The Price She Pays - Echoes of Reckoning

[Walterian]

I think, the third novel will be how Bernard tortures Mark and Lia both together in his private dungeon. They must watch their tortured bodies of each other and have the most impressive feelings in their young lives. The week for tortures would be enough. Probably, Mark and Lia will end their torture's sessions on the cross after the overwhelming sex.

 

[Didymos]

I think, the third novel will be how Bernard tortures Mark and Lia both together in his private dungeon. They must watch their tortured bodies of each other and have the most impressive feelings in their young lives. The week for tortures would be enough. Probably, Mark and Lia will end their torture's sessions on the cross after the overwhelming sex.

I also think this is meant to be a trilogy!

 

[Darth Agonoth]

Don't wait too long with continuing your story!!

It's done, I'll be posting it one chapter a day!

 

[Darth Agonoth]

I think, the third novel will be how Bernard tortures Mark and Lia both together in his private dungeon. They must watch their tortured bodies of each other and have the most impressive feelings in their young lives. The week for tortures would be enough. Probably, Mark and Lia will end their torture's sessions on the cross after the overwhelming sex.

Yep, being tortured together would be a natural progression - definitely crossed my mind!

I also think this is meant to be a trilogy!

I am not done with these two, that's for sure!

 

[Darth Agonoth]

9. Mark - “I'm Your Biggest Fan, I'll Follow You Until You Love Me”​

I make my way from the cold, oppressive bunker into a starkly contrasting space. The room I enter is well-lit and comfortably heated, a jarring transition from the damp chill of the corridors outside. It's as if I've stepped from one era into another - from Cold War austerity to cutting-edge modernity.

The space is meticulously furnished, blending comfort with high-tech functionality. Sleek, ergonomic furniture populates the room. A state-of-the-art entertainment system is seamlessly integrated into one wall, its large screens currently displaying the feed from the torture chamber.

To my left, a compact but fully-equipped kitchenette gleams with stainless steel appliances. The soft hum of a high-end refrigerator provides a subtle backdrop to the room's tense atmosphere. A sleek coffee maker sits ready on the counter, its digital display glowing softly.

To my right, a door leads to a pristine bathroom featuring a rainfall shower and modern fixtures. The juxtaposition of this luxurious, almost spa-like space with its grim purpose is unsettling.

The walls are lined with bookshelves, housing an eclectic mix of academic tomes and pop culture memorabilia. A high-end gaming setup occupies one corner, its multiple monitors currently dark.

This room serves as a command center of sorts, allowing for extended observation and control of the activities in the adjacent chamber. The contrast between the comfort of this space and the brutality it oversees is stark and disquieting.

Before me, high-definition screens flicker to life as I settle into a leather armchair, cradling my steaming mug of tea. The thermostat reads 12°C, but the chill seems to penetrate deeper, charged with dark anticipation.

The newest camera, concealed beneath Lia's feet, offers an unprecedented view that steals my breath. From this merciless angle, I witness every quiver of her once-powerful form.

Lia's skin, once golden and radiant, now appears pallid and taut. Goosebumps pepper her flesh, testament to the biting cold. Her abdominal muscles, once a source of strength and pride, now spasm uncontrollably beneath skin stretched tight by stress and dehydration.

Her breasts, formerly proud and defiant, hang heavy with cruel metal weights. They sway with each labored breath, the clamps biting deeper, drawing rivulets of blood that trace crimson patterns down her torso. The sight stirs something primal within me.

Lia's face, once a mask of cruel confidence, is now a portrait of anguish. Her striking blue eyes, previously alight with sadistic glee, now swim with tears and naked terror. Her golden hair, typically immaculate, clings to her scalp in damp, darkened strands.

The aftermath of the icy deluge is evident in her violent shivering. Each tremor sends fresh waves of agony through her overstimulated nerve endings. The caning has left a lattice of angry welts across her buttocks and thighs, the skin mottled purple and red.

Most striking is the transformation in Lia's demeanor. The formidable torture mistress has crumbled, leaving behind a quivering, vulnerable creature that appears almost childlike in her helplessness. Her broken pleas and whimpers are a far cry from the imperious commands she once issued.

The memory of Lia's screams when I applied that mysterious solution sends a shiver down my spine - not of remorse, but dark excitement tinged with a conflicting undercurrent of familiar longing. I know the pain I inflicted was beyond cruel, yet the sound of her agony awakened a hunger I barely recognized while simultaneously stirring echoes of my own past suffering.

It's as if two versions of myself are at war within me. The old Mark, the masochistic boy who craved submission, doesn't recoil entirely from the sight of such suffering. Instead, he feels a perverse thrill, a twisted empathy born from intimate knowledge of that exquisite agony . But this new, dominant self revels in it more completely, drinking in every whimper and cry like a warm cognac.

This internal conflict only adds to the intoxicating complexity of the situation, leaving me both exhilarated and deeply unsettled by my own capacity for cruelty and my once-was lingering desire for submission.

I can't shake the unsettling thought that this sadistic urge doesn't truly originate from within me. It feels almost alien, as if some external force is guiding my actions. But that's impossible, isn't it? I try to dismiss the notion as ridiculous, focusing instead on the intoxicating power I now wield.

As I observe Lia's suffering, I marvel at our reversed roles. The once-powerful mistress has been reduced to a trembling girltoy, her fate now entirely in my hands. This brutal tableau is both chilling and perversely beautiful, a testament to the depths of human vulnerability and the intoxicating nature of absolute power.

My old masochistic self would have both dreaded and craved this display, torn between the instinct for self-preservation and the perverse desire for pain that Lia had cultivated in me. But this new Mark feels a surge of dark pride, tinged with a confusing undercurrent of familiar longing. I created this scenario, shaped it with my own hands, yet part of me still yearns for the exquisite agony I once endured. The realization sends a thrill of excitement through me, accompanied by a twinge of guilt and a whisper of my former submissive nature. It's as if two versions of myself are at war - the sadist I've become and the masochist I used to be, both reveling in this twisted tableau for different reasons.

The night stretches before us, full of dark promise and untold suffering. I find myself eager to explore the vast chasm of torments still at my disposal, to push Lia beyond limits she never knew existed. The anticipation builds within me, a rising tide of cruel creativity that both exhilarates and terrifies.

As I contemplate the tools at my disposal - the canes, the clamps, the icy water - I'm struck by how naturally these sadistic impulses come to me now. It's as if I've tapped into a wellspring of cruelty I never knew I possessed. Or perhaps, whispers that nagging voice, one that was planted there by something beyond my understanding.

I push the thought aside, focusing instead on Lia's trembling form. Her transformation from confident tormentor to broken victim is intoxicating. With each pained gasp and pleading look, I feel my resolve strengthen. This is who I am now, I tell myself. This is the man Lia created, whether she intended to or not.

I drain the last drops of my tea, savoring the lingering warmth as it slides down my throat. The contrast between this simple comfort and the brutal scene unfolding on the monitors is jarring. With a sigh, I push myself up from the plush leather chair, my muscles protesting slightly after sitting for so long.

The bathroom beckons, its sleek modern fixtures a stark departure from the grim dungeon just beyond these walls. As I wash my hands, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The face staring back at me is both familiar and foreign - my features sharpened by the harsh lighting, eyes glinting with an intensity I barely recognize.

Returning to the main room, I feel a palpable shift in the air. The time for observation is over. Now, action calls.

As I step into the torture chamber, the cold air hits me like a physical blow, seeping through my fitted black t-shirt and jeans. My steel-toed boots click against the concrete floor, each step echoing in the cavernous space. The chill amplifies the stark contrast between the comfort I've left behind and the brutal reality of this room.

I approach Lia slowly, my eyes taking in every detail of her trembling form. Her once-powerful body is now a study in vulnerability and strain. Every muscle is tensed, fighting against the cruel pull of the chains and the relentless grip of the clover clamps.

"How's it hanging?" I ask, my voice low and steady, a deliberate echo of her earlier taunt.

Lia's response is a series of involuntary sounds - chattering teeth, ragged breaths, and stifled whimpers. Her lips have taken on a bluish tinge, a testament to the biting cold and her prolonged ordeal. She struggles to maintain her footing, knowing that any slip will result in agonizing pressure on her already strained shoulder joints.

As I watch, a particularly violent shiver runs through her body. The motion sets the weights on her breasts swinging, pulling viciously at the sensitive flesh trapped in the clover clamps. Lia lets out a strangled cry, her face contorting in a grimace of pure agony. She frantically tries to still her body, desperate to stop the pendulum-like motion that's renewing her torment with each swing.

The sight stirs conflicting emotions within me. Part of me - the part shaped by Lia's own cruelty - feels a dark satisfaction at her suffering. Yet another part, perhaps a remnant of my former self, feels a twinge of empathy. I push this feeling aside, steeling myself for what's to come.

"I asked you a question, Lia," I say, my tone hardening. "I expect an answer."

Her eyes, once blazing with confidence, now swim with a mixture of pain, fear, and something else - perhaps a grudging respect for the tables so thoroughly turned. She opens her mouth to speak, but only a hoarse whisper emerges, her voice raw from screaming.

I lean in closer, my presence both a threat and a twisted comfort in her isolation. The air between us crackles with tension, heavy with unspoken history and the promise of what's yet to come.

"It hurts... so much," Lia gasps, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Mark... please..." Her plea trails off, the words seeming to cost her immense effort.

The sight of her distress is perversely captivating. Her flushed cheeks and wide, fear-filled eyes lend her face an otherworldly beauty. The pain has stripped away her usual composure, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its wake.

I crouch down to her level, my voice deceptively gentle. "Okay, Lia. Would you like a little break, darling?" I brush a strand of sweat-dampened golden hair from her forehead.

Hope flashes in Lia's eyes, quickly chased by suspicion. She nods frantically, her words tumbling out. "Yes, yes, please..." She catches herself, doubt creeping into her expression, but I don't give her time to reconsider.

With swift precision, I reach out and unclamp one of the clover clamps. The effect is immediate. A sharp cry tears from Lia's throat, her body jerking violently. The sudden rush of blood back into her abused flesh ignites a fresh wave of pain.

I wait, watching impassively as the initial agony begins to subside. Then, without warning, I remove the second clamp. Another cry erupts, somehow even more desperate than the first. Lia's legs buckle, and for a moment, it seems she might collapse.

As her cries fade into choked sobs, I observe the changes in her body. The released nipples, angry and swollen, begin to flush as circulation returns. A sheen of sweat covers Lia's skin, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.

"There now," I say, my tone eerily calm. "Isn't that better? Can you feel the warmth returning?"

Lia's response is a mixture of whimpers and gasps, her body still trembling from the intensity of the experience. The pain etched across her features only serves to heighten her beauty, transforming her into a living artwork of suffering and vulnerability.

I rise from my crouched position, my movements deliberate and controlled. The control box, a sleek device that has become an extension of my will in this chamber, rests in my palm with familiar weight. As I approach Lia, her eyes track my every move, a prey animal watching a predator's advance.

With a press of a button, the low hum of machinery fills the air. The sound, once alien, has become as familiar as a heartbeat in this space. The chains suspending Lia gradually slacken, allowing her feet to finally make full contact with the cold concrete floor.

The change is subtle yet profound. As the tension eases from her arms and shoulders, Lia's body visibly relaxes, if only fractionally. Her chest expands with a deep, shuddering breath, as if she's tasting air anew. The metal bars piercing her nipples catch the harsh light as her breasts settle into a more natural position.

I study her face intently, cataloging every minute shift in her expression. The anguish that had contorted her features softens, replaced by a complex cocktail of relief, wariness, and something darker - perhaps a flicker of unwanted arousal. Her eyes, still wide and glistening, dart between my face and the control box in my hand.

"Better?" I ask, my voice low and neutral. The question hangs in the air between us, laden with implications. This small mercy is a double-edged sword - a moment of relief that only serves to highlight the absolute control I wield over her suffering.

Lia's response is barely more than a whisper, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Yes," she manages, the word seeming to catch in her throat. Her gaze never leaves mine, a silent battle of wills playing out in the space between us.

I lean in closer, my breath ghosting over Lia's skin as I caress her upper arm with calculated gentleness. The touch sends visible shivers through her body, a mixture of fear and that barely registering unwanted arousal.

"That's good, Lia," I murmur, my voice a low purr. "I want you looking your best. After all, we have a special guest joining us tonight." I pause, savoring the confusion and dread blooming in her eyes.

Lia's breath catches, her muscles tensing beneath my touch. "What are you talking about, Mark?" she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.

I smile, a predatory gleam in my eyes. "Oh, just an old friend of yours. Someone who's been... eager to see you again."

Turning towards the imposing steel doors, I raise my voice, infusing it with a cruel excitement. "Come on in, Volk!"

The color drains from Lia's face at the mention of Volkov's name. Her eyes dart frantically between me and the door, panic rising in her throat.

"No," she chokes out, struggling against her bonds. "Mark, please, you can't—"

I cut her off with a finger to her lips, my touch a mockery of tenderness. "Shh, darling. Save your strength. You're going to need it."

TBC

 

[Darth Agonoth]

10. Lia - “Relax, Don't Do It” (1)​

My mind reels, a cacophony of denial and terror. "This can't be happening, this can't be happening, no, no, no, no," loops endlessly in my thoughts, a mantra of desperation. The world narrows to a pinpoint as I fixate on the figure entering the chamber

Each footstep echoes like thunder, heralding a nightmare made flesh. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my body trembling uncontrollably as I struggle against the overwhelming tide of panic threatening to consume me.

As Volk enters the chamber, my breath catches in my throat. His sheer mass is overwhelming, those mountain-range shoulders angling through the doorway with deliberate care. Seven feet of brutality incarnate, he moves with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator conserving energy.

His weathered teak skin tells stories of violence and survival, the slight tilt of his eyes and broad, flat planes of his face hinting at some ancient steppe bloodline. The ink crawling up his thick neck - crude Russian prison stars and orthodox domes - marks time served and pain inflicted.

Volk's baldness only enhances his intimidating presence, as if he were carved from a single dark boulder. Those massive hands, scarred across the knuckles, could engulf my entire face. When his eyes fix on me, there's that familiar emptiness, like still water too deep to fathom.

His thick, brutal mass comes from years of inflicting pain, a body built for efficient cruelty. Volk isn't chiseled or ripped like a bodybuilder, but rather possesses the immense, functional strength of a strongman. His frame is simply huge, a testament to raw power rather than aesthetic muscle. When he breathes, his chest expands like a bellows, stretching the fabric of his shirt across a fifty-inch expanse capable of crushing the life out of a man. This is not the sculpted physique of a gym enthusiast, but the formidable bulk of a man whose strength has been honed through brutal, practical application.

A wave of terror washes over me as I realize the full implications of Volk's presence. This man, this monster I've used countless times for his physical prowess and complete lack of moral restraint, is now here for me. The shock of it leaves me reeling, nauseated.

I recall with a sort of bitter nostalgia the admiration I held for Volk's capabilities, the way I would drink in the fear and terror etched upon my subjects' faces. It was a feeling of unbridled power, a mastery over others that I once found intoxicating. Yet, hidden beneath the surface, there lurked a shadow of a thought—a fleeting, half-formed dream that perhaps, just maybe, I might one day experience the edge of that very blade. The notion was so deeply buried, so veiled in layers of denial, that it barely qualified as a conscious desire. Now, as I stand before Volk, the reality of my situation crashes down upon me with a weight I could never have anticipated. The very strength and brutality I once lauded with such fervor have morphed into the specters of my own undoing. The twist of fate does not escape my recognition—it's a darkly poetic justice that I once reveled in the power I now find turned against me. As if the hidden whispers of my subconscious have been granted a cruel and terrifying life of their own.

But what truly paralyzes me with fear is the realization that Mark - sweet, geeky Mark with his toys and gadgets - has orchestrated this. The boy I molded, the one I thought I controlled, has turned the tables so completely. For the first time, I'm forced to confront the magnitude of what I've done, what I've unlocked in Mark.

As I face the imposing double doors, my body hangs in a cruel parody of submission. Each breath is a testament to my endurance, a soft murmur that seems to echo in the stillness of the chamber. The merciless pull of the chains forces my shoulders to rotate inward unnaturally, my shoulder blades straining upward in a pronounced elevation. My spine arches in a sinuous line of tension, mirroring the severe position of my arms.

The cool air caresses my exposed skin, raising goosebumps and amplifying every sensation. My muscles quiver with the effort of maintaining this unnatural pose, locked taut as bowstrings. The position forces my hips high, leaving me feeling shamefully exposed and vulnerable.

As I hang there, a cruel dance of discomfort with no end in sight, I'm forced to confront the magnitude of my actions and their consequences. The balance of power teeters on a knife's edge, and for the first time, I truly understand the weight of my choices.

As Volk stands next to Mark, the contrast between them is stark. Mark's 6-foot, lean yet muscular frame seems almost diminutive next to Volk's massive presence. Our eyes lock, and I'm struck anew by the emptiness in Volk's gaze. There's no higher intellect there, no superego to restrain his baser instincts. Yet, he's far from stupid - more like a clever, dangerous animal.

The air in the chamber grows thick with tension, a primal undercurrent of fear and anticipation. I can feel my heart pounding, each beat echoing in the oppressive silence. The ropes of the strappado seem to tighten, my muscles screaming in renewed protest.

Mark unfolds a chair and sits a couple of meters away, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The casual nature of his actions only heightens the surreal horror of the moment. His eyes, once familiar, now burn with an intensity that sends tremors through my sweat-slicked body.

Then, with a voice tinged with an unexpected accent, Mark utters two Russian words that shatter my world: "Khuy suka."

The command hangs in the air, heavy with cruel implications. My mind, despite the terror gripping me, automatically translates the colloquial phrase: "Fuck the bitch." A cold dread washes over me as I realize the full magnitude of what's about to happen. In this moment, suspended between past and present, I understand that my life has changed irreversibly.

A shred of thought crosses my mind - when and how did Mark learn Russian so well? Unless... but I never finish the thought. A suspicion forms, a possible explanation for his sudden linguistic prowess, but it's too terrifying to contemplate fully in this moment of crisis.

I close my eyes, my heart pounding in my ears. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing. In this terrible stillness, I can almost hear the echo of my own voice giving the exact same command to Volk when I had helpless men and women at my disposal in this very chamber. The realization is a twisted mirror, reflecting back the depths of cruelty I've sown, now poised to reap.

This isn't just some cosmic retribution or poetic justice. It's the stark, brutal reality of the world I've helped create, the monster I've molded now turned against its maker. The air grows thick with the weight of unspoken horrors, both past and impending, as I brace myself for what's to come.

The oppressive silence shatters as my desperate pleas echo through the chamber. "Mark, please! Not this, not with him!" I cry out, my voice breaking. I search his eyes frantically, hoping to find a glimmer of the connection we once shared. "Mark, stop this, please, please, Mark!"

