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The Wight’s Ordeal

Category: BDMS
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The night was your friend. It was always important to remember that. The night was your friend because in it you were dominant. In it you had the control, the power and the mastery. The night was your friend because you made it the enemy of those who deserved to be your enemy.

It was a mantra that The Wight repeated to herself regularly, and not least before starting a patrol.

There were those who considered “Wight” to be too ghoulish a name, too unpleasant to be the name adopted by a heroine. Or a hero, as some who hadn’t met her and disbelieved the stories steadfastly claimed. But it was the name that fitted most for Lisa’s hard-willed but svelte-bodied alter-ego: Wights take life from others, they live in unpleasant places and perform unpleasant acts upon those who, lets face it, shouldn’t have been fooling around with graves and burial mounds and suspicious holes in the ground. It certainly fitted with the inhuman discipline that had driven her through pain and suffering and that would have made the old Lisa break down in tears. It certainly fitted with the ghostly image of a girl who was never seen by her victims until too late, never seen by the police except as a swiftly departing shadow and never seen by the media at all. In fact, without her publicity photos, suitably shot in dim, gothic light by a photographer friend of hers, they would doubt her existence at all. Without the testimony of those victims she left alive, she would have been labelled a mere poseur.

More, and most, importantly, it fit with her effect upon those criminals whose existence she refused to tolerate, whose actions she struggled to prevent and whose lives she occasionally found it necessary to consume.

What she did not tell the public was that the name had come from none of the above, but from the way that she had of sensing life, of seeing the dark as though it were light with eyes not quite eyes and of sapping the strength of those she grappled with, feeding off it even as they felt it draining away.

As she moved through the abandoned warehouse, now condemned to be demolished but until then available for what the mainstream of society chose to call “suspicious activities”, there was always one part of her brain that kept its attention on sounds, one that controlled her noiseless and sure-footed movement and one that kept her eyes achingly alert.

She was looking for wires out of place, the glint of lenses, the patterns of disturbed dust and the doors that should have been shut, or open, or anything other than half-open. She was looking for too much order, or too little. She was listening for anything that betrayed movement, particularly behind her, and she was moving so that nothing betrayed her presence, nothing compromised her ability to listen and she in no way left clues that, later on, she may have to pause to decipher or that someone else may use to find her. She had often wondered how it was she was capable of moving without disturbing the dust, but she didn’t let it bother her for long.

Life she did not need to look for; in this environment it would be a siren to her. A normal ambush did not worry her. Traps, however, did. Mechanical devices had movement, but no life of their own that she could detect them by.

She was constantly on the move, slipping in and out of shadow, moving randomly and erratically, just in case a sniper had her in his sights.

She ghosted across a gap and past a pillar, her eyes searching the darkness opposite her.

“Ah Wight,” a voice at her ear said. “How beautifully you move.”

She slammed her elbow back so fast that when it contacted the steel pillar she feared for one split second that she had broken it.

But her reactions moved faster than her consciousness and her hand slammed up. This time her toughened hands and Kevlar, armour-backed gloves prevented her from feeling even the slightest touch of pain when she crushed the small speaker that had been embedded in the steel.

She didn’t waste time swearing or feeling surprised or being startled or shocked. She was already moving: Ducking, weaving, heading fast along the corridor, hoping to take back the element of surprise. She hadn’t seen any lenses, but then again she hadn’t seen the speaker either.

Was she being watched? She couldn’t discount the possibility, and so she kept moving.

She spotted the first trap before it was sprung, and as the man erupted from the pile of trash she attacked first. He came up with an iron bar clamped tight in his fist, but her kick broke his arm before he got a chance to use it and then, as her momentum carried her forwards, she broke his neck the same way.

She leap over him, moving fast and unpredictably, but what felt like a dart slammed into one of the tortoise-shell-style Kevlar-carbon-fibre armour plates on her back. She had known when she made this costume that basing it upon what was essentially a high-tech set of motorbike leathers would pay off in protection what she lost in speed.

Her movements accelerated, off at a tangent, one remote part of her brain, all that she could spare, furiously wondering how the man had managed to hide from her.

