Among the submissive masochists of the Resort’s vacation club, most have perilous preferences or their preferred ways to die, whether it’s by asphyxiation, the garrote,
or the gallows, by the blade, either sword or knife in the guts or heart, or my favorite on the spikes.
Death on the spikes comes in many forms, and I’ve died in almost all of them. The Iron Maiden, the spike-filled pit, floor-mounted spikes, and my all-time favorite,
wall-mounted spikes like the ones behind me.
Soon, the executioner will arrive. He’ll secure my wrists in the restraints and then, pulling the red lever, start the chains retracting into the wall. The chains retract
at about one link per minute, pulling my arms upward and out, then gradually pulling my body onto the sharp waiting spikes. Depending on how the spikes enter my body, death
can take as little as ten minutes or as long as several hours.
And, as usual, within the Resort’s torturer chambers, there’s no expectation of mercy, no valiant hero coming to rescue you at the last second. There is only the expectation
of a delightfully slow, obscenely agonizing death.
Welcome to the Resort.