Page 118 of Every Shade of Shadow

He moves around it, running his hands over the wooden supports as if it were a lover. “I had this one commissioned especially for my purposes from a fellow collector in Vienna.” He gestures to the top of the pyramid, covered by metal. “The tip is pointed, but blunt. See?”

I still cannot picture how the machine works, but the way the Professor is smiling pushes a cold ball right into the very pit of my stomach.

“The harness, too,” he continues, pointing to the tangle of ropes and leather above, “can be controlled from several points, allowing the lucky victim to be lowered with the utmost precision, and I am all about precision, my pet. Allow me to show you.”

An invisible force pushes me towards the machine. Another lowers the harness down above the pyramid and works to fasten it around my waist. The leather is cool on my skin. I don’t struggle. I am beyond that now.

The Professor comes behind my back and begins to fasten my wrists together with rope before working to attach more to my feet.

Bound completely, he moves to a set of pullies at the wall, and I am lifted upwards. My feet go first, the leather surrounding my waist biting down into my skin. My legs span out and apart, exposing my sex as I am steadily hoisted upwards as if common cargo onto a ship.

When I am high enough, another pulley snaps into place, and I begin to swing out over the sharpened point of the pyramid. It is only now that the true horror of the device’s nature becomes apparent.

Why am I doing this to myself? I question. Why am I allowing it? Am I this fucked in the head?

The conversation in the common room echoes around in my subconscious.

‘I wouldn’t trust him if I was you.’

But the whisper of the shadows is stronger, urging me on.

The rope is rough against my wrists, wringing the gentle flesh there as I squirm, the harness keeping me held in place as I swing gently above the top of the pyramid.

The pulleys strain above, and my legs tug apart. Before long, the joints in my pelvis strain and my mouth falls open to let out a short cry of agony.

The Professor claps his hands. “Yes, sing for me, little lamb. I do so love it when you do.”

I close my mouth, not intending to give him the satisfaction.

‘Psychopath.’

He pouts. “Oh, now, now. You will be singing again soon enough. You have my word.”

My body begins to tremble, a fresh cold sweat building on my brow. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.

He works the pulley, and I am lowered until the very tip of the device is barely an inch away from the opening of my sex.

I am cradled aloft, incapacitated. I can only twitch and jerk like a caught fish.

The ropes suddenly give a start as a rotating lever to the side is pulled. It makes a craning noise. I gasp as the frigid metallic tip of the pyramid presses past my folds, kissing the sensitive hole beyond. A mere nudge, and the brutal cold spreads up and down my body.

“I cleaned it for you,” the Professor says, watching on with eager eyes. “That is a luxury I do not provide most.”

How many has he tortured on this device? How many have died here, at his hand? The hand that now holds my life within it?

He moves the lever again and I am lowered further, the pyramid tip making full contact with my skin and beginning to press into my pussy. I toss my head back. I could be ripped apart here. Maybe that’s what he intends.

A rush of fear overcomes me, but just as I am about to protest, his fingers close around the lever. He pulls hard.

The top of the pyramid presses past my moist folds and penetrates past the outer ring of my sex.

I wheeze a little, surprised at the intrusion and the way my poor pussy conforms around this strange instrument of torture.

The Professor holds me there before pulling the lever a little further.

I whimper again as the metallic tip presses deeper. I am stretched wider now. That tip opens me up further and I let out a long, deep groan.

Why am I so wet? I wonder, ashamed.

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