Darth Agonoth
Magistrate
Octavus (3)
As Lia's calculating gaze meets mine, I realize with a sinking feeling that this newfound respect likely means only one thing: the torture will surely get worse.
Lia rises with fluid grace as she retrieves another bag of intravenous solution. The translucent liquid sloshes within as she connects it to the cannula nestled in my jugular vein. A fleeting sense of relief washes over me—a reprieve, however brief, until this lifeline runs dry.
The cool infusion seeps into my system, a paradoxical blend of comfort and resentment. It's as if each drop simultaneously restores and betrays me, replenishing what was so cruelly drained. Midway through, Lia injects a different substance into the line. The sensation stirs memories but diverges sharply from what I'd felt before. It sharpens my mind, but with a clarity that feels all too sinister. My mind sharpens, yet the edges blur—a cognitive dissonance that leaves me unmoored.
Unbidden thoughts creep in. Could be the tendrils of Stockholm Syndrome taking root, although I never believed in the validity of that. Lia's pride is palpable, and to my horror, I find a mirror of that emotion within myself. Self-loathing follows swiftly. "You wretched fool," I castigate internally, the memory of unimaginable agony still raw. Yet, a traitorous whisper persists: What if this ordeal has revealed something I never knew I craved yet possessed?
Lia settles beside me, her pretty form a study in casual menace. She sips from her bottle, flipping through her notepad filled with the data she extracted from me. The silence between us feels charged, uncomfortably intimate. Have I truly fallen for my tormentor? No, this must be her machinations at work—but can one be brainwashed whilst fully conscious of the process? My mind twists in on itself, a whirl of conflicting emotions and thoughts.
Lia removes the copper wires from my testicle. I steel myself for the sight of charred flesh, but find only angry red welts—a testament to the expertise of her cruelty.
"So," Lia says, her gaze flicking to the nearly depleted IV. "The other side." She slides from the bed, her fingers trailing through my sweat-dampened hair as she passes—a gesture almost tender in its casual possessiveness. She disconnects the IV line before moving on.
Reality crashes back, the weight of what's to come settling like lead in my gut. Despite knowing this was inevitable, some foolish part of me had hoped my earlier endurance might grant mercy. The urge to plead, to break down, claws at my throat. But something—pride, perhaps, or simple self-preservation—holds it at bay.
I clench my jaw, a facade of resolve that I know will shatter at the first blow. Lia may be fooled, the world may be fooled, but I cannot deceive myself. The knowledge of my impending weakness, the certainty of my cries, sits heavy in my chest as I brace for the next round of torment.
Lia aligns herself precisely at the level of my elevated hips, her omniscient smile sending a chill down my spine. With practiced ease, she cups my inflamed right testicle in her cool palm, her fingers curling around the sensitive organ in a partly clenched fist. My left testicle is left exposed, hanging vulnerably between her thumb and index finger. The contrast between her cool touch and my feverish skin elicits an involuntary shudder.
Her thumb begins a slow, deliberate caress across the taut skin of my exposed left testicle, the gentle motion underscoring her cruel intentions. She applies subtle pressure, her digit exploring the contours of the sensitive male organ with a detached curiosity that only heightens my dread.
I wheeze, my breath catching in my throat as I anticipate the impending agony. My mantra, "Don't beg, don't beg," echoes in my mind, a desperate attempt at maintaining some semblance of dignity. The paddle in her free hand gleams menacingly, and I instinctively arch back, eyes screwed shut.
But the expected blow doesn't come. I cautiously open my eyes to find Lia's piercing gaze fixed upon me, her expression unreadable. When she speaks, her voice is deceptively soft, almost intimate.
"I thought you should know," she begins, her words measured, "this session will be... prolonged." A whimper escapes my lips before I can stifle it. "Not necessarily more intense, but certainly more drawn out. I'll be administering fewer strikes, but each one will be... significant."
I start to protest, "N-n," but clamp my mouth shut, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.
Lia's smirks. "Some say that this method is less painful than continuous beating. I suppose you'll be the judge of that."
