Message-ID: <411eli9703291133@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: "Steven S. Davis" Subject: Selected Images #2 My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images, and sketches written for the amusement of and offered as tribute to my Liege and Lady. A few selections follow. They are generally cruel and nonconsensual and of interest only to sickphuxs, so please read no further if such doesn't appeal to you. The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward of the state. Steven S. Davis --------------------------------------------------------- A story idea that will have to wait till next year (12/31/94) It wasn't until much too late that I began to consider an idea for a New Year's Eve post (it was also much too late when I got "A Visit from St. Nicholas to a Kink Household" done, but at least that was posted the day before Christmas Eve). I don't have much more than the bare bones (but I've got a year to worry about that; maybe telling a bunch of people about it will push me to be sure it gets written), but it will involve a New Year's Eve party at which a lot of kinky play goes on. One special party favor: a number of people either submitted their names (or their slave's names) into the pool to announce the New Year. This was done with much bravado the year before, but not everyone who was so brave then is brave enough to show up tonight. Since it's nearly a year away, I too can be brave and can be ambitious about the story, which I hope will start with a lot of unspecified tension among, and unexplained attention towards, some of the female guests and their escorts, making the first couple hours of the party somewhat unfestive (of course, the fact the party begins so early, at 6:00 PM, contributes to people not being ready to play yet). Then, after the drawing, everyone (well, almost everyone) will be feeling relief and the partying can begin. The drawing will come about 8:00; that allows about an hour to get the subject in place. It would be so gauche to rush her - but people will be guarding the locked doors and windows against any attempt to leave. Everyone is of course very sympathetic, but a promise is a promise, and if one couldn't handle the consequences one shouldn't have made the promise. So by 9:00 they should be ready. The physical situation mandates the timing. The ballroom of the private home in which the party is taking place is 30 feet high. The table, slightly adjustable to allow for variations among those who are in the pool, will be 4 feet high, and the apparatus requires eight feet. It will also need six seconds for a complete lap, 172 minutes and 48 seconds to cover the necessary distance. This gives the selected one 7 minutes and 12 seconds to wait in place for the procedure to begin. At 9:07:12 local time, a lever is pushed, and the countdown towards the New Year begins. The chosen one is unmoved. Not surprising, given the elaborate restraints tightly crisscrossing her spreadeagled and nearly nude form (a stiff corset pushing up and holding her breasts is her only covering) to assure that she doesn't move a fraction of an inch, lest the timing be ruined. Her head is free and while gags are at the ready, should they be required, everyone hopes that they won't be needed, and they aren't. She knows that nothing she can say will alter anything, and her dignity matters to her. The partying begins in earnest now, but as engrossed as people become in their scenes, no one can forget, at least not for long, the main scene being enacted tonight. The rules allow light play with the selected one up until 11:59, but no one wants to approach her. Her escort is nowhere to be seen, although word spreads he's in a room getting drunk; everyone understands, but everyone's opinion of him plummets, as she lays alone on the table. She'd like someone to talk to, even an enemy to taunt her, anything to pierce the solitude that engulfs her, but it's as if an invisible barrier surrounds the table, keeping everyone away from it. She might ask someone to bring her a drink, just to get someone close to her for a moment, but she remembers that all those in the pool were instructed to take no food or drink after 7:00 and to take an enema that afternoon. The others are eating and drinking now - some took several drinks just after 7:00 - but nothing is permitted her. The hours pass, both painfully slowly and much too quickly, as the party goes on around her, loud and raucous and rowdy, though no one seems to be having fun. Lot's of people are choosing to be flogged long and hard, and some of them actually do manage to forget for awhile. As midnight approaches, the play tapers off, though some people by the bar continue to party hard. Most of those who can still see are watching her, though only a couple do so openly. She asks, in a calm voice barely betraying her tension, for her escort. A few people go to look