The Wight's Ordeal

"Caring bastard, aren't you?" The Wight spat.

"I am a businessman, miss Wight. My business is killing and abduction. My contacts with my employers are limited as far as possible, my contacts with my targets are equally limited. I do my job as quickly as possible and because my job involves inducing suffering in others, I do not induce suffering in others unless it is in my job. I am paid a great deal of money for what I do and I do not do it for free."

The Wight digested this in silence, as she heard her abductor moving around behind her, with the occasional chink of glass or ring of metal. She decided that he could not be a big man, but was compact and immensely powerful for his size. Probably of average height, though. He would look good in a suit. He was also not a sadist, that was clear. So this setup, that looked like a fetishist's BDSM dungeon or film set, was clearly not for his pleasure. Somebody wanted a film of her being fucked by machines. That, and/or the thought that the porn industry's bullshit about women being broken into malleable slaves was true and wanted her as a toy. Just let them believe that, then.

The detached, professional part of her mind making these assessments was aware that her gaze was still centred on the table in front of her, and started to let information seep in from the periphery.

The table itself was still occupying most of her attention, though. It was in itself nothing out of the ordinary; no straps or clamps or attachments, merely four legs and a flat top. Strong, certainly, but then factory or garage workbenches usually are.

Upon it, in rows neater than any hospital operating theatre ever saw, were tools. She automatically rejected calling them toys. Here and now, that was not their intent or purpose. They were tools.

There were rows, each precisely aligned, each containing items of only one type, no two the same length, from end to end of the table. She recognised whips, batons, paddles, buttplugs, dildos, vibrators small and large, speculums, clamps, needles, gags and ball-gags. She did not recognise the long row of small metal disks, but was afraid that they might be electrodes. The gleaming wire arrangements next to the gags completely confused her, the various sized glass cylinders, looking incongruously like a rack in a chemistry laboratory, were equally mystifying. The cattleprod she recognised. The instruments lying next to it she did not, but felt safe in assuming that they were, in their own way, forms of cattleprod. Then there were the candles. She knew what they were, but could only guess what they might be used for.

The analytical part of her mind, still working unimpaired, realised that she was supposed to be dwelling on thoughts like that, and for a moment she considered the risk of fear against the risk of being unprepared. Fear she knew how to handle. Lack of preparation she rejected out of hand. Her gaze stayed on the table.

She heard a change in the noise of his movements, and let her gaze slide sideways as he moved around to in front of her.

The Hunter, never disconcerted and rarely impressed, was already impressed and came close to be being disconcerted. Her self-control was great - he had heard that - but the calculating light in her eyes showed her will to be almost inhuman. The equanimity with which she was facing sexual torture unnerved him.

Under the circumstances, he did the only thing he could; he stuck exactly to the script.

"You will have seen two of the three cameras in this room," he started smoothly, as she sized him up and verified all her guesses. He was also wearing a gimp mask that made it difficult for even her to guess at his face. Indeed, guess at his head. Anything that concealing would have been expensive to make.

"There is, of course, another one behind you," he continued, half an eye studying her face carefully. "The purpose for this mask should be obvious, but I don't like leaving people in doubt. I need to hide my identity from my employers as well as from you. The cameras are not turned on: I will not be speaking when they are. You can, of course, talk all you like or, indeed, make any other noise."

He stopped on the other side of the table, facing her directly. Under normal circumstances, part of her mind would have been admiring his physique with the normal appreciation of feminine sexuality. He was stripped to the waist, with leather pants and boots to match the mask. He had two 'identifying' scars on his chest and one on one arm, but the pallor of his skin told her that he never bared even his arms for long. She was beginning to wonder if his professionalism had flaws at all. But... The cameras? Would whoever was watching now know his identity?

One by one, she was ticking off possible avenues of escape.

"As to your purpose for being here, you will have guessed at the possibilities. The only one you need to care about, however, is the true one. You will, with or without your cooperation, be subjected to various forms of sexual acts involving the machinery surrounding you. The reason is irrelevant and I do not know it anyway. I am only carrying out my orders. I wish you luck in eventually discovering just what that reason is. As for myself, I care little.

