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2006-03-05
The Training of Slave Girl Shana Ch. 03The night must have come, at some point, because it felt late for Shana, who was back in her chamber reading one of the books off the shelf. She lay across the bed on her stomach with her feet in the air, brushing her bare, pointed toes against each other (Pose Four, Variation D). She glanced in the mirror, which was reflecting how the skirt betrayed the first inch of cheek of her bare seat, and absently tugged the hem down. Having become lost in the book, she was unaware of the approaching shuffle of the Usher, until he banged on the rungs of the ladder as he climbed them. Shana gasped, and was off the bed and on the floor in one, swift motion, her head bowed. The Usher's face was expressionless. "The Understudy will see you now," he said simply. Shana rose and looked for her sandals. "Bare feet," the Usher said, in an absent-minded tone, almost to himself, and climbed back down the ladder. Shana suppressed a sigh. Cold concrete, the sandals forsaken. She climbed out and down the ladder, ignoring the Usher's upward stare. The Usher brought Shana to a dimly-lit room at the far end of the complex. She was greeted by the sight of a strange contraption in the middle of the room: a stainless steel table, with a large floodlight positioned overhead. At the foot of the table was a long, stainless steel piston-shaped tube emerging from an inscrutable mesh of hydraulics, rounding to a soft point at one end like a missile, and with a diameter comparable to a rolling pin.
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A small console with gauges and lights stood next to it. The Understudy paced slowly around the machine and stopped when he caught sight of Shana. "Ah, good," he said, "You've arrived. " She knelt and bowed her head. The Usher went over to the machine and flipped some switches on the console, causing gauges and tiny lights to jump to life. He switched on the floodlight and the metallic table was brightly lit, the shiny metal reflecting the light all around the room. The Understudy smiled thinly at Shana. "I designed and built this myself," he said. "Spare scrap from the university. " Shana stared up uncomprehendingly at the machine. He added, "There are other projects, too. "The Understudy stepped forward and took her hand. "Arise, slave," he said, gently pulling her up. "Stand on your toes for a moment. " She did, and the Understudy paced around her, taking her in from all sides.
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Standing on her toes had the action of pulling the back of her tunic's hem up high enough to show a hint of the crease of her bare rear. The Understudy stopped smiling. "All right, that's enough," he said calmly, striding over to the machine. "Come over here and get up on the table. " Shana hesitated, her eyes wide. "Now!" the Understudy barked. She padded quickly over to the table, and slid up onto its cold, shiny surface, keeping her legs and thighs firmly together in an attempt to preserve her modesty. The Usher seemed to be checking the gauges on the machine and conferred momentarily with the Understudy, the two talking in quiet tones. Shana stared at the piston. The Understudy turned back to her suddenly and said, "Alright, Slave Shana, lie on your back. " Shana broke her silence. "What is this machine for?" she asked quietly. "Lie down and I'll tell you," he replied. She slowly lay back, bringing her legs up, thighs together, onto the cold, metal slab, and tugged her hem down to cover her fur, which uncovered her bare rear. She felt the cold metal beneath her and began to shake.
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Before she understood what was happening, the Understudy casually reached to the side of the table and pulled a strap tightly over her pelvis like a seatbelt, locking it in place on the other side beyond her reach. It was so tight, it hurt.
Shana sat up in a panic, tried to wiggle her torso free, and found she was belted tight to the table. She looked at the Understudy with fright. "Please, sir, it's too tight! What are you doing?" she squeaked. The Understudy pushed her back down roughly, eliciting a surprised grunt from her. "Slave Shana, I am displeased with your truculence and we are here tonight to ensure that this behaviour changes!" the Understudy thundered. Shana began to cry quietly, tears brimming up and rolling down her cheeks. "But, but I've been a good girl," she said plaintively. "No," said the Understudy simply. "Not to my way of thinking. " She began to cry harder as the realization dawned on her that he meant to punish her. Her slim body increasingly shook with her sobs. "Anyway," said the Understudy, "I'm not much for lectures. This isn't a movie.
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" He turned toward the console. "Begin the treatment," he said to the Usher, who nodded and flipped a switch. Shana let out long, choking sobs, which filled the room from end to end, echoing off the walls piteously. The piston shuddered to life and advanced up the table with a soft whine of its hydraulic arms. It was already positioned at a latitude that brought it easily up between her legs. When Shana saw the piston move, she sat up again, hysterical, frantically clamping her thighs together, as she finally realized what the piston was for and why she wasn't allowed any panties underneath her little skirt. "No, no, no, no!" she shrieked, shaking her head, as if trying to will a halt to the piston's advance. She pushed against it with all her might, but the hydraulics were relentless, and the belt across her pelvis had pinned her hips firmly in place. The Understudy stepped back and watched impassively as the piston nosed up under her skirt, effortlessly separating her clamped thighs. As the tip of the piston reached her pubic bone, Shana switched from pushing against the end of it to frantically grabbing its sides, her hands between her thighs, continuing to fight it, and shrieking. It would still not yield to her efforts. She tried moving her hips to either side, but the tip found the folds, breached her labia majora, followed the groove down and penetrated her, tearing through her hymen. Then it began to stretch the insides of her vagina wider then she ever thought possible, making a discernible squishing noise. Her shrieking ended in a sharp cry, and for just a brief moment, she continued to fight it as it went up into her, fingers sliding uselessly against stainless steel. Her head snapped back, her legs squirmed and her bare feet scrabbled on the table.
