Witchseekers

Part 6 - Kirsten on the Wheel

 

 

Witchseekers personal journal entry, Wheel Experiment

 

            I am, naturally, anxious about my experience on the wheel rack.

            It is an instrument of torture after all, and I have volunteered to experience it.  The logic is that, through better understanding of the victim and the stages of psychological and physical distress through which she goes, I can become a more effective interrogator - able to gain confessions and information with minimal damage to the prisoner.

When Zell greets me in the private dungeon, little more than a musty cave hewn from the bedrock beneath the Chateau, known to almost no-one but ourselves, I am shivering with more than just the cold and damp.  Even so, I pull my silk dressing gown a little closer around my body.

            Zell is dressed more appropriately for the dungeon climate.  A heavy grey robe drapes his form, its hood over his head.  I have no idea what he wears beneath, but I can only envy his warmth.

            "This way, Mistress Kirsten," he says with enthusiasm.

            Lit by torches on the walls, the wheel rack stands in the middle of the dungeon. on a raised stone plinth, a macabre shrine to suffering and torture.

            It is just under six feet in diameter, although its slight elevation on wooden supports from its heavy base adds a little height.  It is crafted with skill; a thick, solid, heavily-studded rim mounted on heavy cross-beam spokes.  It is turned by an iron cog, in turn operated by a ratcheted lever.

            The "rim" of the wheel, the curved surface of its circumference, is nearly three feet wide.  Near the upper curve are bolted two lengths of chain, ending in open manacles.  To the wooden base, immediately below the foremost extreme of the wheel's rim, two more chains and manacles.

            "Shit," I mutter.  It is terrifying to see the wheel rack up close.  The iron studs in particular look gruesome and forbidding.

            "This rack is turned by a simple gearing mechanism," Zell explains happily.  "An easy movement of the lever – thus – causes the wheel to shift about one half of a degree, effecting a stretch of one third of an inch."  He cranks the lever to demonstrate, and the big wheel groans, turns fractionally.  "So, should we get started?"

            My heart thumps.  "But we haven't discussed a safe word!"

            Zell rolls his eyes.  "What do you want with one of those?  It's so … so … so …"

            "Safe?" I try.

            "Exactly!  How about we decide on a number of turns?  No more than, say, twenty."

            Quick mental calculation.  More than six inches.  Jesus!  "I want a safe word," I insist.

"Fine," Zell sighs, leaning against the wheel.  "What should it be?  How about, 'eeee - aaaahh - aaiiiiieee'?"

"'Eeee ahh aaiiiiieee?'"

"Eeee aaaahh aaiiiiieee," Zell corrects.  "It has to be right, or I won't stop."

"That's crazy!  We'll go with something sensible, but something I wouldn't ordinarily say under torture.  How about I tap out?"

"'I tap out'?  That's the best you can do?"

"When I'm this nervous, yes!"

"Then I suggest the word 'yellow,'" Zell says.

There is no mistaking the look in his eyes.  I know Zell has had a crush on me since he arrived – it's one of the reasons I trust him more than any of the others – but his disdain for the idea of a safe-word is obvious.  I feel utterly embarrassed as I accept the label of cowardice.  "'Yellow' it is, then."

Zell gestures towards the looming monster on its plinth.  "Shall we get started?"

I nod.

Here goes.  I feel sweat prickling along my hairline, down my spine.  My heart is pounding almost painfully.  My throat is suddenly dry.  I remind myself to remain objective, to absorb each little sensation – the fear, the near panic – and to remember it, so that I can exploit it when I have a witch to interrogate.  Knowledge is power, and when I understand the victim, I can break her so much more effectively.

With shaking fingers, I undo the silk tie of my gown, and let the garment slide like liquid from my shoulders.  It trails itself over my body as it falls away, and Zell's eyes automatically stray downwards; to the small swells of my breasts.  My cinnamon nipples react to the cold in the predictable way, stiffening and swelling so that they stand out embarrassingly.  Much to Zell's obvious delight.

He continues his scrutiny; following the line of my arms, my naked belly, the fluffy thatch of my pubic hair within the cradle of my hips, the soft muscularity of my legs.

"Wow," he says.  "Mistress, you are even more beautiful than I imagined!"

"Thank you."

"I will be an honour indeed to stretch you."