"You may also feel free to move as much as you would like, of course, but... Well, you already know the consequences of that."

"Out of interest," she asked evenly, "What would happen if I did decide to try these bonds?"

"That," he replied evenly, moving up to the table, "Is none of my concern." He reached onto the table, out of her site, and picked up a small hypodermic syringe.

"This," he continued, showing it to her, "Is a fairly strong dose of testosterone. You may not realise that the male and muscle hormone is also a regulator of sexual response in women as well as men. I had this prepared to be a non-fatal dose for a 70kg woman with an extremely low fat content and high muscle density. I think it's about right."

She did know that, and it was about right. Worryingly so, in fact. But when she thought about it, maybe those publicity photos hadn't been such a good idea after all.

She contemplated a largely symbolic struggle, but the injury wasn't worth it.

So she kept herself still and only a slight and rapidly stilled tightening of her jaw was the only indication of her revolt as her captor, working with a nurse's care, precision and speed, slid the syringe into her arm and flooded her vein with testosterone.

With the hormone going directly into her bloodstream, her muscles all but twitched instantly. She felt a surge in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with the stomach-roiling queasiness of adrenaline and everything to do with the supreme confidence surge of punishing exercise. Or sex.

Would her body be able to flush the hormone before it was stimulated to produce more?

With difficulty, she kept her mouth shut and her limbs still as the Hunter carefully selected a vibrator from the table and then reached one finger to rest lightly on a small, chromed switch. "From here on in," he told her calmly, "The cameras are rolling."

#

The Wight heard the soft beep of the cameras starting, and saw the red lights start to flash. She set her jaw, and mentally braced herself. She would not allow herself to make any noise, or give anybody the satisfaction of responding, through pain, arousal or anything else. She would have to be the Ice Queen.

As the Hunter moved around the table towards her, the vibrator held loosely but steadily in his hand, the observation slipped through to her mind that the heat in the room, which was sheening her skin with a thin coating of sweat, barely changed the pallor of his. Any sweat he showed could be due to his labours and probably was. Under the circumstances, he stood a much greater chance of being the Ice King.

Moving smoothly and efficiently, the Hunter spread her pussy lips with two fingers and, turning the vibrator on with his thumb, rested it gently against her hooded clit.

She had never used a vibrator before. Unable to touch men, she refused to get her pleasure from a machine. The first sensation that hit her, therefore, was intensely unpleasant.

The second sensation wasn't.

She was assaulted by raw sensation of a type she had never before encountered. It made every muscle in her body clench simultaneously. For a moment she wasn't sure if it was pain or pleasure, but her groin was clearly making up its own mind.

The Hunter, holding the body of the vibrator steady against her clitoris, reached underneath it with a leather dildo in his other hand and began slowly and insistently stroking its slick head over her cunt lips. Suddenly, she had the unpleasant thought that he might know what he was doing.

She gritted her teeth, determined above all else that the watchers, whoever they were or would be, would not, would not hear her speak, or even breath heavily. If she couldn't control her own body, it wouldn't be for want of trying.

But that was becoming increasingly difficult. The steady stroking of her sensitive lips, combined with the unrelenting and skin-crawling buzzing against the bundle of nerves in her clit, was twisting her stomach with arousal, not revulsion. She could feel her lips beginning to soak with blood, to warm and puff, to open slightly. Sickening realisation warred with disbelief in her mind, but it was disgust at her own flesh's clinically physiological response that won.

The Hunter continued his gentle stroking, not letting the first hint of victory change his careful and successful tactics.

Slowly, the sensation was driving The Wight mad and making her pussy part like a flower before him. Her clitoris was no longer hooded and the sensations from it, affected by the pleasure from her lips, were no longer unpleasant. At all... She had the maddening thought that she would cum without any part of her body outside her pelvis being even remotely interested.

