Every time they went to such a place it sent a tingling
feeling through Harriet’s body, gave a tightening in her throat, made her eyes widen
in anticipation. Frightening yet exciting, horrific and fascinating, loathsome
and yet irresistible.
They could have argued that the pouring rain had driven
them in, but that would not have been true and whilst the other exhibits at the
waxworks were interesting, Harriet and George knew what they really wanted to
see.
The entrance to this part of the building hung heavy with
darkness and menace, its black walls oppressive. At the end of the entrance
corridor a fierce light shone from the right hand wall. It was eerie and mystifying how its
search-light brilliance failed to penetrate into the corridor where George and
Harriet were. It drew them to itself, like an irresistible magnetic force. It drew them to its beam where a man and a
woman were already entrapped by its power. It was as if it was eating them.
Their faces were flattened and featureless, lacking any of the usual lines of
human flesh. The only parts of their face that showed anything of their
emotions were their wide-eyed stares and their brilliant white teeth exposed by
mouths that must have been grimacing in horror.
The couple struggled to tear themselves from the terrible
light and the image that it held so brilliantly. The effort eventually
succeeded but only thrust them into another fierce light where their bulging
eyes took hold of its embedded horror. They struggled and tussled to get free
of the vision and, in an instant, disappeared without trace. Harriet wondered if they had escaped or been
consumed.
The way was left clear for Harriet and George to discover
the cause of their distress. Harriet felt her chest tighten but her steps took
her on inexorably. Light began to enter her darkness.
“Are you all right?” enquired George.
“Oh yes. I’m fine. Can’t wait ... got butterflies.”
She spoke without real interest in his enquiry, her eyes
drawn into the light, looking for the vision of suffering.
First she saw the brazier glowing with hot coals. Next,
the man, already turned away from the fire, his arm stretching out with its
gift of a small dish-shaped iron. Along the leading edge of the small dish,
talons stood fiercely sharp, glowing brilliantly red from their recent visit to
the brazier.
Harriet’s heart pounded in her chest as her staring green
eyes travelled from the imagined intense heat of the iron, over the short,
sizzling distance to its round, soft and tender, pink-tipped goal.
A captive young girl awaited the unwanted gift. She was
kneeling, her ankles secured behind her in harsh wooden stocks. Each slender
arm extended upwards and backwards, held by tight metal bands at her wrists. The chains from these continued the line of
ascent, whilst the rope attached to the collar compressing her throat descended
in opposing tension to the top of the securing ankle stocks. Her delicate body
arched gracefully, offering her exposed mounds up to the fiery instrument.
The figure was alive to Harriet. She could feel the young
girl’s wriggling and squirming as if it was herself who was desperately trying
to get free. It was, however, futile
struggling. The flesh and the iron were
destined to meet. The proof was clear from a previous uniting of the two. The
marks on her breast signified the touch of the iron and the talons’ lurid
penetrations into the undefended succulent flesh.
Those talons would seek satisfaction until the torturer
tired of her screams, leaving the signs of his work etched deep and long
lasting about her soft yielding breasts. His victim would continue in dreadful
pain. That pain would only fade with the
slow passage of her days in these dismal dungeons. It might be that further, as
yet unsampled, torture lay in wait for her, to impart a new agony over the
fading distress of the first. A search
to gradually increase her toleration of the torturer’s special talents.
There could be no chance of escape. She would be held to
the whims and pleasures of her tormentor until he decided she was of no more
use to his evil desires.
Harriet took on these certain truths then went on to imagine
George’s fingers kneading her ample breasts with vigorous passion. The vision
before her took her to new heights of lust.
It began to change in her mind, evolving to her being the
tortured soul and George the torturer. The red hot talons closing in on her sensitive
flesh, nipples standing hard, a wetness oozing from her body. She must give
herself up to the pain and take herself higher still. She closed her eyes for a
moment with agony and ecstasy a second away, heat and passion wrestling within
her panting body to reach that glorious climax.
“You’re not going to faint, are you?”
George took her arm and Harriet was returned to the real
world with a deep sigh. “Ohhh no. I’m just fine,” she said softly.
“Mmmm. You’re a one, you are.”
George wore a wry smile on his face as they slowly drew
their attention from the exquisite exhibit, leaving the bound girl to entertain
new voyeurs.
It took some effort for Harriet to get control of her
erotic thoughts, her legs hardly able to function. Eventually her eyes and attention were drawn
to other testing images.
Some of the scenes were even more horrific and the
inventive cruelty never ceased to amaze and excite her. A man buried to his
neck, another awaiting execution by being boiled alive. Yet another, this time
a young woman, stretched to breaking point on the rack, her almost naked body
bearing slashing cuts across it, her torturer holding the long whip high above
his head ready to impose its ripping kiss again.
Harriet found herself lingering at this exhibit,
fascinated and aroused by the struggle of the woman’s body to adapt to the
intense stretching being applied. She found herself pulling her stomach in and
expanding her chest as if the ropes were biting into her wrists, dragging them
further above her head. Despite the awful stretching of her body, her own huge
breasts would not, she believed, be totally flattened as was the case with the
emaciated waxwork of ribs and flailed skin.
“Phew.”
Harriet pulled her body as taut as she could and realised
she was getting quite carried away. She looked round to see if anyone was
watching, but there was only George, a pleasing smile on his face.
“Let me get you home for a bit of sport, eh?”
“Not yet. Let me see the rest of the chamber and then I
really will be good and hot for it.” Harriet ran her hand down George’s erect
penis and pressed it hard against his own body.
He whispered to her, “If we spend much longer in here, I
won’t be able to contain myself.”
Harriet chuckled as she rubbed her compressing hand along
his great shaft, then took a grip, leading him by his cock to the waiting
exhibits.
George thought he would split his trousers if he did not
get his hands on her soon. Perhaps they could do it in a dark corner of the
chamber of horrors, between the boiling pot and the rack.
Harriet released her hold as her attention was captured
by the next scene of torture. This
particular one was of a man secured to a wheel. The wheel was clear of the
ground and its shaft disappeared through a bearing on the wall behind it. Slowly the wheel turned and thus the man was
rotated. Standing in front of the tortured was the torturer, his whip ready to
strike another blow. The many lashes had already ripped the victim’s clothes to
shreds, the cuts radiating in all directions and landing on every part of his
body.
Harriet was not so impressed with the fact that his
clothes had been shredded. She had
always thought that victims were stripped naked so that any whipping or beating
or branding or squeezing could have its full effect upon the flesh, not reduced
or softened by material and padding. She accepted the exhibition would need to
strategically place a wisp of thin cloth so as not to offend public decency,
but in reality it would surely be ripped away, exposing the most exciting and
the most sensitive areas to the unbridled and limitless variety of instruments
of pain.
“Surely it must lessen the effect with those shreds
getting caught up on the whip?” she enquired.
George was quick to say what she really meant. “You just
want to see his cock waggling around as his body rotates.”
Harriet gave a long satisfied moan as her imagination was
set free. She softly whispered, “And of course the odd blow of the whip making
it leap even more.”
George had to swallow hard at this before replying. “A
naked woman on there would be more interesting to me, with her tits swinging
round and her love slit exposed by having her legs splayed wide, red stripes
attacking her in all directions ...”