Jen and the Inquisition

He turned to the torturers who each armed himself with a small wooden mallet and taken up position to one side or the other of Jen.

"Begin," the Inquisitor said.

Jen had been visualizing the torturers hammering away at the wedges but instead they each delivered a light tap. After a long pause there was a second light tap to each wedge. The bars pressed harder against her breasts. At first it didn't seem like much. But after a dozen taps Jen was thinking "the mammogram from Hell".

A few more taps and Jen was starting to whimper and tear up. The Inquisitor signaled for a stop. He seized her nipples between thumb and forefinger and began squeezing them.

"Sign the confession, heretic," he commanded.

He gave each nipple a hard twist. Jen gasped but looked away in answer. The Inquisitor nodded to the torturers and each gave another tap, firmer than the previous ones. Jen gave a strangled cry and threw her head back. She feared she was reaching her breaking point but the experience of the previous tortures had hardened her resolve and given her confidence in her strength. She wanted to hold out just a little longer.

Jen closed her eyes and concentrated as hard as she could. Resist just a little longer, she told herself. Just one more tap. She waited. But instead of another tap she felt the pressure being reduced. They were removing the wedges. A thrill went through her. She had managed to outlast them. But it had been a close thing. She wondered how much more she could have taken.

"You are an incredibly stubborn heretic," the Inquisitor said. "I see we must employ still more persuasive techniques on you." He turned to the assistants. "Place her on the rack."

The rack! The mere word sent her heart racing. If there was one implement of torture that by itself symbolized the Inquisition it was the rack. She was escorted to a side chamber where the device waited for her.

The rack itself was much as she imagined it would be from the various pictures she'd seen. A narrow wooden table. At one end a wooden wheel with handgrips, something like an old fashioned sailing ship's wheel, turned a primitive winch. Two leather cuffs lay on the bed of the rack, fastened by chains to the winch. At the foot end of the table another pair of leather cuffs were mounted, fastened apparently to the table itself, though there seemed to be some other mechanisms there as well. Jen didn't have time to examine it.

The two assistants lifted her bodily and deposited her on the table unceremoniously. One grasped her ankles and pivoted her around until he could strap her ankles in to the cuffs. The other placed his hands on her shoulders and, once her legs had been secured, forced her to lie back. Then each took an arm and raised them over her head. The wrist cuffs were strapped in place.

One of the torturers then took his position at the wheel while the other positioned himself at the foot of the rack. The Inquisitor came to stand next to Jen.

"Begin," the Inquisitor said.

The man at the wheel began slowly turning it. Jen could hear the click as the ratchet arm dropped into place to keep the wheel from reversing. She felt the cuffs on her wrists start to pull at her. The tension on her arms grew stronger. She knew that during the Inquisition the rack frequently pulled shoulders and hips out of their sockets, usually leaving the victims permanently crippled. As the strain grew on her arms, shoulders, legs, she wondered how far they planned to go.

The Inquisitor stood by the rack, carefully watching the procedure. He ran a finger along one arm, then along her belly and onto her thigh. He signaled for the torturer to stop. Jen was grateful for that. While she was being stretched tauter than she thought possible it was still bearable.

"We could literally pull you apart with this device, heretic," the Inquisitor said threateningly as he looked down at her. "Will you now sign the confession or must we continue?"

Jen thought about it for some time before responding. She'd stood up to everything so far. How much worse could they make it?

"No," she said defiantly.

"Very well, proceed to the next phase," the Inquisitor said to the torturer.

Jen expected the wheel to start turning again. But instead the torturer went to the foot of the rack. Jen hadn't noticed but this rack had a modification she hadn't seen in pictures of real racks. The two leather cuffs that held Jen's ankles were mounted on separate narrow boards. The torturer reached below the side of the rack and began turning a small handwheel. The boards and the cuffs mounted on them began moving outward, away from the center of the rack, spreading Jen's legs as they did so.

The movement added just a little bit more strain to Jen's body, not enough to be really significant. What impressed her the most was the sense of exposure, of being unwillingly and helplessly opened up. Before the torturer stopped she had been spread uncomfortably wide.

The Inquisitor placed his right index finger between her breasts, fingernail down.

"Do you feel, shall we say, vulnerable, heretic?" he asked. "You should."

He slowly traced a line from between her breast down the length of her chest and belly, over her mons and into her slit. He stopped when the finger tip pressed down on her clit.

"By the rules of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, every part of you is to be available to us as we conduct our inquiry."

Jen started to worry a bit now. What, she wondered, did he have in mind.

The Inquisitor signaled to the other torturer. He brought over two devices which Jen, raising her head with difficulty to observe, decided were small winches. One of them he hooked to a corner of the rack. From each he then unwound a length of thin rope. Each rope ended in a small clamp. He unwound the ropes until they reach to Jen's pussy. He fastened the clamps to Jen's outer lips.

With the clamps in place the other torturer joined him, each taking position by one of the small winches. In unison they began slowly turning the small handles, stretching her out. The outward angle that she was being stretched further increased the sensation of being forced open.

The Inquisitor left for a few moments. When he returned he was brandishing a small bristle brush. He held it up for her to look at.

"Interesting isn't it? How such a small ordinary item can become an instrument of torture. But you'll find it is."

He began slowly stimulating her with the brush, working it up and down over her inner lips and clit. It didn't take long before Jen was fully aroused. She hadn't realized how close she was but it had been building through the series of tortures, there in the background masked by the other, coarser sensations.

The Inquisitor pulled back Jen's clitoral hood to concentrate on her clit. She was quickly straining at her bonds, though not in an effort to escape. Instead she was being driven frantic by the exquisite torture the Inquisitor was applying, bringing her to the very point of orgasm and then stopping, only to start again. Over and over he did it until finally there was no stopping her as she arched her back and twisted her loins as if trying to impale herself on a phantom cock before slowly subsiding to lie exhausted on the rack.

They let her lie there for a while, as the torturers gently released the clamps on her pussy lips and then the bonds on her wrists and ankles. After a rest period she was helped to her feet and escorted back to the slave quarters for a warm bath and massage. Her husband called for her an hour later, in time for dinner.

"How was it?" he asked as they climbed the stairs to the dining room. "Everything you expected?"

"It was an experience," she replied with a naughty smile. "Definitely an experience."

"You think we might find a place where we can buy a pair of those breast rippers?" he asked. "You seemed to be getting off on it."

"Oh, crap! Was that you?"

"Sign it and it will go easy for you," he intoned in a deep voice she hadn't heard him use before.

She gave him a poke in the ribs and they went on into dinner.

The End

*

Author's Note: This is one of a series of stories I've been working on under the title "Tales of the Villa di Dolore". Some of them have been posted elsewhere under my other pen name, "von Hentzau".