darthagonoth
Executioner
Septimus (1)
While still looking at my face, her right hand now reached my already half-erect penis. Her touch is practiced and firm, her grip irresistible even in my vulnerable state. In her hand, my cock responds swiftly, thickening and lengthening with each racing heartbeat until it's fully erect, standing out proudly against the hollow of my abs.
The casual touch of her hand on my most vulnerable parts sends conflicting signals through my body—panic, pain, and to my horror, a potent wave of arousal. Her fingers, both soft and firm, manipulate my most sensitive flesh with an expertise that sends jolts of electricity through my nervous system.
I can feel every ridge of her palm, every subtle movement of her fingers as they explore my now fully engorged length, throbbing with a conflicting mix of trepidation and undeniable arousal. The warmth of her hand contrasts sharply with the cool air of the room, intensifying every sensation. My breath catches in my throat as I struggle against the overwhelming physical response, my heart pounding so hard I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
As if reading my thoughts, Lia chuckles softly, her warm breath ghosting over my skin and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my body.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," she continues, her face merely an inch from mine, our noses and lips nearly touching, her warm breath entering my mouth. "The body often betrays the mind in situations like this. It's part of what makes this… you… so... good."
Her grip tightens around my fully erect cock, a reminder of her absolute control. Despite my best efforts to resist, my body responds to her touch, a physiological reaction at odds with my mental anguish. The scent of our mingled arousal fills the air, a primal undercurrent to the tension between us.
Lia's steely gaze fixes on me as she steps away, and goes to the steel table. I can hear the zipper of the duffel bags and she starts to unpack something. Each click and rustle of the black duffel bags fills the oppressive silence, making my heart pound louder. I crane my neck, lifting and turning my head to see what she's extracting from those ominous bags, but my view is obscured. The sound of metal clinking against metal sends jolts of apprehension through my veins.
She carefully extracts a smaller steel rolling wound dressing trolley and begins packing it with an array of ominous medical tools. The process is slow, each item methodically placed on the trolley—syringes, IV lines, antiseptics, clamps, and assorted vials. The shuffle of instruments and the occasional snap of latex gloves echo in the stillness, amplifying the tension.
Finally, she wheels the trolley next to me, and for the first time, I can see the tools clearly. My gut tightens at the sight of needles, tubes, and bags of fluid, all arrayed neatly and with purpose. The overhead light catches on the steel and glass, casting sharp reflections that send shivers down my spine. The mingling scent of antiseptic and sterile plastic fills the air, a harsh contrast to the faint, warm odor of the furnace.
Lia returns, carrying a meter-long metal pole. She inserts it into the right upper corner of the bed, the gentle scrape of metal against metal sending a shiver down my spine. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough to taste alongside the metallic tang lingering in the air.
"Alright," she says in a steady voice. "I'm going to insert an IV line into your neck.” She taps the side of my neck. “Into the external jugular vein, to be precise."
"Wh-why?" I manage to stammer, my voice barely a whisper.
"So you don't get dehydrated," she explains calmly, almost soothingly. "Maintaining your body's fluid balance is crucial under stress."
Her reassurance does little to quell the fear coursing through me. I watch, wide-eyed, as she dons fresh gloves, snapping them into place with a smooth, practiced motion. The cold, sanitizing scent of alcohol permeates the air as she swabs the area on my neck, the swish of the wipes startlingly loud in the still room.
Her fingers search for the vein with skill, as if she has done this countless times. The needle's thin tip pricks my skin, followed by a brief sting that quickly subsides. Despite my fear, there's an odd sense of relief knowing it was done so efficiently. She tapes the cannula securely in place, ensuring it won't move or cause discomfort.
"Now, I'm going to connect this IV bag," she says, showing me Hartmann's solution. "This solution will help replenish your fluids and electrolytes quickly," her tone reassuring yet clinical.
She connects the IV line to the bag and adjusts the flow rate to fast drip. Almost immediately, I feel the cool fluid coursing through my vein, spreading throughout my body, seeping into my tissues, and bringing a soothing, refreshing relief to my parched, aching form.
The hydration ignites a burst of vitality within me, almost euphoric after the relentless stress and dehydration. The coolness spreads like a comforting breeze, calming my racing heart and easing the tightness in my chest. Each drop from the IV bag feels like a lifeline, a momentary respite in this nightmarish situation.
