linda r
Governor
Hello, and welcome to my rack...thread, that is.
I have been a rack fanatic since I was eleven, and I saw the Rack scene in "The Tower of London" with good ole' Vincent Price. (Funny but when he went to the torture chamber, he went down a flight of spooky stairs...not up to the tower. Ah well...victims can't be choosers.)In any case, I realize that this forum is dedicated to Crux fantasies,and I thank the powers that be for allowing me to, ah...stretch the limits of this forum. To them I am grateful, to the bottom of my dungeon.
I invite all to participate in this forum, whether to commend or condemn, whether it's your thing or not. Any voice is worth hearing, as I have found amongst the varied, colorful inhabitants of this forum. You have made me feel welcome, and again, I thank you.
I think that's enough apple polishing, don't you?
So, now to work.
I have written several stories that deal with torture on the rack. I will start with the first chapter of the first one I wrote about ten years ago...I hope you all enjoy it. Linda
THE MARQUIS AND I: A BAROQUE BEDTIME STORY
(Or, if it’s not baroque, don’t fix it!)
I. In the early hours of the evening in his private, well equipped dungeon, the Marquis deGuiche, splendidly attired in a black silk dressing robe, is seated on a small footstool in front of a set of heavy, wooden feet-stocks. On the other side of which, facing him and smiling, sits a beautiful woman on a long, low, wooden platform; her black, sheer-stockinged legs spread wide, straddled over either side. Her outer garments have been...removed, revealing a laced up satin bodice, and a pair of sheer, black panties which barely contains her voluptuous figure. Her graceful neck and delicate wrists are snugly imprisoned within the receiving openings of a long wooden pillory, holding up her arms wide, parallel to her head. The device rests across the expanse of her bare shoulders, and a hefty, heart-shaped padlock dangling from one end, secures all. A short, thick iron bar with small metal rings at either end hangs up above her; attached at its center to a thick chain which disappears into a dark aperture in the vaulted stone ceiling. Her great mane of vibrant red hair has been parted neatly down the middle, and tightly twisted into two lengthy braids, which drape over the pillory, halfway down either side of her back, like thick, satin ropes. Rich, emerald-green velvet ribbons tie up the ends with two tight bows, giving her the appearance of a naughty schoolgirl who is being disciplined, or if taken into accounts the “torture chamber” setting, a witch being “coerced” into a confession. It is obvious that the Marquis preferred the latter, as he took great pains in the quality of the instruments that he commissioned by the finest wood-workers in the land.
He raises the top section of the silently waiting stocks, and she giggles, lifting her shapely legs, and extending them towards the grinning Marquis. She suspends her feet in front of him, teasingly making circles in the air, and then leisurely lowers them into the two small, half-moon shaped notches set side-by-side in the center. But before he can secure their captivity, she swiftly withdraws them, chuckling mischievously. She repeats this titillating entertainment several times, alternating her feet from the center notches, to two others located at the opposite ends of the wide wooden frame. He finally captures her in the center holes, clamping the dark, sinister wood tightly around her slender ankles. Then, deftly producing two additional padlocks, securely locks either side of the two halves together with sharp, metallic snaps.
She frowns in mock dismay and protests theatrically, tossing her head; her hands and feet twisting against the stout, unyielding wooden restraints. At that moment, he draws out two long, wide strips of cloth from his pocket, one of which he rolls into a ball. She grins broadly, licking her full, burgundy-tinted lips seductively with her long, skillful tongue. With one hand he firmly grasps the dangling ends of both braids, and pulling her head back beyond the confines of the pillory, leans in and kisses her feverishly, his probing tongue penetrating deep into her warm mouth. After a moment of false security, she bites down, trapping his startled tongue between her teeth and sniggers, not intending to relinquish it.
After a few moments of playful struggle, he reaches down into her bodice with his free hand, and squeezes one of her generously proportioned nipples between his fingers, causing her to gasp and release her hostage.
He swiftly stuffs the ball forcefully into her astonished mouth, and winds the second strip closely around the back of her neck and across the front of her now completely sealed orifice, tying the two ends with a tight knot. Then using the ribbons in her long braids, he hoists them up above her head, lashing them securely to the rings at either end of the ominous iron bar hanging above her. These crucial tasks completed, he reaches down again and seizing both her semi-erect nipples, begins squeezing and twisting them, as his voluptuous prisoner squeals in exhilaration through the coarse fabric. He then begins stretching them towards him, pulling her heavy, pendulous breasts out of the confines of her bodice, and then suddenly releasing them, allowing them to spring back to their original alluring attitudes. Moments later, from deep in her throat, she moans her arousal as his tongue flicks across her tingling nipples, his mouth sucking eagerly, like a greedy infant, his teeth giving little bites all over her enlarged aureole.
Her moaning stops, and her eyes widen abruptly as he sits back down on the stool, and starts to unlace her large, stylish shoes, slowly removing first one then the other, revealing sheer, thigh length white stockings. His breathing becomes shallower as she seductively rubs her long, size ten feet together, sliding them back and forth over each other, slowly at first, then faster and faster, then finally arching them up, inviting him to do his worst. A small stiletto appears, and he delicately inserts it between her first and second toes, puncturing the fragile fabric of each. Her restricted hands clutch at the air, as she struggles fearfully, yet excitedly, for she can only imagine what ordeals lie ahead for her helpless feet.
He slowly slides his fingers in and out of the tiny slits, and then suddenly rends the material asunder, revealing her perfectly manicured toes, with their polished, burgundy-colored nails that shine in the glow of the wall sconces around them. His heart begins to pound and his breathing becomes more rapid as he clenches the fabric with his teeth, slowly but surely peeling first one, then the other down to her heels, laying bare her silky-smooth soles. His energetic tongue dances across their width, and she squeals again, arousing him to marble hardness by arching them up, and spreading her long, tantalizing toes, allowing him access to the sensitive spots between them, then clenching them in futile defense. He moves his hands closer, and she begins to giggle in earnest, flexing and fanning her feet as he nimbly fondles and strokes their soft, sensitive undersides with his fingers, playing her like a musical instrument. Her muffled laughter becomes more pronounced as he begins to trace around their surface with two stiff, black raven feathers; slowly, torturously criss-crossing her unprotected soles as he travels up and down their lengths over and over and over again. She desperately twitches her feet back and forth in spastic gyrations in order to escape, but it only arouses him further, as he tickles them faster and more feverishly, causing her to twist and toss her head in near hysteria.
He continues torturing her bare feet in this manner for a full hour: ignoring her muted pleas for mercy, and intensifying her suffering by alternating from feathers to fingers to stiff-bristle brushes that scrape her smooth arches, the balls of her feet and finally, to her soft, round heels, where tiny brushes used for dental hygiene hurl her to near insanity. Gasping and crying through the gag, soaking with sweat, she begs for him to stop the merciless tickling, tears rolling down her cheeks, a pleading look in her water-bright eyes. And for a moment, he does, but only long enough to retrieve from his robe, a small piece of equipment, which bears a resemblance to a miniature set of stocks, with one set of receiving openings, for either thumbs or toes; only instead of being hinged at one end, these have a screw through the middle that allows the two halves to be joined. He presents the device for her inspection, and she shudders, pleading pathetically through the gag as he slowly turns the screw, closing the two halves of the stocks around the bases of her feebly struggling big toes, locking them tightly together. He then affixes the devices center to a short length of fine chain, which, in its turn, is wound around a slim, ratcheted metal cylinder, which runs the length of the top of the stocks. He begins to turn a small crank at on end, rotating the cylinder, and with every click of the ratchet, he pulls her captive toes relentlessly upward, stretching her now lusciously crimson-colored soles; rendering them completely defenseless to some of his more imaginative torments.
He sighs, sits back on the stool to admire this delicious sight before him, then leans forward and for the next thirty minutes, continues cruelly tickling her now perfectly immobilized feet; paying strict attention to her wildly twitching toes by drawing long peacock feathers slowly back and forth between them, then brushing both of her besieged soles with twin curry combs used for grooming horses. The woman shrieks, howls, and thrashes about, violently rattling the chain fastened to her braids. Finally, the Marquis stops, smiles gently, rises, and walks over to a large, wooden wheel set into the stonewall of the dungeon. She tries to plead, but the saliva-swollen gag prevents it, as he rotates the wheel and the heavy chain begins to ascend into the ceiling, pulling on her tightly bound braids, and stretching her by the neck. She cries out with distress as he gives the wheel one final half-turn, which lifts her a full six inches off the platform on which she had been sitting. Then satisfied with the height of her suspension, (and the futility of her cries), he locks the wheel into position, and resumes his position on the stool, where he torturously scratches up and down her high arches, and just below her toes with the sharp ends of two quill pens. Her expressive eyes open wide with horror and she emits a long, high-pitched wail as the prickling sensations at her feet, like bolts of lightening, cause involuntary spasms to shoot through her body, and her hands to claw helplessly at the empty air. After many minutes of this intense torture, he moves to a small table off to the side, where he lights two new candles in antique silver holders, placing them side by side on the footstool, uncomfortably close to the front of the stocks.
He leans over and kisses his victim tenderly on the forehead, running his tongue down her elongated neck, then retires into another room at the far end of the chamber, closing the heavy, metal bound door behind him, leaving her hanging there; alone in the soft glow of the torches around her, and the sharp agony of the hungry flames, licking at her feet.
