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Gallway House

34000 words

Style: Male Dom - M/F

It was a quiet, brooding manor on the Scottish Moor, a guest house, so it was said, but only by invitation. Pamela thought it was a holiday camp, a place where she and her husband could perhaps renew their failing marriage. Lovely young Mia was a wealthy man's personal assistant, though she planned to leave his employment soon. Julia was a powerful corporate head who thought she was attending a meeting, and Kayla was a shiftless, resentful, teen with no future who was dragged along by her foster parents. As they entered Gallway House they unknowingly left their old lives behind. Soon, stripped, blind and bound in the tightest of bonds, their minds would be broken and then rebuilt to be more pleasing to those who would be their new masters. Obedience and sexual pleasure would become their life's obsession, as submission and pain became their calling.

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The girl stood straight, very straight indeed, her spine bowed back slightly. Her head was tilted full back, face towards the ceiling high above. Her tongue protruded to what a casual observer would think a startling length. It was pierced by a thick stainless steel ring. That ring was attached to a chain which hung from above.

The girl was encased in PVC from head to toe, the leather glistening with the reflected light of the candles surrounding her. Thin straps crossed her chest above and below her apparently ample breasts, squeezing them from either direction whilst also pinning her arms back behind her.

Not that her arms needed such straps. They were themselves encased in a leather sleeve from hand to shoulder, and that sleeve was squeezed together by its own straps at wrist, forearm, and above and below the elbows.

She was faceless, for the leather hood covering her made no allowances for a nose, nor eyes. It was smooth, featureless save for a slit over the mouth through which her long tongue protruded.

Well over two inches, that tongue pushed out, well over two inches past her the smooth black edges of the slit, past her lips within. That tongue, so smooth, soft, and pink, trembling, impaled, straining. Well over two inches, perhaps two and a half, aching and burning with the pressure, the pull, so that soft, breathy moans and gasps of pain emerged from within that tight slit.

The girl was tall. The long black length of her glistened, standing straight, legs straight below her, almost together, feet, seemingly narrow, perched precariously atop stiletto heels. No, not quite. For the heels did not - not quite - reach the floor below. So that the girl must perch on the toes, on the balls of her feet, letting the heels only occasionally touch the floor at the expense of her aching, straining, stretched-out tongue.

Her legs, though straight, were not - quite together. For rising up from the floor between them was a long, dark post. It was of steel for most of its length, but near the top it became latex, thick, criss-crossed with odd, thick ridges. The latex, like the pVC, had a sheen to it, but this sheen was of moisture. In the reflected light of the candles could be seen small painted numbers, white. The lowest number was “20", and just above that, an inch higher was “19", and then “18" an inch above that.

There was a slit in the pVC leather at the join of the girl’s legs, and the post passed through this slit, disappearing within. Just below that slit was the painted number “15". And so it would not have been difficult for the casual observer to conclude that above this number, within the slit, was another 15 inches of thick, glistening latex.

Buried within the body of the girl standing over it.

A more careful observer, or one with better eyes for the dimly lit room, might have noticed that the latex was not merely glistening with moisture. It was wet with it. Indeed, an observer who rested his or her eyes on the post would be rewarded with the intermittent sight of a small droplet of liquid slowly trickling down first one side, then the other.

Was it perspiration, they might wonder. For it could hardly be else but sweltering within the tight, hooded leather suit. Or was it perhaps something else, perhaps the essence of her heat, of her arousal as she stood there, oozing out of the throbbing sex impaled upon the unrelenting solid bulk of the post.

A faceless girl, slender, tall, and clearly well-proportioned. The tight fitting PVC hugged slim hips, but an even more slender belly, long, full legs, and a chest which though squeezed tightly within the confines of the suit, and from the straps above and below, seemed quite generous.

The room around her was austere, having little to recommend it. It was a small, square room of rough stone on four sides. Below her heels as a floor of thick, heavy wood, dark with age. Above her, well above her, were heavy beams crossing above. There were no windows. And the one door was heavy and dark with age, reinforced with steel, and solidly closed. And locked. One did not know the door was locked, of course, without first testing. But it was the type of door one could hardly imagine would be otherwise. It was a door built to keep people out, or in this case, within.

To one side of the room was a roughly made table. It had no ornamentation. It was a utilitarian table, made for a job, rather than for any sort of decorative purpose. It, too, was old with age. And upon its surface rested, in precisely ordered rows, a series of instruments.