"See? That wasn't so bad," Lia murmurs, her voice soft and almost maternal. She pats the IV line gently, ensuring everything is functioning correctly before standing back to observe.
The cool fluid continues to flow, bringing waves of comfort and a strange sense of calm to my weary body. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, there's a fleeting sense of peace, an island of tranquility in an ocean of terror. When the bag empties, Lia attaches another to the line, then sits down on the steel chair near the furnace.
The fast, rhythmic drip of the IV and the distant hum of the furnace create a hypnotic lullaby, and I feel my eyelids growing heavy. My mind, exhausted from the constant state of alertness, begins to drift, teetering on the edge of consciousness. For a brief moment, I almost slip into a shallow slumber, my body gratefully surrendering to the pull of sleep.
The scrape of Lia's chair against the floor shakes me from my near-slumber, my heart immediately racing as adrenaline floods my system. My eyes snap open to see her preparing a syringe, her movements precise and unhurried.
"Wh-what's that?" I stammer, my voice hoarse with fear and fatigue.
Lia glances up, a small smile playing on her lips. "Just a little something to keep things interesting," she replies cryptically.
"Please," I beg, straining against my restraints, "tell me what it is. I need to know."
She approaches, syringe in hand, her eyes glittering with a mix of professional detachment and sadistic anticipation. "You'll see soon enough," she says softly, almost tenderly.
I try to plead one last time, my voice barely above a whisper.
She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear. "Shh," she soothes, her free hand gently stroking my hair. "Just relax and let it happen. Trust me, you won't want to miss what comes next."
With swift, efficient movements, she injects the contents of the syringe into my IV line. The cool rush of the new substance entering my bloodstream is immediate and startling.
Within moments, a surge of energy begins to spread from my chest, radiating outward through my body. The sensation is unexpectedly invigorating, as the mental murk evaporates, leaving a startling lucidity. My awareness sharpens, every sense becoming more acute and focused.
"What have you done to me?" I gasp, my words tumbling out in a rush as I struggle to coordinate my thoughts with my suddenly overactive mind.
She leans in close, her eyes sparkle with excitement. "I've woken you up," she smiles, her voice a mix of clinical detachment and satisfaction. "It's my own special stimulant cocktail. I want you fully awake and at peak stamina for what's coming."
As the drug courses through my system, I become acutely aware of a new sensation. My muscles, previously fatigued and aching, seem to tighten and define themselves, as if responding to an intense workout. The contours of my body become more pronounced, even pumped, every sinew and curve suddenly sharp and visible.
Lia's eyes widen slightly, a look of obvious pleasure crossing her face. She approaches me slowly, her gaze traveling over my newly defined physique. Her fingers trail along my arm, tracing the now prominent lines of my bicep.
"My, my," she coos, her voice a mix of clinical observation and undisguised appreciation. "Look at how beautifully you're responding. Every muscle, every fiber... it's like you're a living anatomy chart."
I can't help but look down at myself, surprised by the transformation. My abdominal muscles are clearly defined, my chest more prominent. Even my quads, stretched taut by my position, show increased definition.
"What's happening?" I ask, my voice a mix of awe and concern.
Lia's fingers continue their exploration, moving across my chest and down to my stomach. "It's enhancing your physical attributes. Increasing blood flow, tightening muscles, and fortifying nerves."
She pauses, her hand resting on my abdomen. "You're becoming a perfect specimen for what's to come. Every sensation will be sharpened, every touch defined."
The cool air of the room seems to caress my skin with newfound intensity, sending shivers through my overstimulated nerves. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between Lia's fingers and my skin, each touch sending shockwaves of sensation through my body.
"How does it feel?" Lia asks, her eyes locked on mine.
"Intense," I manage to reply, my breath coming faster. "Everything feels... more."
She nods, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Good. That's exactly what we want. You'll experience everything I have planned for you with a penetrating clarity."
As she speaks, I notice that even my awareness of the restraints has changed. The pressure of the manacles, the stretch of my limbs, all feel more pronounced, more immediate. It's as if my body has become a finely tuned instrument, ready to register every nuance of sensation.
Her fingers trace the soft skin of my scrotum with an almost tender touch. "You already know what will happen next," she says softly, her voice a mix of sterile detachment and perverse curiosity. "Would you like to know how?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry with fear. "Yes," I whisper, dreading the answer but unable to resist asking.
