Standing before the mirror Whitney marveled at her new more youthful self, her body miraculously restored to the firm toned sexy figure that had once caught the eye of the world’s premiere bondage and fetish photographers in the early 1980’s. Smiling Whitney pulled up her tee shirt and gleefully cupped her full firm breasts, which unlike the rest of her youthful figure still retained their impressive 38 DD size but without the aid of implants.
Sensing Whitney’s overwhelming delight at the sight of her restored youth, Ereshkigal’s ghostly envoy smiled with amusement as he allowed her a moment to fully come to terms with the value of Ereshkigal’s offer of eternal youth before continuing, “Accept Ereshkigal’s offer of eternal youth and beauty as one of her willing pleasure slaves but know Whitney that Ereshkigal’s offer comes with a dark and terrible price. Eternal youth and beauty, of days filled with unimagined erotic delight, but the cost, an eternity of nights filled with unspeakably painful torturous death and mutilation within the Underworld’s dungeon torture chambers.”
Admiring her restored youthful appearance, Whitney considered the brutal dark side of Ereshkigal’s offer, but even Whitney had to pause at the magnitude of the cost, to spend every night for all eternity dying by agonizing torture in exchange for eternal youth and beauty. Still, she’d endured some really painful indignities in her bondage and fetish modeling career so how bad could it really be?
Sensing Whitney’s sudden decision, Ereshkigal’s ghostly envoy smiled darkly, “Your choice is made pretty one, although perhaps a choice that’s consequences you haven’t fully comprehended.” Whitney gasped in sudden fear as she watched her bedroom quickly fading away into darkness.
Standing silently waiting within one of the most ancient torture chambers within the Mesopotamian Underworld’ dungeons Artaxes smiled with amused anticipation as the chamber’s doors opened and Whitney, Ereshkigal’s latest willing pleasure slave, materialized out the darkness.
Whitney watched in shocked amazement as her bedroom suddenly vanished, replaced by what she instinctively realized, having done countless photo shoots in dungeon decorated sets, to be a horrifyingly authentic dungeon torture chamber. “A sudden chill enveloped me as my tee shirt and jeans dissolved into a cloud of dust only to reform into stockings, high heels and the tightest corset I think I’ve ever worn. The gold rings that pierced my nipples suddenly linked by pair of slender gold chains.”
Sensing Whitney’s understandable confusion Artaxes stepped forward out of the shadows and handed her a glass of wine, “Good evening Ms. Prescott, my name is Artaxes, and I’d like to welcome you to the darkest reaches of the Mesopotamian Underworld’s dungeon torture chambers.” Pausing to take a brief sip of wine, “I understand that before your retirement, many considered you the premier bondage and fetish model of your era.”
Still to shocked to speak, Whitney managed to nod as her host continued, “Since the dawn of time Ereshkigal’s envoys have gone forth into the mortal world to recruit willing pleasure slaves such as yourself, women willing to sate the emotional hunger of the death goddess with their suffering in exchange for the promise of eternal youth and beauty.”
Seeing the sudden look of concern in Whitney’s lovely eyes Artaxes reassured her, “There’s no need to worry Ms. Prescott, Ereshkigal always keeps her promises, eternal youth and beauty will be yours so long as you willingly embrace the torturous delights of her dungeon torture chambers. But, refuse to live up to your end of Ereshkigal’s Faustian bargain and you will find yourself just another ghostly spirit wandering the Underworld’s endless smoke shrouded plains for all eternity.”
Trying to calm her considerable fears Whitney took a sip of her wine and asked, “If you would, please call me Whitney.” Then shaking her head she continued, “Perhaps I should have asked a few more questions before I accepted Ereshkigal’s offer of eternal youth and beauty but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here Artaxes, are you a god?”
Artaxes almost laughed as he replied, “No Whitney not a god, merely a useful mortal such as you. Once long ago the death goddess Ereshkigal was satisfied with the mere butchery of her pleasure slaves but as time passed her tastes, shall we say, grew more refined and she sought out mortals to heighten the level of suffering her pleasure slaves endure before their nightly deaths.”
