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Message-ID: <47540asstr$1082405405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Manya Starr <starrcomments@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Torture Slave [NC-17, Fdom/M, torture, cbt, slavery, toys, anal, enema, SciFi]
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Date: Mon, 19 Apr 2004 16:10:05 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Torture Slave- Tort.1.doc" begin>

Disclaimer: If you got this far you should know the drill
already, but here it is anyway: This is a work of fiction. It
should not be taken as a guide for your real life activities and
I take no responsibility for your actions.

Written by Manya Starr. All rights protected under the Berne
Convention, all similarity to persons living or dead is solely
coincidental and unintentional.
***
The Torture Slave -- Torture One
NC-17, Fdom/M, torture, cbt, slavery, toys, anal, enema, SciFi
---
The covers of Salas's large, comfortable bed felt cool against
his naked, hairless body. Shortly before, he had been watching
some program on the holo, but he couldn't quite recall what it
was any more. Mistress was likely to get home soon. The thought
made his stomach turn in fear and thus he was trying to relax.
While he could not be certain she would demand his services
today, he always preferred to be found waiting.

It had been a while since the Mistress had chosen him last. He
had to expect it would be his turn next. After all, the two other
slaves who shared his fate had both been serving in the meantime.
There was no point in fearing it, for it was as inevitable as the
arrival of the next morning. Best not to think of it at all...

His gaze wandered around the windowless room. Panels in the
ceiling shed a bright, warm light. His was a large, comfortable
place. The main room was at once his living room and the bedroom.
One of the three doors this room had led to a separated bathroom,
the other to the gym. He even had his own Network link -- limited
to receiving only slave-approved channels, of course, but still
something most slaves could never expect to have. The room was
missing only one thing: clothing. He had not a single piece of
clothing in the whole place, nor a closet or a drawer for him to
put some in.

The signal from the door, even though expected, made him jerk and
sit up. The person on the other side entered seconds later, not
waiting for permission. After all, he was a free man entering
slave's quarters. Salas immediately recognized Rastan, 'his'
guard who had taken care of him since he had arrived. The man
looked worried, even scared.

"She is in a really bad mood today," he said. "I fear the worst.
She's having her dinner right now, but we'd better hurry."

Salas's stomach lurched. Mistress had been quite irritated during
the last few Halian idens, and now the tension seemed to have
reached its peak. He had to fend off the urge to flee and hide, a
ridiculous thought considering that he had nowhere to run, as he
got off the bed and left the room, escorted by his guard. But his
nature and training did not permit him to disobey.

They met a few other members of the household on their way. Free
people looked at him with unease; they knew what was ahead of him
and tried not to think about it. And the slaves blushed, averting
their eyes from his naked body. Sometimes, when Salas was not too
worried about his service, he found it amusing how shy these
slaves were. But tonight, his mind was on his fate, should the
Mistress choose him this time. The fear made him actually dizzy
and he stumbled occasionally. Each time,  Rastan looked at him
with a strange mixture of worry and hope. If Salas were truly
sick, not just sick with fear, the house medic could forbid his
use for tonight. But Salas always managed to recover on his own.
He was dying of fear yes, yet he was the last one who would deny
himself to the Mistress.

Finally they arrived at the door of the ready-room which was
their destination. Up until this point, Salas had managed to
maintain a illusion of courage, but now, so close to his doom, he
was beginning to break. His stomach tightened and he convulsed,
almost throwing up. Rastan half-led, half-carried him inside. He
knew about Salas's reactions; thus, he never brought him dinner
before it was certain there would be no torture for Salas that
day. 

There was no furniture, only three lengths of chain hanging from
the ceiling, with heavy-duty handcuffs at their ends. The other
two slaves and their guards had arrived before them and the
slaves were already on their places, but the chains were still
low. Salas knew very little about the other two. In the year
since he arrived here, he had never exchanged a single word with
them. They had always ignored him completely and didn't even look
at him now either. The one time he tried to talk with Rastan
about them, Rastan's  reaction made him decide to never bring the
subject up again. He didn't even know their names, and they had
never met outside this room. There was no reason for the torture
slaves to ever leave their quarters except for the service. They
were both sturdy-looking guys and actually seemed like they
should be able to stand a lot more abuse than Salas. But it was
always his body that had to endure the worst of the Mistress's
rages.

Rastan gently but firmly led Salas to his place between the other
two slaves, then closed the cuffs around his wrists. Those cuffs
were anatomically formed and quite well padded with some soft,
durable, sweat absorbing synthetic material. They were made to
protect his wrists somewhat, for torture slaves sometimes spent
long hours or even days here, hanging from their chains.

Rastan was trying to encourage him, but his words barely
registered in Salas's mind. He was fighting a losing battle with
his fear, for both other slaves were showing visible traces of
their recent service. There were whip marks, welts and blue spots
all over their bodies, but mostly on their backs. Here and there
a patch of healthy skin in the middle of the bruises indicated a
cut that had been quick-healed with a regenerating salve.
Mistress had used them both a few times during the last month,
but not Salas. It had really been a long time since she had
chosen him last.

