Leather encases your face. Old, heavy, stained, smelly. Squeezing your cheeks. Hard pads pressing your eyes. A faint nose dimple with the smallest of holes for air. Cupping your chin and wrenching it upward against the huge leather prod stretching your mouth open, sealing your smeared open lips. Waiting for the punishments inflicted on the wearer, be she slave, prostitute, wife or . . . More
The two stout posts, perhaps as old as the castle itself, rise from the rough stone floor and ascend into the darkness above. A woman's reaching hands can barely touch both at once. I, bound between them, can certainly not, though my bare, cold feet, pulled apart beyond endurance, almost can.
The spread of my legs is already a strain, especially on the inner thighs, available for a punishment that has not yet come. When I pee, as I have once already and must again soon, I expected it to go straight down to the floor, as a man’s would, but my hopes were dashed as the slow coolness slid down my leg, leaving behind an itch that bothers me still, despite my efforts to shake it off.
Perhaps this is because, at the very juncture of those legs, where lean thigh skin shades into softer, darkly-wrinkled flesh, a coarse rope nestles - no, that is too soft a word - crushes ruthlessly into my bone-dry slit, supporting my weight at the expense of sanity. It, too, must be made fast somewhere both front and back; my one attempt to push myself forward on it yielded only pitiless abrasion.
Encased in the muzzle, I cannot see this, of course.
My uselessly flapping hands - already feeling ashen and numb - would willingly reach for the muzzle straps, worrying them until the vile thing came off my head, but my arms are braced tightly behind, the turns of hemp around my right wrist pulling it far to the left and the left wrist far to the right. Tied off, no doubt, onto the selfsame posts. More rope lashes my elbows together in an X, forcing my chest out the way She likes (and I like in secret, though She may know).
My all too proud breasts, rounder now though perhaps less high, are spread wide and taut by the nooses, leaving my needy tips swollen with the chill. Perfectly available to Her loving touch that does not come, though I believe - I want to believe - that She comes down the ladder on silent feet and looks at me from time to time, perhaps gloating, perhaps rubbing herself to ecstacy while watching my slow, poor struggles.
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