Vesta - Painworld Read online

  Bon frigging voyage to you too, Lianne thought.

  And then everything went black.

  She was in a field and it was sunny, but the day could not have been too warm, for Lianne felt quite comfortable, even though she was still encased in her latex bodysuit. The helmet mask still covered her head and face, though the wires to the electrodes seemed to have disappeared, as if by magic.

  She was in a field.

  And she was on a horse. A grey thoroughbred. With a saddle. A saddle with a difference and the difference was the massive phallus fixed to it that was currently stretching her vaginal muscles to their capacity.

  The horse was trotting in a slow circle, a long rein attached to a post keeping it to its same path. Peering down, Lianne could just see her booted feet, strapped into the specially adapted stirrups, and the straps that secured her upper thighs to either side of the saddle. Secured her, but did not hold her rigidly enough to prevent her bouncing up and down in time to the grey’s staccato progress, so that the dildo was reaming her with every step the horse took.

  She could feel that she was already very wet, and she could also feel the now familiar heat beginning to build deep inside her. She looked around to see who was controlling the horse, but there was no one; the creature simply continued round and around, oblivious to its jockey, or to what was happening to her.

  Biting hard into the ball gag that had somehow appeared between her teeth, Lianne fought desperately to keep herself under control, determined to take proper stock of her new surroundings before the sensual stimulation made coherent thought impossible. She seemed to be wearing the same outfit as when she had been strapped into the VESTA capsule, except that now she was gagged and her arms were secured tightly together behind her back by means of a laced single sleeve. And she could feel a butt plug moving inside her, which definitely hadn’t been there earlier.

  All very clever stuff, she thought, but there was something missing, something wrong with this simulation. Almost immediately she put her finger on it. There had been no build up, no ritual, no slow gathering of the senses as she was rendered progressively more helpless by the strict bondage. It was that, as much as anything else, which she found so alluring; the gradual heightening of tension, the growing awareness of committing herself into the control of another and the knowledge that her actions were no longer hers to decide.

  Still, she reasoned, that could probably be sorted out, once she’d had a chance to speak to Marlon about it. During the experimental runs and when she and Ellen had been scanned for input data, all Marlon had been interested in was establishing the basis for as many options as possible and recording the reactions in their brainwaves. Quite how it all worked was beyond Lianne, but work it certainly did, and now needed nothing more than a few refining touches here and there.

  The two men appeared out of nowhere, which was very disconcerting. One minute the field was empty, apart from Lianne on her phallic mount, and then they were there, both blond giants, both wearing tight leather breeches and cutaway leather tops, and both wearing Dick Turpin style leather masks. They could have been twins and, when Lianne peered closer, she saw that that was, in effect, what they were. Marlon’s database was still relatively restricted and Lianne guessed that he had simply used the same set of peripherals for both men.

  They were physically based loosely upon Gavin, who generally played the role of brutal master in their ‘real life’ scenes, but there was also a hint of something else, for their features were sharper and more threatening than Gavin’s. The first twin stepped forward, seized the horse’s bridle and brought it to a halt. He looked up at Lianne and bared his teeth in a wolverine grimace.

  ‘Nothing like a nice brisk trot in the open air to prepare a slave for proper use,’ he said, and his companion laughed, mirthlessly. The first man raised his right hand and inserted his fingers roughly between the saddle and Lianne’s cleft, nodding knowingly. ‘Just about simmering, I should say,’ he sneered. ‘Well, let’s have the little slut down and bring her to the boil properly.’

  The high timber frame also seemed to have materialised out of thin air. It most certainly had not been in the field when Lianne first arrived, but it was definitely there now, two sturdy uprights supporting a horizontal beam about ten feet from the ground. A thick rope had been thrown over the upright, its two ends dangling ready for use, and there were further ropes knotted about the base of each support post.