Lia's eyes lock onto mine, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths. "Alright then, here's a question for you, little author," she says, her tone almost playful. "Do testicles become more or less sensitive to electrical torture following after being beaten?"
Horror floods through me, my mind reeling at the implications. I can't speak, can't even form coherent thoughts as panic threatens to overwhelm me.
"Well?" Lia demands, her voice hardening.
I struggle to find my voice, terror making it difficult to think clearly. "I... I guess... more?" My words tremble with fear and I hate how weak they sound.
A small smile plays on Lia's lips. "Perhaps," she muses. "but without proper empirical data, this is mere speculation."
As she speaks, she moves away, pushing the trolley back to the steel table with the duffel bags. I watch, heart pounding, as she discards the medical tools and begins packing new, more sinister items onto the cart.
When she returns, my breath catches in my throat. On the trolley sits a larger electrical device, its face covered in switches and dials. Multiple cables snake out from its back end, now facing me. I recognize it immediately - an electro box used for torture. Lia plugs the box into an extender cord, and the lights flicker to life, each illuminated dial a promise of pain to come. She continues talking as she sets up, her voice calm and measured, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.
”You see," she explains, "torturers, interrogators, often hit, beat, or kick the balls of their subjects before moving on to electro torture. Some believe the swelling from the beating dampens the effect of the electricity." She pauses, meeting my gaze."I disagree, but we need proof. So I've designed an experiment."
My mind races, trying to process her words through the haze of fear. I want to protest, to beg, but I'm frozen, unable to do anything but listen as she outlines her horrific plan.
"First, I'll electrocute both your balls to establish a baseline," Lia continues, her tone almost enthusiastic. "I need to see what intensity, frequency, and pulse width results in what reactions to establish a taseline. It’s all a bit technical, but you needn’t worry about that.
“Then, I'll beat one of your balls with this." She holds up a firm leather tool, like a paddle, about twenty inches long. "After that, we'll reapply the electricity and compare the results."
I feel as my face grows deadly white as she describes the process. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow, panic clawing at my chest.
"For the other testicle," Lia says, her eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity, "we'll vary the strength and speed of the beating before applying the electricity again. You'll need to answer certain test questions about your pain levels throughout the experiment."
She leans in close, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Make no mistake. If you don't cooperate, we may need to repeat the entire test. And I'm sure neither…okay, one of us definitely doesn’t want that, right?"
As Lia continues her preparations, I'm left with a profound sense of dread and helplessness. The night stretches ahead, filled with the promise of unimaginable pain, all in the name of Lia's twisted experiment.
The sheer weight of my impending ordeal seizes me, my mind fixating on the terrifying prospect of ball torture. In a puny attempt at “research” while writing my stories, I had experimented with inflicting pain on my own genitals. But those feeble attempts were laughably inadequate, barely scratching the surface of the agony I now face.
I recall the tentative taps I'd given myself, the slow, rhythmic strikes that had sent deep, dull waves of pain radiating through my balls. Even that minor discomfort had been enough to make me whimper, my resolve crumbling at the slightest touch. "Please don't," I had begged an imaginary tormentor, unable to continue even in the safety of my own room.
Now, faced with the reality of what's to come, I'm acutely aware of how unprepared I truly am. My amateur "research" seems almost comical in the face of the techniques Lia might employ - the cruel precision of needle insertions, the relentless compression of ball vices, or worse.
I shudder, remembering the descriptions I'd so cavalierly written - testicles swelling to the size of peaches after a beating, the excruciating pain of crushers tightened to the point of rupture. The distant, cold detachment with which I'd described the anatomy of torture now seems perversely naive.
Oh God, oh God. My stomach's doing backflips. Fuck, am I gonna scream like the people in my stories? What if I puke? How the hell am I supposed to handle what's coming? What if I can't take it? What if I beg and cry and it doesn't matter? She's really not gonna stop, is she? Well, not that I have a choice. This isn't some sick fantasy anymore. It's real. So fucking real. And I'm not ready for this shit. I thought I was in pain, but this? God, I'm such an idiot. Every breath feels like knives in my chest.
Lying here, totally exposed...The characters I wrote about were badasses. Me? I'm scared shitless. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? I'm no hero, just some loser amateur writer who got in way over his head.
