Slut Boy Mega Collection Volume 1

Chapter Fourteen-3

Dungeon, indeed! Against one wall is a large X-shaped cross equipped with any number of heavy leather straps. In the center of the room is a large oak pillory, and off to one side a long, low table with a crank and chains at either end for stretching. Dumbfounded I try to draw back, but big Goddess Belinda pushes me on from behind, while Goddess drags me by the leash towards the pillory.

Once there the shackles are removed from my wrists and the collar from my neck. Yet this is but the briefest of reprieves. Before I can even dream of resisting, Goddess Natasha suddenly drives a fist into my stomach, knocking the wind from me and doubling me over. As I gasp helplessly for breath, my neck and wrists are guided into semicircular cutouts in the stocks. Quickly the matching heavy wooden top is fitted into place and secured with a padlock. My ankles are unshackled, and my fetish-shoed feet are kicked widely apart and then locked to ringbolts in the concrete floor. Within seconds I’m helplessly secured bent over, able to wiggle my fingers and butt but not much else. Then just like the night before, painful clamps and weights are attached to my n*****s and genitals, woefully tormenting my most erogenous zones. Still this is all just kiddie kicks. All four Goddesses go to the racks and chose an instrument of discipline.

Goddesses Jill and Belinda each select a heavy, perforated wooden paddle. The other two choose classic cat o’ nine tail floggers. Breathing heavily already, their prominent n*****s betraying their arousal, they return to take up position next to me, two deities on each side.

“Ready girls?” asks my Goddess, and the other three respond with sounds of eager affirmation. “Then let’s go: two by two in synchronous rhythm, like always.”

At that two paddles suddenly whistle through the air and smack my ass from either side. Each strikes its chosen cheek with a sound like a gunshot and an incredible infusion of agony. Then while my tortured cry is just being choked off by the plastic c**k probing my throat, the other two Goddesses lash their flails down onto my upper and lower back.

This is incredibly painful as well. Yet even in succession, both these double blows still can’t approach the endless agony of hanging all night by my elbows and ankles. Nor can they challenge that slender single-tail six-foot whip carving up my ass all afternoon – at least not yet. But then the killer succession truly gets into cycle.

Barely a second after the whips score my back, the paddles again impact my ass, aggravating alarmingly those aforementioned whip wounds. Then the floggers flail me again; the paddles impact, then the floggers, then the paddles, then the floggers, then the paddles, as my new deities fall easily into a long-accustomed two-stroke punishment rhythm.

I have no idea how long this lasts – objectively at least. For me it’s an eternity in a special male hell devised exclusively for us by our rightful Goddesses. The blows fall so regular and fast on my back and ass that I have no time to truly absorb, much less recover from each before it is superseded by its successor. Soon my accumulated agonies actually seem to surpass what I experienced last night and this afternoon. I don’t know for sure – levels of pain are so subjective. But the agony definitely escalates constantly, with only a rare bare moment of reprieve.

These occur when the Goddesses trade implements and/or positions. But always this pause is quickly obliterated, as the changeover only enhances their unholy passions. Any brief respite renders them ever more zealous. Indeed the longest pause (when the paddles are replaced with limber graphite switches) is followed by the worst excruciation of all. Feeling those thin canes flaying the backs of my thighs soon has me screaming and sobbing nonstop. And yet when this eternity finally lapses I’m merely propelled along to an even deeper Dantean circle.

Dimly I’m aware of my ankles being released, and the stocks unlocked.

This is the point where I’d bolt blindly for the door – if I could. f**k getting f****d! f**k that nascent gleam of masochism I experienced last night. Nothing, and I mean nothing at all, is worth this. But my body may as well be made of fiery jelly. If not for the four Goddesses immediately seizing control of my flaccid limbs I’d collapse to the floor. As it is they pick me up and carry me over to that low, narrow rack.

I’m laid down on it on my back, and four heavy tow chains are locked to the cuffs on my wrists and ankles. A ratcheting sound announces the crank turning, and within a minute I’m stretched agonizingly out. Every muscle, every tendon and bone protests as they’re stretched to the brink of breaking. Yet as terrible as this is, I can’t help but revel in my epidermal relief. At long last my skin is no longer being assailed. But then the delighted giggling of my tormentors and the belated removal of clamps and weights from my n*****s and genitals portend something even worse ahead.

Blearily I blink the tears from my eyes. What I see is both bewildering and upsetting. Goddess holds a curious device as she approaches me.

This consists of two clear plastic plates, one with a two-inch diameter hole cut near the bottom of its eight inch-long, four inch-wide rectangle. Both thin plates incorporate inset metal strips, as well as bolts, wing-nuts, and plug receptacles. As I lie there stretched out and suffering, Goddess manipulates my genitals through that hole, until the plate lies flush against my flesh and my balls and ridiculously reawakening c**k poke through and lay atop that clear flat plastic.

Goddess Nina places the second plate atop this, so that the up-thrust bolts fit through matching holes. The wing-nuts are tightened then, drawing the plates together until my genitals are squashed excruciatingly flat and the metal inlays press tightly against both testicles and all up the length of my p***s. Then Goddess plugs electrical leads into each of the many sockets, and picks up the box they are connected to: small, black, covered with switches and dials and festooned with those trailing wires.

