CHAPTER ONE
The facemask gave Sondra Rhodes’ moans and whimpers of pain a curiously distorted,
echoing quality. It was of clear moulded plastic and enclosed her nose and mouth, held in
place by tight straps encircling her chin and head. A rubber seal around its rim ensured
a virtually airtight fit. A section of clear plastic tubing projected from the front of
the mask, bent upwards in a right angle and opened into a wide funnel above her head. It
was from out of the mouth of this that Sondra’s sobs and cries reverberated and in through
which her breath rasped.
A hand caught hold of a fistful of her streaked-blonde hair. ‘Have another drink,
Slut’, said her new master.
A measure from a jug of water was tipped into the mouth of the funnel, filling the
tube and the facemask. Sondra choked, her red-rimmed eyes bulging as she desperately
gulped it down until the tube was empty and she could breath once more. A broad clear
plastic neck brace extending upwards under Sondra’s chin ensured she kept her head upright
and facing forward so could not empty the mask by spilling any of the fluid within it.
She had no choice but to drink whatever was poured into the funnel.
Sondra’s naked body was suspended face down and spreadeagled at about waist height,
hanging from chains hooked to coil springs that in turn hooked onto thick metal-banded
rubber cuffs buckled about her wrists and ankles. Directly below her torso was a raised
wooden frame filled with a bed of glossy green holly leaves. Iron weights of the sort
used in old-fashioned counterbalanced pan scales rested in the supple down-curve of her
back. These helped force her hips, breasts and belly, already bulging with her latest
unwilling drink, ever lower until they ground into the holly spines.
She’d feebly protested and begged for mercy when he had first strung her up but he
had taken no notice. Hadn’t she done everything he had commanded? What more was there?
What a foolish thought. He only wanted the pleasure of seeing her suffer.
The clear taut skin of Sondra’s stomach was scratched and pricked with blood-spots
and studded with clinging leaves spiked to her flesh as her body sagged. With a groan
she tensed her arms and raised herself a little, but she no longer had the strength. Her
muscles were numbed from the strain of her bondage while her joints throbbed with dull
fire. Beyond the cuffs which bore her weight her hands and feet were purple with
congested blood.
A stream of pee hissed from the depths of her golden-curled cleft into the holly
bed as she voided her bladder in a desperate attempt to shed weight and rise clear of the
bed of tormenting spines. A pool of urine was forming in the tray under the holly leaves.
How many times had she relieved herself so shamefully since she had been strung up?
Five, six? She’d lost count. The shed weight lifted her a few precious millimetres but
even then there was no escaping the torment. He’d made certain of that.
A holly stalk had been pushed into her clenching mouth of her anus, so that it
seemed to be growing out of her, the spray of leaves on its head scraped her inner thighs,
forcing her to hold her legs wide. Twin, cord-bound holly wreathes circled her neat
rounded breasts in a figure “8”, making them bulge. Every shuddering breath she took dug
the spines in a little further into her soft globes. Her nipples were agonizingly hard.
Thin trickles of blood ran down her chest.
‘Does the holly bring back it all back to you?’ her tormentor asked. ‘That time
when you begged to be freed from Purgatory? When you finally admitted what your really
were…’
A sick thrill coursed through Sondra as she blinked her tears away. At last a
clue, a sign. Now she knew what he wanted. Now she knew why the tube from the funnel did
not fill her mouth. She felt the world closing in about her, leaving only one inevitable
destination. A few months ago she would have contemptuously denied she could ever do
such a thing, but so much pride and arrogance had been beaten from her since then there
was very little of the old Sondra left. What there was would be no great loss to anybody,
she admitted with a curious sense of detachment, not even herself. Time to let go.
She let the tension ease from her aching limbs and sank down onto the bed of holly,
accepting its cruel repose. The many spines sank into her flesh, burning hotly. She
snatched a glance upward to see his expression of approval, to confirm that this was what
he wanted, then lowered her gaze humbly.
‘I’m yours, Master,’ she said, her whispered words seeming to her to boom from the
mouth of the funnel. ‘I’m your sex toy, your pain slut. Do what you want with me. Even
though I’m nothing, just a piece of dirt on your shoe, I beg to serve you, to please you.
I beg… to be your slave.’
There, it was said. She felt dizzy yet relieved. It might be the last decision of
any consequence she would ever have to make. She found herself waiting nervously for his
response.
For what seemed an eternity he said nothing, merely gazed down at her. Then he
edged closer, unzipped his flies, took out his thick, semi-hard cock, and before Sondra’s
eyes peed into the funnel, filling the facemask.
Suppressing her natural disgust, for that was behind her now, Sondra drank the warm
fluid down, feeling it sting her throat, until the mask was clear and only the aroma
lingered. He wanted to make her feel soiled. How better than treat her like a urinal.
She waited patiently for what would come next.
His cock had stiffened. He unbuckled her mask, pulled it off her head and grasped
her hair. Her mouth opened wide and he rammed his shaft down her throat. She could
hardly breath, but still she closed her lips and sucked.
He began to thrust harder into her gullet, setting her swaying in her chains and
grinding her helpless body over the holy spines. She whimpered but kept sucking, the
thought tumbling over in her mind that this was perfectly right now, that she was his to
do with as he pleased. She felt her pubes pulse and warm slickness fill her abused cleft
as slavish response took over.
For the moment it was just her body she had surrendered, but instinct told her that
her mind would soon follow. She did not even like him, but he was her master, and that
was what mattered. Eventually the lingering shame and resentment would metamorphose into
a helpless love of the powerless for the powerful. When the last vestiges of her will and
self-respect were purged from her she would enter that nirvana-like state of total
submission when pain and pleasure became one and she would exist only to serve.
Then Sondra Rhodes would truly be no more.
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