index


Message-ID: <52619asstr$1134483002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: webskin@spamhole.com
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 12 Dec 2005 21:56:55 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: G2/0.2
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: g43g2000cwa.googlegroups.com; posting-host=213.78.123.108;
   posting-account=ON8wuw0AAAC2AMfW6i8g8glwZLuxe_gt
Subject: {ASSM} Prize of Pain
Lines: 419
Date: Tue, 13 Dec 2005 09:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

The firm will despatch a copy of the will to the Domina for final
approval, and then prepare the tickets for the winner's final journey
to the Heart of Darkness. The first stage will take him to London, the
second onto the underground, where he is to board the final, deserted
carriage of a train pulling out of a station on the Bakerloo Line
sometime between one and two o'clock on a weekday afternoon. There is
no third stage of the journey: somewhere deep beneath the capital's
streets, as they bask in summer sunshine or are pelted with autumn
rain, are sprinkled with spring blossom or veiled in winter snow, the
train will make a brief, unscheduled stop. A single door of the final
carriage will slide open and the winner will step forth onto the
platform of a deserted station lit only by the dim lights of the
carriage itself. He will have arrived, and his heart will pound or his
stomach roll with fear as the train hums back into life and slides off
down the tunnel.

When the sound of its engine and the glow of its lights have finally
dwindled to nothing, he will be standing in perfect silence and
darkness and he may jump with fright and surprise when, with shocking
suddenness, the floodlights of the station snap on and powerful
speakers crash into life.

'Vurm!' they will scream in a crisp, cruel, Middle European accent.
The station will be echt 1930s, gleaming with art deco tiles, benches,
and cigarette dispensers, its walls hung with bright, vivid posters
advertising drinking chocolate and holidays in the Western Isles, and
directly in front of him will be a single vast copy of Harry Beck's
newly designed map of the Underground.

'Vurm!' the speakers will scream again, then: 'On your knees,
Vurm!'

Boots will begin to crash along some distant corridor as the echoes of
the speakers go grumbling down the tunnel on left and right, and the
trembling winner will go down on his knees, sweat beginning to trickle
under his clothing and the tie he has been ordered to wear. The boots
will crash nearer, nearer, and the Domina's handpicked
Empfangkommando or Reception Squad will be on the platform itself,
dressed in one of Her seasonal uniforms: white leather with black
collars, caps, and hems for spring; yellow leather with red collars,
caps, and hems for summer; purple leather with orange collars, caps,
and hems for autumn; and black leather with white collars, caps, and
hems for winter, which begins much earlier and finished much later in
the Domina's subterranean realm than in the world above. The women
will advance on him, boots thudding in unison on the bare, swept
platform, and it has been known for some exceptionally susceptible
winner, overcome with the glory and majesty of the six-foot,
broad-shouldered, full-breasted Walküre of the Reception Squad, to
come in his trousers as the weight of their heavy boots and bodies
shudders in the platform beneath his knees.

But whether the new arrival has come in his trousers or not - and his
cock is always erect, straining upwards in worship of the Squad -
when they reach him the questioning will begin. The thirteen members of
the Squad - the Kommandantin herself, her two chief lieutenants, her
three sub-lieutenants, her six sub-sub-lieutenants, and her batwoman
- will circle the kneeling figure on the platform, the Kommandantin
standing directly in front of him, her two lieutenants directly behind.
However tall he is, however important and well-known in the world
above, however strong and broadshouldered, he will seem to shrink
within that circle of sturdy female flesh, so tall and imposing, strong
and broadshouldered, are the members of the Reception Squad themselves.
Seen at kneeling height their gleaming black boots will seem to cage
him in like the polished ebony posts of a prison stockade. The
Kommandantin, her cold eyes all-seeing beneath the peak of her cap,
will gaze down upon him. Sometimes he will return her gaze, looking
upwards almost eagerly at her frigid blonde beauty; more often he will
be staring straight ahead, his gaze directed at her thighs, or his head
will be bowed and he will be shivering with fright. In these cases she
will order him to look up, her voice harshly, shiveringly,
ball-tighteningly flavoured with the braying vowels and crisp
consonants of German.

'Look up at me, vurm,' she will say. Or: 'Vurm, raice your
eyes!'

A shudder will run through him and he will obey, raising the
lust-and-fear-heated brown or green or grey of his eyes to the glacial
blue of hers. A sneer will cross her pale, strong, perfectly sculpted
face, and she bend forward, lowering her face to his, and, at a range
of a foot or less, demand: 'Paperss.'

