“If you are a real painslut, you will be spoiled rotten tonight.”
I had made it very clear to Portia that the members of my depraved little circle were committed to the darker ways of BDSM. Marks that would last for weeks were a must-have, safewords a no-go. Portia emitted an affirmative grunt from behind the gag. Any intelligible sound was permitted by the huge rubber orb, and nodding would have interfered with my tightening her head harness.
A two inch ball gag would have silenced her nicely. 2.5 inches was her limit. I had gone for a three-incher. The rest of her body would be in tremendous pain within the hour, so why shouldn’t her mouth as well? Alternately I tightened the horizontal main strap and the facial straps running along both sides of her nose and – as one – across the crown of her head. With every tug the ball was pulled deeper into her straining mouth. We were working our way towards total gaggage for several minutes already, and the nude woman kneeling in front of me was experiencing the first cramps. She would get used to them.
Once the gag was fully seated I buckled the belts for good. Now I also fastened the so far neglected chin strap. Not that my charming victim could move her lower jaw – its joints were at their end stop. As a fetish overkill I secured each buckle with a small padlock. Portia was as ball-gagged as a woman could possibly be.
Instead of nodding or giving another audible reaction she held her head high, and I fitted the strict slave collar.
My motley crew of renowned sadists was already complete. Gwendolen and Felix had arrived last, and fashionably late. Whilst the raven-haired lady was socialising with Otto, her younger brother was momentarily lost in Dobs’ cleavage – until Portia followed me into the room, that was. I greeted Gwendolen with a hand kiss.
“At last, our mastermind has arrived…!”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she purred back.
Her gaze fell upon Portia, who was standing behind me in masochistic elegance. She kept her eyes lowered and her arms pushed together behind her back from fingertips to elbows, held in place by imaginary bonds. Her average bosom was thrust out by this pose, and the skin was already bedewed. Portia was embracing the humiliation from drooling around the massive gag. Again a clear drop of saliva formed in the stretched corner of her mouth and left as a fine silvery strand, swinging in sync with the slight rocking of Portia’s body. Until explicitly told otherwise, she was to stand on very balls of her feet, as though wearing high-heeled shoes. Not only was this detail aesthetically pleasing, it also served as a trusty measuring tool for obedience once the muscles in her insteps and calves began to tire. A slavegirl should never be too comfortable.
“Where do you always get those oil dipsticks?” Otto demanded, testing Portia’s self-esteem. “How can she be able to last the night if she arrives already half starved?”
Gwendolen passed me to inspect the silent woman herself.
“Never mind that brute, gorgeous,” she advised whilst circling one of Portia’s aureoles with a talon-like fingernail, “I reckon he wasn’t breast fed long enough. Now he judges the beauty of a woman solely by her cup size.”
In response he made suckling noises.
Otto was our engineer. His private workshop provided us with the finest gears of pain. If an invention of his failed to reduce a victim to tears, he took it as an affront to his profession. He also liked to start an evening with verbal abuses, thus seeking for weak spots. And he did prefer busty women.
Portia took both his comments and Gwendolen’s palpation with submissive serenity. I like my slavegirls proud. Not smug or haughty, but aware of the delights they have to offer.
“She’s predestined for a nice tight armbinder”, Dobs intervened.
“Absolutely, but I’ve promised her your special bondage.”
She stepped behind Portia and massaged the woman’s shoulders as she assessed her frame with the eye of a seasoned rigger. Dobs’ real name was Melanie, and not even she knew why everybody called her Dobs. As a fanatic devotee to the art of shibari she was home at both sides of the rope; more often than not she had played guinea pig for one of Otto’s contraptions.
“She’s nimble enough, that’s for sure. Being able to keep this arm position without aid is not half bad.”
Dobs was a whole head shorter than Portia, even with the latter being barefooted and for the time being allowed to put her heels to the ground. Yet her small build had never been an obstacle to performing her kinky hobby, thanks to her great understanding of robe and her fondness of pulleys.
