Executrix

I walk briskly down the long corridor of D-Wing, the sound of my heels bouncing off the hard grey concrete walls. A subtle smile plays over my lips.

As I march past cell after cell, I sense the prisoners trembling at the sound. Sometimes I can reduce them to tears just by walking up to a cell door. Sound is such a valuable tool for twisting weak minds, and prisoners on death row have such deliciously weak minds.

But today, my focus is on the black steel door at the far end of the corridor. Very few people know what happens behind that door. Prisoners are dragged in and never come out. All of them fear the room and we do nothing to ease those fears, using it against them, to weaken their minds yet further.

Today, prisoner number one-eight-seven is due for execution, after six months enjoying our hospitality on D-Wing. On my orders, he was taken to the room early this morning and I have deliberately left him there to stew for most of the day, just for the hell of it. That is my job: to create a private hell for the prisoners, to take away every crumb of comfort, every glimmer of hope, one by one, until finally, when they have nothing more to take away, I take away their existence.

I am their Executrix.

I stop in front of the imposing steel door and pause. I know he is terrified inside, hearing me approach and knowing that the end is near. I let him strain to hear a little longer, idly playing with my electronic pass-key. Then, when he hopes I have gone elsewhere, I touch the pass-key to the security sensor and heavy bolts suddenly open with a sickening thunk.

My smile dissolves into professional iciness as I push the heavy door open, enter, and push it closed behind me. The automatic bolts engage again with ruthless efficiency, and I press the red ‘LOCK’ button, sealing us together in the room.

The space inside is much larger than people imagine, about the size of a tennis court, with a very high ceiling and no windows. Equipment hangs on the dark walls and some chains dangle from concrete beams, but the centre of the room is dominated by a very old wooden rack, with large multi-spoked wheels on either side of the table, awaiting the pleasure of the torturer. To one side there is a leather chair, like a bar stool, its opulent comfort contrasting the cruel brutality of the rack. A single bright spotlight is focussed on the head of the table. The rest of the room is in shadow. It is always kept icy cold.

My prisoner, as I ordered, is lying on the rack in chains, face up.

He watches me by the door, his wild staring eyes looking for any clue about what is about to happen, breathing anxiously. I walk confidently over to the rack, my steps echoing in the gloom, and I look down at him without emotion.

He has been prepared precisely as instructed. He is completely naked, with six inches of black tape sealing his mouth. His wrists and ankles are fixed, by tight leather cuffs, to heavy rusty chains that run loosely to the four corners of the table.

As I approach, he squints back at me, blinded by the spotlight. Then he suddenly panics, thrashing at his chains, shaking his head and grunting at me. But he has been struggling all day and we both know that it is pointless. I just watch him calmly, until he stops in defeat.

“Good evening,” I say, absurdly.

I watch him in silence for a while, then say, “This is the end of your stay with us.” He shifts nervously. “You may be concerned that we will be interrupted,” I continue softly, glancing back at the sealed door. “But no one can enter until I release that lock.” I smile thinly. “So we are alone together. There are no cameras, no microphones. There will be no record of what happens and I am not bound by any rules.” I let the chilling implications wash over him. “You may not make a statement; you may not have legal or medical support. You are here for execution. After death, your body will be incinerated and the ash flushed into the sewers.”

I deliver the same merciless speech to every prisoner, stripping away their hopes. He stares back at me, wide-eyed, shaking his head and making pleading moaning noises. They all do.

“Shall we begin?” I suggest with icy politeness, ignoring his pleas.

His breathing quickens and he twists against the chains once more. I look at him intently, then slowly remove my peaked cap and unbutton my smart black uniform jacket. I place the jacket and cap on the chair and loosen my tie slightly, undoing the top button of my crisp white uniform blouse. He senses that I am about to expend some effort and shifts again, terrified.

I move to one of the wheels and caress a spoke, thoughtfully. Then I turn the wheel a few inches. There is a wooden creaking noise, followed by a clack as something underneath the table ratchets. I smile at him icily, then without warning, I shove the spokes violently causing the wheels on both sides of the table to spin together, making a loud clattering noise that echoes around the room. His arms and legs are pulled quickly to the four corners of the table and he whines with fear, shaking his head desperately.

After a couple of turns he is stretched taut and the wheels slow, ending with a clack, clack… clack.

