Budget Correction

Seven is now a neat little sobbing and groaning bundle—neat, that is, except for the various cables and tubes dangling from his assemblage—and going by all the empty sockets there are lots more to come, I realize with an embarrassingly delicious shiver. I understood the words 'punishment bondage,' in our sentences, but only intellectually. I'll soon understand those words much more experientially, I acknowledge with a frisson of anxious anticipation.

The front attendant takes what looks like a grease gun, but it's labeled 'electro-gel,' and hands another to his partner. The two work their way around all the various grease fittings—ensuring, I suppose, that there is plenty of gel on the electrodes to make the connections properly conductive. This must feel weird, but I can't tell from Seven's response—he's just too preoccupied at the moment.

Well, a lot of restraints and devices just got installed, but amazingly, the whole process took less than two minutes. The attendants work incredibly fast, I can see. When they get to me I'll be transformed from the way I am now to the way Seven is almost before I know what's happening to me!

The cables to the items with sockets rather than permanently-attached wires get plugged in. I expect some of this design is still a work-in-progress as it seems a little inefficient. The plethora of cables and tubes dangles untidily to the floor, but that's promptly corrected—the front attendant gathers them all together and slides them through a spandex tube as the rear attendant does a final all-around check.

The cables all seem to be the right length to emerge from the spandex neatly together, each connector and tube color-coded. There will be no confusion about where each of them goes...

The attendant loops the tidied cable over a hook on number seven's chest harness, a devilish touch, I think, surely amplifying Seven's already overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. It appears we do not get plugged into the punishment apparatus just yet—we'll have to wait for that, all the while contemplating the dozens of places outside and inside our bodies where the torment-conductors terminate. It won't be long before I'll be staring in the mirror at my own cable dangling from my hook, and I'll be totally immobilized, helpless to prevent myself from being intimately connected to the infernal machine we cannot yet see, but know exists.

++++

Number seven, fully prepared now, looks seriously uncomfortable; this is not lost on the rest of us as we squirm in our relatively comfortable bonds. I'm looking forward with sadistic glee to the preparation of number six—I expect I am not alone!

But I'm disappointed, at least at first. Six's composure knows no limits, it seems. When the gag is brought up to her lips she frowns at the attendant, but she accepts it without a struggle, though she still yelps from the shock. The raising of her saddle is delicious to watch. She winces a little as the saddle is lifted, but the attendants guide her two penetrators home without apparent strain—those invaders must be well gelled. Several of us shiver with excitement as the front penetrator vanishes into her exquisite triangle-trimmed pussy; we know she cannot lift off since she's already pulled up by the rod and secured at her ankles. The attendants see to it that the saddle is pressed upward firmly before locking it into position, and she glares at them as if to say did you have to, to which the answer apparently is yes.

It's sad when Six's gorgeous breasts get covered, but for me, anticipating being punished just three positions away amply makes up for it—too bad she's not right next pole, though Two is, I reflect—one out of two isn't so bad! Tough titties, Four.

I gaze at Six squirming submissively, sort of, as her bondage becomes increasingly stringent. Six's harness/bra has considerably larger rings than Seven's, and her breasts haven't disappeared altogether; they're still alluringly visible through the partially transparent electrodes lining the shiny plastic prisons the rings support. Unlike the puny cups gracing Seven, Six's are as shapely as their contents; my mesmerized gaze attended her reluctant mamalia with guilty delight as they rose with obedience, coaxed relentlessly into communion with the cruel contacts, her attendant squeezing the suction bulbs over and over until at last she docked Six's rosy nipples into the little cavities topping the dolorous domes...

Dolorous domes? I'll just have to use that in a story after I get out of here, I'm thinking as I glance with envy at the pathetic brassiere-to-be resting in my own cart. Just what was the Kubla Khan into, I wonder? How will Six experience the domes' caress? Excruciating pain mostly, I suppose, but will it sometimes be deliciously erotic, or tantalizingly teasing? Will my experience, or Seven's, compare even remotely? Another frisson whistles through me as Six's cable is dressed and hooked onto her harness—what will she look like when she's writhing in electrical torment? What will I look like?

For now, she just looks irked when the grease-gun is applied, and so far she's taken it all in stride. I find myself wondering what in her lofty corporate past can possibly have prepared her to take this in stride—I suppose she's had to be prepared for anything to get where she is, or was, in life. I'm not so disappointed after all—I've had a chance to watch a woman allow herself to be bound in strict punishment bondage with grace and poise, not an everyday experience.

Number five goes quickly enough, and as his preparation winds up our eyes meet in a long gaze in the mirror. Your turn soon, his eyes tell me.

Number four struggles a lot, but now he appears resigned to his fate. When the gag is brought up he snarls at his attendant, but the gag goes in just the same when he yelps from the shock. He gurgles angrily as it's tightened and fastened to the pole. He's close enough that as his saddle rises I notice a detail I couldn't make out before—it has a little cavity with electrodes located forward of the anal penetrator—it must be there to hold our balls. Ugh, one of the most painful things a man can receive is a shock to the balls, I can only imagine.

His front attendant squeezes a glob of electro-gel into the cavity, and as number four's anal penetrator slides in his scrotum finds its way home with aid of a few discreet pokes. Number four seems particularly upset by the latex-gloved hands of the woman holding his sides to facilitate the alignment process—he is being fucked by a man-woman team! I wonder what he's feeling as his flaccid member gets sucked into his sleeve—by a man. He doesn't look too pleased at that either. It appears that while the same team is doing all the preparations, the man always takes the front for a man, the woman (at least so far) for a woman. Quelle delicatesse! I don't recall the form asking me about my sexual orientation, though—should it have?

The rest of Four's preparation goes quickly. Now it's my turn.

I'd gladly just accept the gag, but that's not on the menu—I yelp like the others, and in it goes. I sink most of the way into subspace as the gag tightens around the back of my head, as I feel more of my body secured on the pole. The collar's rear attachment is suddenly able to slide in and out a little, I notice, now that the gag controls my head movement. My arms are hauled up, and a familiar fantasy wells up—I am being prepared for punishment!

Except this time it is true. The anal penetrator slides smoothly into place, as do my balls. I almost come as my pleasure-shaft is sucked into my sleeve, but I know enough not to, perhaps the only little bit of control I have left. But it's not really my control—surely the attendants are well-trained to prevent that from happening. I don't suppose that shaft will experience much pleasure today, but then again, who knows? I expect the audience beyond the glass would be delighted to watch Six come. Any remaining feeling of being in control disappears as my legs are pulled back and up and secured—what a pitiful, helpless feeling results from having my feet off the floor.

The punishment harness looks and feels uncannily erotic as it's tightened around me, as it squeezes my chest, its modest rings elongating slightly as my back snugs up to the pole. My excitement wells to near-overflowing, my anxiety surges when I feel the gel-sticky torment cups pressed onto my freshly-created man-boobs and clipped into the rings. The harness, I observe, has gel fittings and sockets for cables of its own. Electrical chest punishment is going to be painful, I'm sure—I'll bet the harness can even de-fibrillate if necessary!

I feel utterly embraced, hurtling on my odyssey into deep sub-space as my belly is belted with its cuff-electrode and the final straps unite me unequivocally with my punishment pole. The electro-gel greasing does indeed feel pretty strange. I feel the cool goo squeezing through myriads of passages, finding its way to all the places it's needed—I'm now about as well-connected as I ever expect to be, except, I realize, as I'll be when my cables are finally plugged in to the rest of the equipment. Judging by the number of pins in the connectors, these electrode-cuffs are much more complex than they appear, able to contract a single muscle or induce general convulsion. I'll surely soon understand every capability intimately—for the present I'll just have to imagine!

The rest of my preparations go quickly, and now I'm hanging with my legs and arms pulled back tight in my punishment hogtie, impaled and sleeved on my saddle, squeezed tightly to my pole, more securely bound than I've ever fantasized. I'm so aroused as I look into the mirror, gaze at my cable hanging from my... punishment bra, inviting me to visualize all those connections being plugged into the torment-apparatus, that I don't really feel the serious discomfort of the bondage—yet. This arousal won't last, I try to tell myself, but I'm not listening!

Still, I feel uncannily safe in my immobilizing bonds. I'm going to be punished, but not tortured—not all that brutally, at any rate. There are plenty of witnesses to whatever happens, even if they don't exactly hold my best interests uppermost. Safety has clearly not been overlooked; should a medical emergency occur, this bondage, strict as it is, appears designed to facilitate almost instant release—I could be taken down from the pole in seconds (after some incapacitating drugs are squirted in, I suppose). I'll be home by this afternoon, sore but intact. Even here, I can let my fantasies run wild!

Number two's preparation starts so smoothly that I'm convinced she is a volunteer—perhaps she does this regularly. Maybe she's become numb to the upcoming pain. I can only look at Two in the mirror now that my gag seriously restricts my head movement, but during Four's preparation I examined Two's cart more carefully and noted that her saddle has electrodes for her clitoris as well as on the vaginal penetrator. These devices appear able to slide forward or backward slightly as required by the dimensions of the inmate being prepared. I squirm slightly and confirm that my anal penetrator can indeed move a little—it does not exert sideways force on my sphincter as I move in and out from the pole the tiny amount permitted by my bondage.

Two's chest harness sports larger rings even than Six's, with cups to match, also indisputably matched to Two herself. I wonder how an inmate's collateral in this particular dimension is ascertained ahead of time—perhaps it's a question on their consent forms, with an even more earnest exhortation to answer honestly than the medical questions!

Evidently Two answered honestly. Her attendant eases her smoothly into her capacious cups; after a considerable amount of squeeze-bulb activity Two's luscious breasts swell into compliance, filling the domes deliciously, her nipples locating their welcoming endpoints just as the cups' rims settle firmly against her chest. Her attendant latches the well-filled devices securely into Two's harness's rings and disconnects the squeeze-bulbs. As she flexes her hands and wrists, to relieve some cramping I suppose, I can't help thinking there must be a better way, some sort of cordless electric pump, perhaps...

Now Two's preparation is complete: she's suspended in her hogtie, eyes glazed over, her bounteous bust thrust forward beyond even Six's in the comparison-inviting line-up, her torment-delivery cable dangling like Six's from the harness-hook squeezed far to the side by the lustrous real-estate-thirsty nipple-cavity-tipped polycarbonate vaults. Unlike Six, Two projected more resignation than indignation during her rendering. And they're both so beautiful, even as they are now—perhaps even more so!

What does a woman feel like when she's bound? Most hate it, I suppose, if they ever have to experience it, though not all, I've been led to understand, and of course it must be highly dependent on the circumstances.

But how would I know? Squirming in my own uncomfortable, but I have to admit, incredibly exciting bondage, gazing at my cable leading to dozens of points inside and outside my body, ready to be plugged in with five, soon to be six others to join us in mutual torment, I'm finding it hard to separate my own sense of being from my companions, at least as I imagine them. Soon all seven of us will be writhing as one. I suppose it will be painful, even agonizing sometimes, but will it be exquisitely sensual, at least some of the time? Will I be watching Two and Six squirming deliciously as I fight against my own bonds, struggling to bear my own painful chastising? What will Five be experiencing? Will we sometimes be twisting sinuously, not too uncomfortably perhaps, just for the carnal pleasure of our audience?

Number one is cooperative and prepared in short order—in fact, the whole preparation from Seven to One has taken less than fifteen minutes, much less time than it takes to describe it, and now we're all suspended in punishment hogties, fully prepared for electrical torment. One more little psychological knife twist. All seven poles suddenly retract about a foot upward toward the ceiling, carrying us with them. We squirm as they start up and stop with a jerk, reminding us uncomfortably of each element of our bondage. Then they descend different amounts and stop with another jerk, aligning all our eyes at approximately the same height. The feeling of helplessness is profound. The preparation attendants have disappeared, and I'm wondering, with at least five of the others, what happens next.

++++

Nothing, for about five minutes. Discomfort sets in big time, with a good deal of squirming, grunting and groaning, but we are, after all, here to be punished, not coddled. There's time to reflect on other details as I wait. For one thing, everything beyond the municipal-standard entrance lobby has been scrupulously clean. This is no medieval torture chamber—we are in the twenty-first century here; hygiene seems to be the order of the day. I notice with a little personal embarrassment, but also relief (as it were) that needing to urinate is a non-problem—the saddles simply suck it away. We're going on a long ride.

Sweat and drool are a different matter. The room is comfortably warm, to prevent useless cramping I suppose. In spite of the effectiveness of the HVAC system the air is tinctured with an aroma of fear mingled with arousal and we are all starting to sweat. The gags have watering devices—I feel a squirt in my mouth from time to time. Good, I think, at least thirst and dry mouth will not add to my torment, but unavoidable drooling will certainly add to my sense of helplessness. The sweat and drool run down my body, and everyone else's (even Six's, though she seems able to ignore it) and tickles as it drips from my knees. No problem, though. A couple of Skoobas are now on patrol, slurping up every little bit. The floor will stay clean, no matter what we exude.

An attendant wheels in a console, the punishment delivery vehicle, I suppose as I squirm ineffectually in my bonds, and plugs it into the one wall socket in the room—equipped with a GFI?, I find myself thinking, rather morbidly. The Skoobas hurry temporarily to the safety of their docks. The console is positioned behind us, but we can still see it in the mirror. Then another surprise.

Our tormentor walks briskly in—a woman! She's dressed for the part, in leather, latex and heels and she looks stunning. What a trip it will be to be tortured by such a gorgeous human being. The price can't be beat either!

But wait, isn't this state-sanctioned and commissioned punishment? Then I remember 'psycho-sexual electrical torment' from my sentence, and once again the fiendish designer of all this comes to mind. One part of me thinks what is the world coming to. Yet another part realizes that the outfit is not for our benefit, but for the audience's—another revenue-enhancing measure.

Six looks like she's finally reached her limit. She thrashes as much as she can in her bonds, which isn't much, then calms down and settles for simply glaring ferociously at the latex/leather-clad apparition in front of us. The Skoobas are back on patrol, but I observe as they scurry around they give the tormentor wide berth—she must have those IR devices built into her boots.

The tormentor reels a large cable from a hatch in the console. She drags it all the way to the mirror and pulls out a few feet more. The cable splits into two halves, with three sets of sockets on one branch and four on the other. She takes the first half to inmate number one's side of the room. She gazes into One's eyes for several seconds (oh, that's why we were lined up), unhooks his connection bundle from his punishment bra and lifts it, along with cable set number one from the machine, directly into the path of their mutual gaze. I watch him shudder, the little he can.

She plugs all the wires in along with the several little hoses, astonishingly quickly, without ever breaking eye contact with him, then attaches the bundle to the bottom of his punishment pole. By the time she reaches me I've figured out that this is so the cable won't drag on the floor underneath us and interfere with the Skoobas' job.

She doesn't take much time at number two, plugging in her cables quickly and efficiently, securing them to Two's pole, and now she's in front of me. At first I wondered why the tormentor rather than an attendant has to do this chore, but the experience of being plugged in by this fascinating, severe woman is intensely psychological, fully appropriate for the tormentor's task list.

As she looks deep into my eyes I experience an immense surge of submissive acquiescence—I'm gazing into the eyes of the most incredible dominatrix I ever imagined. Is she a true sadist?

Get real, I'm reminded: sadist or not, she's a true professional, hired by the state to inflict punishment, not to provide sexual excitement. Without a doubt she knows that this experience arouses me. Her job requires getting past that, and I'm certain she takes her responsibilities seriously, even if, as I strongly suspect, she thoroughly enjoys doing just that. I can tell she's already planning how to make me suffer.

I struggle and squirm in my bonds. I feel genuine fear for the first time today—this is no fantasy. She controls substantial firepower—she could kill me with a few finger strokes if she wished, and it wouldn't be instant and painless. But inmate death is a negative in performance reviews, I'm pretty certain; that thought is far more reassuring than whatever software controls and electro-mechanical safety protections I presume are in place. My tormentor projects complete and utter competence, along with overwhelming power. I will suffer—exactly as prescribed, not a whit less, nor more.