But I find only cold detachment staring back. The crushing realization that my words fall on deaf ears sends me spiraling into a pit of despair. Yet, even in this hellish moment, a traitorous part of me yearns for Mark's touch, craving his dominance despite the horror unfolding around me.

As this realization dawns, I see a flicker of knowing in Mark's eyes - he's aware of my conflicted desires, and his denial is a calculated move to strip away any last vestige of control I might have imagined I possessed. This revelation hits me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless with the futility of my situation.

"Mark," I whisper, one final attempt, "please…" But my words trail off as I see the implacable resolve in his gaze. The Mark I knew is gone, replaced by this merciless stranger who seems to relish my anguish.

Volkov's approach is deliberate, each thunderous footfall a death knell for my dwindling hope. As he sheds his shirt, a canvas of nightmarish ink is revealed. His torso, a grotesque mural of violence, tells the story of a man forged in brutality. Scars crisscross between tattoos of snarling beasts and scenes of carnage, creating a topography of cruelty etched into flesh.

His smile is a rictus of sadistic glee, metal teeth glinting like knives in the harsh light. The dissonance between his hulking frame and the unexpected grace of his movements only amplifies the menace radiating from him.

Calloused hands, more akin to instruments of torture than human appendages, engulf my chest. The texture of his palms is like coarse sandpaper, abrading sensitive flesh as he kneads and twists my breasts. Fresh droplets of crimson bead at my ravaged nipples, eliciting a symphony of agonized cries that seem to fuel his frenzy.

The assault on my senses intensifies as Volkov's musky odor envelops me, a potent cocktail of stale sweat and something unmistakably primal. The sound of his zipper descending sends ice through my veins, a stark counterpoint to the searing pain radiating from my chest.

His manhood springs forth, a monstrous display of engorged flesh. The stench that accompanies it is overwhelming – unwashed and animalistic. He doesn't force entry, instead using his considerable girth as a crude implement to strike my face repeatedly. Each impact leaves a trail of viscous fluid, marking me as conquered territory.

With predatory efficiency, he repositions behind me. The heat emanating from his body serves as a grim reminder of the violation to come. Every nerve ending screams in anticipation, my muscles tensing involuntarily against the restraints.

The air grows dense with a cocktail of fear, the coppery hint of blood, and the unmistakable undercurrent of arousal. Each breath I draw is laced with the scent of my own dread. Mark's voice washes over me, a monotone recitation of unspeakable acts, as if he's discussing nothing more significant than tomorrow's forecast. The stark contrast between his composed exterior and the sadistic narrative he weaves is a knife's edge against my fragile psyche, threatening to splinter my mind into a thousand jagged pieces.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

10. Lia - “Relax, Don't Do It” (2)​

Mark's gaze meets mine, his countenance a stoic mask, betraying no trace of the person he once was. "According to Ms Gomez, after the fundamental rule that a female subject always has to be completely naked during torture," he intones with chilling clarity, "we now have another universal rule: A female subject must be raped in the course of her torture." The words hang heavy in the air, a pronouncement of a new, grim reality.

The silence that follows is suffocating, punctuated only by the steady drip of something wet and the distant hum of machinery. Then, with a voice as cold as the steel restraints binding me, Mark poses a question that slices through the oppressive quiet. "How many times have you heard those desperate pleas—'please, don't do this'—echoed by both men and women, their voices trembling with the same raw fear that now saturates your own?" His tone is clinical, devoid of emotion, yet it carries an undeniable weight.

He's not merely inquiring about the extent of my past cruelties; he's drawing a line in the sand, an acknowledgment of the deeper layers of depravity at play. This goes beyond mere pain or physical suffering—it's a calculated descent into the abyss of ultimate degradation, a realm I was all too familiar with as an observer, a collector of such torments. Mark knows, as well as I do, that I took a sickening pleasure in watching others endure what I am now facing. It was a fascination, a compulsion, and now, I face the stark reckoning for all that. This is retribution, served icy cold, and it is as effective as it is devastating.

Volkov's massive hand engulfs my thigh, lifting it effortlessly as if I were no more than a rag doll made of flesh and bone. The sudden shift in position sends shockwaves of pain through my already overtaxed body. For a moment, I wonder if this is a twisted act of mercy, preventing me from collapsing entirely and dislocating my shoulders.

His other hand moves to my chest, palm spreading across both breasts. The touch is simultaneously supportive and violating, a cruel mockery of tenderness. This new position creates a hellish symphony of agony - my spine arches unnaturally, chest thrust forward, ribs straining against skin as if trying to break free.

The strain on my muscles intensifies, each fiber defined and trembling like a tightrope walker's legs on a swaying cable. Every breath becomes a struggle against an unseen force, sharp stabbing pains radiating through my ribcage. The pain transcends physical boundaries, becoming a force that threatens to unmake me.

In this moment of extreme vulnerability, I'm acutely aware of Volkov's raw power and my complete helplessness. The contrast between his strength and my fragility adds another layer to the complex tapestry of sensations overwhelming me. Despite the horror of the situation, a traitorous part of me responds to the primal energy emanating from him, leaving me confused and ashamed.

As I hang there, suspended between agony and shame, I realize that this experience far surpasses anything I could have dared to fantasize about in the darkest recesses of my mind. The reality of the moment - the heat of Volkov's skin, the unyielding pressure of his hands, the searing pain coursing through every nerve - is both familiar and shockingly new.

Volkov's massive form engulfs me, his presence a suffocating force. With savage efficiency, he impales me in one devastating thrust. A perverse gratitude flashes through my mind that he's chosen my vagina over more sadistic alternatives - a twisted irony given my own past cruelties. A shiver runs down my spine as I recall the numerous times I've witnessed him unleash his brutality on others, my morbid curiosity often getting the better of me, wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such unbridled ferocity.

His calloused hand mauls my breast, eliciting an agonized cry that seems to intoxicate him further. I feel him swell inside me, my suffering acting as a potent aphrodisiac.

"Brava suka," he growls, his accent thick with lust. "Good bitch." The words slice through me, a stark reminder of my newfound powerlessness. The raw, primal urge in his voice echoes the unspoken desires I've long tried to suppress, desires that now mock me with their cruel manifestation.

His grip shifts, fist tangling in my hair as he wrenches my head back. My body is suspended at three excruciating points - my scalp, his relentlessly pistoning cock, and my trembling right thigh. Desperately, I try to find purchase with my left leg, but it's futile.

Each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of agony through my overtaxed body. Yet my traitorous flesh responds, a perverse arousal building despite the horror. The mingled scents of sweat, blood, and sex create a heady, nauseating cocktail.

Through tear-blurred vision, I find Mark's gaze. He sits with calculated nonchalance, elbows on knees, chin resting on knuckles. His eyes devour every detail of my degradation, his expression a mask of fascination tinged with something darker, more complex.

"Please..." I whimper, though I'm not sure what I'm begging for anymore. Release? An end? Or for this nightmarish dance to continue? Perhaps, deep down, I'm pleading for the shattering of the illusion that I never wanted this, that I never secretly yearned to be consumed by the very brutality that now ravages me.

Volkov's rhythm intensifies, his grunts growing more feral. The pressure builds, a maelstrom of sensation threatening to tear me apart. As he nears his climax, I teeter on the edge of consciousness, my world narrowed to this moment of exquisite agony and unwanted pleasure.

Through it all, Mark's gaze never wavers. In his eyes, I see a chilling reflection of my own complex desires and the price I now pay for indulging them.

The relentless assault continues, each brutal thrust threatening to shatter my very core. Volk's massive member pounds against my cervix with merciless force, sending shockwaves of agony radiating through my body. The intensity builds to an unbearable crescendo until, in a moment of utter humiliation, my bladder releases involuntarily. Despite the shame, an unexpected wave of relief washes over me. The release of pressure brings a perverse sense of pleasure, a fleeting respite from the unrelenting pain. The warm liquid running down my legs is both mortifying and oddly comforting, a stark reminder of my complete loss of control.

A primal growl rumbles from Volk's throat as he abruptly halts his punishing rhythm. He withdraws, allowing my trembling leg to lower. For a brief moment, I sag in relief, returning to a position that, while still agonizing, feels almost merciful in comparison.

Volk's imposing form looms before me as he kicks off his boots with casual indifference. He drags down his urine-soaked trousers, the acrid scent assaulting my senses. Without warning, he seizes the sodden fabric and forces it into my mouth with brutal efficiency. The taste is revolting, and I gag reflexively as he pushes it deeper, past the point of comfort. Suddenly, his hand connects with my face in a sharp slap - hard, but not at full force. A flicker of defiance sparks in my eyes. How dare he, my servant! As if reading my thoughts, he backhands me again, the force splitting my lower lip. The urine from the gag stings the fresh wound, adding another layer of degradation to my suffering.

Returning to his previous position, Volk resumes his savage pace. This time, however, his grip shifts. Instead of my hair, his calloused hand cups my left shoulder blade, fingers digging into the taut muscles with bruising force. The new point of contact sends fresh waves of agony cascading through my already overtaxed frame. The pain intensifies as he manipulates my shoulder, forcing the humeral head - the ball of my shoulder joint - back into its socket. In this unnatural position, the realignment is excruciating. Muffled screams escape me, tears streaming down my face and mixing with the snot bubbles forming at my nose as I struggle to breathe through the gag.

The chamber echoes with the obscene sounds of our struggle – my muffled whimpers, the slap of flesh on flesh, and Volk's steady, animalistic grunts. Each moment stretches into an eternity of exquisite torment, my mind reeling as it grapples with the depths of this ordeal and my body's traitorous responses.

With the culmination of Volk's ruthless fervor, the chamber's stifling air is punctuated by his deep, victorious growls echoing off the ancient stone walls. The remnants of his conquest linger in a distressingly tangible essence—a warmth that slowly dissipates but not without leaving its invasive imprint within me. I feel the searing trail of semen as it begins to cool and drip, a cruel reminder of the ordeal my body has just endured—each drop marking the transition from an unbearable heat back to the unforgiving cold of the chamber.

Bound by the strappado, my arms are alight with pain from their merciless stretch upwards, shoulders screaming for relief that refuses to come. My entire body longs for the mercy of collapse, yet the relentless chains deny any reprieve, enforcing an agonizing endurance. The rough cloth soaked with urine and gagged in my mouth makes each breath a laborious struggle against the stifling, foul stench.

In a final display of dominance, Volk’s shadow looms over me once more. With a harsh, deliberate movement, he rips out the trouser gag, briefly allowing a rush of the cold dungeon air to fill my lungs. The relief is fleeting—a taunt more than a reprieve—as he walks away, leaving a trail of heavy, imposing silence in his wake. His departure resonates through the chamber, each footstep a deliberate hammer strike to the already resounding echoes of my own shattered spirit.

Suspended and immobile, the surrounding air seems to thicken after the door shuts with a definitive clang, effectively sealing my fate. The ice-like bite of the concrete floor below beckons, a cruel irony to the unattainable comfort it suggests. The residual heat shifts uncomfortably within me, creating a chilling contrast to the biting air that now envelops my battered form.

I stand crushed by shame, feeling broken and alone in the silent room. Mark, the center of my world, seems completely unaware of the turmoil inside me. He's focused on his phone screen, disconnected from the raw intensity of what just happened. Every time he scrolls, it's like another stab to my wounded pride. I can feel Volk's... load... on my skin, a visceral reminder of my humiliation.

Mark's neglect cuts deeper than any physical pain. His indifference in this moment of vulnerability feels like a betrayal, each second he spends fixated on his phone another crack in my already fragile psyche. The contrast between the intensity of what just transpired and his casual disregard is jarring, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion and hurt.

I want to cry out, to demand his attention, but my voice fails me. The words catch in my throat, transforming into shallow, spasmodic sobs. Tears stream down my face, mingling with the sweat that already stains my skin. The pain of his neglect is almost worse than the physical aftermath of Volk's actions. It's a psychological torment that frays the edges of my sanity, leaving me feeling utterly alone and abandoned in this moment of desperate need for comfort or acknowledgment.

As I stand there, my body trembling with exhaustion and emotional turmoil, I realize that Mark's neglect has inflicted a wound far deeper than any physical mark. It's a pain that resonates through my very core, challenging everything I thought I knew about our relationship and my place within it.

Mark's exhalation cuts through the frigid air, his breath visible in wispy tendrils. "You're right. This fucking cold is unbearable." He unfolds his tall frame, muscles rippling beneath his thin t-shirt as he approaches the imposing coal furnace. The harsh scrape of metal on coal echoes off the bare walls, followed by the acrid bite of ignition that stings my nostrils. His deft fingers dance over the controls, coaxing life into the slumbering beast.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

11. Lia - "Rawhide!” (1)​

The chamber's transformation is swift and merciless. Heat radiates in waves, pressing against my exposed flesh like an invisible force. My heart races, each thunderous beat a futile attempt to cool my rapidly warming core. Perspiration springs to life across my skin, tracing glistening paths along the curves and planes of my body.

The air thickens, becoming a tangible entity that claws at my lungs with each labored breath. My usually resilient form now quivers, muscles tensing against the onslaught of warmth. I know the crucible that awaits – a test of endurance where my body will become a battleground.

Mark's voice slices through my discomfort, a mixture of concern and something darker. "I thought you could use some rest." The ominous scrape of metal on concrete sends a shiver down my sweat-slicked spine.

I strain to look behind me, neck muscles protesting. My eyes widen as they lock onto the chrome monstrosity Mark has positioned nearby. It's a modernized version of a wooden pony, its gleaming surface a perverse mirror to the room's oppressive atmosphere.

The triangular shape rises to a precisely engineered edge, narrow and unforgiving. My mind reels at the thought of the concentrated pressure it would inflict, promising exquisite torment without breaking the skin. The sturdy base stands resolute, a silent sentinel of impending suffering.

Mark's fine fingers trail along the chrome surface, leaving ephemeral smudges that quickly evaporate in the intense heat. "Quite the piece of engineering, isn't it?" he muses, admiration coloring his tone. "Designed to push the limits of human endurance."

I swallow hard, my throat a desert despite the rivulets of sweat coursing down my neck. "Mark," I rasp, "is this really what you want?"

He pauses, considering. His eyes, usually a warm brown, now burn with an intensity that matches the sweltering room. "Want? No. This isn't about want. It's about need. I really need to you suffer more. A lot more.”

"I hope you're ready, because this might sting a little," Mark's voice cuts through the heavy silence, a perverse blend of faux-concern and barely contained excitement.

Before I can even process his words, his fingers dance over the controller, and my world erupts into searing agony. The chains binding my wrists snap taut, yanking my arms back at a sickening angle. I feel my shoulders being wrenched from their sockets, the tendons and ligaments stretched to their absolute limit.

Unprepared for the sudden shift, I have no time to brace myself. The full weight of my body crashes down on my delicate joints, sending a shockwave of excruciating pain through every fiber of my being. An animalistic scream rips from my throat, a primal cry of sheer anguish that echoes deafeningly in the chamber.

The pain is unlike anything I've experienced before - a relentless, searing torment that seems to radiate from the very core of my bones. I can feel my muscles straining, quivering with the effort of trying to counteract the unrelenting pull of gravity. Every instinct screams at me to thrash, to fight against the chains, but I force myself to stillness, knowing that any movement will only compound the agony.

"Please, God..." the words tumble from my lips in a desperate, breathless plea. My mind is a whirlwind of terror and desperation, frantically grasping for any shred of hope, any glimmer of salvation.

But there is none to be found.

The seconds crawl by with agonizing slowness, each heartbeat a torturous drumbeat pounding in my ears. I'm dimly aware of my own labored breathing, the air rasping in and out of my lungs in shallow, hitching gasps.

And then, just when I think I can't possibly endure any more, Mark makes his move. With a casual flick of his wrist, he activates the mechanism, and I feel the chains loosening ever so slightly. The respite is fleeting, a cruel tease of relief that only serves to heighten the intensity of my suffering.

He watches me, his gaze a palpable presence that sears into my very soul. I can feel the weight of his attention, the perverse enjoyment he derives from my torment.

And then, with a sickeningly nonchalant motion, he presses the button again, and I feel myself lowering. The chains slacken, and for a moment, I'm suspended in mid-air, my body a fragile, broken thing barely held together by the strength of my will.

"Please," the word is a broken whisper, barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

"Please what?" Mark's voice is a cruel mockery, dripping with false concern.

My mind races, desperate for a reprieve, for any sliver of mercy.

"Lower me. Please. I can't... I can't take it anymore."

For a moment, he simply stares at me, his expression unreadable. And then, with a casual shrug, he complies. The chains loosen further, and I feel myself dropping, my body collapsing onto the metal pony below.

The impact is jarring, sending a fresh wave of pain crashing through me. But it's a different kind of agony - a dull, throbbing ache that seems to emanate from the very core of my bones.

I ride there, splayed out on the deceptively simple device, my body contorted into an excruciatingly uncomfortable position. The metal edge presses against my most sensitive areas, a constant, unrelenting source of torment.

I'm pinned in place, my body splayed open in the most obscene way imaginable. The hard, cold edge of the pony is wedged directly against my most intimate area, a cruel and unyielding intrusion that leaves me feeling utterly violated and exposed.

My arms are still bound in a brutal strappado, my shoulders protesting with every breath I take. The position forces me to lean forward slightly, arching my back in a way that only serves to heighten the intensity of the pressure against my vulva.

It's a slow, steady ache at first, a dull throbbing that seems to pulse in time with my racing heart. But with each passing second, the sensation grows more acute, more insistent.

The metal edge digs into my sensitive folds, a relentless pressure that borders on pain. It's hard to tell where the device ends and my body begins, the line between torture and inexplainable morbid pleasure blurring until they become one and the same.

And yet, even as I writhe and squirm against my bonds, my body betrays me. The ache of arousal mingles with the sharp sting of the metal intrusion, leaving me feeling torn apart from the inside out.

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, each one sending a fresh jolt of sensation through my tortured flesh. Beads of sweat trickle down my brow, mingling with the dampness that clings to my skin in a thin, shining sheen.

Mark watches me, his gaze a searing brand that sears into my very soul. I can feel the weight of his attention, the perverse hunger that glints in his eyes as he takes in the sight of my broken, helpless form.

And all the while, the pony remains firmly in place, a cruel and unyielding constant in my nightmare landscape.

The metallic edge of the pony burrows insidiously into the delicate folds of my pussy, an intrusion so sharp and violating it challenges my very essence. As my body is forced down by the merciless pull of the strappado, the relentless metal grinds agonizingly close to my clit. Pleasure mingles with pain in a tortuous dance, blurring lines I once thought clear. Pressed intimately in this cruel embrace with the cold metal, every shift of my hips only deepens my torment, grinding the edge ever closer to my pelvic bone, each movement igniting piercing sparks of agony through my core.

