 |
|||
|
|
Ch 3
Olga and Brett freed Lynette from the bonds at her wrists. They held her up and, not ungently, lowered her to the hardwood floor. Sitting on one of the chairs I watched them, my mind wandering to the Pieta statue in the Vatican. Brett left the room while Olga massaged Lynette’s wrists to restore circulation and sensation in her hands.
“Help her,” I told Jane.
They laid her down on the floor, on her belly. Her back and thighs, shredded by the cat, looked like hamburger in stark contrast to her, white and untouched, voluptuous white ass. Jane lightly touched her upper back with the tip of her finger; even that lightest touch elicited a moan of pain from the prostrate girl. Brett returned pushing a small cot on wheels. It resembled a stretcher, of the kind you might find in a public clinic, in one of our inner cities. Its surface was lightly padded and it had, as its only modification, at the head and foot, leather wrist and ankle restraints. Between Brett, Olga and Jane, they lifted the inert and barely conscious girl on to the cot. Brett pulled out a white bottle from the cabinet that was under the cot and poured some of the liquid on Lynette’s lacerated back.
The effect was instantaneous. With a bloodcurdling scream, Lynette jumped off the bed, her eyes wide open, and ran around the stage. She caught sight of me, and began to run in my direction. I, my instructions forgotten, opened my arms and also ran towards her. Before I could even get close, Brett threw his arm across her chest stopping her and, on the other side; Olga too, extended her arm forming a symbolic fence across her path. Panting for breath, she stopped in the center of the stage. Her face a tortured mask of pain, she turned her eyes away from me and returned to the cot.
On her own, she laid down on it, and held on to the straps. With loud whimpers she endured while Brett and Olga disinfected her back and thighs with alcohol. Jane fanned her back to help evaporate the alcohol and thus shorten the burning. It appears that this pain was not directly part of the show; instead it was a necessary and unavoidable precaution. After it was over, Jane returned to my side and Olga helped Lynette outside, presumably to the bathroom.
With the two women out of the way, Brett poured himself a drink and brought me one too. The fiery taste of the malt braced me and at the same time restored my sense of time. It was close to midnight. I presumed that Lynette would be strapped, face down to the cot, and left there to sleep, if she could. I was wrong.
Olga led a much restored Lynette back on to the stage and had her stand at the foot of the cot. She bent over the cot extending her hands to the straps; Olga fastened the leather straps to her wrists. It appeared that there would be at least one more act on tonight’s drama. Brett fastened her ankles to the bottom legs of the cot, just above the wheels. Whatever was going to happen, I thought, she was not going to enjoy it.
Out of the chest, Olga pulled a large dildo and a jar of red unguent. I recognized it immediately and groaned. It was a mixture of Vaseline and Sriracha chili sauce Brett used, on occasion, to lubricate a dildo, when he wanted to be particularly cruel to Olga. It was hot enough that it burned, even when applied to intact skin. A shiver ran up my spine. She handed both dildo and jar to her husband who donned latex gloves and proceeded to smear the fiery goo on the surface of the dildo. The dildo flared near the base, like a butt plug, to prevent it being expelled. He took a generous blob of goop and slapped it on Lynette’s offered asshole. Her head jerked up, as if burned with a red hot iron, but she managed not to scream. Brett worked the goo into her rectum; her head jerked this way and that, whether from the pain of his fingers stretching her sphincter, or the burning of the goo, or both.
Once he was satisfied, ignoring her whimpers he pushed the large dildo up her bum. Lynette screamed when the tool finally made its way, past the flare, into her rear entrance. She squirmed, this way and that, as her asshole accommodated around the intruder; however, as soon as some it adjusted to the presence of the hard rod, the chilies in the goop began to work on the tender membranes inside. I stood up and walked to the side of the cot. Her tears were flowing freely down her face.
It would get even worse.
After freeing her ankles, Brett and Olga pushed her body up, on to the cot, and attached her ankles to the straps at the foot of the table. Lying there, on her belly, with the handle of the dildo sticking up from her ass, Lynette groaned pitifully.
“One more thing, before we retire,” Brett said.
Taking more red Vaseline from the jar on his latex clad hands, he rapidly smeared thick gobs of it on Lynette’s shredded back and thighs. Her face contorted in pain, pulling at the straps in desperate thrashes, she endured this additional torment, muffled shrieks coming from between clenched teeth.
Olga covered her with a thin sheet and, as if on cue, the stage lights went off. We all turned to leave Lynette to her miseries.
“The burning will get worse for the next two hours,” Olga said, “then it will subside. I know.”
I found myself erect again. I took Jane by the waist as I turned to leave but then, on an impulse, I told her:
“Bring the Vaseline.”
In the dark room, Lynette moaned softly.
|
|
|