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That was when Shana stopped crying. The room hushed as her normal behaviour ceased. The time for her shrieking and crying had ended, and the time for a special kind of silence began: a surreal silence punctuated by the sounds she made as she was being stretched. A short while ago, she had been innocently reading on her bed, and now her unexpected performance commenced: unrehearsed, spontaneous, and genuine. Shana crossed the boundary between articulate and inarticulate, and the contrast was sharp. Shana wordlessly arched her back, her breasts straining through her tunic. Her tiny tunic's short hem slipped up her bare hips as she brought her knees up. She began to tilt her head back, her long hair spilling off the edge of the table. Her arms and hands grew rigid, every tendon visible, and her fingertips raked the table. Her bare feet arched hard like a gymnast, toes pointed. She silently opened her mouth wide, relaxed it slightly, her throat undulating, then widened it again. "Aa, aaa," she croaked. Then silence. The piston would pause, advance an inch, pause, advance an inch. Her body would twitch in response.
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"Aa -a. "Silence. Her head was thrown all the way back as far as it could go, touching the table, mouth wide open, jaw quivering. The piston made a soft, wet noise inside her as it jerked another inch. "Aaa," she croaked again. Silence. The piston jerked another inch and her bare feet arched again, her sweaty soles squeaking as they slid on the table. "Aa -aa. "Silence filled the room. The piston jerked deeper. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck. The more it stretched her, the more strained and intense was her croaking; like staccato Morse Code, the pitch of her voice a little higher each time the piston jerked deeper, harder.
"Aaa, aa-aa. . .
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!"Shana's hands repeatedly clenched into fists and unclenched. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth stretched wide, as far as it could open. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Aaaa- a-"The guttural croaking sound from the back of her throat, mouth yawning, her tongue jerking. The sweat beads on her shuddering skin glistened under the hard spotlight. The sweaty soles of her bare feet squeaked on the table again. She could not get a grip with them, and the soles arched, the toes pointed. Arched, then pointed. Her bare heels would dig into the table, hold a moment, and then slip. The legs would straighten. Then the knees would rise, and just the tips of her arched, pointed toes would touch the stainless steel. They would hold, slip, and the process would repeat. Now the piston was deep inside her. She began to tear inside her tunnel.
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She could feel it tear, feel herself tear. Her tunnel was at its limit, the stretching too rapid for it to accommodate the piston. The Understudy gave a small nod to the Usher, who flipped the switch, and the piston suddenly withdrew out from her - most of the way. Shana collapsed, hyperventilating noisily, her chest heaving, her tunic damp with sweat. As she heaved, her shaking hands slid between her thighs to wrap around the piston and follow it up to where it entered her pussy. Her fingers felt around the edges where her pussy bulged around the shaft, and she raised her head to try and look at the spectacle with wild, wide eyes. "No, stop! It's splitting me open!" she gasped. "Daddy, please help me!"The Understudy gave her a moment and then nodded at the Usher. "Again," he said. The Usher flipped the switch and the piston pushed up into her again. Shana made a protesting, plaintive cry, and went rigid. She contorted, as before, grabbing the sides of the table with white knuckles, and the room hushed a second time. When the piston was fully inside her, the Understudy stepped forward and released the belt across her hips. With the flip of another switch by the Usher, the piston began to lift her, waist-first, leaving her back and shoulders resting on the metal slab, and her raised lower half impaled on the piston. Shana gaaked loudly from her throat.
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She hung in the silence, stretching. She gaaked again. The tearing in her tunnel widened. Her body hung suspended at an angle, her skirt falling up to reveal how the piston emerged obscenely from her pussy. She involuntarily wrapped her bare legs around the cold piston, toes pointed, the sound of sweaty bare skin rubbing against steel, as she tried to stop herself from tearing more. From stretching wider than her tunnel could go. Shana was dimly aware she was being watched intently, but had given up all pretense of dignity as the piston continued to stretch her. The soft, squishing, stretching noise was faintly audible, in the silences between the sounds coming from the back of her throat as she felt herself open. "Aa. . . a. . . a.
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. . "The piston no longer moved, having lodged up against the top of her tunnel. Shana clung to the piston with her bare legs and feet, trying not to move. Each movement, however slight, was causing her tunnel to tear a little more, millimetre by millimetre, from the weight of her body. Finally, the Understudy nodded at the Usher, who reversed the switch, and the piston let her back down to the slab, and withdrew from her slowly, dripping and slick. Shana screamed sharply and bucked her hips violently as it slid out. The Usher calmly wiped it with a cloth. Shana rolled onto her side, heaved, and drew her knees up to her chest. The surreal silence was over and time snapped back to normal again. The performance had ended and she began to sob hard, gut-wrenching sobs. The Understudy said, "At the height of that, you looked like the most beautiful woman in the world. ""Please, please don't do that again! Please don't hurt me anymore! Please don't hurt me!" she cried. "I won't. But I'm sure you'll work harder at your station with that kind of inspiration," he said.
"Anyway, the Usher will take you to the infirmary. I know that hurt, but you'll get more than enough rest. " The Understudy turned to go, stopped, and said, "I take it you'll be less familiar with the Caterer next time. "She lay still on the table, her thighs quivering. "Oh God, it hurt so bad. It hurt so bad!"He left the room, leaving her with the Usher, who waited patiently for her to recover. sirwhereareyou@hotmail. com.
