Hell to Heaven

At seven o' clock that evening they loaded the wooden crate into the back of the van. The whistling from the tube was almost constant, a testimony to how much their captive was suffering from her now ten hours of confinement, but they were in high spirits as they drove downtown to the club Rob had visited the night before.

It was called the 'Whipping Post' and true to the name, it was a fetish club. The previous night, enraptured by the spectacle of a nubile young Asian slave being whipped by her master, he had sought and obtained permission to bring his own pain slave for a similar pain session. Having told them his slave would be arriving in a crate, the rear loading dock (usually used for deliveries of alcoholic drinks for the patrons) tonight was prepped for the delivery of one pain slave belonging to Master Rob and his brother, Master Chris.

The two men insisted on handling the crate themselves, off loading it with a lot of noise and fuss so no one would hear the whistling from the breathing tube and put it in a small room off the main stage until the time came to push the box onstage.

The masters and their slaves quieted at their tables as the announcer called Master Chris and Master Rob. Together the two men wrestled the box into the center of the stage. Chris unlocked the clamps holding the lid down, then unlocked the side clamps and swung the front of the box open, revealing the foam inside.

There was a murmur from the audience when they saw what looked like a solid block of hardened foam. Rob opened his pocketknife and started to cut through the packing foam until he had exposed the girl inside. Seizing the slave's arm, he dragged her out of the box until she flopped limply on the stage, her tortured limbs unable to support her body.

At the sight of her the murmuring quieted. Chris sneaked a peek out into the audience. Some of the watchers seemed titillated, but many of them looked just plain shocked at the slave's thin body, the bones protruding under her skin, the obvious scars as well as the fresh weals left from the bullwhip they had struck her with now twelve hours before.

The man who had whipped his Asian slave there last night sat at one of the front tables, shaking his head slightly as he looked the slave over critically. Chris saw the disapproving look on his face and felt a chill at the sight of the cold glare the man gave him. He suddenly knew this was a really bad idea.

But they couldn't just pack up and go home. It was too late. Rob, completely oblivious to the stranger's coldly disapproving glare, was already well on the way to getting things set up. He had used the ropes hanging from the ceiling to tie their slave's wrists and run another loop around her neck. Then he winched her up using the available pulley system. Thus, hanging by her wrists and neck a foot off the floor, she was accessible.

What Rob was planning on doing would make any frenzied kicking extremely undesirable, so he'd taken the precaution of bringing weights, regular barbell weights, to tie to the slave's ankles. He heard the agonized whistling from the tube as the weights tugged the slave downward, putting strain on the stick-thin wrists and neck and smiled to himself. She was going to be in a lot more pain by the time the night was over. He was going to show the assembled masters that he was better at causing pain than they were. The whipping the silver-haired man in the front row had given to his Asian slave here last night would seem tame in comparison.

He brought out his best black leather whip, a long fiberglass rod wrapped in thin strips of leather in which sharp pieces of metal were embedded and swished it a few times experimentally. It was too bad he'd had to deprive her of her senses for this trip, he mused; normally he loved hearing her cry and see her flinch when she heard the whip in the privacy of her steel prison. But they couldn't have anyone ask her questions about her willingness, or worse yet, give her a chance to escape him.

He walked around her once, looking at her. With her legs pulled downward by the weights, the stitches around her anus were hidden, though he could see the wasted muscles of her buttocks clenching because of the pepper in her anus. That would be a good place to start. He raised the whip and brought it across her ass.

The hanging body jerked as the first bright red welt was laid across her buttocks and a high-pitched whistle came from the tube hanging from the black leather hood. Good. She felt that one. He proceeded to lay more welts, across her shoulders, back, buttocks, thighs, calves, then he switched to her front and started with the slave's shoulders, belly, groin and thighs, saving the breasts for last.

By the time he stepped back and prepared for the first stroke to her tits, she was writhing in her ropes. Her wrists were raw and he could see blood where the tight ropes had cut into her skin. Her neck was showing the same signs. The whistling from the breathing tube from her screaming was almost constant and the barbells were moving from the involuntary jerking of her feet. Under the hood, her jaw was working, the leather rippling as she desperately tried to get her mouth free to scream her agony, to plead for the torture to stop. Ignoring all of that, he raised the whip and lashed it across the top of her breasts.

