaged and my feet just as useless as my hands. The movement also caused a stinging pain in my vagina. My breathing had become short irregular panting.
I had the sense of having just awoken from a terrifying nightmare without being able to remember what it was about. I prayed that I was still in the nightmare and would soon wake up. I told myself to wake up. I tried shouting, but my throat was too dry to do much more than croak.
I had to get help. I had to get out. Even though I wasn't sure I would be able to open it I painfully wriggled towards it.
The handle seemed so high up. I wouldn't be able to reach it with my chin or mouth from a sitting position so I tried getting onto my knees. But even though I thought I had no longer any feeling apart from pain in my feet the moment my toes pressed against the floor an electrifying shock seemed to shoot straight from them up to my heart. I fell back onto my side and stared with hatred at the closed door.
Only then did I notice that someone had pinned a large glossy photograph to the door panel, of Christ hanging stretched out on the cross dripping blood. Except that, as I stared at it, I realised that it wasn't Jesus but me. Stark naked with rusty square headed nails driven through my wrist and ankles. At the bottom of the picture was printed 'passionstudios.com'.
I felt sick. I so desperately wanted to remember.
No wonder my cunt hurt. A curved piece, shaped like the horn of a large animal, with blood trickling down it extended from the timber upright up between my legs. The pointed end disappearing deep inside me.
Please, please let me remember. My movements have started me bleeding all over the floor and I am feeling lightheaded. Yet the greatest torture is the thought I might die before my memory of being nailed, stretched out and writhing in front of the camera to that ghastly rugged cross returns....