The first row, held a variety of long, thin leather rods - crops they were, of varied lengths and thicknesses.

The second row held flogs of the same varying length and weight.

The third row held a variety of implements; paddles, both narrow and wide, straps, long and short, heavy and light, canes of several lengths, thin wooden switches, and finally, frighteningly, a pair of long, coiled whips.

Above the table, on pegs, hung a variety of ropes, straps, cords, buckles, gags, restraints, shackles, cuffs, and chains, was well as a variety of clips in various sizes.

The rest of the room, which measured perhaps twelve by twelve, was unfurnished, empty, save for the girl standing in the middle, and the candlesticks, tall, wide, wood, but no more ornamental than the table. There were twelve candlesticks surrounding the girl in a precise circle a few feet, no more, from her trembling body, giving the only light in the otherwise darkened room.

The flames of those candles were long, and pure, for there was no breeze to send them dancing and shifting. The air in the room was stifling and still, and the only sound aside from the occasional moans and gasps issuing forth from the slit in the face of the girl’s hood was her constant , heavy, laboured breathing.

Her breaths were ragged, short, undisciplined, and often broken off by a gasp or moan as one pain or another intruded itself upon the business of breathing.

There was no sure way of telling how long the girl had been standing there, but a brief study would guess that it had been no small time. Yet she stood firmly, enduring the discomfort and heat of her position.

And then, there was a change. It would have been difficult to define , precisely. There was the faintest change in her laboured breathing. Her back, arched, seemed to arch a little more, to ease, then to arch again, very weakly, as if the girl were enduring long, slow spasms.

An observer would have detected movement all along, most especially the trembling heels as the girl balanced on the balls of her feet, the short, hesitant sinking and lowering - lowering to the point her heels would touch the floors briefly, then rise quickly again as her tongue stretched even farther.

That same movement was more easily observed now, for it seemed to be happening more frequently, still accompanied by the spasms and trembling, but with - unless it was the observer’s imagination - more purpose. Yes, more purpose, and if the eye were to draw back somewhat, to take in the entire length of the girl’s body, that movement could be more readily appreciated for its repetitive nature.

The sounds issuing from the slit around the girl’s tongue were louder, and indicated more pain. That would not surprise anyone who realized the pressure the young girl’s tongue must be under and could at least suspect how that pressure must increase each time the sharp stiletto heels touched the floor.

And then, if the observer were to sharpen his gaze and concentrate on that narrow bar of latex thrusting up into the opening of the PVC leather encasing her body, he or she would have the answer to their earlier curiosity regarding the substance slowly trickling down the post.

For the white painted number just below the opening into the suit - into the girl’s body was “14". And then, slowly, very slowly, it was “15", and then, as the sound issuing from the hood became louder, and more agonized, and the heels touched the floor, it was, ever so briefly, “16".

And the casual observer, no longer, one would presume, entirely casual, would watch as the “15" pushed out from within the slit, and then, slowly, the “14" appeared - briefly - before sinking back up into the slit, then, slowly, drawing the “15" after it. And, with infinite hesitation, shifting agonizingly up and down, the “16" would - almost, but not quite - follow.

And then there was a long, low, guttural sound, feral, animal-like, but filled with both pain and an intense passion. The entire black-clad body seemed to shudder, and as it rose, as number “15" pushed back into the dim yellow light, a small flood of liquid oozed out along with it, and many small droplets of clear liquid trickled slowly down the post.

And then, things were as they were. The unsteady breathing, the wavering, trembling body, the slow, uneven moans and shuddering gasps, the heels easing intermittently upwards, then down.

At length, a new sound penetrated the thick walls and door of the room. It was distant and heavily muffled, but unmistakeably it was the closing of a door, a very heavy door, such as the one blocking the only entrance or exit to the room. Then, after a short interval, there was the sound of a heavy bolt being shot, then a second, then a third - even heavier then the other two.

The door swung inward, the heavy hinges creaking. A man came through. He was tall and thin. His face was that of as scarecrow, his features pinched, with a long, thin nose and dark, recessed eyes. He had only a very light dusting of hair upon his head, and that far back. He was thin to the point of gauntness, and his face was remarkable only in its absence of any expression of emotion.