Without warning, she strikes. The impact is seismic, reminiscent of a sledgehammer rather than a paddle. There's a split second of numbness before the pain explodes, a supernova of agony that radiates through my entire being. It's eerily familiar, like a long-forgotten childhood injury magnified a thousandfold.
The pain doesn't peak and subside like most injuries. Instead, it lingers, pulsing and throbbing, each wave threatening to overwhelm me. Just as it begins to ebb, Lia's keen eye catches the shift, and like a machine, she delivers another devastating blow.
The anticipation between strikes becomes its own form of torture. My mind races, unable to decide which is worse – the actual pain or the knowledge of its imminent return. I try to count the strikes, to maintain some semblance of control, but coherent thought slips away like water through a sieve.
Without realizing it, I find myself not just wailing but pleading, my earlier resolve shattered. "Please," I gasp, "stop, wait, I can't—" But my words fall on deaf ears as Lia continues her methodical assault.
Time loses all meaning in this crucible of pain. When Lia finally steps back, I notice the sheen of sweat on her face, shoulders, and arms. Her chest heaving slightly from exertion. The relentless furnace of the room has left her skin flushed, her hair clinging damply to her forehead.
Despite her disheveled appearance, her eyes remain sharp, evaluating my broken form with dispassionate scrutiny. Yet there lingers a flush upon her cheeks, a quickening of breath that hints at her recent intimate activities. Her gaze, though ostensibly analytical, carries an undercurrent of smoldering intensity. The air between us feels charged, electrified by the lingering echoes of her private ecstasy. Her disarray takes on a sensual quality - tousled hair framing her face like a corona of desire, skin still dewy with exertion. Though she affects an air of cool professionalism, the ghost of passion clings to her like perfume.
Lia sluggishly draws the towel across her glistening skin, droplets cascading down her slender form. Her eyes flick towards me, and as if this were just a water fountain chat she asks: "So, was this worse... or?" Her voice drips with faux innocence.
The facade of composure I've desperately clung to shatters. "Fuck you!" I bellow, my voice raw with anguish. "Just end this! End this!" The words tear from my throat, a primal plea born of utter desperation.
Lia's perfectly arched eyebrows rise, a fleeting expression of surprise quickly replaced by cruel amusement. Her delicate hand curls into a fist, knuckles white with barely contained rage. Without warning, she unleashes a barrage of strikes against my most vulnerable area.
Each impact sends shockwaves of agony through my body. Lia's voice, now a vicious snarl, punctuates every blow. "You. Are. A. Slow. Learner.” She pauses before resuming. “In. Deed." The staccato rhythm of her words matches the relentless assault.
Were it not for the cocktail of chemicals coursing through my veins, unconsciousness would have been a merciful escape. Instead, I'm trapped in a nightmare of sensory overload, my stomach roiling uselessly as my body fights against its restraints.
Lia pauses, her breasts heaving with exertion. Fresh beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, mingling with the remnants of her earlier ablutions. She leans in so close, our noses almost touching. She's like a vampire poised for the kill, her eyes glittering with malicious intent. As she nears, her body partially drapes over mine, her upper body pressing against my immobilized frame. One of her arms stretches out, mirroring the line of my own, her fingers wrapping around my forearm in a vice-like grip. The warmth of her breath mingles with the chill of fear that runs through me, creating a disconcerting contrast of sensations.
"Don't you think for a second that I cannot do anything. ANYTHING with you here!" Her fingers scrabble at my scalp, seeking purchase but finding none. Frustration flashes across her features before she roughly shoves my head back.
Composing herself with practiced ease, Lia adjusts her disheveled clothing and smooths her tousled hair. Her voice, now eerily calm, sends chills down my spine. "Khm. Worse... or not worse?"
Paralyzed by fear and pain, I struggle to form a coherent thought. "Neither," I finally manage to croak.
"Explain." The command hangs in the air between us.
I swallow hard, tasting metal. "It was different. Bad in a different way." The word 'bitch' dances on the tip of my tongue, but self-preservation keeps it locked away. I brace myself for whatever torment might come next, knowing that in this hellish game, there are no right answers.