for him, but no one wants to tell her that he's passed out drunk, and her requests for him become calls for him that take on a rising urgency and in the last minutes of the year the dignity she'd struggled so long and well to mantain begins to crack as she cries out his name as the tears begin running down her face, and for the first time she struggles against the bonds that have held her all night. She knows the futility of the effort, but it's just too much to be so brave when she's so alone. A few people's eyes rise at her struggles, other's drop. At midnight, just as the chimes begin to ring, exactly on time. She screams as the blade touchs her nipples. For a time, she screams every three seconds, as the blade passes again, a tiny bit lower each time, cutting a bit deeper into her large breasts. After a few passes she's screaming continually; some of the guests are wet or hard, some are desperately wishing she'd pass out, and some are both. As it cuts deeper, blood and flesh are hurled onto the plastic panels erected to catch them; everything is occuring like clockwork. The blade begins to slow as it cracks and cuts her ribs, and the mess gets worse, but if the visuals are worse the audio is better, as the last scream passes her bloody lips, and at last the blade of the pendulum stops, a fraction of an inch short of the valuable oak of the table. All had worked exactly as it had been planned. Plans work to perfection so very rarely, one would think that so special an event working so exactly as it was designed would be an occasion for celebration. Yet as the pall of silence descends on the room, those minds not yet too numb to think ponder the old saw about being careful for what one wishes. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Assorted Images, mainly Femdom, A man sits tied to a tubular chair, it's steel cold against his bare flesh, but he barely notices the cold of the tubes. Uppermost in his mind is the cold of his bare feet, which rest buried by ice cubes in a small tub. From his bound ankles a cord runs through a small hole in the tub and through a pulley to his testicles, and any attempt to raise his feet pulls cruelly on them. **************** A naked man lays on a hard floor, his hands tied behind him, his ankles bound and raised and a cord running from them to his penis, to which it is tightly and tautly attached. A woman strikes him rapidly and repeatedly across the upper back with a cane. When he starts to cry, she kneels by his head and says "You poor dear, would you like me to try something else ?" The gagged man nods his head in relief, only to look up in horror as she lights a blowtorch and begins moving the flame about near the soles of this feet. "Is this better, dear ?", she asks with a broad smile and a wicked gleam in her eyes, as the heat on his feet makes him try to move them away from the torch, cruelly pulling on his already stretched cock. ****** A naked man hangs by his handcuffed wrists. He holds his hobbled hindlimbs off the ground, letting the pressure rest on his wrists and shoulders for as long as possible, then lowers his feet to press his toes to the ground, but to raise himself enough to take the weight off his arms, he must stretch his already painfully stretched scrotal sac, tightly wrapped in thin cord pulled taut and tied to an "O" ring on the floor. When the pain in his balls becomes too great to bear, he raises his tied legs and hangs by his aching arms for a while. The woman has been watching in amusement. "Decisions, decisions", she says in a taunting voice. "Do you want to put pressure on your wrists, and risk not being able to use your hands again, *if* I ever let you out of here, or stretch your little balls some more, and risk losing them. Such hard decisions. I'll be kind and spare you the agony of making decisions", she said, and she took the short chain between his ankles and attached another chain to it, then pulled his feet well of the floor before yanking his head back and attaching the new chain to the ring of the leather training harness locked on his head. "Isn't that better ? Now you don't have to make any decisions. But you also aren't getting that delightful genitorture, are you ? I don't won't you to feel deprived", she said, "but I surely enjoy being depraved", she added with a smile as she started turning his body as it hung in it's chains, turning it around and around and twisting and tightening the cord to his balls, pulling them further and further out as he groaned and squealed into his gag. "No more ? OK", she said, pushing him in the opposite direction from the one she had been, and watching him spin back to his original position. "Wasn't that fun ? Well, it was for me. Let's do it again", she said as she started turning him about again. "I wouldn't worry too much about what condition you'll be in when I let you go, love, cause I'm *never* going to let you