Her narrow lips will form the P's of the word so vigorously, so
energetically, that he will feel puffs of her cool, cigarette-spiced
breath against his face, and perhaps even specks of her spittle. His
own mouth will fall open uncertainly, and he may frown or begin to
shake his head, but before he has chance to speak she will bark:
'Your papers! Vhere are your papers?'

She will allow him to get a word out edgeways now - a stuttered
'I?' or 'But?' - then will interrupt as he tries to carry
on, snarling into his face at even closer range, specks of her spittle
hitting his skin and eyes, making him blink.

'I do not vant vords, I vant papers! Of vords zere is no reqvirement!
Only of papers!'

He has no papers, of course: the orders on the instructions he received
a week or fortnight before and revealed by his filthy sperm-spilling
will have been quite explicit. He is to make the second stage of his
journey to the Heart of Darkness without any form of identification.
Even his clothing, which must be brand-new and anonymous, is to be
stripped bare of labels. He is to arrive only as a male, a
representative of his sex bearing no individuality, no history, with no
credentials but the cock and balls between his legs, the unsightly hair
upon his body and face, and the androgenic chemicals circulating in his
bloodstream.

'Your papers! Vhere are your papers?'

By now the chemicals in his bloodstream will have been joined by the
adrenaline of fear and excitement and the hormones of sexual arousal.
If he has chosen, in his extremity, to produce whatever he can to meet
her demands, his hand will shake as he reaches inside his jacket, but
he will stiffen into immobility as the Kommandantin orders:

'Shtop. For vhat are you reaching?'

'M- my wallet,' he will quaver.

Her eyes will widen with anger on his and he will hear a murmur of
outrage run around the circle of pale, perfectly sculpted faces that
look down on him.

'Disrespect,' the Kommandantin will hiss. 'You vill address me by
my title or zuffer zevere conseqvences. Repeat. For vhat are you
reaching?'

'M- my vo- my wallet, Mistress.'

'No!' the Kommandantin will bark, making him jerk with surprise.
'Zat is not my correct title. I am' - and the pride and arrogance
with which she announces her name sometimes make the interrogatee groan
involuntarily with worship - 'I am ze Kommandantin.'

She will pause, then say:

'Zo. Answer. For vhat are you reaching?'

'My wallet, Kommandantin.'

She will straighten from him and her leather-gloved hand will swing
out, palm upward.

'Giff.'

His hand will move again, reaching inside his jacket, reappearing with
his wallet. He will place it on her palm, then watch, licking his lips
nervously, as she raises her hand and stares at the wallet, the sneer
returning to her face.

'Examine,' she will demand, holding her hand out to one of her
lieutenants. The lieutenant will take the wallet from her palm and fold
it open, riffling through its contents, tugging out and retaining the
notes of the two or three hundred pounds that he has been ordered to
bring with him, then holding the wallet upside-down and shaking it.
Then she will let it drop to the floor, perhaps striking the
interrogatee's face as it falls.

'Giff,' the Kommandantin will order. The lieutenant will hand her
the sheaf of banknotes taken from the wallet.

'Vhat,' she will ask, shuffling through them, 'is zis?'

'M-- money,' the interrogatee will answer.

'Zen it is not papers,' the Kommandantin will say. It will be a
statement, not a question, but the interrogatee may nod and quaver,
'Yes.'

'Zen it is not reqvired.'

Again it will be a statement, not a question, but the interrogatee may
again nod and quaver, 'Yes.'

'Zen it is useless,' the Kommandantin will say, and before the
interrogatee can nod or reply she will have pushed the notes back into
a wad, lifted them, and, as she repeats the word 'Useless', torn
them in half with a single flick of her wrists. The power, the strength
evident in the action will make some of the interrogatees whimper again
with worship; and they whimper yet again as she places the two halves
of the torn wad over each other, making a thicker wad, and tears this
in half too with a single flick of her wrists, repeating:
'Useless.'

She will then release the torn notes, allowing them to fall from her
fingers, fluttering downwards, veiling the face of the interrogatee,
landing across it, sliding off to the floor of the platform. Sometimes
one or two pieces - the face of the Queen or Elgar or Sir John
Houblon - will still be clinging to his face as she looks down and
passes judgment on him.

'You haff no papers. You are under arrest.'

Some of the interrogatees will wet themselves at this point, and it is
a sorry day for them as the trickle of their piss, having worked its
way down their inner thighs to their knees, soaks through the cloth of
their trousers and emerges to begin trickling across the platform
towards the track. The ominous silence of the remaining members of the
Squad will suddenly deepen in tone and began to vibrate subsonorously
with outrage, and the gaze of the Kommandantin will blaze ferociously.
Her narrow lips will compress, a strong arm will swing up and a
leather-gloved hand point steadily at the trickle of piss. Then she
will ask quietly: 'Vhat is zis? Vhat haff you done?'