The Hunter, seeing her lips becoming puffy, began to insinuate the head of the dildo between them, not changing pace or stroke but now slightly parting her lips instead of just brushing the surface, revealing the first hints of her pink tunnel as he worked the black leather slowly, stroke by stroke, a little bit further inside her, still not moving the vibrator against her clit.

The Wight was clenching her teeth so hard now that the veins in her neck were standing out. The steady stimulation had been continuing for maybe only five minutes now, but she was beginning to suffer.

Suddenly, he pulled the dildo out of her cunt and seamlessly slid the vibrator fully inside her.

The sudden absence of stimulation to her clitoris, and the sudden wrenching stimulation deep inside her, made her clit jump fully to attention, her belly spasming as though she had been kicked.

Suddenly she really was a prisoner in her own body. He left the vibrator inside her, while she fought not to betray her arousal, but was slowly losing.

Then he placed a small vibrating butt plug against her clitoris, and she lost. The breath flew out of her as her body clenched, but she managed to restrict sound to a strangled gasp.

He didn't give her any time to recover. She was lying on the chair, shaking weakly and scrambling for her thoughts, when he slid the butt plug, after coating it with the juices at the entrance to her cunt, up her arse.

Her arse clenched automatically, futilely trying too late to block the intrusion. She had never even fingered her arsehole, let alone had anything up it, fingers or cock or vibrator or butt plug. The sensation was acutely uncomfortable, but the degradation it made her feel only strengthened the slut inside her. She tried to clench her lips against it, but a whimpered plea for more just barely managed to escape.

Inside his gimp mask, the Hunter smiled. Making sure that the butt plug, vibrating fiercely, was secure, he turned around and carefully picked up a framework of gleaming metal that Lisa failed to recognise. Then he bent down towards her slimy, still trembling cunt and she realised.

He inserted the two metal plates not ungently between her lips and then, with precise movements, began to wind them apart, the speculum first merely spreading and then stretching her wide until her strangled gasps of pleasure changed to muted gasps of pain. Another couple of turns, until he felt resistance from her stretched flesh, then he straightened up again, casting a quick, appraising glance over the rest of her sweat-sheened, slightly trembling body.

He picked up a oval object slightly longer and fatter than an egg, with wires leading into one end.

Standing to one side so that the camera at that end of the room could see straight down her spread cunt, he gently placed the egg at her entrance, and sharply tapped it into her with one fingertip. It skated along her slime until it was past the end of the speculum.

Which he then withdrew.

As she felt her vagina close moistly about the egg, she shivered involuntarily. It felt just so _good_ to be filled.

It felt even better when, so far inside her that she had closed over it entirely, taking it inside her and snuggling it against her G-spot, it turned on.

She started screaming, begging, pleading, and only her self-conscious knowledge of the pain that the chair could cause her stopped her writhing uncontrollably.

The Hunter gently applied the vibrator to her clit again, and she came, violently and hysterically.

Now that he had broken her, he did not relent, and continued to work upon her aroused, nearly now mindless body with the disciplined calmness, control and tireless concentration that he applied to all other aspects of his life.

By the time he turned the video cameras off he had, as requested by his employers, wrung a further two orgasms from her, although her now largely delirious mind was barely able to count them and certainly couldn't recall what had been done to her to achieve that.

#

The collar was cool around her neck, the metal mesh fitting tightly enough to remind her constantly of its presence, not so tight that she had trouble breathing or moving her neck. It didn't concern her. She just didn't know what it was for.

"It measures nervous system activity," he told her bluntly before she had a chance to catch enough breath to ask. "I have just calibrated it. It will now detect your orgasms.

"That tube by your right shoulder is a drinking tube - just water. Simply bite the end and suck."

Suiting actions to his words, she shakily, silently cursing the trembling in her arms, did exactly that.

"Now here's the thing. You see that I've packed everything up except that dildo, those vibrators, those vacuum cups, the pump and controller, and the chair. The collar too, of course. Frankly, they're all cheap, they're all easy to come by for a man in my position and I don't care what happens to them. I'm leaving now, you see, leaving you tied up. You have your arms free. If you think you can break out I wish you the best of luck.

