Stephanie's Pleasure

by Susanna Hughes

  This time Stephanie definitely felt her body being stretched, but all the force was coming from her ankles, pulling her down, pulling her labia on to the metal phallus which jutted up between her legs. At the same time the phallus began to move. It was not a vibration, but a steady sawing movement, up and down. As Stephanie was hauled down on to it she felt her labia open and the inner curve of the phallus push right against her clitoris, its motion immediately rubbing the tiny button of nerves.

  'Oh...' she gasped involuntarily. It was a wonderful feeling. On the inner surface of the metal it felt as though there were a series of tiny bumps, each nudging against her tender flesh as the phallus moved up and down.

  'Confess.'

  'No.' Stephanie moaned as she saw the spokes turn again. Her body was already throbbing. She felt her ankles being pulled, her wrists being stretched out against their bonds, as her whole body was pulled down and the phallus embedded itself even deeper between her nether lips and up against her clit. The tighter she was stretched, the more her legs and arms were pulled at her shoulders and hips, the more she seemed to feel the phallus sawing between her legs. Every tiny bump on its surface assumed mammoth proportions in her mind as they rubbed against her.

  The Inquisitor was bending over her again, satisfied she was stretched to the maximum. The nerves in her joints were aching with tension but it was a delicious pain, a pain that seemed to magnify what was going on between her legs. The Inquisitor's hands were on her breasts, kneading them aggressively, pinching at her nipples.

  Stephanie gazed around her. The crowd were still watching but some were less concerned with her fate than their own. A man stood with two women vying for position with their mouths on his cock. Another woman was bent over one of the wooden benches that were dotted around the dungeon with a man taking her from the rear, while a second waited his turn. Others used their hands, penetrating the sexes of the women, circling the cocks of the men, while they watched Stephanie's torment.

  The phallus was relentless. Her clitoris was held against it so hard, her legs stretched down by her bondage so tightly that it was impossible for her to move at all, even to wriggle or squirm against it. Instead she could only feel, feel what the tiny bumps were doing to her, feel how it squeezed her clitoris hard against itself and her pubic bone. She had never felt a sensation like it. The pressure seemed to exaggerate the movement of the phallus, making the sawing motion ripple through her body in giant waves of feeling.

  She was coming. The Inquisitor could see it.

  'Confess,' he said, his face inches from hers. 'Confess or I turn it off.'

  'No... don't...' Stephanie couldn't bear that. She didn't want it to stop, ever. She saw his hand move to the spokes of the wheel. 'No!'

  'Confess.'

  'Please, please, please,' she begged.

  'Confess.'

  'Yes, yes,' she shouted at the top of her voice as the phallus rubbed against her clitoris. She was going to come, come over the grating phallus as the Inquisitor's hands found her breasts again. He pinched her nipples and drew her breasts up away from her body, filling her with yet more sensation.

  Stephanie's eyes rolled back in their sockets. She would have liked to keep them open, to watch what was happening all around her, but it was impossible. What was happening in her body was too demanding. Being stretched as she was seemed to have sensitised all her nerves, putting them under pressure as her clitoris was, but she was unable to bring them the slightest relief.

  She felt her body tremble as the relentless phallus ground into her.

  'Oh, oh, oh...'

  'Witch,' the Inquisitor said, pulling on her nipples, stretching her breasts as every other part of her body was stretched.

  That was the final straw. Her orgasm burst over her, raking through her nerves, exploding in her mind. But, unlike any other time, her body could not respond by bucking and twisting and writhing; her limbs were stretched beyond that. This fact seemed to double the sensation, like sound echoing in a confined space. Her orgasm echoed through her body, bouncing from one set of nerves to another until she thought it would never end.

  'If you're a witch, you have to be punished,' the Inquisitor was saying, finally releasing her breasts. The words seemed so far away it was almost as if they came from a different dimension.

