Torture The Widow

Chapter 16 – Suspension

Please take note! Adults Only Literature

The text in this story contains erotic material and is expressly written for adults only.

If you are an underage minor or offended by such material -or- if viewing this file is illegal in your locality, then leave, close or delete this file-story now.

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental, etc.

Copyright 2004

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I was hanging like a piñata over Trace's coffin. That's not exactly accurate. A piñata hangs by a single strand but hundred of small hooks connected by clear fishing line were keeping me aloft. Droplets of my blood were falling like a gentle summer rain on the silver coffin staining the flag ceremoniously draped over the top. When the honor guard at the gravesite folded it up and handed it to me he kept glancing at the blood spots wondering what idiot used a bloody flag.

I don't know how you tell someone in words the level of pain I was in. Perhaps Edgar Allan Poe would be capable of describing how it feels to suffer in such a way. I'm no stranger to pain but that was beyond anything I can ever experienced. And that's from someone who had just been subjected to a session of electrical torture that would do the Gestapo proud. Now, I can write about it but at the time it was so intense I was only conscious of one thing and that was the searing agony being produced from countless places on my body.

There was a titanium pole down my back that kept me rigidly straight. The pole had been especially fabricated for a 'hook hanging'. I certainly couldn't imagine any other use for it. The two-inch diameter titanium rod ran down the center of my spine from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. It was adjustable lengthwise. Leather straps bound my forehead, ankles, and waist rigidly to the pole. My arms were pulled behind by back also fixed to the pole. When they first restrained me to the pole, I was frightened they were going to place me over a bed of live coals and barbecue me to feed the wake. But they had something far more esoteric and brutal than cooking me for lunch.

I'd seen a 'hook hanging' once before at an S&M club in Hamburg, Germany; but it was in no way as sophisticated as what I experienced. I was in my sophomore year at college and doing the American college girl hitchhikes through Europe thing giving anybody who gave me a ride a blowjob or a fuck depending on what they fancied. Europeans are very open about sex not at all like we repressed Americans. I fondly recall being bent over the hood of an Opel, my jeans at my ankles waiving at passing cars on the autobahn as one of the boys who gave me a ride to Munich pounded my pussy. Oh to be young and a carefree coed again.

One of my New York friends had given me the address of an S&M club frequented by what she classified as the most extreme practitioners on the continent. My friend had told me that it was the best if you were interested in fetishes involving blood and horrible suffering. When she was there, she'd watched a mistress drive nails through a slave's scrotum. Since she was a guest, the mistress invited her to come up on stage and demonstrate her carpentry skills.

"You have no idea what's it like to look into a slave's eyes as you place the nail on the side of his nut and raise the hammer. His suffering was unimaginable. I can still recall how the hammer felt in my hand when it landed on the nail. I took three slow strikes before I reached the board underneath his balls," was how the friend described her experience. Can you imagine nailing a guy's nuts to a board?

I got there just at the right time because it wasn't the normal bill of faire even for Hamburg. A master had caught his slave fucking a deliveryman without his permission. He had asked and received the club's permission to punish the cheating slut on stage before an audience.

After I dumped my stuff at the hostel, I hailed a taxi and handed the driver the address my friend had written down. The driver looked at the address then gave me a look, shook his head and drove me there. There wasn't a sign outside just a doorway. I knocked and was admitted.

You hear a lot about anti-Americanism in Europe but I can assure you it does not apply to the S&M crowd. We don't really have a country. A person in the lifestyle had more in common with French or German followers than he does with his straight Boston neighbors. When you're naked strung up on a St. Andrews cross, your alligator-clamped nipples bing ripped off by weights and an expert sadist whipping you bloody as you beg for mercy, nationality is not that important. The club managers invited me in, gave me an excellent glass of sekt, a plate of cheese, some delicious fruit and a table up front. Everything was comped. I'd told them I was in the lifestyle and frequented clubs in the NY area.

The Master and a couple of assistants got busy with the slave who was doing a nice job of crying and pleading for her Master not to hang her by hooks. They fixed the slave to some sort of wooden frame then inserted small hooks all around the edges of her body. They began at the top of her head and went down to the souls of her feet. There was blood everywhere as they placed the hooks about a half-inch apart down both sides of her rib cage. They hooked her inner and outer thighs and ever the edges of her feet. It's a complicated process.

It was erotic listening to her scream as they slowly raised her off the ground. I'd have loved to take some pictures but cameras were strictly forbidden. They used a pulley to take her about six feet. There were between fifty and seventy people in the audience watching as the fraulein suffered. Each time she cried out for mercy the crowd murmured their approval. Many in the audience found her whimpering sufficiently erotic to expose their sex and masturbate. The hooks were made like fishhooks with the barbs removed, not the small hooks you'd use in a lake but the large ones when you fish in the ocean for marlin or swordfish.

The Master spread a white bed sheet on the stage and you could see where her blood drops were making little red dots. They called that the rain of blood. The Manager came over to my table with this blue-eyed blonde youth that looked like he stepped right out of the Hitler Jugend.

"Hans would like to fuck you under the rain of blood, fraulein. He would have asked you himself but his English is poor," said the Manager.

I said Da as I pulled my tee shirt over my head and started to strip. Hans got naked too. Hans was a Siegfried, absolutely gorgeous from his blonde hair to his Aryan feet. The audience watched as we positioned ourselves under the slave. You could feel the drops landing on you as we lay down. I was on the bottom looking up. I opened my mouth and tasted iron as a drop landed on my tongue.

The audience murmured its approval as Hans and I fucked in a dozen different positions while the slave's blood landed on us. Before my Siegfried dumped his load in his Valkyrie's twat we were turning vermilion. Being fucked while blood is dropping on you is extreme but also very stimulating. I climaxed as I sensed Ham was pumping me full of Aryan sperm.

