The high shine on her locked on ballet boots contrast provocatively with the soft matte flesh of her completely naked body. Naked but for the boots, and what keeps her from clattering forwards or backwards to the cold, tiled floor beneath. Strong, velvet lined cuffs grip her wrists securely, together, above her head. They are locked together, and both locked as one to the chain pulled taut in its pulley, fastened to the wall some way behind her, to the tightening wheel. Led through a metal hook fastened to the ceiling beam, a hook almost closed; so thick that it seems it should be part of a ship’s fixtures and fittings.
The burn reaches down the insides of her arms, transforming somewhat to a dull but powerfully strong ache across the top of her back, where her shoulder blades are cruelly separated and lifted. The tightness almost pulls her arms from their sockets. The only thing keeping her from resting her weight on her arm sockets entirely, are the two minute points of contact. The ballet boots dual tips; toe and heel, en pointe, to the tiles.
Her balance has been thoughtfully aided by her as yet non-returning captor, by the metal spreader bar forcing her ankles far apart from one another. The delicate but sturdy metal O rings, one to each end of the spreader bar, have been fed through the same padlock used to keep the ballet boots attached to her bound and tortured feet.
She is forced to stand, triangulated, each sway backwards or forwards causing torrents of pain to rush through her abused and bound body from fingertips to toes. There she balances, caught in time, caught in a dream, caught in a cold room which would have made her nipples hard and erect even if not for the erotic ephemera of the scene.
The clear but viscous liquid which had been pooling for quite some time at the apex of her thighs finally surrended their hiding place; making an unelegant bid for freedom a slender string headed towards the floor, narrowly missing soiling the centre of the spreader bar between her feet. The dot of personal lubricant silently meeting the tiles felt like a thunderous roar of humiliation, even though she was the only one in the room.
As a crescendo to her imagined humiliation soundtrack, there came the very real clatter of entry into the room. The sound came from behind her. A door swinging open, heels stalking across the tiles with a metallic menace. Stalking towards her. It was her, the one who had captured her. Who had put her into this… this contraption. Made her balance, made her sway in pain. For what seemed like hours, but with the haze of confusion she wasn’t sure how long she had precariously fought against the pain.
A gloved hand between her legs, with her utterly powerless to close her legs, unable to squeeze her thighs together to dissuade this intruder. Yet the skilled fingers flexing to spread her labia apart, to relish the gathered liquid there making her entrance embarrassingly accessible, just caused arousal to intertwine with each jolt of pain through her stretched limbs. A tingle which started with the pain in her hands and wrists and seemed to be directed towards the centre of her vulva, lighting up her clitoris like a powered on button.
A high pitched whine surrounded her, almost deafening. A white noise whine. After a few moments she realised it was within her mind, the time left alone to try and comprehend her situation causing the sudden stimulation and additional humiliation to have an overwhelming effect on her, body and mind.
Was this sub-space? Perhaps. Her captor, who she instinctively knew was female, had taken her gloved hand away now. She missed it already. It shouldn’t be like this of course, it should be terrible, awful. She should be shouting and rallying against this disgraceful abuse. Just as the thought struck her, so the touch of something came by her ears… the gloves. She could smell her juices coating the fingers of one hand, stopping her in her tracks and making everything simultaneously terrible and tantalising.
Distracted, it was only when the bit was forced between her lips she realised the intent behind the gloved hands this time. A buckle fastened behind her head. She was unable to raise much more than a piteous, muffled whimper, now.
The hand was between her legs again. Spreading her, working her. Throwing her off balance, making her desperate to find purchase but the tiny ballet points combined with her suspension made comfort and grip impossible. It was all she could do to try and remain still, while the gloved fingers molested her intimate area. Stillness was the only fight she had against ongoing pain from swaying and being stretched; stillness to balance made almost impossible by her captor’s determined and thorough penetration.
A brief respite, then two hands took hold of her hips. A moment where one positioned something rounded and cold against her, by now, gapingly and humiliatingly open pussy. Then she was gripped once again, like nothing more than a handy piece of furniture, as the unnaturally cold dong attached to her captor’s hips slid into her without second thought or compassion.
There was nothing she could do to stop the onslaught. The sensations racking her balanced yet chaotic body fought and won against the more rational thoughts of her mind. She hadn’t even seen this other woman’s face, yet. Perhaps she never would. She didn’t know her name. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
All she had to do was keep upright. Keep receiving. Keep her balance.
– Cara Sutra