AccidentallyKinky
Virgin
- Joined
- Jan 25, 2020
- Posts
- 6
I enter the Tower of London and smile as the Yeoman Warder greets me at the security gate. I smile back, my stomach lurching as I take in his uniform, the knowledge of his power vibrating through me. I join the Beefeater tour, and laugh absent-mindedly at the cliched jokes and exaggerated gestures as he regales the mesmerised crowd with tales of bloody history, torture, and murder. I enjoy the tales but I am quickly disenchanted by the theatrics devised to keep the crowd entertained.
I have no patience for the showmanship that dilutes the raw grisly executions. I break away from the crowd and wander off on my own. I walk along the cobbled street, listening to crowds of tourists babbling in a babel of languages, excitedly pointing the The Crown Jewels. My interest does not lie in the bling and glitz, my soul hankers after the terrifying darkness and macabre.
I pass Traitors Gate and imagine the pallid faces of those making their final journeys beneath those treacherous arches. Their future lies in chains; their sliced bodies buried beneath the grounds, with only a stone slab as a tribute to their existence.
As I walk beneath the Bloody Tower, I look up to portcullis. I shiver as I can almost feel the dripping blood as it bares its iron fangs at me.
My favourite part of my torture tour is just around the corner; the Lower Wakefield Tower houses the torture exhibit. As I descend the stairs I touch the millennium-old walls. The screams of long-dead victims ooze through the cold, damp stones.
The dungeon, such as it is, is bathed in an orange/red glow. The colour of danger. The colour of fear. But not for me. For me it's the colour of heat, the colour of passion, the colour of desire. The colour of lust awakened at the thought of pain.
The exhibits are simple. No fanfare, no strobe lights, no thundering voices from hidden speakers. Just three simple instruments of torture with a plaque describing their torturous design. The Manacles and the Scavengers Daughter are blackened with aged rust, and I feel my pulse quicken as I picture their victims hanging from their limbs or folded and crushed between the iron jaws.
But it is the rack that produces maximum gasps from the steady stream of visitors. I hang back, leaning against the wall, closing my eyes and revelling in the atmosphere of shock, horror, fear, and screams. Eventually, when there is a gap in the exact position I desire, I move forward. I stand facing the rack, staring at this infamous exhibit of torturous history. I hear the murmurs of horror and the shudders of terror as tourists shake their heads in disbelief at the unimaginable anguish of victims past.
I stand and stare, seemingly just another one amongst many who read with morbid fascination and leave with a sickening sense in their gut. Little do they know as I stand and stare that my sharp inhalations are not one of terror but of my quickening pulse and increased lubrication that is causing my underwear to match the damp moisture of the bleeding walls.
I close my eyes momentarily as I picture a splayed victim, his arms and legs stretched above and below him in a star shape, lying upon the ancient degraded wood and tied with the timeworn frayed rope.
It is then that I feel him behind me. His breath hot on my neck, his body lightly brushing against mine, as he leans over my shoulder with the feigned mission of reading the descriptive plaque. His shallow rapid breaths almost match mine, and I inhale deeply. Despite the number of tourists, the atmosphere in the room invites a solemn silence with only a brief exchange of hushed conversation between friends. He leans into me and with a subtle grab of my hair growls into my ear "I can smell you from here."
He glances his hand surreptitiously up my thigh, above the hem of my short skirt, and I almost involuntarily open my legs. He runs his fingers over my damp panties, his other hand still holding onto my hair as he slowly begins to rub my engorged lips.
"See those ropes," he whispers into my ear, his voice gravelly and hot, "I would splay you naked on those splintered wooden slats, and spread your body like an offering. Every part of you would be open as you struggle against the ropes that bind your wrists and ankles."
My breathing quickens as he rubs my swollen cunt. I lean back into him, but he pushes me forward against the wooden barrier. The movement is subtle, but I now feel his cock straining against his jeans as he pushes against my thigh.
"You're going to give yourself to me," he tells me hotly, "you're going to be begging me for it."
I shake my head. He's a stranger. A masked executioner.
"I turn the handle, the roller pulls at your ropes, stretching your limbs," I can feel soft droplets of moisture as he sibilates in excitement. I stare straight ahead, I can practically hear the creak of the long-dormant roller as it spins slowly in my mind's eye.
"Feel your limbs being stretched, pulling at your muscles, your tendons. All you need to do is beg me to take you."
My only response is to clench as his fingers keep working my cunt.
"Hear the squeak as I turn again, your arms slowly being torn from your shoulder sockets," his breath is quickening in time with mine.
I close my eyes and picture Anne Askew, her body so broken by the rack that she had to be carried to the treacherous fires of her demise. I feel her pain and I feel my wetness.
His fingers tear at my panties as he plunges his fingers inside of me, "another half turn," he whispers, "hear the crunch as your bones fight to stay together."
I shake my head with hasty and barely audible "please no."
His grin is palpable in the glowing bloody darkness.
His fingers are working my insides. I hear a subtle squeak behind me; he's lowered his zip.
"Hear that sound," he chuckles softly into the echoing stillness, "that's the sound of the roller tearing you limb from limb."
"Please, no," I tremble to his shadow on the wall in front of me.
"Beg me," his quiet demand tickles my eardrum as his pulls his fingers from inside me leaving me empty and wanting.
"Please..." I beg
"Please, what?" he demands as the roaring in my ear becomes a crescendo
"Fuck me, please."
I feel his cock thrusting inside me, tearing through me, pushing upwards, moving against me.
