Incipiunt Vitae Novae Pt. 06: Purgatory

Continued from part five

Ow...arugg... Liz? You're not Liz...

The door... It's just too far over...

I twist harder, willing my eyes rightward, summoning every available ounce of strength - I must find out...

It's no use: the gag straps holding my head to my restraining pole simply dig that much more painfully into my cheeks - I haven't a prayer of seeing the entrance directly. It's a profligate expenditure; I reprimand myself, appraising my dwindling stamina. I know full well what I'm bound to endure, for the next two hours at least, Liz or not.

Pace yourself, Angie...

And by now I'm sure the tormentor I see reflected in the front mirrors is not Liz. Whoever it is advances into full view - I shudder with horror. Am I seeing a ghost?

Jen? You're supposed to be dead!

It's not just my head I can't move. I'm suspended on pole two at the Corporal Punishment Facility, legs pulled up, ankles and wrists secured behind me by a four-band hub held back from the pole by a short rod. Not so short though - the attendants monitored my reaction as they adjusted it outward, stretching me back until I displayed the specified distress.

As if that isn't enough to prevent my escape just wait, there's more! My arms are wrapped in wide cuffs above and below my elbows, the upper cuffs attached to a longer rod behind my shoulders. These force me back even more stringently.

Jen - You're alive!

I'm not alone in my suffering - I'm one of seven, all lined up, all securely bound, all professionally prepared for group punishment. Not one of us can respond to Jen's undeniably solid, utterly overwhelming presence by moving so much as a decimeter, struggle though we try.

The sacrifice...how did you...survive?

A hauntingly familiar thrill starts to melt away my glacial dread. Frightfully aroused, I tremble against my unrelenting bonds as Jen takes dominion over the chamber, striding past poles seven, six and five, halting when she reaches the center, taunting each of us with her graceful mobility. She revolves to face Bev who's struggling two poles to my right. No doubt about it, Jen's very much alive, and every bit as terrifying as a real ghost.

Breathe, Angie, breathe in, breathe out, count slowly to five each time...

Gradually I manage to relax, my initial panic dissipating as I settle back onto the saddle against which my thighs, also enclosed in cuffs, are compressed by an encircling strap made of some kind of elastic material, well reinforced I can tell given its infinitesimal response even to my most energetic squirms. If I persist the electric corset surrounding my belly quickly reinforces its stricture, pressing my less-than-impeccable abs firmly inward as it too pulls me tightly to the pole.

At least I can breathe - it could easily be otherwise. Between the corset and the gag I'm fastened in something I can only describe as a punishment bra - its rings circle my breasts, squeezing them salaciously outward. This device embraces me like an over-affectionate aunt, unlike like my aunt Barbara, who always treated Ginny and me with total respect. Its rubbery flexibility allows my chest to rise and fall enough so I don't suffocate, but not much more.

Jen, you look fabulous!

The sensation in my nipples drifts between desperately erotic tingling and infernal itching; they're sucked into little recesses projecting from much more generous convex-conical vacuum cups neatly fitted into my torso-squeezing breast harness's rings. Silvery electrodes shimmer through the clear plastic - they will hurt plenty when they're called into action, I'm quite certain, though the overall sensation isn't altogether unpleasant right now. The harness, like my other restraints, is clamped securely to my restraining pole. I'm not going anywhere, even if this tormentor isn't the one I thought I signed up for.

Bev stares past her gag at the remarkable apparition inspecting her bound body with obvious relish, and shivers. She doesn't need to turn at all. Oh Jen, I dare not utter out loud, recalling the painful sting of the shock collar, also fastened to the pole, which encloses my neck and presses threateningly against my throat. Bev is very, very... frightened of you. Should I be? Frightening Jen certainly is, but wholly mesmerizing in her elegant severity. I'm more entranced than terrified now. There's no turning back.

We're here to endure 'intense electrical psycho-sexual correction', a punishment in the Class One non-impact corporal torment category, prescribed for crimes of moderate severity. My six forlorn companions, one to my left, five to my right, all writhe in the same uncomfortable but peculiarly tolerable punishment hogtie. Anxiety is evident in all six faces but Bev and two others look, like me, as if they've seen a ghost also.

Fear of ghosts aside, we might as well get used to our discomfort. We'll be bound on these restraining poles for several hours while Jen administers our atoning punishment-torment. The sentence specifies just fifty minutes but that's not wall time - it's 'equivalent baseline torture' time, somewhat like time in American football.

You're here, really, and really going to punish us, aren't you? You look completely healthy, even more stunning than I remember...

Jen backs up almost all the way to the mirrored surface, locking eyes with Bev as she uncoils her whip. Bev stiffens, eyes wide. What's going on? they telegraph. This is supposed to be non-impact...

I can read the bewilderment in Bev's face, even ball-gagged, even in the mirror. A lot's changed, I can't help thinking, since I was last here.

I'm surprised, for one, by Jen's uniform and accessories. It's been at least six months since Liz took me to watch Jen in action, hoping I'd volunteer to make myself available if needed to fill out the recommended complement of two women and five men to be punished together.

I couldn't see you nearly so well back then, watching through the one-way glass. Not like I'm seeing you now. I'll admit I was terrified when you first walked in - now I'm feeling more like... curious. What will it be like to be tortured by you? What's Bev's so frightened about? What am I going to learn this morning - what do I really want to know, so badly? Jesus, this bondage is tight.

I dithered a long time after my gallery visit before submitting my application because Bev, who volunteered about a year ago, tried so hard to dissuade me. Until Jen died that is - then she eased up. I turned in the forms, I was accepted, and here I am - no surprise there, but I'm puzzled all the same.

Why was I called to report today? There are three of us - I'm redundant.

Two poles to my right Bev squirms in the punishment hogite, and pole six holds my sister Ginny. I should have been saved for a rainier day.

Imagine yourself, if you like, in Jen's boots. They're quite magnificent, tall, like Jen herself. Solid, slightly raised heels support shiny black leather uppers artfully decorated with intertwining straps fastened with silver rivets. The crisp transition from resilient-rigid boot-shaft to supple knee-rounding chap-leg establishes a solid foundation over which Jen's imperious contours cantilever far above, while her athletically chiseled thighs evoke absolute stability and balance, confirming unequivocally her skill, her capacity to carry out her correctional responsibilities with effortless poise. Since these aren't easy boots to fill it's worth taking a moment now and then, as our cohort contemplates suffering by her hand, to review Jen's history, before you try them on.

I wasn't saved, thankfully. Just staring at Jen's majestic leather-clad body, watching her muscles pulsing, gazing into her austere, severe countenance, imagining what she's about to do to us... Overwhelming admiration mingled with delicious fright floods every crevice of my being; Jen rears back.

The report echoes around the chamber; the tail snaps ever so close to the thin strip of bare flesh between Bev's belly cuff and her chest harness - for sure we aren't optimally set up to be whipped. Jen gathers the whip and takes her stance in front of Norm, who's squirming on pole seven. She swings the exquisitely-woven singetail rhythmically: left, right, left, right...

The motion is mesmerizing; the hiss as it sails through center steals my hard-earned breath. She advances on Norm, clearing his sternum by millimeters, never quite touching him, for three wince-eliciting strokes. She doesn't interrupt her swing as she steps deftly to her right.

Ginny's eyes pinch helplessly closed even though she really wants to keep them open. She prefers wielding the whip herself, would like to learn all she can, but at this moment she simply can't. Jen delivers Ginny's three, then moves rightward once again, without wasting a single stroke. Five gets three, Bev gets an extra helping; Jen grins evilly through seven strokes before she moves on to deliver three for Three, and now it's my turn.

I know the painful sting of Khalidah's stroke - the shocks I feel when Jen's hurtle by with such microscopic clearance are equivalently awe-inspiring. Her eyes radiate icy sadism as three strokes whistle over my chest, then she flicks me a smile as she grants me two more. Frightening for sure yet so inviting, so compelling, as if she's urging me to come out and play after school's over. I'm sure she's spotted a faint scar on what little of my skin is still visible outside the electrical torment cuffs. It's over in seconds. She moves to my left.

After studying her heart out for a bachelor's degree in psychology, then grinding through graduate school concentrating in forensics, Jen went looking for a job, only to discover that most of them were dull and poorly paid. There was an alternative, a friend counselled. Tired of sitting at a desk for so long she embraced the suggestion eagerly, finding the opportunity to hone her physical skills exhilarating, the vitality of her new calling intoxicating, She spent the next eight years as a professional dominatrix, three in a big-city dungeon, five more freelancing.

Ed, writhing on pole one, gazes at Jen. He marvels at her remarkable outfit. He's trying hard to integrate his excitement with his present reality, to understand what today's experience is telling him about himself; he knows he's in for a challenge. Like most people punished here he's never been tied up so he's far from comfortable in his bondage, yet he's surprised it isn't a lot worse. He feels pleasantly embraced by his sleeve. He's often had difficulty staying firmly erect - not today! Today he's swelling effortlessly inside his deceptively dormant penal cylinder - even without the assistance of the vacuum he would be, for now. He gazes into Jen's eyes, his arousal precisely her intention.

The conductive surfaces won't remain inert much longer, and with plenty of suction on call he'll continue to squeeze himself onto the cylinder's intimately tormenting electrodes for the entire session, whether he's aroused or not. Jen will see to it that he isn't except when she wants him to be.

The money and the opportunity to vacation in exotic locations with wealthier clients were attractive, the physical and emotional workload all-consuming. Jen never had an opportunity to meet Angie's and Ginny's aunt Barbara - she knew her only through her will and stories related by Liz, recently colored in by Ginny, but she marveled that Barbara managed to sustain that intensity for a lifetime. Perhaps you've been there too, or maybe you chose a different path to your mastery of the whip.

Jen's uniform used to be professionally subdued and formal - it certainly was when I first saw her from the other side of the glass, her hair braided in a whip-evoking ponytail and her boots conservatively conventional. No more! Jen's gone overtly sexual, returning to her roots, a dominatrix through and through, complete with a real whip.

How can this be? Isn't this state-sponsored corporal punishment? Well, yes, but for starters it's managed by JenLiz studios. Their marching orders are to maximize revenue and minimize recidivism. Proven success, especially with respect to revenue, goes a long way to silence prudish grumblers.

But JenLiz also has a superb neuroscientist, Michael, who can support everything they do with hard facts. Jen discussed today's uniform with him; he ran some simulations, and he blessed it - if she catches any flac he'll back her up with unimpeachable data. And they have friends throughout the political establishment and all the local media. This is sustainable, at least for now. In any case, today is special - it's Jen's first day back - time for celebration!

Jen never expected to wind up working for the state, but the rumors intrigued her. She contacted Liz after learning about an experimental program to develop safe, sanitary, relatively humane corporal punishments as an alternative to traditional penal modes. After just two meetings she signed on and began training to become an Official Tormentor, tasked with developing new methodologies, some of which she would administer by her own hand. She found Liz's deep understanding of human psychology fascinating, especially since it dovetailed so neatly with her own. Liz's joyful, edgy personality attracted her immensely to boot. She concluded her training quickly - there wasn't much she didn't already know.

Ed's spent his whole life suppressing his 'S and M fantasies' with varying degrees of success. Not counting some furtive porn perusal and a scrubbed visit to THB, the trendy nightclub whose commodious basement houses a members-only BDSM club quite familiar to Angie, Bev, Ginny and Norm, as well as to Jen herself, he's never let himself explore his fantasies. He did, remarkably, wind up spending half an hour with Liz and Ginny during his short time at THB but to their considerable annoyance he excused himself just as they were about to invite him to join them downstairs. He has a feeling today's session will prove an ample make-up, especially now Jen's whip is coming his way.

One step remained before Jen could take up the tormentor's mantle. While at that time it was simply custom rather than a strict requirement, Jen knew if she refused she'd never really be accepted by the team - she had to endure a session herself. As she thrashed between Gabe on pole five and Michael on seven, she fell in love with Liz.

Ed relishes the slipstream thumping his chest, through three perfectly executed swings. Frightening yes, but he's in awe of this magnificent woman's skill - he's watched transfixed through her entire performance so far. He doesn't want to miss a single stroke and he's wondering if he'll be found worthy of an encore.

