The Things We Do For Love
by Jennifer Harrison
“David?” I recognised that tone of voice – kind of wheedling, like she wanted something expensive or was going to own up to denting the car or something. We had just had sex so she must have been thinking I’d agree to anything.
“I have a confession to make ...” She was even more hesitant than usual and I paid attention, maybe this was something big. I encouraged her to carry on.
“The thing is,” she said eventually, “I have this really kinky idea, its driving me mad, but I think you’ll freak.”
As she was still naked, with her hands and arms bound tight behind her back, whip marks on her buttocks and my cum splashed across her face and chest, her “kinky idea” would have to go some to freak me out.
My wife is a wonderful woman – flame red hair, alabaster-white skin, perfect petite body, very intelligent, great sense of humour. We have known each other for thirteen years and been married nearly ten and I am eternally grateful that she trusted me enough to tell me about her bondage fetish – something she’d never told anyone else. Luckily, being a cool analytical type, I had not freaked out or seen it as an opportunity to abuse her, but had asked all the right questions and taken my lead from her. I was a bit nervous and unsure when we first tried it, but I could see just how much it turned her on and that meant she was very keen to satisfy me so that I would be happy to do it again, which I was and I did.
So, an idea more kinky than bondage, submission, humiliation, even masochism and torture, which we had got into in a big way? This was going to be a key moment.
“Darling, if it’s something you feel you need to do to be fulfilled, we’ll discuss it and if we can, we’ll make it happen.”
“Okay, well ... the thing is ... the thing is, I want to be buried alive.”
I had to stop myself from saying “What the FUCK?!” – it certainly was an ‘unusual’ idea to say the least. Under my gentle prompting, she falteringly explained.
“I first saw a woman being tied up and buried in an old Ray Milland film when I was about fourteen and I was incredibly turned on. It’s like, the ultimate Damsel in Distress scenario, and you know how much those turn me on.”
I did indeed – we frequently played games of “Girl kidnapped by collector,” “Wife held for ransom” or “Resistance girl caught by the Gestapo” and they usually lasted a couple of days with multiple orgasms all the way – for her and for me.
“Since then it’s always been in my dreams but I was too scared to mention it. I’ve read various stories on the internet and they always turn me on massively. I just couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Do you think I’m just too sick?”
“Darling, you’re clearly not the first to think about this, as you say there are fantasy stories already out there. Let me do some research and work out how we can scratch this particularly ... interesting itch of yours. Meanwhile, I think you need to spend some time riding your pony.”
“Oh no, master, not the pony! Jenny’s been a good little girl!” She liked to do the protesting slavegirl talk, even though the pony was one of her favourites. I swiftly forced a ball gag into her mouth to stifle any more protests and led her by the chain between her nipple clamps into the play room.
The pony is a wooden saddle mounted on a post and it is rocked back and forward by a motor underneath. There is a hole in the middle of the saddle and two rather large rubber dildos protrude through, fixed to the post underneath. I made Jenny position herself over the centre of the saddle and lower herself onto the dildos, which she slid into her orifices with a little grunting and squirming. I fastened a cuff around her ankle and lifted her foot off the ground and pulled it up until the cuff could be clipped to a ring on the back of the saddle. I did the same with the other leg so that she was now forced to sit astride the saddle with the dildos thrust deep inside her. She whimpered in a mixture of pain and pleasure as she tried to get comfortable.
The motor was activated by sound – the louder the sound the faster it rocked the saddle. I put the iPod Shuffle next to the speaker and switched it on. “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon blasted out, appropriately, and Jenny squealed as the saddle lurched forward like a bucking bronco. As she was pulled forward, the dildo in her vagina was driven deeper into her, while the clitoris teaser also came into operation. As the saddle shot back, the vagina dildo was withdrawn a little but the other dildo was driven up into her arse, making her grimace in pain. The torment was relentless until the song ended and, after a couple of seconds of rest, another started and the rocking continued. There were a few quieter tracks on there, but not many, and there were long, loud pieces like the 1812 Overture and Ravel’s Bolero. She had already had one loud orgasm before I left her to it to go downstairs.
She would be happy to leave her little burial fantasy with me, to work out the details – she didn’t want to hear much more about it until it – she hoped – happened.
I went on the internet and within a few minutes I had found a clip of the film she had mentioned on YouTube (“Premature Burial,” 1962, if you’re interested) but this had one slight drawback – the woman dies, which was what I (and hopefully Jenny) wanted to avoid. The stories on the internet were a mixture of “snuff” stories and pre-arranged sessions where the participant – usually female – planned and controlled the session. I thought Jenny wanted something different - she would want to feel like it was all real, that she was really being buried alive and was not sure if she would get out of it (or could at least suspend her disbelief long enough to get off on the experience).
I was absorbed in my research until I heard Kings of Leon again, indicating the 2-hour shuffle had finished and was now repeating. I dashed up to find her covered in sweat and clearly exhausted, although she had not used our safe word – if she had had enough or felt in danger, she could say, sing, whistle or hum the Marseillaise and I would immediately free her. But a combination of stubbornness and insatiable appetite for sexual torment meant she rarely gave in. I switched off the motor and helped her into bed where, still tied and gagged, she fell asleep.
I started more wide-ranging research over the next few days and finally found a place which could help me. Rather anonymously named The Company, it was very expensive, but seemed very professional as well, and I felt that this would make a great tenth wedding anniversary present. I went and checked out the operation and was amazed and impressed with their facilities and attention to detail, as well as health and safety – a critical issue when they were going to be responsible for the safety of my wife.