It takes every last ounce of courage not to run straight for the door.  Instead, I take Zell's hand as he guides me up onto the stone plinth, and makes me stand in place alongside the big wheel.  Its iron-studded curve brushes my shoulder blades icily.  Zell kneels at my feet, gathers up one of the manacles, and fits it around my ankle.

It is a long time since I have worn a shackle.  I am immediately reminded of its heaviness, the solid metal weighty and cold against my skin. Zell locks it shut, fastening it with a small padlock, and lets it drop; it rests against my ankle bone and the top of my foot.  He places the second shackle around my other ankle, locks it, checks the chains.

My feet are now secured to the wooden base.

Gently, Zell holds out his hand again for mine.  I take his hand gingerly, and he lifts my left wrist to the open manacle, which lies against the curve of the wheel.  He closes the thick, cold iron around my wrist and locks it, again with a small padlock.  He does the same with my right wrist, and as the padlock clicks shut, I feel a fresh prickle of sweat over my body.  With my arms slightly raised, I am now completely helpless, utterly in Zell's power.

I automatically grasp the chains that run upwards from the wrist manacles.  My toes curl and rub against the wood beneath them.  I am acutely conscious of my nakedness, my vulnerability.  I am aware of how fragile my flesh must seem, alongside the heavy mechanisms of the wheel rack.

Click - beep.

I lift my  head.  "Zell!  What are you doing?"

Zell looks at me over his digital camera, then glances again at its little screen as he lines up another shot.  "For posterity, Mistress.  Forgive me, I cannot resist!"  Another photo.

"Zell, stop that!"

Zell bows slightly.  "As you wish."  He tucks the camera into the folds of his robe, and instead steps up onto the plinth again, going to the wooden handle of the wheel rack.  He grasps the lever, but instead of turning it, simply agitates it back and forth slightly, drawing deep clanking sounds from the ratchet mechanism.  It sends a wave of anticipation through me, so intense that it seems to burn inside my belly.  My heart feels like a fluttering bird in my chest.  I move my hands a little, the chains knocking on the wood above my head.

"Tell me how you feel, Mistress Kirsten?"

"I'm okay."  I don't know what he wants to hear, but I find the question somehow humiliating.

            Zell pulls the lever.

            The wheel groans, creaks, and shifts, and I feel the chains draw on my wrists.  Another notch.  Then another.  Little by little, as the wheel rotates, my hands inch higher.  Click, click, click …  the anticipation deepens into a kind of dread as I begin to experience the slow, inexorable progress of the turning rack.   

            As my wrists are drawn upwards, they are also drawn backwards, following the curve of the wheel.  It arches me back, so that the cold iron studs dig uncomfortably into my back and shoulders.  My spine begins to extend, my breasts lifting, my belly hollowing, my armpits and ribcage exposed, and my sense of helplessness grows with my discomfort.

            "Wow … this is quite an experience," I say, trying to sound brave, as my manacled wrists creep up, above and behind my head.  The wheel continues to creak and groan as Zell cranks the handle without hurry.

            "What do you feel now, Mistress?"

            "Anticipation.  Vulnerability.  Fear."

            A fraction of an inch at a time, my arms are drawn to their full extent over my head.  My back arches more severely as my body follows the curve of the wheel, my shoulders, shoulder blades, lower back and now buttocks all pressed against the cruel iron studs, while my legs extend straight down.  With the next few notches, my heels rise off the platform, so that I am standing on the balls of my feet.  It is very uncomfortable, even the mere act of breathing causes the studs in my back to painfully press into my flesh.  The manacles are biting into my wrists.

            Zell stops winding the handle, and steps down from the stone plinth.  He takes out the camera again, lines up some careful shots.

            "With your permission, Mistress?"

            "Okay, fine," I concede.  I am no longer so concerned about the photos; it may be interesting to have such documentation of my session.  I am here, after all, to learn.

            Despite that knowledge, it is hard not to feel afraid.  A droplet of sweat slides down the arch of my ribcage from one underarm.  My whole body feels unnaturally strained already.  It is an effort even to lift my head.  My arms, although not truly stretched, are feeling the pressure of my body's weight.

            Zell finally says, "Mistress, upon the wheel rack, you look more beautiful than words can express.  It fills me with a desire that threatens to drive me insane."

            "Well just hang on to that sanity, eh?" I suggest in a shaky voice.  "I'm kind of relying on you for that."

            Zell says nothing more, but smiles, and returns to the lever.

            I close my eyes.

            The wheel shifts as he hauls on the lever, and on its studded rim, I am lifted a little further by my shackled wrists.  My body, curved backwards, stretches a little under the gentle urge of gravity; but I know there are much crueller forces waiting to act upon it.  Another notch, and I am on tiptoes.  My legs are at full stretch.  I can feel the muscles of my calves knotting with the strain.  The iron manacles seem to burn into my wrist bones, my hands tingling.

            Zell draws the lever again.  The wheel groans, and my toes clear the ground.  For the first time, I am half-suspended over the circumference of the wheel.  It draws a grunt from my throat.  The studs in my back and the iron on my wrists are painful, the arching of my back a considerable discomfort also.  Another notch, and with ease, the wheel lifts my body back-and-up on its arc.  I can feel the weight of the fetters and chains hanging off my ankles.  The position is seriously uncomfortable to the extent of being a battle to endure.

            I flex my toes, trying to reach the ground as Zell cranks the lever again.  I cannot touch it.  Looking down, I can only see my own naked chest, my breasts drawn almost flat into my ribcage, but my nipples jutting like fat berries into the air.  The curve of my body is such that I can see no further without lifting my head.

            Another notch, and I feel, for the first time, the tug of the manacles on my ankles.  It is only subtle, but enough to tell me that the chains have drawn taut.  My toes must be at least six inches off the ground.  The discomfort through my arched body is severe.

            "What is my beautiful Mistress feeling at this moment?" Zell asks, his hand waiting on the lever.

            "Some pain," I say.  My breath is short from the strain of my position.  "Fear, still.  And I feel exposed … very vulnerable …"

            "Your words fuel my desire so!" Zell sighs, and pulls on the lever.

            The rack begins its work.

            The manacles on my wrists haul my hands a fraction of an inch further, while the manacles and chains on my ankles hold my feet in place.  Tension translates all along my arms, my spine, and down my legs; the tension of a yoga stretch.

            "Ahh…"  It is only a forced release of breath from the awkwardness of my arched position, but it prompts Zell to take his hand from the lever.

            "I believe it is traditional at this point," he says, "to let the witch dwell on her pending agonies for a time?"

            "That would be right," I agree readily.  "But … we can skip that, okay?"

            Zell looks disappointed.  "Okay ..."  Instead, he takes out his camera again, and takes a dozen high-resolution shots.  Close-ups, full-body shots, from different angles and vantage points.  I am his helpless subject, arched over the wheel, locked in an instinctive battle against the strain, the pain of the iron studs in my flesh.

Zell finishes with his photos.  "Before we continue, Mistress, please just give me two minutes; I have to go to the bathroom."

            "Okay – but hurry back," I grunt.  "This is really uncomfortable!"

            The dungeon door thuds shut.  I hear the clunk of its bar sliding into place.

            Then, silence.  Utter and absolute.

            I am naked and cold, half-hanging across the curve of the wheel, shackled at wrists and ankles and mildly stretched.  And utterly, completely helpless.  The iron studs dig into my back, but I cannot move to relieve their painful pressure, nor can I ease the hot bite of iron on my wrists and ankles.  I can only endure.

           

            Minutes pass.  I do not have any way of gauging time, but I know it has been more than two.  It has been more than five.  And still no hint that Zell is returning.  The pain is growing worse as time passes and the cold gnaws into my body; I am fighting the urge to shiver, which would only make things worse.

            Minute after slow minute.

            I estimate ten minutes have passed when I begin to wonder if Zell will return.  Fuck, what if he doesn't?  I can't possibly get free – I know that already.  Even so, I tip my head back, an effort in itself, and look towards my own shackled wrists.  The heavy iron sits snugly around my wrists, locked shut with the padlocks.  I could not, in a thousand lifetimes, free myself.

            "Zell!" 

            My voice barely even reverberates in the dungeon enclosure, muted by the thick bedrock from which it is hewn.  I doubt that it would even be heard beyond the door; let alone along the narrow fifty-foot tunnel that leads to another heavy wooden door, beyond which is labyrinthine gloom of the Chateau's dungeons.  I could scream and yell, but I would never be heard.  Nobody but Zell knows I am here - and nobody ever comes in here by chance.

            "Ze-e-ell!!"

