X Marks the Spot
It all started with her interrogation a few weeks back, the way he destroyed her. But it's always about more than just torment, isn't it? He can't stop thinking about her. In the underworld of his mind, he searches for the perfect machine, a symbiosis of metal, gears, and female flesh. The machine is pristine, sleek, diabolical - highly crafted for its purpose. Some machines are intended to terrorize by their appearance. Not this one. It insures accessibility. Like certain species of spiders, the limbs are kept in line with the body. That's how it is when he straps down her ankles, neck, and wrists. She's made faceless by rubber a blindfold that smears out her eyes and cheeks. The rubber gag obliterates her mouth. He spreads the arms and legs click, click, click. Using an electric drill, he increases the tension on her limbs, pulling them painfully tight. In the same inexorable, mechanical fashion, he tightens the collar at her neck. She emits a strangled gurgle. In the war between metal and flesh, the living always loses. Now he whips her with wire. She grits her teeth against it. She hasn't learned how to let the pain flow from the point of fire, up through the spine, and out the top of the skull. A vibrator and cane stimulate her simultaneously. She's trapped in both heaven and hell. When she begs to come, he whacks her harder. It's all about balance, this teaching. Eventually, she begs to come again. In a bored voice, he allows it. And afterward he says he's tired. Let the machines do it, he says. The sound of a fucking machine. It revs in her cunt. A vibrator hums against her glistening clit. Her hands open as though beseeching, as though raised in prayer. But it's no good. She's in the grip of the machine no nerves, no wants, no needs. It couldn't care less about this girl strapped to its back. It just keeps fucking.
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