When I explained what I wanted to do, they insisted that I provide a video of my wife, clearly not under duress, explaining how she wanted to do all this stuff, to cover them legally and prove they had not participated in kidnap and torture of an innocent victim. I managed to get Jenny to do this by explaining that, if we did manage to do this and, heaven forbid, it went wrong, I would need the video to convince the police I wasn’t a wife murderer! Jenny was more than happy to do it, seeing it as evidence that I was seriously considering the burial scenario.
There were various other procedures – AIDS and STD tests for both of us (getting a blood sample from Jenny without her noticing was interesting) – but eventually it was all booked, scheduled and paid for. I told Jenny that I was planning to take her for a wonderful meal on our anniversary and then whisk her off on holiday to a mystery destination the next day, for fun and games in the sun. Which was all true, but there was a little adventure to be had before all that.
About a week before the anniversary, I told Jenny I had to be away in Liverpool for a meeting and would have to stay overnight, but would be back the next day. This was, of course, a white lie so that I could arrange her “kidnap” and transportation to the facility at which her adventure was to take place. I watched the house and saw the lights go off at around 11 pm, then waited until 3 am before making my move. The Company had provided me with some clothes – a jacket and a mask which made the wearer look more like a faceless robot than an intruder – and some advice to make the initial kidnap both more convincing and also to play into the coming events.
So, suitably dressed, I sneaked into the house and went upstairs to watch Jenny sleeping. I was able to carefully put duct tape over her mouth without waking her up and, pulling back the duvet, I eased her naked body over onto her stomach and gently drew her hands together behind her back. She started to wake up as I wound tape around her wrists and then taped her hands together, palms facing, so she had no fingers free to unpick anything. She was struggling to look behind her and was mmphing at me, and I imagined she was trying to say “David, is that you?” but I was busy taping together her ankles and then her knees. As a final act, I put tape over her eyes, blindfolding her very effectively and I could tell her struggles and noises had become just a little more serious and genuine. The use of duct tape was a suggestion from The Company, as we had never used it, so it would seem foreign and sow a seed of doubt. I had a feeling it might be working.
I lifted her off the bed and put her over my shoulder to carry her downstairs, out into the (luckily but not surprisingly) deserted street and dumped her into the boot of the SUV I had hired for the occasion – another suggestion from The Company. Then we were off on our adventure.
The biggest problem I had was that The Company operated from an imposing chateau in northern France, which meant I was going to have to smuggle Jenny through the channel tunnel. The customs officers don’t often search vehicles but it was always possible, so I was very nervous as I approached the barrier. But there was no problem and I got on the train, through the tunnel and out the other side without incident. It was a two hour journey to the chateau and I checked that Jenny was okay every hour – I didn’t want her suffocating or choking on the way.
We eventually got there and I parked just inside the main gates by the guard house. One of the “guards” greeted me and took me to the control room, where I could watch Jenny’s “processing” on the CCTV monitors which covered the entire complex – Jenny would never be out of my sight and there would also be independent surveillance to ensure there were no problems at any time, night or day. Later I was shown to my room in the chateau which was very 5-star elegant, plus it had intranet access to wherever Jenny was at any time of night or day. So I just kicked back and relaxed while watching the whole show.
I was obviously confused and disoriented when I woke up. But I was being tied up – it had to be David. As I struggled a little and twisted around, I caught a glimpse of him over me and was surprised by the weird helmet and sci-fi jacket affair, but still – it had to be David? As he bound my legs together, I wondered what kind of sexual experience this was going to be with all my orifices unavailable, but when he picked me up and took me downstairs, I guessed it was some kind of kidnap game. I’d ridden in the boot of the car before, so it was not a total shock to be shut in there, but as time went by, I wondered where he could be taking me for this kidnap game. Hour after hour we travelled, and there were strange unexplained stops and noises. Every so often the boot would open and I would feel a hand on my face or breasts or buttocks, grabbing and pinching until I made some noise, then the boot would slam again and away we would go.
On the last of the occasions, the tape around my legs was cut and I was dragged out and stood on loose gravel, with a stiff but warm breeze playing over my skin. The tape was ripped from my eyes and, when I was able to open my eyes in the bright sunlight, I was totally shocked by what I saw. Not only was it not David standing before me, it was two men, dressed in police or guard uniforms, unsmiling. I took in the tight trousers tucked in to jackboots, then saw the belt adorned with a gun and holster, a knife and sheath, a leather flogger and what looked like a riding crop hanging down. Then they spoke. I didn’t understand what they said, but the fact that it sounded French in very convincing French accents, startled me even more. I looked around frantically, saw the car I had arrived in and did not recognise it. I was stood in a courtyard surround by high walls with imposing iron gates through which I had presumably arrived and beyond that, a country road and rolling countryside. Oh my God, I thought, I must be in France! The noises, delays, travel time, it all added up – I was now in a foreign country, in the hands of God knows who! For the first time, I started to wonder if this really was staged or a genuine kidnap.
The guards took one elbow each and marched me through a door in one wall of the courtyard, into a whitewashed room with nothing in it but a table, on which was a mass of iron chains. One guard ripped the tape off my mouth while the other cut my hands free.