The second to attack her she could sense, but only as though through static and he managed to surprise her. But he didn’t manage to cope with her using both feet against a pillar to slam her armour-plated back against his chest as hard as her thighs could push her. Stunned by the back of her head contacting the front of his face, he was easy to finish with a rigid hand driven hard into his throat.

There was no dart in that fight. But as she jumped away from it, veering away unconsciously from a pile of rusted chains that may have hid another would-be assassin, one ricocheted off her thigh plate.

“They want me alive”, one part of her brain thought, while another exalted “Got you! I know where you are now!”

When her senses, straining now, detected another man standing still behind a section of wall, she came in low and fast, getting the man between her and the sniper, and when he came out low in a wrestler’s crouch she barely afforded herself the time to rear up, her head protectively low, her arms up and her foot swinging viciously through to catch him unprepared in the face, bringing “him” up so that she could drop again, barrelling forward to catch his chin with her palm and smash it back hard enough to break his neck.

The realisation that the men appeared to be spaced out, that they seemed to be wanting her alive and that there only appeared to be one actual sniper gave her time to stop and think, using the wall and the dead man’s body as cover.

Taking deep breaths to recharge her blood with precious oxygen, the Wight thought furiously, her head buzzing with tactics but without giving her any real hope.

Then something sharp slammed into her side, between her ribs, where she had no armour. She had barely enough time for fractured components of her mind, simultaneously, to recognise it as a dart before she slumped to the floor with none of them working at all.


The man with the gun hit the ground running. He was never sure why he took chances like jumping across a two metre gap with a fifteen metre drop, but he could and so he didn’t worry about it. The gun in his hand, a one-shot dart rifle, could only slow him down but he had learned long ago not to abandon a potential asset.

His boots, rubber soled, let him move so fast through the old warehouse space that he came perilously close to turning his ankle a couple of times, and his coat, so good for camouflage but now flapping out behind him, narrowly avoided catching on rusty steel points or tangling in his legs. But he was driven by desperation and managed to avoid anything that would trip him up or introduce what he liked to call “an anxious moment”. His free hand scrabbled inside his coat every few seconds, but that movement slowed him up more than carrying the rifle did, and it was not a priority.

When he got to where the Wight’s body lay prone on the ground, he was only a second too late.

The first of his henchmen had already kicked her, and the limp form was still moving.

The man scrambled to a stop, the rifle pointed one-handed at the man who was already pulling his leg back for another go.

“That’s enough!” he barked. “Leave her alone. Your job’s done with, you can go home rich now.”

“Rich?” The would-be footballer sneered at him. “Mr Hunter, you couldn’t pay us enough to be rich. This is just another job for us.”

Mr Hunter’s shoulder, not the one supporting the rifle, moved in a brief shrug. That arm was once again inside his jacket.

“well, pardon me,” he said evenly. “Where I come from, anybody asking your price has usually sold his services to somebody who can pay it more regularly by now. I’m sorry I overestimated your ambition.”

The hired thugs, five of whom now survived, took one step forwards in unison as the man’s carefully chosen words hit home. They were in a rough circle around the Wight, but began to spread out to try and encircle their employer. They knew full well that the rifle only fired darts, but it had deceived them for long enough to serve its purpose.

“You fucking faggot,” the footballer growled, stepping forwards on his own. “I’m going to pound your pansy ass…”

A single hollow-point bullet neatly dissected his eyebrows.

The other four barely had time to start moving, and collapsed face-forwards with their feet almost where they had been standing. The pseudonymous “Mr. Hunter” had been a commando mercenary so good that he had been able to retire to a self-funded business venture while still young enough to staff it himself. More importantly, the thugs had not known that he was actually left handed, and used a rifle with right-hand moulded grips only because he had to.


Carefully re-holstering his silenced pistol, Mr. Hunter stood above his prey and examined her minutely.