Trapped, with no recourse to alleviate the grim position that forces my delicate flesh against unyielding steel, I'm left utterly at the mercy of this unbearable sensation. My attempts to remain still are in vain; the slightest movement sends searing jolts of pain that ripple outwards, enveloping me in a haze of distress. The pressure is relentless, the metal edge a constant, brutal reminder of my vulnerability and powerlessness under Mark's control.

Beads of sweat mix with tears, each one a testament to the unbearable intensity of my ordeal. The cool steel against my heated skin intensifies each sensation, making me acutely aware of the stark contrast between my body's warmth and the icy bite of the metal. I’m acutely conscious of every contour of my flesh pressed against the unforgiving pony, each curve and crevice painfully accentuated by my strained position.

And as if the invasion isn't cruel enough, my body betrays me—fear and pain manifest as moisture that trickles shamefully down my thighs, adding a layer of humiliation to my torment. It's a grim reminder of my complete and utter subjugation, my body reacting in ways that defy my desperate longing for control.

Mark watches, his gaze imbued with a chilling anticipation. To him, I am merely an object of perverse fascination, a subject upon which to inflict suffering and observe the breaking of will. Stretched out and displayed on this metallic tormentor, I am reduced to nothing but a receptacle for his sadistic impulses, a canvas of flesh writhing under his calculated assault.

The initial false promise of relief from the icy metal rapidly transmutes into a hellish reality. As the pressure builds, the thin edge becomes a torturous wedge, forcefully parting the tender skin of my inner thighs, each breath a prayer for respite. My body’s involuntary recoil only serves to entrench the metal deeper, the agony escalating, spiraling into a relentless crescendo that threatens to fracture my sanity. My surroundings—the stark chamber, the relentless glare of the massive lights—compound the severity of my plight, each detail etched into my consciousness as I grapple with the unyielding pain.

In this crucible of suffering, each second dilutes into eternity, the relentless passage of time marked only by the rhythm of my anguished cries and the inexorable grind of metal against bone. Mark's looming presence, a specter at the periphery of my torment, is a constant reminder that this ordeal is far from over.

Mark’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a scalpel. “Tell me, Lia, how many kilos of weight did you hang from me when I was at your mercy?” His question sends a cold spike of fear straight to my heart. I know the number instantly but fear to utter it. “Five? Ten?” He steps in closer, his gaze piercing as he tilts his head, studying my face with unnerving precision. “Fifteen. You draped fifteen kilograms of cold, unforgiving metal across my ankles, my groin, and you laughed. You even touched yourself as I hung here, stretched to my limits.”

“Mark… I’m…”

“You what? Sorry?” He snarls, his voice a blend of disdain and raw bitterness. “Perhaps now you are. But then? You reveled in it. You fucked yourself silly with that Coke bottle while I was ripping apart.”

His words hang heavy between us, a painful reminder of my past cruelties.

I’m at a loss for words, the remorse tangling with the fear in my throat, rendering me silent. He holds my gaze for a heavy beat, then turns away, striding towards the desk. My eyes follow his every move, half dreading, half relieved when his hands re-emerge empty of the expected weights. Instead, he holds a small tube.

Uncapping it with a practiced flick, he squeezes a dollop of translucent gel onto his fingers. My throat tightens, dreading another chemically-induced terror. But as if he reads the panic in my eyes, he says, “Don’t worry. It’s just lubricant.” His tone is casual, almost mocking, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

I watch, perplexed and tensed, as he approaches again. He reaches out, his lubricated fingers cold and intrusive as they press against my labia. The gel is cold, a stark contrast to the heat of the torture I’ve endured.

He forces his fingers, unyieldingly, between the tender flesh and the unforgiving metal of the pony, ensuring every inch of the invasive edge is coated. While his touch is undeniably a violation, the presence of his fingers offers a temporary respite from the relentless metal grinding into my pussy.

The sensation is both a relief and a new form of torment. When he finally withdraws his fingers, the slickness he leaves behind reduces the friction but not the pressure.

I shift involuntarily, and the movement causes the metal to slide against my sensitized skin, reigniting the searing pain with a ferocity that catches my breath.

Previously, without the lubricant, I had managed to position myself so the raw metal grated less painfully against my tender flesh. By remaining almost unnaturally still, I could moderate the relentless pressure, reducing but never quite escaping the torment. But now, lubricated and slick, the metal edge beneath me becomes treacherously smooth. Every minute shift in my position causes my skin to slide against it, reminiscent of moving over a blunt knife. The unyielding metal cruelly presses and shifts against my vulnerable skin, probing and pushing into the soft, yielding tissues of my vulva, incessantly grinding with a horrid precision.

With the lubricant, there is no grip; there is no momentary respite that comes from immobility—only a continuous, sliding friction that amplifies the pain. It's as though the metal finds new, previously untouched paths to torment, sliding around and against the roundness of my labia, pressing in a slow, torturous exploration that feels like it's mapping every nerve ending with agonizing accuracy.

The gel, normally meant to ease things, instead transforms the metal into a sinister, gliding force. It cruelly magnifies every movement, turning minute twitches into waves of fresh agony. The constant shifting creates a sickening sensation of being cut and abraded deep within where the flesh folds and creases around the unyielding invader. The edge seems to delve deeper, threatening to split the delicate balance of my body's tolerance.

Every breath I draw, every tiny movement I make, stirs this cruel intruder to carve a bit deeper into the plush, tender tissues, pressing insistently, unescapably, where it must not. The sensation is nauseating, an intimate violation amplified to an unbearable pitch. It’s equivalent to the vilest form of torture, masked under the guise of a slick, supposed mercy that only heightens the severity of each assault on my senses.

Moisture—born of pain, not pleasure—seeps unbidden, offering no solace but rather aiding the cruel slide of metal. It mingles with the lubricant, creating a detestable sheen that catches the light, a visual testament to the vicious cycle of suffering that leaves me breathless, trembling, and despairingly raw.

The continual scraping sensation is a relentless assault, a grinding pressure that sears through me with a ruthless persistence, redefining the very thresholds of pain I can endure. The sounds of my own desperate cries fill the room, a soundtrack to the unbearable blend of erotic agony that the lubricated metal edge orchestrates with devilish intent.

Mark steps back, his eyes never leaving my face as he observes the effects of his handiwork. There’s a stark shadow of satisfaction on his features—seeing me, once the wielder of pain, now entangled in a web of anguish and helplessness.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

11. Lia - "Rawhide!” (2)​

His expression, once full of agony in my memories, is now etched with cold calculation and a hint of sadistic pleasure. It’s a look I recognize, a look I once owned. The role reversal is complete, chillingly underscored by the shiver that runs down my spine as I struggle against the renewed pain, every slight movement a reminder of my precarious state on the slippery edge.

Between sharp breaths and the pulsing pain, I realize the depth of the purgatory I’m caught in—a place that Mark now controls with meticulous cruelty, a reminder of a past where I once held the reins.

Mark's footsteps echo in the cavernous chamber, each step a measured cadence that underscores the gravity of my situation. He moves with a newfound sense of purpose, his tall frame casting an elongated shadow that stretches towards me, a dark omen of the trials to come. Light glints off the sheen of sweat that clings to his skin, highlighting the contours of his muscles as they flex beneath his thin shirt.

As he approaches the desk, his movements are deliberate, each gesture a silent prelude to the ordeal he is about to orchestrate. He pauses, his fingers brushing against the cold, unyielding surface of the desk, the same desk that has borne witness to my own past cruelties. The irony of the moment is not lost on me—a bitter reminder that the tables have indeed turned.

He turns back to face me, his eyes a stormy brown that darken with each passing second. "Lia," he begins, his voice carrying a weight that resonates within the very walls of the chamber, "before I leave you to the tender mercies of gravity and the unyielding pull of those weights, there's something else we need to address."

His gaze holds mine, a silent challenge that dares me to look away. "I had every intention of returning the favor, so to speak—placing the full fifteen kilos you so enjoyed draping over my body onto your own. But I'm nothing if not fair." The faintest ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth, a stark contrast to the seriousness of his words.

"So, I'm offering you a choice, a way out... of sorts." He withdraws a coiled, unusually long tawse—the tawse I designed—from the desk, its oiled leather falls unraveling with a sinister grace. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine, a visceral reminder of the pain it can inflict. "For every kilo of weight, you can choose ten lashes instead. When I reach ten, you'll decide whether to continue or to succumb to the weights. It's a simple exchange—pain for pain."

The room seems to shrink around us, the air growing thick with anticipation. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a drumbeat that echoes the mounting dread I feel. "Understood?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that comes from the depths of his chest.

I give a curt nod, the only response I can muster through the constriction in my throat. The reality of my situation settles upon me like a shroud. I am trapped, caught between the proverbial and literal rock and a hard place, with no choice but to accept the terms of this twisted negotiation.

Mark's eyes soften for a moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity—or is it regret? "This isn't about revenge, Lia," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's about balance. About understanding the weight of our actions and the scars they leave behind."

With that, he steps towards me, the meter-long tawse coiled like a serpent in his hand. I can almost feel the smell of the leather, a raw, earthy scent that I know so well. He moves with a grim determination, his muscles tensing beneath his T-shirt as he prepares to unleash the first blow.

The first lash strikes with a precision that belies the apparent casualness of his swing. The tawse's leather tongue kisses the sensitive skin of my lower back, just above the swell of my buttocks, with a stinging ferocity that tears a gasp from my throat. "One," I manage to choke out, the word a stark reminder of the ordeal that has only just begun.

The second lash lands in an echo of the first, the impact searing across my flesh like a brand. My body jerks reflexively against the chains, the strappado position pulling my shoulders taut as I cry out, "Two!" The pain is a living thing, a fierce, burning line that seems to burrow deeper with each passing second.

"Three!" The tawse's falls curl around my side, leaving a welt that blooms like a grotesque flower across my ribcage. My skin prickles with heat, the initial shock giving way to a throbbing ache that radiates outwards in relentless waves.

Mark's arm rises and falls with a relentless rhythm, each stroke a calculated caress of agony that elicits a fresh count from my lips. "Four!" The sound of the tawse connecting with my skin is a percussive counterpoint to the rapid cadence of my own labored breathing.

"Five!" The pain is becoming a cacophony, a symphony of suffering that drowns out all else. I can feel the tears streaming down my face, each salty droplet a testament to the torment I am enduring.

"Six!" The leather kisses the tender flesh of my upper thighs, a cruel reminder that no part of me is beyond his reach. The tawse's bite is a white-hot lance that sears through my body, igniting every nerve ending in its path.

"Seven!" My voice is growing hoarse, the effort of speaking through the pain a trial in itself. The chamber is filled with the sound of my counting, a grim litany that marks the passage of each agonizing moment.

"Eight!" The latest stroke overlaps with the fading pain of its predecessors, a cumulative effect that leaves me shaking, my body slick with sweat and tears.

"Nine!" With each lash, my world narrows to the point of impact, the anticipation of the next stroke a dark cloud that hangs heavy over my consciousness.

And then, with a final, devastating swing, the tenth lash strikes home. "Ten!" My voice cracks, the word a desperate plea for respite, for a moment's reprieve from the relentless onslaught.

Mark pauses, the tawse dangling from his hand like a two-tongued serpent poised to strike. His chest rises and falls with the exertion, his face a mask of focus and determination. The chamber is silent but for the echoes of my last cry and the soft, mournful rattle of the chains that hold me in place.

In the stillness that follows the cessation of the lash, a new awareness dawns upon me. I realize with horrifying clarity that the cruel edge of the metal pony beneath me, which had been a constant source of discomfort, is now a blazing inferno of pain. The lubricant that has become a conduit for this unending torment, allowing the merciless metal to slide and grind against my most sensitive flesh with each involuntary twitch of my body. The pain blooms anew in my pussy, a searing, relentless ache that threatens to overwhelm my senses.

Desperate for a modicum of relief, I try to clench my thighs together, to lift myself even a fraction of an inch from the unyielding surface that tortures me. But the chains that suspend me, and the slippery sides of the pony mock my efforts, unable to escape the relentless pressure that seems to grow more intense with each passing second.

A helpless cry escapes my lips, mingling with the sounds of my own labored breathing, the snot and sweat and saliva that have dripped onto the pony's edge in front of me forming a grotesque tableau of my suffering. The room swims before my eyes, the stark reality of my predicament etched into every line and curve of my contorted body.

Mark's eyes meet mine, a silent testament to the depths of my torment. He sees the tears that stream down my face, the plea for mercy that I am too proud to voice. And in that moment, I understand that this is not just a physical battle—it is a war of wills, a test of endurance that will either break me or forge me anew.

Mark's voice cuts through the heavy silence, a stark reminder of the choice that lies before me. "Well, Lia?" he asks, his voice a harsh rasp that echoes off the chamber's unforgiving walls. "Will you accept the remaining weights, or do you wish to continue with the lash?"

The chamber is silent once more, save for the steady drip of condensation and the occasional clink of the chains that hold me captive. I am left to confront the demons of my past, the weight of my actions, and the uncertain future that lies ahead. This is my crucible, my trial by fire, and all I can do is endure, to survive, and to hope that on the other side of this pain, there might be a glimmer of redemption waiting for me.

I hang there, suspended between agony and anticipation, my body a canvas of pain that bears the marks of his retribution. The weight of the moment settles upon us both, a heavy, oppressive silence that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

I heave heavily, each strained breath forcing my chest to rise against the cruel strap holding me in place. My mind races, caught in a desperate calculation. The thought of another ninety lashes sends an icy dread coursing through me—the sharp, blazing agony of each strike, the relentless cruelty of leather kissing my already tender skin. But the weight—oh, the weight.

The thought of those merciless kilos hanging from my straining limbs, grinding me down inch by inch as gravity takes its toll, fills me with an even deeper terror. The lashes burn, they sear, but they end. The weight, however, lingers; it pulls and stretches steadily, opening an abyss of unending torture.

Shaking, I consider the pain I'll endure either way. My instinct clings to the fleeting ground of the lashes—they leave agony, yes, but the idea of their finite nature clutches at something primal in me, offering a sliver of hope. I steel myself, knowing the scale tips precariously toward one unspeakable hell, and I nod, forcing the word past trembling lips.

"The lashes." I say weakly, my head lolling forward against the restraints, my body trembling in anticipation. Mark wastes no time. The tawse snaps through the air again, the leather finding its mark with a sickening crack, igniting a new, searing line of pain across the flesh stretched over my lower back. My body jerks violently, though the strappado holds me firmly in place, my arms pulled back at that unnatural angle, shoulders screaming in silent protest with every twist.

The blows fall without rhythm, without mercy. Some strikes land high on my back, where the taut stretch of skin amplifies the sting. Others curl viciously around my sides, the leather tongues licking at the tender flesh beneath my ribs or grazing the outer edges of my breasts as my body reflexively writhes. Each strike is deliberate, calculated—a punishment that spares no part of me.

The angled position of my legs, forced astride the unyielding metal pony, only worsens the pain. My inner thighs clench futilely around the sharp, unforgiving edge wedged mercilessly against my vulva. Every lash sends rippling waves of agony downward, forcing me to shift—a cruel and automatic reaction that grinds my most tender flesh deeper into the brutal wedge. The punishment from the tawse becomes inseparable from the suffering caused by the device beneath me, a hideous symphony of torment.

Mark steps closer, the leather tails striking now with greater precision. One blow curves over my hipbone, the lash stinging deeply into my lower belly. Another snakes around my side, kissing the edge of my breast with a sharp flick that draws a guttural cry from deep within me. My chest heaves painfully, the forced strappado arch pushing me forward, making it impossible to shield even the most intimate areas from his calculated cruelty.

Despite my attempts to distance myself mentally, the pain pulls me back into my body with every searing blow. My thighs quake on the pony, my calves trembling as the lashes find the flesh just above my knees, forcing me to shudder and press deeper against the edge. The position is mercilessly unrelenting; every movement feeds back into the cycle of pain, locking me there with no escape.

By the time the flurry of strikes subsides, my body sags helplessly in place, my head lolling forward as sweat, tears, and saliva drip freely onto the chrome surface below. My back throbs in a cacophony of welts and bruises, each one a testament to Mark’s methodical precision, his absolute control. My arms burn with the strain of the strappado, my breasts ache from the stray lashes against their swollen curves, and my vulva pulses with the raw punishment of the unyielding pony.

Mark circles me like a predator surveying its weakened prey, the tawse dangling from his hand like a serpent poised to strike once more. He pauses, his voice deceptively calm. "You made it through the second ten. Shall we go again?"

Through trembling lips, my voice cracks on the answer. "Yes," I rasp, devoid of strength, but unable to stop myself.

Mark takes his stance again, the tawse held like an extension of his will. My body tenses involuntarily, every bruised line of tissue across my back, hips, and thighs screaming in anticipation. There's no pause this time as the leather comes down in rapid, devastating succession, finding newly tender places to scorch. The strikes no longer feel distinct—just endless waves of searing pain, stitching themselves into the fabric of my being. My groans turn to sobs, then to guttural cries as the leather licks at the raw, welted mess my flesh has become. I thrash against the restraints in vain, the movement only serving to grind me further into the pony’s edge. It presses relentlessly into my already brutalized vulva, mocking any fleeting notion of reprieve.

I’ve lost all sense of pride by the fortieth lash. My screams now come unbidden, a surrender to the relentless rhythm of the tawse. Still, Mark doesn’t let up. He targets places he hasn't yet punished—my flanks, the delicate skin near the underarm, the curve where my thighs meet my ass, anywhere that hasn’t yet been claimed by the insidious fire. My sideboobs are caught by a curling strike, and I shriek as the tender flesh blooms with new agony. My throat grows hoarse, my strength draining, though the strappado ensures I never truly sag. My body remains unnaturally arched, a grotesque display of my utter powerlessness under his control.

The final round blurs into everything else, pain bleeding into pain with no beginning or end. It’s impossible to track individual strikes anymore; they all merge into one cacophony of searing torment, echoing in every nerve. I’m aware only of him, of the deliberate rhythm of his movements, of the raw satisfaction that lingers in the air. And then, as quickly as it started, it stops. Fifty.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

11. Lia - "Rawhide!” (3)​

I’m left trembling, my body sagging where it can, moisture pooling beneath me as tears, sweat, and saliva drip freely onto the cold chrome pony. My voice is gone—my cries reduced to broken whimpers. My entire back radiates with a deep, throbbing burn, my skin a lattice of welts and bruises. The weight of fifty lashes, traded blow by blow to avoid the greater weight, sits heavy on my psyche. It feels relentless yet finite—an odd kind of victory in the face of such calculated cruelty.

