Extract The girl stood straight, very straight indeed, her spine bowed back slightly.
Her head was tilted full back, face towards the ceiling high above. Her tongue
protruded to what a casual observer would think a startling length. It was
pierced by a thick stainless steel ring. That ring was attached to a chain which
hung from above.
The girl was encased in PVC from head to toe, the leather
glistening with the reflected light of the candles surrounding her. Thin straps
crossed her chest above and below her apparently ample breasts, squeezing them
from either direction whilst also pinning her arms back behind her.
Not that her arms needed such straps. They were themselves encased
in a leather sleeve from hand to shoulder, and that sleeve was squeezed together
by its own straps at wrist, forearm, and above and below the elbows.
She was faceless, for the leather hood covering her made no
allowances for a nose, nor eyes. It was smooth, featureless save for a slit over
the mouth through which her long tongue protruded.
Well over two inches, that tongue pushed out, well over two inches
past her the smooth black edges of the slit, past her lips within. That tongue,
so smooth, soft, and pink, trembling, impaled, straining. Well over two inches,
perhaps two and a half, aching and burning with the pressure, the pull, so that
soft, breathy moans and gasps of pain emerged from within that tight slit.
The girl was tall. The long black length of her glistened, standing
straight, legs straight below her, almost together, feet, seemingly narrow,
perched precariously atop stiletto heels. No, not quite. For the heels did not -
not quite - reach the floor below. So that the girl must perch on the toes, on
the balls of her feet, letting the heels only occasionally touch the floor at
the expense of her aching, straining, stretched-out tongue.
Her legs, though straight, were not - quite together. For rising up
from the floor between them was a long, dark post. It was of steel for most of
its length, but near the top it became latex, thick, criss-crossed with odd,
thick ridges. The latex, like the pVC, had a sheen to it, but this sheen was of
moisture. In the reflected light of the candles could be seen small painted
numbers, white. The lowest number was “20", and just above that, an inch
higher was “19", and then “18" an inch above that.
There was a slit in the pVC leather at the join of the girl’s legs,
and the post passed through this slit, disappearing within. Just below that slit
was the painted number “15". And so it would not have been difficult for
the casual observer to conclude that above this number, within the slit, was
another 15 inches of thick, glistening latex.
Buried within the body of the girl standing over it.
A more careful observer, or one with better eyes for the dimly lit
room, might have noticed that the latex was not merely glistening with moisture.
It was wet with it. Indeed, an observer who rested his or her eyes on the post
would be rewarded with the intermittent sight of a small droplet of liquid
slowly trickling down first one side, then the other.
Was it perspiration, they might wonder. For it could hardly be else
but sweltering within the tight, hooded leather suit. Or was it perhaps
something else, perhaps the essence of her heat, of her arousal as she stood
there, oozing out of the throbbing sex impaled upon the unrelenting solid bulk
of the post.
A faceless girl, slender, tall, and clearly well-proportioned. The
tight fitting PVC hugged slim hips, but an even more slender belly, long, full
legs, and a chest which though squeezed tightly within the confines of the suit,
and from the straps above and below, seemed quite generous.
The room around her was austere, having little to recommend it. It
was a small, square room of rough stone on four sides. Below her heels as a
floor of thick, heavy wood, dark with age. Above her, well above her, were heavy
beams crossing above. There were no windows. And the one door was heavy and dark
with age, reinforced with steel, and solidly closed. And locked. One did not
know the door was locked, of course, without first testing. But it was the type
of door one could hardly imagine would be otherwise. It was a door built to keep
people out, or in this case, within.
To one side of the room was a roughly made table. It had no
ornamentation. It was a utilitarian table, made for a job, rather than for any
sort of decorative purpose. It, too, was old with age. And upon its surface
rested, in precisely ordered rows, a series of instruments.
The first row, held a variety of long, thin leather rods - crops
they were, of varied lengths and thicknesses.
The second row held flogs of the same varying length and weight.
The third row held a variety of implements; paddles, both narrow
and wide, straps, long and short, heavy and light, canes of several lengths,
thin wooden switches, and finally, frighteningly, a pair of long, coiled
whips.
Above the table, on pegs, hung a variety of ropes, straps, cords,
buckles, gags, restraints, shackles, cuffs, and chains, was well as a variety of
clips in various sizes.