“All right, Slut-boy,” she breathes excitedly. “Now it’s time for my second-favorite part of the weekend!”

She twists a few dials. Then she grins most evilly at me and flicks a switch.

The other Goddesses are also gathered around, and brimming with sadistic anticipation. Despite the galvanizing agony that suddenly consumes me, I can easily see and appreciate the surpassing excitement and delight that they enjoy as I howl with pain and thrum like a live wire beneath their eager regard.

The purpose of the insulated wires and bare metal plates becomes immediately obvious. Screaming electricity sizzles into me, shocking both my balls and the entire length of my still half-hard p***s from its squashed base to its tender flattened tip. Ravening agony pours into me from both sides of my most sensitive conduits.

If not for the extreme stretching of my body I would surely bounce and bridge, spasming like a resuscitation patient getting the juice. As it is, all I can do is wail and shudder from head to toe, and wish most fervently that I’d never been born with a p***s and balls. Who knew they could be the source of so much excruciation?

And once again that pain is unending.

Oh sure, my Goddess pauses once in a while, reducing or even eliminating the current. But then she unfailingly sends it searing into me again, for longer and longer intervals. Even worse, every time she checks the electricity, one of the other Goddesses turns the crank a few more notches, stretching me even further out. And finally even this isn’t sadistic enough to sate them. All three leave my Goddess unpredictably shocking me, and turn to choose new insidious implements of discipline.

Goddess Belinda returns with a meter-long sturdy ash dowel in her hand. The Goddesses Nina and Natasha each have large, curved, surgical vascular clamps. They take up position on either side of my thrumming-like-a-bowstring body, and each locks one of my n*****s in a pitiless steel grip. Then as Goddess Belinda removes my shoes and starts beating the soles of my feet with her half-inch wooden rod, these gorgeous other Goddesses begin to pull, stretch, and viciously twist my severely pinched n*****s.

Yes, once again, how long this hell lasts is quite beyond to me.

Who can keep track of time while enduring numberless sources of relentless excruciation? All I know for sure is that at one point Goddess again pauses in electrocuting my burning genitals and leans up close to my quivering, c**k-gagged, tear-streaming and screaming face.

“There, there, Slut-boy,” she scornfully consoles me. “It can’t be all that bad. Remember, get through today and tonight and all four of us are going to f**k your ever-loving brains out. Won’t that be absolutely wonderful, and worth all this?”

Wonderful, yes; worth this: never!

Still, that tantalizing prospect somehow enables me to endure, until at long last I’m finally released from my latest bonds and torments. And yet still the punishment isn’t done. Next I’m manhandled over to that final piece of medieval equipment: the dreaded St. Andrew’s cross.

Together they lift me right up in the air, and secure my wrist cuffs to the top of that oaken X, leaving me hanging there by my hands.

This is exquisitely painful after my previous stretching. But then my Goddesses strap and lock my waist and ankles to the center and legs of that cross, relieving this renewed strain a bit. Then they each pick up an unbelievably incisive single-tail whip and take up position in front of me. Without a word of warning, they straightaway start carving up my still unmarked (except for the n*****s and genitals that is) front.

Lethal leather lashes flay me alive.

The Goddesses Belinda and Jill whip me simultaneously with all their strength, until they finally tire and make way for the other two. Then the Goddesses Natasha and Nina take their turns carving me up. In tag-team succession like this they all lash me until my entire front is as wickedly lacerated as my back. I am so unmanned, and literally delirious by the time they finally cast their whips aside and release me from the cross that I’m utterly unable to remain upright. No matter. Grabbing a limb apiece the four deities pick me up and carry me back to the elevator.

Back upstairs to the bedroom we go.

“One, two, three!” they swing me and cry, and I’m flung through the air to crash facedown onto that gigantic bed again. Then I’m promptly bound up exactly like the night before: bar-spread ankles locked to overlapping forearms. Once again I’m hooked to the winch, the clamps and weights are attached to me and the buzzing vibrator is inserted into my ass. To endless laughing and jeering then I’m hauled up stuffed, plugged and hogtied to the very ceiling.

“Have fun watching us again, Slut-boy! And try to pick up a few pointers this time, not to mention fantasize about tomorrow. A few more hours and you are finally, really going to get f****d out of your mind!”

A chorus of uproarious mirth punctuates this pronouncement, and I can’t help but be taken in by it.

Whoo-hoo! I scream inside. Bring it on, Goddess! For a minute I’m once again entirely tantalized by this incredible prospect. But then her first words finally hit home, and reality bites me like the tip of Goddess’ whip.

Oh f**k, here we go again: another endless night exploring unlimited realms of agony both physical and emotional. And indeed, true to my premonition this night proves exponentially worse than the last in every respect.

Not only is the inner stress on my joints and spine compounded by the myriad outside wounds still paining me. Tonight my Goddesses’ passions are outrageously inflamed from their daylong orgy of torturing me.