Mark leans against the wall briefly, glancing at me with something like begrudging acknowledgment. "You’re enduring better than I expected," he murmurs, his voice quiet but edged with something unreadable. His chest rises and falls heavily with his labored breathing, sweat dripping from his temples and trailing down his neck. The air around us is stifling, dense with the heat radiating from the nearby furnace. It feels suffocating, like every breath is a struggle against the oppressive weight of the air itself.

Without pause, Mark reaches for the can of Schweppes tonic water sitting on the table nearby, popping it open with a sharp hiss—an obscenely domestic sound in the midst of such barbarity. He tilts his head back, downing it in long gulps, the motion leaving me mesmerized for a fleeting second despite my state. When finished, he exhales sharply, rolling the icy can against his flushed forehead before setting it down with a clink.

The moment feels unbearably intimate when he grabs the hem of his soaked T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head from bottom to top, revealing inch by inch of his glistening, sweat-slicked form. Even now—especially now—I can’t help the flare of something foreign and deeply misplaced in my chest. His physique is as I remember, purposeful yet understated: a body built for endurance, lean and toned rather than bulky, each muscle clearly defined under the sheen of perspiration. The ridges of his abs catch the dim light, leading up to his broad chest, and his powerful arms flex slightly as he tosses the shirt aside. Even in the suffocating heat, I shiver—not from the chill, but something else entirely.

He turns back toward me, his sharp gaze stripping me bare in a way far more piercing than my naked state already allows. The moment lingers uncomfortably before he finally moves, methodical as ever, toward the two large buckets sitting forgotten in the corner of the room. Bending at the waist to retrieve them, he strides toward the utility sink tucked along one wall, filling each bucket with water. The muted sound of the rushing water feels surreal, almost grounding, contrasted with my accelerating pulse and growing apprehension. I watch his large hands grip the handles firmly as he pulls the now-heavy buckets free, setting them down with a grunt, his expression momentarily relieved from the cool sheen of the water.

But when he leaves once more, I know better than to think this was the end of whatever torture he has devised. When he returns, the dread coiling in my stomach solidifies into something cold and wet. In each hand, he holds a one-liter bottle of lemon juice, bold labels mocking me with their innocence—100% pure. My battered breath catches in my throat as I watch him unscrew both caps, pouring the acidic liquid into the buckets with a casual flick of the wrist. The bright yellow splashes into the water, diffusing out sharply in vivid, sickly swirls. My gasp turns to a whimper when he’s not finished.

Mark steps away again, disappearing momentarily before reemerging with something far heavier: an industrial-sized bucket of coarse kitchen salt. My mouth goes dry as I watch him—a mess of sweat, fury, and detachment—haul it to the buckets of now-lemon-tainted water. With careful precision, he tips the massive container, and I barely hear the plummet of the salt over the ringing in my ears. The crystals pour out in heaps, sinking immediately into the thickening concoction, forming a gritty sludge that mixes unwillingly into the acid-drenched water. He alternates between buckets until satisfied, using his hand to stir each brew before standing upright once more.

“Your recipe,” he says, his voice edged with cold mockery. Bitterness curls the corners of his mouth as he regards me. "If I remember correctly." The phrase is more accusation than statement, piercing deeply into the anguish I had thought myself too numb to feel anymore. My sob comes unbidden, raw, broken, and entirely unguarded.

Mark approaches slowly, bucket in hand, and steps deliberately behind me. Through my blurring vision, I catch the motion of him tilting the bucket, and then it happens.

The liquid hits me like fire. A searing, agonizing blaze spreads across my welted and torn skin as the salted citrus brew coats me, heavy and unrelenting. The first splash feels like a scald, sharp and acidic, hitting the nerve endings already alive with pain. My back arches involuntarily, pulling harder against my strappadoed arms, an animalistic scream tearing from my throat as the mixture seems to invade every raw line, every welt, every lash mark etched into my flesh. My thighs, still trembling from the lashings and pinned against the sharp, unyielding edge of the pony, burn as the liquid slips down over me, clinging where the sharp steel triangle meets my flesh.

The lemon juice finds every broken layer of flesh, burrowing deep, carving lines of torment that ignite an unrelenting sting. The salt is worse—grainy, abrasive, and unyielding, dissolving partially against the heat of my body and embedding into the wounds themselves with a dull, grinding ache. The granules settle beneath the cracks of tortured skin, magnifying every heartbeat, every motion, until my body feels like a pulsating ember.

The concoction trickles to my thighs, some splashing against the swollen, agonized folds pressed cruelly into the wedge of the pony. I howl—a sound no longer human—as the acid-laced liquid creeps into places too tender, too raw, to endure. My entire body is alive, burning, pulsating with agony that seems to have no limit, every nerve screaming louder than the last.

Mark wastes no time, stepping around to face me, the second bucket in hand. My eyes widen in terror, and I feebly shake my head, a silent plea that dies on trembling lips. He doesn’t hesitate. With one swift, deliberate motion, he tilts the bucket forward, emptying its entire contents over my chest, stomach, and thighs in a single, unrelenting cascade.

The effect is instant and catastrophic. The acidic mix crashes against my skin like a tidal wave of fire, sinking into every crevice, every pore. My breasts, swollen and red from stray lashes, ignite as the lemon and salt cling to the sensitive flesh, the sting spreading outward in scalding waves. The liquid courses down my abdomen, pooling in the hollow of my navel before flowing mercilessly lower, soaking into the battered folds of my vulva and inner thighs. I writhe instinctively, every nerve alight, the pony’s unforgiving edge grinding cruelly into me as my body twists against the restraints.

But it doesn’t stop at my body. The overwhelming spray crashes into my face, drowning my senses in sharp, blinding pain. The acid-stung air claws at my nose, burning the delicate lining as the liquid forces its way in. My mouth is flooded with the sour tang of lemon and salt, choking me as I cough and gag, my whole face twisting in agony. The streams run into my eyes, and an instant, excruciating sting erupts, blinding me as I squint furiously, tears mingling with the acidic runoff. Helpless cries turn to sputtering gasps as I hiss through clenched teeth, my every sense consumed by a storm of salt, acid, and fire.

Streams of lemon-salt water drip from my trembling knees, mixing with the sweat and tears that pool beneath me, but no amount of dripping lessens the incendiary torment that clings to my raw, exposed flesh. Mark watches in silence, the empty bucket hanging loosely from his hand, his expression unreadable save for a faint glisten of sweat that catches the light as the room grows heavier with heat and anguish.

I burn in the acidic deluge, every nerve a live wire, every breath a labor against the blinding torment enveloping me. The salty lemon mix clings to me with a cruel, slurry texture. Coarse granules of salt settle like gritty sand in every crevice, every fold, every open wound. It’s relentless, grinding into the deeper, overlapping welts from the tawse. The raised ribbons of flesh, swollen and inflamed, bulge angrily beneath the layer of salt and acid, each welt a jagged map of pain etched across my body. The mixture works itself into every stripe, stinging impossibly deeper, burrowing into tissue that feels flayed down to the nerve endings.

The sharp edge of the metal pony is no escape; it's an accomplice in my torment. The weight of my body, shifting desperately in reflexive, pitiful attempts for relief, drives the salted slurry into the rawest, most intimate folds where the wedge cuts my flesh. It’s like riding a razor coated in sandpaper, the sharp surface grinding against me, joined now by a coarse, gritty layer that drags and bites with every movement. Each involuntary slide forward or twitch back traps the salt deep within even as the acids continuously coat the raw patches that bleed from the pressure. The muscles in my thighs quiver uncontrollably, begging to lift me clear, but the chains and gravity keep me locked to the horror of the unyielding edge.

The slurry invades my mouth as I gag on the taste—a disgusting, briny tang of sweat, lemon, and bitterness. Grains of salt refuse to leave, wedging under my tongue and against my gums like they’ve come alive to torment me further, every flick of my tongue against my teeth rubbing them in deeper. Each dry, labored breath sends another sting of acid into my nostrils, the air itself becoming hostile, as if even breathing through this suffering is wrong. My lips, split from screaming, now burn as the salt settles into the cracks, relentless in its assault. The sharp sting of the lemon mingles with the crunch of undissolved salt as I instinctively grit my teeth, trying in vain to block it all out.

The acidic, salt-ridden slurry doesn’t merely punish my skin—it consumes me as though it’s alive, as though it intends to colonize every inch of my being. It grinds where the salt crunches between flesh and hot metal, scratches and intensifies day-old bruises, and leaves its sting blooming anew with every twitch of my immobilized body. There is no reprieve, no moment of escape—only the relentless, gnawing sensation of being unmade, grain by painful grain.

Through it all, the hiss and crackle of the furnace beside me is relentless. The oppressive heat only amplifies my suffering. My body shakes with violent, mindless tremors as the fiery concoction drips to the floor, pooling beneath me in an acrid, sickly mess.

The silence hangs heavy after the unbearable torrent of salt and lemon. Mark finally steps forward, his expression unreadable as he studies me. His voice cuts sharply through the oppressive air. "Well, Lia," he says, his tone cold, clinical—a blade slicing through my resolve. "Do we continue with the lashes, or do I finally add the weight I promised?"

The words hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. I’ve been enduring this agony with nothing but my own bodyweight slicing me deeper onto the edge of the pony, muscles quivering and skin grinding raw against the unyielding metal. No weight has been added yet—this horrifying torment is "simply" my own flesh straining against itself. And this is only the beginning. Mark has yet to add the mandatory 5 kilograms, and the threat of even more looms like a black cloud on the horizon.

I try to comprehend the implication. If this is what my body feels now, stripped raw and broken under my own weight as it carves me open, how will I withstand even one kilogram, let alone five or more? The cruel edge of the pony will saw into me, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, the pressure unrelenting and sharp. For the first time, the thought wavers in my mind: maybe I can’t endure this.

Tears stream hot down my raw, swollen cheeks, my lips trembling beyond my control. Every part of me is on fire—salt and lemon grind relentlessly in every raw welt; my thighs quiver violently as the metal bites deeper at every involuntary twitch. I can barely lift myself now, but the moment weight is added, I know it will no longer be possible. The pony will destroy me piece by piece. Mark knew this. He always knew how this would break me.

I stare at him in wordless panic, desperate to weigh my options—but even as the question echoes in my mind, the answer feels hollow. Another fifty lashes. Nothing I do can prevent him from adding the 5 kilograms later, but I must avoid more. The lashes are finite, an acute ending I can at least comprehend. The weight offers no such mercy; it will stretch on, endless and inescapable, until it grinds away the very last of me.

I don’t want to say the words. My throat tightens under the pressure, but when I part my cracked lips, they escape anyway. “…Lashes,” I rasp, broken and hoarse, barely audible above the rushing sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. "The lashes again."

Mark regards me for a beat too long, his sharp gaze cutting through the last remnants of my resolve. Then he nods, tilting his head slightly as though considering something. The faintest flicker of a smile touches his lips, cruel and deliberate. "Hmm. Interesting," he muses, and my stomach twists. "Alright," he says simply, but his next words drop like a guillotine, severing what little hope I held. "But let’s make things more… interesting."

I stiffen, my already labored breathing halting in fresh dread.

"You’ll count each strike out loud, as usual," he begins, his voice steady and detached, every word measured to cut deeper. "If you make a mistake, you’ll correct it immediately by saying the number properly. The lash for the error won’t count, so you’ll feel it again. But if, at any point, you lose track entirely—if you forget where we are—the deal is off. The lashes will continue, every single one, but none of them will count, and the full weight—all five kilograms and more—will still be added. All or nothing."

He leans in slightly, his shadow looming over me, his tone dropping to something darker, more deliberate. "And if you cry stop twice—confirm you can’t take it anymore—I’ll stop. But you’ll face the full five kilograms, and the lashes will have meant nothing."

My stomach churns violently as the conditions set in. It’s not merely a matter of endurance now—it’s control, precision in chaos. My abused, broken body has to hold onto more than just the ability to endure. Error isn’t an option. Losing control isn’t an option. The stakes are unbearable: fifty lashes, with fifty counted out loud, missteps punished mercilessly and all other outcomes leading to what I fear the most—the weight, hanging over me like death itself, driving me into oblivion.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

11. Lia - "Rawhide!” (4)​

Mark doesn’t give me the time to think or argue. Movement behind me draws every muscle in my body tight. I barely process it, trembling uncontrollably as the whip strikes the air in preparation. My lips part again, desperate for breath; salt lingers on my tongue from my tears and the deluge, stinging faintly, a cold precursor to the fire to come.

The tawse whistles through the heat-laden air and lands with the sharp crack of lightning, searing my welted flesh anew. My voice bursts out of me, mangled and raw. "One!"

The birch fire of pain twists through my body, spreading out in waves from the brutal impact. Salt and acid are pushed deeper into the already open wounds, turning each lash into a hauntingly new bloom of undiluted, fresh agony. My voice trembles as I count, "Two!"

The lashes come slowly at first; the pauses between each one drag on, long enough for the burn of the latest stripe to settle fully before the next strike splits the air. The control required to count out loud fights against my instinct to shut down and retreat into the screaming void of my mind. My sobs come in hiccupping gasps, mixing with the numbers. "Five," I cry, and then, horribly later, "Eleven."

By thirty—or whatever pathetic estimate my spinning thoughts try to cling to—I’m no longer certain of anything but the overwhelming heat and fire pressing inward from every direction. I’m crying openly now, my voice cracking as I force my way through the numbers. Everything narrows into a tunnel—pain eroding my thoughts, my body wracked with tremors I can’t control.

When one lash lands unexpectedly low, driving into a fresh, untouched patch of skin, the sensation rips through me and breaks me for a fleeting second. My voice betrays me as the word tears from my throat, desperate and panicked. "Stop!" I gasp, half-sobbing the word before I even know I’ve said it.

Mark halts immediately, his silence an oppressive weight in the air. My eyes are squeezed shut, my entire body shaking as the blood pounds in my ears. The words hang before me: confirm it or keep going.

For a long, endless moment, the temptation creeps in. My lips part as my voice falters, but the haze lifts just enough for me to see it—what’s waiting if I fail. Not just five kilograms, but the complete erasure of everything I’ve endured already. The lashes, the humiliation, the pain—it all becomes worthless.

"No," I choke out at last, suppressing another sob. "No."

Without a word, the strikes resume.

At some indistinct, hellish point—I lose my place. My trembling lips stammer around the numbers as my mind spirals into the molten core of agony grinding me into nothingness. "Forty—" I rasp, sucking in shallow breaths, "—forty-four." The whip lands again before I’ve collected myself.

"Wrong," Mark corrects quietly, and I cry out in horror, shaking my head desperately. The lash repeats, harder this time, forcing me to correct myself immediately. I’m sobbing now, clinging to the threadbare numbers like a lifeline.

My entire body shudders with the blinding waves of pain as slowly, horrifically, we reach fifty. Or fifty-one, counting my error too. My barely audible croak of the final number escapes me before my head hangs forward, utterly broken, my voice too raw to cry out anymore.

It’s over—barely. The weight hasn’t been added yet, but its presence still looms ahead. And I endure, the victory as hollow as the searing ache carved into my flesh—marked by the lingering salt, lemon, and fire of my own, all-too-mortal limits.

Mark wipes the glistening sweat from his brow, breathing heavily. He stands there for a moment, taking in the scene, his chest rising and falling as if even he—despite his calm exterior—has been pushed by the sheer effort of the task. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with a sheen of exertion. "Hard work," he mutters, more to himself than to me, though his voice remains steady, void of emotion.

He steps back, brushing his damp hands against his thighs, and then fixes me with an unreadable expression. "Now, we can rest." His words hang in the thick air, cruelly misleading. He folds his arms, considering me for a moment like one might a cornered, defeated animal. My trembling muscles ache to relax, to collapse altogether, but I dare not hope for relief.

"I’ll go sit down," he adds casually, his voice distant and indifferent as his lips curve into something just shy of a smirk, "and you just… stay."

Another wave of dread floods my chest, sharper than the raw agony radiating from my back and thighs—because I know this is far from over. Breathless and weak, I hang there, unable to shift even slightly without the pony’s sharp edge grinding further into my shattered resolve. Sweat streaks down my body, stinging the open welts that litter my exposed back, and pooling where my skin presses against the unyielding surface.

Mark turns away, unhurried. His footsteps echo briefly before fading as he leaves the room. The silence, though short-lived, is deafening, giving too much life to the pounding of my heart, the uneven wheezing of my breath, and the quiet, agonizing pull of gravity pinning me down. My mind spins—clutching vainly at hope, desperate for reprieve, even as every part of me knows that’s not what’s coming.

When he returns, his presence is loud, even if his steps are quiet—because my eyes lock immediately onto what he’s carrying. Two small, rounded plates—2.5-kilogram trigrip weights—swing from his hands. The dull clink of the metal against itself sends a fresh chill crawling up my spine.

"No," I gasp, my voice cracked and pitiful, barely above a whisper at first. Then louder, more frantic. "No, Mark, please. Please, no!" The words tumble out of me in panicked desperation, each plea soaked with raw, trembling fear. My legs shift instinctively, though the pony’s harsh edge immediately reprimands me with searing pain, forcing me still again.

His expression doesn’t change—there’s no anger in him, no drama, no sign that my begging even reaches him. To him, my words are less than background noise. He moves with deliberate efficiency, kneeling before me, taking one of the plates in his hands.

I flinch and cry out, "Please, I can’t! I can’t take any more, please, I’m begging you!" But there’s no hesitation as he reaches for one of the thick leather manacles encircling my ankles. The heavy cuffs, snug and merciless, had felt ominous even earlier—now they become a trap, an unbreakable tether for the punishment about to intensify.

Mark attaches the weight plate to the manacle, the metal of the carabiner clicking into place like the closing of a prison door. Immediately, I feel the pull. Even small as it is, the weight shifts everything; it tugs firmly at my leg, turning every movement—even the slightest quivering of muscle—into a new battle against strain, against the downward force trying to grind me deeper onto the sharp edge below.

"Mark, no—no, please! Please, I’ll do anything!" My voice cracks as my pleas slide into breathless sobbing, the prospect of relief obliterated in an instant.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me. Silent, methodical, he moves to the other ankle, repeating the same, cold process. The second weight clicks into place, and the combined drag begins almost immediately, forcing my legs to press harder against the cruel wedge beneath me. My thighs scream in protest, searing pain soaring through muscles that are already trembling from hours of unrelenting strain.

I gasp, jerking slightly, but the weights only magnify the consequences. The edge of the pony bites mercilessly into my flesh as the added pull begins an unyielding descent. Sliding feels inevitable now, a slow, harrowing progression that reminds me with every second how fully gravity commands me.