The rest of the room, which measured perhaps twelve by twelve, was
unfurnished, empty, save for the girl standing in the middle, and the
candlesticks, tall, wide, wood, but no more ornamental than the table. There
were twelve candlesticks surrounding the girl in a precise circle a few feet, no
more, from her trembling body, giving the only light in the otherwise darkened
room.
The flames of those candles were long, and pure, for there was no
breeze to send them dancing and shifting. The air in the room was stifling and
still, and the only sound aside from the occasional moans and gasps issuing
forth from the slit in the face of the girl’s hood was her constant , heavy,
laboured breathing.
Her breaths were ragged, short, undisciplined, and often broken off
by a gasp or moan as one pain or another intruded itself upon the business of
breathing.
There was no sure way of telling how long the girl had been
standing there, but a brief study would guess that it had been no small time.
Yet she stood firmly, enduring the discomfort and heat of her position.
And then, there was a change. It would have been difficult to
define , precisely. There was the faintest change in her laboured breathing. Her
back, arched, seemed to arch a little more, to ease, then to arch again, very
weakly, as if the girl were enduring long, slow spasms.
An observer would have detected movement all along, most especially
the trembling heels as the girl balanced on the balls of her feet, the short,
hesitant sinking and lowering - lowering to the point her heels would touch the
floors briefly, then rise quickly again as her tongue stretched even farther.
That same movement was more easily observed now, for it seemed to
be happening more frequently, still accompanied by the spasms and trembling, but
with - unless it was the observer’s imagination - more purpose. Yes, more
purpose, and if the eye were to draw back somewhat, to take in the entire length
of the girl’s body, that movement could be more readily appreciated for its
repetitive nature.
The sounds issuing from the slit around the girl’s tongue were
louder, and indicated more pain. That would not surprise anyone who realized the
pressure the young girl’s tongue must be under and could at least suspect how
that pressure must increase each time the sharp stiletto heels touched the
floor.
And then, if the observer were to sharpen his gaze and concentrate
on that narrow bar of latex thrusting up into the opening of the PVC leather
encasing her body, he or she would have the answer to their earlier curiosity
regarding the substance slowly trickling down the post.
For the white painted number just below the opening into the suit -
into the girl’s body was “14". And then, slowly, very slowly, it was
“15", and then, as the sound issuing from the hood became louder, and more
agonized, and the heels touched the floor, it was, ever so briefly,
“16".
And the casual observer, no longer, one would presume, entirely
casual, would watch as the “15" pushed out from within the slit, and then,
slowly, the “14" appeared - briefly - before sinking back up into the slit,
then, slowly, drawing the “15" after it. And, with infinite hesitation,
shifting agonizingly up and down, the “16" would - almost, but not quite -
follow.
And then there was a long, low, guttural sound, feral, animal-like,
but filled with both pain and an intense passion. The entire black-clad body
seemed to shudder, and as it rose, as number “15" pushed back into the dim
yellow light, a small flood of liquid oozed out along with it, and many small
droplets of clear liquid trickled slowly down the post.
And then, things were as they were. The unsteady breathing, the
wavering, trembling body, the slow, uneven moans and shuddering gasps, the heels
easing intermittently upwards, then down.
At length, a new sound penetrated the thick walls and door of the
room. It was distant and heavily muffled, but unmistakeably it was the closing
of a door, a very heavy door, such as the one blocking the only entrance or exit
to the room. Then, after a short interval, there was the sound of a heavy bolt
being shot, then a second, then a third - even heavier then the other two.
The door swung inward, the heavy hinges creaking. A man came
through. He was tall and thin. His face was that of as scarecrow, his features
pinched, with a long, thin nose and dark, recessed eyes. He had only a very
light dusting of hair upon his head, and that far back. He was thin to the point
of gauntness, and his face was remarkable only in its absence of any expression
of emotion.
He wore a black suit, wore it as though it were a uniform he had
long been accustomed to. He regarded the girl briefly, with neither lust nor
anger nor sympathy, then shrugged off his jacket and carefully hung it from a
peg just within the door. With a sigh, as though of a man bored with a
repetitive task, he crossed to the table, selected a long, thin crop, and walked
back to the girl.