The night stretches out forever. How long before I completely lose it? Lia's got that look in her eyes, like she's just getting started. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Lia walks back to the head of the bed, positioning the trolley with the electro box next to the bed upon which I'm stretched. Her movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial, as she arranges her tools. The stark light catches the sheen of sweat on her skin, highlighting the toned muscles of her arms and the curve of her breasts beneath her tank top.
"This is it, Mark," she says, her voice dripping with anticipation. "You've written about this so many times, yet you have no idea what it really feels like, do you?"
I shake my head, feeling a complex mix of shame, arousal, and dread churning in my core. The reality of my situation is far more intense than anything I could have imagined.
"Although your descriptions are fine," Lia continues, "nothing beats first-hand experience. So, in the next hours, you'll have every chance to catch up on that. A classic, well, almost classic South American parrilla torture."
Lia leans in, her proximity sending a shiver through my body. She lifts my flaccid penis, revealing my testicles. The wide metal ring, still tightened around the neck of my scrotum, hangs heavily between my spread thighs in the increasingly warm chamber. I feel her attach a wider wire to the ring, leading it along my perineal raphe. She tightens the cable, which digs into my scrotum, forcing my testicles to bulge out and apart.
Lia moves her fingers around my smoothly shaved balls, now tight as plump hens' eggs, and reaches for a white tube. With a deliberate squeeze, she extracts a generous dollop of gel, smearing it onto her fingers before massaging it onto my testicles. The initial shock of the cold gel quickly gives way to an enveloping warmth as her hands heat them up. She takes her time, massaging my balls tightly just below the pain threshold, every motion a dance of sensation that borders on torment.
After drying her hands with a towel, Lia fetches a pair of long black cables, which have four or five copper-colored metal hoops at their ends. She places each hoop with precision around my left and right testicles, adjusting the sliding locks to tighten them. The naked metal digs into my flesh, not painfully but with a firm insistence, reminiscent of how an egg slicer's wires sink into a hard-boiled egg.
The steamy chamber fills with an oppressive, electric energy as Lia's torture session unfolds. "All is set," she announces. "Here’s your first task: try to refrain from yelling or crying as long as you possibly can. I’ll know if you give in too early, and I’ll hurt you really badly if you test me. I need to know how much you can take without breaking. Don’t worry, we’ll do a few rounds."
I gulp, unsure of what to say, just trying to brace myself. Perhaps I can do this. It won’t kill me after all… I guess.
"Ready?"
The casual touch of her hand on my most vulnerable parts sends conflicting signals through my body—panic, pain, and to my horror, a potent wave of arousal. Her fingers, both soft and firm, manipulate my most sensitive flesh with an expertise that sends jolts of electricity through my nervous system.
I can feel every ridge of her palm, every subtle movement of her fingers as they explore my now fully engorged length, throbbing with a conflicting mix of trepidation and undeniable arousal. The warmth of her hand contrasts sharply with the cool air of the room, intensifying every sensation. My breath catches in my throat as I struggle against the overwhelming physical response, my heart pounding so hard I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
As if reading my thoughts, Lia chuckles softly, her warm breath ghosting over my skin and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my body.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," she continues, her face merely an inch from mine, our noses and lips nearly touching, her warm breath entering my mouth. "The body often betrays the mind in situations like this. It's part of what makes this… you… so... good."
Her grip tightens around my fully erect cock, a reminder of her absolute control. Despite my best efforts to resist, my body responds to her touch, a physiological reaction at odds with my mental anguish. The scent of our mingled arousal fills the air, a primal undercurrent to the tension between us.
Lia's steely gaze fixes on me as she steps away, and goes to the steel table. I can hear the zipper of the duffel bags and she starts to unpack something. Each click and rustle of the black duffel bags fills the oppressive silence, making my heart pound louder. I crane my neck, lifting and turning my head to see what she's extracting from those ominous bags, but my view is obscured. The sound of metal clinking against metal sends jolts of apprehension through my veins.
She carefully extracts a smaller steel rolling wound dressing trolley and begins packing it with an array of ominous medical tools. The process is slow, each item methodically placed on the trolley—syringes, IV lines, antiseptics, clamps, and assorted vials. The shuffle of instruments and the occasional snap of latex gloves echo in the stillness, amplifying the tension.
