0 comments/ 67081 views/ 10 favorites Jen and the Inquisition By: AubreyWylde Introduction For the sake of our story, let us suppose that somewhere there exists a special, a very unique resort catering to a very particular clientele. The clientele are possessed of certain needs and desires which they don't generally share with their friends and neighbors, much less strangers. Most likely this establishment is located in a region with an equitable climate, not to mention a tolerant social climate. It might be housed on a sizeable estate, for insulation from the outside world is most desirable, and it probably has vineyards and olive groves between the main house and the county road, masking the buildings quite effectively from passing traffic. The main house is, of course, a rambling Tuscan style villa, though it will long predates the current fad for all things Tuscan. There were other reasons than the whims of society at large that dictated the design of the main house. In keeping with the Italian theme, the resort might be named something like, shall we say, the "Villa di Dolore." The estate itself stretches for a good distance beyond the villa, accommodating a substantial buffer zone between the areas used by the resort's members and the neighboring properties. There are long standing agreements with those neighbors to aid in preserving the privacy of the members. The neighbors hear nothing, see nothing and say nothing, for which they are suitably recompensed. A glance at the clientele strolling the grounds would also lead one to believe that this is not an ordinary resort. One might think, at first, that they'd dropped in on a costume party. On second thought they might wonder just what sort of costume party it was, where so many costumes consisted of full leather or merely straps, or shiny chain, or were cleverly designed to expose those parts normally concealed. And the number of costumes that consisted of nothing but a coating of sunscreen and bits of body jewelry might be a bit surprising as well. And if one were to observe the clientele at their recreation it would quickly become obvious they were not visiting the Marriott Scottsdale. Because the Villa caters to clients who have very special needs. For some it is a sort of mental dog run where they can let the hidden demons of their innermost beings off the leash in a safe manner. For others it is a place for getting in touch with their inner barbarian, which coincidentally is the title of one of the more popular classes offered by the Villa. For still others it is a place to explore their long suppressed fantasies and shed light on the dark corners of their psyches. If this resort existed and one were to drop by on a typical summer weekend... * Jen reported to the Villa at the time instructed. The Handler took her down to the slave quarters and turned her over to the Preparers. They undressed her, bathed her and shaved her superfluous body hair. Then she was dressed in a loose smock of coarse material, undecorated and poorly fitted, a garment that might have come from any time period between the Middle Ages and the Reformation. Then they notified the Handler that she was ready. The Handler entered the room where Jen waited and walked up to her. He carried something in his hand, something made of black cloth, apparently formless. "Are you ready to enter your fantasy?" he asked. "Once we pass that door there will be no stopping until it's over." He paused. "Or until you give the safe word. Will you repeat the agreed upon safe word for me?" Jen paused for a moment, briefly uncertain at what she was about to undertake. Then, having come this far she determined to go through with it. "Any phrase indicating a confession, such as 'I'll sign', or admitting I'm a heretic," Jen said. The Handler shook out the article in his hand. It was a hood. Gently he slipped it over Jen's head. "This will help you make the transition," he said. "Just hold my hand and I'll lead you." With that he grasped her hand and led her through the door. She felt a tug to the right and followed him. They went straight, turned again. Then straight again. Twice he slowed and warned her of stairs. The loose smock with its rough fabric made her very aware of her naked body. With each step it brushed against her bare flanks. Her unsupported breasts swayed back and forth, her nipples beginning to harden from the stimulation. And also from the anticipation. Jen was both proud and a little embarrassed of those breasts. At 35 and a mother twice they weren't what they had been. Before the children they'd been high, full and proud. Though they hadn't lost much of their fullness they hung lower than she liked and had a slackness that allowed them to flop around uncomfortably when unsupported. Still, the nipples, enlarged by nursing, stood out nearly level. And her butt, once so trim and tight, now had that extra bit of fat that she'd never quite been able to loose. When she complained of it, her husband merely gave her a playful slap and said it gave her a feminine roundness. Another set of steps and a turn to the right. They stopped. Jen heard the creaking sound of old metal hinges, then felt a tug on her hand and took a few steps forward. Her hand was released. Then the sound of the hinges again and other metallic sounds. She suspected it was the sound of an antique key turning in an antique lock. "Please count slowly to a hundred, and then you may remove the hood," the Handler said softly. Jen heard is soft footsteps retreating. She counted. With hesitation she slowly removed the hood and looked around her. In the soft light coming through a small, high barred window she saw that she was in a stone cell. There was nothing else in it, no chair, no bed. Not even a pile of straw. Rusty bars blocked off the only exit, through a stone arch. "What have I done?" she thought. "What will they do to me?" All her life Jen had found images of ancient and medieval tortures strangely arousing. If the nuns at school had only known what