She had never been in that place before, and it seemed to be a large dungeon, no
less, stretching back into the gloom. A brazier of glowing coals burned in the middle,
and a warm draught carried a sooty stench from the tarred torches that flamed on the
walls. It was pure theatre, of course, because electric lamps cast a subtle light on its
bare stone walls. Judging by the warmth of the air, it must have been centrally heated
too. The place was obviously entirely devoted to punishment of one kind or another,
because it was crammed with frightening machines and complicated arrangements of wheels
and frames and chains. A large St Andrews Cross was set near one corner, facing into the
room, and there were a few wooden frames, hanging from stout chains, with manacles and web
harnesses attached to them. There were other contraptions and devices too, their purposes
too frightening for Five-fifty-five to contemplate: benches, racks, hanging iron cages,
and low crates of steel mesh. One wall was festooned with whips, crops, paddles and
scourges, and she didn’t think they were there just for bizarre decoration.
“Get a bag of oil and a medical stand from the store room,” Gaffa the Head Slaver
ordered, pointing to a door in the opposite corner.
Gaffa led Five-fifty-five to the far side of the room where two long and stout
beams were set parallel to each other, about two feet apart, one at waist height and the
other at knee height. A sudden a grunt from above made Five-fifty-five look up at the
ceiling in surprise. She stifled a gasp, hardly believing her eyes: way up above,
suspended from the ceiling on chains and frames, were two naked slaves - one female and
one male - slung horizontally and facing downwards. The woman was hooded, and in the dim
light Five-fifty-five could just make out the kef tattoo brand on her widely parted
thighs. The man, though, was gazing down, his mouth stretched wide by a ball gag.
“My God!” Five-fifty-five breathed.
It was Carl, the Chairman’s chauffeur and slave. His tumescent cock was pointing
down at her, sticking out. As she peered up in the gloom, she saw that a brass collar had
been fixed around its base, and thin cord wound tightly round its shaft like a snake.
Carl’s eyes were wide as he hung face-down, star-shaped, strapped to the frame which
slowly twisted back and forth.
Five-fifty-five again looked at the hooded woman who hung face-down beside Carl.
The chains that secured this woman to the frame were pressing cruelly into her belly and
chest. Worse, two weights were attached to her nipples with slender chains, distending
her breasts, and another dangled from her pussy to cruelly stretch her sex lips.
“Lie on the bars,” Gaffa ordered Five-fifty-five, pointing to the parallel beams
fixed to the stone floor.
Five-fifty-five faltered a little but obeyed, struggling to lie face down across
the beams in the required position. It left her bottom high and her head near to the
floor. Gaffa hooked her feet over the rear beam with the soles facing upwards, and he
fastened her ankles to the bar in a way that bent her knees so tightly that the calves of
her legs were flat against the back of her thighs. This supported her body to a degree,
although much of her weight was borne on her outstretched arms as her hands grasped the
lower beam. She remained thus, her terror made apparent by the quivers that coursed
through her body as Gaffa tied her wrists to the beam. She wriggled slightly in the
uncomfortable suspension, but there was little movement in the straps that held her. Her
upturned buttocks were widely separated by the tie, displaying the bulging purse of her
sex like a ripe, split peach. From her inverted position, she saw Herbie’s slippered
feet as he returned across the room, pushing a wheeled stainless steel medical stands,
from which hung a swaying plastic IV bag that contained clear fluid.
“Six strokes on her arse and four across her feet,” Gaffa orders.
Five-fifty-five gave a small gasp. She hadn’t expected that! She strained her
neck to glance up wildly and saw the white’s of Herbie’s eyes as he nodded grimly and
stepped forward, pulling the cane from his waist band and swishing it experimentally.
When Herbie placed the rod against the sole of her left foot, she squealed as if it was a
hot poker. He was just measuring the stroke, of course, but before her squeal had faded
he quickly lashed the cane down in a low but swift stroke. She screeched, astonished by
the pain across the sole of her foot . The next stroke was even harder, but it landed
flush across her bottom, making her let out a gasped grunt. Herbie adjusted his position
and delivered another, lighter blow across the sole of her right foot, making her screech
again. The rhythm was thus established. Herbie, despite his callow youth, caned her
efficiently, dispassionately, alternately beating her bottom, then her left sole, and then
her right sole, back to her arse again... until all the blows were delivered.
Five-fifty-five was screeching and bawling by the time the last, particularly hard blow
lashed across her tortured backside.
“Good lad,” Gaffa said to Herbie. “We’ll make a slaver out of you yet. Now spread
her cunt lips while I position the oil drip.”
Five-fifty-five hung down from the beams, sobbing, her hair hanging forward and
trailing on the stone floor, as Herbie used both hands to spread the leaves of her her
cunt while Gaffa positioned the medical stand beside her. She tried to recover her
composure, but was terrified of what they had in store for her. She reflected miserably
that this was a big punishment, just for sucking a slave’s cock without permission. Yet,
alongside the terror, there was an inexplicable frisson of excitement fluttering in her
belly.
That excitement leapt when, suddenly, to her surprise, a light drop of oil dripped
into the divide of her bottom. The first drips feel surprisingly pleasant and warm in the
crack of her bottom, and the oil spread quickly over her skin and lubricated Herbie’s
fingers as he massaged her pussy. Gaffa checked the pace of the drip and adjusting the
tap of the IV bag. After a few more droplets, Herbie stepped back but she could feel that
her pussy lips remain gaping open. Herbie stroked Five-fifty-five’s hair back with an
oily hand and then pulled a black silk strip from his sash and used it to blindfold her.
There was a definite, delicious heat engendered by something astringent in the
oil but the steady drip, drip, drip of the oil caused her no immediate discomfort. In
fact the dull heat on her so recently-caned bottom seemed to embrace the fine warm slick
that quickly formed down the groove of her bottom and seeped into the lips of her pussy.
Soon, slowly but surely, she felt a tingling pool of the warming oil in the upturned well
of her anus and then, with a few more of the viscous droplets, it overflowed and trickled
over the open lips of her cunt, mingling with her own juices. Soon it seeped to the
engorged nubbin of her clitoris where it dripped away, with each droplet seeming to tug at
the sensitive tip.
| 