After Hans and I left the stage, they lowered the slave who looked more dead than alive. However, she found the energy to scream as they removed the hooks and sponged her off with alcohol so I suppose she was fine.

Once Diego and Servero had shocked all the pain possible out of my body, Mary Ellen and Denise show up and announced to me that I'm in for something very special. Diego drug over several Louis Vuitton trunks and stood them on end. They opened one to reveal a number of different sized drawers all labeled very neatly. From another trunk, they removed and extended my mounting pole. I noticed the leather straps on the pole were monogrammed with the overlaid 'LV' found on most of the products of La Belle France's most famous maker of leather goods. Trace and I received a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage for a wedding gift. I recalled reading how the famous leather maker had gotten his start doing custom jobs for royalty. If the Maharaja Of Ranchipur needed luggage so he and his twenty-five wives could visit Paris for the opera, he had Louis make it. Somehow, the Donaldson's had persuaded someone at Louis Vuitton to create a trunk to carry what you need to hang your wife or girlfriend with hooks.

After I was bound to the pole, the four of them lifted me on top of Trace's casket. The next part amazed me. From one of the trunks, emerged a set of titanium poles they assembled into a tall tripod that straddled both the coffin and me. The top of the tripod must have been a good fifteen feet above the floor and directly below the apex was an electric hoist controlled by a remote. Below the hoist was a Plexiglas rectangle roughly the size of a human being. The Plexiglas contained hundreds of small brass fittings each designed to securely attach a monofilament line. It looked like fishing line.

The process worked like this. Out of a drawer in the Louis Vuitton trunk you select the right size hook. The names of body parts such as 'arm', 'thigh', or 'feet' were neatly labeled across the front of the drawers. The hook was attached to a strand of fishing line that was approximately three feet long. You set the hook in the flesh then reach up to attach the free end of the line to one of the fittings in the Plexiglas making sure there is no slack.

Mary Ellen did my mouth and face. She grabbed my upper lip and rolled it back and stuck the barb through from the inside out. She placed four hooks in my upper lip and four in my lower. She pulled my tongue out with forceps and set three hooks in the muscle without a bone. When she slipped a hook into my nostril and then pushed its point out of the top of my nose, blood spurted in my eye.

Diego and Servero used larger hooks for my breasts. They set hooks around the circumference of the base of each breast ever half inch or so. Next they did an inner circle of my areola and a final hook through my nipple.

Denise grabbed each toe, setting the hook on the underside at the base forcing it through out the top of the toe, one hook per toe.

After Mary Ellen did my lips, tongue, nostrils, and ears, she moved down to my sex. I felt her pulling on my labia and then a sharp pain as a hook went through the flap of skin.

They saved my clitoris for last.

"Rozz, this is how it feels when someone puts a hook in your clit," said Mary Ellen smiling and looking into my eyes as she pushed a hook in and under my clit passing the point through the nerve ganglia at the base. Just to be sure, she set one from the other side.

The four of them worked as a team. That made me think they had done it all before. God knows where and to whom.

"Ready?" questioned Mary Ellen picking up the remote control for the hoist.

The others murmured they were done and my pain filled brain heard the whir of an electric motor as I was slowly lifted off the ground. I won't try to describe the pain. If you need to understand what I was going through then grind the barb off a fishhook, run it through the tip of your tongue and pull on it. Then multiply what you feel by a factor of several hundred.

There was a loud murmur of approval from the audience as I traveled upward. I was terrified that one of the hooks would tear through and that would cause a domino effect shredding my flesh as I dropped down on to Trace's casket. With my tongue stretched out and bearing part of my weight, I couldn't properly scream. It was more of a chortle. I later learned my situation inspired a good old fashion Donaldson family orgy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see part of the room.

Family members had undressed and were having sex with one another. Wives fucked sons and fathers bent their daughters over the furniture and penetrated them. Little Donaldson's too young for sex ran through the crowd playing tag as their parents and older siblings cavorted in a manner that would have made a Roman Emperor blush.

When I glanced down my body, the sight of two bloody hooks emerging from the top of my nose greeted me. I closed my eyes and prayed for death to release me from my pain.

They say funerals and weddings bring out something in people. I could swear to that.

I was suspended for over an hour. They lowered me down and removed the hooks painting me with hydrogen peroxide. They unfastened me from the pole. I recalled Diego and Servero careful cleaning and repacking everything in the Louis Vuitton trunks. A real craftsman respects his tools.

I was lying there moaning and incoherent but I do recall a lucid moment when I looked up to see my mother-in-law. Lois was naked and she was stroking my brow as she spoke with Mary Ellen and Denise who also happened to be naked. I was lying on the cold floor. The fact that Denise had a pearly strand of semen in her hair caught my eye.

"The General said Rozz has suffered enough. Let her rest," said Lois as she held my hand.

"You mean he wants her to live after what she did," said Mary Ellen sounding pissed.

"For now, after all she was Trace's wife," said Lois.

"She's also a whore and a slut who'll fuck anything with a dick," said Mary Ellen.

"None of us are perfect," said Lois. "Now mind your father and have Diego and Servero put her in the limo.

"Let's sell her to a brothel in Amazonia like we did with Marion," said Denise.

"Rozz's too old for that. Marion was only fourteen when we gave her to Don Ricardo," said Lois.

"Shit, that's right, Don Ricardo considers fifteen past a woman's prime," said Denise.

I had no idea who this Marion was. I'd never heard the name before in connection with the Donaldsons. I recall being wrapped in something soft and being carried out to the limo. When I got back to my room at the Donaldsons I had just enough energy left to reach into my bag and pull out a vial of painkillers. I took two and collapsed.