Lia's demeanor shifts, her composure returning like a mask sliding into place. "Good. Makes sense," she says, her voice eerily calm. "You know what comes next." Her gaze bores into mine, searching for any flicker of defiance. I avert my eyes, unable to meet her penetrating stare.
Without fanfare, she retrieves the electrodes. With nimble fingers, she secures the cables around my left testicle. The cold metal against my sensitive skin sends involuntary shivers through my body.
"You know the drill," she states flatly.
I remain silent, my resolve crumbling with each passing moment. What's left to say?
Then, out of nowhere, she asks, "Wanna fuck me after this?"
The question shatters my world. I can almost feel as my mind splits in half, caught between instinctive desire and self-preservation. Every fiber of my being screams 'yes,' but I force myself to remain still. My inexperience is painfully evident, a stark contrast to her confident sexuality. I struggle to keep my gaze fixed on her face, fighting the urge to let my eyes wander.
A cruel smile plays on her lips. "There you are," she taunts.
Without warning, she turns the dial. Electricity surges through me, catching me completely off guard. My body convulses, muscles contracting painfully.
"Eight, eight!" I scream as soon as the current stops.
"Mmmh," she purrs. "So. Do you" - her finger pokes me playfully - "Want to?" - one eyebrow arches high - "Fuck me?" - her hands make an unmistakable jerking motion. Lia delivers each part like a punchline, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief as she awaits a response.
But before I can respond, she cranks up the voltage. It's higher this time, though not quite reaching the excruciating levels of her previous "experiments."
"NIIIIINE!!!" I howl, gasping for air.
"Not what I asked, but thanks!" she giggles. "So...?"
I hesitate, fearing another shock if I dare to answer. My gaze falls to my pitiful state, my manhood lying limp and defeated against my abdomen.
Lia's finger traces along my penis, her touch both riveting and terrifying. She begins to sing, her voice dripping with mockery, "Iny weeny teeny weeny, shriveled little short dick man, don't want don't want don't want." Her laughter echoes in the room, sharp and cruel. I cringe inwardly, recognizing the tune – a song I've always despised, now twisted into a personal taunt. The familiar lyrics, usually an annoyance, now feel like salt in my wounds.
"No, seriously. Do you..." she trails off, leaving the question hanging. I watch her hands warily, anticipating another reach for the dial.
Shame washes over me. She knows the answer and revels in my conflicted desire. Unbidden thoughts flood my mind, shocking me with their intensity. I imagine pinning Lia down, my hands firm against her skin. I picture her gasping, eyes wide as I take charge. The desire to dominate consumes me - to claim her, to make her feel the full force of my arousal. I want to hear her moan my name, to see her pride crumble as pleasure overtakes her. The urge to destroy her pussy with my cock burns through me like wildfire, feral and unstoppable.
In my mind's eye, I see her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as she loses control. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fiery trails of passion. I feel her hands grasping my ass, urging me deeper, harder. Our bodies move in a frenzied rhythm, powerful and relentless, until she's quivering beneath me.
These forceful, carnal impulses catch me off guard - I've never seen myself as particularly dominant or aggressive. What is she doing to me? How has she awakened this savage side, transforming me into someone I barely recognize? The sheer potency of my desires both thrills and unsettles me, leaving me in a whirlwind of conflicted arousal.
"Think about it," she says softly, before unleashing another wave of agony. I scream until my lungs burn for air.
"Eight," I manage to croak defiantly when it stops.
"I can wait, Mark. Don't rush." The current returns, stronger and longer this time. When it finally ceases, I struggle to find my voice.
"Nine," I rasp.
She abandons pretense now, sending wave after relentless wave. I desperately call out numbers when I can, finally crying "ten" as the pain becomes unbearable. She prolongs my torment, delivering a few more shocks at that intensity before stopping.
The drugs coursing through my system prevent me from losing consciousness, leaving me in a dissociated haze as I watch her remove the electrodes. To my astonishment, Lia then pulls away the timber beneath me. The relief of lying flat washes over me like a blissful wave, a perverse echo of pleasure amidst the sea of pain.