  The powerful men hoisted Lianne clear of her saddle with effortless ease and half dragged, half carried her under the beam. Working in perfect unison, each grasped one of her ankles, dragging her legs wide apart and securing them with the lower ropes. Satisfied that she was correctly straddled, they then knotted one end of the hanging rope to the steel ring at the end of her arm sleeve and pulled on the other, so that Lianne’s arms were dragged cruelly up and away from her body, forcing her head forward and down, until she was held with her spine parallel to the ground.

  Both men now had long canes in their hands, taking up positions behind and to either side of their helpless victim, and she tensed, knowing exactly what was coming. During the earlier runs she had been astonished at how realistic VESTA’s artificial world could be and, although she knew the imminent beating could not harm her real body, it was definitely going to hurt whatever she was in now.

  The first stroke swished in from her right and she screeched into the gag as it landed squarely across her buttocks. Hardly had the searing pain registered, when the second stroke came in from the opposite side. Lianne swayed forward, her full weight falling on her contorted arms, and she felt her bladder lose control in the same instant. The thin hot stream of liquid hissed onto the muddy grass, bring a raucous shout from her two torturers.

  ‘Filthy little whore!’ the one to the left exclaimed. ‘Look at her piss, man; look at her go.’ Deeply ashamed, Lianne fought desperately to halt the cascade, but two more rapid cuts destroyed all attempts at disciplined concentration. Only when her bladder had finally emptied itself did the torrent become a trickle and the trickle a few final, humiliating drips.

  The beating continued, a beating more ferocious than anything Lianne had ever known before, and she felt sure she must pass out. Through the red haze that now enveloped her, she could hear her stifled sobs and squeals, even these growing less as the pain diminished her every sense.

  At last they threw aside the canes, but they were far from finished with her yet. A hand was once again cupping her sex, fingers exploring, working in and out of her sodden love tunnel, other fingers working at the base of her butt plug. From the front, more hands cupped her hanging breasts, kneading her swollen teats through the thin rubber, moulding her firm globes with a rough carelessness.

  Lianne groaned, but this time it was not from the pain, for the heat from her ravaged buttocks was slowly beginning to give way to another, fiercer and far more intense heat that was building from inside. And, when the ball gag was suddenly pulled from between her lips, she gratefully sucked in the rampant penis offered in its stead. Scarcely had she drawn it deep into her throat than its twin was thrusting into her from behind.

  She gasped, her saliva trickling down over the first twin’s heavy testicles, her love juices soaking those of his fellow, and she knew the moment of release was close. Sure enough, seconds later her head exploded in a massive spasm of gratification and, as it did, twin jets of semen filled her throat and her womb in perfect, salty unison.

  And, once again, her world went black.

  Ellen found herself in a predicament as far removed from Lianne’s as she could have conceived, had she known Lianne’s situation, which she did not. Not that she currently could have given much time to considering anyone but herself and her immediate environs, for this scenario had been quite deliberately designed to hold one hundred percent of her attention.

  The long boots that were laced up her legs, virtually to her nake
d and shaven crotch, were fashioned in such a way that they forced Ellen to walk on the very tips of her toes, en pointe as the world of ballet would have described it. And unlike a similar pair of boots she had worn before, out in the ‘real’ world, there were no heels upon which to distribute any of her weight.

  Around the ankles the boots seemed to have been reinforced with either metal, or with some sort of rigid and extremely strong synthetic, for try as she would, there was no way Ellen could lower herself into a normal standing position. In any case, such a move would have been rendered near impossible by the way in which she had been positioned in this bizarre corps de ballet.

  The far wall of the long room was one huge mirror, and in this she could see not only her own reflection, but also the reflections of the four other fetishistic ballerinas, of whom Ellen was the centre one. All five were identically dressed and presented a very erotic spectacle indeed.

  In addition to the boots, each girl wore what could just about be described as a tutu, although it was really a very stringent corset of leather - white to match the boots - with a series of stiff net skirts sticking out at right angles and with the tiny quarter cups designed to lift and support the breasts. But not to cover them in any way, so that the firm high mounds were presented on open display, huge gold nipple rings and bells dangling grotesquely from them and jangling at the slightest movement.

