Chapter 12E

My tormentor returned with yet another collection of gadgets, but this time I had no interest in them. He took in my slack expression and the line of spit running down my chin. He followed my fixed gaze to the place between my legs that held me entranced and he gasped with surprise and delight. This time I felt a rush of pleasure at having impressed him.

"My goodness! My goodness!" He said in his peculiar, almost squeaky, voice. "That's it! That's what I told you about. I've freed you. No more penis-envy. You've done it! You're perfect. My, my, I need to reward you. Here, just a minute. My goodness, I wasn't prepared. Just a minute though. I'll be right back."

If I hadn't been so preoccupied, I might have laughed at his antics. He was so overjoyed at finally getting one of his victims to respond to his 'treatments' that he had dropped even his feeble attempt at playing a big, bad, leather-clad menace and was mincing around like he had been absent the day the male hormones were handed out. Later, I realized that it was an important clue to his psychological problem.

After puttering around out of sight, he came back with the most ungainly and odd-looking machine I had ever seen. It was a mess of wheels and gears and pistons and sliding arms. Rube Goldberg would have loved it.

He moved the thing between my legs and clamped it to one of the supports of the table. I still could not figure it out. It looked like the model of part of a steam locomotive we had in the Physics Lab. When he attached the lifelike silicone dildo to the end of the sliding arm it all became clear as crystal.

As I watched him fussing over the machine, tightening, lubricating and checking this bit and that, I hoped that his skill at building gadgets had been brought to bear in full force on this one. I needed to be fucked in the worst way and this looked like just the device to do the job.

Finally, he had it ready. He swung the long sliding arm over and inserted the tip of the business end into me. I moaned at the touch of it, more out of anticipation than stimulation. He flipped a switch and it started up with a clatter. The maze of gears and wheels came alive and the arm pushed the dildo into me and pulled it out again.

In and out, in and out it went, making me a very happy camper. The thing was crude enough and loose enough that it took a slightly different angle and penetrated to a different depth with a different speed on each stroke. This gave it a wonderfully realistic feeling, not at all like how the fucking machines in my fantasies behaved.

In his haste to setup the machine, he hadn't adjusted the table or thought to remove the pillow from behind my head, so I was forced to watch the machine fuck me. This turned out to be highly arousing. The sheer inevitability of each stroke was a great turn-on, since the machine did not tire, did not need a bathroom break, and did not need to change position to stay hard. It just kept on fucking, in and out, in and out, in and out; making me wetter and hotter and more excited with each wonderful stroke.

On each inward stroke, my clit was pulled down to meet the dildo as it slid into me. The contact sent powerful bolts of pleasure through me that quickly turned into a series of mini-climaxes. Soon, I had abandoned myself to the fucking machine in the same way as I had earlier to the milking machine. I just let it have its way with me and relaxed into a marvelous state of acceptance and arousal.

I was so turned on that it after only a few minutes of being mechanically raped; I was cumming all over the dildo. My nervous system seemed to be trying to make up for my immobility because my first orgasm was a soul-wrenching experience that nearly rendered me unconscious. As my eyes uncrossed and my abdomen stopped twitching, I saw Professor Gadget reach for the switch on the machine.

"Hunhunh!" I said, shaking my head, oblivious to the potential consequences of trying to speak.

Confused, he took his hand away and let the machine continue to run. I settled back into passive acceptance of the plunging, driving arm and let it again drive me back up the slope toward the top of Mount Orgasm.

I think the second climax took longer to reach than the first. But I have no idea how long that was. There was no visible clock in the room and I had little interest in the passage of time. All I know is that it was damn good and I enjoyed it even more that the first.

Again, with the hand on the switch, and again I gave a shake of my head. Again, he let it run, and again I settled back for another round of pop-goes-Samantha.

My third orgasm with the mechanical fucker was better still. It took less subjective time to reach than the second, but my time-sense was probably just as well-fucked as my pussy by that point, so I can't say for sure. I do know that it seemed to go on for a very long time, and by the time it coasted to a stop; my cheek muscles were sore from trying to smile around the gag. This time, the guy in black kept his hands to himself, which I took to mean I got to decide when I had enough.

Sometime after that, I lost track of the number of orgasms I had and how long they were. I lost track of where I was, what day it was, and even my name. I was so overstimulated that I just slipped into a state of one continuous climax that seemed to go on forever. Somewhere during that time, I passed out.

When I came to, the machine was off and my captor was standing there with two pieces of the main gear in his hands. Seeing me awake, he said, "You wore it out. It couldn't take the strain of such prolonged operation. I'll have to order some new parts."

I wanted to say I was sorry, to apologize for breaking his nice machine, but I wasn't sorry at all. I was proud. I was happy. I felt an irrational sense of glee at having fucked the machine to death. I tried to giggle, but with the gag in my mouth I could only gurgle.