TBC
Lia rises with fluid grace as she retrieves another bag of intravenous solution. The translucent liquid sloshes within as she connects it to the cannula nestled in my jugular vein. A fleeting sense of relief washes over me—a reprieve, however brief, until this lifeline runs dry.
The cool infusion seeps into my system, a paradoxical blend of comfort and resentment. It's as if each drop simultaneously restores and betrays me, replenishing what was so cruelly drained. Midway through, Lia injects a different substance into the line. The sensation stirs memories but diverges sharply from what I'd felt before. It sharpens my mind, but with a clarity that feels all too sinister. My mind sharpens, yet the edges blur—a cognitive dissonance that leaves me unmoored.
Unbidden thoughts creep in. Could be the tendrils of Stockholm Syndrome taking root, although I never believed in the validity of that. Lia's pride is palpable, and to my horror, I find a mirror of that emotion within myself. Self-loathing follows swiftly. "You wretched fool," I castigate internally, the memory of unimaginable agony still raw. Yet, a traitorous whisper persists: What if this ordeal has revealed something I never knew I craved yet possessed?
Lia settles beside me, her pretty form a study in casual menace. She sips from her bottle, flipping through her notepad filled with the data she extracted from me. The silence between us feels charged, uncomfortably intimate. Have I truly fallen for my tormentor? No, this must be her machinations at work—but can one be brainwashed whilst fully conscious of the process? My mind twists in on itself, a whirl of conflicting emotions and thoughts.
Lia removes the copper wires from my testicle. I steel myself for the sight of charred flesh, but find only angry red welts—a testament to the expertise of her cruelty.
"So," Lia says, her gaze flicking to the nearly depleted IV. "The other side." She slides from the bed, her fingers trailing through my sweat-dampened hair as she passes—a gesture almost tender in its casual possessiveness. She disconnects the IV line before moving on.
Reality crashes back, the weight of what's to come settling like lead in my gut. Despite knowing this was inevitable, some foolish part of me had hoped my earlier endurance might grant mercy. The urge to plead, to break down, claws at my throat. But something—pride, perhaps, or simple self-preservation—holds it at bay.
I clench my jaw, a facade of resolve that I know will shatter at the first blow. Lia may be fooled, the world may be fooled, but I cannot deceive myself. The knowledge of my impending weakness, the certainty of my cries, sits heavy in my chest as I brace for the next round of torment.
Lia aligns herself precisely at the level of my elevated hips, her omniscient smile sending a chill down my spine. With practiced ease, she cups my inflamed right testicle in her cool palm, her fingers curling around the sensitive organ in a partly clenched fist. My left testicle is left exposed, hanging vulnerably between her thumb and index finger. The contrast between her cool touch and my feverish skin elicits an involuntary shudder.
Her thumb begins a slow, deliberate caress across the taut skin of my exposed left testicle, the gentle motion underscoring her cruel intentions. She applies subtle pressure, her digit exploring the contours of the sensitive male organ with a detached curiosity that only heightens my dread.
I wheeze, my breath catching in my throat as I anticipate the impending agony. My mantra, "Don't beg, don't beg," echoes in my mind, a desperate attempt at maintaining some semblance of dignity. The paddle in her free hand gleams menacingly, and I instinctively arch back, eyes screwed shut.
But the expected blow doesn't come. I cautiously open my eyes to find Lia's piercing gaze fixed upon me, her expression unreadable. When she speaks, her voice is deceptively soft, almost intimate.
"I thought you should know," she begins, her words measured, "this session will be... prolonged." A whimper escapes my lips before I can stifle it. "Not necessarily more intense, but certainly more drawn out. I'll be administering fewer strikes, but each one will be... significant."
I start to protest, "N-n," but clamp my mouth shut, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.
Lia's smirks. "Some say that this method is less painful than continuous beating. I suppose you'll be the judge of that."
