Somehow Alison had always known it would end like this. Having willingly become the Baron’s submissively masochistic pain and
pleasure toy, she’d asked on that first night spent in the diabolically well-equipped dungeons of his castle, “Master, what will
become of me if you grow tired of my affections?”
Tightening the rack another exquisitely painful notch, he smiled, “When that happens, and I will not lie to you, that night will
eventually arrive, instead of painfully torturing you for our mutual amusement that will be the night when you are tortured to death,
your mutilated corpse disposed of deep within the darkest depths of the castle’s catacombs.”
She’d spent every evening over the years since darkly fantasying about whether that night would be the night she’d actually die in
unrelenting agony merely for his amusement. Ominously, that night had, at long last, arrived. Although, the Baron did mention, after
securely shackling her to the wall that it would still be a few days before Alison actually died. Death in the Iron Maiden, while always
torturous and obscenely agonizing, usually takes at least two or three days...