He whimpers pathetically through his nose. “For fuck’s sake,” I say. “That’s only taken up the tension, you’re not in any pain. Stop whining.”

He doesn’t stop. But he is now unable to move much, being held taut in an “X” form by the chains. He is deliciously vulnerable and utterly terrified. Mine to play with, mind and body. I feel myself grin inside at the sheer joy of the game, but I am still icily professional.

I pace around the table slowly, thoughtfully. Can he read my mind? He is desperately trying to, I can see. But he has no clue what awaits. No one ever does.

I reach between his legs, making him flinch. Stretching out a finger, I feel the hard plastic head of a butt plug and nod to myself. Prisoners usually shit themselves, so we routinely plug them. But it is always worth checking.

I pause thoughtfully and then lift the small metal cage locked around his cock, grinning. “Six months,” I sigh, shaking my head sadly. “Those poor blue balls. You must be desperate?” Sensing I’m teasing him, he hesitates, then nods and grunts. I start to caress his tender balls, sensuously. “You know…,” I pause, as if doubting it myself, “I heard a rumour that some of the girls like to give prisoners one final release. Out of pity perhaps. Their dying wish. One last… slow… delicious blow job. It must be mind blowing after so long. Have you heard that rumour?”

Cock cages were introduced a few years ago, when I joined D-Wing. We use uncomfortable metal ones, deliberately too small for them. They weaken them a little more, removing one more crumb of comfort.

I continue to caress his cage and balls and I feel his erection straining against the cruel metal, his hips rhythmically echoing my stroking. His terrified whimpering changes to moaning as I pump up his arousal more and more and his cock is crushed by the metal.

“Well, have you heard that or not?” I press, softly. He nods. I glance behind me at the locked door. “I can guarantee that we won’t be disturbed and we have plenty of time.” I think for a while, still pumping up his arousal with my caresses. “It might be fun,” I add lightly. “What do you fancy: blow job or hand job?”

He nods at me, grunting as I continue to tease him. “Hand job?” He stares blankly. “Sucked off?” He nods. I lick my lips sensuously and grin at him. “Well, in that case, I’m going to blow your fucking mind,” I purr. He closes his eyes, moaning, and continues to buck his hips gently against my hand.

I let him reach a peak, then say, “There’s just one problem.” I let go of his balls and ice over again. “I don’t have the key,” I say, shrugging. “Prisoners are permanently locked. We literally throw the keys away. Besides, I would never suck that disgusting thing. Sorry.”

I watch him collapse in frustration. He starts to sob softly.

“What kind of fucking idiot would believe we would give them a blow job before execution?” I mock, loudly. “But hey, it gives us a laugh. We have to make the most of this miserable job, you know.” I laugh again, ignoring his sobbing.

I walk around the table slowly, back to the spokes. “Now,” I say quietly. “Where were we?” I stare into his eyes for a few moments and then suddenly make a quarter turn of the wheel.

He cries out in pain. It is stifled by the gag but he is now clearly suffering.

“So we can do this fast or we can do it slow. Which do you want?” I love to torture them with this one. Two choices, neither being what they want. And gagged so they can’t say anything anyway.

He is still processing the pain and I wait for a while. “Well?” I shout loudly, my voice echoing around the concrete walls. He shakes his head, grunting, eyes screwed up in pain, though he has no idea how much pain is yet to come. “What does that mean?” I shout angrily. “Fast? Slow?” He’s in too much pain to think straight so I pinch his nose. “This is fast,” I bark into his face. “Is that what you want?”

Within a few seconds he is thrashing in panic, desperate to breathe, shaking his head from side to side trying to dislodge my grip. “I’m waiting,” I yell, still pinching him tightly. He makes a strangled squealing noise and tries to shake his head. “No? Fine,” I say, eventually letting go of his nose. “Why didn’t you just fucking nod for slow?” He sucks great lungfuls of air through his nose and eventually goes back to rhythmic grunting in pain.