Without warning, she strikes. The impact is seismic, reminiscent of a sledgehammer rather than a paddle. There's a split second of numbness before the pain explodes, a supernova of agony that radiates through my entire being. It's eerily familiar, like a long-forgotten childhood injury magnified a thousandfold.
The pain doesn't peak and subside like most injuries. Instead, it lingers, pulsing and throbbing, each wave threatening to overwhelm me. Just as it begins to ebb, Lia's keen eye catches the shift, and like a machine, she delivers another devastating blow.
The anticipation between strikes becomes its own form of torture. My mind races, unable to decide which is worse – the actual pain or the knowledge of its imminent return. I try to count the strikes, to maintain some semblance of control, but coherent thought slips away like water through a sieve.
Without realizing it, I find myself not just wailing but pleading, my earlier resolve shattered. "Please," I gasp, "stop, wait, I can't—" But my words fall on deaf ears as Lia continues her methodical assault.
Time loses all meaning in this crucible of pain. When Lia finally steps back, I notice the sheen of sweat on her face, shoulders, and arms. Her chest heaving slightly from exertion. The relentless furnace of the room has left her skin flushed, her hair clinging damply to her forehead.
Despite her disheveled appearance, her eyes remain sharp, evaluating my broken form with dispassionate scrutiny. Yet there lingers a flush upon her cheeks, a quickening of breath that hints at her recent intimate activities. Her gaze, though ostensibly analytical, carries an undercurrent of smoldering intensity. The air between us feels charged, electrified by the lingering echoes of her private ecstasy. Her disarray takes on a sensual quality - tousled hair framing her face like a corona of desire, skin still dewy with exertion. Though she affects an air of cool professionalism, the ghost of passion clings to her like perfume.
Lia sluggishly draws the towel across her glistening skin, droplets cascading down her slender form. Her eyes flick towards me, and as if this were just a water fountain chat she asks: "So, was this worse... or?" Her voice drips with faux innocence.
The facade of composure I've desperately clung to shatters. "Fuck you!" I bellow, my voice raw with anguish. "Just end this! End this!" The words tear from my throat, a primal plea born of utter desperation.
Lia's perfectly arched eyebrows rise, a fleeting expression of surprise quickly replaced by cruel amusement. Her delicate hand curls into a fist, knuckles white with barely contained rage. Without warning, she unleashes a barrage of strikes against my most vulnerable area.
Each impact sends shockwaves of agony through my body. Lia's voice, now a vicious snarl, punctuates every blow. "You. Are. A. Slow. Learner.” She pauses before resuming. “In. Deed." The staccato rhythm of her words matches the relentless assault.
Were it not for the cocktail of chemicals coursing through my veins, unconsciousness would have been a merciful escape. Instead, I'm trapped in a nightmare of sensory overload, my stomach roiling uselessly as my body fights against its restraints.
Lia pauses, her breasts heaving with exertion. Fresh beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, mingling with the remnants of her earlier ablutions. She leans in so close, our noses almost touching. She's like a vampire poised for the kill, her eyes glittering with malicious intent. As she nears, her body partially drapes over mine, her upper body pressing against my immobilized frame. One of her arms stretches out, mirroring the line of my own, her fingers wrapping around my forearm in a vice-like grip. The warmth of her breath mingles with the chill of fear that runs through me, creating a disconcerting contrast of sensations.
"Don't you think for a second that I cannot do anything. ANYTHING with you here!" Her fingers scrabble at my scalp, seeking purchase but finding none. Frustration flashes across her features before she roughly shoves my head back.
Composing herself with practiced ease, Lia adjusts her disheveled clothing and smooths her tousled hair. Her voice, now eerily calm, sends chills down my spine. "Khm. Worse... or not worse?"
Paralyzed by fear and pain, I struggle to form a coherent thought. "Neither," I finally manage to croak.
"Explain." The command hangs in the air between us.
I swallow hard, tasting metal. "It was different. Bad in a different way." The word 'bitch' dances on the tip of my tongue, but self-preservation keeps it locked away. I brace myself for whatever torment might come next, knowing that in this hellish game, there are no right answers.
Lia's demeanor shifts, her composure returning like a mask sliding into place. "Good. Makes sense," she says, her voice eerily calm. "You know what comes next." Her gaze bores into mine, searching for any flicker of defiance. I avert my eyes, unable to meet her penetrating stare.
Without fanfare, she retrieves the electrodes. With nimble fingers, she secures the cables around my left testicle. The cold metal against my sensitive skin sends involuntary shivers through my body.
"You know the drill," she states flatly.
I remain silent, my resolve crumbling with each passing moment. What's left to say?
Then, out of nowhere, she asks, "Wanna fuck me after this?"
The question shatters my world. I can almost feel as my mind splits in half, caught between instinctive desire and self-preservation. Every fiber of my being screams 'yes,' but I force myself to remain still. My inexperience is painfully evident, a stark contrast to her confident sexuality. I struggle to keep my gaze fixed on her face, fighting the urge to let my eyes wander.
A cruel smile plays on her lips. "There you are," she taunts.
Without warning, she turns the dial. Electricity surges through me, catching me completely off guard. My body convulses, muscles contracting painfully.
"Eight, eight!" I scream as soon as the current stops.
"Mmmh," she purrs. "So. Do you" - her finger pokes me playfully - "Want to?" - one eyebrow arches high - "Fuck me?" - her hands make an unmistakable jerking motion. Lia delivers each part like a punchline, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief as she awaits a response.
But before I can respond, she cranks up the voltage. It's higher this time, though not quite reaching the excruciating levels of her previous "experiments."
"NIIIIINE!!!" I howl, gasping for air.
"Not what I asked, but thanks!" she giggles. "So...?"
I hesitate, fearing another shock if I dare to answer. My gaze falls to my pitiful state, my manhood lying limp and defeated against my abdomen.
Lia's finger traces along my penis, her touch both riveting and terrifying. She begins to sing, her voice dripping with mockery, "Iny weeny teeny weeny, shriveled little short dick man, don't want don't want don't want." Her laughter echoes in the room, sharp and cruel. I cringe inwardly, recognizing the tune – a song I've always despised, now twisted into a personal taunt. The familiar lyrics, usually an annoyance, now feel like salt in my wounds.
"No, seriously. Do you..." she trails off, leaving the question hanging. I watch her hands warily, anticipating another reach for the dial.
Shame washes over me. She knows the answer and revels in my conflicted desire. Unbidden thoughts flood my mind, shocking me with their intensity. I imagine pinning Lia down, my hands firm against her skin. I picture her gasping, eyes wide as I take charge. The desire to dominate consumes me - to claim her, to make her feel the full force of my arousal. I want to hear her moan my name, to see her pride crumble as pleasure overtakes her. The urge to destroy her pussy with my cock burns through me like wildfire, feral and unstoppable.
In my mind's eye, I see her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as she loses control. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fiery trails of passion. I feel her hands grasping my ass, urging me deeper, harder. Our bodies move in a frenzied rhythm, powerful and relentless, until she's quivering beneath me.
These forceful, carnal impulses catch me off guard - I've never seen myself as particularly dominant or aggressive. What is she doing to me? How has she awakened this savage side, transforming me into someone I barely recognize? The sheer potency of my desires both thrills and unsettles me, leaving me in a whirlwind of conflicted arousal.
"Think about it," she says softly, before unleashing another wave of agony. I scream until my lungs burn for air.
"Eight," I manage to croak defiantly when it stops.
"I can wait, Mark. Don't rush." The current returns, stronger and longer this time. When it finally ceases, I struggle to find my voice.
"Nine," I rasp.
She abandons pretense now, sending wave after relentless wave. I desperately call out numbers when I can, finally crying "ten" as the pain becomes unbearable. She prolongs my torment, delivering a few more shocks at that intensity before stopping.
The drugs coursing through my system prevent me from losing consciousness, leaving me in a dissociated haze as I watch her remove the electrodes. To my astonishment, Lia then pulls away the timber beneath me. The relief of lying flat washes over me like a blissful wave, a perverse echo of pleasure amidst the sea of pain.
TBC
