\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t| " | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tMahin's incarceration was made to ensure that no comfort were to be found even during the off-hours when the prisoner would be left alone. The young fox would almost always be restrained and forced into various poses that served to further agonize his already battered form until his wardens returned to continue the torture session. Mahin never knew how long he would be bound—the schedule constantly changed between torture, feed, and rest times to completely deprive him of any passage of time. One particularly devious outfit forced onto Mahin was a heavy iron mask that completely encased the wearer's head in darkness, along with a rigid posture collar that forced his head forward and upright. Sometimes the mask would be left in place for an entire day, with its muzzle piece opening only during feeding times. At other times the device were combined with other restraints that fully immobilized the prisoner, inducing near absolute silence where the only source of noise came from within the body. Mahin's distressed breathing, his panicked heartbeat, the scraping and chafing of the metal shackles all soon became their own instruments of torture.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
Was sketching iron mask ideas when it became a full-blown sketch. The wardens would also suddenly strike the iron mask with blunt objects to further inconvenience the poor boy.
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[Feb.23, 2018]
\n\t\t\t\t\tninthsword provided me with this lovely narration that he was willing to let me add. Thanks again!\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t| " | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tMahin leaned back, bracing himself as the pain built up. The chain joining the anchor on the floor and the cage between his legs went tight, then started pulling on the ring behind his balls. He felt the sweat in the mask slosh backward and gritted his teeth, slowly pushing himself further. If his nerve broke he would have to try again in a few minutes, and it would only be worse the second time. He leaned further, letting the chain pull on his scrotum until the pain was almost unbearable. Mahin was sure this was a deliberate part of the position now. Of course it was. He couldn’t just lift his head because of the posture collar, the chain behind him meant he couldn’t lean forward to drain the mask from the nose holes, the ankle chains kept him from shuffling forward, and the tail clamp kept him from pushing his hips forward to take the pressure off his balls. If the chain in front of him went from the floor to the collar he wouldn’t be able to drain the mask at all. It didn’t though. It went from the floor to a part of him that could stretch, and he was afraid of drowning, so… Mahin inched backwards, slowly, by degrees, never stopping; he knew if he stopped he wouldn’t start again. The chain wrung a low, breathy moan from him that echoed inside his mask until it was nearly deafening. His small frame shuddered with agony, his shackles clinked. Finally he felt a river of sweat pour down his chest. The salt woke up every fresh lash from his neck to his groin. Mahin eased himself forward again until the chain behind him pulled and he hung on his arms, trembling, gasping. The pain wasn’t even that bad, he took as bad most days. There was just something so much worse about doing it to himself. At least he could breathe again. Even if he wanted to cry. Even if he’d have to do it again in an hour or two.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t