images flashed through her mind when she read of the horrors inflicted on the martyrs, especially the female martyrs, they'd have been shocked out of their habits! Not that Jen really wanted to be shot full of arrows or boiled alive. Far from it. She was genuinely appalled at the horrible things people could think of to do to each other. And considering her Catholic upbringing it was particularly ironic that she should have developed such a fascination with the torments inflicted by the notorious Spanish Inquisition. As terrible as they were such things had that horrible fascination of a traffic accident where you have to look, or the lurid tabloid account of some atrocity where you go back and reread the seamiest parts again as if you can't believe the monsters actually did such and such. And there was another aspect to it. As she reached puberty and became more aware of her body and all the strange confusing things related to it, especially the sexual bits. She began to notice how often the victims were stripped and their most sensitive parts exposed to abuse. It was frightening, the idea of being so helpless and vulnerable. But there was an undeniable undertone of excitement, a very sexual excitement, to the images the stories of dungeons and torture chambers brought to her mind. It was years after her marriage, and after the kids had arrived, when her husband had finally coaxed her into revealing her fantasies. She was afraid he'd be shocked and appalled but, thank God, he'd been mildly surprised and somewhat amused. He had his own peculiar fantasies that he hadn't dared tell her about. They had a good laugh at their deep, dark, dirty secrets that night before engaging in one of the steamiest of their love makings. For a while they had played at some scenes, very mild, when the kids where away at the grandparents or at camp. And then he'd told her of a private club he'd heard about. A place called the Villa. Members went there to fulfill their darker fantasies. After finally making all the connections to the right people they'd gone a number of times as guests, observing some of the public sessions. After joining the Villa they'd gone to some of the frequent social functions which turned out to be mostly like any vanilla social function, except for the conversation occasionally turning to discussion of someone's new whip instead of his new chainsaw or her aerobics class. They took some classes, went to a few informal seminars. And one memorable Friday night they reserved a private torture chamber. Then, with a little urging from her husband, Jen had gone to the Planners to discuss playing out a fantasy she'd long had. "I want to be tortured by the Spanish Inquisition," Jen had said to the Planners. It sounded really strange, spoken aloud like that. Did I really say that, Jen thought to herself. And her next thought after that was "are they going to laugh at me?" But they didn't laugh. Instead they asked her questions. How much did she know about the Spanish Inquisition? Were there any particular aspect, certain tortures that particularly excited her? After about twenty minutes and copious notes they penciled in a date. And this day was the date and Jen duly found herself waiting in a dungeon cell. It was probably no more than ten minutes, but seemed much longer, when Jen heard the creak of a door opening. Two burly men, dressed only in short, tight leather pants and hoods, approached her cell. One fumbled briefly with a ring of gigantic keys, then opened the cell door. The other entered, holding out a pair of antique iron manacles. "Hold out your wrists," he said gruffly. Jen complied, holding her forearms out level in front of her. He snapped the manacles in place. Then, holding the short chain that connected the metal cuffs he led her from the cell, through a heavy wooden door and down a dark stone corridor. Passing through another heavy wooden door they entered the torture chamber of the Inquisition. It was a large stone walled chamber, broken periodically by stone columns. Sconces in the walls and on the pillars held torches that proved the only light other than that from a scattering of candles. Jen shot glances to either side as she was led forward. In the alcoves beyond the pillars were the shadowy outlines of various apparatus. See couldn't see clearly enough to make out exactly what they were. Then they stopped suddenly before a figure in monk's robes seated at a rough wooden desk. He looked up from a stack of papers. Under the hood he wore a mask. Slowly he placed one paper before her and proffered her a quill pen. The paper had what appeared to be Spanish written in a bold, florid hand. There was a line at the bottom of the page. "Jennifer Sanders," the monk said in a commanding voice. "This is the confession of your heresy. Sign it and it will go easy for you." Jen almost broke out laughing at the cheesy melodrama of it. But she choked the laugh down and tried to get her mind into her part. She had signed up to be tortured after all. "No," she said firmly. "I will not sign." "You'll regret this, girl," the Inquisitor said, with convincing menace in his voice. He addressed the two torturers. "Strip her and examine her." Turning back to Jen he said "You must be naked when we conduct your inquisition. We may be denied access to no part of you." One of the torturers grasped the fabric of her smock at the neck and ripped the full length of the sleeve. Then he ripped the other and let the garment slip to the floor. She stood utterly nude before the Inquisitor, even the thick growth of black hair that normally concealed her sex was gone. She was suddenly very aware of the pouty fullness of her lower lips. "She may have the Devil's Mark on her," the Inquisitor said. "Check her thoroughly." One of the torturers now grasped her breasts, lifting them and inspecting them. Jen was sure he was grinning behind the hood. The other torturer came up behind her and seized her under the arms. Then he placed one of his legs between hers and forced her legs apart. He was a good bit taller than she was. He braced her butt against his thigh and pulled her upper body back, forcing her belly forward. The first torturer bent over, slid two fingers into her slit and spread the labia, exposing her clit. He gave the region a good looking over. Standing again, he suddenly he grasped her by he back of the neck and, his partner releasing his grip, forced her to bend over at the hips. The other torturer first inserted two fingers roughly into her vagina, then spread her butt cheeks and inspect her anus. The suddenness, the rudeness of it all made her draw her breath in. They treated her with no more respect than if she were ewe in the marketplace. "No sign of the Mark, Inquisitor. She is fit to undergone the question," one of the torturers said. "Very good. You may begin persuading her," the Inquisitor said. "A touch of the lash may reduce her obduracy." The two torturers seized Jen's upper arms and walked her a few paces to a side chamber. One of them then went to a pillar where a small windlass was mounted. He tripped the catch, then started turning the crank. A chain descended from the ceiling above Jen. When it dangled before her face the torturer set the catch. Then he picked up a pair of cuffs, a type she recognized as suspension cuffs, from a hook on the pillar. Jen's wrists were strapped into the cuffs which were then hooked to the end of the chain. He returned to the pillar and retrieved another pair of cuffs. These were strapped around Jen's ankles, then hooked to a ring set in the floor. The torturer returned to the windlass. He began turning the crank, more slowly than necessary so Jen could contemplate what was happening. Slowly her arms were pulled up and over her head. She grasped the thick leather straps connecting the cuffs to the hook, as she'd been told to do in a class on suspension. More and more of her weight was borne by her arms and shoulders. She went up on the balls of her feet, then on tiptoe trying to reduce the strain. Then even her toes were off the floor. For half a minute she swung freely as she continued to rise, then she felt the cuffs tighten up on her ankles as she was stretched between the overhead chain and the ring in the floor. The Inquisitor approached. He stroked her breasts, belly, thighs, as if checking that the tension was correct. He finished by sliding two fingers into her cleft, working them back and forth several times. Jen somehow suspected that that wasn't a normal practice of the Inquisition. But she certainly wasn't going to complain about it. "Begin," he said, stepping back. She heard the footsteps as one of the torturers took up position behind her. She braced for the cut of the whip. She was surprised when she felt a hand smack into her right buttock and then the left. He alternated from one to the other, gradually increasing the force. There was a pause. She jerked violently as she felt the first stroke of the whip. And she was a bit surprised. The first stroke landed across her shoulder blades. She had expected them to go for the obvious, more sexual target of her butt. Then she thought of the drawings she'd seen of women thus suspended and whipped. The back seemed to be the usual target in those. After all, they were merely inflicting pain, not trying to stir up masochistic urges. Several more strokes landed across her shoulders and middle back. But they weren't going to disappoint her after all. After a few strokes were delivered to the backs of her thighs they started in on her butt. At first it was painful, some strokes almost to her limits, but then she distracted herself by closing her eyes and assembling in her mind the image of what the scene would look like if she could step out of herself and watch from over the whip wielding torturer's shoulder. The torment didn't seem to last long. Indeed, Jen was getting into a state where she was kind of hoping it would continue for a while longer. But then she heard the Inquisitor's command to the torturer and the whipping ceased. Jen was lowered until her feet again touched the floor. Her ankles were released and she was slowly lowered some more, until she was standing freely, legs slightly spread. As her arms came down to shoulder height one of the torturers released her from the rope. But he left her wrists bound in the cuffs. She felt a certain exhilaration as she caught her breath. She'd endured the first torture. In truth, in wasn't much worse than a flogging she'd received at a play party, but this was a flogging by The Inquisition, in a dungeon and that made it a bit more special. The Inquisitor circled her, examining the stripes inflicted. "Good, good," he said. "A good start. As you can see, heretic, we can and will inflict increasing amounts of pain on you if you continue your obstinacy. Which will it be, then? Sign the confession or undergo the strappado?" "I'll not sign anything," Jen said defiantly. She was trying to remember what exactly the strappado was. "Very well, we must do what we must to bring you to your senses," he replied. He turned to the torturers. "Subject the heretic to the strappado." One of the torturers unfastened the suspension cuffs from Jen's wrists. Turning her sharply around he crossed her wrists behind her back and bound them together. Meanwhile the other torturer had gone back to the pillar where the windlass was mounted. He tripped the catch and began turning the handle. The rope that had suspended her for the whipping was lowered even further. Jen was positioned below it and forced to bend forward. Her elbows were pulled towards each other and bound with a leather strap. The rope was tied under the leather strap and the slack taken out of it so that Jen could feel a slight upward pull on her arms. The Inquisitor came over to stand before her. The torturer at the windlass stood ready with his hand on the crank. At a signal from the Inquisitor he began to turn the crank. The pull increased on Jen's arms increased sharply. She came up on the balls of her feet trying to relieve the strain. The torturer continued turning the crank. She was forced to bend even further forward as her arms were pulled back and up. And she continued to rise. Her toes barely touched the floors now, and her shoulders were being twisted cruelly in a direction they weren't meant to twist. She didn't know how she would be able to stand it if she was fully suspended. But she found out a moment later as her toes cleared the floor and she was hanging, swinging free, bent forward. She began to worry that her shoulders would be dislocated. A friend had once suffered a dislocation. He described it as excruciatingly painful. And he was someone who prided himself on his stoicism. "Stop," the Inquisitor told the torturer at the crank. "Lower her down." Jen was relieved to hear that. The strappado had been starting to look a bit more strenuous than she'd bargained for. The Inquisitor came to face Jen. "In a normal inquiry we would hoist you up to about ten feet, then let you drop a foot," he said. "Then we would hoist you up again and drop you two feet. And so on until you talked." Jen shuddered at the thought of the pain and the damage that would cause. "But I think," the Inquisitor said, turning to the torturers, "that a heretic so recalcitrant as this one requires a more stringent form of the strappado." The rope was lowered until Jen's feet were back on the stone floor. One of the torturers stood by to support her until she was able to stand again. Then the rope was unfastened from her elbows. A wide leather belt was brought. The torturers fastened it around her waist, buckling it in the back. In the front a large iron ring had been positioned where the buckle would normally have been. The rope was now passed first between Jen's forearms and then taken between her legs and tied to the iron ring. With the rope fastened the torturer at the winch slowly began turning the crank again. His partner ensured that the rope was seated correctly as the slack was taken up, splitting her lower lips. Jen and the Inquisition The Inquisitor stepped forward to examine the preparations. He gave the rope a few light tugs, then with two fingers lightly stroked the outer lips that bulged slightly on either side of the rope. He signaled to the torturer manning the winch, who started reeling in the rope. Jen felt the rope start to bite into her, forcing her again to bend forward to relieve the pressure slightly. But there was only so far she could bend. The rope was now also bearing on the leather straps binding her wrists, limiting how far forward she could lean. Again she felt her weight being transferred to one part of her body, a part not meant to bear it. As the rope bit into her pussy Jen began to wonder if it was still possible to return to the original form of the strappado. Then she was up on her toes again, but only briefly. In moments she was free of the stone floor and swinging, like a painful pendulum. She expected them to stop as they had before, hoped they would. But the torturer at the crank handle kept turning. She was lifted up until she, bent over as she was, reached eye level with the Inquisitor. "We will now commence to drop you," he said. He's not serious, Jen thought to herself. They can't really drop me. My God! I'd be crippled! But the Inquisitor held up his left hand, forming a fist except for the extended index finger. He brought that finger down sharply. Jen heard a metallic rasp at the torturer at the windlass released the catch. She dropped suddenly but not far. The man had only allowed the windlass to move back one notch. Still the rope gave her a nasty jerk and she just had to scream. "Up," the Inquisitor said. "We'll try two notches this time." Jen heard the sound of the catch clicking as she was slowly raised up higher. She was starting to think that maybe this was a good time to start confessing. The pain of being dropped an inch or two was severe enough that she wasn't particularly keen on finding out what dropping four or finch inches and then suddenly being brought to a stop by the rope would feel like. "It's time, Inquisitor," the second torturer said. "And we were making sudden progress," the Inquisitor sighed. "Unfortunately, heretic, the rules of the Holy Office of the Inquisition allow only a set length of time that we may apply coercive measures. Let her down." Jen was lowered back to the floor, the rope unfastened. One of the torturers inspected her pussy as he did so, giving it a quick, surreptitious massage in the process. Then Jen was taken to a small cell. It was really just a small alcove, an arch of stone built into the wall of the torture chamber, about four feet tall and four feet deep. Metal bars and a narrow swinging door of bars transformed it into a cell. Jen was unceremoniously shoved into it, being forced to duck down as she entered. Then she was left to squat on the straw that covered the floor while her tormentors went off to another part of the torture chamber. After about fifteen minutes the two torturers came for her. They helped her out of the cell. The cramped position and the after effects of her tortures had made her a bit stiff. Then they walked her out to the central portion of the torture chamber. A rather substantial chair had been placed there. Jen was taken to the chair. It was a large, heavy wooden structure, with solid wooden arms and a straight back. The seat of the chair was composed of an iron plate, covered with small points. About ten inches below the plate was a shelf, also of metal. The entire thing looked rather ominous. They sat her down. Her ankles were strapped to the front legs of the chair. Other straps fastened her thighs. Her arms were placed on the arms of the chair and strapped down at wrist and elbow. More straps went from the back of the chair around her biceps, just below her armpits. When the were finished she was firmly held in place, almost unable to move. The Inquisitor reappeared. "Not very comfortable, is it," he asked Jen shook her head. The points, little pyramid shaped things, were distinctly uncomfortable. She found they were bearable if she remained still, but any shifting of her weight caused the points to dig into her flesh. "Well, we have ways of making it even more uncomfortable." He raised a hand and motioned to one of the assistants. The man came into view from the side carrying a small two handled pot. Jen could see the glow of charcoal within the pot. The man briefly showed the pot to her, as if making an offering. The he went behind the chair. She heard the metallic scraping of the pot being slid onto the lower shelf. "It will take but a short time for the seat to warm up," the Inquisitor said. "Confess now and save your precious buns from being roasted." Jen found it was easy to ignore him at the moment. She was concentrating on the metal seat and wondering how hot it would get and how long she would be able to hold out. She thought she could already feel the metal warming up. And there was nothing she could do to escape it. The straps that bound her to the chair severely limited her wiggle room and at that trying to pull one cheek away from the metal only forced the other one down harder onto the points on that side. As the metal heated up Jen started squirming even more. Consequently, she realized quickly, she was actually torturing herself. She started to worry. This torture seemed irresistible. All they had to do was stand back and wait until her bottom roasted or she gave in. Then she realized something else. The little points, as nasty as they were, actually limited the amount of contact between her skin and the hot metal. She concentrated hard and forced herself to sit still. The less she moved the less additional pain she received from the points and then she only had to deal with the heat radiating from the seat bottom. If it was a waiting game they were playing, she would wait them out as long as possible. The Inquisitor and his assistants stood before her with arms crossed, watching and silent. Finally the Inquisitor spoke. "See how the heretic seems impervious to the heat? Are you certain she bore no Devil's Mark?" The two assistant torturers muttered affirmatives. "Very well," he said. "We shall have to employ another method." Jen was quite relieved and feeling a bit triumphant when the straps were removed and she was helped up off the chair. She'd been within seconds of throwing in the towel when the Inquisitor had given in. She tried to keep a poker face, though, not wanting him to guess how close he'd come to breaking her. Jen was taken to another alcove. One of the torturers placed torches in the sconces on either side. In the flickering light Jen saw a wooden bar perhaps six feet long suspended by chains from the ceiling. It hung at her shoulder height. They stood her with her back to the bar. Her arms were stretched out along the bar, then fastened by leather straps at wrist, elbow and shoulder. When her arms had been secured her legs were spread apart and her ankles strapped to the ends of another bar. She heard the rattle of chains being handled. Then the sound of chain being taken up by a windlass. She felt a tug on her ankles. Suddenly her feet were pulled out from beneath her. Then her legs were being raised and she was suspended. Slowly she was brought up into about a 45 degree angle, hanging as if caught in suspended animation while doing a swan dive. It was not comfortable, but not unbearable. Jen wondered if this was the extent of this torture. But she should have known better. The Inquisitor stepped up before her. He reached out and fondled both of Jen's breasts. With her body in this position they were hanging at full extension. "Proud of these, are you, heretic?" the Inquisitor said. "Well, that shall make them even more vulnerable than they already are." He gave her left breast a hard slap against the underside, then signaled to one of the torturers . The torturer came forward, holding out an implement. It was metal, hinged at one end rather like a large salad tong. But instead of ending in scoops the two arms ended in semi-circular metal pieces. The inside surface of each was covered by small rounded bumps. The inquisitor held Jen's head up by the hair so she could have a good look at the device. "This is the breast ripper. We've taken a small mercy on you by modifying it slightly." He ran a finger along the inside of one of the curved pieces. "These small bumps were once sharp little hooks. Two or three applications of the device in its original form and there would be little point in continuing, since there would be nothing left of your precious boobies but bloody shreds. Since we want you to last through this inquiry we've filed them down. But I promise you they will be bad enough." He handed the device back to the torturer who took up a position to Jen's left. He knelt down and brought the device up, trapping Jen's left breast between the metal lips. He squeezed the handles together using both hands. The metal lips closed on Jen's breast. Then he slowly pulled the device downwards, pulling the breast with it, letting the flesh slowly squeeze back through the jaws. At first he applied only mild pressure. It was actually a bit sensual, a firm tugging and twisting that Jen found quite stimulating. But she could also feel he small bumps where the sharp points should be. It was frightening to think what would have been happening to her sensitive boob if those points were still in place, tearing at her. Then he began squeezing even harder, as well as adding more twisting motion. It was distinctly uncomfortable, bordering on painful. Jen thought it really would be painful, except that she was getting surprisingly turned on by the attentions. If he could only devise a way to apply a little stimulation to the nipple things could easily get out of hand. The torturer began to work on Jen's other boob. He started out more firmly on this one. Perhaps he'd noticed how her nipples were reacting. Jen suspected she was going to