“What is this? Where am I?” I asked but they ignored me. A metal bit gag with an elongated tongue depressor was forced between my teeth and strapped in tight, the strap locking behind my head. A heavy iron collar, four inches wide and half an inch thick, was padlocked around my neck, then shackles locked on my wrists and ankles, each joined by heavy iron chains about two feet apart. One of them grabbed my hair and tied it back in a tight pony tail. Another door opened and a third guard came in carrying something, but at the same time the other two grabbed me and firmly held me down on my back across the table, legs spread. The new guard sprayed something on me and when I looked down, I could see my pubic hair was all covered in foam. I then saw the razor in his hand, but even though I protested and struggled, in a few swift swipes of the blade, I was completely smooth down there.
They let me up from the table and pushed me violently towards one of the walls. As I turned around, I was hit by a jet spray from a serious pressure hose, which pinned me back as the icy cold water hit my bare skin like knitting needles. When it was directed into my face, I had to fight for breath and gallons of it seemed to go in my mouth and I had to swallow a lot of it. The guard holding it came right up to me and forced my legs apart, making the water shoot up my ass like an enema and flood my vagina too. A second guard started scrubbing at my skin with a yard brush, the bristles scraping painfully at my skin. I slid to the floor and could do nothing to prevent him forcing the brush into every intimate area of my body.
Eventually they shut the water off and dragged me to my feet. I was hustled towards another door and out into the bright sunlight, shivering and dripping. We were now on the other side of the walled courtyard and I could see the extent of the estate, an expanse of grass and trees in every direction except behind me, where an imposing wall twelve feet high and topped with vicious-looking metal spikes would ensure no escape.
Before me was a military-style flatbed truck and I was made to climb onto it. The chain between my wrists was attached to the bar overhead and the guards went back into the whitewashed room and I was left alone in the still, baking heat of the afternoon. Soon I had stopped shivering and dripping with water and was dripping with sweat instead. Suddenly I felt very tired and started to doze as best I could, standing as I was with my arms raised above my head. I realised I had no idea what was going on and had lost any conviction that this had all been arranged by David.
I must have been there for a couple of hours and was becoming delirious with the heat, when the door to the courtyard opened again. Two guards appeared and between them was another woman! She was about six foot and black, with big breasts and wide hips, but she looked like she had been through the same process as me – stripped, chained, shaved and hosed. The guards pulled her up onto the truck and attached her chains as they had done mine, making us stand not just face to face but forcing our bodies together so that I could feel her damp coolness and she could probably feel my hot sweatiness. The truck engine roared into life and we lurched along the gravelled driveway in front of us. Our eyes met and I saw my own fears and uncertainties reflected in hers – neither of us thought this was a game.
As we rocked from side to side, I looked around. We were surrounded by rolling countryside, within and beyond the retaining wall, no houses or villages in sight. In front of us a house came into view and it looked magnificent – a cross between an ornate country house and a castle, I guessed it was either a French chateau or German schloss. As we approached, I saw something else which made me doubt that this was a set-up job – on the terrace I could see three or four figures all dressed as I had briefly seen my attacker, severely tailored jackets and helmet-like masks. My original theory, that I had been “kidnapped” by David, seemed to be disproved by the fact that there were many “Davids” here, casually chatting, strolling and sitting watching our arrival.
In front of the house, the truck veered off and took us around to the rear entrance. It stopped and new guards met us and took us down. We were led into the house and down a wide stone staircase into what could only be described as the dungeons. The temperature dropped appreciably as we went down into the darkness. We were led along a corridor with many steel doors in the walls, all shut, until we came to one which was open. I was pushed into the darkness inside and, as my eyes adjusted, I could see that it was a cell, barely wider than the door and about ten feet deep. The walls and floor were bare stone and I could see in the light from the hall that they glistened and dripped with damp.
Suddenly there was a loud clang and the light was cut off, leaving me in darkness. As my eyes adjusted again, I saw that high up on the end wall was a small barred window and in its light I could see the only thing in the room was a metal bucket in the far corner. I suddenly had an incontrollable need to use it and I shuffled over to it and squatted to relieve myself. As I looked back down the cell I could see the door and noticed there was no handle on this side; there was a slot at about head height – presumably so a guard could spy on the prisoner – and one just off the floor, the use of which I didn’t understand until later, when a bowl of water and a bowl of porridge-like stew were tossed in. Feeling totally alone and abandoned, I sat down on the cold, wet floor and cried.
There was a bewildering list of options to be completed prior to arrival, specifying what could and could not be done to Jenny. I ticked most options to give her the full experience, but one I did not select was to allow the partners of other ‘guests’ to watch her torment or to allow them to participate either in her punishment or sexual encounters. As staff were strictly forbidden from having sex with clients, this meant I was the only one who could. I was allowed access to her at any time I wanted, and right now, I thought, would be a good time to pay a visit.
I don’t know how long I lay there in the cold, damp and dark, but I think I dozed off. I was woken by the sound of the lock and the door opening, blinding me with the light from the hall. I felt hands grab me and rope was put around my elbows and pulled tight, trapping my arms, which were still manacled at the wrists, to my sides. I looked up and saw one of the kidnappers over me, his frighteningly featureless mask staring down at me. I only saw him for a second because he tied a blindfold across my eyes. I was scared at what he would do to me, but he removed the bit gag from my mouth and I wondered if this was some sort of release.