His company had already financed technologies and devices that the common public dreamed of but that law enforcement agencies around the world had concluded, after much investigation, didn’t and couldn’t (yet) exist. He had no illusions that he and only he could benefit from this type of carefully focused research and his research on this Wight woman lead him to believe that she most likely already had, and would continue to do so in the future. In fact, although he was now operating on behalf of a client, only the body was part of the deal. Her clothes, her equipment and the contents of her home were his to do with as he could get away with. He intended to get away with everything he needed, wanted, or didn’t understand. After all, what you didn’t understand was probably either useful or dangerous. He had no habit or intention of bypassing either one.

Sure that she was still unconscious and not just faking it, but with another dart in the gun and the barrel nestled snugly and firmly between two armour plates, where the slightest movement would snag his trigger finger and fire the dart, he slowly knelt down, on one knee, to inspect her.

He was frowning, and staying as far away from her as he comfortably could.

There were stories told of Wight that he didn’t believe. But he had heard stories from the Balkans that he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t been in them, so he was in mood to be flippant. The most dangerous one he had heard was that men (presumably women too) lost fights to her not because they were beaten (and they would be, going on what he had seen) but because their strength failed them and they collapsed in exhaustion after only seconds.

Mr. Hunter was not classically educated but he had rectified that in recent years and knew full well what a “wight” was. He had pieced one and two together and three was not the answer that he had wanted to get.

But first things first…

He reached inside his jacket and, from a pocket of his snug bullet-proof vest he pulled a pair of handcuffs formed end-to-end with no chain or even swivel between them.

Still holding the barrel against her costume, he carefully cuffed one wrist firmly and without touching her costume at all. Then he stood, staying well away from her and with the gun still levelled, and pulled on the cuffed hand until he had pulled her body over and off her other arm. By pulling on the cuffed arm and kicking at the other one, he managed to cuff them together behind her back.

Another pair of cuffs went around her ankles, then a pair of leather cuffs held her elbows together. A thick leather belt went around her waist, was pulled tight and attached to the cuffs on her elbows. Finally, a length of rope – he had been unable to carry all the desired equipment with him, so he had needed to improvise – was wound several times around her knees and lashed securely. Then, and only then, did he feel safe not holding the gun.

Taking a deep breath, aware that he had already needed to touch her several times without feeling ill effects but also aware that he had not yet touched her skin, he forced a ball gag into her mouth and fastened it around the back of her head with a thoroughness that he would have considered cruel for any lesser captive.

He left her there while he ran, silently, through the building, across a walkway to the building next door, retrieved his gun case and a small bag of other equipment and returned to her still prostrate form. She had not moved, her breathing had not changed and, when he pushed her eyelids open, there was no reaction. Good.

He dropped the bag on the ground, slung the gun case over one shoulder then, taking a deep breath, knelt down to pick her up.


He did not think about revenge. He very carefully did not allow himself to think about revenge. That would be foolish, immature and, more importantly, unprofessional. Revenge was out of the question. He had a job to do and intended to do it. Any other desires, any other feelings, he left at the door.

A lesser man might not have cared for such niceties, but a lesser man would not have earned the trust implicit in this contract.

A lesser man might have un-holstered his pistol and shot her there and then when her eyes had fluttered and a wave of exhaustion had made his knees buckle. A lesser man might not have had the presence of mind to roll, throwing her clear, sitting with gun in hand until he got his breath back and while she moaned fitfully but made no further signs of consciousness, then carefully unpack his syringe and drug kit, measure out a dose and inject her in a place unlikely to cause discomfort or a bruise.

A lesser man, when dragging her the rest of the way so as not to risk further contact, might have been rough or abusive.

But a lesser man would almost certainly not have been able to strip her naked, a task made complex to the point of near impossibility by the design of the suit, position her in the chair, adjust it and then strap her securely down. A lesser man would have fainted, given her enough energy to throw off the drug, then lost the fight.

A lesser man would not have caught her in the first place.

A lesser man would not have been able to keep her.


Her eyes fluttered open. The sedative she had been shot with clearly had a fast-acting antidote. She was awake fast enough to catch the last sensation from the needle withdrawing.

She had enough discipline not to try and move. That might have been painful.

