Alone in one of the countless dungeon torture chambers of the Mesopotamian Underworld, Whitney felt the disturbingly familiar mix of
excitement and utter terror coursing through her mind as she stared at those horrifyingly sharp looking spikes that ominously lined the
open doors of the Iron Maiden who’s deadly confines Whitney found herself securely shackled within.
Even now, over a year after that fateful night when Whitney willingly accepted Ereshkigal’s offer of eternal youth and beauty, even
knowing its dark and terrible price, sunset still came as a shock. One moment Whitney was relaxing by one of the lake sized pools that
dotted the grounds of Ereshkigal’s Underworld palace, the next she found herself once again trapped deep within the blood soaked depths
of the Mesopotamian Underworld’s brutal dungeon torture chambers doomed to spending yet another long night dying in agony merely for
the amusement of the death goddess Ereshkigal.
It was then, that Whitney heard the distinctive click of steel tipped stiletto heels approaching out of the darkness as the sound of
Ereshkigal’s amused voice filled her mind, “Good evening Whitney, as you can see I’ve arranged something diabolically torturous for your
amusement tonight. Death in the Iron Maiden never comes easily or quickly, but death in this particular Iron Maiden is far worse, you
see this Iron Maiden is haunted.”
Tasting a sudden hint of disbelief in Whitney’s thoughts, “Did you know that while first created by the Romans almost two millennia ago,
it wasn’t until the late fifteen century, in the dungeon at Nuremburg castle that one of the most important Iron Maiden innovations
occurred? The executioner of Nuremburg created the first Iron Maiden with adjustable spikes, the interior surface of what he referred
to as the Virgin was lined with closely spaced threaded holes allowing him to tailor the Virgin’s deadly spikes to each victim’s
physiology, it’s said that the Virgin was the first Iron Maiden who’s victims lasted longer than a day, making the Virgin the most
feared method of execution of its time.”
Sensing the sudden up swelling of raw terror coursing through Whitney’s mind Ereshkigal continued, “The executioner of Nuremburg’s
innovative Virgin and many of his other diabolically torturous inventions caught the interest of my ghostly envoys and when he died
we struck a bargain, rather than allow his soul to wonder the smoke swept plains of the Underworld, I infused his essence directly into
the metal of the Iron Maiden you’re now standing within, there it experience unimagined erotic pleasure with the same intensity and
duration as the suffering this Iron Maiden inflicts upon its victims.”
Smiling at the delightful taste of utter horror coursing through Whitney’s mind, “It might amuse you to know Whitney that when the first
of my pleasure slaves started going to their deaths in this Iron Maiden they usually lasted about two days. However, over the long centuries
and the thousands of women who’ve gone to their deaths screaming within its horrifyingly spiked confines, the executioner’s spirit has
steadily improved his technique until now it’s unusual if his victims don’t survive for at least four tortuous days before they finally die.”
Ereshkigal paused for a moment to savor the intoxicating fear emanating from within Whitney’s thoughts, “However, recently the executioner’s
spirit made a rather special request. He requested that I temporarily loan him one of my pleasure slaves, someone I thought would fully
appreciate the finer aspects of prolonged torturous death, someone more than willing to die again and again merely to help him improve his
technique. And Whitney, when the executioner’s spirit told me his goal was to double the intensity of his victim’s suffering while keeping
her alive for at least six agonizing days, naturally I thought of you.”
Until I survive for at least six days? Six days? Whitney felt a chilling sense of dread deep within her corset compress stomach as she
watched the Iron Maiden’s doors slowly starting to close of their own volition. The rows of horrifyingly sharp spikes eerily sliding across
the Iron Maiden’s interior as the ghost of the long dead executioner of Nuremberg diabolically adjusted their positions and lengths to maximize
the brutal unpleasantness of what promised to be the first of Whitney’s slow and agonizingly torturous deaths within the Maiden.
Night after night I found myself standing within that haunted Iron Maiden, watching helplessly as those brutal spike lined doors slowly
closed. I came to sense the executioner’s thoughts, his ghostly spirit violating my mind even as his brutal spikes violated my slowly dying
body. I could sense him monitoring the intensity of my painful torment, his mind carefully measuring the slow steady progress of each of my
torturous deaths.