Still kneeling, Mark looks up at me briefly, his face betraying not even a flicker of compassion. His hand dips into the small container he’d brought earlier. I barely see it—my vision blurred with tears and pain—until the cold, sticky liquid touches raw, broken skin.

I scream—not because of the lubricant itself, but because the pressure of his hand forces the edge of the pony to grind deeper. Every nerve flares, the lingering agony growing sharper with the new slickness. He spreads it deliberately, methodically, like someone greasing a machine. Each movement is calculated—to prolong, to ensure, to maintain my inevitable, torturous slide.

“Don’t want you getting stuck," he mutters, almost as though this is routine, a matter-of-fact necessity rather than a deliberate act of cruelty. His tone is dispassionate, almost clinical. He applies a fresh layer, ensuring that the motion—the merciless downward progression—can happen without interruption.

The weights ensure that every muscle in my body will fight a losing battle—not just against the pony’s edge, but against the slow inevitability of being pulled further, losing ground as pain intensifies with every tiny shift.

Mark rises slowly to his feet, his gaze lingering on me for a moment. He exhales a quiet breath. "There," he says simply. Without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the unbearable weight, the sharp bite of the pony, and the knowledge that this is far from over.

The sound of his retreating footsteps fades, leaving me in suffocating stillness. Solitude doesn't bring relief—if anything, it amplifies the horror of my situation. I hang there, my breaths coming in ragged, trembling gasps, tears streaming endlessly down my cheeks as the full weight, both literal and figurative, consumes me.

The weights tug insistently at my ankles, the steady, unrelenting pull causing my muscles to quiver in exhaustion as I fight a losing battle against gravity. It’s subtle at first—the downward slide so slow it’s almost imperceptible, but the consequence of every tiny shift is immediate. The lubricated edge of the pony becomes my foe, grinding mercilessly into my thighs and pelvis, carving deeper with every involuntary movement, my skin sliding over the cruel wedge in a grotesque, maddening rhythm.

Desperation rises in me like bile, turning my panic into humiliation. The lubricating gel, freshly applied to ensure the "sliding goes on," works too well, forcing my raw, abused skin to glide smoothly yet painfully along the pony as gravity presses harder and harder against the ruined center of my body. Every fleeting heartbeat pulls me lower, dragging broken flesh against the razor-sharp edge that feels like it’s splitting me apart.

The torturous motion becomes an obscene parody, a sickening mockery of something intimate and natural, twisted into something grotesque and horrific. My body moves without consent, compelled by its own instinct to resist—muscles spasming, twitching, straining under the suffocating weight pulling me down. Every tremor, every slight adjustment of balance translates to another brutal inch of sliding, the edge grinding against sensitive, raw nerves. My thighs, slick with sweat and the fresh layer of lubricant, rob me of any chance to hold still, to stop the unbearable movement.

It’s obscene in its design, a horrifying rhythm that feels somehow wrong, even more than the cruelty itself. The slide is disjointed, ungraceful, alternating between sluggish and abrupt as my exhausted body fights in vain to stabilize itself. The weights swing slightly with every twitch of my quaking legs, amplifying the pull, making each involuntary motion more distinct and devastating. It’s maddening—a vile parody of something sensual turned into a visceral horror, where pain replaces pleasure and shame consumes every thought I can cling to.

I catch myself whimpering softly, broken noises punctuating each agonizing shift, and I hate myself for it. The soft, desperate sounds echo in the empty room, mingling with the faint scrape of my skin grinding along the pony and the rattling of the metal plates swaying ominously with every lost battle for control. My thighs burn like fire, every nerve in open rebellion as the wedge digs deeper, magnified by the slick lubricant keeping the slide agonizingly steady.

Time becomes meaningless. It feels as though hours have passed, but I know they are only minutes—I’m too hyperaware of every second, every grueling millimeter of descent. The relentless motion goes on, unstoppable and inevitable. My breathing mimics the twisted rhythm, shallow and uneven. Each time my flesh shifts against the wedge, I let out a half-whimper, half-gasp—sounds I can’t control, ones that disgust me as much as the situation itself. The humiliation is suffocating, the juxtaposition of the forced sliding and the unbearable pain echoing in my mind like a cruel, mocking taunt.

I try to focus on something—anything—to pull myself out of this moment, but there’s nothing left but the torment. I’m alone, chained to agony, drowning in the downward pull of the weights and the cruel bite of the pony beneath me. The tears keep coming, streaking hotly down my face as my vision blurs, making the walls of the room swim. My fingers clutch at the air instinctively, my bound wrists aching as the cuffs dig into my skin with my useless attempts to resist.

The worst part is how inevitable it feels. There’s no escape from this. I don’t even know how far I’ve slid anymore, but there’s no stopping it. My body fights against itself—innate reflexes trying to lift me, to still me, only to fail, making the pull more pronounced. Every jerk of a muscle, every involuntary convulsion, slides me further into an abyss of pain. The slick lubricant guarantees that my body will keep betraying me, moving without permission, adhering to the sick choreography imposed by gravity.

My knees spread subtly, an uncontrollable shift as the weights continue to pull at my ankles. It makes everything worse—the shift presses me harder into the vicious edge beneath me, and I can feel it—a sharp, brutal bite carving pain deeper into me with every second. The degradation, the sheer indignity of the moment, crushes me as thoroughly as the weights, and yet my body continues the awful cycle, unable to stop. The slow, grinding slide feels infinite, like I’m locked in a perverse limbo where sensation and torment override everything else.

The room is so quiet now, save for the occasional sound of my ragged breaths or the faint clinking of the weights as they insistently add to my descent. Somewhere out there, I know Mark is sitting, waiting, perhaps even pleased with the knowledge of what’s happening to me in his absence. And yet, a twisted part of me begins to crave his return—not because I want him near, but because the empty room amplifies my suffering, leaving me alone with nothing but my own small, pitiful sounds and the monstrous cruelty of the pony beneath me.

I close my eyes tightly against the world, trying to will myself out of this moment, but it doesn’t work. The pull is still there. The bite of the pony is still there. My broken body still shifts, sliding agonizingly downward in a parody that makes me wish for unconsciousness. Somewhere deep within, I hear the faintest echo of distant footsteps.

Mark.

Terror mingles with an unspeakable, shameful relief at the thought of his return. I know he won’t stop this, but being left alone much longer would drive me past the edge of madness. The sliding continues, slow and steady, biting deeper into me as the footsteps come closer, and I wait, trembling, for what comes next.

TBC

 

[Darth Agonoth]

12. Lia - “Just Some Flesh Caught in This Big Broken Machine” (1)​

The door's hinges groan, a sound that claws its way into the room and wraps icy fingers around my heart. It's a harbinger, a warning that the world I've been trapped in is about to shift once more. Mark and Volk step through the threshold, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light. They are clad in black military trousers and matching t-shirts that cling to their muscular forms like a second skin, a stark contrast to my own vulnerability. The air thickens, each breath becoming a conscious effort as the gravity of their presence settles over me.

Mark's eyes, cold and assessing, fix on me with chilling finality. "Davai otvedyom yeo k stoolu," he commands, the Russian words slicing through the silence. Though my mind translates them automatically, "Let’s take her to the chair," the impact of his intention hits me like a physical blow. The chair? A fresh wave of dread washes over me, my mind racing with dark imaginings of what this new torment might entail.

Volk's approach is silent, his movements precise. He is a machine, devoid of emotion, and I am merely an object to be manipulated. His rough hands work quickly, releasing the carabiner that tethers me to the overhead chains. The sudden absence of tension is a fleeting relief, a brief respite before the reality of my situation crashes back down upon me. My arms fall limply to my sides, the muscles screaming in protest as blood rushes back into them. My torso, weakened by the relentless ride on the pony, threaten to buckle, but Volk's iron grip prevents my descent. His hands, reeking of an unsavory mix of sweat and grime, hold me fast, a reminder that I am not allowed the luxury of collapse.

With a deft movement, Volk unclips the weights from my ankles, the sudden release sending a jolt of pain through my already tortured flesh. The weights fall away, but the agony they've inflicted remains, a fiery reminder etched into my skin. The sting of returning circulation is sharp, a searing pain that courses through my veins and settles deep within my core.

In one swift motion, Volk lifts me from the pony, his massive hand encircling both of my wrists with ease. I am suspended in the air, my body dangling helplessly like a slab of meat as he pulls me upright. The friction of the pony's edge as it leaves my body elicits a gasp, a sharp cry that echoes in the chamber. My senses are overwhelmed, the raw ache of my overstimulated nerves threatening to consume me entirely.

Mark leads the way into the darkness, his steps unerring as he navigates the shadows. Volk follows, carrying me effortlessly in his grasp. My legs dangle uselessly, brushing against the cold stone floor that bites at my exposed skin. The heat of Volk's breath is a harsh contrast to the chill that envelops us, a reminder of the living, breathing danger that shadows my every move.

The journey through the darkness is a blur of sensations—the bite of the stone beneath my feet, the unyielding grip of Volk's hand, the oppressive silence that hangs heavy in the air.

Then, with a sharp click, the darkness is banished, replaced by a harsh, unforgiving light that reveals the chair in all its horrific glory.

As the harsh light floods the area, I see it. My breath catches, a scream building that I cannot voice. Before us stands a chair, but "chair" feels like a grotesque understatement. It's a monument to clinical cruelty, a fusion of gleaming chrome and modern materials that speaks of vulnerability and violation.

The base is a complicated array of hydraulics and electronics, far more sophisticated than any standard medical equipment. Straps of a black, high-tech material hang ominously from various points, promising inescapable restraint. Above, a surgical lamp looms, its unforgiving glare poised to illuminate every exposed inch.

But it's the stirrups that truly reveal the chair's purpose. Adjustable, devoid of any comfort, they wait to spread and display. The seat and back are bare chrome, promising a bone-chilling coldness against bare skin. For there it stands in all its terrifying glory: a gynecological chair, reimagined as an instrument of torment, an altar of agony.

As the full horror sinks in, my legs give way entirely. Only Volk's unrelenting grip keeps me from crumpling to the floor. A sound escapes me, so pitiful I barely recognize it as my own.

The weight of what's to come crashes over me. This isn't just another session of pain or humiliation. This is a threshold, a point of no return.

As Volk places me down, my legs almost give out from beneath me, and I crumple onto my knees, the stone floor unforgiving against my skin. The momentary collapse feels like surrender, but in this place, even weakness is a fleeting luxury. With a practiced, almost mechanical efficiency, Volk leans in, his calloused hand steady on my neck—a silent but palpable threat.

The sudden freedom as he removes the restraints sends a cascade of pins and needles through my arms. My shoulders scream in protest, muscles trembling from hours of unnatural positioning. The metallic clank of the fallen manacles echoes ominously in the chamber, mingling with the lingering tension. This brief moment of relief is tainted by the knowledge that new, perhaps more terrible, bonds await me.

Mark pivots towards me, his angular features cast in sharp relief by the harsh lighting. His hazel eyes, once warm and inviting, now resemble polished amber—hard, unyielding, and devoid of mercy. The air in the chamber seems to thicken around us, suffused with the unspoken promise of what is yet to come.

"Climb on it," Mark commands, his voice as flat and emotionless as the chrome surface before me.

I stare at him, my mind struggling to process the order. A small, defiant part of me wants to refuse, to maintain some shred of dignity. But reality crashes down as Mark's eyes narrow dangerously.

"Don't give me that look, Athalia." The use of my full name, spoken with such stern disappointment, strikes me like a physical blow. It's as if I'm a child again, caught in some egregious misbehavior by a disapproving parent. The irony that Mark is significantly younger than me only heightens the dissonance. His tone carries the weight of absolute authority, a stark reminder of how completely the power dynamic between us has inverted.

Mark's eyes narrow dangerously as he continues, "You have two choices, and only two. Either you climb onto that chair of your own accord, or Volk and I will place you there ourselves. And then, my dear, you'll become intimately reacquainted with our little friend over there."

He gestures towards a distant table where the innocuous white bottle sits. My stomach roils at the mere sight of it, memories of searing agony flooding back with visceral intensity. I can almost taste the acrid tang of my own screams, feel the fire racing through my nerve endings.

I hesitate, trembling on the precipice of decision. Mark's patience visibly wears thin, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He looks to Volk, a silent command passing between them. The massive man moves forward, his calloused hands rough against my bare skin. One paw-like hand grips my upper arm, fingers digging into flesh, while the other settles on my lower back.

The touch sends waves of revulsion through me. Volk's hands feel like brands on my skin, each point of contact a violation. His breath, hot and sour, washes over me as he leans in close. I can smell the faint traces of rotten teeth and something metallic. As he begins to forcibly guide me towards the chair, a mixture of disgust and panic surges through my veins. My skin crawls where he touches me, and I have to fight the urge to recoil violently from his grip.

"No! Wait!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "I'll do it! Just... please. Anything but that spray."

Volk's grip loosens, but he remains close as I approach the chair on unsteady legs. Each step towards it feels like wading through molasses, my bare feet slapping against the cold concrete floor.

The gleaming chrome surfaces catch the light, transforming what should be a medical instrument into something alien and menacing. There's not a hint of comfort to be found – no padding, no concession to human fragility. It's a machine designed for one purpose: to hold a body in place, exposed and vulnerable.

With trembling limbs, I begin to climb onto the unyielding surface. The shock of cold metal against my skin elicits an involuntary gasp. Goosebumps erupt across my flesh, a physical manifestation of the fear coursing through me. The smell of disinfectant and something metallic – fear sweat, perhaps my own – fills my nostrils.

I pause, teetering on the edge of the seat, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The reality of what I'm doing – what I'm about to endure – threatens to overwhelm me. But Volk's presence looms behind me, a mountain of muscle and potential violence.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to swing one leg up, then the other, placing them reluctantly into the stirrups. The position leaves me feeling horribly exposed, my most intimate areas on display. The tough, unyielding surface offers no respite, every point of contact a cruel reminder of my predicament.

I turn my head away from the piercing clinical light above, unable to bear the sight of what's to come. Its glare seems to cut through my closed eyelids, denying me even this small escape. Tears of frustration and fear prick at the corners of my eyes.

Throughout this agonizing process, Mark watches in silence, his arms crossed over his chest. His intense gaze never wavers, drinking in every moment of my submission and vulnerability. The weight of his scrutiny is almost as oppressive as the cold metal beneath me.

I lie there, heart pounding like a caged bird against my ribs, acutely aware of every inch of my skin, every muscle tensed in anticipation of what horrors Mark has planned next. The room falls silent save for the hum of equipment and my own ragged breathing.

The cold chrome of the gynecological chair seems to leech the warmth from my body, but nowhere is the chill more pronounced than between my legs. The stirrups force my thighs apart, leaving me exposed to the cool air of the chamber. This unnatural openness, the vulnerability of my most intimate areas to the biting cold, sends involuntary shivers through me. It's a constant, inescapable reminder of my position – splayed out, defenseless, at the mercy of Mark's twisted designs.

In this moment of terrifying stillness, I realize that whatever happens next will irrevocably change me. The sensation of cold metal against my most sensitive flesh feels like a physical manifestation of the threshold I'm crossing. The woman I was when I entered this room feels like a distant memory, fading with each passing second, each icy breath of air against my exposed skin.

Mark steps closer, and reaches for the straps that resemble sleek, narrow seat belts – black and ominously sturdy. The material whispers against itself as he prepares to secure me to the cold chrome chair.

He starts with my ankles, the straps cinching tight with a soft 'snick' that seems to echo in the quiet room. The pressure is firm, unyielding, a stark reminder of my powerlessness. Next, he moves to just above my knees, repeating the process. Each new restraint feels like another door closing on my freedom.

A strap across my lower abdomen, just above my pubic area, presses me firmly against the chair's unforgiving surface. The cold metal seems to bite deeper into my flesh with each new point of contact.

To my surprise, Mark doesn't stop there. He grasps my left arm, lifting it towards a pole-like extension I hadn't noticed before. It juts out from the chair like the twisted branch of a dead tree, ready to hold my limb in its unyielding grasp. The strap wraps around my wrist, securing it in place, leaving my arm exposed and vulnerable. He repeats the process with my right arm, effectively pinning me spread-eagle on the chair.

Mark steps back, his hazel eyes roving over his handiwork. There are other straps dangling from various points on the chair, but he seems satisfied with my current level of immobilization.

Turning to Volk, Mark speaks in Russian, his voice low and dismissive: “That is all for now.”

Volk's gaze rakes over my fully exposed body, his tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip. There's a predatory gleam in his eyes as he savors the sight of my helpless openness. The weight of his stare feels almost physical, adding another layer to my vulnerability. But then, with visible reluctance, he turns and leaves us alone in the room.

The soft thud of the closing door seems to mark the beginning of whatever Mark has planned, and I brace myself for what's to come.

Despite my dire predicament, a wave of relief washes over me as I realize I'm no longer subjected to the agonizing strappado position. The chair, cold and clinical as it is, feels almost comfortable in comparison. Mark positions himself between my restrained legs, his presence both threatening and oddly reassuring. In his hands, he holds a sleek tablet, its surface gleaming under the harsh lights.

"This little tool," Mark begins, his voice carrying an unsettling note of pride, "is a gift from Mia Mori Gomez and the Armed Forces of San Monique. The latest, state-of-the-art model, and we're among the first to test it."

"Neat, isn't it?" Mark asks, a boyish enthusiasm in his voice that seems entirely at odds with the situation.

I hate to admit it, but a part of me – the part that's always been fascinated by technology – can't help but be impressed. "Fuck, it is neat," I think to myself, immediately ashamed of the thought.

Mark sets the tablet aside, his expression growing more serious. "I'm going to put in an IV now," he explains, reaching for a tray of medical supplies. "I've practiced a bit, but I might not be as good as you."

I watch, oddly detached, as he prepares the cannula. The sharp scent of alcohol wipes fills my nostrils as he swabs my neck. I feel the cool touch of his latex-gloved fingers as he searches for my jugular vein. There's a moment of pressure, then a sharp sting as the needle pierces my skin. Mark's brow furrows in concentration as he manipulates the cannula, his inexperience evident in the slight tremor of his hands.

Despite his lack of practice, he manages to secure the IV without too much difficulty. I glance at the bag of solution hanging nearby – Hartmann's, I note. He wants me replenished before whatever comes next. As the fluid begins to flow into my veins, I feel an odd sense of comfort. The cool liquid seems to spread through my body, bringing with it a pleasant sensation of renewal.

Mark's attention shifts lower, and I tense instinctively. He produces a pack of wet wipes, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the air. With surprising gentleness, he begins to clean my vulva and bottom. The cool moisture against my sensitive skin sends involuntary shivers through me. His touch is clinical, almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality I've endured.

As he works, I can't help but marvel at the complexity of the situation – the cutting-edge technology, the medical precision, all in service of... what? Torture? Experimentation? The uncertainty of what's to come fills me with a dread that even the soothing effects of the IV can't fully quell.