When some of these men are asked to account for their filthy behaviour,
some can no more than squeak and a few will even faint, falling forward
across the boots of the Kommandantin herself. She will glance around
the circle of grim faces, meeting eyes that have already, so perfect is
the training and interpersonal sympathy of the Squad, raised to meet
hers, and then snarl a single, long-anticipated order. The Squad will
slide their pre-lubricated truncheons from the long leather holsters on
their hips, and when the Kommandantin 's two lieutenants have
detrousered the fainted man and poised him, arse up, on the cold
platform floor, they will have formed themselves into an orderly queue,
ready for the gang truncheon-rape that now commences.

But if the interrogatee does not wet himself when the Kommandantin
announces his arrest, and most do not, the rape must be justified more
elaborately. If the Kommandantin sees from his eyes that his joy-fear
has not overwhelmed him, her eyes will lift from his, and she will nod
curtly, as though responding to a raised hand or signalling for a hand
to be raised.

'Ja?'

'Frau Kommandantin,' one of her Sturmtruppine or female
storm-troopers will begin. 'You will remember that She has expressed
concerns about smuggling.'

The Kommandantin will blink at the mention of 'She', then nod when
the Sturmtruppin has finished speaking.

'Ja. It is so. Shtrip him.'

Six strong hands will fasten inexorably on the kneeling interrogatee,
lifting him bodily to his feet, beginning to strip him with brutal
efficiency. Cloth will tear as they grow impatient with the buttons of
his trousers and they will slap stingingly at his hands as he tries to
conceal the unmistakable evidence of his arousal: the stiff cock
revealed when they wrench his trousers and his underpants down.

'Shtop,' the Kommandantin will say. The strong hands will let go of
him and the members of the Squad will step back, leaving him bare below
the waist, his trousers and underpants pooled around his ankles, his
tie half-undone and collar awry, his jacket tugged half-off so that his
arms are pinioned.

'Vhat,' the Kommandantin will ask, pointing at his stiff cock with
a blunt, gloved forefinger, 'is zat?'

He will moisten his lips, perhaps, start to open his mouth, but the
voice of one of the Sturmtruppine will cut across his.

'It is a cock, Kommandantin.'

The Kommandantin will turn her head to the speaker, raising a thin
blonde eyebrow.

'A... cock? 'Verstehe nicht.'

'Ein Hahn, Kommandantin. Das ist für "ein Schwanz".'

'Ach, so. So we haff here,' the Kommandantin will say, turning her
head back to stare at the interrogatee's cock, 'zis semi-mysical
creature, "ze cock".'

'Yes, Kommandantin.'

'Very goot. A cock. But more zan zat. A shtiff cock. It is evidently
classifiable as a concealt offensive veapon. Ja?'

Murmurs of 'Yes, Kommandantin ' will run around the circle of
Sturmtruppine.

'Very goot. Zo we haff now two charges. He does not possess papers,
and yet he does possess a concealed offensive weapon. Recommence ze
shtripping.'

The three Sturmtruppine assigned that watch to stripping newly-arrived
contestants will step forward again and complete the stripping,
dragging his jacket off, tearing his shirt off so roughly that buttons
fly off it ahead of him, one or two of them hitting the Kommandantin
's uniform and bouncing away to join the others on the floor.
Finally, mockingly, one of them will march in front of him and gently
unknot his tie, then slide it from around his neck, drop it to the
floor, then take her place with her two companions back in the watching
circle of Sturmtruppine. He will stand naked, the focus of twenty-six
cold blue eyes, his clothes scattered on the platform around his feet,
buttons of his torn and discarded shirt lying on the platform for feet
ahead of him.

'Hands down!' the Kommandantin will sometimes bark, if he tries to
inch his hands forward over his stiff cock. 'Ve are unconcerned wiz
your modesty, und shcarcely see vhy you should take zis trouble at
concealment. Now, turn yourself. Goot. Now, open your legs. Lift your
balls. Turn again. No, you must hold your balls up. Yes. Und shtop.
Now, hands on head. Clasp zem. Turn again. Goot. Now, lift your foot.
Left foot. Turn on ze shpot. Left foot down. Right foot up. Turn on the
shpot. Right foot down. Goot.'

Then she will turn to her Sturmtruppine.

'Fräulein,' she will say. 'Do you consider he iss clean?'

There will be nods and crisp Ja 's or 'He is clean' 's, but one
of the Kommandantin 's chief lieutenants will raise her gloved hand.