Sensing Whitney’s sudden terrified understanding he continued, “In the spring of 485 BC I was appointed high executioner of the Persian Empire by King Xerxes and ordered to create new and more diabolically torturous ways of instilling terror in the lands conquered by his mighty armies.” Pausing to gesture toward the chamber’s lone instrument of torture, “Take this impalement post for example, impalement was already a widely used form of execution, but with this I took the terror of impalement to a new and far more torturous level. Used to punish women accused of adultery, impalement posts identical to this one were soon prominently displayed in city squares across the empire.”
Staring at the impalement post Whitney struggled to keep the sound of fear, or perhaps it was masochistic excitement, from her voice as she inquired, “Exactly how was it done?”
“The accused were brought to the square where they were stripped of their garments, their wrists bound behind their back, their ankles bound and their mouth gagged. The executioner would then pick the struggling woman up and with her bound ankles behind the shaft, push her firmly down upon the tip of the shaft forcing its blunt tip deep into her sex. The accused would always struggle against the inevitable, gripping the post’s lower wooden shaft tightly between her knees as she desperately fought to keep from sinking deeper onto the post’s unyielding metal tip. But, eventually the tip of the impalement post will reach and then rupture her cervix allowing the metal tip of the post to slide upward through her abdomen until it presses painfully upward against the underside of the woman’s diaphragm.”
Seeing the growing look of horror in Whitney’s eyes Artaxes continued, “With the full weight of her body pressing upward against her diaphragm breathing became impossible, her only respite, to use her knees to desperately lift herself up far enough for a few shallow breaths before once again slipping back down. Eventually the woman becomes too exhausted to lift herself off the impalement post’s tip and suffocates.”
Already fearing she knew the answer Whitney asked, “Do you intend to impale me?”
Smiling Artaxes replied, “Of course I am Whitney but since this is your first night in Ereshkigal’s dungeons I thought I’d let you enjoy a glass of this excellent vintage before the night’s true unpleasantness begins.”
A sudden odd thought came to mind as Whitney took another sip of her wine, “So why the corset, stockings and high heels if I’m destined to impaled in the nude?”
Seeing the look in Whitney’s eyes Artaxes replied, “For my first 2300 years here in the Underworld I sent every pleasure slave to their deaths in the nude but then one night about 200 years ago, a newly arrived executioner, the Marquis de Sade, suggested that the pleasure slaves should go to their deaths wearing a corset and stockings. He realized that once the victim’s cervix ruptured the corset’s abdominal compression would prolong their suffering by slowing their descent onto the post while the smooth silk of the stockings would make it that much more difficult for them to grip the post between their knees as they struggled.”
Realizing that her wine glass was almost empty, Whitney felt her heart beat quicken as she asked one last question, “How long will it take to die?”
Intentionally misinterpreting Whitney’s question Artaxes causally replied, “Not to worry Whitney, I assure you this night will haunt your dreams for all eternity. Death by impalement never comes quickly or easily. All women manage to prevent the blunt tip of the post from rupturing their cervix for at least a few hours and usually experience multiple orgasms for their efforts. Once their cervix ruptures and thanks to the corset’s compression it can take up to an hour or more before the tip of the post finally reaches their diaphragm. Death usual occurs within 20 to 30 hours.”
Realizing the moment of truth had finally arrived, Whitney handed Artaxes her empty wine glass and smiled as she made one final request, “Would it be possible, after you’ve tied my wrists, for you to tie my elbows together, I’ve always like the way it makes my breasts appear more pronounced. And if you’d be kind enough to pass a few loops of rope under my insteps when you tie my ankles, I’d hate to accidently lose my high heels as I struggle.”
Twenty seven torturously agonizing hours and over 80 mind blowing orgasms later Whitney hung limply on the impalement post too exhausted to resist the inevitable, her final thought as the darkness claimed her “I wonder how long I’ll have to wait before I personally get to experience de Sade’s legendary attentions…”
Author's note: I've always considered Whitney Prescott one of the best of the late 20th century bondage and fetish models.