go. Or, maybe I should say", she said as she set him to spinning again, "that I'm never going to let you leave." ******** The woman jerked her left foot away as the electric prod touched the bare toes that her high-heeled sandals exposed, the action being transfered to a spiked paddle that that swat her bare ass again, it's many sharp needles leaving small bleeding punctures, and she screamed, to the delight of the children. The little boy touched his cattleprod to the toes of her right foot, emulating his sister's action, and the foot jerked away. The action was involuntary, she knew all to well the pain that would result, but she couldn't stop moving in reaction to the touch of the cattleprods, and the action of her foot's movement caused a spiked paddle to swat her bare breasts, adding to the already considerable number of small holes in then. The children's mother watched with amusement as the kids played with their new toy. They always broke them so quickly, she thought, but she enjoyed indulging them. Besides, she went through a lot of toys herself, she thought, glancing at the naked man who stood facing the pole, his hands chained to the top of it, his belt of chain attached to the pole, and his feet outstretched and fastened to rings in the platform. He was looking at the children's play with the busty slut, and despite himself he was becoming erect. He was resisting the desire, as he knew that the upward path of his penis was blocked by a set of very sharp needles, and if he became fully erect his arousal would be quickly deflated. Worse than that, the woman who had captured him (it had been so easy, but how could he have said no to anything that such a lovely creature asked ? Could anyone have resisted such a demigoddess ?) had shown him the device that would be used to cauterize the wounds and keep him alive a bit longer. The crocodile shaped pincers rested in the brazier where he could see it, the elongated snout made to fit around a penis of his width (even when cold, having the various pincers settle around his cock (while she looked for the right size) was quite unsettling; he could scarcely imagine how horrible it would feel hot. But he knew the woman's screams and the bouncing of her bloodied breasts would eventually overcome his will and turn his penis into a pincushion. Glancing at his blonde captor, her long hair glimmering in the light thrown by the hot coals, he saw her coolly studying him, and patiently waiting for him to impale himself. The children wouldn't break their toy before she broke his resistance, and there was no need to rush or hurry. *********************** The man stood spreadeagle, arms and legs chained to rings in the wall he faced, a wall lightly coated in wet clay through which a sharp electric current flowed. He had tried to keep away from it, but the floggings he'd received had either driven him into it was thud or made him jump into it with sting, and each time he had screamed and quickly jumped as far from the wall (a few inches) as his chains allowed, his captress had laughed. She'd been out of the dungeon for some time, though he couldn't judge the passage of time well. Long enough for him to recover some of his strength. Probably long enough for her arm to recover, he thought. But when she returned, she didn't pick up any of the whips. She strode slowly up to him, the sound of her heels on the cold stone floor echoing off the bare stone walls of the dungeon. "So much pain. Time for some pleasure", she whispered in his ear before nippling on it, and her fingers sought out his nipples and skillfully manipulated them. Her lips and toungue were very skilled, whether they were gliding over his face and neck or speaking aloud the images of his dreams or just making animal sounds of lustful desire, and he despite his fear his passion, and other things rose, and...his penis touched the clay and he screamed and spasmed and slumped twitching and whimpering in his chains, as she laughed again. "That was easy. Now that you know what's going to happen, it will be a little hard... a little more difficult. But trust me, dear, you will arise again, and again, and again, until I get bored with your screams and whimpers, and that will take a long time, love", she said as she gently stroked his hair. "And when I do get bored with you, I'll raise the current, and bring you up one last time. And there's absolutely nothing you can do about it". --------------------------------------------------------- A possible ending for "Diane" [FWIW, *not* the one I plan to use if I ever finish the story] Diane sits in a straight backed metal chair, tight straps on her wrists and elbows, another around her slender waist, and a thick padded strap around her neck holding her head in place. Her skirt has been removed so more of her long, slender legs are visible; her pantyhose and black high heels are still on. Her left ankle is