The whistling from the breathing tube escalated to the sound of a teakettle and a bright red bleeding line appeared across the tender flesh as the slave started struggling frantically in the extremity of her distress. And to everyone's horror, her right hand came free of the ropes holding it, leaving her hanging by her neck and her left hand. She grabbed the rope around her throat, scraping frantically at it with her free hand.

The weight on her ankles was too much and she was quickly strangling on the rope around her neck.

The silver-haired man at the front table jumped out of his chair and sprang onto the stage. Grabbing the slave's waist, he held her up, supporting her so the rope wouldn't strangle her as he called to Rob, "Cut her down! She'll die!"

Rob seemed to be in a daze. The man turned, cursing impatiently and called for help. Another man from the front row jumped onto the stage, getting out a pocketknife as he did so. In a trice the ropes were cut and the slave fell limply out of the first man's arms onto the stage. He went to his knees beside her, experienced fingers loosening the laces at the back of the hood and pulled it off.

Under the hood, the slave's face was blue and it was immediately obvious to anyone watching that she was choking on something. He quickly unfastened the penis gag, trying to pull it out. He realized what the problem was when the strap came away from her face without the huge plug of rubber. In her agony she had chewed through the base of the plug and separated it from the strap. When she further struggled it had begun its slide into her throat.

She was gagging on it. Even with the tube now removed and the hole blocked by the strap, she hadn't been able to get air at all. The man jammed his fingers into her mouth, grasping the base and yanked it out as fast as he could. She took a huge gasp of air and started to scream.

He yanked the plugs from her nose, freeing both her airways, and then reached down and pulled off her blindfold. Her eyes were streaming tears of agony, which blurred her vision and he could see from her dazed look she didn't know where she was or who he was.

"Please…" she gasped out, between her agonized cries, "Please, make it stop, Master, please, this slave hurts, it hurts, it cannot take anymore, please, Master, make the pain stop!"

He pulled the plugs out, enabling her to hear and said, "What hurts, little one? What hurts?"

For the first time the slave's eyes focused on him and he saw the pain and misery and terror in her eyes.

"Ass," she babbled almost incoherently. "Pepper…in my ass, please…"

Only then did he realize that she was groping frantically between her legs. He looked down and was stunned and shocked to see the stitches holding her anus closed. And what was obviously a string hanging from the sewn-shut opening.

"What has happened to you, little one?" he said quietly. "Please, lie still. I will do what I can."

He turned to Rob and Chris.

"What have you done? Don't you know what you've done is horribly dangerous and could have killed her?" he held out his hand. "Let me have those suture scissors, at once."

Chris spoke first. "We—we didn't bring any, we don't have any," he said. "We would have just slit the stitches with a knife when we got home."

"The anus is filled with bacteria and even the tiniest cut could get infected and cause her unbearable pain and require a course of antibiotics," the man thundered at the two brothers, completely enraged. "You're idiots who don't even know what you're doing!"

He took a deep breath.

"Since you obviously don't care about her, from the way you treat her, I'll buy her from you. One thousand dollars as she is, right now."

Rob looked like he was about to protest, but he saw the look on the other man's face. The guy who had cut the slave down still held the knife he'd used and looked quite ready to commit murder with it. He nodded quickly.

"Done."

The silver-haired man picked up the still weakly-gasping slave in his arms as if she weighted no more than a child (which in fact she did).

"You can get my address from the club master. Send me her slave papers and contract by tomorrow or I will make things extremely unpleasant for you."

He turned to the slave.

"Little one, you are mine now. We will go home and I will care for you properly."

"No—no, this slave must stay with its masters, it belongs to them, it will be punished if it does not…" and the slave dropped to her knees, trying to crawl back to Rob and Chris. The man prevented her, taking her arm and pulling her to her feet.

"You are mine now, little one. You will not see them again."

He swept her up in his arms and strode away, toward the door, leaving the club patrons milling about in confusion.