He is. Two more strokes fly by, together with a not entirely unfriendly smile. He wonders if he could squirm forward and catch one, but he wouldn't dare be so disobedient, and in any case he can't - his chest harness holds him firmly in position. She relishes his immobility - there's nothing like practicing with live human bodies.

Jen took up her duties exuberantly. The pay was nothing like what she'd become accustomed to, but she'd saved some, and by moving in together she and Liz made ends meet, performing their duties by day, staying busy in the BDSM community at night. Jen became friends with Liz's part-time lover Gabe, who sometime later suggested they take advantage of his substantial inheritance to form a video production outfit, JenLiz Studios. With Michael bringing his CG and AI skills into the mix as fourth partner, the studio soon became reliably profitable.

Jen's appearance exudes sexuality, but not availability - she's here to punish us, not to titillate us. Not much of our skin is exposed, enclosed as we are in our torment-cuffs, so why should any of hers be? Her sturdy frame fills her shiny leather; the bright lights glint off its smoothy contoured surface, the slight folds and creases enhance the outline of her solid musculature. She won't need to use all that strength once she's finished with her whip warmup. She'll send her fingers flying deftly over her control pad and we'll writhe electrically in her thrall, more painfully, more sensuously than we would for any ordinary flogging, no matter how expertly administered.

Once JenLiz found its footing Gabe used the remainder of his inheritance to buy a large, elegant townhouse. His tastes weren't lavish - he preferred to continue living in his modest apartment and leased the house to Sara, Liz, Jen and Michael for the cost of maintenance only, a burden easily born by their salaries and the studio's growing success. The funds covered the purchase with enough left over for renovation and improvements, including a large, well-equipped dungeon.

Ed's worst nightmare, or perhaps his best fantasy, stands before him coiling her whip as she brings its foreboding flight to a perfect descent. She swings it over her shoulders and steps closer. Ed is reminded of every part of his bondage as his pole jerks slightly down, then back up, bringing him exactly into alignment with Jen's steely gaze.

Jen loved her new life. The commodious townhouse lent itself perfectly to entertaining, intimate or overflowing, kinky or vanilla; they nicknamed it the House of Bondage. Michael's attic suite gave him room to expand his in-house IT facilities. JenLiz could now afford almost unlimited server capacity when needed either for production or for Michael's expanding work in artificial intelligence.

Ed can't see Jen's back since she's blocking his view in the mirror but I can. I marvel at her silky black hair descending in luxuriant waves almost to her elegantly rounded posterior. Her hair's held out from her perfectly-tanned alabaster-solid neck, passing through a silver ring decorated with gold filigree - a dominatrix bun, she reflected with a smile when she slipped it through - how trendy!

Jen's belt, which Ed can't see even if he strains his gaze downward as much as possible, isn't trendy - it's unique. The miniature-portrait-sized bronze buckle which secures her steel-studded belt depicts a naked man, executed in silver, kneeling before a tall crop-wielding woman cunningly crafted in bright gold - a treasure passed down to her, sometimes with an embarrassed apology, through several generations.

Yes, Jen's life was great, but lemons hovered just beyond the horizon. Michael and Jen were diagnosed almost at the same time with life-threatening diseases which despite the best available treatment rapidly progressed - the prospects were terminal. Jen was not one to take this lying down, especially since Michael's studies predicted that dying during climax would create the perception of eternal bliss, even if it actually lasted only a few seconds.

I can't see much more than Jen's back but I know what Ed's trying desperately not to stare at and it's not Jen's belt buckle.

Jen wrote a script for a JenLiz production in which the goddess-queen would be sacrificed along with two admiring slaves in a spectacular focused-sunlight auto da fe. Michael took the role of one of the worshipful companions; the other was filled by a friend of Gabe's who faced the same cruel dilemma.

The audience saw their oil-saturated bodies consumed by fire: three Roman candles blazed furiously in the rising sun's equinoxial radiance, adding an eerie glow to the faces of the ecstatically leaping, whirling throng gathered to observe the ceremony. But the air from the gigantic bellows which blasted from under the poles on which their bodies were bound in steel bands was really cryogenic nitrogen. Their plan was to donate their pristinely preserved climaxing brains to the Neuroscience Institute, for the benefit of science, not the sun, though JenLiz Studios correctly anticipated that the production would be a big hit.