Her movements had halted, and she stood stiff, frozen, as a small,
wary creature suddenly realizing the presence of predators. The man moved behind
her, and she must surely be able to hear his clipped footsteps on the wooden
floor, for she moaned lightly, her head jerking a little, as though
instinctively trying to turn and regard the man behind her.
She could not, of course, brought up short by the ring through her
tongue. And so she could not see the man, his face still quite neutral, swing
the crop back and forth a few times testingly. She would have heard the sound of
the crop cutting through the air, however.
The man looked at her bottom. It was, if the form were true and not
influenced by the tight PVC encasing it, a quite deliciously shaped bottom, with
round buttocks squeezed tautly together. The man looked at it, but showed
neither pleasure nor appreciation. Instead he drew his arm back and then swung
it forward. He did not swing with tremendous effort, but rather, somewhat
lightly, again, testingly.
The crop cut through the air nonetheless, and then cracked down
against the centre of both leather encased buttocks. The girl’s body seemed to
wobble, to shudder all along its length, the hips lurching forward, then back,
the head jerking back, then forward. It was a quick, undulating movement echoed
simultaneously by a high pitched, girlish cry of pain, that cry, of course,
incomprehensible because of the situation of her tongue.
No understandable word could be uttered by a girl whose tongue was
held in place, pulled up out of her mouth and chained above her. But words were
not necessary to communicate. She was easily understandable. The blow hurt.
Quite a bit. The leather squeezing in around her buttocks was evidently not
particularly thick, at least not here, and seemingly offered insufficient
protection to her tender bottom.
The man, unconcerned with any of this, swung the crop again,
striking approximately the same place, and producing approximately the same
result. The girl cried out, her sound a high pitched warble, and her body did a
quick, undulating shudder.
For several minutes the thin man stood in place, behind and a
little to one side of the girl, and rained careful, measured blows upon her
buttocks. As he progressed, the blows became harsher, and her body undulated
more violently. Her cries became louder, more distressed.
He shifted his aim up and down, precisely, striking the upper
portion of her soft, fleshy buttocks, then the lower, then the middle, and
repeated, as though he had much experience with this ritual.
The girl was sobbing now, in between her cries of pain. If the man
heard it he showed no response or recognition. He continued striking her
quivering body until, for a reason known only to himself, he halted, paced
across to the table, laid down the crop in the same place from which he had
taken it, and, without speaking, lifted his jacket off the peg, drew it on,
adjusted it so that it fit properly, then passed out through the door.
It closed heavily, with a sound of finality, slamming into place
with a sound so solid one might wonder if it would ever again open. Then first
one, then a second of the heavy bolts were shot, followed, after a moment, by
the heaviest, clanging metallically as it settled snugly into its hole to bar
any way out.
After a brief interval, there came the sound of another heavy door
slamming closed, muffled, through the door. But it would have been difficult to
hear, for the girl cried piteously, her body trembling to the deep,
gut-wrenching sobs.
It took time, but the sobs eased, and then faded away entirely.
There were only small moans and gasps now, as there had been before. The girl
remained balanced largely on the balls of her feet, but occasionally, weakening,
the pain becoming too much for her, she eased back until the heels of her shoes
touched the floor.
The pain in her tongue evidently became too great, then, for she
rarely let her heels remain down for more than a few instants. Then with a moan,
she would ease back up onto the balls of her feet, and let her heels tremble in
mid-air.
The passage of time was impossible to measure in the small, close,
darkened room. The girl remained as she was, trembling, shifting slightly up and
down, moaning.
And then, as before, her movements, previously intermittent and
spasmodic, took on a recurring theme of movement. Once more, her body began to
slowly, painfully slide downwards onto the thick dark latex post upon which she
was impaled. Now the “16" slid fully into her body, disappearing from view,
only to reappear again, along with the “15" and, very briefly, the
“14". And, incredibly, as her slow, agonized, rhythmic movements continued,
the dark, moist slit began to creep down further, all the way to the “17",
before withdrawing.
She sobbed weakly, brokenly, whimpering, moaning in pain. But her
movements continued, her breath ragged, desperate. Her body slid up and down, up
and down, too slowly and haltingly for any but a patient eye to notice. And
then, after a time, she let out a broken cry, a wail, really, of helpless,
hopefully passion. Her body shook violently, and then, after sinking back to her
heels, resumed its previous routine.
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