She wouldn't choose him often, usually only when she had a
particularly bad torture in mind. But with the other two in such
bad shape, Mistress could hardly pass him over again. The salves
weren't as dangerous in frequent usage as injected regenerators,
but any medic would strongly oppose using them more than once
within a month's time.

All too soon, the guards had to leave, warned by a brief flash of
the ceiling lights. They used their remote controls to lift the
chains, pulling the slaves' hands upwards, before withdrawing
from the room. They left them standing with their hands high
above their heads, although not too high for them to stand firmly
on their feet.

Even though Salas tried not to, he couldn't help but think of
what was awaiting him. Sometimes just the sight of the three
slaves would be enough to calm the Mistress and she would leave
again without hurting any one. At other times she would hit or
whip them right here, dividing her rage among all three. But when
she was in a properly bad mood, she would choose one of them and
take him with her through the door to their right. Salas knew it
would be stupid to hope for anything but the worst this evening.

Behind that door was her torture room and once inside, the slave
remained there until the rage of the Mistress was finally spent.
Again, there was no way of telling how long this might take.
Sometimes an hour or two would be enough; at other times, it took
the whole night; but it could also take days, filled with agony
and despair. Anything could happen in the torture room, even a
death -- although, to Salas's knowledge, that had not happened
yet.

All the while, the other two slaves remained in the ready-room,
just in case the chosen slave would prove unable to fully satisfy
the Mistress and faint. On rare occasions, they would have to
stay there for a day or even longer. In such cases the guards
would bring them some food and water and have a deeply blushing
slave bring them the chamber pots. There was little else the
guards could do for their charges. They could release the slaves
for a while, but never stayed for long. And when the guards were
not with them, the torture-slaves had to be in their proper
waiting position.

They all waited in silence, doing their meager best to suppress
their fear. They all flinched when the door in front of them
opened and the Mistress at last entered the room. Salas
immediately saw the rage in her eyes and knew this was going to
be a hard service.

Mistress was not a beautiful woman; in fact she could hardly even
be considered pretty. She always wore her copper-brown hair in a
short military cut, and her sharp jawline gave her a hard,
aggressive appearance. Her strong-boned and muscular build made
her appear somewhat squat and heavy, even though she was of
average height and only a head shorter than Salas. He knew she
was an important top-level politician, but with her well-trained
muscles and sturdy build she would better fit the role of a
soldier or a mercenary than a high-ranking politician. Even her
clothes, those Salas had seen her in, were of a practical
military type and not the sort high society members would wear in
public. At least not in the holo dramas he had seen. 

Mistress glanced briefly over the three bodies displayed for her.
She wasted no time choosing, but immediately buckled a wide
collar around Salas's throat, attached the leash to it and
unhooked his hands from the chain, while leaving the cuffs on. He
followed her obediently as she led him through the door. Well
inside the room, she jerked the leash, indicating he should stop,
and unhooked it from his collar. He knew the torture room better
than he ever wanted; thus he didn't waste time looking around.
But he instantly became aware of the familiar feel of the floor
under his bare feet. The white plastic-like floor covering was
less cold to stand upon than the flooring in the ready-room. The
material was easy to clean and held no stains. It also took some
hardness away from the floor -- for which Salas was grateful
every time his tortured body was made to hit the ground,
sometimes *very* hard. 

His eyes were on the Mistress, in vain hope that perfect
obedience might spare him some suffering.

"Put it on." she snarled, making him twitch, but his eyes 
followed her hand pointing at the floor. 

A spreader bar was lying in front of his feet, so he guessed this
was what she meant and that he was supposed to place it on his
legs. He quickly bent over to fulfill the order while the
Mistress retrieved a second bar.

The adjustable bar was as short as it could get, but his hands
were still bound and a short chain was already attached to the
ring at the middle of the bar, locking it to the floor. Thus it
took him some effort before he managed to secure his ankles in
its cuffs.

Finally done, Salas straightened up again, looking at the
Mistress for further orders. She silently attached the second bar
to his wrist cuffs. She spread the hand bar as far as it would
go, forcing his arms wide, and used her remote to lower a chain
from the ceiling. She hooked the chain to the ring in the middle
of the bar. The next moment, the chain pulled Salas's hands
upwards. It didn't stop until he was stretched quite
uncomfortably. When Mistress spread his leg bar as well, his
wrists carried nearly half of his weight while he was balancing
on the balls of his feet.

Spreader bars were an unusual way of restraining a slave for
torture. Salas was completely helpless, but not as motionless as
he would have been in the whipping frame. With the bars, he could
twist, even turn, making his suffering better visible for his
Mistress. This could only be a bad sign. It meant that simply
dealing out the torture wouldn't be enough for her today, that
she wanted to enjoy his pain in full. Salas's guts tightened anew
at this thought.