'Leutnant?' the Kommandantin will say.

'On the outside, Kommandantin,' the lieutenant will begin, 'I
consider he is clean. We have seen nothing in his armpits, under his
balls, on the soles of his feet. But we have not yet checked between
his toes or in his ears and mouth.'

The Kommandantin will nod, a cold smile lighting her face for a moment.

'Zat is correct, Leutnant. Ve haff sinned by omission. You vill
please to repair it.'

The chief lieutenant will stamp her boots together, saluting crisply,
then step forward out of the circle, nodding two sub-lieutenants with
her.

'You,' the Kommandantin will say, staring coldly at the
interrogatee. 'Raise your left foot again.'

As he raises it one of the sub-lieutenants will seize it, dragging it
higher, almost throwing him off-balance, and strong fingers will tug
his toes apart, searching between them for contraband. Then the hand
will release the foot and the interrogatee will put it gratefully back
to the floor of the platform.

'Nothing, Fraulein Leutnant,' the sub-lieutenant will say in a
clear, steady voice, a tone above that of the lieutenant, who will nod
and say, 'Nothing, Frau Kommandantin ' in a clear steady voice, a
tone below that of the sub-lieutenant, a tone above that of the
Kommandantin, who will nod and say, 'Right foot' in her clear,
steady voice, a tone below that of her lieutenant, two tones below that
of her sub-lieutenant.

The interrogatee will lift his right foot and it will seized and
examined in the same way, before 'Nothing, Fraulein Leutnant' from
the sub-lieutenant and 'Nothing, Frau Kommandantin ' from the
lieutenant and 'Ze ears' from the Kommandantin.

 From each side strong gloved fingers will seize and examine his ears,
pushing them forward, then back, then folding back the tragus and
anti-tragus from his earholes. A gloved fingertip will probe but be too
large to enter. It will be withdrawn and he will hear gloves being
tugged off; then the fingertip will return, ungloved, but still be too
large.

'Vhat is ze problem?' the Kommandantin will ask.

'My finger is too large to probe his ear, Frau Kommandantin,' the
lieutenant will reply.

'Who hass ze Ohrensonde?' the Kommandantin will ask.

'I, Frau Kommandantin,' one of the sub-lieutenants will say.

'Examine zem,' the Kommandantin will say, and the ungloved hands
will withdraw from his ears as the boots of the lieutenant rap closer
to him.

'Hold his head,' the lieutenant will order, and the ungloved hands
will return, locking his head between their cool palms. After a moment,
one of his ears will be seized and something hard, cold, and narrow
will slide into his earhole, probing brutally, making his eyes water
with pain, then slide out.

'Left ear: nothing, Frau Kommandantin,' the lieutenant will
announce. Her boots will circle him, returning on his right, and the
ear there will be seized and brutally probed.

'Right ear: nothing, Frau Kommandantin,' the lieutenant will
announce.

'Very vell. Now ze mous,' the Kommandantin will say. The
interrogatee will start to open his mouth, but he will be too slow and
strong ungloved hands will seize his jaws from both sides, dragging it
up and down, tugging his lips wider as blunt bare fingers slide along
his gums and palate and lift his tongue. Then, wiping her fingers on a
handkerchief before dropping it to the floor of the platform, the
sub-lieutenant who examined the interior of his mouth will turn to the
Kommandantin and report, 'Nothing, Frau Kommandantin.'

'Goot,' the Kommandantin will say. 'Ve haff finished. Ve vill'
- but another hand will evidently have been raised in the circle
surrounding the interrogatee, for she will pause and ask, 'Ja, vhat
is it?'

A sub-lieutenant will cough deprecatingly and say: 'Frau
Kommandantin, if you please, we have not examined all his orifices.'

'But vhat remains? Ve haff examined mous und ears. Nipples are too
small, also eyes. Vhat remains?'

'There's his urethra, Frau Kommandantin. And his rectum.'

'Ureesra? Rec-tum? Vhat are zese?'

'His urethra is his piss-tube, Frau Kommandantin. And his rectum is
his arsehole. Or rather his arse-chamber.'

'Piss-tube? Arse-chamber? Ach, ich verstehe. Seine Harnröhre. Und
sein Mastdarm. Seine Arschkammer. Nicht wahr?'

'Yes, Frau Kommandantin.'

'Very vell. I sank you for your diligence and devotion to duty. I vas
mistaken: ve haff not yet finished. Zere remain his ureesra und his
rectum. His piss-tube and his arse-chamber. Leutnant Anna, if you
please to examine zem.'

(C) Wendy Swanscombe 2005

http://www.wendyswanscombe.com/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+