It was a cold, rainy night when Ingrid, clutching her raincoat and umbrella, rang the doorbell, where a small but exclusive celebration occurred.
Thanks to some dark web research, I knew what they had planned for me. A slow, agonizing death in the authentic fourteen-century iron maiden they kept
in the sound-proof basement torture chamber of their host’s mansion.
Ringing the doorbell again, I already knew the party was in full swing, ready to set the stage for my arrival. All that remained was the evening finale,
me going to my agonizingly brutal death within that iron maiden, all for the perverted amusement of a select group of sadistic druid cult members.
By now, they were downstairs, changing into ceremonial robes as their host answered the door.
Smiling as he opened the door, “Good evening, you must be Ingrid. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Our night’s grand finale wouldn’t be the same
without you. Can I take your umbrella and coat?”
Handing him my umbrella, I unbuttoned my raincoat and slipped it off my shoulders.
Smiling evilly as he took in my breast-revealing, tight leather bodysuit, he added, “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.”
Smiling back, “Well, one should look her best, especially if she’s going to die for your guest’s amusement.”
Pausing to look at me in surprise, “You knew that you were going to die? And still, you came?”
Smiling back, “Well, being a thirty-four-year-old high-end Manhattan escort, I knew my working days were ending. So, when I saw your request on our brothel's
website, I decided I might as well take the chance to live out my darkest erotic nightmare, death in the iron maiden. So here I am.”
Glancing over at the cluttered dinner table, “I see I’ll have an audience. All the better since I will be your cult’s sacrifice to this year’s summer solstice.
However, I’m wondering why tonight and not tomorrow on the actual day of the solstice?”
Pausing to hand me a glass of wine, he replied, “Death in the iron maiden is never a quick or easy affair. It’s rare to find a willing sacrifice since most women
survive within the maiden for between twenty-four and thirty torturous hours before they finally die.”
I felt a terrifying shiver of almost eager, masochistic anticipation as his words sunk in. Twenty-four to thirty hours of unrelenting agonizing torture before I
die. Honestly, I’m surprised most masochistic pain sluts with a death wish weren’t lining up at their door.
Pausing to take a sip of wine, I replied, “So, the solstice is less than twenty-four hours away. Shouldn’t we go downstairs and get the celebration started?”
Refilling my glass, he replied, “There’s no rush Ingrid. So long as you’re dead by sunrise on Friday, the ancient gods will accept your willing sacrifice.”
“Let's head downstairs. I’d hate to keep your cult members and the ancient gods waiting.”
Taking another sip of wine, I handed him back the glass, “The closer to thirty hours before I die, the better. Even in death, you can never have too much of a good thing...”