"Personally, I suggest that you try and play it my way. You will have more strength left at the end of it, and you only have one way out anyway, provided that nobody discovers you first, which would be, I suggest, embarrassing.

"You have one chance to escape the chair, and it is this: Those bonds will release when the equipment attached to that collar records five orgasms. That's it. You have equipment to hand, quite apart from, and please understand that I am not trying to joke here, your hand itself. I suggest you get to work. The sooner you are finished, the sooner it will be over."

He finished shrugging into his jacket, slung the final bag over his shoulder and strode out, closing but not locking the heavy steel bank-vault door behind him. She stared after him furiously, but was too enraged to speak until after he had gone, and the door shut off all sound anyway.

#

"Bastard!" She screamed after his now out-of-sight back. "Fucking bastard!"

The irony of her insult was not lost on her. She just couldn't think of anything better. Then inspiration struck.

"Son of a whoring camel!" She screamed, before her voice went suddenly hoarse and she ended up choking painfully, snatching at the drinking tube and sucking until her cheeks hollowed and she started to feel bloated.

Then she stopped to take stock. She knew how to dislocate her hands to escape handcuffs, she knew how to pick locks, she knew how to escape from ropes. But she also knew that the man had been telling the truth and that she couldn't escape no matter how hard she tried.

She also knew that her hand had, unconsciously, picked up the vibrator and was about to switch it on.

She stopped herself, staring at it as her flesh went cold and hot simultaneously. She could barely admit to herself how much she wanted it inside her, and how much pleasure it had already given her. She had been raped, defiled and systematically humiliated by a man who had appeared to derive no pleasure from it, mere professional satisfaction. Her body had been driven beyond her control and that had driven her mind beyond her control. She had begged for it as much as she had threatened his death.

Such an experience is not easily shrugged off.

Part of her mind was screaming at her to stop! Think! There's always another way! There's never only one option! There's a way to fool the machines!

But she wasn't really listening. Her left hand holding the vibrator, her right hand slowly picked up the control. Not really seeing, she took in the fact that it had five speed settings. The fifth one was marked 'Random'.

Her thumb pushed the switch to '1'. A low humming sound began as the vibrator made the flesh of her hand tingle.

Closing her eyes, her inner voices silent in despair, she reached down between her legs and touched the torpedo head of the vibrator to her sore, wet cunt lips.

Her body arched against the bonds, her eyes flying open and a gasp driven from her at the speed with which her cunt responded, almost spasming in its eagerness for more abuse.

Clenching her fist around the end of the vibrator, she plunged it inside her.

And screamed. The sound was a wail ripped from her, ending on a desperate sob as she ground the too-small vibrator deeper in until her fist mashed against her swollen lips.

Desperately pumping it in an out, bucking against it as her body drove her mindless with desire, she almost forgot about the controller in her other hand until her thumb, slipping, bumped it up to '2'.

Then her back arched again, another wail torn from her until she plateaued again, desperately thumbing, missing the switch at first, driving it all the way to '4'. Then she came, humping against it, screaming and cursing as she came, her muscles screaming in pain at the work they were forced to endure, but her lust overriding them.

As the orgasm left, as quickly as it had begun, the controller slipped from her nerveless finger and the vibrator slipped from her sopping cunt, almost falling onto the floor before her hand, almost greedily, woke up enough to save it.

Her bleary eyes focused on the madly buzzing toy, then her other hand fumbled for the controller, turned it off, placed it shakily on the table.

From the equipment attached to the collar came a reassuring, single beep.

She closed her eyes again, swallowing convulsively in a throat sore from dryness. One. Four to go. She barely had the strength to focus, and there were four more to go.

Once again, her hand reached out unbidden. It closed around the first object it touched, She stared at it listlessly. It was the smaller dildo. Closing her eyes and reaching between her legs, her free hand found her anus and guided it in, sliding the toy all the way in until, when she lowered her ass to the chair again, it didn't even move.