Moving to the spokes again, I run my hands up and down them lovingly, ignoring his suffering. “This is so old,” I say, softly. “The wood is worn smooth. It makes you think of the generations of women who have stood here, looking down at men they despise.” I move the wheel one clack and he breathes in sharply from the extra pain. “You probably think it was always men in control, don’t you? But I assure you that many women have secretly destroyed their enemies on this very rack. It doesn’t take much strength.” I move the wheel again one clack. “Queens, princesses, ladies of the court. They have all had their revenge with this very machine,” I say in awe. “Men tortured by women. They don’t tell you that in the history books, do they? But I assure you it’s true.” I turn the wheel one more clack and he starts to shake with pain. I laugh softly. “It has always been our secret desire. Every woman wants to make some man suffer, even if they won’t admit it. So my job is just perfect.” I laugh at him and then start to slowly crank the wheel again. Clack, clack, clack.

He starts to panic. The pain is overwhelming him and I slow down, giving him time to adjust. The rack is a game that takes time. The body stretches and adapts; the skill of the torturer is in the balance of time and pain.

“The body is surprisingly flexible,” I say in a matter of fact manner. “I can stretch you by six inches or more before things start to tear.” He is sobbing in pain and I wonder whether my lecture of torment is having any effect, but I continue anyway. “Joints expand. Vertebrae pull apart. Eventually joints will dislocate. And then we stretch ligaments and muscles. Then those will tear and rip away from the bones. In the end, the spine will snap and your spinal cord will be ripped apart. You will die shortly afterwards.”

He is crying now. I don’t know how much of what I said he understands. But no matter, he will still get the demonstration that goes with the lecture.

I sense he has adjusted to the pain, so I start to turn the wheel again, slowly. Clack, clack, clack. His whole body is shaking now, trying to resist the pull of the chains. But of course he cannot. I pause again, letting him try to adjust to the new horror and wonder how far I can go. I let him suffer for a couple of minutes, then I dangle a little hope in front of him. Just to prolong the agony, of course.

“Your interfering lawyer was in touch a couple of days ago,” I say, casually. “Something about an appeal or new evidence or some bullshit. Did she mention this to you?”

He can hardly listen to what I’m saying, but he looks at me, eyes fogged with agony.

“I must say, I do hate that woman. Why can’t she just let people do their jobs, instead of interfering all the time?”

He still stares at me through the pain, but I can see he wants to know more. He has taken the bait.

“So anyway,” I say, shrugging. “We told her we were going to process you on Sunday.” I laugh like a drain. “And the bitch believed it.” I laugh again. “Just imagine, it will be fucking perfect. She comes over here at the weekend, with her folders full of crap, demanding to be allowed to see her client and insisting that your execution is stayed, or some bollocks. And we tell her, ‘Oh I’m terribly sorry Miss Jones, but your client was executed on Friday’.”  I piss myself laughing, the cruelty echoing around the room to amplify my power.

Somewhere, through the searing pain, I see him crumble. He finally sees that every ounce of hope that he has will be taken away. All that I have to do now is to destroy the one final source of comfort: his affection for Miss Jones.

I look down at him. “You must be quite fond of young Miss Jones?” He is in too much pain to react, but I see him squint at me. “Eww, how are they tweeting you?” I say in a silly voice, flapping my hands about. “Eww, it must be sooo hard for you, you poor thing.” I snort back at him. “She makes me sick, with her tight skirts and tits. She just gets off teasing prisoners with a flash of cleavage and stocking tops. Good job you all wear cock cages.” Then I add darkly, “But we have plans for young Miss Jones.” I give a cruel laugh.

I walk to the head of the table and lean down, whispering close to his head. “You see, Miss Jones has been trying to find out what happens in this room for a long time. For a very long time in fact.” I chuckle softly. “Probably so that she can raise some legal objection or other. Fucking interfering bitch. So when she comes to ‘save you’ at the weekend, we’ve decided to grant her wish.” I laugh insanely, looking deep into his eyes.

“Can you imagine it?” I ask in a whisper, pausing as if doing so myself, with a grin. “Miss Jones, laid out on this very rack. Her expensive suit and designer underwear cut off her. Completely naked. With me standing at the wheel. Slowly stretching her while she screams for mercy. Isn’t that just fucking perfect?” I laugh loudly and stand upright again.

“So I’m afraid that your beloved Miss Jones is going to get more than she bargained for when she finally discovers what’s in this room.” I give another sickening laugh. “Her screams should entertain the inmates though. We will clamp her jaw wide open, so she can scream but not speak. So we can keep the bitch screaming in agony for quite some time, but eventually we will have to rip her apart. Then,” I make a diving gesture with my hand, “it’s down the shute to the incinerator. Burnt to ash, mixed with piss and shit and flushed out into the sewers, just like you.” I clap my hands and laugh loudly. “So the pair of you will be together at the end, as you always wanted. A match made in hell.”

I can tell that he understands me and feels the complete collapse of his world. All hope, all comfort, all control has been taken away. All he has is pain and existence and all I have to decide is how long I want to leave him with those, before I take absolutely everything.

Walking back to the spokes, I caress them warmly again, grinning. Time for more pain.

“So you want it slow,” I remind him, moving the wheel slowly. He can hardly breathe now, from the pain and because his body is stretched too taught to breathe deeply. He makes deep guttural groans as he senses the end is near. I feel the resistance in the wheel now as it stretches his body, but the gearing will easily allow me to continue. “I like slow too,” I say, lightly. “Too fast and there’s nothing to savour. Nothing to enjoy. We might as well shoot you. Slow is so much more…” I trail off, moving the wheel yet again with a sigh.

I hear the crack of something in his body. Flesh and sinew and bone, slowly being torn apart. The pain must be indescribable and he makes even more strangled noises as I watch him. It is such an exquisite pleasure, but I know it cannot last forever.

I give the wheel another couple of slow clicks, then suddenly give it a quarter turn. There is a terrifying splitting sound and he jerks violently, then stops moving, eyes half closed in the spotlight.

Calmly I feel his neck. He has a pulse and there is shallow breathing. He has just passed out from the pain. I sigh and open a drawer in the side of the rack, taking out a small green bottle. I remove the top and sniff it, jerking my head away at the sudden acrid smell, then I waive the bottle under his nose. He groans and moves his head away, coming back to consciousness, fluttering his eyelids, realising he is still trapped in my hell.

I chuckle darkly. “Oh no. You don’t get away that easily, I’m afraid,” I say. “There is plenty more to come yet.” In fact I can see he is close to the end, but why give him that crumb of comfort?

I let him soak up the pain for a little while, watching him and caressing the spokes thoughtfully. Then, when I sense he can take it without passing out, I resume the ordeal, slowly cranking ever more pain into his tortured body. Click, click, click.

I love the end. I love the defeat, the triumph, the helplessness, the cruelty, the complete and utter destruction of a prisoner at my own hands. And my voice is always the last thing they hear, mocking laughter echoing around the chamber. My final power over them.

The laugh comes from a deep animal within me. It bursts out of me when I know the end is near. I can’t help myself. I turn the wheel again, slowly but without pause this time, click after click, watching my victim finally tearing apart. It is the most exquisite pleasure. I keep turning and laughing until he stops moving completely. Until he stops breathing. Until his pulse is dead.

The end is always oddly silent. The room is no longer filled with the screams and taunts of our brief yet intimate relationship. We go our separate ways quietly. Me, to dinner with friends; him, to the incinerator and the sewers.

Calmly, I straighten my tie and put my jacket and cap back on, then head to the door, leaving his corpse stretched out like a hunting trophy. The steel door obediently opens for me. Others will dispose of the body and clear the room ready for the next session. Ready for my pleasure with Miss Jones.

As I walk briskly back down the corridor past the cells, I wonder how much of his gagged screaming they heard and I wonder how they will react to the louder screams of Miss Jones in a few days,and a smile plays across my lips , I woken by my phone ringing……..

And a smile plays across my lips, once again.

“Writing Wrongs”

Written by my slave

By slave 187.227

My phone beeped and I idly picked it up, seeing a new message had arrived. My heart skipped a beat as I read, “Time we met. Things to discuss. The Oubliette, 8pm Friday.”

From Mistress Paris.

I had been writing erotica for her for many years, though we had never met. For all that time, she has been kind enough to accept short stories that I’ve written, usually describing scenes of dominance and submission, with a certain amount of punishment or pain. The copyright of the works was always assigned to her, offered as gifts for her personal or professional use. A writing submission would hardly be true submission if the author retained any rights, after all.

The stories usually involve her and, if another person is needed in the story, her daughter Mistress Serena and occasionally a slave girl, Bonnie. Usually I would outline a story first, and she would approve or decline the idea.

But today there was a problem.

The last story that I submitted involved a detailed discussion between Mistress Serena and a client, while Mistress Paris listened in and gave advice. I was lazy, and didn’t explicitly check the storyline with her before submission. She was not happy with it and let me know in no uncertain terms. The story focussed more on Serena than on her, and while she did like the general idea, she felt I was not giving her appropriate respect.

That is a serious problem.

I was surprised by how awful I felt. A wave of shame came over me, realising that I had broken the most basic of rules: the stories are a gift for her, so they should focus on her as the central character. I felt so stupid. I naturally offered profuse apologies, but they didn’t make either of us feel any better.

So an order to attend her dungeon was worrying, to say the least.

It was mid-week when the message arrived, so I had a few days to try to calm my nerves. But then the day before my appointment another mysterious message arrived.

“Tungsten carbide. Find out about it.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but she isn’t the sort of person you argue with, so I tried Googling it.

“Tungsten carbide is a compound of tungsten and carbon, renowned in industry for its superior durability and high melting point. It is widely used in applications that require superior wear or impact resistance.”

Fine, but I was none the wiser. It turns out that people sometimes make wedding rings from this substance as well, signifying a degree of permanence that simple gold does not.

“Tungsten carbide rings are virtually indestructible and scratch proof. Tungsten is about 10 times harder than 18K Gold, 5 times harder than tool steel, and 4 times harder than titanium.”

Not knowing why she was asking about this, it was difficult to decide what else to look up. It was a very hard alloy of some sort, sometimes used in jewelry. What else is there to know?

The hours leading up to my appointment crawled by, but eventually the time came to leave and I drove over to her dungeon. Finally, standing in front of the door, I pressed the bell and stood nervously as a light rain fell from the darkness above.

It was a long time before anyone came, but eventually I heard footsteps and Bonnie opened the door. She is a slave girl that Mistress Paris keeps, and I recognised her immediately. She just looked at me in silence with a blank stare. After a few seconds I spoke.

“Oh, er, hello. I’ve come to see –“

“I know who you’ve come to see,” she interrupted coldly.

After another few seconds of silence, she stood back a little and let me enter the warmth. “In there,” she pointed, and I went through a door into a small side room. She didn’t follow me. I was half expecting every room in the house to be full of dungeon paraphernalia, but this seemed to be a utility room of some sort, full of cupboards and regular household items.

For a few minutes I could hear someone, presumably Bonnie, moving around outside. But I thought it polite to stay in the room where I was sent rather than to ask questions. Her manner didn’t seem that friendly, and I was anxious not to upset anyone any more than I already had.

Eventually she came back into the room, dragging a long length of heavy metal chain behind her. She stopped and stared at me, then simply said, “Undress.”

I laughed nervously, then stopped, realising she was serious. “Oh… No you…. No, you don’t understand, I’m –“

“I understand perfectly,” she said crisply, cutting me off. “You were told to undress. So strip. Everything.”

I stood in shock for a few seconds, wondering whether she really did understand, or whether she had mistaken me for another client who wasn’t simply there to have a discussion with Mistress Paris. But she was clearly expecting me to comply, and afterall, what was the worst that could happen? I might have a more embarrassing first encounter with Mistress Paris as a result, but perhaps that was what I deserved? Nervously, I took off my jacket then undid and removed all my clothes, finally standing in front of her stark naked, my hands fidgeting over my dick.

She watched me strip with cold contempt. When I had finished she approached and passed one end of the chain around my neck. The heavy steel was cold and slightly wet on my skin, as if it had been kept outdoors. I shivered and watched her pull the end of the chain and fasten it under my chin with a chunky padlock. It wasn’t tight, but there is no way I could pull it over my head. My heart was thumping.

Holding the length of chain like a leash, she walked over to another door from the room, leading outside. She opened it and a wave of cold air swept into the room. Then she yanked on the chain, causing me to stumble. “Walk,” she said, leading me outside.

“But you… you can’t… it’s freezing, I’ll… wait… please!” I pleaded. But she ignored me, pulling me out into the darkness, into some sort of garden. The ground was wet and freezing cold against my bare feet.  It was hard to make out where we were heading, but some distance into the garden she stopped next to a post. Taking another padlock from her pocket, she fixed the chain to a metal ring on the post.

“You will wait here,” she said.

“But I’ll freeze to death,” I pleaded, trying to cover my body, rubbing my arms.

“When Mistress has time, she will talk with you. She is very busy. Until then, you will wait here.”

“It’s starting to rain!” I begged. “Please, give me a coat at least?”

“You will wait here,” she repeated, then turned and walked away leaving me to freeze.

I could hardly make out where I was. The ground felt like concrete or stone, though we had walked over grass too. There was some sort of garden furniture a few feet away with what looked like a sunshade over a table and some chairs. And to the other side there was a high brick wall. I tried to walk towards the table, thinking the shade would offer some cover from the freezing drizzle, but the chain was too short. I could only move within a couple of feet of the post that I was fixed to, and I could not even curl up in a ball on the floor to keep warm.

The minutes crept by. I had taken off my watch, but I had been standing for a good twenty minutes, and the cold was becoming seriously painful. I was shivering uncontrollably, I could not feel my feet, and every gust of wind brought a fresh wave of hell.

Looking back at the main building I could see warm lights, and occasionally people walking back and forth by the windows. I started to wonder whether they had forgotten me. Perhaps I would freeze to death because of an accident? Should I shout for help? Would they even hear me down here? Or perhaps this was just the punishment that I deserved for submitting that last story? I decided to shiver and bear it rather than shout for help. Perhaps that at least would show her that I understood my mistake and was prepared to pay for it.

An even longer time passed without any noise from the house. Then, finally, I heard an external door open. Without warning I was suddenly blinded by an extremely bright spotlight, mounted on the wall above me. Squinting against the painful light, I could now see clearly the space around me. I was chained to a concrete post on a small paved patio area with tables and chairs, and a large sunshade over the main table, as I’d thought. The light gave some comfort, but I was still freezing cold, and still utterly helpless.

A minute later I heard footsteps and swivelled around to see, my eyes now used to the bright light. Mistress Paris was clearly recognisable, and she walked confidently across the garden to where I was trapped, smiling. She was wearing a bright yellow puffer jacket, with a black scarf around her neck and the hood pulled up; I could see jeans and boots below. In one hand she had a steaming cup of something warm, perhaps tea, and in the other hand she carried a classic school cane. She put the cane on the table and turned to me.

“We meet at last,” she said with amusement in her voice. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

She seemed to expect a reply, so I said, “It’s… I’m p..p..pleased to m…meet you too. I’m…” I stumbled out, shivering.

Not seeming to care what I said, she sat down gracefully on one of the chairs underneath the sunshade and propped up her feet on another, cupping her drink for warmth. “Dreadful weather we’re having at the moment, don’t you think?” she asked, and I felt the crushing power of her advantage over me, warm and dry, while I was naked, freezing and chained. I nodded, not wanting to speak through chattering teeth any more than I had to.

“Could we go i… ins… side now, please?” I asked weakly, clamping my hands over my dick.

She waited for a few seconds, watching me shiver pathetically. “After we’ve talked,” she said, without sympathy.

She sipped her tea thoughtfully for a while, then said, “So thank you for the story you sent me last week.” I nodded. She paused, then said, “Though you seemed to concentrate on Serena this time rather than me. I was very disappointed. Why did you do that?”

I had rehearsed my excuses a thousand times, but I never imagined giving them to her while under such duress. The cold scrambled my thoughts into a panic. “I was… I… m…m…mean, I w…w…wanted it to b…b..be a client c…consultation. I… I… thought that… would b…b…be a new way to l…look at a scene?” She watched me thoughtfully but offered no reassurance. “S…so I thought it w…would have t…to be S…Serena doing th… the talking and y… you giving ad…vice. But it… I… I m…m…mean it turned in…to her t…talking a lot m…more than y… you. I’m s…sorry.”

That was all I’d got. It was a pathetic excuse really and I knew she would be furious, but it was all I had to offer.

She took a long breath. “You write for me,” she said darkly, as if fighting back her anger. “That means you write about me, unless I say otherwise. Is that clear?” I nodded frantically, grunting my agreement. “I may sometimes want you to include Serena or other people in stories, but I will always be the central character. It is a simple idea to grasp.”

“Yssss”, I squeezed out through my teeth, which were involuntarily clenched.

She waited for a good ten seconds before saying, “Very well. Let us hope this doesn’t happen again.” After that she seemed to relax a little, even though I was still in a freezing hell of her making.

She laughed quietly to herself. “Actually, I do like most of your stories. They have an inventive flair, and you choose some interesting themes, though I notice that you often write about chastity. That is of particular interest to you?”

I nodded and grunted.

“Something you have experienced for real?”

Again I nodded.

“I see. The way you describe it is fairly realistic. We assumed you had had some experience. Though one thing isn’t quite right.” I tried to look interested, despite the pain of the cold biting into me. “Your idea about holding something over a chastity slave, something to expose if they should ever cut off the device by force. It’s a nice idea, but in reality it’s very difficult to make that work.”

I tried to look interested again, but the intense cold just made me screw up my face.

“We frequently frustrate men so badly that they just stop acting rationally.” She laughed cruelly, as if remembering past events. “They will literally do anything to get out of the device, even if it means personal ruin. The problem is, then it isn’t really fair to ruin their lives if we drove them to do it. So in practice, if a slave cuts off a device, that ends the session. We make them pay for the device upfront, so we don’t lose out. But it is a disappointing ending.”

I nodded, wincing with cold. “Y…Ysss, I ss…ee.”

“Although, one story you wrote did make us think of a different solution to this problem.” The cold was tearing at every part of my body, but I tried to follow what she was saying. “It was a while ago. You described how I met a man in a hotel bar one night, invited him to my room, drugged him and then locked a kali’s teeth device around his dick. Do you remember that one?”

I nodded, teeth clenched.

“The interesting part is that you said that the device was made of a hardened alloy, so when he tried to cut it off with a hacksaw, he could not. Do you remember?”

“Y..ssss,” I grunted, trying to smile.

“The fascinating thing is, that is really possible. Some companies do actually make chastity devices from toughened alloys rather than plain steel. Isn’t that intriguing?”

She smiled at me, evidently not caring about how much I was suffering. Then she reached into the pocket of her jacket, and brought out a small chastity cage. In the light, I could see that it had a smokey metallic look.

“Here is one. They are extremely expensive,” she said, sadly. “But if you think about it, perhaps that’s worth it? It means we can torture a man in chastity for a very long time and there is absolutely  fuck all he can do about it.” She laughed loudly. “Well, I mean he could try to cut it off with an arc-welder or something, but that’s just going to fry his dick. With these babies, a dick stays locked. That is just fucking awesome, don’t you agree?”

Suddenly her question made sense: tungsten carbide. She wanted me to understand how hard the metal was. I nodded enthusiastically, hoping she would release me soon.

“So thank you for raising that idea. We will have all sorts of fun with this little thing.” She smiled at the device, turning it in her hands with admiration.

“Now, looking to the future. I think it’s time we moved our arrangement onto a more formal footing, don’t you?”

I had no idea what she meant, but I was in no position to argue, so I just nodded in agreement.

“In future, you are going to be writing for me exclusively, and you will naturally be writing about me as well, as we have discussed. I want you focussed on me and what I enjoy. I want to read stories that move me, lift me up, excite me. Am I making sense?” Again I nodded. “So it struck me,” she said standing up, “that the perfect way to ensure you are focussed on me would be for you to wear one of these special devices.” She held out the chastity cage, showing it to me on the palm of her hand, smiling.

A wave of sickening terror passed over me, despite the agonising cold. “Oh, n…no… please, I d… don’t w…want to do that. P…please d…don’t ask me t…to wear that th…ing.”

“Oh, I see,” she said with a disappointed voice. “I do realise it is a big step, but I’m sure it would be helpful to keep you focussed.” She thought for a while. “Perhaps you just need another hour or two to think it over?” Not waiting for a reply, she slipped the cage into her pocket, turned and started to walk back to the house.

Suddenly panic replaced the terror. “GOD,.NO! PLEASE! Y…YOU C….CAN’T. I’LL F..REEZE. P….PLEASE!!”

“Did I misunderstand?” she asked innocently, looking back at me. “Perhaps you do want to consider the cage after all?”

So the game was now clear. She would let me freeze to death until I agreed to whatever she wanted. I wasn’t actually caged yet, but I was in her trap and there was no way to escape. Time was running out, and she could play the game all night if she wanted to. I had lost.

I nodded, eyes lowered in defeat.

“That’s a very sensible decision. I think it will be a wonderful experience for us both,” she said holding out the cage to me again. “Now put it on.”

I reluctantly took the device with shaking hands and separated the base ring from the cage. In the cold, my dick was completely limp and it was relatively easy to squeeze my balls and cock through the ring. She laughed quietly as I struggled with the cage part, trying to push a wet limp shaft into the metal cup. But I managed eventually and pushed the two parts together.

She dangled a key in front of my face. “The lock is built into the piece,” she said, “Just in case anyone thought of cutting the lock rather than the cage. They really have thought of everything with this device.” And with that, she squatted down, pushed the key into a slot near the base, wiggled it a little, then turned and removed it.

“Locked,” she said proudly, standing up with a grin. “Until further notice,” she added playfully. “Just think,” she said with awe in her voice, “there is literally no way for you to remove that device without the key. Isn’t that just exquisite?”

I felt sick.

“Now before I let you out of this beautiful little cage, I want some very special work from you,” she said softly with a smile. “I’m going to explore some of the things that I have always wanted to explore. With your help, I’m going to be able to do some of the things I’ve always wanted to do.”

I looked at her, puzzled, but desperate not to annoy her with a stupid question.

“I am going to share some secrets with you. Secret desires. Things I have wanted to do to men for longer than I can remember. Exquisite dreams of pleasure and pain.”

I nodded, wondering just how dark this woman’s imagination could be.

“I will share these dreams with you; you will share them with no one. If you so much as breathe a word of them to anyone else,” she said harshly, pausing and dangling the key, “then this goes in the river and you are totally fucked.”

I felt my belly convulse at the threat, despite the biting cold.

“And of course to do this you have to be focussed on what I want and what I need. I think that your new cage will provide exactly the focus that you need to help you. Don’t you agree?”

There was no escape. She had trapped me in the infernal device and I had no choice but to agree with whatever she wanted. I nodded and grunted, lowering my gaze.

“Good,” she said, sipping her tea thoughtfully. “I think this should be an exciting experience for us both.”

After a while, she put down her drink and picked up the cane, turning back to me and flexing the cane threateningly with a cruel smile. “Now I also want you to understand the price for submitting substandard work,” she said, her voice hardening. She stroked the cane along my side. “Face the post,” she spat, sharply.

I turned to face the cold concrete post, terrified of what she was about to do. She ran the cane up and down my bare back and ass for a few more moments and then gave me a brutal stroke across the buttocks. The pain made me hiss and crouch down, putting my hands over my ass instinctively. “Stand upright,” she said angrily, tapping my hands to move them away. I gripped the post, trembling in fear.

Two more strokes followed, even harder. I was now shaking from cold, fear and pain, whimpering.

Then she moved close to me and spoke darkly. “You deliver what I ask for, when I ask for it.” Another stroke made her point. “And if you ever fucking deliver something that isn’t all about me,” she paused, giving me two more vicious strokes, “I will teach you a lesson about the real meaning of pain.” Her voice was terrifying. Before I could nod, another volley of four or five strokes ripped into my ass, causing me to wail pathetically and collapse against the post, shaking.

She growled into my ear. “And just to be clear, you’re going to stay locked in that fucking cage until I get what I want.” I nodded, desperately trying to appease her. “I want something that stirs my deepest darkest pleasures. So if I’m not getting that, I don’t see why the fuck you should have any pleasure either. Clear?”

I nodded, terrified and sickened by the power that she had over me.

There was a pause, and I was afraid the beating wasn’t over, but she stepped away from me and seemed to calm down. After a few moments, she said, “I’ll send Bonnie down to release you in a while.” Then she added sarcastically, “And by the way, the next time she tells you to strip, you strip. You don’t argue.”

The beating had made me forget the cold, but now she had stopped the icy pain returned and my body started to shake again as rivulets of water ran from my rain soaked hair down my back.

Picking up her things, she left me there without saying anything more. After a couple of minutes the light went out and once again I was left alone to freeze in the dark.

They left me there to suffer for another ten minutes or more, but eventually Bonnie came back down the garden with my clothes in a rough bundle. She dropped them on the wet ground and handed me a key, presumably for the padlock around my neck.

“You can leave by the side gate,” she said angrily, pointing. “Now get dressed and fuck off.” She turned and walked back to the house.

Caged and at the mercy of Mistress Paris. My new reality was about to begin.(