Devastation Pt. 02

The resumption of the clip-clops. The almost too subtle squeak of the leather, as she stood upright again, and resumed her long striding, stiletto-enhanced prowl around the room. The second slash of hyper-pain came across both cheeks again. This time dead centre of her buttocks, and across her raised, pulsating anus ring. The scream was louder this time. Like there was a knowledge now of just how intense the pain would be. And that it lived up to expectations. It was a scream because of the pain itself. But also of the dread, the hyper-anxiety of what was to come. And the question of how much more was to come. How much more could she take? A scream of accumulating despair and of the knowledge deep down that there was no escape from it. No truer the saying that ignorance is bliss.

Whooooooshhhhhhh whisssssssssstle ...... SLASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

That rising, blood-curdling scream again as the bloodless gash opened. Bloodless because of the cleanness, the scalpel-like quality of the cut. The single, expertly applied gash. Like a hot knife through butter. And a feint, almost not-there sound of Sabirah sucking in air, gasping as she caused 'the one' the absolute maximum of misery and pain.

"MMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"

The actual open gashes measured just inches, in comparison with the length of the entire welt from each single slash of the implement. Each welt rising angrily and contrasting alarmingly with the paleness of the previously perfect, flawless flesh of Petra's hindquarters. Sabirah applied the slashes of her implement not from the same side, but alternate sides, although not regularly so. This meant that the gash ends of each welt were spread between alternate buttocks and thighs.

The third slash landing just below the second, almost, but not quite, in the fold of flesh between the buttocks and the very upper thigh. Much more fleshy here. More sensitive flesh for the bare steel and the stainless-steel-ball to sink into. Much more pain to feel. The fourth slash was saved for that actual fold of flesh between buttocks and thighs.

"The sweet spot."

A pain, so intense. So absolute that it, in turn, fed the throbbing in the base of Petra's clitoris. In between strokes, the extended, distended sexuality quivering, and where the implement caught each 'organ,' the mark of the welt could be clearly seen. These slashes were not a caress... the type of caress required to cause orgasm. Rather this contact with her enhanced sexuality served also as an amplifier for the pain. If it were possible to make that pain worse... then this was the time when it was done.

"MMMMMMPPPHHHGGGGGGGGGGFFFFGGGGGGGGGGGDDDDDD!"

Effortlessly, time after time, Sabirah brought the implement down through the air, almost, but never quite, silently. It wasn't a systematic beating. It wasn't a beating at all. It was a deliverance of suffering. Not equally timed between slashes. But not deliberately irregular either. The pure poetry of a lesbian sadist going about her task. Her work. Her life. And of Petra, complete in her suffering. Complete in her most intense, most pure misery. Her heavy, teat-laden breasts underneath her, jiggling, rippling, swinging as each slash landed, and as the effects of each slash coursed and raced through the helpless... pitiful woman.

Between lashes, the throbs, and the pulsating sexuality, drips and dribbles of thick lubricating discharge flying in various directions as the flesh was tortured. Sabirah marveled at how the anus pushed out obscenely... still clinging to the massive, inflated appendage inside her. Pushed out, straining at the thigh straps holding Petra in place. She marveled even more at the way the stretched anus, and the hyper-worked ring sucked, and chewed, at the thick shaft inside her.

Petra... every so often, forced her head, and arms, to move against the bungee cords... but always this was followed by the immediate snap-back of her limbs or head. The attempting of movement, of escape in this way was natural... but always, such an attempt served to amplify the agonies inflicted. Of course, her ballet-booted feet couldn't move and her severely arched feet and taughtened leg muscles suffered terribly in their own way. So many ways, in this Hell of amplifying pain. Making misery worse, and worse yet again. And yet this, although, was 'absolute' as far as Petra had suffered so far. It wasn't absolute in infinite terms. That journey to absolution, to infinitum, was a long, long one. Actually, a never-ending one.

At the end of an indeterminate amount of time, Sabirah stopped her effortless application of suffering. If Petra could have collapsed in a semiconscious mess on the floor, she would have. The bondage didn't allow for such a luxury, though. She was held rigid in her agony. She had long since stopped screaming. The screaming had stopped a little less than half way through the period. To be replaced simply by sharp intakes of breath everytime the implement came into contact with her flesh. The pain didn't lessen with each lash. Far from that. And far from the myth of BDSM... she didn't 'numb' to the pain. She simply absorbed it. Each and every single lash, absorbed by her flesh and by her mind. She stopped screaming only as she sank into a 'zone'... not quite compus-mentus, but not quite not either.

The area from just below her tailbone to the back of her knees, just above the ballet-boots, was crisscross with angry, angry welts. Each welt tipped with a bloodless, deep gash. And those gashes in turn tipped with a wider-spread wound caused by the ball-bearing tip. The whole area surrounding the welts, red, angry, where the pain and fire had spread. She quivered. Yes, the whole of her quivered. Her sexuality still leaked. Still throbbed and still dripped. That didn't go away. It never went away. Never would. The pain, now another facet of her suffering. There was the guilt. The shame. And there were the throbs. The incessant throbs and those hyper-intense orgasms she increasingly craved. And now the pain for which there was no description. No description or expletive that can do justice to such a huge, huge amount of intense pain, all applied with one seemingly leisurely stroke of an implement that was neither a cane nor a whip.

Sabirah hadn't chosen this particular area of flesh in order to fit in with the cliché of BDSM. Sabirah could work any area of flesh with the desired results. Indeed, she would, in due course, work on all areas of Petra, both obvious and not-so-obvious areas, internal as well as external. On this occasion she had chosen this rear flesh simply because she adored the view of Petra that the bondage offered. And it did tie in with the necessary task of the work undertaken on her anal ring. Work now complete and irreversible.

The leather-clad clinical psychologist had applied the last stroke and then quite leisurely, quite casually, had brought the implement up long-ways, gently between Petra's quivering labia, in order to scoop up some of the dripping juices. Dragging the length of the implement up through the length of Petra's saturated, pulsating sexuality. Then she had brought the implement up, under her leathered nose-holes in order to take a deep, deep inhale of breath. A deep whiff of Petra's aroma. The aroma of juices released under the utmost of suffering. The aroma of a distressed, tortured woman. Fresh meat. If she could have tasted it, she would have. Again the imprint of Sabirah's tongue through the leather as she inhaled deeply once more before placing the implement on the desk.

Sabirah's last, most casual action, before leaving Petra to wallow further in that room, was to reach beneath her, to one of her untouched, swollen teats. A little caress of the hanging breast and then a single stroke over the nipple's tip sending Petra into an immediate, intense hyper-orgasm. Just a simple, single, casual stroke of the nipple tip was all it took. And a thirty-second, screaming orgasm that drained the girl more....

"MMMMMMMMMMMMM.... GODDDDDDDDDDD YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

NNNGGGGGGHHHHHHH GGGGGGHHHHHHH SSSSSHHHHHHNNNGGGGGG

MMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHH NNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"

Then nothing. No comforting. No sounds. Nothing. Just Petra's panting, and whimpering. And a seething, unmerciful guilt, as the throbs started again from deep. All she had to cope with. Contend with. And now, the intense pain... her rear end, her thighs, seemingly on fire. Her thoughts. Her knowledge that she deserved, and needed, to suffer like this.

SIX - Stefani & Petra

Sabirah didn't house a 'training facility' in the bowels of her respectable clinic. She wasn't in the business of 'training' other women. She had no interest in making other women 'bark.' Or 'sit' or 'beg.' The women unfortunate enough to be taken to this inner-sanctum weren't 'animals.' At least not in that sense of the word. Oh, there had been a few women over the years... taken to sub-human level. Taken to a place beyond misery. But it was a simple fact that women taken here, housed here, kept here, would suffer in ways beyond the imagination. That's what Sabirah did. Inflict suffering. Whether it was in the form of immense pain, mental anguish, or guilt. Or a combination of all three. Begging, barking, doing tricks, didn't come into it. Sabirah was quite single-minded in that respect. She most definitely wasn't a sadist in the most common misconception of the word. She didn't simply want her victim to suffer on one level. But on ALL levels, and to degrees that don't exist in the 'normal' world. Indeed, it was the plucking out of her victim(s) from that 'normal' world that formed the very basis of their suffering. It was quite simply another fact, that it was impossible for Sabirah's 'victim' to suffer enough, in a quick-fix type situation. Quick fixes didn't do it for Dr. Sabirah Najwa. It had to be a sustained, prolonged, and endless nightmare for the victim. A life-changing experience and an irreversible process. Hence the exotic, and extreme, measures she went to in secreting her most advanced facilities in the sub-sub basement of her private and secluded clinic.