Mark's face remains impassive as he finishes his ministrations, but there's a glint in his hazel eyes that speaks of anticipation. Whatever he has planned, it's clear that this is only the beginning.

I nearly fall asleep when I feel something else creeping through me - an insidious warmth starting in my neck and spreading rapidly to my head, spine, and throughout my entire body. It's like an energy surge, but far more intense than anything I've experienced before. My senses sharpen painfully, the world coming into hyper-focus around me.

Shit. The realization hits me like a freight train. Mark has turned the tables, using drugs similar to what I used on him. But how? He claims ignorance about what truly transpired between us. This warmth... it feels different. More potent. More dangerous.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

12. Lia - “Just Some Flesh Caught in This Big Broken Machine” (2)​

I struggle to maintain my composure as Mark's smile widens, a predatory glint in his eyes.

"I hope you'll enjoy it," he says, his voice dripping with false concern. "I have no idea what you really did to me or what you used, so I had to get creative. Luckily, I had some help. I may not be a pharmacology expert like you, but I'm a quick study. Oh, and the naloxone? That was my personal touch."

My eyes widen in abject terror as the full implications of Mark's scheme crystallize in my drug-addled mind. Oh god, no. Without any externally administered opiates, the naloxone serves only one cruel purpose: to sabotage my body's natural pain relief system. He's concocted a nightmarish cocktail - a stimulant to keep me horrifyingly alert, mixed with a compound that will amplify every agonizing sensation.

The realization hits me like a freight train, my thoughts racing in fragmented, panicked bursts. How? How could he know? The room seems to pulse and warp around me, every detail etched in cruel, unforgiving clarity. The heat from the furnace even from this distance feels like a living thing, pressing against my skin, threatening to smother me. The polished chrome of the chair beneath me, once smooth, now feels like it's covered in microscopic barbs, each one digging into my flesh with sadistic precision.

I struggle to steady my breathing, to find some semblance of control in this spiraling nightmare. "Mark," I manage, hating the way my voice cracks and wavers, "what is it you really want from this?"

He circles me slowly, predatory, his presence a looming threat that seems to suck the oxygen from the room. The soft whisper of his clothing brushing against his skin is deafening in the charged silence. His natural scent - a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him - wafts towards me. Once, it might have been comforting. Now, it feels like an intrusion, a violation that underscores how thoroughly he’s turned my world upside down.

Mark stops behind me, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. I can’t see him, but I can sense how intently he watches, studying every shiver, every shallow gasp that betrays my weakness.

"It’s not about what I want anymore, Lia," he says, his voice low and vibrating with barely contained energy. There’s an edge to it, raw and unfiltered, as though he’s grappling with emotions even he doesn’t fully understand. "Have you already forgotten how you begged for this?"

"Begged for?" I whisper weakly, my breath hitching.

He shifts, positioning himself beside me now, his voice softening in that cruel way that makes his words cut all the deeper. "How you pleaded for penance while you were riding my cock? How you whispered, over and over, that you needed to atone for all the bad things you’ve done? For all the terrible things you inflicted on others?" His hazel eyes bore into mine, unwavering, unnervingly intent. "Well, this," he motions to my bound, exposed body, to the twisted mechanical chair that holds me splayed and trembling, "this is it. This is what you’ve been craving all along."

I shake my head weakly, but the raw truth beneath his words stabs deep, lodging somewhere I can’t reach. My lips quiver, my throat tight with the weight of what I can’t deny. The memories of my own deeds flood back - the cries of others in this very room, the cruel satisfaction I once took in their torment. My silence convicts me.

Mark leans in closer, his expression unreadable now, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You were a very bad girl, Lia. Doing very bad things to so many... many people." His words are deliberate, slow, as though savoring their effect. They pulse in the air between us like a heartbeat, each syllable heavier than the last. "You told me you needed punishment. You said you needed to pay the price." A cruel, humorless smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Well, this is the price. And I’ll make sure you pay it in full."

I glance away, trying to escape the weight of his gaze, but Mark’s hand reaches out, gripping my chin firmly. He forces me to look at him, to confront the unrelenting certainty in his eyes. There’s no malice there, but no mercy either—just an overwhelming and chilling resolve.

"You know," his voice softens again, slipping into something almost vulnerable, a strange contrast to the authority radiating from him moments before. "I can’t even explain this. This change in me—it's like something's... awakened, and it terrifies me." He pauses, hovering close enough for me to feel the heat of him against my bare skin. "You made me this way, Lia. That night. Right here, in this place." His words hit with devastating weight, the truth of them reverberating not just in his mind but somewhere deep in mine too.

"And you," Mark continues, a glint in his hazel eyes that chills me to my core, "you’ve changed too. Look at yourself. Isn’t this exactly what you've been craving all along?" His tone is almost taunting now, his lips curling into a sly, knowing smirk. "You said you wanted punishment. Penance." He laughs, quietly at first, then louder, the sound coursing through the room and rattling something loose in me. "I’ll tell you this, Lia. You’re going to feel every… exquisite… second of it."

I recoil as best I can in the bonds, but there’s nowhere to run, no escape from the suffocating reality of the moment. Mark tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle, as though he's not entirely sure what compels him now. Something flickers across his face, almost too fleeting to catch—a crack in the mask, a conflict he struggles to repress.

"Why do I want this so much?" he mutters under his breath, almost too faint for me to hear. "Why do you want this so much?" His eyes search mine, and for a split second, I glimpse the man he used to be—the vulnerable soul I once thought I could control, could shape. But it lasts no more than a heartbeat, and then that darker energy coils through him again, swallowing whatever fragility just surfaced.

He steps back, straightening to his imposing full height. His smirk fades, replaced by something more primal, something carved from the weight of everything we’ve become. "No, Lia," he says, shaking his head as if banishing his own doubts. "Don’t even think about begging me to stop. You were always going to end up here. We both know that."

The drugs coursing through my system make every nerve ending sing with terrifying awareness. Each breath feels like sandpaper in my lungs, each heartbeat a thunderous reminder of my helplessness. Mark's presence envelops me, his proximity both familiar and alien - a twisted mockery of the intimacy we once shared.

As the reality of my situation sinks in, a chilling clarity washes over me. I know, with bone-deep certainty, that I brought this upon myself. Yet paradoxically, I'm also a victim of forces beyond my control, caught in the grip of something far greater than my own desires or machinations.

The truth hits me like a physical blow - I've been hurtling towards this moment for so long, blind to its approach. Every ounce of agony I'm about to endure isn't just deserved; it's been craved, longed for in the deepest, darkest recesses of my psyche. The realization sends a shudder through me, a mix of dread and perverse anticipation.

The caning, the whipping, the strappado, even the relentless agony of the metal pony—all of it, all that excruciating torment that reduced me to sobs and screams, was merely the prelude. A cruel warm-up designed to fray my edges, to prepare me for what’s coming now. The pain I’ve known—the sharp bite of the cane on welted skin, the searing burn of straps tightening beyond endurance, the unyielding grind of metal against raw flesh—was excruciating. But this? This will be something else entirely, something far beyond mere suffering.

It's been so long since I’ve felt pain that strips away everything—pride, will, even the illusion of self. Pain so real, so visceral, it reduces pretenses to dust and leaves you raw, exposed, and utterly bare. And yet, deep down, I know the horrors that await in this chair will redefine even that. Those earlier torments pushed me to the brink, teetering on the edge of what I thought I could survive. But this chair… this is no brink. This is the plunge, the abyss.

Now, staring into the horrifying certainty of what’s to come, it crashes over me—a bone-deep, paralyzing realization: everything before this was nothing. Preparatory strokes. An introduction to despair. Whatever awaits me now isn’t just pain; it’s devastation, a calculated descent into depths of agony I’ve never imagined. This is what I was warned about. This is where I will break—and where breaking may not even be enough.

The transformation I arrogantly believed I could avoid has taken hold in my mind, inexorable as the tide. All those carefully constructed walls, the persona I'd built as an unshakeable dominator - they're crumbling, revealing something I barely recognize. How could I have been so blind? So certain that I could defy the very nature of what I am, what I was always destined to become?

As the first waves of sensation crash over me, I feel myself being unmade and remade. Everything I've suppressed, every dark desire I've bottled up in my role as tormentor, now rushes to the surface, inverted and hungry. Just as I was told it would, just as I swore would never happen to me. The inevitability of it all is both terrifying and, somehow, a perverse relief.

I brace myself, knowing that whatever comes next will shatter my conception of limits. It will remake me, forging something new from the white-hot crucible of suffering. And despite the fear clawing at my insides, a part of me - a part I've long denied - welcomes it with open arms.

The drugs coursing through my system make every nerve ending sing with terrifying awareness. Each breath feels like sandpaper in my lungs, each heartbeat a thunderous reminder of my helplessness. Mark's presence envelops me, his proximity both familiar and alien - a twisted mockery of the intimacy we once shared.

"You want to know what I'm going to do to you, Lia?" Mark's voice slices through the oppressive silence, cold and deliberate, each word laced with weight and finality. "I'm going to push you so far past your limits in this chair, so far beyond the person you think you are, that by the end of it, even you won’t recognize yourself."

For the briefest of moments, something shifts. His mask, so carefully constructed, slips. My drug-heightened senses latch onto the fragile flicker of the boy I once knew—the awkward, sweet, geeky soul who was so desperate to please me, even when he was afraid. For a heartbeat, I see him—vulnerable and raw. But just as quickly, he’s gone, devoured entirely by the darker, hungrier force that now consumes him.

"God help me," he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice a raw scrape of need and self-loathing. "I want this so fucking badly." His words hang in the air, thick with a tangled brew of longing and disgust. And then, lifting his gaze back to mine, something shifts again—his expression hardens, and the conflict within him twists into something sharper, crueler. "And I fucking hate that I do," he spits, as though the admission itself wounds him.

"Mark, please..." my voice breaks, reduced to a fragile rasp, my thoughts a chaotic spiral of fear and disbelief.

His gaze sears into me—the warmth of the boy I once controlled replaced by an intensity so fierce, it feels like it could burn right through me. His hazel eyes blaze with something primal, something savage, and the air between us feels electrified with barely restrained violence. "Don’t," he snaps, his tone a razor's edge that cuts through me. "Don’t bother, Lia. I told you before—this isn’t about stopping. All I want now is to hear you scream. To watch you shatter."

The raw, guttural honesty in his voice sends a chill rippling through my veins, far colder than the frigid water that still clings to my body. This isn’t about revenge anymore. It isn’t even about the twisted satisfaction of payback. It’s so much deeper, so much worse. This is about transformation. About obliteration. About turning me into something else—something broken, something unrecognizable to even myself.

And as his words hang in the charged air, I can feel the war inside him as clearly as the terror coursing through me. A war between the man he was and the force he’s become. I see it in the flicker of doubt that shadows his features before that darkness surges forward again, relentless and consuming. Mark doesn’t want to be this—but he can’t stop it. Whatever is driving him has already won.

He leans closer, his face inches from mine, the intensity in his gaze almost too much to bear. "This is who I am now, thanks to you," he murmurs, his voice low and bitter, each word a weight that settles over me like iron. "And don’t think for a second I won’t see it through. You begged for this, Lia—remember that."

The air between us feels suffocating, heavy with everything unsaid and everything that can’t be undone. I try to look away, to escape the weight of what’s coming, but Mark grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his unrelenting stare. His grip is firm but cold, his touch devoid of warmth or hesitation.

"Everything you’ve endured up until now?" he breathes, his words brushing my skin like a cruel caress. "That was nothing. Just the overture. Tonight, I’ll take you past the edge, Lia. Past the threshold of pain, past the person you think you are, until there’s nothing left of you but the screams. Until all you are—is mine."

Mark's posture stiffens as he manipulates the tablet with practiced precision. The chair beneath me awakens, its motors emitting a soft, ominous purr. My body, now a puppet to this mechanical choreographer, moves against my will. Initially, my limbs draw inward, a cruel pantomime of comfort that lasts mere seconds.

Without warning, the chair's grip shifts. My ankles and wrists are wrenched outward, stretching me taut. The relentless pull forces my body into an unnatural arc - limbs drawn down, torso thrust upward. This engineered pose leaves me excruciatingly exposed, vulnerability made flesh.

The surgical lamps above cast their merciless glare, transforming the room into a theater of scrutiny. Every inch of my athletic form is thrown into stark relief. My skin, a canvas of light tan, stretches over defined musculature. The forced arch accentuates the chiseled planes of my abdomen, creating a dramatic interplay of light and shadow.

Higher up, the tension forces my breasts into unnatural prominence. They sit higher on my chest, unnaturally firm, framed by the visible strain of pectoral muscles. This artificial elevation stands in sharp contrast to the hollowed, sculpted appearance of my midsection.

My shoulders, yanked backwards, cause my collarbones to jut out like twin ridges. The tendons in my neck strain visibly, cording beneath the skin. Fragmented reflections in the lamp's surface capture the rictus of my face - jaw clenched, brow furrowed, eyes wide with a cocktail of fear and drug-induced hyper-awareness.

The clinical brightness spares no detail. Every quiver of overtaxed muscle, each bead of sweat forming on my skin, the minute tremors that betray my struggle - all are laid bare under this unforgiving illumination. Mark observes from beyond the tablet, his gaze clinical and detached, as if I'm merely a specimen under his microscope.

This tableau - a body transformed into a study of strain and exposure - encapsulates the cruel duality of our situation. Beauty and suffering intertwined, vulnerability weaponized, all under the guise of some twisted exploration of human limits.

Mark’s voice slices through the silence, laden with an eerie mix of nostalgia and threat. “I know you’re fond of more traditional racking techniques,” he comments with a casual smirk, nodding towards the archaic assembly of weights and chains. “But that,” he says, gesturing dismissively, “is a stone axe compared to this technology.”

A knot of apprehension tightens in my stomach. My hands clench involuntarily, fingers curling into fists. Mark’s touch begins methodically at my lower abdomen, his fingers tracing upward. They skate delicately over the pronounced ridges of my ribs, stark against the tension of my skin. Each contact is measured, lingeringly exploring the vulnerable areas just below where faded bruises map out the remnants of previous trials.

His fingertips then graze the undersides of my breasts, the flesh tender and hypersensitive from prior caning, recoiling instinctively from his probing touch. He continues upwards, exploring the firm outline of my pectoral muscles that frame the hollows of my armpits—muscles tensed and defined, a stark topology of survival and adaptation under relentless strain.

“This is the marvel of human engineering,” Mark muses, his gaze locked onto the digital display of his handheld tablet. His voice, clinical and detached, belies the cruel intent of his words. “At this moment, such precision might seem excessive, but soon, you’ll understand its significance as it redefines your very thresholds of endurance and pain.”

With a casual flick of his thumb, Mark activates the mechanism. Instantly, the restraints binding my ankles and wrists tighten, pulling subtly yet unyieldingly further apart. Contrary to the delicate adjustments he hinted at, the movement is ruthlessly effective. This modern form of racking, though horizontal, compounds the agony with an unnatural arch that strains every fiber of my being—muscles cry out silently, and ligaments threaten to give way under the relentless tension.

The pain that floods through me is not the superficial sting of skin whipped raw or nerves jolted by chemical irritants. It's a deep, marrow-deep ache that taps into the most primal fears—a visceral forewarning of being torn asunder, of an irreparable rending of body and spirit under the calculated coldness of relentless mechanical precision.

In this stark, meticulously controlled torture, every deliberate adjustment of the machine, every calculated touch from Mark, is a stark reminder of the power he wields and the depths of the ordeal yet to come.

TBC

 

[Darth Agonoth]

13. Mark - “Just Call My Name 'Cause I'll Hear You Scream”​

My gaze traverses Lia's form, stretched taut on the modified gynecological chair that now serves as an ultra-modern torture rack. The flawless symmetry of her physique captivates me - muscles defined beneath skin pulled as tight as a canvas, stealing my breath.

Sharp hipbones jut out harshly, framing the gentle rise of her pubis. Above, her ribcage is accentuated by the stretch from opposite directions, the arch as her legs and arms are forced downwards to make her arch. Her breasts, elevated by bound and extended arms, transcend mere physicality; tiny, erect nipples adorned with metal bar piercings are engorged and agonized, the delicate flesh mottled in angry shades of crimson and plum from the merciless treatment they suffered.

Lia's striking sapphire eyes dart briefly to the device in my hand—a syringe filled with a substance that amplifies senses and sensations unnaturally—before looking away. This fleeting crack in her professional demeanor speaks volumes.

Her chest rises and falls, straining due to the arch, in a silent prelude to impending agony. My hands tremble at my sides, a cocktail of desire and restraint coursing through me. The urge to trace her agonized elegance with my fingertips is nearly overwhelming. Yet, I resist, bottling up my urges and reveling in my self-control.

The room's still cool air caresses her exposed flesh, raising goosebumps and igniting every nerve ending in silent anticipation. The subtle yet unmistakable scent of her fear mingles with the antiseptic tang of our surroundings, leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. This clinical setting, with its stark lighting and gleaming instruments, forms a chilling backdrop to the raw, primal scene unfolding.

Lia shifts slightly, eliciting a soft clink from her restraints. The sound reverberates between us, amplifying the palpable tension. I inhale deeply, intoxicated by the bouquet of her resilience and trepidation. My resolve strengthens as I contemplate the tableau before me - her perfect body offered up like a sacrifice on an altar of science and sadism.

In this chamber of calculated cruelty, each second stretches into eternity. The air crackles with potential energy, heavy with the weight of our intertwined destinies. I stand motionless, savoring this moment of anticipation, knowing that soon, very soon, I will unleash a storm of sensation upon Lia's waiting form.

I press the button again, knowing full well the extent of Lia's physical capabilities from my careful study. Little does she realize the precision with which I've calculated this torment - the exact parameters to stretch her form to the very edge of agony, without risking permanent damage. I watch, transfixed, as her limbs are drawn taut, her body transcending mere physicality and descending to a lower plane of exquisite suffering.

Lia's swollen, scabbed nipples, adorned with cold metal, stand erect amid the glistening expanse of her strained flesh take on an ovalish form. A symphony of cracks and creaks fills the air as her joints are tested to their limits. Her eyes widen, betraying a flicker of true terror as the machine's relentless motion continues.

"No... oh, no... please, Mark, don't... stop, please!" Lia's voice breaks, a pitiful whimper punctuated by hot tears carving paths down her flushed cheeks. I study the readout on the tablet, calculating the precise point at which to halt the machine's advance - just shy of true injury, but beyond the threshold of her endurance.