            Unexpectedly, panic arrives.  It is overwhelming.  My heart-rate surges.  The sweat bursts from every pore.  The adrenaline pounds and gives my muscles new strength; the pain of my strained position is immediately forgotten.  I begin thrashing as much as I can, which amounts to little more than tensing my arms, and waggling my feet slightly against the tension of the chains.  I twist and turn my hands in the manacles, reaching my fingers for the padlocks; I catch the lock on my left wrist-manacle between two fingers, but all I am able to do is tug at it feebly.

            So I grit my teeth and put even more effort into it.  Every last ounce of my strength, until my muscles are pronounced and hard with straining, my limbs shaking in the effort to pull myself free - even though I know, as a torturer myself, that I will not escape.  The iron studs bite and press into my flesh, only bringing more pain.

            I am helpless.

            The panic ebbs as quickly as it began, but it is replaced by anger.  Zell  has betrayed my trust - and there isn't a thing I can do about it, except wait for him to come back.  "Zell, you insubordinate shit!  I'll have your balls for this!" I snarl at the ceiling.  At the same time, I realise how pathetic that must sound, coming from a woman arched naked over a wheel rack.

            I brood and hold on to my anger for longer; maybe forty minutes.  Maybe more than an hour.  But even that eventually dissipates, until there is nothing left but the chill eating into my bones, the iron studs boring into my flesh, the shackles eating into my wrists and ankles, and the ache of fatigue eating into my muscles.

            I knew that pain would come.  I have observed it a hundred times in victims of the rack, and suspension.  But in my earlier panic and then anger, I had forgotten about it.  Now, though, more than an hour after Zell left me alone down here, it begins to gnaw at me.  My back is hurting.  Not just the flesh where the iron studs are digging.  But a deep pain in my spine, in the muscles of my shoulders and lower back.  In the tendons.  Being arched backwards for such a long time is an unnatural and forced position, and my body is feeling it.

            It is the same with my arms.  They ache.  The muscles, the joints, the tendons.  A dull, deep ache, as if there are bone-deep bruises.  Only my legs, stretching down towards the ankle manacles, are relatively free of pain.

            I have lost count of the minutes.  But it seems that at least another hour crawls by, and I remain secured on the wheel rack, helpless, and in silence.  Down here, it is cold; barely sixty degrees Fahrenheit, and the chill seems to eat into my helpless body.  My nipples stand hard on my flattened chest.  Goosebumps texture my bare skin.  My teeth start to chatter.  But I am helpless.

            Perhaps another hour passes.  Perhaps two  hours.  Perhaps only half an hour.

            I have no way of knowing.  It feels like an eternity.  I begin to feel detached from the real world, detached from my own identity.  Being like this, arched and naked on a device of torture, I am reminded that all I really have in this world is my own body.  And even that, even the temple of my flesh and blood, can be ripped apart.

            Time creeps.

            I am in a numb daze when I hear sounds.  A rattling at the dungeon door.  The bar is drawn, and I hear the door creak open.

            "How do you feel now, Mistress Kirsten?"  Zell enters, re-locking the door behind him, then stepping up onto the plinth.  "You look cold," he says, noting my chattering teeth, my bullet-hard nipples. 

            "You left me alone," I shiver in a weak voice.  "Why did you do that?"

            "Forgive me, Mistress.  I simply mean to make your experience authentic."

            "Take me off, now, Zell.  Please."  Fatigue and pain have drained my tolerance for this experiment completely, and all I want is to get out of here.

            "No, Mistress."

            Zell looks straight into my eyes.  I look into his.  There is absolute seriousness in his tone.  Is he playing the game?  Or is this for real?  I am suddenly more scared than I have ever been.  There is only one way to find out: to say the safe-word.  But to do that would be to end the experience now, even before the rack had truly started to turn, and it would defeat the very purpose of this exercise.

            His words are not a denial, they are a challenge.  I turn my face from his.

            "Then do what you must," I say.

            Zell moves to the lever of the wheel rack.  I have already tested my restraints many times, and I know myself truly helpless, but my heart quickens with an impulse to try and escape as he grasps its stout wood.

            "Confess that you are a witch," Zell says.

            "I am not," I say.

            Zell pulls the lever.  The mechanism of the rack groans, the wheel shifts, and as my body is wrenched upwards, my legs feel the stretch most, as they pull against the ankle manacles.  He finds another notch, and with the wheel's next shift, I feel a hot, burning pain deep in my hips, mirrored by pain in my lower back.

            I feel my head move suddenly with the sharpness of pain.  "Oh, that hurts!"

            "How much?"

            "Like a strong cramp."

            "Not bad!"  Zell seems impressed.  "So, do you confess?"

            "Not yet, Zell -" I warn, and he turns the rack again.

            I am stretched, and a fiery pain fills my hips and lower back, and seems to spread up my spine.  I feel it in my shoulders, now, too; quickly overshadowing the pain of the manacles and the iron studs that dig into my flesh.  The pain of being stretched is far more intense, like fire along my bones.

            "Ohh!!  Zell!" I gasp.  "I meant 'don't turn it yet!'  I was trying to - uhh - adjust to the pain!"

            "I understand, Mistress," Zell says, and cranks me another notch.  The wheel creaks, but I also hear my own spine pop, and hot pain flashes along my back, down through my legs.  It seems to tear up through my shoulders, too, and I give an involuntary groan.

            "Zell, please, stop, stop for a moment!  God, it really hurts now!"

            "So you confess?"

            "Seriously, Zell, it hurts!"  I can feel my body's response to pain, now; sudden profuse sweat all over my bare skin.  I feel hot, even in the dungeon's chill.  The pain is intense, fiery, worse than I had expected it would be this early into a racking.  "Oh, shit … that's bad …"  My breathing is shallow, my ribcage already expanded by the arching of my back, and I can feel my pounding heart thumping against my spine.

            "Confess!"

            "No - Zell, no!" I shout, but he pulls the lever anyway.  As the wheel moves, my wrists are dragged a fraction of an inch further, my ankles remain anchored, and my body is stretched.  New pain fills my hips, spreads up my back, breathtakingly huge.  I feel my eyes widen, and I give an involuntary groan.  Quickly, there comes an intense agony in my arms, too, seeming to spread from my armpits up to my elbows, hot pain as if a scalpel has sliced along the bone.

            "Oh Jesus, Zell!  Fuck!  This is really, really painful!" I squeal.  "Ahh, shit!!"  I start to shake my head.  "No, I've had enough.  Enough!  Yellow!"  I can feel droplets of sweat running down my face, beading up on my drawn breasts and my taut belly. 

            Zell lets go of the handle, but leaves the rack secured.

"Zell!  What are you doing?"  As I remain arched and in pain, he walks around me.  The digital camera is out again; he is snapping off shots.  I try to follow his movements, but the roar of pain is too distracting.  There is no longer any question of being objective or detached from this experiment.  It hurts too much.  "Zell, come on!"

            "But Mistress, it has only started!" he says.  "I would be so disappointed if you gave in so quickly!"

            "I  am giving in, Zell!  Yellow!  Please, let me go!"

            "How can it be an authentic experience if you control it so easily?  When the going gets tough, you just give up!"

            "That's because it really hurts!" I snap.  "Let me go now!"

            "I think we should talk about that," Zell says.

            "What?"  I am incredulous.  "For fuck's sake, Zell!"

            He is returning to the lever.  I suddenly find myself gibbering.  "Zell - no, no, don't touch that, don't you dare, don't do it Zell -"

            He cranks the lever. 

            The wheel groans around, and my body is stretched.  As the pain flares brutally down through my legs, up my spine, up through my arms, it is liberating just to let out a shriek of pain, although I am able to stifle it quickly. 

            "Why are you always so cold to me, Mistress?" Zell suddenly asks.

            "What?"  For a moment I can't comprehend the question.   I can feel the sweat running off me, now.

            "I try so hard to please you – but you treat me like all your other minions!"

            "Zell!  Shit – please – what are you saying?!"

            "I think it's time you did something for me," Zell explains calmly.  "First, I want to be promoted to 'Torturer.'  I want to conduct my own interrogations."

            "You have to be kidding!" I manage to say.  "Why - aahh!! - why would I do that?"

"Why?  Because of this," Zell says.  Another notch of the rack, and my scream is high and frantic, my mouth wide, as the fire intensifies along my limbs.  I hear my joints crack in succession, a creaking from my tearing spine.

"Oh God!!  Zell!!  Aaah!!"

"Second, I want to be Tina deDance's executioner."

            "We'll talk about it!" I squeal.  "Okay?  We can talk about it!"

            "We are talking about it," Zell says.  "All you have to do is say 'yes.'"

            "Zell, please, please, I can't stand the pain," I babble out.  The sweat is stinging my eyes, so that I can barely see.

"Third, I want to see Tina get publicly tortured before her execution.  Maybe get Kelley or someone to do it."

I say desperately, "Zell, we can discuss it, please, just loosen the rack!"

            "Please, Mistress, let's discuss it now," Zell insists, and, to my utter disbelief, he cranks the lever again.  Raw and terrible agony explodes along my legs and arms, and it feels as if my abdominal muscles are tearing, my spine breaking apart.  I am not even aware of screaming for the first several seconds; it is a completely involuntary reaction to the pain: I am making woooaaah - woooo - ooooh - aaaahh noises at the top of my lungs.

            When at last I can contain my screaming, the tears flood from my eyes, spilling down my cheeks.

            "Oh God, Zell, please, please stop," I sob.  "I'm begging you, now!"

            Without hurry, he steps from the lever and stands close to my wrenched body.  Even stretched back over the wheel, with my toes high off the ground, his face is level with mine.

            "Oh, Mistress Kirsten, you look so beautiful, suffering like this.  I wish it would never end!"

            "Aahhh … " is all I can say.

            "Shall I repeat my demands?"

            I realise I am in no position at all to deny him. "Zell, ple-e-e-ase," I wail.

"So beautiful."  He puts his hand to my solar plexus.  Stretched this taut, I can barely breathe, only my drum-tight belly shifting with desperate little fish-gasps of air.    He trails his fingers up over my ribcage - bump-bump-bump over each rib - then the slight swell of my breast.  His palm brushes the hard pencil-eraser of my nipple, but I am unable to flinch from his touch.

Finally, he leans in until his nose is almost touching the taut, pale bed of my sweat-shining  armpit.  He inhales the scent of my suffering; then licks slowly along the taut ravine of straining tendon and muscle.  His eyes close as he savours the taste.   "Oh, Mistress!  The sweat of your torment is sweet indeed!"

I feel utterly humiliated; but it is nothing compared to the agony in my stretched body.  "Please, Zell, just loosen it a little," I sob.

"Why do you deny me, Mistress?" he whines.  "You know, you leave me no choice."

As he steps back to the lever, fresh terror hits me.  "Zell!  No!  No!"

But I can't stop him; the cogs turn, and the big wheel shifts slightly with a sailing-ship creak.  The hot, tearing agony that explodes all along my limbs and torso is incredible, intense, overwhelming, and this time I can't stop my screams.

When I don't have enough breath, I simply groan in agony.  I am sure my back is about to break.  My hips feel as if they are being ripped apart, my shoulders likewise.  The ravaging agony is so intense that I can't even feel the manacles on my wrists and ankles any more.

"Okay!" I manage to squeal.  "You win!  Anything you want!"

"You will promote me to Torturer?"

"Yes!"

"You will let me be Tina's hangman?"

"Yes!"

"And you will have her publicly tortured?"

"Yes!"

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Zell asks smugly.

I can barely speak.  "Please - Zell, please - loosen it, you promised … oh God, I can't stand it … it hurts so much …!"

"Tell me, Mistress.  Tell me how it feels."  Through eyes swimming in tears of pain I see Zell's blurred shape move away from the lever, and I give a wail of horror, knowing that he isn't going to ease my agony yet.  Instead, he snaps more photos.  "What thoughts are going through your wonderful mind?"

"Oh God, Zell, I don't know, I can't think, please, you're killing me!"

"Tell me how much you want me," Zell says.

What?   I can't believe what I am hearing.   "Zell …"  

He returns to the lever, grasps it, and hauls another notch.  It seems impossible that I could be stretched any further without being torn apart; but the wheel shifts, and I stretch.  The agony is doubled and I am screaming dementedly.  An instant later, there is a crack! from my left shoulder and my whole arm feels as if it has been electrocuted.  Then, a feeling like a red hot spike driven directly into my shoulder joint, and the pain is so severe that my breath is stolen from me.  I simply lie, arched over the wheel, gasping at the ceiling.

A moment later, a softer pop and my right shoulder dislocates.  The pain is a thousand times worse than anything yet, and I can feel my eyes bulging in agony.  It is a few more seconds before I am able to fill my lungs and start screaming.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!"  My own voice echoes off the walls of the small dungeon.  My own mindless, wordless agony.  Zell pulls the lever again and the wheel turns, further drawing my shoulder joints apart, the tendons and ligaments straining, pain beyond belief.  There are tears streaming down my cheeks, sweat rolling off my ribcage and belly.  I finally manage to howl, "stop, Zell, please, stop, stop, I'll do anything you ask, anything at all!"

"Surrender to your feelings.  Say you will make love to me," he says.

 This time I don't even hesitate.  "Yes!  Yes, I'll do it with you, Zell!  Please - aaaahh it hurts, you're killing me!!"

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" Zell is suddenly asking.  "What if you're just saying what I want to hear?"

"Zell I swear, I swear, I'll do anything you ask, I'll suck you, you can fuck me in the ass, anything, oh God, just end the pain!!"

"Oh, Mistress Kirsten!  That sounds like an offer I can't refuse," Zell bubbles happily.  Stepping from the lever once again, he pushes my saturated hair back from my brow.  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do.  I'm going to write up an agreement for you to sign.  I'll loosen you from the rack and unchain one arm so you can sign it - okay?"

"Yes!"  Even speaking seems to send shock waves of pain through my limbs.  I try to lift my head, try to blink the tears and sweat from my eyes, but I am still half-blind, still in agony beyond endurance.

"Tell me who is your master."

"You are, Zell," I gasp.  "You are my master!"

"Now kiss me."

Even in such extreme agony, I can't believe the humiliation he is putting me through.  But I cannot deny him a single thing.  I give a frantic nod.  He puts his mouth to mine, and I battle the agony that tears every fibre of my racked body to kiss him.  I slide my tongue into his mouth, suck on his lip, let him know that if only he eases my agony I will reward him so very well.

When the kiss is over, Zell has a satisfied look on his face.  "Thank you, Mistress Kirsten."

He returns, at last, to the lever, and finally begins to ease the tension on my body.  But even as the wheel inches forward again, the shifting of my joints, the contracting of muscles, is pain itself, and I shriek and gasp.

It has to be done a fraction at a time.

Stretched so taut, but also held so perfectly in place, my disjointed shoulders all but reset themselves; it only takes a small push from Zell and each one clicks back into its socket, bringing relief that is almost orgasmic.  My arms seem to buzz as if electricity tingles all through them.

He locks the wheel again when my heels touch the ground, but leaves me with arms shackled over my head, half-hanging off the curve of the wheel, still locked in padlocked fetters and helpless, while he snaps the last few photos and goes off to prepare the agreement.

 

 

I, Kirsten Smart, declare the following:

That Dungeon Assistant Zell has demonstrated extraordinary skill in the torture chamber, and will hereby be promoted to Torturer, so that he may carry full responsibility for interrogations.

That, by way of acknowledging this promotion, he also be named honorary Executioner,  tasked with carrying out the sentence of Tina deDance.

On the strength of his advice, I will also have Tina tortured publicly before her execution, as an added entertainment to those who have come to watch.

Furthermore, I have decided to offer a more personal show of my appreciation; a night spent in my private quarters, during which I will willingly and gladly grant Zell any pleasure he may want from me.

I affirm that these decisions are of my own volition, and that should I renege in any way, I authorise Austin, Steve, and any other representative, to be chosen by Zell, to participate in my public racking as punishment, to a degree determined by Zell alone.

 

Kirsten Smart

 

            He reads it aloud to me slowly, while I remain hanging in a painful arch over the torture wheel.

            "Will you sign?"

            "Yes," I say.  My voice is heavy with resignation; I know that to refuse will only prompt Zell to begin turning the rack again, until unbearable agony forces me to concede to anything he may ask.  And next time I may not escape so lightly.

            Producing a key from beneath his robes, Zell reaches up and unlocks the padlock from my right shackle, then presents me with the declaration, fastened to a clipboard.  Bringing my arm down, it feels as if my shoulder joint has been packed with broken glass.  It is almost more than I can bear; I have barely any strength.  I manage to rest my hand on the clipboard while Zell slips a pen between my fingers.  Weakly, I scratch out my signature at the bottom of the page.

            Zell smiles.  "Thank you, Mistress Kirsten.  Now, let's get you back to your quarters … and get some ice on those aching joints."

Kirsten Smart

18 October 2004