Finally, she wheels the trolley next to me, and for the first time, I can see the tools clearly. My gut tightens at the sight of needles, tubes, and bags of fluid, all arrayed neatly and with purpose. The overhead light catches on the steel and glass, casting sharp reflections that send shivers down my spine. The mingling scent of antiseptic and sterile plastic fills the air, a harsh contrast to the faint, warm odor of the furnace.
Lia returns, carrying a meter-long metal pole. She inserts it into the right upper corner of the bed, the gentle scrape of metal against metal sending a shiver down my spine. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough to taste alongside the metallic tang lingering in the air.
"Alright," she says in a steady voice. "I'm going to insert an IV line into your neck.” She taps the side of my neck. “Into the external jugular vein, to be precise."
"Wh-why?" I manage to stammer, my voice barely a whisper.
"So you don't get dehydrated," she explains calmly, almost soothingly. "Maintaining your body's fluid balance is crucial under stress."
Her reassurance does little to quell the fear coursing through me. I watch, wide-eyed, as she dons fresh gloves, snapping them into place with a smooth, practiced motion. The cold, sanitizing scent of alcohol permeates the air as she swabs the area on my neck, the swish of the wipes startlingly loud in the still room.
Her fingers search for the vein with skill, as if she has done this countless times. The needle's thin tip pricks my skin, followed by a brief sting that quickly subsides. Despite my fear, there's an odd sense of relief knowing it was done so efficiently. She tapes the cannula securely in place, ensuring it won't move or cause discomfort.
"Now, I'm going to connect this IV bag," she says, showing me Hartmann's solution. "This solution will help replenish your fluids and electrolytes quickly," her tone reassuring yet clinical.
She connects the IV line to the bag and adjusts the flow rate to fast drip. Almost immediately, I feel the cool fluid coursing through my vein, spreading throughout my body, seeping into my tissues, and bringing a soothing, refreshing relief to my parched, aching form.
The hydration ignites a burst of vitality within me, almost euphoric after the relentless stress and dehydration. The coolness spreads like a comforting breeze, calming my racing heart and easing the tightness in my chest. Each drop from the IV bag feels like a lifeline, a momentary respite in this nightmarish situation.
"See? That wasn't so bad," Lia murmurs, her voice soft and almost maternal. She pats the IV line gently, ensuring everything is functioning correctly before standing back to observe.
The cool fluid continues to flow, bringing waves of comfort and a strange sense of calm to my weary body. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, there's a fleeting sense of peace, an island of tranquility in an ocean of terror. When the bag empties, Lia attaches another to the line, then sits down on the steel chair near the furnace.
The fast, rhythmic drip of the IV and the distant hum of the furnace create a hypnotic lullaby, and I feel my eyelids growing heavy. My mind, exhausted from the constant state of alertness, begins to drift, teetering on the edge of consciousness. For a brief moment, I almost slip into a shallow slumber, my body gratefully surrendering to the pull of sleep.
The scrape of Lia's chair against the floor shakes me from my near-slumber, my heart immediately racing as adrenaline floods my system. My eyes snap open to see her preparing a syringe, her movements precise and unhurried.
"Wh-what's that?" I stammer, my voice hoarse with fear and fatigue.
Lia glances up, a small smile playing on her lips. "Just a little something to keep things interesting," she replies cryptically.
"Please," I beg, straining against my restraints, "tell me what it is. I need to know."
She approaches, syringe in hand, her eyes glittering with a mix of professional detachment and sadistic anticipation. "You'll see soon enough," she says softly, almost tenderly.
I try to plead one last time, my voice barely above a whisper.
She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear. "Shh," she soothes, her free hand gently stroking my hair. "Just relax and let it happen. Trust me, you won't want to miss what comes next."
With swift, efficient movements, she injects the contents of the syringe into my IV line. The cool rush of the new substance entering my bloodstream is immediate and startling.
Within moments, a surge of energy begins to spread from my chest, radiating outward through my body. The sensation is unexpectedly invigorating, as the mental murk evaporates, leaving a startling lucidity. My awareness sharpens, every sense becoming more acute and focused.
"What have you done to me?" I gasp, my words tumbling out in a rush as I struggle to coordinate my thoughts with my suddenly overactive mind.
She leans in close, her eyes sparkle with excitement. "I've woken you up," she smiles, her voice a mix of clinical detachment and satisfaction. "It's my own special stimulant cocktail. I want you fully awake and at peak stamina for what's coming."
As the drug courses through my system, I become acutely aware of a new sensation. My muscles, previously fatigued and aching, seem to tighten and define themselves, as if responding to an intense workout. The contours of my body become more pronounced, even pumped, every sinew and curve suddenly sharp and visible.
Lia's eyes widen slightly, a look of obvious pleasure crossing her face. She approaches me slowly, her gaze traveling over my newly defined physique. Her fingers trail along my arm, tracing the now prominent lines of my bicep.
"My, my," she coos, her voice a mix of clinical observation and undisguised appreciation. "Look at how beautifully you're responding. Every muscle, every fiber... it's like you're a living anatomy chart."
I can't help but look down at myself, surprised by the transformation. My abdominal muscles are clearly defined, my chest more prominent. Even my quads, stretched taut by my position, show increased definition.
"What's happening?" I ask, my voice a mix of awe and concern.
Lia's fingers continue their exploration, moving across my chest and down to my stomach. "It's enhancing your physical attributes. Increasing blood flow, tightening muscles, and fortifying nerves."
She pauses, her hand resting on my abdomen. "You're becoming a perfect specimen for what's to come. Every sensation will be sharpened, every touch defined."
The cool air of the room seems to caress my skin with newfound intensity, sending shivers through my overstimulated nerves. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between Lia's fingers and my skin, each touch sending shockwaves of sensation through my body.
"How does it feel?" Lia asks, her eyes locked on mine.
"Intense," I manage to reply, my breath coming faster. "Everything feels... more."
She nods, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Good. That's exactly what we want. You'll experience everything I have planned for you with a penetrating clarity."
As she speaks, I notice that even my awareness of the restraints has changed. The pressure of the manacles, the stretch of my limbs, all feel more pronounced, more immediate. It's as if my body has become a finely tuned instrument, ready to register every nuance of sensation.
Her fingers trace the soft skin of my scrotum with an almost tender touch. "You already know what will happen next," she says softly, her voice a mix of sterile detachment and perverse curiosity. "Would you like to know how?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry with fear. "Yes," I whisper, dreading the answer but unable to resist asking.
Lia's eyes lock onto mine, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths. "Alright then, here's a question for you, little author," she says, her tone almost playful. "Do testicles become more or less sensitive to electrical torture following after being beaten?"
Horror floods through me, my mind reeling at the implications. I can't speak, can't even form coherent thoughts as panic threatens to overwhelm me.
"Well?" Lia demands, her voice hardening.
I struggle to find my voice, terror making it difficult to think clearly. "I... I guess... more?" My words tremble with fear and I hate how weak they sound.
A small smile plays on Lia's lips. "Perhaps," she muses. "but without proper empirical data, this is mere speculation."
As she speaks, she moves away, pushing the trolley back to the steel table with the duffel bags. I watch, heart pounding, as she discards the medical tools and begins packing new, more sinister items onto the cart.
When she returns, my breath catches in my throat. On the trolley sits a larger electrical device, its face covered in switches and dials. Multiple cables snake out from its back end, now facing me. I recognize it immediately - an electro box used for torture. Lia plugs the box into an extender cord, and the lights flicker to life, each illuminated dial a promise of pain to come. She continues talking as she sets up, her voice calm and measured, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.
”You see," she explains, "torturers, interrogators, often hit, beat, or kick the balls of their subjects before moving on to electro torture. Some believe the swelling from the beating dampens the effect of the electricity." She pauses, meeting my gaze."I disagree, but we need proof. So I've designed an experiment."
My mind races, trying to process her words through the haze of fear. I want to protest, to beg, but I'm frozen, unable to do anything but listen as she outlines her horrific plan.
"First, I'll electrocute both your balls to establish a baseline," Lia continues, her tone almost enthusiastic. "I need to see what intensity, frequency, and pulse width results in what reactions to establish a taseline. It’s all a bit technical, but you needn’t worry about that.
“Then, I'll beat one of your balls with this." She holds up a firm leather tool, like a paddle, about twenty inches long. "After that, we'll reapply the electricity and compare the results."
I feel as my face grows deadly white as she describes the process. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow, panic clawing at my chest.
"For the other testicle," Lia says, her eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity, "we'll vary the strength and speed of the beating before applying the electricity again. You'll need to answer certain test questions about your pain levels throughout the experiment."
She leans in close, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Make no mistake. If you don't cooperate, we may need to repeat the entire test. And I'm sure neither…okay, one of us definitely doesn’t want that, right?"