cuffed to the center bar of the chair; her right leg is crossed over her left leg, and her right ankle is cuffed to the left leg of the chair*. Her tongue has been coaxed out of her mouth and placed in a tight clamp so she can't form any words. Across the room from her a large mirror shows her a slender, pretty blonde, her pretty legs crossed, sitting helplessly as she waits for an unknown fate. Her oldest son (eleven years old) is wheeled in, and left where Diane has a clear view of him. He's strapped to a table, gagged, both arms immobilized. Both arms have catherters in them, which have been clamped off. The right arm has a needle extracting blood, the left a needle attached to a saline supply that will be used to maintain the blood pressure as the child's blood is drained away. The clamp on the right arm is released, and the blood begins to flow from him into a small pump, which pumps it into a bag about ten feet over Diane's immobilized blonde head. Seeing her child's blood being drained Diane struggles mightily with her restraints, but to no effect. She makes pleading sounds and her wide eyes implore us, but neither I nor more assistants are moved (well, it's not really accurate to say that the sight of a lovely woman struggling futilely in her bonds, screaming inarticulately, with big, desperate eyes pleading for mercy, doesn't move me. It does - a part of me, anyway. But mercy is the last thing it inspires in me). After enough blood gets in the bag, it's opened so that it drips, slowly on Diane's blonde head. The drops of blood form, fall from their height to strike the top of Diane's head with unmistakable impact, and then the blood slowly spreads through the blonde hair, her hair becoming more and more red, until her hair is covered in blood and the blood drips down onto her white blouse and rolls like sweated blood off her brow and mingles with her tears as it rolls down her cheeks. An attendant sits alongside her and wipes the blood away from her eyes so she sees all that happens. As it drips onto her tongue, she knows the salty taste of blood and the bitter taste of despair. Eventually saline begins draining out the boy's arm. He's been dead for a short time. When the last of his blood is in the bag, three nooses are hung, and his limp corpse is hung by it as the table is rolled away, but his blood keeps falling onto Diane's head and rolling down her face. The table returns, with Diane's second child strapped to it. The process is repeated, with one change: since Diane is quite red-faced enough, the blood is dripped into a large steel pan, it's echoes as it strikes the pan quite loud, and Diane can clearly hear each drop over her own moans and her son's muffled but unmistakable calls for his mother. Her own wrists are bleeding now, as her constant but futile struggles against the leather straps have worn the skin away, but she doesn't notice this, any more than she noticed that her right shoe has fallen off and been replaced several times since her ordeal began. The boy's cries weaken and finally cease, and after an eternity the dripping sound ends, and Diane screams and struggles madly, the sturdy wood chair creaking loudly in response to her awesome efforts to break free, but her bounds are stronger than her bones, and when at last the last of her energy is spent, she has gained nothing but broken bones in both wrists and her right ankle. Her struggles suspended for the time, Diane's eyes are dried and her eyelids held open as a second pale, bloodless shell of what had her child is hung alongside the first. Clamps on her eyelids force her to keep looking at the small corpses. Usually when these clamps are used, efforts must be made to keep the subject's eyeballs moistened; tonight, Diane will be moistening them herself. "One more to go, Diane", I say. It's hard to believe her eyes could get any more piteous, but somehow she managed. She made some more noises, "lssss illl duhh nnnthn" it sounded like. I just smiled at her. "I can't even begin to imagine how you must be suffering now. It must be so dreadful to lose a child. To lose all your children is more than anyone could bear. And how can you possibly endure knowing that you caused this ? If you'd just worn pants that day I wouldn't have caught sight of these lovely legs", I say while running a hand over her calf, "and you never would have been brought here. A pity you're 37, if you were younger maybe you'd have been more trainable. A slave has to obey, even one as sexy as you. But you just couldn't learn to obey, immediately and totally, and so your children are paying for your failure". The third child, six years old, is rolled into the room, sending Diane into another furious fit of futile struggling. She seems quite oblivious to the pain. I let her struggle for a time, the tell her "Your baby isn't going to die now, Diane". She stops, and I see a tiny ghost of a hope deep in