I can hear the croak of the wooden slats beneath me, the creak of the roller, as he tears the silent orgasm from inside me.
He leaves me standing against the barrier, my limbs weak, and unable to stand.
His cum trickles out of me seeping into the damp dungeon floor and my silent screams absorbed into the walls becoming one with history.
I have no patience for the showmanship that dilutes the raw grisly executions. I break away from the crowd and wander off on my own. I walk along the cobbled street, listening to crowds of tourists babbling in a babel of languages, excitedly pointing the The Crown Jewels. My interest does not lie in the bling and glitz, my soul hankers after the terrifying darkness and macabre.
I pass Traitors Gate and imagine the pallid faces of those making their final journeys beneath those treacherous arches. Their future lies in chains; their sliced bodies buried beneath the grounds, with only a stone slab as a tribute to their existence.
As I walk beneath the Bloody Tower, I look up to portcullis. I shiver as I can almost feel the dripping blood as it bares its iron fangs at me.
My favourite part of my torture tour is just around the corner; the Lower Wakefield Tower houses the torture exhibit. As I descend the stairs I touch the millennium-old walls. The screams of long-dead victims ooze through the cold, damp stones.
The dungeon, such as it is, is bathed in an orange/red glow. The colour of danger. The colour of fear. But not for me. For me it's the colour of heat, the colour of passion, the colour of desire. The colour of lust awakened at the thought of pain.
The exhibits are simple. No fanfare, no strobe lights, no thundering voices from hidden speakers. Just three simple instruments of torture with a plaque describing their torturous design. The Manacles and the Scavengers Daughter are blackened with aged rust, and I feel my pulse quicken as I picture their victims hanging from their limbs or folded and crushed between the iron jaws.
But it is the rack that produces maximum gasps from the steady stream of visitors. I hang back, leaning against the wall, closing my eyes and revelling in the atmosphere of shock, horror, fear, and screams. Eventually, when there is a gap in the exact position I desire, I move forward. I stand facing the rack, staring at this infamous exhibit of torturous history. I hear the murmurs of horror and the shudders of terror as tourists shake their heads in disbelief at the unimaginable anguish of victims past.
I stand and stare, seemingly just another one amongst many who read with morbid fascination and leave with a sickening sense in their gut. Little do they know as I stand and stare that my sharp inhalations are not one of terror but of my quickening pulse and increased lubrication that is causing my underwear to match the damp moisture of the bleeding walls.
I close my eyes momentarily as I picture a splayed victim, his arms and legs stretched above and below him in a star shape, lying upon the ancient degraded wood and tied with the timeworn frayed rope.
It is then that I feel him behind me. His breath hot on my neck, his body lightly brushing against mine, as he leans over my shoulder with the feigned mission of reading the descriptive plaque. His shallow rapid breaths almost match mine, and I inhale deeply. Despite the number of tourists, the atmosphere in the room invites a solemn silence with only a brief exchange of hushed conversation between friends. He leans into me and with a subtle grab of my hair growls into my ear "I can smell you from here."
He glances his hand surreptitiously up my thigh, above the hem of my short skirt, and I almost involuntarily open my legs. He runs his fingers over my damp panties, his other hand still holding onto my hair as he slowly begins to rub my engorged lips.
"See those ropes," he whispers into my ear, his voice gravelly and hot, "I would splay you naked on those splintered wooden slats, and spread your body like an offering. Every part of you would be open as you struggle against the ropes that bind your wrists and ankles."
My breathing quickens as he rubs my swollen cunt. I lean back into him, but he pushes me forward against the wooden barrier. The movement is subtle, but I now feel his cock straining against his jeans as he pushes against my thigh.
"You're going to give yourself to me," he tells me hotly, "you're going to be begging me for it."
I shake my head. He's a stranger. A masked executioner.
"I turn the handle, the roller pulls at your ropes, stretching your limbs," I can feel soft droplets of moisture as he sibilates in excitement. I stare straight ahead, I can practically hear the creak of the long-dormant roller as it spins slowly in my mind's eye.
"Feel your limbs being stretched, pulling at your muscles, your tendons. All you need to do is beg me to take you."
My only response is to clench as his fingers keep working my cunt.
"Hear the squeak as I turn again, your arms slowly being torn from your shoulder sockets," his breath is quickening in time with mine.
I close my eyes and picture Anne Askew, her body so broken by the rack that she had to be carried to the treacherous fires of her demise. I feel her pain and I feel my wetness.
His fingers tear at my panties as he plunges his fingers inside of me, "another half turn," he whispers, "hear the crunch as your bones fight to stay together."
I shake my head with hasty and barely audible "please no."
His grin is palpable in the glowing bloody darkness.
His fingers are working my insides. I hear a subtle squeak behind me; he's lowered his zip.
"Hear that sound," he chuckles softly into the echoing stillness, "that's the sound of the roller tearing you limb from limb."
"Please, no," I tremble to his shadow on the wall in front of me.
"Beg me," his quiet demand tickles my eardrum as his pulls his fingers from inside me leaving me empty and wanting.
"Please..." I beg
"Please, what?" he demands as the roaring in my ear becomes a crescendo
"Fuck me, please."
I feel his cock thrusting inside me, tearing through me, pushing upwards, moving against me.
I can hear the croak of the wooden slats beneath me, the creak of the roller, as he tears the silent orgasm from inside me.
He leaves me standing against the barrier, my limbs weak, and unable to stand.
His cum trickles out of me seeping into the damp dungeon floor and my silent screams absorbed into the walls becoming one with history.