With a final, agonizing groan, the device pauses, Lia's limbs quivering as she lies stretched out. That deep, primal wail I've been anticipating finally erupts from her trembling lips - a testament to the fear of her own undoing, mingled with the raw, visceral agony radiating from her very core. The sound reverberates through the clinical space, an orchestral complement to the tableau of her tortured beauty.

I inhale deeply, savoring the stirring bouquet of Lia's terror and suffering. The sight of her perfect form, contorted and strained, ignites a dark fascination within me. In this moment, I bear witness to the transcendence of flesh, the transformation of the corporeal into a work of agonized art. Truly, this is a masterpiece born of calculated cruelty.

The machine whirs to life at my will, a chorus of ominous clicks and groans rippling through the air. Lia's eyes widen in naked terror, azure irises reduced to trembling pinpricks as the relentless motion begins.

"Please," she rasps, her voice cracking with naked panic. "Not again, I can't-"

Her feeble plea is severed by a gut-wrenching scream as the machine's grip tightens, joints and sockets straining to the breaking point. The sound pierces my ears, primal and guttural, a symphony of pure agony. I can see the tendons in her neck standing taut, corded with the sheer force of her anguished cries.

Her body twists and warps, muscles rippling beneath glistening skin as she writhes against the unyielding restraints. The straps bite cruelly into her wrists and ankles, leaving angry red welts in their wake. Each subtle movement elicits a fresh cascade of moans and whimpers, her voice reduced to a raw, hoarse plea for mercy.

The stench of her terror permeates the air, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat. I can taste it on my tongue, a cloying flavor that coats the back of my throat. Lia's breaths come in ragged, uneven gasps, her rib cage heaving with the effort. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks, carving glistening paths through the strands of hair plastered to her forehead.

"Stop, please!" she cries, her words dissolving into a guttural howl as the device's relentless motion continues. "I can't... it hurts, it hurts so much!"

I remain impassive, cataloging every nuance of her suffering with clinical detachment. The sheer physicality of her agony is both horrifying and enthralling - a testament to the human form's capacity for endurance, and the depths of torment it can withstand.

"You remember all too well the 'scientific research' you conducted on me in this very room, don't you?" I say, my voice laced with a mixture of accusation and dread. The memory of your merciless beatings and electrocutions, all in the name of 'science', still haunts me.

"Well, I may not be the researcher you are," I admit, a twisted smile playing on my lips, "but Ms. Gomez has asked me to try out a few functions of this chair. And I'd hate to disappoint her." I allow my fingers to trace the taut musculature of Lia's inner thighs, deliberately avoiding the most sensitive areas between her legs.

"So tell me," I warn, my tone laced with a predatory edge, "where does it hurt the most?"

I watch as Lia struggles to catch her breath, her eyes betraying the fear that grips her. "My back..." she manages, the words escaping in a ragged gasp.

"And which part of that delicate back of yours?" I press, my curiosity piqued by her obvious distress.

"Lower, Mark... my hips..." Lia pleads, her voice quivering. "And my shoulders... I can't take any more..."

"I don't care what you can or can't take," I dismiss callously, jotting down notes on the tablet. "Lower back, hips, shoulders. Got it."

A sinister smile spreads across my face as I delve into the technical prowess of the machine, my voice laced with an unsettling anticipation. "As I said earlier, this device is a masterpiece of modern sadism," I begin, my tone almost reverent with the dark possibilities. "Not only can it move in almost microscopic increments—fractions of a millimeter—to target the most sensitive areas, but it's also equipped with advanced algorithms that learn and adapt to your pain thresholds."

I pause, watching as a look of dread unfurls across Lia's features like a dark bloom. Her apprehension feeds the grim satisfaction swelling within me, my eyes locking onto the tremble of her lip. "The precision pull function," I continue, my voice dripping with malice, "allows for calibrated increments of tension, carefully crafted to push you to the brink of anguish, only to retract and restart the cycle. This, however, is just the beginning."

I gesture towards the device, my hand hovering above the activation button. "The true masterpiece is the NeuroResonance module. With this, the machine can synchronize its vibrations with your nervous system's frequency, amplifying every nerve ending's response to create a symphony of pain that's both intensely personal and utterly overwhelming."

With a flourish, I press the activation button. The device whirs to life, its mechanical heartbeat pulsing through the room like a malevolent entity. The initial pull is subtle, a gentle tug that deceives with its softness. Lia's limbs tense, her muscles coiling like springs as she anticipates the worst. Then, in a burst of motion, the device retracts, the sudden release fostering a fleeting sense of relief.

But it's short-lived. The machine pauses, its silence more ominous than any sound. Then, with microscopic precision, it begins to pull again, the increment so slight it's almost imperceptible. Yet, to Lia's heightened senses, it's agony. Her body stiffens, muscles locking in a desperate bid to resist the inevitable. The device holds, vibrates at the peak, and then, in a heart-stopping reversal, retracts once more.

This sadistic waltz continues, each cycle meticulously designed to disorient and overwhelm. Lia's cries escalate from low, guttural moans to high-pitched screams, her voice a raw, desperate plea for mercy that shatters against the cold, unforgiving walls. With each pull, her form undulates, a living, twisting sculpture of pain. Tears stream down her face, carving glistening paths through the sweat-drenched landscape of her skin.

As the vibrations intensify, Lia's body responds with uncontrollable shivers, each wave probing deeper, testing the very fabric of her endurance. The air is heavy with the scent of her fear, a primal aroma that mingles with the antiseptic tang of the room, coating the back of my throat with its bitter taste. The sound of her suffering—each sob, each whimper, each scream—is a palpable thing, a living entity that envelops us, a grotesque serenade to her anguish.

"As you can see, Lia," I say, my voice a detached observer to the chaos, "the device's adaptability ensures that your pain remains... fresh. No sensation is repeated in the same way twice, guaranteeing an experience that's both unpredictably terrifying and meticulously controlled."

Lia's response is drowned out by her own anguish, her words dissolving into a cacophony of pain. I lean in, my ears drinking in the symphony, my smile widening in perverse satisfaction. "The question, Lia, is not how much pain you can endure, but how much of yourself you'll lose in the process."

"Stop, please!" Lia wails, her words dissolving into a guttural howl as the device's relentless motion continues. "I can't... it hurts, it hurts so much!"

I pause the machine, allowing Lia a momentary respite from its relentless assault. Her body is drenched in a fresh sheen of sweat, the harsh surgical lighting casting an almost ethereal glow upon her glistening form. I can barely contain the urge to ravage her - the sight of her anguished beauty proving an intoxicating temptation. Inhaling deeply, I savor the pungent aroma of her distress, my tongue flicking out to capture a stray bead of sweat from her ribcage. The salty tang ignites my senses, and I momentarily close my eyes, relishing the visceral experience.

"I believe Ms. Gomez will be pleased to see that the function is working as intended," I muse, a twisted smile playing on my lips. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit peckish. I'll leave you to enjoy your 'new toy' for the next hour."

Lia's eyes widen in sheer terror, her voice rising in a panicked plea. "No, no, no! Mark, please, not that! Anything but the machine, I beg you!"

Taking in Lia's frantic demeanor, I let the silence stretch a moment, allowing the tension to build. Then slowly, almost thoughtfully, I say, "Anything, you say?" My gaze shifts, landing on the spray bottle perched unassumingly on a nearby shelf. A slow grin spreads across my face as the gears turn in my head, an idea brewing. I point casually to the bottle, maintaining my gaze on her, watching her eyes flicker with a mix of confusion and dawning fear.

"You see, that little bottle over there could be quite the interesting alternative," I muse aloud, almost to myself, deliberately stoking the flames of her anxiety. Lia's eyes dart to the spray bottle, then back to me, a silent plea in her gaze.

I don't rush, enjoying the control, the power of the moment. "How about this," I propose, my voice deceptively calm, "We can forgo the hour on this machine," I gesture towards the relentless device, "and instead, you endure just ten minutes with the contents of that spray bottle. A simple trade."

Lia's breath hitches, her mind racing to decipher the lesser of two evils I present. The uncertainty is palpable; the choice cruel. "No... no, no. Mark, please..." she stammers, fear lacing her voice as she shakes her head fervently.

My smile doesn’t waver. I pick up the spray bottle, weighing it in my hand as if considering its potential. "Or maybe you’d prefer to stick with the original plan?" The implied threat hangs heavy in the air.

Lia shakes her head frantically, sweat flicking from her brow. "No, I can't, I can't! Please, Mark, I'm so sorry, I'll do anything!"

Nodding as if in understanding, yet unmoved by her apologies, I respond, "Okay. I’m not a monster. We’ll continue with racking then." I say decidedly and turn back the previous function on the machine. As it whirs back to life and Lia’s cries fill the room once again, I stand watching for a minute or two, reveling in her agony.

Then, with one last lingering glance, I turn and exit the room, leaving Lia in the cold embrace of the machine in that lonely circle of surgical light.

TBC

 

[Darth Agonoth]

Dear @Didymos,
If you have had the opportunity to peruse the recent chapters, you may have encountered another intriguing contribution from Ms. Gomez and the government of San Monique. I would be most interested in your thoughts and reflections on this new tool.

 

[Didymos]

Dear @Didymos,
If you have had the opportunity to peruse the recent chapters, you may have encountered another intriguing contribution from Ms. Gomez and the government of San Monique. I would be most interested in your thoughts and reflections on this new tool.

I didn't intend to read your story before you've published everything, up to the last part. But now you already made me read through it...!

Of course I love the chair! That's one of my favourite positions in any case, and I can well imaging it. All chrome - that makes it easy to clean afterwards, and there will be a lot to clean up. One wants to meet basic hygiene standards after all. And I love how Lia has to climb onto the chair by herself. That's such a nice touch, and what a wonderful picture, the cold, hard metal frame of the chair, the soft, helpless naked body of Lia climbing onto it, and the brutal figure of Volk watching over her(I really like Volk, I already liked very much how he raped Lia. I hope this simple, good man will get some appreciation and reward for all of his efforts by the end of the story! )... Concerning the combination of the chair with racking, I'm not so sure, but that's a question of personal preferences, I guess. When it comes to racking, I tend to keep it classical, and to go all out. I want to see her joints dislocate, and to hear the cartilage crack and her tendons snap. When racking, I want it brutal and reckless and damage to be done. But again, that's a personal preference, and I can see the beauty in your approach of keeping her body just at the edge of breaking in the literal sense. And I'm sure Mark's experiments and experiences with this new tool will prove both, thorough and useful!

But now that I read your story up to this point, you must not be cruel, and publish the remaining parts soon!

 

[Darth Agonoth]

14. Lia - “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” (1)​

Trapped in the merciless grip of this sadistic device, the brief reprieve only serves to heighten the dread of what's to come. The machine's temporary loosening is a heartless tease, granting me mere seconds to gasp for air before the torment resumes with renewed ferocity.

As the device jolts back to life, its mechanical limbs wrench me apart with savage intensity. A strangled scream tears from my throat, the raw sound echoing my utter despair. Every fiber of my being protests the strain, muscles taut as bowstrings, joints shrieking in defiance. Agony erupts like a wildfire, consuming me from shoulders to hips, each contact point a searing nexus of pain. The terror that this unyielding machinery might literally tear me asunder haunts me, its grip seeming to tighten around my very sanity.

At the zenith of my endurance, the device shifts its torture, introducing a series of deep, resonant vibrations that shudder through its steel framework. Unaccompanied by the physical pulling, yet equally brutal, these vibrations rip through me, churning my flesh from neck to knees in merciless, pulsing waves. Each wave is a fresh torment, an inescapable assault laying bare the marrow of my bones.

The chamber resounds with my anguished cries—each one more guttural, more primal, echoing off the cold, unforgiving walls. My voice, stripped of all restraint, is reduced to the raw, haunting howls of a creature in unmitigated agony.

Sweat drenches my brow, dripping into my eyes, stinging them. Disheveled strands of hair cling to my distorted face, commingling with the sweat. The air is heavy with the acrid, metallic scent of fear, starkly contrasted with the antiseptic sterility of our surroundings. Underneath the machine's relentless assault, every nerve is aflame, my senses overwhelmed by the ceaseless, brutal barrage.

Beneath me, the chair's chrome surface is both slick with sweat and annoyingly adhesive, securing me in place while offering no comfort. The administered naloxone, a cruel twist, ensures that even the brief interludes between the machine's pulls are filled with unmitigated, shrieking pain, denying my body any refuge from the raw intensity of the experience.

Every primal instinct within me screams for escape, yet the futility of resistance weighs like a physical force upon my spirit, crushing what's left of my will. The machine's grasp is inexorable, designed to push human fortitude to the very brink of collapse, brutally warping my physical and mental fabric to the edge of shattering.

Time, once a linear concept, now distorts, each second ballooning into an interminable eternity of affliction. Adrift in this boundless sea of suffering, the looming presence of my tormentor—the mastermind behind my anguish—looms larger, his piercing gaze a constant, unyielding reminder of my abject helplessness under his domination. In this desolate domain of despair, he's as inescapable as the machine that binds me, a sentinel of unyielding cruelty over my continued, unmitigated despair.

The machine's sudden, merciful silence after what felt like an endless expanse of time brings a fleeting, shimmering wave of relief. As my hazy gaze falls upon Mark's approaching figure, hope tentatively stirs; perhaps the ordeal is finally at its end.

Yet, hope crumbles to dust as Mark's voice slices through the heavy air, "Half time," his words cutting with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Observing my expression of mounting, unmitigated terror, he wears a malevolent grin, its twisted curve seeming almost to savor my despair, to feed on the very fabric of my anguish.

As Mark's words drip with sadistic intent, "You poor thing, you thought it was over? Ow, that's cute," my heart sinks, anticipating the next wave of agony. His tone, a masterful blend of nonchalance and cruelty, hangs in the air like a razor blade. "And really, what could possibly stop me from prolonging your ordeal for yet another hour?" The taunting malice in his voice is a palpable thing, a living, breathing entity that wraps around my throat, squeezing tight.

Tears burst forth, scorching paths down my temples as I screw my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. But instead of the dreaded pulling, the machine whirs to life with a new, sinister purpose. My legs are forcibly parted, strapped into the demonic rack that was once a gynecological chair. I'm exposed, vulnerable, my most intimate areas laid bare for Mark's twisted inspection.

A presence looms between my thighs, massive and imposing. The object reveals itself in the harsh glare of the surgical lamp – a hulking monolith of polished steel, its surface glinting with a malevolent sheen. The dildo's girth is substantial, its length seemingly endless, casting a long, ominous shadow on the wall. The tip, though rounded, appears designed to inflict maximum pressure on my delicate inner tissues.

"See what we have here?" Mark's voice is a velvet-wrapped scalpel, slicing through the tension. As he positions the device at my already tormented pussy entrance, I feel a wave of dread wash over me. He slowly, yet steadily, pushes the tip in, just a slight invasion, and then withdraws it, teasing my entrance with the promise of pain. Again, he advances, further this time, and then retreats, the steel glinting menacingly in the light. The third time, with a deliberate slowness, he pushes the dildo fully in, the unyielding steel disappearing into my depths, stretching my inner walls to the breaking point. My vulva feels like it's being stretched to its limits, the labia straining around the invader.

The metallic invader, a cold, imposing steel dildo, stretches my inner walls to the limit. Each millimeter of movement is a fresh agony, the steel taut and relentless as it pulls my tissues to the limit. My vagina, once a haven, now feels like a torture chamber, the walls compressed and torn. The pressure on my cervix is immense, threatening to shatter it, while my ovaries throb in protest, as if being squeezed by an invisible hand. I scream, a raw, primal sound that shatters the clinical silence, bouncing off the uncaring walls in a stark, dissonant contrast.

Sweat beads on my face, mingling with tears as my senses are assaulted by the harsh reality. The metallic smell of the chair intertwines with the sharp scent of my fear, forming a noxious bouquet that chokes the air from my lungs. The sounds of my own cries blend with the mechanical hum, a chilling chorus that underscores my vulnerability. The smell of my own arousal, a humiliating reminder of my body's betrayal, mingles with the stench of fear, creating a gut-wrenching miasma.

Mark steps back, his eyes roving over his handiwork with an almost artistic satisfaction. His gaze lingers on the taut straps, the strained muscles beneath my skin, and the desperate rise and fall of my chest. "Beautiful," he murmurs, lost in his own twisted admiration.

As the machine pauses, I beg, my voice cracking under the strain. "Pleeease, Maaark... NOOO NOO P-plee" My words are a desperate, panicked litany, but Mark's expression remains detached, his eyes cold and unyielding as a crocodile's.

The silence is oppressive, punctuated only by my ragged breathing. Then, Mark's expression shifts, his brow furrowing in a calculating frown. He reaches for his tablet, his movements deliberate and torturous. With a few swift taps, the chair responds, bending me further into an impossible arch, my body bridging in a twisted, inhuman pose. The dildo inside me, however, cannot follow this curvature, instead, it remains rigid, a steel pillar that compresses my inner tissues, threatening to tear me asunder. My pelvic bones feel like they're being pulled apart, the pressure building to an unbearable crescendo. My urethra strains, feeling like it's being pinched, while my anus protests with a burning sensation, as if being stretched to its limits.

As the rack tightens, the cold steel within me is forced to stretch my inner walls to the limit. Unyielding and merciless, it presses against every sensitive nerve, sending waves of pain radiating through my body. Each pull amplifies the discomfort, the device within me stretched and twisted in an unbearable agony that feels like it will rip through my very core. My lower back screams in protest, my hips feeling like they're being wrenched from their sockets, all while the dildo remains, an unyielding, merciless invader. The agony is so intense, I can feel my consciousness begin to fray, my mind recoiling in horror from the sensations assaulting my body.

But the machine is far from finished. With a calculated precision that borders on sadistic genius, it initiates a new phase of torment. I'm stretched horizontally, my legs forced apart, the distance between them increasing to a wide, strained angle that puts additional pressure on my already tortured pelvic region. The muscles of my thighs and groin protest with a deep, aching burn. Then, in a fluid motion, the rack tilts, bending me downwards, my body curving in a way that accentuates the internal anguish, the dildo, fixed to the base of the chair, impaling me with unrelenting ferocity. I feel skewered, a human kebab, the steel rod piercing my innermost self, leaving me suspended in a state of helpless, screaming agony.

The sensation is akin to being slowly, mercilessly impaled on a stake, the dildo's relentless presence a constant reminder of my vulnerability. Each slight movement, each twitch of the machine, sends shivers of dread through my body, as if I'm poised on the precipice of a gruesome, medieval execution. The up-and-down motion of the rack is like the cruel, taunting dance of a hangman's noose, each jarring drop sending shockwaves of pain through my abdomen and lower back, threatening to shatter my very being.