have some nice bruises when it was all over, but at the moment she didn't really care about that. She only hoped her reactions wouldn't betray how much she was enjoying this torture. Too soon the other torturer called time. Jen was actually disappointed when they began to unfasten her and led her, somewhat unsteadily, out of the alcove. They again left Jen to wait in the small cell off the central portion of the torture chamber. The wait was worse this time than before since she was beginning to feel the effects of the repeated bindings and tortures and there was no way to get comfortable in the tiny cubbyhole. They let her wait for what might have been an hour, though it may only have seemed that long. The wait was made even longer by her aroused and rather frustrated state after the breast torture. She toyed with the idea of finishing herself. Would that be considered bad form in the middle of a torture session? She decided she'd better not, not if she was to make it through the rest of the experience. Then the two torturers came back and pulled her out. She was returned to the main part of the torture chamber where the Inquisitor awaited her. "We'll see how stubborn you are when faced with the hot irons," the Inquisitor said. Jen shuddered at the mention. Red hot irons. A fearsome staple of the Inquisition. "Secure her to the ladder," the Inquisitor said to his assistants. The torturers each grabbed one of Jen's arms and walked her to another of the alcoves. Within the alcove was a ladder of sorts. Two uprights ran vertically from floor to a beam in the ceiling, a bit more than shoulder width apart. Rungs ran between the uprights, but spaced erratically, not like a normal ladder. Jen was backed up against it. Her arms were pulled back and over a rung that crossed her back just below her armpits. Her wrists were strapped to the uprights. Two more straps secured her upper arms. Jen could feel rungs at the small of her back and against the backs of her thighs. She felt a waist belt being strapped in place. Then her ankles were pulled to either side and strapped to the uprights. Finally straps were placed just above her knees and her thighs were spread and fastened. Apart from being uncomfortable, the position had the effect of thrusting her breasts forward and exposing her pussy. Then she noticed it. Off to one side, a charcoal brazier, glowing red. And sticking out past the rim of the brazier were iron shafts ending in wooden handles. One of the torturers went to it, grasped one of the handles and withdrew a glowing red iron from the charcoal. Walking over to Jen he held the glowing red iron before her face, close enough that she could feel the heat. Then he touched it to one of the wooden uprights. Smoke immediately appeared. He removed the iron, leaving a scorch mark. "Blindfold her," the Inquisitor commanded. "It will hurt more if she can't anticipate where the iron will touch." The torturer quickly complied, tying a heavy black cloth over Jen's eyes. My god! Jen thought. They can't! They wouldn't actually use a red hot iron on me! She began to panic, her breath coming in short gasps, too frozen with fear to beg for them to stop. She screamed as she felt the hot touch against the fold between buttock and thigh on her right side. It was a brief touch and not actually that painful. As Jen gained control of herself she realized it couldn't have been the red hot iron. Then she remembered. She and her husband had watched a demonstration of a woman, blindfolded, being tortured with a device like a curling iron. The heat was carefully controlled, perhaps a little more than a hot light bulb and applied for only a second. But it was still hot enough to cause pain. She squealed again as the iron touched her belly. Just a brief touch but enough to make her take notice. The muscles of her belly spasmed at the touch. There was a long pause. Jen braced herself for the next assault. Her left buttock now. She tried to draw away but her bonds were too tight. Then in quick succession a touch on her left breast, the inside of her right thigh, her right buttock. With each touch the urge to escape, to twist away from the painful device grew stronger. Her inability to anticipate where the next touch would be increased her sense of panic. Another long pause. They knew exactly what they were doing, Jen thought. The waiting, the sense of dread, not knowing where the pain would come was almost worse than the actual touch of the iron. To steady herself she resolved not to scream again. Then her resolve melted away and she screamed at the top of her lungs as the bar came up under the fold of her left breast and was held there twice as long, three times as long as usual. He removed it but before the pain had faded he was dragging it across the top of the breast. Then following the curve of the underside of the tortured member. A longer pause. Then Jen screamed again as he placed the hot iron directly on her left nipple and pressed it in, holding it there for two, three, four, five seconds. She waited for the next strike. And waited and waited. Was this phase of her torture over? "Sign the confession, heretic," the Inquisitor said softly in her ear. "Sign the confession and it will be all be over." Jen thought seriously about calling it quits. The arousal she'd felt growing earlier had been dissipated by the stress of this torture. But then she called up a mental image of herself, naked, bound and at the mercy of the Inquisitor. And something odd happened. Part of her said no. They'll have to do better than this to break me. And part of her started getting turned on again. "No." she whispered. And braced herself for the next onslaught. "Then we shall continue," the Inquisitor said. He continued his devilish tour of Jen's body with the iron. Back, thighs, sides, all felt the touch of the hot iron. Then there was a long pause. "She's deeply sunk in her heresy, this one," the Inquisitor said. "I shall have to be more forceful." With a sudden sense of dread Jen