He thought I was strangling. He pulled the pillow from behind my head and removed the gag. He had a very tough time getting it out of my mouth, because my jaws had locked down on it in a death-grip and didn't want to let go.

When it was out, it took me quite a while to get my mouth to move again, and the pain of moving the muscles couldn't have been less than if my jaw was being ripped off of my face. It very effectively put an end to my giggling fit. Eventually I was able to work my mouth again and I realized that there was something I wanted very badly to say.

"Cuwa me goo ga freeechica gushgang gagig?" I said. That wasn't close to what it should have sounded like. I tried again, "Coowmegoowgarekrischasheegagn?" Still wasn't happening. I was making him curious about what was so important for me to say, though, he was bent over listening intently to me try to speak.

I worked my jaw some more and managed to get it loosened up. I swallowed repeatedly and cleared my throat before I tried to speak again. This time I sounded close to normal.

I smiled as winsomely as I could manage with my face twitching and I said, "Could we do the electrical machine again?"

Behind the mask, I could see his eyes blinking, but that was all. He didn't speak and he didn't move until I added, "Please?"

"Uh. I suppose. Sure. Just be a second." He said, in a small, confused voice. He fumbled with the clamps of the mechanical fucker and got it dismounted and hauled away. He brought back the electrocutor and hooked me up with jerky, uncertain motions. I guessed he didn't get many requests from his victims; and certainly not for the one device that delivered the greatest amount of pain; but more important to me, the greatest amount of stimulation. I suppose I could have asked to fuck the branding iron, but that was looking less and less like a fun thing as the day wore on. In a way, I think I wanted to do the electrocutor again because it offered the most sensation with the least physical damage.

The nipple clips were more comfortable with the metal rings in my nipples because they didn't bite as deep. The additional metal should give them a better contact-area, too. As soon as he put the metal cylinder in me, I grabbed it with my vaginal muscles, which startled him and then amazed him when I sucked it deeply into my willing hole with no further assistance. I settled it comfortably and took a firm grip on the slick tube.

He almost turned the machine on without putting the gag back in my mouth. I reminded him by clearing my throat and holding my mouth open for it. He put it in, but left the straps loose, which was fine. I just needed something to bite on to keep from hurting my tongue or breaking my teeth.

When I was ready, I nodded to him and he threw the switch. I snapped against the straps as the current slammed through my body. This time I noticed how the metal table groaned and squealed under the load my tortured muscles put on it. Also, this time my screams were just as loud and just as piercing and just as heartfelt, but there was a note of something else in them, too, something of exultation at feeling myself driven past pain, past agony and past human endurance. Perhaps other girls could take this amount of torture, but I would have been willing to bet anything you could name that not a one of them enjoyed it like I did.

This time when he shut it off, I felt positively rejuvenated. There was still the twitching and cramping and I still had the impulse to keep on screaming my lungs out, but I knew the effects were only temporary. I had lost all fear of the electrocutor. It was now just a great way to experience absolute sensory overload. And it didn't have the unfortunate aftereffects that being fucked with a branding iron would have. I was having a hard time putting that out of my mind. I suppose I was scared that I still might weaken and ask him to do it to me.

He pried the gag out of my jaws and I immediately asked another question, "Does that thing go any higher?"

"No. I didn't think it would be this popular, so I didn't provide for adjustments," he said. He sounded disappointed. I wondered if it was because he hadn't foreseen the possibility that someone might like it or if he were just stung by the criticism that he should have done a better job with it. I decided that, since I had him in a talkative mood, I would say what was really on my mind. He seemed to think I had earned the right to speak.

"Listen, there's something I need to know — would you really have put that hot iron in my pussy?"

"Well, I... why do you ask that?"

"Because it made me so... excited to think that you were going to really do it. I can't stop thinking about it. Did you really do that to the other girls?"

"No. I never did that," he confessed, reluctantly. "It might have killed them, you see? I wanted to teach them a lesson. I wanted to teach them they could be better than they were. I wanted them to live. The injuries were accidents. I wasn't as careful as I should have been. Some of my equipment wasn't fully perfected. But no one was seriously hurt. The vacuum pump doesn't really suck hard enough to draw blood, but it does feel that way. The piercings will heal if you take them out — even your tongue. The clitoridotomy is the only permanent thing I did to them. And that only to those whom I felt deserved it, like you.

"No, the branding iron was a way to frighten them, to make them comply with my instructions. Some of the others reacted to it as you did, driven to lustful seizures by the thought of being ruined by the hot iron. Some of them went crazy and begged me to do it to them. They pleaded with me, and offered me all kinds of things if I would burn them. I'm afraid some of them were never able to get over the desire for it, even after I released them."

That was both reassuring and frightening. It helped to know that I wasn't the only one who had self-destructive urges. It also told me the reason why many of his victims would not testify — they could not risk anyone finding out that they had such perverted desires, or they were grateful for having their sex organs upgraded and didn't want to have to declare that publicly, either. The unfortunate ones would have to have been put into straightjackets to keep them from hurting themselves. Some might not have been diagnosed quickly enough. Those might have succeeded in some form of self-mutilation. That was the real horror that the police report kept secret and that had bothered Gail so much — that they could be made to do want to do things like that to themselves.

Everyone's worst nightmare is to be turned into the thing that they fear most. In this case, they had become their own torturers. I found myself sympathizing with the torturer as well as the victims.

"Time to go, now," he said, clamping the noxious cloth over my face again. "You were the best. No one could be as perfect as you. Certainly no one ever enjoyed this as much as you... or at all."

He thought he had caught me unawares again, but he was wrong. This time I didn't suck in a lungful of the vapor right away. This time I held my breath and worked furiously to run my metabolism up to a high pitch. When I was almost burning up from the fire I had built in my body, I took a deep breath.

I rolled my eyes, slumped back on the table and let myself go limp as the vapors saturated my brain, making me woozy. This time, though, my head cleared as soon as he took the cloth away and I burned off the soporific drug almost immediately.

I lay there and played possum while he cranked the table back down. He had a hard time with it, since it had been warped by my attempts to escape and especially from my electrically-induced convulsions. When it jammed before reaching its original position, he picked up a wrench and bent down to try to free it. He must have realized that it would take too long to repair, because he dropped the wrench back into the box and then undid the straps holding me down and stepped away from the table. I almost jumped up then, but a quick peek showed me that he had just gone to get my clothes.

He dressed me gently and carefully, treating me as if I were an antique doll that might break if he handled me too roughly. I thought that was so sweet that I started to have second thoughts about turning him in to the cops. He even refastened my fanny pack, which he had apparently never opened, or he would have seen my badge and I might have woken up in a ditch the first time. It wasn't until he had picked me up to carry me to wherever he intended to drop me off that I gave any hint of being awake and aware.

"It's too bad," I said, startling him so badly that he almost let me fall. "If it had been just me, I might ask if you could see me again next week at the same time. But there are all those other girls, you see. You said yourself that none of them enjoyed it as much as I did and I am afraid that some of them are very unhappy with what you did to them."

He released me and I dropped to my feet. He made no move to attack or to escape.

"But it was for their own good! I did it to make them perfect. I did it for them! It's their fault if they failed to see that!" he whined, too wrapped up in his rationalization to think of trying to get away. Still, I watched him closely. Even the meekest of beasts will fight when cornered.

"I understand," I told him reassuringly. "Really. But you know what they say about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions. You took a chance and it didn't work out. Now you are going somewhere where they will keep you from doing this to anyone else. I hope they let you have a workshop. You are very good at making those toys. I really like the electrocutor and the mechanical fucker. Those are real works of art."

"Thank you. It's good to hear compliments on my work. None of the other girls understood, you know. They all struggled and screamed and cried, and that was fun for a while, but none of them appreciated what I was trying to do for them."

"I know. It's tough to do something that you think will help someone when they fight you every step of the way. People can be so ungrateful, can't they?" I was scaring myself. I was starting to understand him. He had started off hating girls for rejecting him when he was younger. He had got into playing Torturer as a way to take his revenge on them, but he never actually stopped liking girls. Being in contact with them, even in this perverted way, had brought out those good feelings. The problem was that he couldn't change himself. He could only change his justification for what he did, and in a small way, how he went about it. The little bells were certainly not something your average torturer of girls would think of.

"It's a shame. If you had put an ad in the paper, describing what you wanted, you probably could have had girls lined up around the block waiting to have you try some of this stuff on them. Some of it, that is." I looked askance at the brazier with its load of hot irons. Those would never be really popular. It was certain that they would not generate as much repeat business as the unique piercings or the other things.

"Really? I never considered that."

"Yeah. Look, if they let you off on some technicality or psychiatric grounds or something, you might want to try that. There are a lot of people who are into this sort of thing nowadays. I guess I must be one of them."

"OK, I'll give it some thought."

"Good. Now I'm going to have to tie you up or something while I go for the police."

"I'd rather you didn't. That would be embarrassing, to have everyone know that I had let myself be tied up by a girl."

He was shifting his feet like he was thinking about resisting. I had to think of a way he could save face so I wouldn't have to hurt him. I spotted just what I needed lying in a corner of the room. I picked up a six-foot length of the iron bar stock that he had used to make the irons that he heated in the brazier.

"How about if I tie you up with this?"

"You're kidding. That's half-inch iron. You could drive a truck over that and not bend it."

"Right." I bent the bar into a big circle, leaving a small gap between the ends. I put it around his waist and ran the end of the bar behind one of the support braces under the table. Then I pushed the loop closed and snugged it tight so he could not slip out.