  The girls’ arms - each entwined through that of its neighbour and the wrist secured to the hip of the corset tutu by means of a cuff and single link - were encased to the shoulder in tightly laced leather gloves. A high posture collar forced the dancer to hold her head stiffly erect, also covering the lower edge of the thin rubber mask that had been pulled over each set of features, presenting a bland, identical face upon each and every girl and holding some sort of padded gag within her mouth.

  The masks had a sort of wig attached to them; black hair scraped up into a chignon, the rubber cheeks coloured bright pink, the rubber lips unmoving, unspeaking lines of bright carmine. Only the eyes were animated, where they peered through apertures that clung to the features so closely that only a close inspection revealed that the girls were masked at all.

  ‘Ah, I see my little swans are ready for me!’ The man had appeared as if by magic, standing in front and slightly to the left of the line, dressed in flesh-coloured rubber tights and a bright green rubber leotard of sorts, and clutching a long switch in his right hand. Ellen guessed he was in his late twenties and her keen eye did not miss the well muscled legs and the light way in which he moved about on the balls of his feet.

  Well, she thought, VESTA couldn’t have chosen better, for the blond newcomer, his unkempt tresses giving him something of a swashbuckling air, was Ellen’s epitome of a sexy male. And though she could not move her hands to investigate properly, she could certainly feel the heat rising in her sex and knew she must already be very wet down there. Despite the anonymity of her mask and despite the fact that she knew none of her companions were real, she felt herself blushing.

  She was brought quickly back to reality - or at least VESTA’s version of it - when the tip of the switch caught her exposed sex lips with a sharp slapping sensation. A high-pitched squeak burst past the gag and her instinctive reaction set the entire line tottering from side to side, five pairs of nipple bells jingling merrily.

  ‘Pay attention, swan number three,’ the man snapped, stepping closer to her. ‘Pay attention, or we shan’t give your hungry little twot its dinner, shall we?’ He strutted up and down the line, the switch flicking at this girl and that, darting between open thighs one moment and clipping engorged nipples the next.

  ‘Now,’ he said, casting the weapon aside and reaching for some sort of fastener over his crotch. ‘Who shall we dance with first?’

  This time Lianne was in a small cell and the rubber outfit had been replaced by a simple shift of a rough woven fabric that stopped several inches short of her bare knees. Her hands were secured behind her back, presumably by cuffs of stout leather, and her head was encased in a harness made of thinner straps of the same material; a harness which held immovably in place a ball of yet more leather, foul tasting as it wedged between her teeth, pressing on her tongue and rendering speech impossible.

  Suddenly the heavy timber door banged open and the doorway was filled by a huge figure, a man dressed in close fitting black leather breeches, heavy boots, a hangman style hood and wearing studded gauntlets which glinted in the sunlight from the ‘world’ outside. Instinctively, Lianne shrank back, eliciting a loud guffaw from her latest adversary.

  ‘Yes, you should cower, witch!’ he bellowed, his voice almost deafening in the confines of the room. ‘Your time has come to atone for your devilish sins!’ He strode forward, grasped her by the arm and dragged her easily across the few feet separating her from whatever fate next lay in store for her.

  Outside there appeared to be quite a crowd gathered, though their appearance was somewhat nebulous and every time Lianne tried to focus on any individual, or particular knot of individuals, their outline became indistinct and only the mass of people behind them seemed to exist. She assumed VESTA was not yet quite capable of projecting a scene as complicated as this one seemed to be, but she was left with little time to ponder the subject.

  The platform to which her captor dragged her looked far more solid than the crowd, as did the little group of figures who stood around the top of the rough hewn steps leading up to the top of it. There were four of them in total, two men dressed similarly to the giant who had hold of her, although their masks covered only the top halves of their features. The other two were robed as priests of some sort, black cassocks, monkish hoods thrown back over their shoulders, and vestments of white, gold and red draped about their necks.

  Despite herself and the gag which filled her mouth, Lianne almost laughed out loud, for the features of the latter two had clearly been derived from any one of a hundred Hollywood B movies; lantern jaws, deep set dark eyes, hawkish noses and hollow, cadaverous cheeks. However, the fierce pressure of the big man’s huge hands on the soft flesh of her upper arm seemed real enough, and she winced with pain as he all but threw her up the rustic stairway.

  Lianne stared about her, eyes darting from side to side. Above, a thick hemp rope, stereotypical hangman’s noose at its lower end, dangled limply in the airless afternoon. To the side a shorter post supported a cross member, from each end of which hung an open manacle of thick leather. On a bench beside this lay a selection of whips, tiny steel teeth glinting in the woven fibres of each.

  It’s not real! she screamed to herself silently. It’s just part of the script. This isn’t really happening to you - none of it is!

  Yet the splinters which dug into her bare feet seemed only too real, as the two assistants grasped her and hauled her across to the whipping frame. A small box had been positioned before it and very quickly Lianne was lifted onto this, her fetters unlocked and her arms stretched high and wide for her wrists to be re-secured in the waiting straps. Another strap was buckled about her ankles, pressing her legs close together, and then the box was unceremoniously dragged from beneath her, leaving her dangling helplessly, toes agonising inches from the decking.

  She groaned as her weight fell upon her protesting shoulders and only the greatest effort of willpower managed to prevent her from screaming into the gag. Her eyes rolled wildly and her breath hissed through her nostrils. Her common sense kept telling her that none of this was really happening to her, yet every nerve ending, every brain cell, screamed out that it was real enough.

  ‘Strip her, executioner!’ This was from one of the priests. The hooded giant nodded to his two assistants, who stepped forward once again and ripped the crude shift from Lianne, tossing the ragged cloth into the crowd and bringing forth a bay of anticipation. Her face pressed against the upright, Lianne hung and waited. She did not have to wait for long.

  Into her vision
swum the haunting features of the first priest, his lips bared to reveal rotted teeth and a deep crimson tongue. Curiously, despite the pain that was threatening to overwhelm her, Lianne realised the man ought to have terribly fetid breath, and yet she could smell nothing.

  The corners of his mouth twitched cruelly, as he took from within his robes a roll of parchment of some kind, unrolling it with slow deliberation and holding it at arms length.

  ‘The witch Griselda has been tried by the rightful church and found guilty as charged,’ he intoned. ‘She is guilty of heresy, blasphemy, consulting with the dark forces and of murder, upon which all charges she has been sentenced to death. She has further been sentenced, upon the charges of witchcraft and heresy, to be scourged, that she may be received into the next world with her soul cleansed of her mortal sins.’ He allowed the parchment to roll itself up again and stepped back.

  ‘Executioner, do your duty!’ he cried. ‘And may the gods have mercy on her soul.’

  The whip landed across Lianne’s unprotected back with a sound like a pistol shot, and a spear of red-hot pain shot through her. She bucked and writhed, high-pitched mewling sounds forcing their way past the leather gag, and kicked her bound legs helplessly.

  The second lash cut across the tops of her thighs, red, purple and green lights exploding in front of her eyes. Dimly, she was aware of a huge cheer behind her; the crowd, however nebulous they had appeared to her earlier, was clearly programmed to enjoy such sport. By the time the sixth lash scored a vivid line across the tops of Lianne’s shoulders, the noise had risen to a cacophonous crescendo, but she could scarcely hear it through the haze of pain that now engulfed her.

  ‘Enough!’ The priest stepped forward once again and held up a hand, the executioner staying his wrist just as he was about to snap out the snakelike coils for the seventh time. ‘Let her hang there for a short while,’ the cleric instructed. ‘She must not lose consciousness, for her evil master lays wait to claim her in the dreamworld beyond.’