realized there was one sensitive area they hadn't yet tormented. With her knees pulled wide apart and strapped to the uprights of the ladder her sex was wide open, fully exposed, helpless. And it was almost as if they'd read her mind. Jen jerked stiffly as the iron touch the spot between her anus and vulva. She gagged back the scream. Then the iron was at her mons, prodding and poking into the very beginning of her slit. The torturer traced one labia with the iron, then the other. Another dramatic pause. Then he laid the iron directly between Jen's labia, holding it there until she thought she'd faint. And perhaps she did for just a moment. The iron was removed and, after a long wait, Jen decided they'd finished with it. This was confirmed when the Inquisitor declared that the heretic should be given time to contemplate her choices. Jen expected to be taken to the tiny cell, but instead, with a torturer at each arm, she was walked to one wall of the chamber. There a pair of iron manacles dangled from the rough stone on short chains. Another pair lay on the floor. The torturers stood Jen with her back against the wall and spread her arms out so they could lock the manacles around her wrists. They spread her legs and secured her ankles as well. Then they left her and went with the Inquisitor into another part of the chamber, out of her sight. They let Jen wait for perhaps ten minutes. It seemed longer. Much longer. Jen contemplated her situation. For a short while she felt a thrill at being classically "chained to the wall." But it lost it's novelty quickly and she was actually somewhat relieved when the Inquisitor and the torturers returned. The two torturers struggled to move a heavy implement to the center of the chamber. It was built something like a chair, but with only three legs, the seat being triangular in shape. The back, mounted at the point of the triangle, was of a peculiar fan shape. There was a center post perhaps two or three inches wide. On the outside of the fan were two more heavy pieces of wood mounted at angles such that the top ends were a bit over two feet apart. Metal straps connected the center piece and the end pieces at the top. A wide leather strap was bolted to the two side pieces. In each V formed between a side piece and the center post was an thinner wooden piece, hinged at the bottom so that it was free to swing between the two fixed members. Jen could see them rattling back and forth as the heavy object was manhandled into place. She couldn't quite picture just what this device was for. With the chair in place in the center of the chamber the manacles on Jen's wrists and ankles were released and she was brought to the device. Her wrists were bound behind her back and then she was led to the chair. They forced her to sit facing the back and it shortly became obvious what part of her body this torture was going to involve. After her legs were pulled back so her ankles could be strapped to the two front legs of the chair she was pushed towards the back and her breasts inserted between the center post and the two sliding bars. The leather strap was buckled behind her back so that she couldn't withdraw. One of the torturers brought out a pair of wooden wedges. He placed one between each sliding bar and its outer fixed post. He pushed each wedge downward as firmly as he could without exerting himself. Jen felt the pressure against her breasts as the sliding bars moved inwards toward the center post. As he did the Inquisitor positioned himself in front of her. "A similar such device," he intoned gravely, "we use to break the legs of heretics. Their legs are placed between the bars and the wedges hammered down until the bones shatter. We've decided this altered application is better suited in your case." Jen and the Inquisition He turned to the torturers who each armed himself with a small wooden mallet and taken up position to one side or the other of Jen. "Begin," the Inquisitor said. Jen had been visualizing the torturers hammering away at the wedges but instead they each delivered a light tap. After a long pause there was a second light tap to each wedge. The bars pressed harder against her breasts. At first it didn't seem like much. But after a dozen taps Jen was thinking "the mammogram from Hell". A few more taps and Jen was starting to whimper and tear up. The Inquisitor signaled for a stop. He seized her nipples between thumb and forefinger and began squeezing them. "Sign the confession, heretic," he commanded. He gave each nipple a hard twist. Jen gasped but looked away in answer. The Inquisitor nodded to the torturers and each gave another tap, firmer than the previous ones. Jen gave a strangled cry and threw her head back. She feared she was reaching her breaking point but the experience of the previous tortures had hardened her resolve and given her confidence in her strength. She wanted to hold out just a little longer. Jen closed her eyes and concentrated as hard as she could. Resist just a little longer, she told herself. Just one more tap. She waited. But instead of another tap she felt the pressure being reduced. They were removing the wedges. A thrill went through her. She had managed to outlast them. But it had been a close thing. She wondered how much more she could have taken. "You are an incredibly stubborn heretic," the Inquisitor said. "I see we must employ still more persuasive techniques on you." He turned to the assistants. "Place her on the rack." The rack! The mere word sent her heart racing. If there was one implement of torture that by itself symbolized the Inquisition it was the rack. She was escorted to a side chamber where the device waited for her. The rack itself was much as she imagined it would be from the various pictures she'd seen. A narrow wooden table. At one end a wooden wheel with handgrips, something like an old fashioned sailing ship's wheel, turned a primitive winch. Two leather cuffs lay on the bed of the rack, fastened by chains to the winch. At the foot end of the