She had retrieved a plain, long, but rather rigid crop. It was
made of thin metallic wires tightly woven around a lightweight
core. It would not simply cut the skin but actually rip it with
even a moderate stroke. She had used this one on him once before.
It wasn't easy to watch it tear the skin of his chest . . . and
belly . . . and inner thighs, while desperately clenching his
teeth around a piece of thick rubber cord because allowing it to
fall would bring him an even worse torture.

Stepping behind Salas, she landed her first hit across his
shoulder blades, making him yelp in pain. Countless blows
followed this first one, hitting his upper back and shoulders,
the crop leaving burning marks wherever it struck. Salas gasped
with each strike, sometimes even yelped, while doing his best to
hold as still as possible. Mistress was very skilled, but even
she could misplace a strike on a moving target.

The crop had surely torn into his skin, drawing blood
immediately, but Mistress continued the torture with no mercy.
His yelps were getting louder with each strike, turning into
cries, while he was finding it harder and harder to keep his
weight off his wrists. Eventually he lost his hold and was
suddenly hanging freely, while he struggled to make his legs
support him again.

Mistress stopped her strikes the moment Salas's legs failed him.
She remained silent, letting him struggle for a few moments and
then lowered the chain just a small bit, enough to let Salas
regain his footing.

He had only a little time to recover from this introductory
ordeal while she retrieved an examination glove and a tube of
lubricant. Salas watched her worriedly while his heart sank even
deeper. It would not be the first time that the torture had
turned sexual, but it was this type of torture he disliked most
of all. Among other reasons, because it tended to haunt him in
the moments of his self-pleasuring, killing his desire.

Mistress placed a ridiculously small dab of lubricant on the
middle finger of her gloved left hand. Her grin was a mixture of
malice and excitement as she approached Salas  from the side and
slid her gloved hand between his ass cheeks.

"You're going to like this, aren't you?" she said as she began to
tease him around his hole.

Salas clenched his teeth; yes, he did like to pleasure himself
back there. He could get his release either by rubbing his cock
or by massaging the pleasure spot inside his ass with the dildo
Rastan had brought him soon after he had arrived at this place.
In fact, he more often did it in this way than by the more
'normal' way of male self-pleasure. That the Mistress would use
his preferred pleasure for torture was yet another sign that this
service was likely going to be one of the worst in his life.

His back was still throbbing with pain, but when Mistress finally
pushed her finger past his muscle ring, Salas gasped, both from
discomfort and anticipation of pleasure. 

Mistress proceeded slowly. Lacking proper lubrication, the rubber
of the glove tended to stick to the rim of his hole. Mostly the
sensation remained just below his pain line, only occasionally
turning into real pain. Had he been using the genital treatment
salve regularly, the way he had when he was still a sex slave,
the lack of lubrication wouldn't matter . . . that much. Compared
to the agony of his beaten back however, this new pain was merely
uncomfortable. Salas kept still, uncertain what to make of this.
Would she simply work on his anus or go deeper still? Would she
stretch him impossibly wide, maybe even force her whole hand into
him? Salas shuddered at the thought. Fisting without proper
lubrication was bound to be painful, even damaging for his ass.
He knew fisting was something a fully-trained sex-slave should be
able to endure, but *his* training had never proceeded that far.
The only time he had experienced a fist in his ass was during a
punishment session, and that memory was . . . bad.

Then Mistress reached his sweet spot and Salas moaned in
surprise. He was only used to receiving pain from her hands; it
felt strange to receive any other feeling from her. He tried to
resist the urge to move with the feeling, fearing that the
pleasure would turn into pain at any moment. Sex slaves were
trained to never give in to their arousal, but this was a demand
Salas had always found hard to fulfill. He had not mastered that
lesson before he got sold.

Against his will, Salas started to move his hips, slightly at
first but more forcefully with every moment, trying to get more.
And the more he pushed, the more Mistress retreated, giving him
only a light stimulation. Salas was soon groaning in frustration,
completely forgetting about the pain of his back. Mistress only
teased him, rather than truly working his pleasure spot, but even
this teasing made his cock stiffen and rise. When it was standing
fully erect, pointing horizontally away from him, Mistress
reached for it with her other hand and tested its stiffness. To
Salas's surprise, she intensified the stimulation slightly. He
gasped and moaned as she worked him higher and higher, the slow
build-up making his desire impossibly strong.

Finally his cock felt like it was about to burst and Salas knew
the moment of release was close at hand. Already a drop of
precome had emerged at the tip when suddenly Mistress pulled her
hand out of his ass, the rubber of her glove sticking painfully
to the insides and the rim of his hole. Not that the pain
mattered, the only thing that mattered at this moment was his
frustration with the denial of his pleasure. He yelled out in
anger, forgetting for a moment what he was and who she was.
Tensing all his muscles, he kept rocking his hips back and forth,
as if trying to find something, anything to rub himself against.
He groaned and would probably curse if he only knew how. It took
him almost a minute before he was again able to register his
surroundings.

Mistress was standing right in front of him, grinning widely with
a malicious glee in her eyes.

"You didn't really believe I would let you come, did you?" she
asked, then looked down at his cock. "All I wanted was for this
part of you to get up," she made a dramatic pause there, "so I
can beat it down again!"

Salas gasped at those words. He *should* have expected something
like that; still, hearing this was like being hit over the head
-- hard.

Chuckling to herself, Mistress went to retrieve the appropriate
tool for her intent from one of the shelves. Meanwhile, Salas
struggled to overcome the reality shock. It was stupid of him to
believe in nice treatment from his Mistress. After all, his
service was to endure her violence.

Mistress soon returned, holding a short singletail. It wasn't
braided but was just a single narrow strip of natural leather.
She made it wrap itself around her wrist, then pulled it off
again, leaving a faint red line where the strap had been drawn
over the skin.

"Soft and supple," she said. "It will wrap itself nicely and burn
the skin when I pull it back."

She sneered openly at Salas's dismayed expression as she pulled
her arm back for the first strike, while Salas tried to steel
himself against the coming pain. The strike by itself didn't hurt
much, but when pulled back, the strip slid across the sensitive
skin of his cock, making him scream out in pain. The whip tugged
slightly at the cock, but wasn't wrapped tight enough to really
pull on it.

Mistress gave him a few seconds to regain his breath before
striking again. This time the strike itself was strong enough to
make Salas scream. The whip wrapped itself tightly around his
cock. The next moment Mistress pulled it back with all her
strength. For a moment, Salas feared she would actually rip his
cock off, and screamed out in pain and terror. But the whip
unwrapped itself a moment later and he felt the sensitive skin of
his cock being burned and stretched to its limit as the leather
strip slid over it. He started to jerk wildly at his bonds, pain
and fear clouding his mind.

Mistress waited patiently for him to come back to his senses, for
torturing a senseless victim was only half as satisfying. After a
minute or two, Salas quieted down to a tense shiver. The terror
still tightened his throat as he saw his cock still half-erected,
but he forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. He closed his
eyes when Mistress pulled her arm back again to continue the
torture, trying to make himself endure the pain and fear. With
each strike that followed, he found it harder and harder to
retain his sanity. The pain and fear made him sweat and drove
tears to his tightly closed eyes.

He started to hope that, for once, he would faint *during* the
service. There were certain rules of conduct when it came to
torture. One was that the torturer should avoid drawing blood or
causing serious injury, and another was to end the torture if the
victim fainted. Sometimes, like this time, Mistress chose to
ignore the former rule, but she had never broken the latter. In
such a case she would go back to the ready-room and retrieve a
second slave for further torture. This happened only rarely; but
to provide for it, the other two slaves had to remain there until
Mistress decided she was satisfied.

Finally Salas couldn't hold out any longer and opened his eyes,
his head hanging low. He could see his cock smeared with blood
from numerous little wounds the whip had torn into its delicate
skin. The sight overwhelmed him with panic and sent him into
another fit of wild jerking and pulling at his bonds. It lasted a
long time and left him exhausted, hanging in his bonds. Luckily
his cock had completely deflated by then. Accepting this,
Mistress left him and returned her whip to its place.

Salas looked at her exhaustedly. His face betrayed his hope this
service might be at its end. It didn't occur to him to think that
Mistress might be demanding too much of him, but he feared he
might prove unable to serve her much more. He was still panting
as she took out her remote and brought his hands lower so she
could unhook the chain that was holding him up. Salas had a hard
time staying upright, but somehow he managed to remain standing
until Mistress commanded him to his knees. He struggled with the
realization his ordeal was not over yet, but he obeyed without
hesitation. He had received some strict training in the past.
Besides, he could hardly stand anyway.

Mistress allowed him just a few moments of rest. Then she simply
pressed upon his beaten shoulders, making him get down on his
hands and knees. She pulled the bar between his hands slowly
forward and when she finally locked it to a ring in the floor,
Salas was holding himself up on his muscles alone. Too exhausted
to even consider remaining upright, he let himself collapse to
the floor.

Mistress of course, was not willing to tolerate this. She jabbed
a foot into his ribs, snarling: "Up, slave! I'm not finished with
you yet!"

Salas lifted himself up again with considerable effort as he felt
Mistress attaching a chain to his collar. Was it to hold him up,
or rather to threaten to choke him should he dare to let himself
back down?

Mistress then retrieved the crop she had been using and
positioned herself just in front of Salas. Noting his look of
disbelief, she chuckled again.

"You think you're having a hard time keeping yourself up right
now? Well, I am going to make it even harder!"

With her last word, she landed the first strike upon his left
upper arm. In a fluid motion she brought the crop back up and
then down again at his right arm. Salas jerked his head away, an
unnecessary reflex, for her aim was always exact. Still, he
couldn't help himself doing it, with the crop hitting his arms
mere millimeters from his face. Descending on each of his arms in
turn, the strikes tore the skin, making his blood trickle from
the wounds in many little streams.

It was impossible to endure this for long. He had no hope of
fainting, for the pain was not that strong, but he simply wasn't
able to keep himself up in this way. It was experience gathered
in previous sessions that made him consciously place some more
weight on the collar around his throat. The collar was wide
enough that it wasn't likely to strangle him quickly. But the
pressure on his throat made him cough, which was what he
intended.

Mistress didn't react to it immediately, but she did stop hitting
his arms after just a few more strikes. Frowning, she unhooked
Salas from the chain, letting him collapse on the floor again.
She even granted him a few precious moments of rest while she got
herself a glass of water.

All too soon she came back and, with no warning, slashed her crop
across Salas's lower back.

"Get that ass UP!" she growled. The next moment, the tip of the
crop cut the skin between his shoulder blades as he tried to
struggle back to his hands and knees. This was enough to let him
understand she only wanted his back side up, while permitting him
to keep his head resting on the floor.

He could hear her taking up position to his side where she had a
comfortable aim at his ass. The next moment, the first strike
landed across his cheeks, cutting viciously into the soft flesh.
Again and again the crop descended on him. Salas didn't bother to
fight against the pain but screamed and wailed freely, concerning
himself only with keeping his ass up. After what seemed an
eternity of pain, the flogging stopped for a moment as Mistress
changed sides, but then continued with renewed ferocity. Salas
*knew* the blood must be trickling down his legs now, gathering
in small puddles beneath him. At some point, he started to wonder
whether he was supposed to survive this night.

Finally he just couldn't keep himself up any longer and collapsed
back on the floor. He could hear the crop swish downwards in its
last strike, but it didn't hit him, Mistress being too skilled to
let it land somewhere she didn't intend it to. He expected
another painful reinforcement of her previous order, but nothing
came for a while. Instead, Mistress had walked away from him to
the other part of the room, and Salas figured she was getting
herself another drink. His mouth and throat were also dry from
all the screaming, but there was of course no water for him.

When she returned, she wordlessly flicked his lower back with her
crop again and Salas struggled to bring his ass back up. The few
moments of rest had given him the strength to do this, but he
knew he wouldn't be able to remain there for long.

Mistress now took position right behind him and Salas immediately
became even more terrified, for he could not imagine what torture
she was planning for him now. Then the crop descended on him,
finding its way between his ass cheeks, and he screamed out in
pain again.

He could actually feel the blood seeping down his crack after
only the first strike. In between the waves of terrible pain, a
vague feeling rose in him, the feeling that something was amiss.
He couldn't really think, given the horrible agony he was in, but
somehow he *knew* this was not consistent with the usual pattern
of his service. 

The beating stopped after only a few strikes. Moments later he
felt something hard, cold and fearsomely thick slide between his
ass cheeks. His breath stopped as he recognized the nature of the
item. It was a dildo, maybe even a vibrator, but of enormous
proportions. He whimpered, dangerously close to begging for
mercy. Luckily the fear had taken his breath away, giving him
just the few moments he needed to regain his mind. At best,
pleading would gain him nothing, but in most cases it made things
even worse. It was a fact that he couldn't accept that piece
without hurting, but there was no point in challenging an even
worse fate.

Mistress kept sliding the dildo up and down his crack for a
while. First the tip, pressing it playfully against his hole in
passing, making Salas gasp with realization that it was a at
least as big as a fist. Then she let the whole length of the
thing slide between his ass cheeks and Salas got the impression
it had to be almost as long as his forearm.

Eventually she started to press its head against his hole for
real. Salas knew his only option was to open himself and allow it
in with the least possible resistance. But to open the ass for
such an entry was a skill that took a lot of training, training
Salas had not received.

Finally tired of waiting for him to open properly, Mistress
suddenly forced the huge item past his ring with a quick stab.
Salas groaned, the pain and terror too strong to even let him
scream. He could feel his flesh tear in order to accommodate the
enormous dildo. It had received no lubrication save for Salas's
blood, and each little push Mistress gave it was a new wave of
agony shooting through Salas's body. Eventually, the whole length
of the thing was within him, and the small part of him that was
still able to think wondered how he could have endured this
without fainting. He also hoped, actually pleaded to all and any
powers of the universe, for this torture to end, certain that any
more than this would mean his death.

He was only half-aware of the Mistress pulling the hand bar
forward again until he was lying flat on his face. Then she
chained the bar down again, binding him into this spread-out
position. Salas was just glad he was allowed to lie down. The
floor was smooth and not even too cold. The covering also took
some hardness from the floor, making it almost comfortable to lie
upon. Especially now, when Salas was nearly unconscious from pain
and exhaustion. He didn't concern himself with the Mistress, who
forced his cock under his belly and then slid her hand almost
gently over his bleeding ass.

His tortured body spasmed when she suddenly turned on the
vibrator. No sound he was still able to make could do justice to
the suffering Salas was experiencing now. The vibrations made his
wounds tear even further, hurt worse and bleed more. And it was
like an insult added to the pain, that it also stimulated his
pleasure spot, making his cock want to stiffen again. But his
cock was squeezed beneath him, adding just another strand to the
fabric of his pain.

Mistress spoke then, her voice just a distant sound, yet he still
understood her words: "Rest then, but I will get back to you."

'Rest'? His body was nothing but agony and the only reason why he
*wasn't* screaming was that the pain was just too overwhelming.
There was no rest for Salas, not with all this pain and thirst he
felt. All there was, was the hope that he might faint -- at least
this once.

Interruptions like this one could last anywhere from just a few
minutes to an entire day, but never longer. His guard could visit
him during such a time, but only to preserve his life. Rastan was
in the house somewhere, closely following Salas's fate on a
surveillance monitor. However he could not interfere with the
will of the Mistress, so he could only watch and hope his charge
would survive the ordeal.

Eventually, the torture of the vibrator became somewhat less
terrible. He began to drift in and out of a dream-like stupor, so
that he missed the return of the Mistress. She informed him of
her presence with a kick at his balls, which were lying exposed
between his legs. The new explosion of pain brought him
forcefully out of the *almost* refreshing stupor with an inhuman
scream.

"No time for sleeping yet," she said and there was still the
sound of a hellish humor in her voice. "I've still got a few more
things in store for you."

She proceeded to free his hands and legs, but left his wrist
cuffs in place. Salas remained motionless, not daring to move
without an order. He didn't really trust himself to be able to
move much anyway. Once he was free, Mistress walked across the
room to one of the installations, a hip-high padded bench and a
drain grate in the floor at the near end of it. From there she
commanded: "Come here. Now!"

Now Salas had no choice but to try and get up. He slowly raised
himself to his knees first. The cuts on his back and arms were
making him stiff and caused him to wince in pain. But the change
of position affected his ass the worst, making him feel the pain
and vibrations even more. He slowly stood up on his feet, partly
to be ready if Mistress decided she wanted him to crawl to her,
but also because he didn't quite trust his legs to support him.

The first step was an agony all by itself as the vibrator shifted
in him, the pain almost bringing him back to his knees. But
slowly, under the cruel eyes of the Mistress, he managed to cross
the few steps to the place where she was standing. He couldn't
remember Mistress ever using that particular installation before,
yet right now, he was hardly able to think, much less remember
anything.

She immediately ordered him to lie down on the bench. He did so
with a miserable yelp when the pain shot through his beaten back
as he touched the padding. The bench was sufficiently wide, but
only long enough to accommodate his head and upper body, while
his hips remained unsupported. His legs dangled down, toes barely
touching the floor, forcing an unpleasant tension upon his back.
Mistress first secured his wrists to the floor beneath the bench,
hooking a chain to each of his wrist cuffs and pulling them short
enough to press his back tightly into the padding. After that,
she strapped a pair of wide heavy-duty bonds on his ankles. 

Once she was certain they were well-placed, she used her remote
to bring another pair of chains from the ceiling. She hooked them
to the bonds and then made the chains lift Salas's legs up and
spread them wide, lifting his ass into the air. Mistress only
stopped them when Salas was stretched to the limit, almost unable
to move. The position itself -- his shredded back forced into the
bench surface, his deeply cut arms pulled down tightly and his
lower body suspended in the air -- was already a hard torture.
Except that *this* wasn't a torture at all, just a preparation
for what was yet to come. Salas closed his eyes, trying to shut
out the pain, the exhaustion and the despair.

Once the chains stopped, everything fell strangely silent and he
opened his eyes again, meeting the eyes of his Mistress. She was
standing between his wide-spread legs for a few more moments,
just watching him. What he saw in her eyes made him shudder and
break out in another wave of cold sweat that stung in his
numerous cuts. She was very pleased with his current suffering,
the delight showed clearly in her face. But there was also
shrewdness. Whatever she had in mind, she knew it was going to
bring him to a new level of terror.

Salas feared she might use the crop on him again, with his crotch
this exposed, but she had entirely different plans. First, she
removed the vibrator from his ass in one quick pull. Salas
screamed in pain, even though it was a pain of relief, and then
he heard something trickle down to the floor and into the drain.
It took him a second to realize it was the blood from his anus
that made the sound. He moaned in despair, as a fearsome thought
tried to enter his mind, but he managed to push it away for now.

Salas watched Mistress pull on a pair of examination gloves. He
had no idea what she might be planning for him next, not even
when shoved her right hand into him. Salas yelped in pain as she
rubbed against his wounds. She moved her hand around inside his
rectum for quite a while, ignoring the torment she was causing
him. Salas felt his wounds tear again, until he thought he was
split wide open from his balls to the spine.

But her expression was now one of concentration, almost like that
of the medic when he was assessing the damage Mistress had done
to his body. This puzzled him. Never before had Mistress
concerned herself with the damage she had caused, relying on
Rastan and the house medic to take care of it after she was
finished with him.

She retrieved a tube from one of the shelves and started to apply
its contents to the tears in his anus and rectum. Mercilessly
pushing her fingers inside him again, she pulled and squeezed,
adjusted and pressed his torn flesh together, rubbing the tube
contents firmly into the most painful spots. This none-too-gentle
treatment made him moan, but at the same time he felt relief as
she was closing his gaping wounds.

She was also reaching very deep inside him and Salas realized she
must be also treating injuries he couldn't even feel. The
fearsome thought forced itself at him again, more certain and
insistent, but he pushed it away. Something like THAT only
happened to sex-slaves, and he was not a sex-slave any longer.
Surely the medic had other ways to treat this sort of injury.

Tossing the blood- and shit-stained gloves away, Mistress
regarded him again for a moment with the same studying
expression, then said: "You are full of bloody shit. But the
wound-glue will hold you together while I'm taking care of
that."

Salas couldn't decide whether this was a mockery or just a
statement of fact. He was likely quite full of shit right now and
it was certainly bloody as well. But he was puzzled about why
Mistress would suddenly bother with his hygiene. 

Meanwhile she busied herself off to one side. When she came back
into his view, Salas realized he was about to receive an enema.
The prospect confused him, but didn't upset him the least. He had
the equipment needed for this in his bathroom as well and he even
used it occasionally. He just wondered why Mistress would be
doing this, since she had to know it wouldn't be a torture for
him.

He regarded her with just slight puzzlement as she inserted the
nozzle into him and proceeded to fill his guts with the body-warm
liquid. Soon enough it had reached his usual amount, but Mistress
showed no intention of stopping the flow. Salas's belly swelled
up, and he started to feel an uncomfortable pressure on his
stomach and lungs. In this form the enema was definitely
unpleasant, but compared to other tortures, it was not really a
torture at all. Then, finally, Mistress stopped filling him up,
quickly pulled out the nozzle and shoved a large plug into his
hole. Salas couldn't help screaming out at this. The tears in his
anus might have been glued together, but he was still terribly
injured and the plug pressed painfully against the wounds.

She moved a bit away from him again and Salas strained to follow
her with his sight this time. He could only see her from a corner
of his eye, but he thought she was struggling with herself, as if
trying to decide whether she should proceed with her intent or
not. It was stupid of him to build up his hopes, but he simply
couldn't help himself. Maybe, just maybe, her rage had spent
itself already and she would let him go.

It was not to be, of course. Suddenly she jerked out of her
indecision and picked something from the shelf, then returned to
Salas. With a quick motion, she pulled the plug out of his hole,
allowing him to expel the liquid. He sighed in relief, feeling it
run out of him. A moment later he realized he was emptying his
guts right in the face of his Mistress. He did feel a bit of
humiliation at this, but it was not like he had never had an
enema in someone else's presence and he managed to push the
feeling out of his mind quickly. The pain that still raged
through his body made the bit of shame rather insignificant
anyway.

Mistress grinned mockingly at him. "Do not hope to get off this
easily," she said. "I know you can take an enema, but we shall
see what you will think of this."

She lifted up a small bottle, like one of those that were used
for cosmetic tinctures, so that he could see it. Salas had no
idea what she could mean, other that it had to be something truly
vile. Mistress prepared another enema for him, adding the whole
contents of the bottle to it. Then she started to fill him up
again, with a slow and steady flow.

At first, Salas felt nothing special. When the first cramp shook
him, he hoped it was just the aftereffect of the previous torture
and injury. But as more liquid entered his body, the cramps
became stronger and spread over his whole abdomen.

This was a strange sort of torture. It was not likely to make him
scream, but in a way it was worse than anything he had ever had
to endure. In his sex-slave training he had learned to endure
pain to his anus and throat, since his service was not always
without it. As a torture slave he had also learned to deal with
pain to the outside of his body. But these cramps were making him
feel weak and miserable, making it exceptionally hard for him to
endure this torture. At other times there was always a small part
at his core that gave him strength, strength to endure whatever
his Mistress was doing with him. Now this very core was
dissolving, breaking apart with each cramp that shook his
tortured body -- and mind.

After a while, the individual cramps joined together into
agonizing convulsions, making him whimper. Suddenly he felt that
some of the liquid was seeping out again, since the enema nozzle
was not particularly large. Reflexively he clenched his anal
muscles, in spite of the pain this caused him. He had been well
trained to hold his enema, no matter how unpleasant it might be,
until permitted to release it. At this point Mistress stopped
filling him up and plugged his hole again. Salas howled in pain
as she pushed the large thing inside his tightly clenched anal
ring.

Restrained as he was, Salas had to endure the pain motionlessly,
which again made it even worse. Occasionally he couldn't help
whimpering miserably. The one time he looked down at himself, he
could see the ripples the cramps caused in his abdomen, but the
slight move also increased his suffering. So he just let his head
fall back again and closed his eyes.

