Heresy (closed)

[lovingfingers]

I stand close to the candle, watching the wax drip down. Your clit hood, labia, and rosebud are covered with wax. I casually comment, "after a time, the accumulation of wax shields the skin. We wouldn't want that.'

I reach over and take a piece of wax hardened on your skin, and lift it off. I study the wax, embedded with curly hair and part of your labia, murmering, "rather artistic."

I reach up and take a large piece and pull harder, again more hair and the impression of more of your labia. Piece after piece is yanked off, until you are bare again.

Fresh molten wax hits your skin and you cry. "Perhaps the touch of something else would be cooler than the candle?" I offer.

 

[broomstix]

I shriek as many of the pieces of wax rip out hair, especially in the pubic area, where I can feel big clumps come off with each pull.

New fire, new burns, new screams. "No, no, no!" I howl in pain. "No more torture. Please, just allow me to confess. I am deserving of any punishment the judge will give me, but stop this."

It is less the pain which makes me panic - these burns are almost soothing after the choking and the claws - but the fear of what else could be done to me down here.

 

[lovingfingers]

I grip the edge of the wheel and rotate it again, bringing your upright. The candle extinguishes itself, but is held in place by the new wax cooled on your pussy.

I move to the table again and select a mask rather similar to the brank, except the tube which inserts into the mouth curves up into a funnel. I bring it to your face and see you set your teeth. So uncooperative....

I take a bottle of brandy, and splash some on your breasts. Alcohol does wonders for open wounds. Your following screams allow me to easily insert the tube into your mouth and then fasten the brank to your head.

I take a bucket, fill it with water from the trough, and begin to pour it slowly into the funnel, forcing you to drink, and drink, and drink...

In time, your stomach is full of water, your belly swollen, as though you were with child. I set the bucket aside, and reach for the candle between your thighs. With a little effort, I pull it out, together with wax on your pussy and ass.

I remove my undergarment, my manhood swollen, and step up to the wheel.

 

[broomstix]

I can see my stomach swell grotesquely, and, even worse, I can feel it. At first, it is just an unpleasant pressure in my stomach, and I even drink with some thirst because my throat is dry and hoarse from all that screaming. But the water, refreshing at first, does not stop. It flows and flows and flows, it becomes choking, pressing, nauseating. I want to throw up, but more and more water prevents me from doing that. It presses all that came up from my stomach back down, and fills me up even more.

As soon as the wax seal is removed, a steady stream comes from me. I do not hold back, I simply want relief, relief from the ocean pressing at my innards from within, putting me in agony.

Through the pain and nausea, I vaguely register the next assault on my battered innocence. I try to scream, but only succeed in biting on the tube stuck in my mouth. I try to wriggle away, but the smallest movement throws the water inside my stomach into a violent, wave-like movement which is so painful that, the first time it happens, I almost faint with pain. But only almost. This time, there is no merciful darkness. I will have to take what happens next fully conscious.

 

[lovingfingers]

I unfasten the brank, unfastening the clasps, pulling the tube from your mouth. It blocks your face, and I want to be able to see your face with what follows.

I loose the retaining cord on the garrot and twist it a little tighter, before securing it to the spoke again. Your mouth opens as you struggle to breath.

I unscrew the spiders biting into your breasts, one after the other. Fresh blood oozes from the puncture wounds, crimsom milk from your nipples.

I look at you, your belly bloated, your breast trailing blood, an obscene pregnant madonna, a sinner I cannot resist.

Standing in the water in the trough, I position my cock at your raw labia, and thrust.

 

[broomstix]

I am too injured, too filled with pain and fear to even care much about this new violation. Oh, sure, I register something entering me, pushing against my insides, but neither the shame nor the violated feeling can pass through the thick wall consisting of many layers of agony, intertwined with terror that my ordeal has built up around me.

I hang there mechanically and let you have your way. I have realized that you are not interested in any confession, and that I can not save myself from you by condemning myself to death. I long for execution. Even burning can not be much worse than this, but my pleas of guilt being constantly ignored tells me one thing: I will not be saved even by death.

 

[lovingfingers]

My cock presses into you, thrusting hard, until I am buried deep. I roll my hips, giving you short deep jabs, my stomach pressing against your bloated belly. I bring my hands to your breasts and squeeze. Blood drips onto my hands. The sensations are overwhelming, perverse, forbidden, a twisted nightmare of violating a pregnant Madonna. My cock swells inside you and bursts, my seed shooting into you, into your belly. I am as damned as you are.

 

[broomstix]

I realize, in a dull, exhausted way, that something sexual is going on, and a small part of me moans. Some shivers of unvoluntary, but very welcome pleasure shoot through me. I do not care that I am being violated. Even this twisted feeling is one that should be enjoyable under sane circumstances, so it is vastly preferable to the pain I am in. I concentrate on it. Rape takes my mind off torture. Bad things take my mind off worse things.

 

[lovingfingers]

Panting, my vision and sanity slowly returning, I step away from you, my cock slipping from your sex, covered with blood and semen. I stand, staring at you, wondering what possessed me. What have I done? What should I do?

I step up and untie the cord holding the garret. I unwind it completely and remove it. It touch your neck and the angry line the garret has left. I shake my head as I release you from the wheel. You slump onto me, and I all but carry you to a chair.

What can I say, after all this? I summon the guard, and tell him to take you to one of the secure rooms in the next level up. I also tell him to bring you a robe and one of the sisters to tend your wounds.

What have I done? What have I done?

 

[broomstix]

As I wake up, it takes me a second to remember where I am, but the pain shooting through me and the bare stone walls remind me all too quickly. After many hours - they felt like days - in the cold, damp dungeon, the clothing wrapped around me almost feels like a luxury, and the warmth makes me feel nearly relaxed as I savour every minute of not being tortured. Terrible memories will haunt me later, but this moment is for relaxing, and for being thankful for even the smallest mercy.

I wish I would just be forgotten up here. Sure, I would starve to death, but that seems better than whatever is in store for me. I know very well that, after confession, there is no way for me to save my life anyway. It feels oddly relaxing to be so sure of death.

 

[lovingfingers]

My dreams that night were nightmarish, full of twisted perversions and lust, your body repeatedly opening to me, drawing me to you like a succubus. And I cannot resist...

The next day, I ask the sisters as to your condition. They indicate with guarded words that you are eating and recovering. I ask if you have confessed, and they shake their heads no.

I tell them to remind you that confession brings release, and hope that you get the message.

 

[broomstix]

I am very glad to see someone other than the merciless torturer visit me in my cell - but when they ask me to confess, all I can do is weakly shake my head. They do not understand. I will take any bodily pain to avoid being forced into a lie which will dishonor me and my entire family. I do not tell them that, but it is obvious from the way I look at them. I even manage to look a little proud, despite all the pain and the fear.