She was naked, and she was lying in a chair. That was the first thing that flashed into her mind. She was strapped to a chair – that was the second. She was strapped very well – that was the third.

Then she was fully awake. Every strap, every restraint, held her in with the threat of pain, not just the mechanics of restraint.

She was sitting in a chair that leaned back, her thighs angling up at the reverse angle to her back, her back and head supported comfortably, her legs spread at sixty degrees and held in padded, shaped full-length stirrups, her knees bent at a comfortable angle. Her arms were held out, parallelling her legs, resting on padded armrests adjusted – no, made! – to fit her proportions.

Sheepskin-lined leather cuffs held her ankles, carefully placed so that only dislocation would give her any hope of escape. Much thinner, harder, braided leather cords were secured around her knees so that any movement there would threaten dislocation of her kneecaps. Her hips were left unsecured. A thin but extremely strong wire was looped over her chest underneath her breasts, snugly but not tightly, so that it would hurt if she moved up too much, but did not otherwise restrain her.

Her hands were splayed flat and each finger was held, over the first joint, with a small metal hoop pulled tight, but not enough to be painful. If she pulled too hard, she could dislocate a finger. Her neck was held not with a nice broad strap but with a thin wire that, again, wasn’t quite painfully tight but would be if she tried to move.

These were bonds calculated for humiliation, not just restraint. She could not escape regardless but, in order to avoid pain, she would have to not struggle; she would have to sit still and tolerate whatever happened to her; she would have to be complacent, to cooperate in her degradation. It was a situation designed to break her spirit.

Why? She quickly saw what she was looking for; one camera against the wall, at an angle to see her breasts clearly. Another straight down the room from her, mounted underneath the ceiling to stare straight down at her cunt.

Then she saw the table.


“Good evening,” the hunter said, his voice formal but polite, when he saw her attention riveted by his tools. “I must congratulate you on your efforts tonight. I was not expecting to need quite so many darts, or to have you dispose of quite so many of my associates.”

The part of The Wight’s mind that was still human was congealing with terror and trying to escape down into the comforting dark of unconsciousness. But she was no longer human as a psychologist might define her and there was enough bravura left to fight back. “Those weren’t your associates. They were hired thugs. People like you don’t associate with people who aren’t as good as themselves. You’re the only one here, aren’t you? Did they put up much of a fight when you had to kill them?”

Mr Hunter was deeply, deeply impressed. She had correctly diagnosed the calibre of both himself (there can be no immodesty when self-assessment is as ruthless as Mr Hunter or The Wight employ) and of his hired hands. She had identified that he worked alone, not so difficult for someone of essentially the same temperament, although different focus, as himself. She had decided that he would clearly have killed the thugs after the capture was successfully completed. Moreover, she had done so under less than ideal circumstances. That took an excellent mind.

He discarded the possibility that she had been aware of what had happened and was aware of the room outside of her field of view; there had been harmonics of doubt and of questions in her voice.

“Correct, miss Wight,” the Hunter continued smoothly, quite prepared to play this game openly and honestly. “Those men I hired as diversions were hired for being disposable and could barely fulfil the jobs I gave them. None of them had wives or dependents, incidentally.”

“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.

Unbidden, her hand picked up the other dildo. She reached down to her pussy, then stopped and, without conscious design, brought it up to her mouth and slowly slid it between her lips. She transferred the dildo to her other hand so that she could pick up the vibrator, wet with her juices, and push it inside her mechanically while her mouth greedily, wantonly, sucked on the dildo, her nipples hardening in the warm air of the room.

Her groping hand found the controls on the vibrator, her thumb jammed the lever all the way around to ‘Random’. Her hips jerked away from the dual stimulation, her gut clenching around the pressure and the raging, jumping vibration inside her as she sucked, desperately on the dildo, jamming it further down her throat than she thought she could manage as her mind sought for as much stimulation as her body was getting.

Her orgasm came fast, the unpredictable slow-fast switching of the vibrator leaving her devoid of any sort of control, her body wrung out by another explosion deep within her. The dildo fell out of her parted lips and bounced off her tits, falling in her lap as she clenched her tits hard, the flesh turning white between her fingers, half screaming and half sobbing as she kneaded and pulled at her flesh, the vibrator continuing remorselessly deep in her cunt.

From the machinery attached to the collar came a measured beep, beep. It spurred her on, the second orgasm rolling after the first as, in desperation, her hands left her breasts and her finger snatched at her nipples, pulling them hard away from her, distending her breasts obscenely as the pain, searing through her, kicked her hard through her climax.

As her breasts snapped back against her she desperately clawed at the vibrator, yanking it out and leaving it buzzing futilely against her thigh as she tried to control her ragged breathing, the room spinning around her head as tried to recover enough presence of mind to control her own actions.

From the machinery attacked to the collar came a measured beep, beep, beep.

Two more to go.

The thought momentarily eclipsed everything else, her brain left with barely enough energy to handle one thing at a time. Two more to go.

Willing herself to motion, she picked up the vibrator and turned it off, deliberately dropping it on the floor out of her reach. The dildo followed it. So did the one in her arse.

Her gaze, that she had kept determinedly on what she was doing, refusing to try and avoid her own situation, travelled up her body to the fading white marks on her breasts, and to her sore nipples.

Taking a deep breath, still moving very deliberately, she picked up two of the vacuum tubes available on the table.

She took the time to examine them closely, seeing the words “Goat Milkers” engraved on the side. She did not let the suggestion disturb her or interrupt her concentration. They had not been used on her already, she could see that. Inside each one was a transparent rubber bladder. “Milker” indeed. She could easily see what they were for. Each end was already covered in vaseline, so she carefully placed one over a nipple, making sure it was positioned just right before she switched the machine on.

Her back arched against the wire under her breasts as her nipples were sucked into the ends of the milkers and, simultaneously, the bladder inside pressed inwards, squeezing not hard but hard enough to make her scream involuntarily.

Then she discovered why they were called ‘milkers’. As she collapsed back onto the chair, the pressure relaxed and let her nipples almost slide back out of the tubes. Then the pressure came back, and her back arched again, to the background sound of a strangled, stuttering moan from between her bitten lips.

While her conscious mind reeled at the intensity of the sensation that her nipples were being subjected to, her unconscious mind was scrabbling for another cylinder for her clit.

To her bitter disappointment, when her shaking fingers had positioned it and turned it on, it did not try and milk her swollen nub, instead simply sucking, steadily and hard.

When combined with the pulsing on her nipples, however, it was enough. It was more than enough.

She lay back and closed her eyes, trying to relax enough to pace this out and give her some time to catch her breath. The almost painful sucking on her clit, and the unbearable pulsing, sucking and squeezing on her now puffy nipples did draw this orgasm out, but it was torture at the same time.

By the time she finally came that time, she was screaming and begging someone who wasn’t there, and her fingers were nearly welded to the arms of the chair.

She barely even heard the measured beep, beep, beep, beep coming from the monitor.

She left the tubes in place. Somehow the touch of pain on her three most sensitive yet small nubs of flesh made it easier for her bruised mind to rationalise what had, and was, happening to her and live with it.

But to cum once more she needed extra stimulation and, seeking out pain that was actual pain, her hand closed around one object that she did recognise – a violet wand.

As the angry purple light burst out of the head, she let her head drop back, closed her eyes and ran it over her belly, breasts and thighs.

Her skin jumped and crawled, and the occasional whimper escaped her as the electricity earthed itself through her flesh. Her sensitive breasts screamed at her but the pain was cathartic, and matched the mental beating she was giving herself.

And it had the desired effect: as she moved down past her abused cunt to her thighs she came, not hugely but enough and the constraints holding her into the chair relaxed without even a beep from the machine.


In her exhausted – and starving – state, it took her nearly an hour to get dressed – her clothes had been placed, neatly folded, on a box against one wall – and read, with a growing sense of depression, the letter from her torturer’s employers which had been left for her on the table with the equipment on it.

Her vigilante career was now threatened by the most excessive blackmail material she had ever heard of.

Then she packed all of the equipment up, so that she could take it with her.

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