He wore a black suit, wore it as though it were a uniform he had long been accustomed to. He regarded the girl briefly, with neither lust nor anger nor sympathy, then shrugged off his jacket and carefully hung it from a peg just within the door. With a sigh, as though of a man bored with a repetitive task, he crossed to the table, selected a long, thin crop, and walked back to the girl.

Her movements had halted, and she stood stiff, frozen, as a small, wary creature suddenly realizing the presence of predators. The man moved behind her, and she must surely be able to hear his clipped footsteps on the wooden floor, for she moaned lightly, her head jerking a little, as though instinctively trying to turn and regard the man behind her.

She could not, of course, brought up short by the ring through her tongue. And so she could not see the man, his face still quite neutral, swing the crop back and forth a few times testingly. She would have heard the sound of the crop cutting through the air, however.

The man looked at her bottom. It was, if the form were true and not influenced by the tight PVC encasing it, a quite deliciously shaped bottom, with round buttocks squeezed tautly together. The man looked at it, but showed neither pleasure nor appreciation. Instead he drew his arm back and then swung it forward. He did not swing with tremendous effort, but rather, somewhat lightly, again, testingly.

The crop cut through the air nonetheless, and then cracked down against the centre of both leather encased buttocks. The girl’s body seemed to wobble, to shudder all along its length, the hips lurching forward, then back, the head jerking back, then forward. It was a quick, undulating movement echoed simultaneously by a high pitched, girlish cry of pain, that cry, of course, incomprehensible because of the situation of her tongue.

No understandable word could be uttered by a girl whose tongue was held in place, pulled up out of her mouth and chained above her. But words were not necessary to communicate. She was easily understandable. The blow hurt. Quite a bit. The leather squeezing in around her buttocks was evidently not particularly thick, at least not here, and seemingly offered insufficient protection to her tender bottom.

The man, unconcerned with any of this, swung the crop again, striking approximately the same place, and producing approximately the same result. The girl cried out, her sound a high pitched warble, and her body did a quick, undulating shudder.

For several minutes the thin man stood in place, behind and a little to one side of the girl, and rained careful, measured blows upon her buttocks. As he progressed, the blows became harsher, and her body undulated more violently. Her cries became louder, more distressed.

He shifted his aim up and down, precisely, striking the upper portion of her soft, fleshy buttocks, then the lower, then the middle, and repeated, as though he had much experience with this ritual.

The girl was sobbing now, in between her cries of pain. If the man heard it he showed no response or recognition. He continued striking her quivering body until, for a reason known only to himself, he halted, paced across to the table, laid down the crop in the same place from which he had taken it, and, without speaking, lifted his jacket off the peg, drew it on, adjusted it so that it fit properly, then passed out through the door.

It closed heavily, with a sound of finality, slamming into place with a sound so solid one might wonder if it would ever again open. Then first one, then a second of the heavy bolts were shot, followed, after a moment, by the heaviest, clanging metallically as it settled snugly into its hole to bar any way out.

After a brief interval, there came the sound of another heavy door slamming closed, muffled, through the door. But it would have been difficult to hear, for the girl cried piteously, her body trembling to the deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

It took time, but the sobs eased, and then faded away entirely. There were only small moans and gasps now, as there had been before. The girl remained balanced largely on the balls of her feet, but occasionally, weakening, the pain becoming too much for her, she eased back until the heels of her shoes touched the floor.

The pain in her tongue evidently became too great, then, for she rarely let her heels remain down for more than a few instants. Then with a moan, she would ease back up onto the balls of her feet, and let her heels tremble in mid-air.

The passage of time was impossible to measure in the small, close, darkened room. The girl remained as she was, trembling, shifting slightly up and down, moaning.

And then, as before, her movements, previously intermittent and spasmodic, took on a recurring theme of movement. Once more, her body began to slowly, painfully slide downwards onto the thick dark latex post upon which she was impaled. Now the “16" slid fully into her body, disappearing from view, only to reappear again, along with the “15" and, very briefly, the “14". And, incredibly, as her slow, agonized, rhythmic movements continued, the dark, moist slit began to creep down further, all the way to the “17", before withdrawing.

She sobbed weakly, brokenly, whimpering, moaning in pain. But her movements continued, her breath ragged, desperate. Her body slid up and down, up and down, too slowly and haltingly for any but a patient eye to notice. And then, after a time, she let out a broken cry, a wail, really, of helpless, hopefully passion. Her body shook violently, and then, after sinking back to her heels, resumed its previous routine.



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