The convulsions somehow irritated his stomach as well and he
suddenly felt sickness rise in him. This was not good at all.
Restrained as he was, he couldn't afford to throw up, even if
there was not much in his stomach at the moment. Lying on his
back tightly restrained, he was in real danger of drowning in his
own vomit. He tried hard to keep the contents of his stomach
down, but by now the cramps had reached his throat, making him
feel lethally sick.

Suddenly he felt the acidic stuff enter his mouth. He turned his
head to the side, letting it spill over the bench and to the
floor. There was not much in him that he could throw up, so the
flow ended quickly. But as desperately as he tried to prevent it,
he still got some of it in his airway and nose, making him cough
while the vile taste in his mouth almost made him throw up
again.

"Filthy slave!" Mistress commented, wrinkling her nose. But then
she reached for the plug and pulled it out. 

Thick with his shit, the enema was only slow to leave him.
Occasionally the cramps that still wrenched his guts made it gush
out in force, but most of the time it merely trickled lazily down
his crack and into the drain. Sometimes he would feel a chunk of
something more substantial exit him. The cramps receded only
slowly, but Salas immediately felt the relief.

Suddenly it struck him that he was actually shitting right in
full view of his Mistress. She was standing right there between
his legs, so close he actually got concerned some of his shit
might end up soiling her clothes. Mistress watched him with a
mixture of a disgusted frown and almost blissful delight on her
face. She certainly enjoyed his suffering and shame, but his
foulness seemed a bit too much even for her. For a moment Salas
thought that he would actually die or at least faint from shame,
feeling the heat of a full-body blush wash over him. He was not
that lucky and so had to endure the humiliation until his guts
were finally empty. 

Only then did Mistress leave him to remove the enema equipment
and even wipe most of the puke from the bench using a damp mop,
giving him just a bit of time to recover.

Salas tried to watch her as she moved away again, but quickly
lost sight of her. After a while she came back with some big
device set on wheels. It took him a while to recognize the thing,
for he had never actually seen it before and only felt its
effects once. But the rather thin probe hanging on a hook at the
front of the device, combined with the pain in his ass, let him
draw the connection. The fearsome thought that he had been
valiantly pushing away until now had become truth anyway.

"No . . ." he whispered, "please, no!" He wasn't really begging,
but the prospect of what was about to happen made the words slip
past his lips. 

Mistress gave him another vicious smile. "You are not begging me
here, are you?" Salas shook his head slowly and she nodded. "It
would be entirely pointless of course. You know you are bound for
this, either here or at the infirmary. But here at least your
pain will serve a purpose."

She then began to set the device up, saying: "You don't need to
worry, I know how to operate this. And I have taken care of your
shit too, so that it *will* work properly."

Salas didn't worry at all; it was beyond him to doubt the
abilities of his superiors, and besides his thoughts were
elsewhere entirely.

With the use of regenerating treatments the medics could heal
most injuries, even those to nerve tissues, within days. But
regenerators had a few down sides as well. For one, the healing
process was quite painful, but it would be lethal to use
painkillers at the same time. Also, regenerators could not be
applied too often, only once within a half-year time, or they
would dangerously disturb the normal healing of the body. 

This second feature represented a problem for the owners of
sex-slaves, who often injured the rectums of their slaves during
service. Thus a special therapy was developed for treating wounds
in the rectum and anus. This treatment was safe to use once in an
idens's time. Its only downside being that it meant a long night
of immense pain for the slave.

But who ever cared about a sex-slave's pain?

Salas had encountered this device only once during the time of
his sex-slave training, before he was sold to the Mistress. But
that one time was enough to make him dread it for the rest of his
life.

The first stab of pain made him scream out, loudly and
desperately. He knew all too well what was ahead of him. Mistress
remained there, monitoring the device. At the last moment before
losing all awareness of his surroundings, Salas registered her
silent and thoughtful expression. The next moment the world was
gone for him and only the agony remained. There was some special
quality in it that never allowed the patient, or rather the
victim, to faint. Thus, Salas had to endure every single minute
of it.

After the first few hours, his voice failed him and he had to
endure the rest of the ordeal in silence, twisting and pulling at
his bonds. But during the last couple of hours even the strength
for this left him. Somehow, this inability to scream his pain out
or move with its waves made his suffering even worse. 

At long last, the pain simply stopped. Salas only realized it was
over a few minutes later, when Mistress had already taken the
device away and had come back to him.

Going to his head, she slid her hand gently across his sweaty
forehead and hair. The rage had left her eyes, and had been
replaced by a tired calmness.

"You served me well, Salas," she said softly, stroking his head
once again before carefully removing the collar from around his
neck. Then she left, leaving him in his bonds.

Salas didn't worry. He knew Rastan would arrive soon and take
care of him. With this thought, he finally allowed himself to
sink into the darkness.

---

Thoughts, comments, questions? Direct them to
starrcomments@yahoo.com


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