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Inferno (Bruce McLachlan)


Inferno by Bruce McLachlan

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Ilona has tried a new sex toy which, instead of giving her satisfaction, has sent her into Hell, into the Inferno, where nothing awaits her but pain and sexual suffering. This is Hell as you always thought it would be- and then some!

From the book: ‘ … It was a heat amply augmented by the columns of fire spilling from crevasse and vent. Like some volcanic inferno, the pyres and columns of flame danced and lapped at the air, the heat haze about them distorting the view, making it hard to focus. The fires also served other purposes, for chains lanced up to the very heights of the cavern, the thousands of strands reaching down and hanging the occupants above the flames, to sear them and roast their helpless flesh. Bound in painful poses, contorted and twisted, fixed with weights or in great bushels of slaves, they were tortured terribly. Others were mounted atop great poles, the forests of metal struts presenting them to the perimeter or merely marking spots on the terrain. The devices of condemning restraint stretched off beyond the valley, the edges of the cavern lost to her, reaching out into the heat haze, a vast, underground realm, huge and hideous.

The overseers ruling this terrible domain seemed human enough, but were clearly creatures indigenous to this hellish land. They were women of astounding beauty, flowing epitomes of femininity, gorgeous and cruel in their allure. Each had a mane of ragged white hair, matched by ebony eyes without iris or pupil, their eyes just featureless midnight orbs which glittered and gleamed in the hellish light. …’