Dr. Sabirah Najwa was, when all is said and done, a lesbian. She wasn't a 'man hating' lesbian. Far from it. But she did love other women in ways she could never love men. It would be impossible for Sabirah to have a 'normal' 'loving' relationship with another woman. Any woman attracted to her, or vice versa, would suffer. Suffer terribly. Any attraction where it became clear that that was impossible would simply be ended, whatever hurt caused to the other party. This is why, in Sabirah's own words, it is really only once in a sadist's lifetime that an ideal 'subject' comes along. And when that happens, the opportunity must be grasped with open arms and embraced.

When that ideal subject does present itself, it isn't a case of 'training' her. Or teaching her to do tricks, like begging, or barking, or sitting exposed. It's a case of careful preparation. Absolute attention to the most infinite detail. Tiny details taken care of... situations and circumstances taken into consideration before the victim is 'taken out' of circulation. And before that 'throb' is instilled. That throb, that 'need,' is the epicenter of Sabirah's method. It is not by pure chance that the victim is turned into a drooling, dribbling orgasm-craving, orgasm-starved sub-human with enhanced sexual and feminine organs. That is a very deliberate, very precise part of the whole process. The very basis of the suffering. Once the victim is turned into the 'addict.' This almost pathetic, pitiful being... normal conventions of lesbianism, and of fetishism and BDSM, fade to grey and become irrelevant. Begging doesn't matter. Pleading doesn't matter. Tricks don't matter. Oh, all of these parameters and more 'could' take place and quite often do. They take place mostly because, again deliberately, Sabirah never lets anyone mentally break down altogether, or completely. There is always enough left... just enough, for them to realize and understand what is happening to them. But that begging, pleading, and those 'tricks' don't matter. Nor do they have any effect on outcome. That path ahead for them is simple... and pure. So pure as to be organic. It is simply a path of immense suffering.... physical, and mental. Absolute relentless suffering with no let-ups. Once the path had been stepped upon... it becomes one-way. Usually down and for 'the one' usually into a bottomless pit, a vortex of darkness and despair.

So for Petra, her fate became her destiny when she first met Sabirah at that corporate fund-raising event. Little did she know that her little flirts with the 'head doctor' were leading her through a one-way door. Little did she know that it was her stunning looks initially, and then her personal circumstances, that she would eventually learn, were the reason that she would suffer immeasurably. Or that the existence of her beautiful daughter, Stefani, would add to the mix. Become yet another tool with which to deepen her suffering.

It wasn't an accident that Sabirah's clinically clean, subterranean facility dripped with a palpable dread, and doom. It was designed like that. Sabirah designed it like that. Just like she designed the very specific, nano-specifications of her laser technology. The detachment from the real world. The seclusion... the vacuum created was intended. Absolutely, it was meant to be. Quite simply... for anyone housed here... anyone unfortunate enough to be a 'guest' of Sabirah, the overwhelming feeling that their suffering would never end... or that there was no way out of there. No way back to the normal world... had to be the most base of feelings here. An acceptance of the suffering, along with an acceptance that there would be no way out... ever. Period!

This particular room was a stark, striking contrast to the others. Rather than a deliberate, spotlight surrounded by and caressed by blackness, the whole room was in a very bright high-key white. An almost blinding white. Still clinically clean. Still existing in a vacuum that sucked out and kept out anything from the outside and yet... what was in remained in. Sealed in. The whole room was bathed in the most lucid, crystal clear of white light that bounced evenly off pure-white surfaces. Visibility in this room was not a problem. Indeed, it appeared that visibility in this room had been made a priority. Visibility and viewing, it appeared, was not to be hampered in any way. Were it not for the present occupants of the room, the question could be begged as to why on earth there had to be such good visibility in a single room that measured no more than eight-meters long by five wide.

White-tiled ceiling, white-tilled walls and white-tiled floor made it difficult to see the seams in a room that was completely bathed in a balanced white light from ceiling-length strip lighting that was fixed down its middle, and either side of the eight-meter length. There were no shadows cast. Just everything in crystal-clear clarity. The only similarity between this room and others was that the floor had to slope inwards and downwards, slightly, from the sides to a central drainage cover. It made the cleansing very easy. And helped make proceedings in the room as fluid as possible.

The only real reference points in this room, if it were otherwise empty, were that secured to the opposite walls at either end of the eight-meter length were sixty-inch plasma flat screens. These screens, with no visible wires, had been fixed quite high on the walls and slightly tilted downwards. Each screen easily visible from either end of the room. The stark blackness of the currently inactive screens and surrounding black frames was indeed a high focal point. The only real chance to get a bearing and keep that bearing. If anyone in here was a 'guest' or a 'victim' of Sabirah... these screens were the ONLY point of focus. The ONLY means of keeping a bearing. Keeping a grip on reality. Even then, only if permitted.

Like the other rooms in Sabirah's facility, this one contained almost invisible technology that made work here practically effortless for the user. This was an extreme-bondage room. Bondage applied here could only be instigated, or 'started,' by a human being. It could only be set up. The victim placed into position and then loosely secured in what would be roughly her eventual position. The real, final position and absolute tightness of the bondage could never be completed, or finished by a human being. Even a strong determined one. Final bondage here was very much a micro-machined affair.

Bondage here was eventually polished off by the pressing of a single button, and then the magic of micro-circuitry and micro-motors kicked in. Then everything tightened. Everything clicked into place. Those little motors whirred electronically, only just audible. A little 'creaking' as things clicked and snapped and stretched into place. Those electrical and micro-mechanical noises were only really audible before the groans, and the screams, of the victim overtook them in volume. Eventually the whole room was filled with that constant soul-draining screaming that only diminished slightly as the body of the victim, and her mind, adapted.... absorbed, as much as possible, the excruciating bondage. In this room, the noises from the victim never really, I mean, never REALLY fell off at all. There was a constant noise, at whatever pitch and whatever volume.

The bondage itself was a torture. But it wasn't THE torture.

In this room, suffering was taken very much to another level. In this room, where previously there would have been a shuffling of ballet-booted feet as the victim was taken inside... there would be only a soul-searching screech of sorts... but before that... an insipid dread on first view of the room and its contents. The pure simplicity of the room in itself, enough to cause that deeply instilled dread and fear to rise in a victim. To the victim, that stark simplicity, as she would have discovered before, was a reason to fear. Deeply fear what was going to happen here.

There were two identical rigs in this room. One for Mom. And one for her little girl, Stefani. Her beloved daughter and 'mirror image.' Each rig was secured roughly two-and-a-half-meters in from the end walls making roughly three-meters of space separating them in the center of the room. The occupants of the rigs faced each other towards the center of the room. Each had a clear view of the plasma screen behind and above the opposite person on the opposite rig. Each had a clear unrestricted view of each other. Or had such a view as long as it was permitted. Permissions here weren't always assured and weren't always allowed by ways and means necessarily expected by the victim.

Mommy Petra had been taken in first. Shuffled in, re-shrunk-wrapped in her latex skins. The outer-skin shiny, black. The wounds inflicted by Sabirah's implement just healing and just being caressed by that inner, transparent latex skin. All over her rear end. Thighs. Buttocks. Caressed as they healed, and with just a teasing 'tingle' remaining. In many ways, that teasing tingling sensation another facet, another source which fed those incessant throbs. The crotch of the latex skins opening, extended slightly, and widened to allow the raised, hypersensitive ring of her anus to protrude obscenely.

Another bad bit exposed.

The ballet-boots almost impossible to walk in. Designed to enhance and yet restrict at the same time. They produced that 'shuffling' unconfident walk that was deliberately shortened by the hobble-chain between her ankles. This chain prevented that all-important friction from occurring with her labia, clitoris, and anal enhancement. The shuffle enhanced the throbs. The hobble-chain prevented the friction furthering the throbs. Simple. Delightfully maddening! The rest of her nasty bad bits... well, they remain out, too. All grotesque and dripping. Quivering masses of sexuality continually dripping the most slippery, deeply produced, juices. If she was moving, she dripped. If she stayed still, she dripped. The drip was continuous, unabated, during her waking and sleeping states. Her teat-like nipples, hard, rubbery.... like black grapes. Ripe ones ready to burst. All nasty bits protruding, exposed from the smooth, perfectly smooth confines of her now much-needed, much-loved 'womb' of latex.