The vibrations begin, a low, ominous hum that quickly escalates into a maelstrom of pulsing agony. The dildo, now a vibrating monolith within me, delivers wave after wave of excruciating sensation, each pulse precisely calibrated to maximize the torment. The technological wizardry at play is evident in the machine's ability to adapt its movements, ensuring that every moment is a fresh peak of suffering. It's as if the device has been programmed with a singular goal: to dismantle my sanity, piece by agonizing piece.

I'm barely aware of the sounds escaping my lips – raw, animalistic screams that ricochet off the bunker’s walls, unrecognizable as my own. My voice is transformed by agony, reduced to something primal, something barely human. In this moment, I'm a specimen under duress, my flesh and spirit fraying under the relentless assault.

If it were not for the stimulants, I would have passed out from the pain and exhaustion. Still, I barely register when the racking ends, my mind adrift in a haze of agony and chemical-induced endurance.

The sharp snap of a vial pierces the air, followed by the acrid stench of chemicals. Despite my attempts to turn away, he persistently holds the vial under my nose, forcing me to inhale the stimulant. The drug's effect is immediate and intense, further sharpening my awareness and heightening every sensation, ensuring that the next phase of my ordeal will be endured with a dreadful, crystal clarity.

As clarity returns, I become acutely aware of my surroundings. The chamber, once a blur of shadows and vague shapes, comes into sharp focus. The air is thick and oppressive, heavy with the pungent tang of sweat and fear. Although I am drenched in sweat, it offers no relief as the heat has become suffocating, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket, adding another layer of discomfort to my already overwhelmed senses.

As the fog lifts, I realize I'm no longer suspended in that agonizing stretch. I’m still bound to the high-tech gynecological chair made of pure chrome steel. My body is positioned in an acute angle X shape, arms and legs spread and restrained. The cold metal beneath me is a stark contrast to the warmth of the air, creating a disorienting sensory experience.

My body, previously fatigued and aching, now feels unnaturally electrified. Muscles that were moments ago limp with exhaustion now tighten and define themselves, as if responding to an intense workout. This renewed vitality is unsettling, a stark reminder of the control being exerted over my very physiology.

As I lie there, spread-eagled on the chair at Mark's waist height, I'm acutely aware of the shift in dynamics. The cessation of the stretching brings a moment of relief, but it's tinged with dread for what might come next. The warm air presses against my skin, a constant reminder of my vulnerability in this controlled environment.

Mark's proximity is palpable, his presence a looming threat in this intimate theatre of punishment. The rising temperature of the chamber only adds to the intensity of the moment, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and anticipation.

The sudden shock of ice-cold water hitting my overheated skin is jarring, completely unexpected after the oppressive heat. Mark's movements are swift and deliberate as he lifts the first large aluminum bucket. The water cascades over me in a torrent, starting at my face and flowing down my torso and legs.

As the frigid liquid envelops me, I feel my skin tighten and contract. The cold makes my breasts firm, the tissue constricting rapidly. My nipples harden into tight, sensitive peaks, reacting instinctively to the extreme temperature change. This involuntary response adds another layer of sensation to the already overwhelming experience.

The initial impact leaves me gasping, my lungs struggling to draw breath as the frigid liquid engulfs me. My muscles, moments ago lax with exhaustion, now tense and spasm uncontrollably. Goosebumps erupt across my skin as my body attempts to regulate its temperature against this abrupt assault.

Before I can fully process the first deluge, a second bucket follows. The cold is even more intense now, penetrating deeper as it washes away the lingering heat. My teeth begin to chatter, and I can feel my extremities starting to tremble.

The third bucket comes as a final, brutal shock. By now, I'm completely drenched, hair plastered to my scalp, rivulets of water running down my face and body. The chrome chair beneath me, once warm from my body heat, now feels like ice against my skin.

 

[Darth Agonoth]

14. Lia - “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” (2)​

The rapid temperature change leaves me disoriented, my senses reeling as they try to adapt. The air, previously stifling, now feels sharp in my lungs as I gasp and sputter. Droplets cling to my eyelashes, blurring my vision as I blink rapidly, trying to clear my sight.

In the aftermath, I'm left shivering violently, my body wracked with involuntary tremors as it struggles to cope with this extreme shift. The contrast between the previous heat and current cold is stark, leaving me in a state of sensory overload.

In the midst of my convulsions from the sudden chill, an acute awareness pierces through—the steel dildo is still inside me. It presses internally, an uncomfortable presence that has become almost a secondary concern until now. As if attuned to my realization, Mark steps closer, positioning himself between my splayed legs. With a perception that feels almost like telepathy, he gently begins to extract it. The movement is excruciatingly slow, and I am acutely aware of every millimeter as it slides out, each motion juxtaposing pain with a kind of relief that sighs out of me— a sound that could almost be mistaken for arousal, masking the underlying distress of the situation.

The quiet hum of machinery fills the air, a sound now ominously familiar, as Mark's fingers expertly manipulate the tablet's surface. My heart races in anticipation, each soft click a harbinger of recently endured torment. However, to my mingled apprehension and relief, the chair's movement is unexpectedly gentle this time, guiding me with a smooth, mechanical grace into a modified upright position.

I find myself reclining at a mere 20-degree angle from vertical, the cold, unyielding chrome of the chair pressing uncomfortably against my spine. The transformation is disorientingly precise, positioning me in a way that feels both exposed and intensely vulnerable. My thighs are drawn back toward my torso, creating an acute angle that presses my legs into a cramped proximity with my chest. The lower parts of my legs are then adjusted to form a strict 90-degree angle with my thighs, producing an almost fetal positioning that enhances my sense of defenselessness.

As I look down upon my own body in this modified gynecological chair, the positioning forces a stark confrontation with my own physicality. My limbs, artificially arranged, frame the stark chrome impalement still secured firmly between them. The visual is starkly reminiscent of a clinical yet cruel tableau, highlighting my helplessness in this orchestrated setup. My arms, once strained above my head, now rest tensely by my sides, completing the image of a subject both secured and displayed for whatever intentions Mark holds next.

Mark approaches, his face an unreadable mask. In his hands, he holds several black straps, their purpose clear. With practiced efficiency, he secures the first across my torso, just below my chest. The material is unyielding, pressing firmly against my skin.

"Breathe," he instructs, his voice clinically detached. I comply instinctively, feeling the strap tighten as my lungs expand.

Next, he fastens straps around my upper arms, just above the elbows, then secures my forearm too. The final strap - across my forehead - is the most unsettling. As it's secured, my field of vision becomes fixed, forced to stare straight ahead at the stark white wall of the chamber. The restraints, while not painful, render me almost completely immobile.

Then, in the sterile, harshly lit spot, Mark moves methodically between my open legs, securing himself on a gliding stool, which positions him perfectly in front of my fully exposed vulva. His gaze—clinical and eerily dispassionate—locks onto mine, making the hot air seem chilling. The clinical nature of his inspection makes me shiver, as if his eyes are probes, cold and calculating.

"I need to reduce the distension," he announces plainly. "This will be painful, but that comes as no surprise, I assume. I need you to be tight again, sweetie." The endearment, tossed so carelessly into his clinical tone, hangs jarringly in the air.

Reaching for a large syringe, filled with a translucent, slightly clouded liquid, he holds it up to the light, examining its contents with squinted eyes before turning his attention back to me. My voice wavers, a tremble breaking through, "W-what is that?"

Ignoring my question, he positions the syringe at my entrance, inserting it with a steady, unnerving precision. "Carbachol," he finally provides, pushing the plunger and flooding my vagina with the chemical.

The reaction is immediate—a visceral, wrenching spasm that grips the muscles deep within me. My teeth clamp down on my lip, holding back cries of discomfort. Although the pain is sharp, it is bearable—a slow ebbing tide following the initial wave. The naloxone's absence is clear now, as the sharp peaks of pain gradually dull to a throbbing ache after several convulsive minutes.

Mark's expression is a mask of impassivity through it all. His precise, calculated movements, the unwavering focus—every action is a testament to his newly gained clinical expertise, yet it emphasizes the troubling disparity of control in the room. It is disconcerting, the calm in his demeanor sharply contrasting with the turmoil raging within me.

Throughout the entire procedure, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingles with the sharper, harsher tang of the chemical solution he uses, each breath a reminder of the clinical nature of the encounter. The room is silent except for the occasional clink of metal instruments and the soft whirr of the medical machinery, punctuated by my labored breathing.

"We'll rest for a bit," Mark announces, his voice cutting through the tension-filled silence. He reaches for another bag of Hartmann's solution, deftly attaching it to the cannula that still protrudes from my jugular vein. The casual use of "we" doesn't escape my notice, and a bitter laugh threatens to bubble up in my throat.

"We," I repeat in my mind, the word tasting bitter. As if we're partners in this twisted scenario, as if we're both experiencing the same ordeal. The audacity of his phrasing strikes me as darkly comical, yet I find no humor in our situation.

The steady drip of the IV serves as a constant reminder of my vulnerability, each drop echoing the imbalance of power between us. Mark's clinical efficiency in administering the fluids contrasts sharply with the emotional turmoil churning within me.

In this moment of relative calm, the reality of my position settles over me like a heavy blanket. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between my body and the cold, unyielding chair, of the lingering ache from the recent procedure, of the subtle changes in my physiology as the new solution enters my bloodstream.

Mark's idea of "rest" and mine are worlds apart, yet I'm grateful for even this brief respite. As the fluids flow into my system, I steel myself for whatever comes next, knowing that in this clinical theatre, I'm merely a player in Mark's carefully orchestrated performance.

This is not just a physical ordeal; it is a psychological chess game, each move calculated, each silence loaded with unsaid words, each glance an assessment. In this clinical theater, Mark is both the director and the audience, and I find myself involuntarily playing the central role.

A palpable shift settles over the room as Mark's demeanor transforms. The clinical detachment that had once defined his every action melts away, replaced by a tenderness I scarcely recognize. His calloused palms, once instruments of torment, now ghost across my skin with a featherlight caress, eliciting a soft sigh from my lips.

Reverently, he trails his hands along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, the roughness of his skin a stark contrast to the delicate flesh he explores. As he reaches the juncture of my thighs, his fingers part my swollen folds with agonizing care, tracing the glistening seam of my arousal.

Mark rises from his chair, pressing his hips flush against my naked groin. The warmth of his body radiates through me, stoking the embers of desire that flicker stubbornly despite my better judgment. His hands drift upward, mapping the contours of my abdomen before caressing the gentle swell of my breasts. When his fingertips graze my painfully taut nipples, I can't suppress a shiver.

Leaning in, Mark's hazel eyes bore into mine, their usual edge of cruelty replaced by an almost reverent tenderness. "You are truly exquisite, the most breathtaking woman I have ever laid eyes upon," he whispers, his voice laden with a sincerity that makes my heart leap in my chest.

In this moment, the man before me is a far cry from the sadistic captor who inflicted such agonizing torment. His touch, his gaze, his very demeanor have undergone a fundamental shift, one that leaves me unbalanced and uncertain. The Mark I thought I knew has been stripped away, revealing a vulnerability I scarcely believed possible.

This shift in his behavior unsettles me, cracking the veneer of control I've struggled to maintain. I find myself torn between the remnants of fear and a traitorous spark of something akin to desire. The dichotomy leaves me adrift, my senses overwhelmed by the dizzying sensations coursing through me.

As Mark's fingers caress the sensitive skin of my neck, I instinctively lean into his touch, despite my better judgment. The intimacy of this moment is both intoxicating and deeply unsettling, a heady cocktail that leaves me breathless and trembling.

With the restraint strap across my forehead, I'm unable to turn my head fully, but I find myself drawn to Mark's gentle caress. The contrast between his previous brutality and this newfound tenderness is jarring, creating a dizzying mix of emotions within me.

Part of me recoils at his touch, the memories of his cruelty still raw. Yet another part, a traitorous impulse, yearns to surrender to this softer side of him that has emerged. The intimacy of this encounter is both alluring and deeply unsettling, a confusing cocktail of sensations that overwhelms my senses.

Trapped between fear and a budding desire, I shiver under Mark's caress, my body betraying the very instincts that scream for me to pull away. In this precarious moment, the line between torment and comfort blurs, leaving me breathless and trembling, uncertain of where this newfound intimacy might lead.

Mark's piercing gaze lingers on me, the intense hazel of his eyes like flickering flames that threaten to consume me. "Collect your strength, sweetie," he murmurs, the saccharine endearment dripping with dark promise. His calloused fingers glide tenderly through my sweat-dampened hair, a startling contrast to the brutality I've endured.

As he leans in, the warm caress of his breath dances across my skin, sending a shiver coursing down my spine like a dark, foreboding whisper. His lips, inches from my ear, seem to sear my eardrum with the promise that follows:

"Tomorrow... I'm going to make you yearn for the simplicity of this rack's agony."

The words, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum psychological distress, hang suspended in the stale, heavy air like the promise of a malevolent specter. The predatory hunger underlying his tone is palpable, a living, breathing entity that wraps itself around my heart, squeezing tight with an unspeakable menace. The silence that follows is oppressive, a physical weight that presses upon my chest, making each ragged breath a testament to the terror that's taking hold.

Mark's gaze swoops down, raking over my trembling form with the ravenous intensity of a scavenger feasting on carrion. His eyes, aglow with an unholy light, seem to devour every twitch, every quiver, as he revels in the depths of my vulnerability. A twisted smile curls his lips, a gruesome, inhumane grin that distills the very essence of malevolence.

"Then, and only then," he murmurs, his voice dripping with sadistic relish, "I'll rip my answers from you, cell by cell, scream by scream." The pause that follows is a masterclass in psychological manipulation, a deliberate, agonizing hesitation that allows the full weight of his words to crush me.

His eyes, gleaming with cruel, mirthless amusement, appear to bore into my very soul, as if savoring the anticipatory terror that's taking hold. "Don't harbor any illusions of mercy, sweetie," he continues, his tone a velvet-wrapped dagger, "for even if you surrender every secret, every shred of information, I'll still subject you to every. Single. Moment. Of agony I have meticulously planned." Each word, a precision-crafted icicle, pierces my heart, plunging me into an abyss of despair.

"This," he pauses, his gaze sweeping over me with an air of proprietary pride, "will be the magnum opus of your punishment, the crowning jewel in a tapestry of suffering. Your pain, sweetie, is not merely inevitable – it's a certainty I'll orchestrate, conduct, and savor, note by exquisite note." The silence that follows is a suffocating shroud, a living, breathing entity that envelops me, ensuring that the horrors he's promised will forever be etched into my psyche.

The chilling echo of my own words—"Nothing you can say or do to stop this"—reverberates through my mind, a cruel reminder of my utter powerlessness. With one last lingering look that sears into my soul, Mark turns on his heel and strides out of the chamber, his footsteps fading as he leaves me alone to marinate in the dread of what's to come.

The terror building within me intensifies, amplified by the uncertainty of tomorrow's horrors. Mark's ominous warning—that he'll hurt me in ways that make today feel like a mere "warm-up"—conjures nightmarish scenarios that threaten to shatter my sanity. I know, with bone-deep certainty, that he will pursue his answers relentlessly, regardless of the toll on my body and mind.

Yet, buried beneath the crushing weight of my fear, a traitorous whisper wonders if I could somehow appease him, if I might coax out the gentler side he's hinted at. The thought sickens me, even as I find myself drawn to that fleeting glimmer of humanity I glimpsed beneath his sadistic facade.

Exhaustion and terror continue their relentless battle, but eventually, my battered body surrenders to the pull of sleep. As consciousness slips away, dark visions of the impending torment swirl at the edges of my mind, leaving me to face the unknown terrors in the restless oblivion of fitful slumber.

TBC

 

[Darth Agonoth]

I didn't intend to read your story before you've published everything, up to the last part. But now you already made me read through it...!

Of course I love the chair! That's one of my favourite positions in any case, and I can well imaging it. All chrome - that makes it easy to clean afterwards, and there will be a lot to clean up. One wants to meet basic hygiene standards after all. And I love how Lia has to climb onto the chair by herself. That's such a nice touch, and what a wonderful picture, the cold, hard metal frame of the chair, the soft, helpless naked body of Lia climbing onto it, and the brutal figure of Volk watching over her(I really like Volk, I already liked very much how he raped Lia. I hope this simple, good man will get some appreciation and reward for all of his efforts by the end of the story! )... Concerning the combination of the chair with racking, I'm not so sure, but that's a question of personal preferences, I guess. When it comes to racking, I tend to keep it classical, and to go all out. I want to see her joints dislocate, and to hear the cartilage crack and her tendons snap. When racking, I want it brutal and reckless and damage to be done. But again, that's a personal preference, and I can see the beauty in your approach of keeping her body just at the edge of breaking in the literal sense. And I'm sure Mark's experiments and experiences with this new tool will prove both, thorough and useful!

But now that I read your story up to this point, you must not be cruel, and publish the remaining parts soon!

Your wish is my command, good sir! Only a few chapters remain, so consider this a Christmas gift.

I was contemplating the idea of dislocating major joints, but I decided that Mark aims to prolong Lia's agony as much as possible. A severe and sudden injury, such as a dislocated hip, knee, or shoulder with torn tendons, might overshadow the plans Mark has in store for Lia.

I'm delighted to hear you enjoyed Volk. It was my first time writing something of this nature, and I grappled with doubt, societal conditioning, and self-inquiry about whether it was too extreme. Additionally, I've received fewer reactions (likes or comments), which has left me somewhat unsure about the overall reception of the story elements and its arc. Not that I'm complaining, as I primarily write for myself, but it does leave me wondering.

The point is, I'm thrilled you recognize how your work lives rent-free in the minds of many of us. It's as if Ms. Gomez has taken on a life of her own now.

 

[Didymos]

Your wish is my command, good sir! Only a few chapters remain, so consider this a Christmas gift.

Thank you! Makes me feel very festive!

I was contemplating the idea of dislocating major joints, but I decided that Mark aims to prolong Lia's agony as much as possible. A severe and sudden injury, such as a dislocated hip, knee, or shoulder with torn tendons, might overshadow the plans Mark has in store for Lia.

I'm so curious where this is all going to end with the two love-birds!

I'm delighted to hear you enjoyed Volk. It was my first time writing something of this nature, and I grappled with doubt, societal conditioning, and self-inquiry about whether it was too extreme. Additionally, I've received fewer reactions (likes or comments), which has left me somewhat unsure about the overall reception of the story elements and its arc. Not that I'm complaining, as I primarily write for myself, but it does leave me wondering.

Certainly not too extreme! And your stories deserve attention indeed.
And there's still Bernard, who no doubt is orchestrating what's going on. You'll have to tell his story, too, can't leave your readers in the dark about him!

The point is, I'm thrilled you recognize how your work lives rent-free in the minds of many of us. It's as if Ms. Gomez has taken on a life of her own now.

Mia is surely very happy that she was able to share some of her enthusiasm for her work with others out there!