A prestigious manor outside London, now a fetish-themed resort, is rumored to have been the final meeting place of the infamous Hellfire Club before being disbanded in the
late 1960s. Rumors that Allison is about to discover painfully are far from the truth. The Hellfire Club didn’t disband. It simply went back to its roots.
Consisting of a master and 12 followers, each wears a hooded, red-cloaked outfit with a matching red mask to hide their identities. The only one who knows their true identities
is the master. Earlier in the evening, they feasted and partook in pleasures of the flesh with some of London’s most exclusive escorts, but now is the time for the evening’s
Grand Finale, the brutally torturous death of a beautiful young woman. Tonight, at their monthly meetings, one of the twelve was chosen at random to be tonight’s executioner.
Glancing over her shoulder at the executioner with his heavy leather whip, Allison felt a delightful twinge of fear. No stranger to the cruel caress of the whip, she felt her
heartbeat quicken, knowing that the pain would only enhance her submissively masochistic desires.
Sitting at the center of the table, the master raised his hand, “Gentleman, place your wagers.”
The first to speak up, “I wager 300 EU that Allison faints by the twentieth stroke of the whip.”
Another wagered 100 EU that Allison would not last past the tenth stroke.”
They all placed their wagers, with the master going last. “This one has spirit and stamina. I’ll wager 800 EU that Allison will still be conscious after 50 strokes.” Then,
gesturing to the waiting executioner, “50 strokes of the whip or less if Allison loses consciousness before that. You may prepare the victim.”
The executioner pulled the pedestal-mounted handle, activating the overhead hoist. The chains slowly pulled my arms upward until I briefly stood poised on the toes of my high
heels before the hoist lifted my feet from the floor.
Swaying slowly as I dangled from my wrists, I looked over my shoulder as the executioner raised that brutal-looking whip.
Thwack!!!
A sharp gasp escaped my lips as that whip left a searing explosion of pure agony across my shoulder blades. Only 49 to go.
Thwack!!!
Make that 48.
Thwack!!!
The Hellfire Club’s members, anonymous behind their hooded cloaks and masks, watched in amazement as the whip caressed Allison’s back 50 times without as much as a single
scream. The master was thoroughly intrigued by Allison’s darkly masochistic ability to take pleasure in her suffering. By his count, she had four orgasms during her whipping.
He almost ordered the executioner to give her another 50 strokes but, at the last moment, reconsidered. After all, Allison might not survive 50 more, and her dying prematurely
would spoil tonight’s Grand Finale.
Glancing at the waiting executioner, “It’s time to prepare Allison for tonight’s Grand Finale. Secure her wrists, then her elbows behind her back.”
Lowering me back to the floor, the executioner unlocked the wrist restraints and secured my wrists behind my back with a leather strap. A second leather strap around my elbows
quickly followed, forcing my shoulders to arch as it drew my arms back until my elbows touched.
“Allison, outlawed in the fourteenth century by both the church and state, the Iron Maiden is one of the most brutal and obscenely torturous instruments of execution ever devised.
Intended solely for the execution of women convicted of adultery or promiscuous behavior, death within the Iron Maiden is never a quick or easy demise. In our experience, a woman
takes at least 48 hours or longer of unrelenting agony before she dies upon its spikes.”
Pausing to signal the executioner, who immediately grasped Allison’s bound elbows, “For tonight’s Grand Finale, the esteemed members of the Hellfire Club have voted that you,
Allison, should die within the torturous confines of the Iron Maiden.”
The executioner was surprised by how little Allison resisted as he led her toward the Iron Maiden, almost as if she was far more intrigued than terrified.
I stared at the Iron Maiden with a horrifyingly fatalistic sense of almost eager masochistic anticipation. I was terrified of dying, and yet there was something I found intensely
erotic about the Iron Maiden.
Reaching the Iron Maiden, the executioner pressed its concealed door release, causing the front of the Iron Maiden to swing open several inches. Grasping the edge of the Iron
Maiden’s door, he opened it, revealing its rows of diabolic, razor-sharp spikes.
As the Iron Maiden’s spike-lined door slowly swung open, I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of all those razor-sharp spikes. A delightful sensation of overwhelming fear passed
through me as I noticed the two spikes waiting to pierce my eyes.
Again, the executioner was surprised by Allison’s lack of resistance. At this point, most women panicked, desperate to escape their torturous fate, but not Allison. As he watched,
Allison willingly stepped onto the Iron Maiden’s stone pedestal and eagerly turned her back to its claustrophobic interior.
The executioner stepped forward, placing his hand just below my breasts, and firmly pushed me back into the Iron Maiden’s interior before tightly securing the Iron Maiden’s waist
strap. Other straps quickly followed around my ankles, knees, thighs, and neck to helplessly secure me within the Iron Maiden’s diabolically terrifying interior.
I didn’t believe this was happening. They were going to torture me to death within this brutal Iron Maiden. Talk about the irony. Dying a torturous death within an Iron Maiden,
especially dying merely for the amusement of anonymous strangers, has always been one of my darkest erotic fantasies.
The master could see the unexpected look of almost eager anticipation in Allison’s eyes as the executioner finished securing her within the Iron Maiden.
I watched in mounting horror as the executioner slowly closed the Iron Maiden. Those terrifying spikes gradually swung closer, with their sinister promise of two days or more of
unrelenting agony.
I knew there was no escaping my slow and diabolically torturous demise, and yet, as those slowly approaching spikes pierced my eyes an instant before the others pierced my body, I
screamed in horror, my high-pitched scream echoing off the chamber’s ancient stone walls as the Iron Maiden locked closed.
The master smiled beneath his face-concealing mask at the sound of Allison’s desperate screams of agony. He knew from experience that she would only be able to scream for an hour or
so before she lost her voice. After that, the only sounds she’d utter would be delightfully faint groans and cries of agony during the long hours before she finally died.
In the end, Allison lasted almost 57 hours, just short of two and a half days before she finally finished bleeding to death within the Iron Maiden...