Budget Correction

We've all come now, and are pulsing painfully in our bonds. There's still about twenty minutes on our clocks. I realize ruefully that the real punishment is just about to start—everything up to this point has been preparation and theater—just paying the freight.

++++

The waves start again. One gasps, then Two, and I wince even before it hits me. I convulse with pain and watch the wave go down the line. This happens a few more times, always starting at a different number and going one direction or the other, as before. Sometimes a repeated grunt surges my direction, and hits me with a fire in my penis, sometimes a stinging in my ankles and legs, sometimes a blast in the ass. But we've been here before. Although it hurts far more than pre-orgasm, it feels a bit like a lead-in to something more sinister.

I'm not mistaken. The waves coast to a stop, and we once again start our collective rhythmical surging. Except for Four and Six. The body maps don't appear this time, but I see a wave of anger flow over Six, and realize what's happening. Our Bondo-battles were recorded, and we are going to replay them. No connections will be established; no-one has any control over anyone else, except for the tormentor. The lead-in probably isn't as bad for Six as it was the first time around, even after climaxing, since this time it isn't actually being done by Four. All the same she's obviously not happy. The foreplay comes to an end with Four erupting in agony, as before.

How deliciously sinister. Bondo-battles ran on anger and adrenaline—the pain required to inflict a blow was small compared to the satisfaction of the delivery. Four and Six now realize just how hard they played to win. Each gloriously successful stroke is now just another agony, delivering no satisfaction beyond a faint memory. Four and Six writhe in agony for a full five minutes, once again ticking down three minutes each. I shudder as I think of how hard Seven and I fought; soon I'll experience that all over again, post-orgasm and adrenaline-free.

We've ticked down less than two minutes as we watched.

My battle with Seven starts to replay. I wince even before the part where he figured how to attack my balls and nipples, but that arrives all too soon. The pain from my own delivery attempts and frantic searching is overwhelming, but both of us writhe in unmitigated agony. I'm once again reminded how well Seven played. It's so excruciating it's impossible to describe. Finally I experience the collapse into apathy and exhaustion all over again, and the five minutes winds up. I feel even more crushed than the first time. Seven seems taken aback; he must realize how much pain he endured in order to inflict pain, and though he's pulsing painfully like all of us now, he seems deep in thought.

The One-Two battle replay starts, and that's just what it is. Of all the battles this pair seemed out to hurt each other, not just to win, and now they both experience that with quadruple intensity. The moments when the tormentor wound them up sexually are replayed along with all the rest, and in their post-orgasmic state these seem to be deeply thought-provoking, sublimely upsetting for both of them. Their five minutes is grueling even for the rest of us—I think we're all relieved when it's finally over.

Five and Six are up. Six looks utterly exhausted, and Five has lost the curious gaze he's had so far. Six knows what this is like, and Five has a pretty good idea. Their writhing is far less erotic this time around, as they gasp, grunt and groan over and over with pain. Six endures it as stoically as she can, remaining as attractive as ever to the tiny extent I can still appreciate it. I think if the battle were real Six would win it this time. Five is definitely at his limit, writhing with agony in the last minute, even though, or perhaps because he won.

The battle replays took twenty minutes, using up twelve minutes on most of our clocks. Already at what seems the limit of my endurance, I know I'm facing another ten minutes of torture, and that's going to take at least another twenty, thirty minutes of wall time. I'm wondering if I'll make it—are we at heartbreak hill?

There's an unpleasant taste as something squirts into my mouth, and up my ass also. I suddenly feel more energetic, if no less in pain. I will make it through, I'm pretty sure now.

++++

For the last thirty minutes we experience our punishment mostly privately, the others in the room fading into a blur of misery. Each of us gets an individual session with the tormentor, beginning with her gaze falling on the unfortunate victim whose turn has arrived. I shudder as her eyes focus in on me, her unspoken words resonating in my brain.

Well, you seemed to enjoy the first half, perhaps a little too much, don't you think, but I won't begrudge you that. You'll simply pay for it now, as I intended all along. I'm good, aren't I! I can punish you very, very well.

She twists me, bucks me, rides me for all I'm worth. I scream quite a bit, but only half as much as I could, since she deftly manipulates the collar to keep the noise down. As she locks me tighter in her gaze she sets my penis throbbing with electrical fire while she clamps my colon mercilessly. Once she has me secured in this electrical embrace she shoots stinging darts into my nipples and balls, and convulses all my muscles in rotation, over and over. I'm wondering if a caning or whipping could possibly hurt as much. This goes on and on: I thrash mightily against my bonds—an attendant comes in in the middle of my one-on-one to deal with some minor loosening, adjusting my hogtie extender back painfully.

Struggle as hard as you like, my tormentor exhorts. Torture yourself. Play with me, if you can. You'll be out of here soon, but I'm going to punish the beJesus out of you in the time left, just as your sentence specifies. She reaches the finale. I erupt in a fire-burst of pain, orgasmic in intensity, but without one whit of pleasure.

Done with you now, it's mostly downhill from here. With an agonizing sting on the balls and nipples she moves her gaze to the next victim, and I resume the background writhing. Four minutes have gone by on the wall, and my time has ticked down by the same 4 minutes, I observe with the tiniest hint of relief. 100% punishment, good to the last second, chock full of timeless suffering, nuts included.

++++

The primary one-on-ones are complete but we each still have a couple of minutes on our clocks. During those 'private sessions' our background suffering was too intense to pay much attention to the soloists, but the last few minutes of our punishment will teach us empathy and compassion for one another.

I taste and feel something go into my body, and my pain level diminishes remarkably, enough to allow me to pay attention to my surroundings and companions again. The tormentor sets us all up in a writhing pattern, but the discomfort is quite bearable; our clocks barely tick down at all. She looks up and down the line, thinking intently—not a good sign, I'm well aware by now.

She sets her gaze on Two, who erupts in a scream of agony. What follows is excruciatingly brutal, even though it lasts less than a minute. Number two screams, thrashes, bucks and struggles mightily in her bonds. Bang, bang, bang the waves of pain pummel her. Each of us knows that our own turn is on the way, but right now all eyes are on the tormentor and Two. All of us seem to be begging her to stop—stop, stop, how can you keep doing this to her, I feel from five pairs of eyes.

And she does stop. Two's clock is down the full minute, with just a dozen seconds to go. Then it's Seven. I've come to respect Seven a lot, and seeing him in such agony is as hard to bear as my own. Finally his minute is up.

Six is next. There's no pleasure whatever in watching her thrashing in bondage this time. She's as stoic as can be but that doesn't stop her from screaming, or prevent the rest of us from feeling her pain. Then it's my turn. I almost faint from the agony, but generous infusions of powerful drugs keep me from going under as I thrash and scream. I'm begging the tormentor to stop, and after exactly a minute she does.

Then Four. I thought I'd feel little compassion for number four, but watching a fellow human being suffer like that, even for a minute, is almost more than I can bear, especially after watching the others. Exhausted, I endure the final suffering of Five and One, and then we are all back in the writhing holding pattern.

As the tormentor issues a few stings and convulsions to those whose clocks still need advancing, the punishment session draws to a close. All the clocks tick to zero at the same time—precision as always, I think. That the tormentor can keep such close track of the time along with everything else she does amazes me—I suppose there's quite a bit of software to help her out. I imagine the software sprints to get out the next release, torment_exec_1.8.1234... maybe, with a giggle. I wonder how they regression-test it...

The tormentor gives us all a brief, delicious sexual stimulation, followed by a sting, not super painful. She tosses us a wry smile. No hard feelings, just doing my job—each of you knows why you were here—you've paid for it in full. Go in peace! she seems to be saying.

She walks back to the console and sets down her pad. She collects her belongings and walks out the staff door of the chamber, on the way for a coffee, I suppose.

++++

Something squirts into my mouth. This time the taste is almost pleasant, though a bit medicinal; I feel it suffusing into my colon too. Seven squirms a little, Six frowns, Five's usual curiosity seems to return. It's a mild anaesthetic and muscle relaxant: the pain and aching of my bondage melts away deliciously. Thank you, I think; I also understand why driving here was so discouraged.

Reflecting on the process of coming in, how every step seemed to induce increased helplessness, engender deeper subjugation, I observe that the process now seems to be the opposite, to bring us back up and put us back together. Of course—angry and humiliated people are more, not less, likely to commit another crime. We've been thoroughly punished, as the fading aching reminds me all too well, and paid for our crimes according to our sentences. No need for any more, except only that inmates are not allowed to be free inside the facility, so we cannot be completely unbound yet. But it's time to get out and get on with life.

One problem, though. I'm seriously crampy inside, and I wonder how the saddle is to be removed with the same attention to hygiene we've enjoyed so far. There's a pretty high level of compassion in the chamber after all we've been through together, but I don't really want to embarrass myself, or watch anyone else suffer any further indignity. But no surprise—there's a solution. The door opens, and a machine clearly intended to help with this rolls in. It's like a battery-powered floor scrubber but its business end is on top.

Another giggle as I see the name on its side: Xamboni. Who else!

The machine is steered up in front of number seven by the attendants, a different man-woman team this time (another shift change, or do some teams specialize in preparation while others de-prepare, I wonder). After parking the Xamboni the team moves quickly down the row, unplugging the cables from our electrodes and saddles. They reel the main cable back into the console, and begin work releasing Seven. They adjust his pole upward and fit the bottom extender in place once again. They remove the bands around his thighs and knees, and remove his leg and thigh electrodes.

Seven's ankles are released, and his feet flop to the floor. The spreader bar stiffens; as the pole extender grips it firmly it spreads his ankles. Seven's wrists are still bound to his rear hub, and remain there for now as the Xamboni rolls over the spreader to take station between his legs. Wings rise up on either side, enclosing his saddle. Moments later Seven's expression is beyond fathoming, but he does not seem to be in any pain, though a few seconds later he shudders, for just a moment.

I smell a slight disinfectant odor. As the machine finishes up (I suppose I'll learn just what it's finishing up shortly) the attendant slackens Seven's front wrist-hub and removes his belly electrode, then tightens the hub back up. Odd, I think, why is the re-tightening necessary, but it does keep the hub from falling onto the machine, which after a few more seconds or so makes a gurgling sound and backs away. Seven stands saddle-free with his legs apart, just as we were before the rebinding, except his hands are still bound rearward. The machine rolls back away: the floor remains spotless.

The front attendant removes its top, with Seven's saddle still in its grip. I notice that there are six more tops in a bin behind—five now the replacement is fitted onto the Xamboni. The first one goes in a bag and is sealed up—to be sanitized and readied for the next customer, I suppose. They're serious about disease transmission here, I know by now.

The machine moves over to number six, along with one of the attendants. It's hardly dignified, but once more Six takes it in stride, like a necessary hospital procedure.

While the machine does its thing on Six, the other attendant finishes up on Seven. One difference is obvious—less effort is taken to ensure security than on the way in—no rods or cables from the ceiling this time. Makes sense, I suppose. We are on the way out, so an attempt at escape would be pretty dumb. Seven's carriage trundles in and stops in front of him, its pole telescoping down and tilting to dock with his front wrist-cuff hub. That's why it was re-tightened, I suppose—it needs to be in the right place.

The attendant attaches the carriage's dangling hose to Seven's spreader, removes his gag, and goes around back to release his upper arm cuffs from the horizontal rod. Seven squirms a little in relief, able to move his arms now, though his wrists are still bound behind him. The attendant touches a release button on his rear hub, and stands back quickly—a safety precaution on her part, I suppose, much like wearing safety glasses in the wood shop—as the front hub reels his wrists in. Once Seven's wrists are re-secured in front she detaches the rear straps and removes the rear hub and extension from his punishment pole.

The carriage-pole tilts to vertical and telescopes in, stretching out Seven's arms. The attendant can now safely remove his arm-cuffs. One little reminder we are not quite out yet—she plugs a wire from the carriage-pole into the socket on the wrist-band hub, then she backs off to safety again. Seven's collar opens to release his neck—no rod and collar to control us this time—the wires to his wrists must be to enforce the no-speaking rule, and maintain disciplinary control in the unlikely event it becomes necessary. Less severe by far than the collar, but after what we've been through it's easy to imagine how effective the wrist-band electrodes could be, so we'll behave. Number seven's spreader goes limp and detaches from the punishment pole and he's nearly free. The carriage, with Seven following, starts its trip to the exit.

++++

We wear no shifts on the way out. We've been naked together for several hours, so it hardly matters now. Seven's not embarrassed and there's a spring in his step which he didn't have when he came in. He has a... contented expression; as he passes me he smiles, moving his arms in the closest imitation of a high five possible given his still-bound wrists. I can't reciprocate, but I find myself smiling back—you beat me fair and square in Bondo-battle, Seven. Maybe it wasn't really fair and square—nothing's actually left to chance in here, but we both accept it as so, as he heads on out.

Six is released. She's as beautiful as she was when she came in, and far more relaxed as she follows her carriage-pole to the exit. Five is preoccupied with the process of being released. Four seems lost in thought, but wakes from his revery as Six glides past, looking at her with new-found admiration—after all, she beat him to a pulp at Bondo-battle. Neither he nor I can help staring at her gorgeous naked body but it's not especially lascivious—pretty much all sexual aggressiveness has been drained out of us by now.

Furthermore, it isn't lost on any of us that while Six is bound only by her wrists and a flaccid spreader, we are still hogtied, gagged and collared, hardly projecting much of a sexual threat. Six is all woman, competent and complete in herself, whatever she may have done to deserve to be here. She glares at us, but she seems to be enjoying the appreciation, and acknowledges Four's tentative smile.

Suddenly Six grips me in a familiar stare, one I've experienced from the tormentor many times in the last few hours, and I freeze with anticipation. She flicks a smile.

Hah-hah, gotcha I seem to hear. As she continues to the exit I see her lock eyes for a moment with number two, as they exchange a moment of feminine understanding. Six frowns just for a second as she continues on her way out.

Five and I exchange a knowing look as he walks past, and then he's gone. The machine is backing up to me now. It rises to my saddle and closes over it. The sheath slides off my penis with a puff of compressed air. My belly electrode activates momentarily—hey, I thought that was over! I contract and empty myself into the machine. I feel the saddle unlock from the pole and slide down away from me—this treatment will definitely allow me to leave with more confidence. A pleasant cleansing spray follows, and then a drying blast of air. Wouldn't mind getting one of these for my bathroom, I'm thinking. Perhaps there's a less expensive version for domestic use.

By now it's Four's turn to exit, and he too has a spring in his step. He doesn't pay much attention to me as he passes, and in any case I'm occupied with the final stages of my release. He gives Two a genuine smile as he goes by, even as he indicates his appreciation of her femininity, and he smiles at number one also.

I'm de-gagged, de-electroded, de-collared, and now I'm following my carriage-pole to the exit. Two and One are occupied by their unbinding as I go past, but I signal my appreciation for their psycho-fraught Bondo-battle anyway.

++++

The exit door opens and after making another broad one-eighty, I'm at another door. It opens and I'm in something like a shower stall, but I pass on through it to a second one. Here my carriage stops, and the spreader bar stiffens. I experience a moment of anxiety, puzzled by this increased stricture, but it turns out to be in the service of sanitation. Once my legs are spread, I'm warned to close my eyes, then sprayed with warm water with a faint antiseptic smell. The air knife which passes over me to dry me off stings a little, serving as a reminder of where I am, but it's similar in discomfort to a good massage. The spreader goes limp again, and I continue through a third cleansing stall without stopping. Good design for throughput, I think, as I find myself in the same corridor I started in. The carriage takes me partway down and turns sideways through another door as it opens. I'm in a changing chamber again, though I don't think it's the same one I began my journey in.

The carriage stops, and the wrist-cuffs open. I'm still a prisoner in the room, but no longer bound. I look over my wrists, ankles, arms and neck; though I'm considerably bruised, on my medicinal high I'm not hurting much. Won't be long before I will, I think ruefully—rather like leaving the dentist. The locker opens, and there's the bin with my clothes. I suppose there's a dumbwaiter-overhead rail system to deliver them to whatever changing chamber we wind up in on the way out.