  He was unwinding the wheel, the phallus was retreating, and Stephanie's limbs at last were able to relax. A naked woman, one of the few not involved in the various couplings that were going on all round the frame, unstrapped the leather bindings on Stephanie's ankles and wrists, touching her lasciviously on the journey between the two. 'There is only one punishment for witches, only one pain they feel. The pain of the fire.'

  With his strong arms the Inquisitor dragged Stephanie to her feet and pulled her over to the forge. Hanging down from the wooden beams in the ceiling in front of the hot fire was what looked like the bar of a trapeze. The two strong chains that held it were joined by a metal ring, which was supported in turn by a single chain looped through a pulley. This allowed the bar to be raised or lowered.

  The naked woman who had untied her had followed them over to the forge. She was plump with mousy coloured hair and disproportionately large breasts. She went to a dog-legged handle on the wall and wound the bar down to head height. Stephanie saw two metal cuffs at either end of the bar, into which the Inquisitor quickly fixed her wrists. The woman wound the bar up again and Stephanie's arms were raised until she was almost on tiptoe. The pain the rack had caused in her shoulders was suddenly renewed.

  The pain in her arms, though, was the least of her worries. What concerned her most was the proximity of the coal-fired forge, exactly like the sort of thing she'd seen in old-fashioned blacksmith's shops: a bed of coals topped by a metal cowl which ducted the fumes away. The fire was hot and Stephanie could feel sweat beading on her forehead.

  'Witches hate fire,' the Inquisitor intoned, coming up behind her and running his hands over her breasts. They continued down over the corset to her belly, her sweat making his fingers wet.

  He came round in front of her and went to the furnace, stoking it with coal and using a pair of leather bellows to make it glow red again, hotter than before.

  Whether it was the heat, or the tightness of the corset, or the niggling fear - which she knew was ridiculous - that the irons resting amid the coals were brands intended for her, Stephanie didn't know, but she was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, each breath coming in a shallower pant.

  But for all her discomfort, her body had not stopped throbbing. As they knew it would, of course, the experience on the rack had not extinguished her need, but made it worse. Though she had climaxed she had done so without being penetrated and that had left her wanting more, wanting above everything the feeling of a cock filling her sex, wanting to hold it, squeeze it, cling to it.

  The Inquisitor stripped off his gloves, then pulled off his codpiece, boots and breeches. His cock was already erect, big and heavily veined, its circumcised glans much broader than the rest of his shaft, like a long, thin mushroom. He took it in his hand and stroked it up and down in his fist before disappearing behind Stephanie's back. With her arms in this position, it was too painful to strain her neck round to try and see what he was doing, especially as it was taking all her energy and concentration just to breathe.

  But she knew instinctively what he was going to do. Without warning came the whistle of a long thin whip and a stripe of pain seared across her buttocks. The pain coursed through her in waves, routed by her body to the seat of her sexual nerves where it became an almost unbelievable injection of sheer pleasure.

  'Yes,' she screamed, wanting more.

  'Witches love pain.' The whip whistled through the air again and another seething blow produced another rush of pleasure so pure it would have taken her breath away had she had any breath to spare.

  Sweat was running down her body in rivulets. The corset was soaking. The sweat ran out from under it, down her nave
l, over her thighs, and down between her legs. Her pubic hair was so wet it clung to her flesh, matted and, for once, allowing her labia underneath to be seen.

  'Ah...' she gasped as the whip struck again.

  She loved it, gloried in it. She shook her whole body, wanting to feel her bondage, the welts on her arse, the ache in her clitoris, the pull in her shoulders; she wanted to feel it all at once.

  The Inquisitor came up behind her and pushed her forward so she was closer to the heat, his cock pressed into the cleft of her buttocks. The heat seeped into her body. The Inquisitor's calloused hard hands snaked around her waist, caressing her breasts and her belly. She struggled against them but her struggling made no difference.

  She could feel his cock sliding against her sweating flesh.

  'I'd mark you,' he whispered in her ear, not wanting anyone else to hear. 'I'd mark you with fire.'

  Her body shuddered. She couldn't escape the image; she saw in her mind those irons being drawn from the fire to brand her a witch. She was a witch. She'd confessed it, hadn't she? She was starting to believe it. The heat was cooking her brain. Everything around her was so real, it was difficult to remember any other world.

  'No...' she said.

  'Yes,' he whispered.

  She struggled again, this time feeling his cock slip down between her legs. It was liquid there, not with sweat but with the sap from her body. Almost before she knew it his cock was inside her and he was using his hands to pull her back on to him, driving himself deeper.

  Some of the rest of the company had come over to watch, some still coupled, others naked but, for the moment at least, replete. The plump woman came to the forge and worked the bellows again, sending a shower of sparks flying up the cowl. She put on a single heavy suede glove and picked an iron out of the burning fire, its tip white hot.

  Stephanie's eyes were rooted to it. The Inquisitor was driving his cock into her liquid depths, driving harder and faster, his own need suddenly urgent. His strangely shaped cock slipped effortlessly in her juices and their bodies slid against each other in a sea of sweat.

  The iron came nearer. Stephanie could see it was a brand: a complex design on a round plate, a coat of arms - the Baron's coat of arms, no doubt.

  They were going to do it. They were going to brand her breast. This was it. This was what it was like. This was an Inquisitor's dungeon, the world as it used to be, a helpless innocent branded as a witch and consigned to torment for the pleasure of others.

  The Inquisitor plunged forward once more, held Stephanie by the hips so tightly she couldn't move, then stopped, waiting for his cock to spasm. Stephanie felt it jerk inside her and hot spunk spat out into her. Then he moved, wriggling his body against her, as if to extract every last drop of spunk from his cock. And that was what took Stephanie over the edge too, sent her plummeting down, reeling and falling. Her mind was full of images, of torture and mayhem, as her body succumbed to the ultimate pleasure, coming over the hard cock impaling her.

  It was too much. She didn't have the breath for it; she was too hot and too exhausted. As her muscles took the last of her energy, convulsing to the dictates of her orgasm, fighting the constrictions that held her, the world went dark and, like a rag doll, Stephanie's body collapsed. She hung from the bar, limp and overwhelmed.

  Stephanie woke with a start, her heart pumping violently as though she had woken from a nightmare. It took her a few minutes to get her bearings before she realised she was back in the luxurious bedroom, alone in the big bed.

  As her heart rate returned to normal she tried to focus on the events of last night. At the time they seemed so real - too real, even. It had become harder as the evening progressed to remember that she wasn't really being tormented by some diabolical Inquisitor in a medieval dungeon. As time wept by she had been drawn into the fantasy, becoming more and more convinced that it was a real Inquisition and she a real victim of it. Now it was the very clarity of this memory that gave the whole experience a dreamlike quality. She knew she had been taken to the bare room and laced into the tight corset. She remembered lowering herself gingerly to the floor. Perhaps the rest had been a dream?

  She threw aside the cream silk sheet and looked down at her naked body and realised it had not. There was a distinct mark in her tanned flesh where the corset had dug into her, though she was relieved to see no scar from a brand on her breast. As she got out of bed she felt a sting of pain and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror that hung on one wall. There were three distinct, very red welts across her buttocks.

  The strangest thing, she thought as she ran her bath and applied a soothing cream to the welts, was that, despite the fact she had seen the dungeon before, seen its false ceiling and known how it was used to view the proceedings, she had not thought about it at all. From the moment she had been carried into the Inquisitor's presence she had been able to think of nothing but the injustice of what was happening to her - being falsely accused of being a witch merely because she refused to have sex. She hadn't for a second imagined the Baron standing in the gantry looking down at her, watching her being used and abused, watching her, like the woman in the casket, being made to confess.

  But, of course, she knew the Baron had been there, and that he had watched, just as he'd watched her at the castle a month before. She knew his eyes had seen her stretched on the rack, the phallus thrust between her thighs; had seen her strung up in front of the forge to be fucked by the Inquisitor; and, presumably, seen her unconscious body released.

  What else he had done she did not know. She did not know whether he masturbated while he watched, or had one of the girls fellate him or bring him off in some other way. The Baron, with those icy slate-grey eyes, remained an enigma in that department. Not for long, however. Stephanie had her deal with him and she was determined to collect her end of the bargain; she had certainly fulfilled her obligations as agreed.

  Chapter Ten

  For dinner Stephanie wanted to look her best. The Baron had been away for three days, leaving them the run of the Schloss. They had played tennis in the indoor court, swum in the almost Olympic-sized pool in a conservatory kept at almost tropical temperature, and rested. They had watched movies in the small private cinema and taken the limousine into Munich to have dinner in its best restaurant.

  Though they had been encouraged by the Baron, neither Stephanie nor Devlin had wanted to go to the pavilions. Devlin's sexual psyche was well satisfied by Stephanie, who, on the second night of the Baron's absence, had been particularly demanding and had used him mercilessly, commanding absolute obedience as she'd relieved her own sexual needs.

  Tonight the Baron had sent word he would return, and hoped they would both join him for dinner.

  Stephanie had chosen a gold lamé catsuit, its shimmering surface clinging to every inch of her spectacular body, even delineating the cleft of her buttocks. Its neckline was a deep V that ran from her throat to the gold belt she wore at her waist, giving glimpses on both sides of the firm pillows of her breasts. She wore her hair down, brushed out over her bare shoulders. Her gold Patek Phillipe watch was her only jewellery and matched her gold high-heeled slingback shoes.

  'You look wonderful, my dear, if I may be permitted to say so,' the Baron said, once again waiting at the bottom of the staircase at the appointed time.

  'Thank you, Baron,' she said, giving him her hand to be kissed.

  'Good trip?' Devlin asked as they were led through into the sitting room where the big log fire burnt merrily in the grate.

  'I think so. And I hope you have enjoyed the Schloss.'

  'We did. It's been a lovely holiday for us, Baron,' Stephanie said.

  'Our life had become a bit of a trial,' Devlin said, only realising what he had said when Stephanie laughed. When Andrew had taken charge at the castle, there had been a very real trial.

  'Sorry, private joke,' Stephanie explained.

  'I'm glad you have had a good time. That was my intention. I certainly had an excepti
onal visit to your establishment.'

  A waiter poured champagne, the Baron explaining the last bottle of Bollinger had not survived and he had been forced to serve them Krug instead.

  'Well, here's to us all,' the Baron toasted. They raised their glasses and sipped the chilled wine.

  Stephanie saw the Baron's eyes roaming her body, the tight-fitting material emphasising her slender curves, particularly her hourglass waist and the generous flare of her hips. Her buttocks, too, shaped by the high heels into pert, taut packages, were alluringly displayed.

  'I suggest we go straight in,' the Baron said as they stood by the fireplace. 'I'm famished.'

  They went through into the little tented dining room with Stephanie leading the way, the two men following her. Neither set of eyes was able to leave the undulation of her gilted hips.

  The main aim of the conversation as far as Stephanie was concerned was to remind the Baron of their deal, her part of which was complete, but she decided she would leave that topic until after the meal.

  'My chef is determined to show off his French repertoire tonight,' the Baron informed them as a feuillette de fruits de mer arrived, a cask of puff pastry overflowing with lobster, oysters, prawns and mussels in beurre blanc, and the wine waiter brought chilled Montrachet.

  They talked and ate the beautifully cooked food, elaborately presented on huge round plates that the Baron declared proudly to be German. Tournedos aux morilles followed the seafood, and a soufflé of passion fruit finished the meal served with another glass of the syrupy Eiswein.

  'So, Baron,' Stephanie said as she finished the melting dessert and took a sip of the wine, 'now it's your turn, isn't it?'

  'My turn?'

  'We made a deal, didn't we? You didn't think I'd forget?'