As Lia continues her preparations, I'm left with a profound sense of dread and helplessness. The night stretches ahead, filled with the promise of unimaginable pain, all in the name of Lia's twisted experiment.
The sheer weight of my impending ordeal seizes me, my mind fixating on the terrifying prospect of ball torture. In a puny attempt at “research” while writing my stories, I had experimented with inflicting pain on my own genitals. But those feeble attempts were laughably inadequate, barely scratching the surface of the agony I now face.
I recall the tentative taps I'd given myself, the slow, rhythmic strikes that had sent deep, dull waves of pain radiating through my balls. Even that minor discomfort had been enough to make me whimper, my resolve crumbling at the slightest touch. "Please don't," I had begged an imaginary tormentor, unable to continue even in the safety of my own room.
Now, faced with the reality of what's to come, I'm acutely aware of how unprepared I truly am. My amateur "research" seems almost comical in the face of the techniques Lia might employ - the cruel precision of needle insertions, the relentless compression of ball vices, or worse.
I shudder, remembering the descriptions I'd so cavalierly written - testicles swelling to the size of peaches after a beating, the excruciating pain of crushers tightened to the point of rupture. The distant, cold detachment with which I'd described the anatomy of torture now seems perversely naive.
Oh God, oh God. My stomach's doing backflips. Fuck, am I gonna scream like the people in my stories? What if I puke? How the hell am I supposed to handle what's coming? What if I can't take it? What if I beg and cry and it doesn't matter? She's really not gonna stop, is she? Well, not that I have a choice. This isn't some sick fantasy anymore. It's real. So fucking real. And I'm not ready for this shit. I thought I was in pain, but this? God, I'm such an idiot. Every breath feels like knives in my chest.
Lying here, totally exposed...The characters I wrote about were badasses. Me? I'm scared shitless. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? I'm no hero, just some loser amateur writer who got in way over his head.
The night stretches out forever. How long before I completely lose it? Lia's got that look in her eyes, like she's just getting started. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Lia walks back to the head of the bed, positioning the trolley with the electro box next to the bed upon which I'm stretched. Her movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial, as she arranges her tools. The stark light catches the sheen of sweat on her skin, highlighting the toned muscles of her arms and the curve of her breasts beneath her tank top.
"This is it, Mark," she says, her voice dripping with anticipation. "You've written about this so many times, yet you have no idea what it really feels like, do you?"
I shake my head, feeling a complex mix of shame, arousal, and dread churning in my core. The reality of my situation is far more intense than anything I could have imagined.
"Although your descriptions are fine," Lia continues, "nothing beats first-hand experience. So, in the next hours, you'll have every chance to catch up on that. A classic, well, almost classic South American parrilla torture."
Lia leans in, her proximity sending a shiver through my body. She lifts my flaccid penis, revealing my testicles. The wide metal ring, still tightened around the neck of my scrotum, hangs heavily between my spread thighs in the increasingly warm chamber. I feel her attach a wider wire to the ring, leading it along my perineal raphe. She tightens the cable, which digs into my scrotum, forcing my testicles to bulge out and apart.
Lia moves her fingers around my smoothly shaved balls, now tight as plump hens' eggs, and reaches for a white tube. With a deliberate squeeze, she extracts a generous dollop of gel, smearing it onto her fingers before massaging it onto my testicles. The initial shock of the cold gel quickly gives way to an enveloping warmth as her hands heat them up. She takes her time, massaging my balls tightly just below the pain threshold, every motion a dance of sensation that borders on torment.
After drying her hands with a towel, Lia fetches a pair of long black cables, which have four or five copper-colored metal hoops at their ends. She places each hoop with precision around my left and right testicles, adjusting the sliding locks to tighten them. The naked metal digs into my flesh, not painfully but with a firm insistence, reminiscent of how an egg slicer's wires sink into a hard-boiled egg.
The steamy chamber fills with an oppressive, electric energy as Lia's torture session unfolds. "All is set," she announces. "Here’s your first task: try to refrain from yelling or crying as long as you possibly can. I’ll know if you give in too early, and I’ll hurt you really badly if you test me. I need to know how much you can take without breaking. Don’t worry, we’ll do a few rounds."
I gulp, unsure of what to say, just trying to brace myself. Perhaps I can do this. It won’t kill me after all… I guess.
"Ready?"
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