table another pair of leather cuffs were mounted, fastened apparently to the table itself, though there seemed to be some other mechanisms there as well. Jen didn't have time to examine it. The two assistants lifted her bodily and deposited her on the table unceremoniously. One grasped her ankles and pivoted her around until he could strap her ankles in to the cuffs. The other placed his hands on her shoulders and, once her legs had been secured, forced her to lie back. Then each took an arm and raised them over her head. The wrist cuffs were strapped in place. One of the torturers then took his position at the wheel while the other positioned himself at the foot of the rack. The Inquisitor came to stand next to Jen. "Begin," the Inquisitor said. The man at the wheel began slowly turning it. Jen could hear the click as the ratchet arm dropped into place to keep the wheel from reversing. She felt the cuffs on her wrists start to pull at her. The tension on her arms grew stronger. She knew that during the Inquisition the rack frequently pulled shoulders and hips out of their sockets, usually leaving the victims permanently crippled. As the strain grew on her arms, shoulders, legs, she wondered how far they planned to go. The Inquisitor stood by the rack, carefully watching the procedure. He ran a finger along one arm, then along her belly and onto her thigh. He signaled for the torturer to stop. Jen was grateful for that. While she was being stretched tauter than she thought possible it was still bearable. "We could literally pull you apart with this device, heretic," the Inquisitor said threateningly as he looked down at her. "Will you now sign the confession or must we continue?" Jen thought about it for some time before responding. She'd stood up to everything so far. How much worse could they make it? "No," she said defiantly. "Very well, proceed to the next phase," the Inquisitor said to the torturer. Jen expected the wheel to start turning again. But instead the torturer went to the foot of the rack. Jen hadn't noticed but this rack had a modification she hadn't seen in pictures of real racks. The two leather cuffs that held Jen's ankles were mounted on separate narrow boards. The torturer reached below the side of the rack and began turning a small handwheel. The boards and the cuffs mounted on them began moving outward, away from the center of the rack, spreading Jen's legs as they did so. The movement added just a little bit more strain to Jen's body, not enough to be really significant. What impressed her the most was the sense of exposure, of being unwillingly and helplessly opened up. Before the torturer stopped she had been spread uncomfortably wide. The Inquisitor placed his right index finger between her breasts, fingernail down. "Do you feel, shall we say, vulnerable, heretic?" he asked. "You should." He slowly traced a line from between her breast down the length of her chest and belly, over her mons and into her slit. He stopped when the finger tip pressed down on her clit. "By the rules of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, every part of you is to be available to us as we conduct our inquiry." Jen started to worry a bit now. What, she wondered, did he have in mind. The Inquisitor signaled to the other torturer. He brought over two devices which Jen, raising her head with difficulty to observe, decided were small winches. One of them he hooked to a corner of the rack. From each he then unwound a length of thin rope. Each rope ended in a small clamp. He unwound the ropes until they reach to Jen's pussy. He fastened the clamps to Jen's outer lips. With the clamps in place the other torturer joined him, each taking position by one of the small winches. In unison they began slowly turning the small handles, stretching her out. The outward angle that she was being stretched further increased the sensation of being forced open. The Inquisitor left for a few moments. When he returned he was brandishing a small bristle brush. He held it up for her to look at. "Interesting isn't it? How such a small ordinary item can become an instrument of torture. But you'll find it is." He began slowly stimulating her with the brush, working it up and down over her inner lips and clit. It didn't take long before Jen was fully aroused. She hadn't realized how close she was but it had been building through the series of tortures, there in the background masked by the other, coarser sensations. The Inquisitor pulled back Jen's clitoral hood to concentrate on her clit. She was quickly straining at her bonds, though not in an effort to escape. Instead she was being driven frantic by the exquisite torture the Inquisitor was applying, bringing her to the very point of orgasm and then stopping, only to start again. Over and over he did it until finally there was no stopping her as she arched her back and twisted her loins as if trying to impale herself on a phantom cock before slowly subsiding to lie exhausted on the rack. They let her lie there for a while, as the torturers gently released the clamps on her pussy lips and then the bonds on her wrists and ankles. After a rest period she was helped to her feet and escorted back to the slave quarters for a warm bath and massage. Her husband called for her an hour later, in time for dinner. "How was it?" he asked as they climbed the stairs to the dining room. "Everything you expected?" "It was an experience," she replied with a naughty smile. "Definitely an experience." "You think we might find a place where we can buy a pair of those breast rippers?" he asked. "You seemed to be getting off on it." "Oh, crap! Was that you?" "Sign it and it will go easy for you," he intoned in a deep voice she hadn't heard him use before. She gave him a poke in the ribs and they went on into dinner. The End * Author's Note: This is one of a series of stories I've been working on under the title "Tales of the Villa di Dolore". Some of them have been posted elsewhere under my other pen name, "von Hentzau".