“Please, you have to help me!” I begged, “I have been kidnapped and –” My pleadings were cut short as he forced a ring gag into my mouth and strapped it in place. I was on my knees and I guessed what was coming next. Seconds later he was holding my head tight as he thrust his erection through the ring and deep into my mouth, making me choke as it touched the back of my throat. He rammed it back and forth, not caring about whether I gagged or could breathe. He said nothing, just let out a few grunts as he became more excited, his cock twitched and then my throat and mouth were full of his salty cum. He pulled it out of the gag and splashed his seed in my face and hair, before wiping his dripping member on my cheeks and chin. Satisfied, he pushed me to the floor and I heard the door slam shut with a reverberating clang. Tied and gagged as I still was, there was nothing I could do to prevent the cum sliding down my throat or dribbling out of my mouth and down my chin. Eventually I fell asleep again.
Sometime later, the door opened again and this time I was roughly forced into a kneeling position with my face pressed against the floor, while my latest attacker forced his cock into my anus, without the benefit of lubricant. I grimaced in pain as he rode me hard, again saying nothing, just using me like a sex toy. Strangely, I found myself becoming sexually aroused, which never normally happened for me with anal sex, but before I could get near a climax, he had finished himself off by pulling out and splashing cum over my back and my buttocks. Once again, I was left alone to contemplate my abuse, unable to satisfy the excitement in my groin, until I fell into fitful sleep once again.
It happened a third time. This time I was laid on my back and my legs were tied, ankle to thigh, then I felt his body between my legs and his erection rammed into my cunt so hard I slid on the slimy floor and my head hit the wall. He banged away at me and this time I did come before him, then again and, incredibly, a third time before he climaxed. As before, he pulled out before spurting across my breasts and in my face again. I was left, tied and soiled once more.
When the door opened again, I was expecting further assault. But the blindfold and bonds were removed and I saw a guard standing over me. He removed the ring gag and replaced the bit gag, before shouting an order in French at me and pointing to the bucket. Interpreting his gestures, I picked up the stinking bucket and took it out of the door. The corridor was full of naked, chained women, all carrying buckets, and I followed the line up the stairs and into a bright courtyard. We each emptied our buckets into a slurry pit which stank disgustingly, then lined our buckets against a wall. We also lined up against the wall.
A guard came along the line and attached a heavy chain to each of our collars, chaining us all together like slaves, then we were marched out of the courtyard and down a dirt track. We shuffled along for ages in the hot sun, before coming to a quarry, where we were stopped and the chain removed. Each of us was handed a pickaxe and, with more shouted French, set to work breaking rocks from the quarry face. As we broke off a rock we had to pick it up and carry it to a wooden palette, a couple of yards from the face. Any slackening of pace or effort was punished by enthusiastic use of the flogger and barked, unintelligible orders.
I sneaked a look at my fellow inmates as we worked in the blazing sun. I counted ten other women and, at thirty two I reckoned I was one of the oldest there, although there was one woman clearly in her forties. Most were in their early twenties and one girl looked about sixteen, there were black, white and Asian women, some overweight but mainly skinny, but all bore the marks of their ordeal – bruises and whip marks as well as dried cum. I wondered what else they had suffered and how long they had been here.
There were four palettes and after a couple of hours they were well stacked with rocks. We were made to stop and gather by the palettes. A guard came up to me and tied a rope around my waist, then passed it between my legs and under the rope at the back, forming a crotch rope. The other end was tied to a palette and I saw we were all tied the same way, with three women to each palette except mine, where there were only two of us, me and the black woman I had arrived with. With much shouting and use of the floggers, the guards made us drag the palettes across the quarry towards a dumper truck about a hundred yards away.
The palette was incredibly heavy and it was almost impossible for the two of us to move it at all, despite the shouts and the whipping we received. The rope cut into my tender flesh like a knife and I was crying in agony as well as sweating profusely as we inched it forward. The others were doing slightly better and our being last attracted even more unwelcome attention. When I tried to pull the rope and take the pressure off my tortured pussy lips, I received a beating from one of the guards until I stopped.
Many times I fell in the dirt and had to pick myself up. Furtively glancing up, I could see others falling and being beaten, crying and wailing incoherently in their pain. It was like a scene from the Old Testament, the slaves of Egypt building the Pyramids.
At last we reached the truck and collapsed in the dirt. But the job was not complete – now we had to load the rocks into the truck and drag the empty palettes back across the quarry. And, unbelievably, they made us do it all over again!
By the time the guards called a halt and we were marched back to the house, I was delirious with the heat and exhaustion, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Back in the courtyard, we were hosed down with icy water, which was a great relief although, as before, the pressure hose was so powerful as to be painful.
As we were led back inside, I was grabbed and led away from the others, to a different door and a stairway leading up into the house. I was taken into a room which was empty apart from a desk and chair and, in the middle of the room, something that looked like an electric chair. It was made of iron and had straps on the arms, legs and on a post extending upwards from the back of the chair. My chains and gag were removed and I was forced down onto the chair and the straps were tightened around my wrists, ankles, thighs and neck. A guard leant over me and attached a crocodile clip to each nipple, which made me grimace in pain, but when he parted my pussy lips and attached one to my clitoris, I let out a real scream. I squirmed on the seat but could do nothing to alleviate the pain, which gradually lessened to an uncomfortable ache. At that moment I suddenly got drenched by a guard throwing a bucket of water over me. The guards then stepped back and watched impassively as I coughed and spluttered.
The door opened and another guard came in. He was short and a bit fat, not well built like the other guards, wore a slightly different uniform, more black, and also round, steel-rimmed spectacles. He sat at the desk and, after staring at the papers he had brought in, looked up at me.