She had Portia relax her arms, then brought the slave’s palms flat together behind the back, fingertips pointing upwards. A first wrap of rope secured the wrists loosely. Dobs moved the bound hands upwards, paying close attention to how the arms were folding. The higher Portia’s hands went, the closer her elbows came together. She groaned into her gag as Dobs twisted a fresh robe around her elbows, cinching it. This action pushed her hands up right between her dramatically protruding shoulder blades. Closer and closer the lady-rigger brought the elbows together, frequently checking the circulation, until they touched at last. Portia’s arms were now restrained in the severe position of a full reverse prayer. As a final detail Dobs tethered the woman’s wrist bonds to her collar with additional rope, securing them further, yet without bringing undue pressure to Portia’s throat.
Our helpless victim was in considerable discomfort, but I knew how she secretly liked to show off her ability to undergo this demanding bondage. I took Dobs’ place to savour the sight of Portia expertly and inescapably tied up, then spun her around to face me. Despite (or, given the masochistic state her mind had ascended to, because) the rising pain that was gnawing at the muscles of her arms and mouth I saw content in her eyes. It became enriched with a tad uneasiness, though, as I showed her the clamps.
Portia’s stance towards nipple clamps was ambivalent, to say the least. She felt obligated to be fond of them, for they ensured her utmost obedience. A set of toothed steel clamps, tightly closed and well tugged, were perfectly suited to correct a slavegirl’s ways or teach a lesson in submission. The ones I had chosen, and which had made Portia shiver, were of the kind I like to call vice. They could be manually tightened, not via an ordinary screw, but by means of a self-locking worm drive. The pair I was holding up covered the whole pain spectrum, from teasing clips to ultra-extreme nip crushers. They sported quite some weight, so I attached them firmly. Portia surely didn’t want them slipping off, even though she was groaning under my ministration.
“Show us some elegance,” I requested whilst pulling the connecting chain upwards. Up on her toes again she went. I led her on this cruel nipple leash into the small circle Gwendolen, Dobs, Otto and Felix had formed with their club chairs.
“Would you like to begin, Gwendolen?”
She smiled affirmatively, and I had Portia kneel in front of the chair. She knelt down like a lazy slavegirl, tugging her toes in under her feet – a faux pas that did not go unnoticed by me. And neither did it by my most esteemed guest. Gwendolen rose and strode across the circle, ruffling Portia’s hair as she passed her. She returned with a fibre glass cane from the far wall behind Otto, flexing it as she headed back to her chair. Close to Portia she suddenly performed a lunge, administering a fierce stroke across the slavegirl’s stretched soles. Portia screeched behind her merciless gag and pointed her toes so her insteps lay flat on the floor in line with her lower legs, adopting a position far more submissive and strenuous.
Explanation was neither given nor needed. Normally no-one was to touch, let alone discipline a slave of mine without my explicit permission. But Gwendolen, congenial sadist that she was, was always welcome to bring in her expertise. Having seated herself again, she tightened Portia’s nip clamps a good deal, thus starting our game of the night.
It wasn’t named yet, for we’d never played it before. But a snappy title that came to the twisted mind was Devil’s Roulette.
The full rules were unknown to Portia. She had only been instructed to kneel before each member of the circle in turns, so the vice clamps could be gradually tightened. Under no circumstances she was allowed to scream, gag or no gag. I had told her in rather strong terms that breaking discipline would not be tolerated. Having seen Gwendolen reaching out to her, Portia had had time to brace herself. No sound left her aching mouth, yet the urge to bend over testified to her anguish. After some moments to re-collect herself, she struggled to her caned feet and took her place in front of Dobs.
Devil’s Roulette is won by the circle member to be the last one not to make the encircled slave scream. If Portia were to break under Dobs’ ministration, Gwendolen would win. Our rigger might choose a prudent approach now, tightening the clamps by just a fraction. Or she could play for keeps by closing the jaws quite a bit, making it all the harder for Otto not to overdo it at his turn. Portia, facing ever-increasing torment, was the one person that would never win.
I reckoned Dobs to be quite bold this early in the game. But even I was surprised by the viciousness she screwed the clamps down with. She worked the mechanisms as far as she was able to without having to shift her grip. The clamps visibly sunk deeper into Portia’s nipples, and their serrated jaws showed the sensitive flesh no mercy. Her contortions, immediately followed by an almost catatonic stiffness were painful just to look at. Strange guttural noises found their way past the cruel ball gag, but – for the better or the worse – did not qualify as screams.
