Temple of Torture - Xtremity WARNING: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF HUMILIATION & TORTUR!
Temple of Torture
Xtremity
The blood had stopped dripping and clotted in dark puddles on the ground. Dried rivers were visible at the table’s legs, where they had run down the gleaming metal. Nevertheless the tabletop itself was still carrying a true lake of gore and other body fluids. It would have been easy to use the hose dangling above the stainless steel table between all the chains and pulleys to rinse the traces of torture into the drain, but it had been found suitable to delegate this task to a skilful slave-mouth.
Vanessa didn’t taste her gifts any more when her tongue once again cleaned some square centimetres of tiled floor and disappeared into her mouth for disposing the awful waste. Swallowing was hard with the far too large ring gag behind her teeth and the restrictive slave collar. Before the Mistress in charge had left, she had forced another notch out of the cruel leather around Vanessa’s neck, giving her an impressive taste of strangulation.
Breathlessly, the naked slavegirl had started her oral duty, crouching around the floor on her bare knees, her hobble chain rattling between her feet. First, the ground had to be cleaned, so she could later reach the interrogation table without messing up.
Again her lovely long tongue slid across the cold ceramic surface. Some streaks of golden hair run through the coagulating gore, but most of her blonde mane was trapped under the brutally tightened head harness. She was alone. Maybe someone was watching her via a camera, maybe not. Vanessa didn’t care any more. Her mind had become numb, even before her sense of taste. Only the burning pain from her arms and shoulders was still there, and sometimes fierce cramps were racing through her limbs. A good slavegirl’s elbows had not just to touch but to press against each other inside an armbinder. So the monoglove-like leather had been laced all the way up behind her back with sadistic enthusiasm and was finally secured to the back of her beloved collar. The strain she was suffering was evident by the glowing red colour her shoulders had assumed.
She had reached the first table leg and was now worshipping the steel without any hesitation. To suspect what had happened here not long ago was motivation enough to follow the order given to her. This kind of tables was multipurpose, but the amount of blood covering the horrible place gave her a rough idea of its recent use. It looked like razor play; maybe some sexy tit slicing or a wonderfully slow clitoridectomy. Or maybe one of these really severe pain-gaggings. Lately, slaves who couldn’t hold their mouths shut used to be dealt with by first cutting out their tongues. After that they would be permanently gagged with a wide steel sphere. A metal spike, at least ten centimetres long, would then screwed through the cheek left and right into this ball, fixing it deep in the maimed mouth’s back. The spikes themselves were just show, pretending to pierce from the inside of the oral cavity through the flesh. Vanessa had occasionally seen these poor mute creatures but couldn’t say how bloody such a treatment would be.
The pole-like legs were much quicker to clean than the floor, and soon the beautiful slave tongued the metal of the second one with aching jaws. This was disgusting and sickening, it was repulsive, wrong – and thousand times better what she had endured to be forced into this resigned mood. Not long ago, and a Mistress would had to coerce every single lick out of her with a whip or a cattle prod. But during the last weeks and month her pride had been lashed out of her thoroughly. Indeed it seemed that despite all the sophisticated torture devices and cruel ancient methods of torment the corporal punishment by castigation was by far the most popular. Vanessa had learned so much about the differences between beating instruments. Even if she had thought about it some month earlier, in freedom, she hardly could had named more than three of them. Whip and cane, with the cane equal to switch and birch for her, maybe the flogger or the crop; that would had been all. Now so exotic items like the whalebone and the eelskin had taught her submission, and her most pain-sensitive parts had been allowed to taste the tawse and the needle whip. And the flagrum taxillatum. Oh, how had the roman scourge opened up her flesh in uncounted sessions, down to the white of ribs and shoulder blades...! Never she would forget this torture! The devastating agony and her own screams for mercy and death had branded themselves deeply into her mind. After the infernal ordeal at the Heaven's Gate Exhibition two month ago, where she had suffered scourging and impalement for the first time, the blonde slavegirl had been half past dead. But from the moment she had been able to shriek again, Grand Mistress Gillian had dragged her back into Her torture chambers. Vanessa was what her cruel redhead captress called a GPS: a General Purpose Slave. Useful for being fucked, hurt, pissed onto...
Vanessa had to pause for just a moment as revulsion and disgust were overwhelming her. She had been able to finish the legs rather quickly, but the tabletop was the true challenge. The complete mid-section was darkly covered in half-liquid waste. Under the metallic blood-odour the acid smell of urine was noticeable. The teenaged slave bent back to get fresh air. If she vomited, she would have to lick off her stomach‘s content a second time, of course. She brought her tongue back to the horrible lake and tested the puddle’s clotted edge. Then, without allowing herself to think, she reamed a long lane through the ghastly substance, revealing the silvery surface hidden underneath. The fiendish routine of abuse and torture had cooled down some for her during the last week. A new load of untrained slaveflesh, virgin to whip and branding iron, had arrived, begging to be pieced, burned and lashed. The batch had come from some East European orphanage, from where regularly new material was skimmed off when the meat had reached a certain age. There were seventeen, sixteen, even fifteen-year-olds, and, glancing at a very shy girl with pale complex, Vanessa had went sick from imagining how young this lost child would be.
The latest newcomers – all three-way-virgins – had been granted the doubtful honour to be passengers on the new truck’s maiden voyage (no pun intended). This lorry had been conscientiously modified to carry its precious load for long distances: from the reinforced walls of its soundproof loading space flat, on end turned metal laths were horizontally protruding, twelve in all. Each was about forty centimetres long, mounted at crotch height and sported a serrated top edge. Cruel steel cuffs were fixed near the point where the metal was welded to the wall’s strut. The captive female had to mount the wicked piece of steel with her back to the wall and then was forced to bend her legs at the knees. Her feet would be locked into the cuffs, but contrary to the local habits not bound to the thighs, so there was as little support as possible for her body. Due to the shackles’ position close to the wall the restrained girl had to bend back her feet and point her toes, which would cause horrible cramps in next to no time. Bound in a reverse prayer, her arms had been rendered useless, and a taut chain fixed her collared neck to a ring in the wall. Normally the victim hadn't ever been subjected to real slave-play before, so it was highly obliging to give her the opportunity to experience the sensation of long-term gagging: a penis-shaped silencer would be filling her mouth most nicely, and its head harness gave a taste of how wonderfully restrictive face-bondage could be. During the whole journey almost her full body weight would press her into the dreadful edge, torturing her vulva, perineum and anus. The suffering damsel would have to strain her muscles in thighs and abdomen to stay upright against tension in her legs. Toppling forwards would grind her unprotected clitoris on the blunt teeth while she would be choking herself with the collar. Furthermore, the nasty "wooden pony effect" would be intensely heightened with each street bump sawing the serrated edge deeper into the crying girl‘s womanhood, causing her a very rough ride on the jags.
Vanessa had heaved a few times, but had managed to hold the various substances in her stomach. Now, with the tabletop gleaming, the worst was over. The last step was the cleaning of the steel shackles, bloody by rubbing the squirming victim’s wrists and ankles raw. The slave‘s tired tongue caressed her sore gums for some seconds, then reached out for the first of the stained cuffs. Vanessa eagerly licked the inside, the edges and the outer surface, even made sure to perform fellatio to each link of the short chain. No single spot had to remain, or the next blood flooding this table would be her own.
The blonde beauty had long lost all sense of time, so she couldn’t tell how long it had taken to wash all four shackles plus the dangling long chain in the midsection which was used to secure the victim’s waist. Having finished, she double-checked every corner and crack. Eventually Vanessa was convinced of having fulfilled her degrading duty and positioned herself in the middle of the room, facing the heavy steel door. Here she waited, on her knees, head down against the collar’s tension, drool sliding in long threads out of her ring-gagged mouth, glistening on her bare chest as a symbol of her helplessness and submission.
As soon as a Mistress would come in and step towards her, Vanessa would greet her by worshipping her boots. With her lips pried open and her tongue dirty from the filthy work, she would touch them with her forehead or the tip of her nose to signal her devotion. Then she would most likely be punished for not showing respect in a proper manner. But if she licked the boots, she would be punished for soiling them with her disgusting waste-bathed tongue.
While she was waiting, she was alone with the dull, deep aches in her numb jaws, in her raw knees and sore shoulders. Her body would become stiff in the course of time, the cramps in her arms would return and other pains would settle in. But she would keep still and wait. Wait till a Mistress would dismiss her. She would be motionlessly waiting on her knees for hours, not knowing whether she should hope for not being forgotten - or for being forgotten.