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 9 / 2018

No. words: 29600

Style: Male Dom - M/F, Bondage/BDSM Fantasy

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Chapter 1

Like a child beneath a Christmas tree, pawing at what she hoped to be her heart’s desire hidden beneath a detailed pattern of gaudy wrapping paper, Ilona brushed her fingertips across the plain box.
Patience evaporated swiftly and she tore back the brown wrapping and tape, lifting the lid free. Inside, amidst the chunks of polystyrene, was a shiny black box, its mirrored surfaces smooth and delicate. She reached in and hauled it out, removing the attachments and the roughly photocopied page that was its instruction manual. The first line read ‘the Elysium Sceptre’. A smile welled in the corners of her mouth, broadening out to reveal her clenched teeth.
The temptation was to use it immediately, to rashly implement this prized treasure, but she made herself read the details carefully first. This was too dangerous to jump into without full knowledge.
Taking the box, she plugged it into the wall. Immediately it gave a steady purring hum, gathering its power and volume, the gluttony of its capacitors bloating from the mains. She screwed in the two fat cables and straightened them with a bobbing flick. The wave flowed down the length and snapped the end socket like a bullwhip.
Each of the well-insulated wires were to reach to their own attachment and she screwed the conduits to them as tightly as she could. One led to a set of metallic briefs, the steel bikini underwear fitted with two large plugs that would be sheathed deep into belly and rear. The bulbous dimensions were vast and were also visibly difficult to accommodate.
The other was a moulded helmet in two halves that slotted together, the seam running around the sides of her head so that it could close fully to the wearer.
It looked like something from the dungeon of some ancient castle, a toy to match the style of rack, stock and dank cells infested with rats.
The interior of the helmet was exclusively crafted to fit her face, granting only a small vent for her to respire. The slender breathing stalk billowed out into a large, soft gag that would effectively choke her cries.
Both garments were thick and heavy, the interiors laced with internal circuits and lines of welded cable, a strange hybrid of technological and medieval barbarity.
Checking the front of the box, she found only an unmarked switch and a plain red button beneath it. The mechanism could not have been more simple - set it left for pleasure, right for pain. With an iniquitous chuckle of enthusiastic delight, she flicked it left and began to remove her clothes.
The house was quiet, tidied with a sense of ritual for this momentous occasion, the softest purr of the city without sifting through her double glazed windows.
She had read of this device through an underground sex magazine, her interest in such wild debauched pursuits a fantasy she was too afraid of to enact. Her penchant for pleasure, no matter what the source could cost her job, her career, her wealth, everything she had carved for herself through years of struggle and exertion. Private fantasies of wild orgies and numerous partners, sterling lovers - both male and female - were far safer and were her only recourse. But now she could do it herself. She could apply these tools and fill herself with what the Sceptre promised - the zenith of ecstasy, the absolute peak, unequalled, irresistible.
The device used some sort of oscillating modified current, an energy that would push a person to the limits and not damage or wound them. She could grant herself the finest peak of orgasm and fantasize away, pleasuring her own body and imagining that some sculpted god of a lover were doing it, all controlled by a mere touch to the innocent red button.
The sceptre had been extremely expensive, a custom built toy, rare and precious, highly illegal because of its pain setting. Such a mode was an S&M application designed for those who wanted to push darker limits and so it was difficult to obtain. But she had money, it was fulfilment she lacked. So she took the mouldings of her face, the sizes for skull and abdomen, and sent off the casts to the anonymous PO Box to have it built for her. Such detail was a necessary consideration, for it had to be fitted exactly to ensure it worked.
She closed the curtains and opened the rigid underwear, closing it to her waist, the metal cold and making her shiver slightly. When the wide waist band was locked, it gripped tightly, rising up to just below her ribs and resting firmly to her hips. The crotch band was wide and difficult to apply. She took the conductive gel that had been sent with the device and smeared it to her sex and rear, shuddering with pleasure at her own touch. She was tempted to continue with the sly onanism, but there were greater pleasures to be had.
Putting the two plugs to her openings, she pushed and groaned, the wide intruders too much for her to take. Taking them out again, she started to rock them to herself, stretching her orifices, making them more amenable to the rods. Gasping softly from the teasing delight of the metal against her clitoris, she continued to brush the eager bud of flesh, pushing and circling her pudenda and rear with the twin staffs of the device. Another push almost achieved entry, the spike of pain making her suddenly relent and take them back out. Again she tried and again, until with a wild moan they slid deep into her tracts, pushing to her limits, her tender membranes stretched tightly over the bloated trespassers. The tops of the steel band locked into position, completing the circuit.
Sitting up, she croaked and clapped a hand to the solid underwear, the immobile rods punishing her for her movement. Choosing to keep still she simply lay back and breathed in swift pants. Enduring the massive intruders, she fought to keep fixed to her goal and not show cowardice by taking them out.
Reaching off to her side, she hooked a finger to the hood and dragged it across the carpet to her. Brushing her long blonde hair back, she gathered it into a tight pony tail and sealed it with a band. Leaving her neat fringe hanging forward, the captured locks were slipped through the aperture at the back of the contrivance.
Slotting her skull into the back plate, she rested her crown to the ground, holding it in place, half her head resting in the tight basin. Running a finger around the seam, she checked that no hair was laid across it, ensuring there were no obstructions. Satisfied, she took up the face plate, the smooth exterior contrasted by the image of her own countenance pressed to the interior, as though she had worn it as molten metal that had since hardened.
With a deep breath she lowered it formally into place, opening her lips and accepting the harsh gag. The chin of the mask was too tight, forcing her to bite fiercely to the ball, to stifle herself completely to permit application. The edges met and with a slight jiggle, the locks entered each other and sealed. Held in darkness, the cold metal to her face, she let her hand reach out and draw the box close. The sound of its rhythmic growl revealed its location even through the smothering folds of the helmet.
Ilona’s finger rested upon the button and she waited, letting the sense of occasion pique, wondering what it would be like, how potent pleasure could be. With a soft push, there was a barely audible click and the Elysium Sceptre was alive about her.
It suddenly felt as though every cell in her flesh were being dragged out and shredded by razors. Her body was churning and burning, every nerve screeching in a level of woe that no human had ever encountered. The suffering washed through her and replaced her. It was everything. Her sight became a flashing rolling screen of colour and light, her thoughts lost to her as all that she became aware of was excruciating agony. The box had been upside down, she had set it to pain by accident.
The spasm of her arm had her release the button instantly, but that moment of shock was an infinity of time where she was most horribly tortured. She could not believe she was capable of sustaining such horror, that her body did not simply explode, her heart erupt from her chest, her mind boil in her skull.
Laying in her darkness, even with the end of the dose, her body continued to twitch and spasm. Riven with aftereffects, her nerves reacted to residual pockets of energy that had been lodged within her, such terrible distress being a thing that could not easily be forgiven or forgotten. Her abdomen was wet, the ground beneath her soaked, her bladder having been set loose by the severity of the Sceptre’s strike. Weeping, she felt nauseous, and rolling over, she retched, her stomach seeking to expel anything as it reacted with wrenching spasms.
The realization that the implements of the Elysium Sceptre were gone struck quickly as the effects of the pain subsided further. Reaching up, she felt her own face, and then her naked loins, the plugs gone.
Opening her eyelids, she fund she had trouble focusing, and then when she could see, she had to check again, rubbing her eyes to make sure she was not mistaken.
She was not in error, the room was a derelict ruin, torn by small fires, by mildew and rot that had the wallpaper hanging from it in ribbons, the ceiling a blistered pane. Thick cobwebs were strung like silver hammocks across corners and furniture. The curtains were shredded and torn, pockets of mould growing across them. The floorboards were bare, torn and pock-marked by water and damp.
There was a shuffle of movement and she whirled to see a group of indistinct forms immediately disappear, seeming to pass through the very walls about her. Ilona grabbed her temple and cleared her thoughts, screwing her eyes shut and denying what she was seeing.
The smell that reached her nostrils returned her to feelings of sickness. It was the smell of flesh, torn and opened carcasses, of burning, putrefaction and decay. The stench was overpowering and made her head swim from its sheer savagery upon her nostrils, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. Yet she could almost taste the odour, so strong it was.
She had always suspected that her appetites would get her into trouble, but nothing like this. What the hell was going on?
Wreathed in the sense of safety and disassociation that one feels when dreaming, she lifted herself to her feet and swayed, her head giddy. Shaking it to cast off this dizziness, she focused tightly and made for the stairs, touching the walls as she went, the edges of her sight still blurred from her ordeal, her mind in confusion.
It was as though her home had been deserted and misused for decades, burned and soaked, left to moulder. It felt real, more than real, the textures were vibrant, seeming to pour through her fingertips when she touched something.
She grabbed the front door and opened it, letting the subdued, hesitant light from beyond wash in. Stepping out, she gasped, her breath breaking into random sporadic gasps and pants, her mouth agape, eyes wide in shock.
It was a sight that confounded and pained her senses, offending her very essence. The vaguest hint of what was, still remained, the buildings, the streets, the city, but all of it was changed radically. The towers of glass and steel were now crooked evil monoliths that gouged at the sky, crafted from bone and obsidian, liquid blood, flowing within the rough confines of the structure. The stone beneath her was blasted and cracked, splashed with ancient gore. A faint slightly incandescent mist wafted across the insane paving, weaving through in curling tendrils, creating a hazy middle distance that cloaked the scene. Sporadic bursts of black lightning curled in the depths, spitting from street to street in chaotic discharges.
Mutant growths and contorted plants burst through split seams, their thorned stems and cruel blooms dripping trails of a foul smelling, viscous ooze. The sky itself was a churning maelstrom, and although no breeze touched the ground, it heaved and rolled under a whirlwind, pouring itself in circles, an incarnadine vault streaked with purple and black. With consummate hatred it spat jagged arcs of opaque lightning through itself and occasionally at the ground below. The ferocity of the storm was beyond any comparison and certainly no legitimate phenomenon. The trespassing towers were often licked, being caressed by jagged forks of black power as they seemed to shift in response to the kisses, the very fabric of their crippled bodies flinching.
The awful sight hurt her eyes, for it was somehow more real than normal. It seemed to extend into new dimensions of depth and within these new dimensions of structure were locked the facades of her own world. When she strained her sight, she could start to make out the rough hints of her home realm - the shops, the people passing as ghostly images, moving right through her as though she were an ethereal spectre to them, unseen and unfelt. What was happening, where was she? What manner of hellish domain was this? Had she gone mad? Was she lying on her carpet, gibbering, locked in this fantasy of her own devising?
The population of this bleak and ghastly location were everywhere. Ragged figures, hollow of eye, drawn and wasted, their hair was tattered and wild, their eyes full of sorrow. The damned wretches skulked in the shadows, terrified, keeping a paranoid gaze upon everything, terribly afraid of some as yet unapparent danger. And the results of this nameless hazard were also prevalent, for the damned had been tormented greatly.
Some hung from the sides of the buildings, locked within barbed cocoons, their flesh garrotted by it. They hung inverted, crucified with spikes, dangling to decorate the scene as organic baubles, their flesh wracked by harrowing. They groaned softly, whimpering with despair at their irretrievable fate and the practiced indifference of their helpless fellows.
Occasionally the bolts from above wove between the streets, viciously afflicting the entrapped victims of this place, making them scream in agony. Their bonds carried the scathing current through their every fibre, increasing the effects with such conductive scourging, and from making the victim buck against the ragged spines of their stems.
The eyes of all regarded her often, flicking to her and then to the terrain once more, scanning for the tyrants who had abused their nomadic ranks so meticulously. She took a step towards the loitering forces, but those before suddenly shied away, afraid, fearing her merest touch and even her proximity.
A piercing screech rent the air, the sound a collective howl from an inhuman throat. The denizens of this place suddenly bolted, fleeing as though for their very lives. Scrambling across the twisted rooftops, jumping walls, they vanished into the nebulous shadows and skulking mists.
In the merest moment the entire area had changed from an area replete with timid hints of life to one that appeared deserted, leaving silence to hold unchallenged rule.
Backing up, her spine bumped the wall and she slithered aside until she could enter the alleyway, cowering amongst the twisted refuse. Where ordinary cans held mundane rubbish, these were steel drums, spiked and rusted, filled with rent offal. The viscera glistened with its moisture, slithering slightly as something inside changed its position, and maggots danced across the top.
The echo of the cry was still fading into the tentative silence when the sound of hounds started to gather in potency, rising from the quiet. They were not ordinary growls, but snarling snaps, sounds of fury and hate, and she knew then that the dogs were far from normal.
When the ghastly sound started to rise higher and get closer, icy shudders played along her spine, goose bumps flicking up across her skin. They were coming for her. Dear God, they were after her, they were on her trail.
Turning with her heart stamping in her chest, she broke into a hectic sprint, pounding her feet to the shattered street, the noise of her pursuers repelling her from them. The sound grew more intense, rising until it seemed they were all around her.
Each breath that she snatched was like ice in her throat, her limbs fluttering with sensation as though circulation were being corrupted, her body having trouble fuelling and allowing her frenzied sprint.
Dancing down alleys and across threatening streets, she collided with a stack of drums, sending the cargo of sundered right hands out in a lazy avalanche which dropped heavily onto her side, her breath escaping as a single croak.
Shaking in endurance from the pain flaring through her, she fought back the heat and slipped onto all fours, pushing herself up so she might continue her escape.
Looking up, she could see the glaring eye of the hole far above, a spotlight upon her, making her feel exposed and more afraid because of this added conspicuousness.
Stepping into the darkness, she closed her eyes tight and counted to twenty, letting her pupils expand and serve her more adeptly in this Stygian pit.
She was in some sort of tunnel system, the rough walls winding off in either direction. They were man made, with a high ceiling, their styles a continually changing mishmash of influences from every aspect of human history and imagination.
A soft red light seeped through the maze, coming from no discernible source, defying logic with its very existence, revealing only moribund decrepitude. Every surface was cracked and broken, dripping water, or holding out a solid ring of metal, a loitering hook, or line of chain. The floor was dotted with chunks of rubble, pockets of water, pieces of chain and barbed wire, skeletal remains, rent flesh and strange unnatural growths of mould by eldritch looking plant life.
A ferocious scream rent the quiet of her immediate vicinity, making her jump and mimic it. A weight slammed to her and she was cast to the floor, landing awkwardly and rolling into a clumsy sprawl. There was a flash of movement and the air was punched from her chest when something landed astride her supine form. When she saw it in full, she was left speechless, choking on her own unformed words.
It was roughly human, crafted with the physique of a voluptuous female, her body slender and exquisite of form. Her skin was albino white, without blemish or mark. Her head was slightly elongated, held within a tight mask of black leather that left her with tapered eye slits, the featureless orbs within glowing with iridescent power. A large brazen nose ring hung free and her lips emerged through a sculpted slit, the smiling teeth wicked and pointed. A mane of spiked hair ran her skull, reaching high and falling down her back, the tresses tangled and unnaturally silken. A heavy metal collar, rimmed with dissuading spikes was fixed firmly about her throat, the front of it hurling a strap down her chest, crossing her cleavage and grabbing her slender leather thong. Thigh boots clutched her legs, and tight gloves rolled up to her biceps, the fingers breaking open to expose clawed fingers, not just long nails, but lethal talons that emerged from her digits, curved and razor edged. Her nipples were ringed by brass, her breasts pert and shaking with her racing breath. In spite of magnificence, and because of it, the woman was a terrifying sight.
Before Ilona could react further, the feral female grabbed her arms and flung them up, exploiting her debilitated state. With a pelvic jolt she skipped forward, her belly filling Ilona’s gaze before the leather thong was smothering her. Settling across her face, the woman grabbed the intersection where her forearms crossed, the strength deployed to hold them astounding. The mere single grip painfully crushed the flesh and denied her any movement at all.
Straining to breathe through the restrictive fabric, Ilona fought to gain air, being suffocated by the woman’s sex, the smell of her like sulphur and sweat, bringing caustic tears to her eyes.
Kicking her legs, Ilona tried to break free, unable to do so, only stare at her tormentor as she was regarded with glowing impassive eyes, the demonic female drinking in her distress, feeding on it.


Author Information

Aliens, strange worlds, fetish based writing.

 

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