those agonized eyes. Perfect. Now to rip that last hope away. "No, that would be much too easy for you. I want you to suffer longer. Your little boy here will die tomorrow morning, and you will die - well, you will start to die - shortly afterwards. But you and he get to wait the rest of the night for the final act", I say as the little boy, bound and gagged, is stood on a stool alongside his brothers, and the noose placed loosely over his head. "Tommorrow, at 6:00", I say as a chiming clock is positioned where Diane can't help but see it, "the rope will be elevated, and your son will be lifted of his feet. He's so light, and this noose isn't tied well, so it will take a long time for it to constrict around his neck tightly enough to cause his death. He should squirm at the end of this rope for a nice long time. When his little heart has stopped, we'll start your death. I know you don't think you'll care, but we've come up with something so slow and horrible and painful that it should strike terror even in your numbed consciousness. But I don't want to ruin the surprise, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. I know I can barely stand the suspense", I say as I push one of the corpses so it swings back and forth slightly. "Well, 6:00 will come pretty soon, so I'd better get some work done and turn in early. I certainly don't want to oversleep and miss any of tomorrow's event. Good night, Diane", I say as I leave the helpless and hopeless woman. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Adding spice A very bland (but sweet and loving) vanilla couple has had their house invaded by deviants. They are stripped and bound and taken to seperate rooms where the pale bride sits blushing a deep crimson. Poor thing, only one man has seen her naked, and him only in dim light, before today, and now she sits stark naked in a brightly lit room, her legs spread and tied to the legs of the chair, her wrists bound and her elbows cinched behind her, forcing her to present her breasts to a group of total strangers in a way she never could to her dear sweet husband. And how they're all looking at her ! Especially the women ! For the first time she's embarassed at being looked at by women. Usually it's sort of nice, knowing that she's the object of attention and envy from other women, but these woman aren't looking at her and thinking how much they'd like to have a body like hers. Or maybe - oh, dear - that's exactly what they're thinking. The visitors thought it would be interesting to interrogate the couple about their sexual histories. They, of course, were adamant that such things were not to be discussed with ruffians. They, of course, had no idea how much a properly used pair of pliers could hurt. They soon began answering the questions put to them; the pliers continued to be used, as the questions were sometimes put several times before the visitors were satisfied with the answers. The answers were all the same, as this upright couple would never lie, but the guests couldn't believe what they were hearing until the piteous wails of the subjects confirmed their words. After the interrogation, it became clear that what the intruders had found was probably *the* most bland couple in the world. Whatever to do with such people ("bury them" was rejected). It occured to someone that bland sex needed spicing. There was, naturally, nothing appropriate in the house, so someone was sent to get the hottest peppers available. Then a very fine (very fine pieces and a very nasty taste) hot sauce was made, while the vanilla's waited and worried about what would happen to them - and imagined what really awful things were probably happening to their partners at that very moment. When the sauce was ready, our lady of the crossed legs was bound spreadeagle on her bed, and the sauce liberally applied to her nether regions, then her husband was brought in, to see his wife, flushed and sweaty, moaning into her gag, squirming madly and obviously wet between the legs, a sight he'd never seen outside his dreams. They pushed the husband on the bed and shoved his head her legs, and said "Eat her. She's ready, and she *really* needs you. And we'll kill you both if you don't." Well, purely for his poor wife's sake, he had no choice, as anyone could see, so he stuck out his tongue and began licking her, and his eyes bulged and his tongue burned and he started gasping and sweating, and the guests said, "First taste of pussy ? Good, isn't it ?", and made him keep licking. Later that year, the couple quit their jobs, and opened a boutique selling imported peppers and domestic toys. ************************************************************************ Steven S. Davis sd@magenta.com Homepage, vanilla: http://links.magenta.com/files/Authors/sd/www Homepage, pistachio: http://links.magenta.com/lmnop/users/sd.html -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /