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  1. #1
    Join Date
    Feb 2006

    Temple of the Torture Goddess — Part 3 (fff/ffm)

    Part 3 of “Temple of the Torture Goddess” is here.

    Our story thus far…

    Part 1

    Part 2

    Once again, many, many thanks to all the readers and those who dropped me a comment.

    The description in the title says fff/ffm. While Part 3 features a big tickling scene that fits that description — and it’s hot, too — there is a whole mess of things happening in this “chapter,” including some tickle talk, a little softcore sex stuff, and… well, I’ll call it cheesecake/cartoony/reverse bdsm, where it’s all excruciating pleasure in this fantasy world rather than the opposite…

    Now, on with the show…


    Temple of the Torture Goddess — Part 3

    Was put back to work in the laundry the next day. They gave me a similar uniform to the other slave apprentices, tight grey shorts and, for me, a matching tank-top. The top was small, and would often ride up on me as I worked, exposing a few inches of stomach and waist. This proved an apparently irresistible target for the girls, who never resisted the opportunity to sneak in a quick tickle while the overseer’s attention was elsewhere, though really the fabric was so sheer and tight that they hardly needed exposed skin to provoke a reaction from me. I was poked, prodded and pinched often — always on the sly, of course. The buxom blonde who had caused me problems when I first arrived seemed to have singled me out for whatever reason, though she was hardly the only one.

    But I was too cautious to strike back. There are power structures among every group, even groups of slaves, and I was uncertain where they were here. The victim of my retribution could be the leader of a gang, or a favorite of Wynne, and I’d wind up in even more trouble. Also, I sensed that as the newest addition to the laundry room, I was being watched. So I tried not to draw attention to myself, tried to just do my work and endure as best I could the quick tickles and teasing touches. Talking was forbidden while we worked (though whispered conversations happened all the time) and when we broke for refreshment, I kept myself to myself. After our shift was over, we were fed again and lead back to our cells.

    Each night, Foxy would visit me to continue her lessons. I would be stripped and bound the same way I had the first night, and Foxy would torment me while instructing me on the Order of Zyriss.

    Just as she had told me, Foxy always granted me mercy at the end of her nightly sessions. I wasn’t sure whether that aspect of her visits actually succeeded in making me less distracted, as she put it. Spending my days in the hot and steamy confines of the laundry, surrounded by all those beauties in their revealing outfits, got me very worked up, and that was before Foxy’s torments. Perhaps it would have been worse without Foxy’s mercy. Either way, I was always grateful to her, sometimes pathetically so, whatever shame I felt at my abject cries of gratitude was overwhelmed by my desperate need.

    In the laundry, the guards and overseers, lead by Mistress Wynne, kept a pretty close watch on us. There were three methods used to discipline the slave-apprentices and keep us in line. The first were those wands that I had gotten a small taste of the night I was captured, short rods with an egg-shaped bulb at the end that delivered a jolt of intense ticklish pleasure. The shock could daze you, instantly making you collapse and leave you gasping and trembling. The guards carried them, and I came to find out there were three settings with increasing levels of intensity. On the highest setting, Foxy informed me, you could come and pass out almost instantly, depending on where on your body you were struck. But the wands needed to be “re-charged” regularly; they more they were used, or the higher their setting, the more quickly they lost their potency.

    Wynne and the other overseers also used a flail, a flat, wide strap maybe a foot long. Though not nearly as intense as the wands, the flail definitely made you jump. Being struck once with the flail left you with a strong ticklish tingling sensation that lingered a bit. Being struck twice made you twitch and quiver. By the third blow you’d be fighting back giggles and shimmying as vigorously as any dancer… With each strike, the tingling seemed to spread throughout your body, becoming stronger each time, until it felt like your skin was covered with tiny little ticklish pinches. The feeling lingered, driving you to distraction and often leaving you a little wound up. Most of the time, Wynne was able to get her point across with a quick strike or two, usually laying the flail across your butt or upper thighs, though once I saw a girl receive five blows; she twitched and giggled for a while afterwards, rubbing her butt as she tried to get the tingling to subside.

    But even at their worst, the wand and the flail were nothing compared to the pleasure whip. I hadn’t been there long before I saw a demonstration, and understood why it terrified the slave-apprentices…

    It started when a disturbance broke out on the far side of the room, raised voices and angry cries echoing off the high ceilings. The noise attracted the attention of the girls, many pausing in their work to look up, some even making their way towards the commotion. I heard Wynne shouting, saw several guards converging on the source of the outcry.

    I hung back, peering through the press of bodies surrounding one of the shallow pools on the other side of the chamber. In a few moments the crowd of onlookers made way for a pair of guards hauling a tall, black-haired girl with wide hips and heavy thighs. She was strong, snarling and furiously fighting her captors. A powerful leg lashed out and knocked one guard to the ground. It took four guards to finally subdue her. They stripped her, then rapidly bound her wrists together to a beam above her head. She was stretched out, standing on her tiptoes, still kicking and fighting as they backed away.

    “You’ve been warned, Darlene, but you can’t seem to control that temper of yours,” Wynne snapped. She held a pleasure whip in her right hand, letting it lazily uncoil. “Looks like you need another reminder…”

    Wynne held her whip arm out to the side then brought it back. The pleasure whip unfurled behind her. She let fly, only swinging her arm about half-way through the horizontal arch before halting, and using a deft flick of her wrist and the whip’s own momentum to do the rest. The pleasure whip sizzled through the air. It’s very tip struck one of Darlene’s fleshy buns, a “tap” that sent circles rippling across her skin. Darlene gave a sharp gasp and cry. Her back arched, toes scrabbling as she tried to get her balance.

    Before the flesh on Darlene’s butt had stopped quivering Wynne brought the whip over her shoulder and struck again, a full stroke this time. With a loud crack the lash struck Darlene across the small of her back and coiled around her waist, the end flicking her belly and chest. Darlene let loose with a full-throated scream, swinging forward in her bonds, legs kicking frantically.

    All the slave-apprentices watching had been witness to a whipping before — most had probably received a few themselves — and their faces betrayed a wide range of reactions, from fear and pity to nervous titters. One girl stared, transfixed, her hand over her mouth and eyes wide. Another girl hugged herself and gasped. Yet another watched with one corner of her mouth curled upwards in a smirk.

    “Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!” Darlene’s scream as the third stroke hit her made my ears ring. Her body seemed frozen in an arch, head thrown back. She lost her footing and swung back and forth, moaning. “And since we all know Darlene is such a tough chick,” Mistress Wynne said,” she gets one more…”


    Another scream, spasms making Darlene jerk and twitch. She just hung there, swinging by her wrists, head down and her long black hair hanging in front of her face. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. I thought for a moment she had passed out, but her moans and gasps revealed she was still conscious. Mistress Wynne had called her a “tough chick,” and I thought Darlene must be pretty tough indeed to endure that. But she was in a terrible state, groaning and twitching as her toes dragged back and forth on the floor.

    “Back to work!” Wynne cried. “Unless anyone wants to join her…”

    The slave apprentices dispersed, hustling back to their tasks, eyes avoiding Mistress Wynne. Darlene hung there for a little while longer before the guards got her down. She couldn’t stand, so they dragged her off to a corner of the room somewhere. I learned later that the pleasure whip was used almost exclusively for punishment — it was simply too powerful, and while it inflicted intense suffering, the suffering was too intense to last. Most didn’t last more than three strokes.

    I found this out a little later, of course, once I had been more assimilated into the slave-apprentices. For my first several days, as I said, I kept to myself. It wasn’t until mealtime on my third day that I suddenly found myself with a companion. With a “Hi there! Mind if I join you?” someone sat next to me on the bench I occupied. With a start, I recognized her as the sloe-eyed brunette named Raisha who had tortured me when I was fist captured in the orchard. “Easy there, didn’t mean to startle you,” she laughed, noticing my reaction. “I’m Raisha.”

    “I remember you,” I said.

    “I thought you would,” she said. She had a low, throaty voice with a lazy drawl to it. The combination of the voice and her heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression that she was just about to go to sleep or had just woken up. “Don’t be mad at me for that,” she went on, her tone friendly. “I didn’t really have a choice. I would have been punished if I refused.”

    “You seemed to enjoy it,” I said.

    “Well, I won’t deny that. You sort of seemed to enjoy it, too.”

    I didn’t respond to that. I couldn’t help noticing as she sat next to me that she wasn’t wearing the halter top. Though distracting, this wasn’t that unusual. Several brave souls went topless sometimes due to the heat. Raisha went on: “”So what’s your story?” She gave me a quick wink and then, her voice low, “I don’t really believe you came here to join the order.”

    “I did.”

    She shrugged. “Don’t want to tell me? That’s okay. You don’t trust me yet.” She didn’t sound offended at all. “But I come in peace. I can tell you’re nice, and it’ll be easier for you here if you have some friends.”

    “Where are your friends?”

    “I’ve got a few. Not too many down here, though. I’m usually upstairs, in the kitchens or wherever, but sometimes they send me down here.”

    “Upstairs? Are you a servant?”

    “Sort of. I’m a slave-apprentice, just like you. I’m usually with Mistress Lafay’s entourage. But I’m kind of… special. I’m a dancer.”

    “A dancer?”

    “Uh-huh. There aren’t too many of us at the Temple. You may have noticed, but that sort of ‘skill’ isn’t really appreciated here. They frown on most things that are just for pleasure. It doesn’t really fit in with the Goddess. That’s why I don’t have many friends. Most of the other slave-apprentices play tough, and sort of look down on it. They think it’s too soft. But some of the priestesses recognize the need. We often entertain guests, for one. And there are other uses for us…”

    “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would they… umm… frown on that?”

    “Hasn’t Mistress Foxy begun her instruction yet?” She chuckled.

    “Well… yes… but I’m not sure I really get it…”

    “Picture the most evil tickler you know, the girl who is totally relentless when she gets hold of someone,” Raisha said. “You won’t tell me about where you come from, but every village has a girl like that. Maybe she’s tickling you to make you do something, or tell her something. Maybe she wants your submission or humiliation. Maybe she’s punishing you. Or maybe she’s doing it for her own fun. But whatever the reason, she just has a way of finding all your weaknesses and going after them mercilessly, never letting up until she gets what she wants. Here, it’s like that, but much worse. It’s not pleasure or confession or submission they want, it’s just suffering, the longer and more horrible the better.”

    I glanced at Wynne, overseeing us, and thought of Mistress Foxy and several other mistresses and priestesses I had seen. They were intimidating, stern women, but I couldn’t understand how they could feel nothing when they had a helpless, giggling victim in their hands.

    I said so to Raisha. “I can’t believe they take no satisfaction or enjoyment from torturing someone.”

    “Other than the satisfaction of pleasing the Goddess, you mean?” The tip of Raisha’s mouth curved upwards in a smirk. “Well, there’s some discussion about that. Some feel taking a little personal pleasure from tormenting others allows them to share in the joy the Goddess feels. Others are more strict in their beliefs; your mistress is one of them. Maybe you two can talk about the finer points of the doctrine one night.” She chuckled.

    “So why were you sent down here?”

    “Mistress Lafay sometimes feels the need to put me in my place. She said I was being too sassy.” She shrugged and grinned. “I’ve had worse punishments. I was hoping I’d see you when they sent me down here.”


    “Like I told you, you seem nice, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me for tickling you that first night. I didn’t really have a choice, and if our positions are ever reversed, you must do the same.” She smirked at me and lowered her voice. “Though from the way you’ve been stealing glances at my tits, I don’t think you’d need a lot of encouragement.” She brushed my arm with one naked breast and laughed when she felt me give an involuntary shudder. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to tease. If it would help you to trust me, I’d let you play with them, but that’s not allowed here.”

    One of the overseers called out, and the workers all began getting up. “Guess break time’s over,” Raisha said. “I’ll see you later. And be careful. There are all kinds of randy mischief-makers down here.”

    Raisha was still down in the laundry room the next day. It seemed warmer than usual, and so I took off my shirt to try to relieve some of the heat. I was working close to one of the guards, and I thought her proximity might dissuade anyone from messing with me. I was scrubbing away when a general hubbub made me lift my head up. I thought another fight had broken out, but instead the guards seemed to be rounding up the slave-apprentices, herding us towards the large open space under the gallery. As I made my way over with the others, I noticed Foxy standing there next to Wynne with another trainer and a detachment of guards.

    There were hushed whispers and nervous glances from the other slave-apprentices. I sought out Raisha. “What’s going on?” I whispered.

    “They’re looking for subjects,” Raisha whispered back. “Try not to draw attention to yourself…”

    “How many?” I heard Mistress Wynne say.

    “Just three,” the other trainer answered. She and Foxy scanned the group of us as we shifted about, trying not to catch their eye without looking as though we were trying not to catch their eye.

    Suddenly, I was goosed from behind. Caught by surprise, I squawked and jumped, crashing into the girl in front of me. I lost my footing and fell forward, landing on my stomach in front of Foxy and Wynne. “Oh, good! We so rarely get volunteers,’ Foxy said. As a pair of guards hauled me to my feet I got a quick glimpse of the face of the buxom blonde among the throng. She gave me a quick wink, letting me know that she was the one who had goosed me.

    Two other slave-apprentices were plucked from the crowd, a slim black woman with really long legs and a petite red-head. We were marched out of the laundry room and up a flight of steps. A short walk down a number of narrow, featureless corridors brought us to a sizeable room with a high ceiling and plain white walls. Only two things about the room were at all remarkable. The first was that one half of the room was about four-feet higher than the other, with several shallow steps leading from one level to the next. The second was that the lower half of the room had a row of three X-frames all in a line, facing the raised section.

    The guards quickly and forcefully secured us to the X-frames. I was in the middle, the slim black woman on my right, the red-head to my left. My breath quickened in anxiety over what they had in store for us. I took some small consolation from the fact that we hadn’t been stripped, though in just my shorts I was exposed enough.

    As they finished strapping me in, a small group of women entered the upper-half of the chamber. I counted seven — six dressed in the dark yellow robes of the acolytes and one priestess in red.

    “As Devotees of the Goddess, our skills as torturers are feared throughout the lands, and prized by the powerful,” the priestess said to her acolytes. “We are often called upon to interrogate criminals, to extract confessions, and in such work, we may not have the leisure to please Zyriss in the purest, most ideal way, as we are all pledged to do…”

    Foxy walked up close to the black girl on my right and whispered something to her, then she approached me. I gave an involuntary start as she leaned in, her mouth less than half-an-inch from my ear. “Peaches,” she breathed, before moving on to the red-head.

    The priestess was still addressing the acolytes. “But all suffering pleases the Goddess, no matter its purpose or motivation. We cannot always choose our tools or our circumstances, but we can always give the Goddess what most pleases her — the intensity of the suffering we inflict.”

    She turned to look down at the three of us strapped to the x-frames, snapping her fingers for attention. “Acolytes,” she said. “Let me remind you of the challenge: each of these slave-apprentices before you have been given a word; your task is to extract their word from them before the sand dial against the wall behind them runs out.”

    The three of us on the X-frames turned our heads, trying to get a glimpse of the dial, but it was just out of my line of sight.

    The priestess continued: “Once the word is given, the torture stops for all three. Your tools are your fingernails…” The red-head gave a little moan. “… and you may not touch your subject below the hips. The punishment for any acolyte who makes her subject pass out or come before the sands run out is three lashes with the pleasure whip.”

    Foxy spoke up. “And the punishment is the same for the slave-apprentice who confesses before the sands run out.” My companions groaned and gasped.

    At a word from the priestess, three acolytes walked down the steps to stand in front of us. The woman before me had long, straight light-brown hair and was dressed identically to the other acolytes. Her brown eyes roved over me as she waited for the challenge to start.

    “You may begin,” the priestess said.

    Almost instantly, the walls were reverberating with shrieks from the red-head — a quick glance showed her tormentor had gone right for her armpits, an attack that seemed to have already driven her to near hysterics. The slim black woman was also laughing, though not quite as crazily as the red-head, but before I could see what was being done to her, I was distracted the light stroke of fingernails right below my ribs. I gasped, my body arching. The fingernails lightly scratched their way up my rib cage. I twitched and jerked, snorting back giggles. My tormentor wore a neutral look on her face; only the smallest bit of a smile touched her lips, while her eyes seemed to take in my every movement.

    Her fingernails expanded their range, skittering up and down my ribs and sides, creeping this close to my armpits before skittering back down. I couldn’t hold back the giggles anymore.

    Beside me, the X-frame rattled as the red-head’s butt slammed against it, her hips bucking, hair flailing. “Nyaaahaaahaaa! Noohohoho!” On the other side of me, the black girl was pleading between bursts of laughter. “… ahaaahaaahaa!… pleee-heee-heeezz!… hahaha… I’m so-hoho t-ticklishhh… heeheeheee…!”

    “I’m going to make you laugh even harder than them,” my tormentor said, her voice almost kind. “Why don’t you tell me the word now, before things get really bad for you?”

    Giggling, I shook my head. By now her nails were flickering all over my torso, spidering across my ribs and up and down my sides, scratching my belly and chest. Her touch was maddening, coaxing a steady stream of giggles out of me, but what she was doing to me wasn’t that bad. I had no idea how much time was left, but my two companions sounded like they were getting it far worse than I was. I thought I could probably hold out.

    “Just tell me,” she said. “You know I’m going to make you. You seem very sensitive, and I’ve just started…”

    No-ho-ho… eee-heee-hee…

    The laughter of the black woman reached a new volume, drowning out the teasing words of my torturer and even the screams of the red-head. “WAAAA-HAAA-HAAA-HAA…! OHH GAWDDD…! N-N-OTT THERE! OHHHOHOHO…!”

    My tormentor turned to look, her fingernails still moving across my body. I looked, too. The black woman had her head thrown back, eyes and mouth wide, body bowed on the X-frame. Her blonde tickler was making little circles in the black girl’s belly button with a fingernail… “YAAA-HAAAHAAA!!!…AAHAHAH!!… IT’S COINS!… COINS…!!!! PLEEEZE STAHPP!”

    The acolyte spun from her wailing victim and rang the bell, turning towards her mistress and the other women with a look of triumph on her face. “It’s ‘coins’,” she said. “I made her say it.”

    Though I was still being tickled, I felt hope surge in my chest… only to deflate as I saw Foxy’s smirk. “No.”

    The observers laughed at the stunned look on the acolyte’s face. “You’ve been tricked, Marla,” the priestess said. “Fortunately, you still have some time left…”

    Marla whirled back to the X-frame. “Smart girl, hmm?” she said. “I’ll show you how I treat smart girls…” Her brief respite over, the black woman exploded with laughter once again as Marla’s fingernails scrabbled across her belly, rapidly zeroing in on her sensitive naval…

    “Don’t you dare think of trying to fool me like that,” my tickler said, an amused glint in her eye at the trick that had been played on Marla. “I’m far more patient than Mistress Marla. If you try to lie to me, I’ll know.”

    The relentless, light skittering of those fingernails on my sides was faster now, with a little more pressure, and they never left my skin. “…eee-heee-heeeheee… noo-hoo-hoo… hee-hee… stahahapp…”

    “You’re not even going to be able to make up a word,” she said. “You’ll be laughing so much, you’ll only be able to think of the truth.” She danced down my ribs and then my waist. When she got to my hips, she traced her nails along the line of my shorts and then moved up to my stomach. I writhed on the X-frame, giggling crazily as her fingernails scratched and swirled over that ticklish area. My belly trembled as much from her devilish touch as from the laughter she wrung from me. One of her fingers slipped into my bellybutton, the nail lightly tracing circles along the sides. “Yeeeeheeeheeeh… no-hoho!… no more…!” I screeched, bucking wildly. Tears of laughter trickled from the corners of my eyes. As I thrashed in ticklish agony, my blurry vision caught a glimmer of the priestesses scarlet robes, and I screamed out the only word that came to me. “… ahaahaaah!… it’s red… RED… RED!!!…”

    A little chuckle came from my tormentor. “Didn’t I just tell you not to do that? Didn’t I tell you I know when you’re lying?” Her fingernails quickly scratched up my sides again, across my chest, then zipped out to my elbows. “Do you fear the pleasure whip that much?” she said, drawing her nails down the undersides of my arms. “You heard your mistress — just three strokes. Three strokes, and it’s done. But this…” She reached the hollows of my armpits, tickling me with quick scratches and flicks. “… you don’t know how long it will go on. The sands can move so slowly, especially when every moment of this feels like an eternity…” Her voice remained calm and measured, even as her fingers worked furiously. She indeed sounded like she had all the time in the world to tickle me crazy.

    Aaaahahahaa… oh-ho-ho…!!!!

    While the fingers of one hand poked and twirled under my arms, the fingers of the other hand went zig-zagging across my chest. When they flittered across my nipple the sensation sent my body violently arching off the X-frame. My eyes went round, high-pitched “whoops” of laughter spouted from my lips. “Wooo-hooo-hoo-hoo!… Oooo-hooo-hoooo…!”

    “I think you’re ready to tell me what your word is now, aren’t you?” my acolyte said. Both sets of fingers were playing with my nipples now, gently scratching and flicking and tormenting them with ticklish plucks.

    I squealed in helpless abandonment, thrashing and wriggling on the X-frame. “Yeee-heheheheheheheeee…! D-d-don’t… PLEEEEZZZ!…

    “I know your poor body can’t take much more of this,” she said. “I know what it’s doing to you. Just tell me and I’ll stop tickling you. Tell me and I’ll make you come.”

    It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. But my reason had long since crumbled under her relentless fingers. Sweet relief was all I could think about, and I grasped at the one thing that promised an end to the excruciating torture.

    PEEECHEZ!” I screamed. “PEEECHEZ!”

    “Are you sure?”

    “… aaahaaahaahaaaa!… yes! …yes! … ppeechezz!…”

    The tickling stopped. Sweat trickled down my heaving chest and belly; underarms and nipples still tingled from her assault.

    The bell rang. “It’s ‘peaches’,” the acolyte announced. Mistress Foxy confirmed it. The torture ceased for the two women on either side of me. The red-head slumped in her bonds, her head hanging down, breathing heavily and moaning with relief. On the other side of me, the leggy black girl continued to laugh, even though Marla was no longer tickling her.

    “Excellent,” said the priestess, smiling as she addressed my acolyte. “You were very patient and methodical, not intimidated by the time limit. Impressive.”

    “Thank you Mistress. I hope the Goddess is pleased.”

    The woman who had tickled the poor red-head spoke up: “I know this one was on the verge of telling me,” she said. “I still had some time left, too.”

    “Yes, I thought she would be the first to break,” the priestess said to her. “But you did quite well, too.”

    Marla snorted, crossing her arms under her chest. She gestured towards my acolyte with her chin. “She had an advantage. Her slave had more bare skin.”

    “That shouldn’t matter, Marla,” the priestess said. “Your impatience was the problem. You need to tame your fiery nature, and learn how to better read your subject’s responses.” The priestess smiled at the black woman. “And who are you, little trickster?”

    “I’m T-tamela,” she said, her giggles subsiding.

    “Well, Tamela, such resourcefulness deserves a reward. Mistress Foxy, please see that this slave-apprentice is suitably rewarded — extra sweets, perhaps, or a lighter work load for a day. I leave it up to you.”

    “I will take care of it, Mistress.”

    The priestess led her acolytes and apprentices out of the room. When they were gone, Foxy ordered the guards to take us down. All three of us collapsed to the floor, still gasping from our ordeal. The guards hauled Tamela and the red-head to their feet. Staggering and stumbling, the slaves were taken away, each flanked by two guards helping to support them.

    Foxy gestured at me. “Strip him and put him back up there, facing the other way.”

    Still worn out from my ordeal, I offered no resistance as the guards quickly removed my shorts and secured me to the x-frame. I faced the wall, my back to Foxy and the guards.

    “Since this is your first taste of the whip, I will be merciful, just this once, and only do your back,” Foxy said. “Perhaps imagining what it might feel like on your front, or your entire body, will strengthen you in the future.”

    The pleasure whip snapped, the first stroke lashing across my naked back. I hadn’t known what to expect. Everyone, from the slave-apprentices to the acolytes, feared being put to the lash, but only now did I really understand why. The nerve endings along my back, where the whip had struck, were instantly aflame with an intense, searing pleasure. My eyes popped open in astonishment; my body jumped on the x-frame; a scream ripped from my throat. Tendrils of tickling, teasing, mind-bending pleasure spread throughout my body like a grass fire.

    The whip cracked again. My ass and the backs of my upper thighs went up flames. I flung my head back, howling like a banshee. “AIIIEEEEE!!!!” The sensations that consumed me were devastating, like each individual nerve ending was being pleasured by its own personal harem. It was unbearable, the kind of pleasure that made you want to crawl out of your skin, that drove you mad. I was pressed against the x-frame as if I could crawl through it or over it, babbling for mercy. The tiny part of my mind that still worked thought I would certainly pass out or even come before the final stroke, but that bliss was denied to me. The third stroke went right down my spine, the feelings so intense that my body seemed to go into shock. For a second or two I hung there, body tense, mouth open, before I let loose with another ear splitting shriek. Then I shook and trembled all over, screaming, wailing, twitching…

    I felt the bindings on my ankles and wrists unfasten. The guards caught me as I slid off the frame, breaking my fall to the floor. I lay there, trembling and moaning, still conscious but unable to speak, to move. For a short while they left me there. I heard the click of Foxy’s boots on the floor, saw through blurry eyes as she left the room. Not long later the guards picked me up, one under each arm. I was dragged down corridors and steps until my senses recognized the smells, sounds, and steamy air of the washing chamber.

    They threw me into one of the shallow troughs. I came up sputtering. I heard the laughter of the other washers in the crowded chamber, amused at my dazed and naked state. Their laughter only increased as they watched my attempts to stand up. Mistress Wynne’s voice cut through the laughter: “Back to work!”

    The attention of the room seemed to turn away from me, the normal hubbub resuming as I tried to gather my strength. After a few moments, I felt someone push against my back, grunting as they tried to get me to sit up more. Hands took my still weak arms, draping them over shoulders. Bodies pressed against either side of me. With some effort, I was lifted up. I found myself with my arms around the shoulders of Raisha and Tamela, the girl I had been tortured with. The red head was there, too — it was her who had been pushing against my back. Mistress Wynne stood in front of us. “Is he of any use?” she said.

    “Not until he recovers a bit, Mistress,” Raisha said.

    Wynne considered me for a moment. “Some sinomon tea would help,” she said.

    “A small dose would do wonders, Mistress,” Raisha said. “I’m sure he’d be grateful.”

    Mistress Wynne told Raisha to follow her. The red-head stepped in to take Raisha’s place, and she and Tamela sat me against the wall a few yards away. Raisha came back just a few moments later with a small vial in one hand. She paused at the edge of the round washing trough they had hauled me out of, reached in to grab a handful of cloth soaking there. “I think this sheet is ready to dry,” she said to the other two women. “Why don’t we hang it up…” I could have sworn I saw her wink. Tamela and the red head pulled the dripping sheet out of the water, spread it out, and slung it over one of the drying bars. Like a curtain, the hanging sheet blocked my view of the rest of the room, leaving me in my own secluded little spot. Water from the wet cloth spattered on the flagstones a few yards away.

    Raisha came striding around the cloth, smiling at me. She knelt down, and I reached for the small vial she was holding. “Not yet,” she whispered, putting it aside. “First this…” She slipped off her pants and straddled my lap. When I cried out in surprise, she silenced me with a deep kiss. “Quiet,” she whispered, her hips grinding. “We have to be quiet…”

    When I moaned she kissed me again, rolling on top of me. Then she clasped my head to her soft bosom, muffling my cries as I shuddered. “Don’t pass out on me,” she breathed. “Don’t… eeeeppp…” She squeaked, little tremors shaking her body as well, holding me to her. Her grip relaxed and she let out a long sigh. I breathed out a thank you.

    “Ummm… just something to take the edge off,” she said. She gave me a peck on the cheek before getting off me and slipping her shorts back on. “And now… drink this.” She pulled the cap off the small vial Wendy had given her.

    “What is it?”

    “Sinomon tea,” she said. “That’s what it’s called, anyway. It’s a minor restorative, just something to get you on your feet and put a little pep in your step. Bottoms up…”

    I swallowed the drink; it went down very easily. “You’ll feel better in a little bit,” Raisha said. “Just stay back here for a bit and come out when you’re ready. Your shorts are right here.”

    She left me behind the curtain. In a few minutes, my head clear and my limbs not quite as wobbly, I got my shorts on and slipped out from behind the curtain. Like Raisha had promised, I did feel better — not quite 100%, but well enough to tackle my duties in the laundry. Raisha kept her distance, sending me a few friendly winks, and all the other workers didn’t tease or pinch me anymore than usual.

    Though the sinomon tea got me through the rest of the day with ease, by the time I was lead back to my little room, I felt worn out. I lay down on my little bed, sleep coming even faster than usual.

    But my ordeal that day didn’t exempt me from Foxy’s nightly visit. As she steadily ran her fingernails up and down the soles of my feet, she continued her instruction. “A true devotee of the Goddess is always in control of their passions,” she said calmly, “You broke first today because your tormentor found your weaknesses and overwhelmed your reason. Perhaps she offered to let you come, and you submitted, even though you knew she was not going to do that. In the same way, Mistress Marla failed because she became angry at being tricked… You must remember these things during your training. Do you understand, slave?”

    “… aaa-haa-haa-haa… y-yess, missssstressssss… hahahah…!

    “And you must think on this, too,” she said. “You may feel your ordeal today was especially cruel, but in truth it was nothing. Imagine being helpless at the hands of a devotee when there is no sand dial, nothing you can say that might bring you some respite… think of that the next time…”

    She continued to talk while she tickled my soles, but as terrible as it was, I was hopeful about one thing — my little interlude with Raisha seemed to have escaped her attention.

  2. #2
    Join Date
    Sep 2014
    Victoria, Australia
    really intriguing series jmills! looking forward to the next installment to see where this goes :-)

  3. #3
    Join Date
    Feb 2006
    Pardon the “self-bump”…

    First of all, thanks for the reads and comments on part 3 of “Temple of the Torture Goddess.” It is MUCH appreciated.

    But now, if anyone is interested in a little visual aid for part 3…

    As I posted down the thread in part 1, for “Temple of the Torture Goddess,” I reached out to several artists on the TMF and elsewhere to commission images for some (not all) of the chapters. Most of these are portraits of characters. I didn’t ask the artists to read the section — mostly I gave them a short description of what I was looking for, and we went from there.

    The image for part 3 comes from an artist named JessyDee. She does 3-D “Superheroine in Peril” kinda work. Some stuff in that genre is a little harsh for me — my tastes run FAR more cheesecake. That said, who doesn’t love powerful, larger-than-life, impossibly curvy superheroines, and Jessydee’s stable of gorgeous characters rings my bell. Jessydee isn’t “one of us” here on the TMF, though she said she did do a “tickle torture” image once on commission (unreleased, unfortunately).

    Here’s her Deviantart page. She was very easy to work with — very accommodating, and went above and beyond the "call of duty" in the images she did for me.

    So… in fitting with the harsher tone of some “superheroine in peril” work (though not necessarily JessyDee’s), I asked JessyDee for an image of big trouble-maker Darlene getting a taste of the “pleasure whip” from Mistress Wynne. In the story, Darlene is naked, but I asked JessyDee to let her preserve a little modesty by giving her some shorts. I LOVE the results, especially Darlene’s outraged look. And her outrageous breasts. And her big thighs.

    Hope you enjoy it.


  4. #4
    Join Date
    Jan 2005
    Lakeland Florida
    Great story again I can’t wait for the next installment

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