“Guten tag, Frau Henriksen, wie gets Sie?”
Confused, I said “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German. But my name is Harrison, not Henriksen.”
He looked back down at his papers and continued to speak German to me. After a minute, he looked up and stopped talking, looking at me expectantly.
“I don’t know what you want,” I said rather nervously, “I don’t understand.”
The humourless smile on his face disappeared and his tone became sharper, harder, as he clearly asked me a question of some kind. I just shook my head dumbly.
He leaned forward and reached out to a switch on the desk. For the first time, I noticed that wires were attached to the crocodile clips and they led to a car battery under the desk. Before I could really take this on board and understand it, he flicked the switch and I was suddenly screaming in a world of pain as electricity shot through my body via the clips attached to my most sensitive places. It was excruciating and seemed to go on forever, although I guess it was maybe thirty seconds before he flicked the switch back again. I slumped forward, gasping for breath as every inch of my body twitched and tingled except for my nipples and clitoris, which hurt like hell. I heard him calmly asking me the question again.
“No, no, please! I don’t understand! I am not Frau Henriksen! You’ve got the wrong – Aaaaah!” I screamed as the electricity coursed through me once more, longer this time, making me thrash in the chair and leaving me drained and weeping when it stopped.
The torture went on and on, each jolt being harder to endure and then, incredibly, in the middle of this hideous pain, I had the most explosive orgasm. It seemed more painful than pleasurable, but it washed over me in wave after wave of climax, until I was utterly spent and slumped unconscious in the straps. I was vaguely aware of being unstrapped and dragged away, back downstairs, back to my cold, damp cell. I lay on the floor as they put the chains and gag back on me and shut me away. I slept for I don’t know how long.
The days became a blur. I was woken at all times of the night for sex in any position. The slopping out and hard labour became fixtures of the day. On the second day it rained continuously and, although it was cooler, it proved almost impossible to drag the palettes as we slipped and fell in the mud. Hard as the work was, I dreaded returning to the house and being taken to the torture room. As they took me away, I let out a howl of despair and fought against them but it was no use, they dragged me up the stairs and into the room.
The chair was still there but something new had been added, something looking like a dress mirror without the glass. I was made to stand against it and my wrists, ankles and neck were strapped to it so I was held upright and immobile. Suddenly everything went black as a bag was pulled over my head and tied around my throat. Then I heard the interrogator next to me, still talking in German, still asking me questions I couldn’t understand.
“Please! You have to believe me! You’ve got the wrong person!” By now I was convinced this was some kind of French Guantanamo Bay, an interrogation site for terrorists. Suddenly the board was rotated and I was lying on my back, my head below my feet. The questions kept coming and then the water – someone was pouring water onto the bag, making it stick to my face, making me breathe in the water through the material. I was coughing and choking and I was going to drown! I heard the voice shouting in my ear but I couldn’t get any air, I was straining against the straps to get free but it was no use, I was going to die!
As all these sensations came over me, I realised someone had stuck something large into my cunt which was rubbing vigorously against my G-spot. I felt like I was drowning but at the same time I was climaxing. There was a sudden biting pain in my nipples as clamps were applied but it just added to my stimulation and, seconds later, I came to another amazing orgasm. The questions, the water and the thrusts into my pussy continued on and on, making me scream, choke, gasp for air and climax time after time. Exhausted once again, I was dumped back in my cell.
Day three saw me strapped into the electric chair again. This time the hood was put over my head, so I could not anticipate when the clamps would be applied, when the water was splashed over me, or when the electric shock was coming. It just seemed to increase the intensity of the experience, and I realised I was actually dripping with sexual excitement before the first shock. When it hit me, I immediately climaxed, which shocked me as much as the jolt of electricity. I didn’t seem to come down from the high either, so that when the next shock hit me, I came again, even more intensely this time, the climax lasting throughout the time the electricity was coursing through me, as I screamed at the top of my voice. A third and fourth jolt had the same effect and I was out of my mind with intense pain and extreme pleasure. I lost track of what was going on, seeming to be permanently at the point of orgasm or in the middle of it. At some point they stopped and dragged me away, but I had no recollection of it.
On day four, as I was brought into the room, I was terrified of being put back in the chair but somehow I also craved it. The pain was almost unbearable but the experience was so intense it was like a drug. However, on this occasion they didn’t put me in the chair, but tied my wrists together in front of me and hoisted me up onto my toes, so I was stretched up towards the ceiling. A guard then attached a rope to my left ankle and pulled my leg up behind me, until it was virtually behind my head, and tied the rope to the ring just above my head that my wrists were tied to. He then tied a rope into my hair and attached that to the ring as well, so my head was pulled back. I was left balancing on the toes of my right foot like a naked ballerina for several minutes, until every muscle in my body seemed to be protesting, before the interrogator walked into the room. He took his time at the desk arranging his papers before he casually strolled over to me and started the inevitable questions I couldn’t understand or answer. I just started to cry and shake my head, I knew there was nothing I could say.
After a while, he took the riding crop from his belt and started to flick it hard against my bare pussy, interjecting more questions. I cried out as each blow struck home with unerring accuracy, causing the maximum of pain as my tortured lips swelled due to the beating, but also due to the seemingly inevitable rise in my level of stimulation and the flow of juices, which were soon dribbling down the inside of my thigh. My leg was starting to tremble now with the stress of supporting my weight and I had to flex my knee to relieve the pain, even though that just transferred the stress to my shoulders and my other hip joint. I let out a full-blooded cry as without warning the interrogator swiped the crop down hard across my buttocks, before returning to torturing my cunt. After a couple of minutes of this, another unexpected blow, this time hard across my breasts, had me screaming again.
The interrogator barked an order and a guard responded by tying a rope around the ankle of my standing leg and pulling it until it left the ground and he could tie it up behind me with the other one. I was now hanging by my wrists, ankles and hair, with an unbearable strain on my shoulders and hips. The guard strapped a spreader bar between my knees to force my thighs apart, before the interrogator returned to his questioning. At the same time, another guard attached clamps to my nipples and started hanging lead weights from them, gradually dragging my breasts and nipples further towards the floor while making the clamps bite deeper and harder. I saw a guard with a pole, on the end of which was a large fat dildo. This was probably what had been used on me the other day and I soon felt it shoved into me with little care or attention and begin thrusting back and forth. As before, it seemed to be perfect at stimulating my G-spot and it was only seconds before I was screaming in orgasm. The torture went on, more weights on my nipples, more thrashing of the crop, more thrusting of the dildo, forcing me to come again and again and again. Eventually they lowered me to the floor and I lay there, crying in agony as the stress was relieved from my joints. I had to be carried back to my cell.
The next day, I was back in the chair, being electrocuted and forced to climax over and over, like some kind of animal responding to a stimulus. I felt so ashamed of myself, that I would respond in such a desperately nymphomaniac way to what was torture treatment. But I also knew I was hooked, like an addict needing my high, and what a high it was! I was getting to the point where just strapping me down and hooding me was almost enough to make me cum! I was almost disappointed when they released me.
The next time I was in the room – day 6? I had no idea – I was once again hung up by my wrists. But this time, they tied rope around the base of each of my breasts, then tied the other end to the corresponding ankle (left breast to left ankle, right breast to right ankle) with my legs raised to about the kneeling position. This meant I was hanging in mid-air trying to hold up my legs so they didn’t pull on my breasts. They added nipple clamps so that every pull on my breasts intensified the pain felt through the clamps as well as on my breasts themselves. I was twisting and turning on the rope with the effort and, when they brought out the pole with the dildo, shoved it into my cunt and attached it to the floor beneath me, I found that every twist and turn was making the dildo drive up, pull out or twist around inside me. They brought out another pole and shoved this one into my ass, just intensifying all the stimulation. Now I was stimulating myself and I was soon bringing myself to a glorious climax. The questioning seemed almost perfunctory now and I paid little attention as I jiggled about on the rope, torturing myself to another orgasm and then another. I felt the flogger hitting me across the back, but it only made everything more intense as I drove myself onto the dildos heedless of the pain I was causing myself. Eventually they released me, but I felt only disappointment and resentment that they had stopped me.
The next day I was almost desperate to get to the torture room. But instead of taking us to the quarry to work, we stopped in the woods and everyone except me was handed a shovel. I was dragged away and suspended by my wrists from a nearby tree, so I could watch. The other inmates were ordered to dig a trench, which was eventually about seven foot long and four or five feet deep. It was only when I saw two guards carrying what was very obviously a coffin into the clearing that I realised what was going on – this was my grave and I was going to be buried alive! By this time I was completely convinced this place was for real and that, through some terrible case of mistaken identity, I had become imprisoned in an official government-backed interrogation camp, so I was not thinking ‘oh how lovely, it’s my fantasy’, I was thinking ‘oh my God, they’ve run out of patience with me and are going to kill me’!
“Please!” I screamed, only vaguely understandable past the bit gag, “I’ll do anything! Sign anything! I did it, whatever you want me to say, I’ll say it, just don’t do this!”
The guards ignored my pleas but took me down from the tree and dragged me to the box. They forced me into it, locking the collar and manacles to the sides, so I could still move but not get out. I thrashed from side to side uselessly and screamed for mercy as they daubed something onto my face and body with a brush. I got a taste of it on my lips and it was incredibly sweet – I had no idea why they would do this, but it just added to my fear. I could see the frightened looks on the faces of the other women, but the guards were impassive as they put ropes on the sides of the box so it could be lowered into the hole.
Then they closed the lid. It was in two parts – bottom half wooden and top half, over my face, thick perspex so I could see out. I watched helplessly as they padlocked the lid shut and did some other preparations [they were attaching air lines to either end – David] , whilst I was still screaming myself hoarse inside. I saw them making the women pick up the ropes and then the casket was lifted off the ground, manoeuvred over the hole and then jerkily lowered. As I looked up through the coffin, I could see the outline of the hole against the sky and the women gathered around it, looking down at me. I thought I could see some of them crying as the guards made them pick up the shovels again and, I guessed, ordered them to start shovelling earth back in. I saw one woman refuse and drop her shovel, but she was beaten by several of the guards until she picked it up again and started to work.
I screamed as the first grains of soil fell on the perspex window above me. I fought against the chains holding me and pushed at the coffin lid, but it was no use. I could hear the dirt landing on the coffin, building up all around it. Gradually, the window started to be covered and I could see less and less, until finally, everything went black and I was truly buried. I could hear the earth still being shovelled on top for a few minutes and then everything was silent.
So this is it, I thought, I am going to die! The air quickly warmed up, making me think I was running out of oxygen, although it was probably more to do with me hyperventilating and sweating. I couldn’t believe that I’d fantasised about this very thing and now, here I was, experiencing the full horror of the real thing! I was weeping uncontrollably, huge sobs shaking my body, and trying to hug myself to give myself some illusion of comfort. I would never see David again, I thought, never hold him, hug him, kiss him, suck his cock, feel him tying me up, tighter and tighter until I can hardly breathe, then fucking me hard, harder, making me cum over and over and OVER! I realised my fingers had slid into my wet cunt and I was bringing myself off as I lay there, imprisoned, encased, ENTOMBED! I climaxed long and hard as I succumbed to the fantasy of being buried alive and tried to ignore the reality.
As I lay there in the pitch black, another thought occurred to me – I wasn’t dead yet. Surely I would have used up all the oxygen by now, especially with all the screaming and hyperventilating, plus that orgasm had lasted a while. I couldn’t put my hands above my head, but I reached down with my toes to the end of the box and was sure I could feel cool air and a hole. I guessed they didn’t actually want me to die, this was part of my torture! They were trying to break me with this new terror!
Once I had realised that, I started to feel a lot less frightened and a lot more turned on. Here I was, finally, buried alive, my number one fantasy, with no idea why or by who or when they would let me out – the ultimate damsel in distress scenario I had imagined and described to David. That should maybe have rung some bells in my head, but I had been here a week, sleep deprived, starved, tortured – I wasn’t going to be at my sharpest, was I? All I had to do now, I reasoned, was to lie back and wait. Once I knew it was another attempt to torture me, I was, in a funny way, in control – I knew I could take it. I explored what I could of my prison with my fingers and toes, but my chains kept me from reaching very far. But I could reach my crotch, and I couldn’t stop myself from touching myself, keeping myself near the edge of orgasm but not pushing myself over it, until ... AAAAH! I couldn’t resist it!
The “coffin” was wired with night-vision cameras and microphone so we could see and hear exactly what Jenny was up to. I was initially very concerned at her level of panic and fear, but it soon became obvious that she had overcome her initial terror and was now enjoying herself, in a very physical way! I discussed it with the director of The Company and we agreed that we should inject a little danger and uncertainty back into her mind. As always, they had already thought ahead and were well prepared.
I don’t know how long I had been down there – several hours I would guess – but I was now relaxed enough to doze off. I wondered idly how long they would keep me here before, presumably, digging me up and trying some other torture technique to break me.
I felt a tickle on my toe and reflexively shook my leg. Within seconds, I could feel something, hundreds of insects swarming up my leg! I let out a scream – I hate any insects on me, I’ll normally run a mile when a wasp or a spider is anywhere near me – and tried to shake or brush them off, but there were too many and I couldn’t reach them, given my restricted movement in the chains. Suddenly there was something in my hair and swarming over my face! I was screaming in terror once again as I shook my head frantically from side to side, unable to wipe them away and feeling them crawling over my tightly shut eyelids, at the edge of my nostrils, even onto my lips, clamped as tightly as possible over the bit gag to prevent them getting into my mouth.
Bastards, I suddenly thought, fucking bastards! They had daubed sweet, sugary syrup on me to attract ants and now they were all over me. I realised they had concentrated on painting it over my face, breasts and cunt so that was where they were teeming now, driving me insane. It was another level of torture but recognising it as such didn’t make it any less horrible! I wondered if the ants had found their own way to me or had been tipped into the air tubes at either end of the box. I was startled to feel the odd nip of pincers as the ants greedily lapped up the sugar. I realised I would get no respite from this bizarre assault until they had exhausted the supply of food on me and did my best to ignore their little feet running all over my body, but I couldn’t help squirming under their touch and letting out the odd yelp of discomfort.
Once they had “cleaned” my face and stopped trying to get into my cunt, I was able to handle the reduced traffic across my skin with a little more equanimity. I was eventually able to relax enough to doze again, once more with my sticky little fingers playing with my sticky little cunt.
It must have been a few hours later, I had been asleep, it was feeling hot and a little stuffy, when I felt something cold on my foot. I jerked it back as a reflex, fearing another insect attack, or maybe even animal – worms, rats? But I realised it was something different and tentatively poked my toe back towards the end of the box. With a rather sickening feeling, I realised I could feel a little water on the bottom, just a puddle, but I couldn’t tell whether it was getting deeper or not. With a sense of shock, I realised my hair was now also wet – water was leaking in from the other end as well!
What did this mean, I wondered. Was someone pouring water into the air pipes above to torment me? Or, worse, was it raining on the surface and the rain was falling into the pipes or leaking into the tubes? I tried to tell myself it was just another attempt to unsettle me, but I couldn’t get the thought out of the back of my mind that it was something unexpected, something out of their control and therefore out of anyone’s control, which made it far more scary and, perversely, far more erotic.
I couldn’t feel the water coming in or hear anything, but after maybe half an hour, there was a thin covering of water underneath me, from one end of the box to the other. Very gradually, almost imperceptibly, it was getting deeper. I could feel it cold against my back, between my buttocks. Maybe an hour later, when I moved around in the box, I could hear it splashing and feel it moving against me as little waves came back off the sides. I was shivering now, partly from the chilling effect of the water, partly from the fear that I was going to drown!
I lay perfectly still for what seemed like hours trying to detect any rise in the water level, but it seemed to have stopped at about three inches deep. Gradually I relaxed as the fear of imminent death receded and, despite the fact that I had been doing nothing other than alternately dozing and panicking for hours and that I was lying in freezing water (gradually warmed by my body heat), I fell asleep.
I remember dreaming that I was on Titanic and Leonardo Di Caprio was kissing me, I was posing naked, we were making love. Then the iceberg struck and we were in the water, but Leo was on the wreckage and I was in the icy water, slipping under, trying to get out ...
Imagine waking up in the pitch black, not remembering where you are, to feel yourself lying in water and coughing, choking and spluttering from water in your mouth and nostrils. You try to get up but your arms are chained down, you lift your head but bump it on the inside of a coffin lid ...
Not surprisingly, I panicked and screamed, thrashing about in the water, my heart pounding. After a few seconds I remembered where I was and calmed down enough to realise the water was deeper than when I had gone to sleep – if I lay my head down, it was in my ears and against my cheeks. As I steadied my nerves and stopped splashing, I could hear the sound of water running – not just dripping – out of the pipes at either end and into the main body of water. This time I really did freak out because I could feel the level rising, there were literally no more than nine inches between the surface and the lid of my coffin.
I started crying and shouting for help, to whom I did not know, I didn’t expect to be rescued – how would they know I was drowning underground. For some reason, and I know it wasn’t because I expected it to make any difference, I started humming and trying to sing the Marseillaise, my “safe” word / song. Maybe it was a comfort thing, maybe I really thought magic would happen and David would appear to rescue me.
But I heard a faint noise somewhere above me and I shouted out the song at the top of my voice. I was sure I heard digging, my hopes rose, and then I heard a clang as something – a shovel – hit the lid above me. There was a scrabbling sound as earth was pushed away by hand, light suddenly started to flood into the box, blinding me. By the time I could open my eyes, there was a square of sky above me and a face, which was silhouetted against the sky, but somehow I knew it was David. I heard the locks on the side of the coffin and then the lid opened and I heard his voice, soothing, reassuring as he unlocked me from the sides of the box.
As soon as I could move, I threw my arms around him and held on tight, weeping tears of relief and exhaustion into his neck. He lifted me out of the water and up onto the grass, out in the fresh air and sunlight. I wouldn’t let him go as he awkwardly tried to remove the gag and shackles from me and, once I was finally free, we lay on the ground, holding each other, him gently reassuring me, me telling him between sobs how much I loved him.
He had a bath robe which he wrapped me up in and, rather bizarrely, a golf buggy to ride in. I took a good look into my “grave” to take in the details of the scene and I felt the excitement rise in my tired body – already I was rationalising it as the greatest turn-on rather than a life-threatening experience. David had to steer the buggy with one hand as I wouldn’t let him go.
As we came around the corner, I saw we were heading for the chateau and had a panic attack.
“Oh God, David, we can’t go back there! They’ll torture me again!” My befuddled and tired brain had still not worked out what was really going on here.
“It’s okay, darling,” David reassured me, “I’ve sorted it all out. We have a beautiful room and a hot shower to look forward to, no more torture.”
I decided to just put my trust in him and stop thinking about it for myself for a while.
It was indeed a beautiful room and I spent hours under the shower, letting the fear and tension, aches and pains just leave my body under the hot water. I insisted David get in there with me, touch me, wash me, kiss me, fondle me and, after a while, lift me up and fuck me slowly and sensually up against the shower tiles as the water ran down our bodies. It was make-up sex of the highest order!
Eventually we got out and I sprawled out on the bed, totally relaxed for the first time in over a week. There was a knock at the door, which suddenly put me on edge again, but David calmed me and answered it. It was a waiter with a room service trolley, laden with fruit, champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
“Guten tag, Frau Harrison, wie gets Sie?” the waiter said and I suddenly realised it was my interrogator, the man who had given me such pain and such incredible orgasms! I was flustered, but he and David were both smiling and I relaxed again, finally understanding that it had all been a very elaborate, very convincing role-play game.
On the trolley was a DVD and David put it in the player so we could watch it on the large screen TV. It was a full 2-hour movie of my stay at the chateau, from the moment when I was unloaded from the boot of the car to the moment David released me from the ground. They had all the incidents covered – slopping out, working in the quarry, my individual torture sessions, even the night-time assaults in the cell, using night-vision cameras. Then came the burial and the shock of seeing and hearing myself in the coffin! I would have been embarrassed if I hadn’t been such an exhibitionist. Watching the DVD really turned me on and I insisted David tie me to the bed and fuck me till he couldn’t do it anymore. I was impressed by how long he kept going, interspersing full-on sex with foreplay and cunnilingus to make it last and to drive me wild. After that, we had to have another shower.
We then dressed for dinner – I was shocked to find out there was a 5-star restaurant in the chateau! Apparently the food I had been served may have been made to be vile-looking and tasting, but it was nutritionally designed to ensure I didn’t starve, while feeling starved at all times. David had bought me new, sexy underwear and a wonderful strapless evening dress for the occasion.
“Happy anniversary, darling, you look ravishing!” he said as we went down.
“You can ravish me later,” I smiled.
There was a single, large table in the restaurant and all the guests sat together. They were all men, the partners of the women currently locked away in the cells below. Just before we sat down, another couple came in and I saw, to my surprise, that the woman was none other than the black woman who had arrived with me! We hugged and kissed like long lost sisters, then spent the entire meal chatting about our experiences. It was her third visit to the chateau and she had enjoyed her time immensely, although my burial had given her some ideas for the next visit.
Copyright© 2014 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.