I had been right about Portia, whom I had already placed amongst the few true heroines of masochism I’d come across. I might have slightly underestimated those clamps, though. So intense was the suffering they were causing our slave toy that she’d become disoriented by it. Dobs helped her up and positioned her before Otto.
The prize that could be won was as simple as it was tempting. One of us would be allowed to have their way with Portia, in a specified and individual manner. The notes each of us had put their wishes on were waiting in my suit jacket. The implements needed were ready at the far end of the room, covered up for dramatic effect.
Otto would be well advised not to count on Portia’s resilience too much. Tears were running freely across her harness-bound face, and it took all of her willpower to assume a halfway straight pose. According to the rules both clamps had to be tightened simultaneously. Otto performed this with a gentleness seldom seen in him outside his workshop – and failed. It did not matter how much gentleness was involved. All the raw nerve endings desperate to cope with the horrid stimulation fired at once, frying Portia’s pain matrix.
A committed slavegirl in outrageous pain can create some of the most enthralling sounds a person of my inclination can bear witness to. She released a scream, suppressed it insufficiently, gave vent to another one in a twisted contralto before falling into a series of pathetic whinings. I had her rose on the balls of her feet again.
“It seems we have got a winner,” I proclaimed after having checked on Portia. She was still breathing erratically. Pain like this didn’t just numbed away. I noticed that her chin strap had become lose. Portia had actually bitten a quarter-inch through the gag. After re-tightening the leather and examining the rest of her head harness for good measures, I rummaged through my pocket. Dobs’s note was easily to identify. Only two cards were carrying female handwritings; one smallish and accurate, the other wilfully glamorous. I presented the first one to my guests. Upon reading what prize was desired Gwendolen looked at Dobs with a face of mock horror.
“You evil lass!”
Very tenderly Portia turned towards me, but I took the note away. She would know her fate soon enough.
“We should employ some weights to make it more challenging,” Felix suggested innocently. I reckoned he was antagonised by never been given a chance to hurt Portia’s nipples.
“How many weights?” asked Dobs, partly shocked, partly intrigued.
Otto got up, grabbed Portia around the waist from behind and lifted her clear off the floor as though she weighed nothing. A yelp of surprise was quickly followed by shrieks as the clamps swung wildly about.
He set her back down and walked over to the far wall with its fine selection of a sadist’s tools. The rest of us followed, Dobs ensuring Portia’s submission by means of the nipple chain. Without further ado Otto uncovered the implement our lady-rigger had chosen. A thing of dark beauty.
Four legs were holding up a triangular element, creating the rightly-feared device known by names such as Wooden Horse or Spanish Donkey. It was made of hardwood and sported a flawless piano black finish. To add another highlight to its titillating design, the top edge was not formed by the wood as well, but by a polished stainless steel ridge. The effects on a wench astride on it would be extraordinary.
Portia’s eyes were as big as saucers. Evidently she had heard of the ordeals linked to this kind of beast. That she had not yet experienced them herself was about to be rectified.
“Hop on!” Otto motivated.
She looked at me, beseeching me to interfere.
“You will have your ride on the Horse, Portia. Don’t worry about the pain. That’s what the gag is for.”
I took it that wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. But without a bit of mild force now, she would not achieve the masochistic bliss she was crawling for. She wouldn’t climax from, say, the final stroke of the whip without the ninety-nine devastating ones before it.
The metal ridge sank deep into her vulva. Otto and Felix stepped back. They had eased her onto the Horse quite gently, and Portia was able to quietly endure the moment her full weight came to rest on her womanhood for the first time. Mayhap a part of her clinched to the hope the pain would stabilise. It would not. The ride was slow torture by design and a passive one by nature, self-energising and self-fulfilling.
Instinctively Portia had pointed her toes in a vain yet appealing attempt to reach the saving ground. Not often seen in modern interpretations, the Horse’s back formed a very sharp angle and thus created steep flanks. Therefore her long and shapely legs were almost vertically. She could still allow herself to fall off – not a wise approach with her arms secured in a back-prayer, but thinkable. Otto and Felix addressed this issue by fitting heavy manacles around her ankles. The short chain between them not only prevented Portia from any drastic acts of escapism, but also provided a suitable anchorage point. For instance for the karabiner at the end of the short sturdy bar Felix was heading for. Not unlike a halved dumbbell it was designed to carry cast iron discs.
Just like Gwendolen’s brother, Otto felt bereft of his chance to win the Devil’s Roulette. At least it was the work of his own hands he would be seeing in action.
“We can seat her a little further to the front. Then there would be room for Dobs, too. Fancy a little tandem ride, Dobbie?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” the girl declined with a certain indignation. In an early phase of its construction she had tested the wicked device for a couple of minutes – and had confessed to everything from poisoning baby unicorns to being a Fifty Shades of Grey aficionada, just to be taken off again. I for my part had been positive that no woman would ever subject another one to this torment. Except for Gwendolen, of course.
Felix brought forth the bar, already loaded with two five-kilogramme-discs. They were slotted, making it possible to fit them from the side.
“Nah, that won’t do,” decided Otto and fetched another disc to slide it on. Adding insult to injury, he remarked: “It’s only fair to use some proper handicap for somebody who weighs about the same as a wet tissue.”
He hooked the bar to Portia’s ankle chain and let go of it. Under the jolt the slavegirl sunk even deeper onto the ridge, with a load of almost one third of her own weight pulling at her ankles. So far the hardwood buried itself into her crotch that I believed it would cleft her atwain. Her screaming suggested so, to be sure.
Otto stepped back, but Felix still saw some need of improvement in our slave’s pose. A leather thong was quickly knotted between her nipple chain and a sturdy ring at the Horse’s front. By tightening it a wailing Portia was forced to lean forwards, thus transferring weight from her perineum to her vulva – a clinical description that didn’t do the effect justice. With her legs fully stretched out her feet were searching desperately for any support. But even with her toes in the en pointe position of a ballerina there were thirty centimetres of nothing between Portia and the floor. She moaned in helpless frustration and did her best to keep still, thighs pressed against her mount’s flanks for the illusion of hold.
Only then I started the clock. Half an hour had been determined for her suffering, and half an hour she would suffer. Portia was incompatible with safewords. This dangerous streak had nearly proven itself fatal in her (not our) past.
We retired to our club chairs, now re-arranged to provide a good view. For a certain reason the Horse had not been positioned within the circle. So we enjoyed the ride in profile. Portia had closed her eyes in an almost meditative manner. For the moment she’d come to terms with her torment.
Two minutes in a slight rocking could be witnessed. Under glistening skin her core and back muscles were working discretely to ease the pressure on her clit without agitating the horrid clamps any further. As we were approaching the mark when Dobs had been granted mercy during her test ride, the signs of distress grew in number and vividness. Unable to endure the metal ridge on her quim any longer, Portia leant back, trading pussy pain in for nipple pain. As the torture of her breasts and anal rim grew too fierce, she reversed her action with a sorrowful groan – only for this circle to start anew. Now Portia was indeed riding her cruel mare. Back and forth, back and forth, always with her perineum as fulcrum. Surely the region of her pubic arch was already bruised and swollen.
I chatted with my guests, paying compliments for the craftsmanship and receiving them for the entertaining evening so far as we watched this delightful display. The harsh ride was clearly taking its toll on poor Portia. With the weights relentlessly dragging her down, her battered crotch was split deeply. Now that Portia’s besieged womanhood was the centre of her world, her search for respite became more and more frantic as no pose nor contortion offered escape from the pain.
She was now past the ten minutes barrier, which had turned out to be the time when the Torture of the Horse was becoming positively unbearable. Moans had long since turned into shrieks, and the wretched begging started. I wondered what Portia was offering us in return for just a moment of soil under her toes. Of course her words remained unintelligible, overgagged as she was.
“It is about time,” I announced.
Together with Dobs I rose. A quarter of an hour was about to be over. Portia looked at us wild-eyed as Dobs untied the leather thong from the front ring. I let down a suspension chain from the ceiling beam above our cowgirl. Within this convenient detail lay the reason for the Horse’s placing. Dobs fastened the leather to the chain’s hook. Under Portia’s unbridled screams I hoisted the chain back up. Her nipples were pulled upwards until the undersides of her breasts became taut. The excruciating bite of the clamps forced Portia to lean back far, putting her full weight and then some onto her already maltreated anus.
Her high-pitched screams then became even shriller before toppling over into guttural sounds of sheer anguish. Dobs had added another disc. Mesmerised by the rigger’s surfacing sadism I followed her back to the chairs.
“What was that?!” Otto sneered.
“Adding a little challenge for the second half. Dobbie style.”
Dobs delivered the line nonchalant, but couldn’t suppress the hint of a smile over her own silly pun.
On the Horse the slavegirl had now travelled beyond mere torment. Close to hysteria, she was covered in cold sweat, this precious perspiration that arises only from pure, mind-altering agony. Her long dark hair stuck to her shoulders and folded arms, her fringe was pasted against her forehead. Portia was suffering beautifully.
Her compulsive tries to transfer her weight again had nothing in common with the almost hypnotic back and forth from earlier. With twenty additional kilogrammes literally pinning her down onto the steel edge and her most intimate places maimed for days if not weeks to come, she achieved but oddish jerks. All along her body sinews were standing out dramatically and over-stretched muscles cramped into bunches of wire. Once more she tortured her perineum by leaning towards the front. She was bending her head far back to avoid contact between her harnessed face and the unforgivingly taut thong leading towards the ceiling. For a moment she held this pose, then slumped back, all strength lost. Even the jaw-wrenching ball gag was non-effective against the animalistic howl as the sharp ridge all but chopped her sphincter.
Gwendolen decided a little pep talk was in order
“Just three minutes to go. You can do it, gorgeous.”
Actually, still four minutes were left. But Portia wouldn’t know. Her head was lolling, lids twitching over bloodshot eyes. She had screamed herself out. Not able to perform any coherent action anymore, she allowed the Horse to carry her deeper into agony.
We gathered around her.
“Sixty seconds, Portia.”
I wasn’t sure whether she had understood me, semi-conscious as she was. At both sides of the Horse Otto and Felix, respectively, were readying themselves.
The two men quickly removed the manacles, not bothering with the stack of weights. It thumped on the mat the Horse was placed upon, discs clanging. The thong was cut, Portia taken off and allowed to lie. She wouldn’t be able to walk for quite some time. Since resting flat on her back would be highly strenuous due to her back-prayered arms, Gwendolen kneeled behind her for support. I hunkered down beside them. Portia’s eyes were foggy, her breathing shallow yet even. She was high on pain. The area between her legs seemed to be a single haematoma. Her ankles had been chaffed raw by the manacles. I got no help from her as I removed the gag. The huge rubber ball was in a bad state, carrying deep teeth marks all over it. Dobs instilled some water. After assuring myself that Portia was alright, I inspected that marvellous Horse.
On the polished ridge and lacquered body sweat was shimmering. But not only sweat. With my finger I took a drop of the secretion from the wedge and nudged the tip of Portia’s nose.
“At least some minutes of your ride you have enjoyed.”
Her mind had cleared up again, and she was sobbing now, both from pain and from the sheer enormousness of her experience. Carefully I brought my hand between her shaking legs and found her agonised clit. Portia yelped but soon welcomed the masochistic turmoil as I tenderly played with her. Gwendolen had stroked the slavegirl’s hair the whole time to comfort her, but now her petting became more aggressive. Pulling Portia’s head back by the hair, she kissed her hard on the mouth whist manipulating a nipple clamp. I too increased my efforts to grant Portia her much needed pain orgasm. She was emitting sexy little screams in the rhythm of our ministrations.
“Open your eyes, Portia,” I commanded.
She obeyed and saw the third vice clamp I just had produced from my pocket.
“After you’ve got off, we’ll start round two…”
Details of submissive poses portrayed in this story can be found at “The Restrained Elegance Lexicon of Slavegirl Positions”: