Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)
Stories


RACKING BRITNEY

By Kirsten Smart


They wanted Britney stretched on a rack, and I had volunteered to be her torturer.

Designing my rack was quite a challenge: modern, or traditional? Did I want to be authentic, or use a few innovations to make things interesting? After consultations with history books, websites, and an engineer, I settled on a combination of the two.

The end result was gorgeous. Nine feet long, three feet wide, made of solid oak. At the foot of the machine, two heavy steel rings were bolted to the wood. At its head, the roller, roughened steel to eliminate slippage. The roller mounted on a steel axle, turned by an X-shaped wooden handle, with a simple ratchet to lock it in place.

There had been the option of a geared or motorised system, of course; I could simply have twirled a little wheel with one finger – or pushed a button – and watched my victims stretch. But there was something sexy about having to work up a sweat, having to put sheer muscle into forcing the roller another half inch. Once it turned, the ratchet would clink into place and hold the tension, but the effort was all mine.

The roller was wound with ropes. Chains are all very well, but shackles tend to cut into flesh and damage nerves; and besides, ropes make the most satisfying creaking sound as they grow taut.

Location? A delicious underground dungeon – well, a converted crypt beneath the ruins of an old church. Walls that in some parts were old stone blocks, in other just the bare rock, in most places wet, and dark with moss and slime. An uneven flagstone floor. Old barred alcoves. No electricity, so we had to light it with flaming torches and a few strategically-placed braziers. As dungeons went, it was the creepiest I had ever seen.

When my two accomplices finally arrived with Britney and brought her down the cracked stone steps into the dungeon's icy welcome, I could see her fear. Blindfolded, with hands tied behind her back, she looked vulnerable and helpless, dressed only in a white tank top and blue jeans; far too little clothing for the cold New England night. There was frost on her breath; her nipples poked delightful bumps in the cotton of her top.

She was a little shorter than I expected – two inches shorter than me, and very petite. My hooded henchmen held her steady as I moved to stand before her.

“Remove her blindfold.”

The cloth was pulled from her eyes, and she shook out her strawberry-blonde hair before staring in a mix of awe and horror at me, and the evil machine that lay beyond. I had dressed very much for the occasion; a black cocktail dress, halter-neck and backless, a skirt split to the thigh revealing knee-high boots with three-inch heels. Black gloves, and a black masquerade mask to conceal my identity.

It obviously had the desired effect, because Britney's mouth dropped open, her adorable dark doe-eyes wide, and she seemed to sag a little in the men's arms. Her question was predictable: “Who are you?”

“I'm your torturer,” I told her simply.

“My what?”

“You've been chosen to be tortured.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Do you know who I am?” she shrieked, outrage mixed with terror. In an instant there were tiny beads of sweat on her brow.

“Of course I know, that's why you've been chosen.” To her captors: “put her on.”

“NO!” Britney shrieked, and tried to struggle, but it was obvious to all that she had no chance of escape. The two men picked her up by her bound arms and dumped her butt-first onto the rack. Joining them, I put my hands on Britney's shoulders – they were warm, her skin beautifully smooth – and held her down. Lying on her own arms, she gasped with the discomfort, for a moment missing the fact that the two men had started undressing her – one at her trainers, one at the buttons of her jeans.

Then she realised.

“Let me go! Stop – hey, shit, let me go!” she was shrieking. She thrashed about under my hands, but it was easy to keep her pinned, and there was nothing she could do as they dragged her shoes and jeans off her.

“Oh my god, you gorgeous bitch!” I howled in outrage. No woman should look as good as she did. Her string-bikini briefs were slung low across lightly tanned hips, not a hint of pubic peep. Her thighs were smooth, firm, just the right mix of muscle tone and softness. Wonderfully smooth calves, perfect feet; so dainty and pedicured, slender little ankles.

Ankles that were suddenly seized. Britney gave a yelp as her legs were pulled apart and loops of rope quickly passed over her feet, tugged tight around her ankles. With quick efficiency, the ropes were tied to the rack's anchoring rings, and her feet were secured. Releasing her shoulders, I stepped back.

“Let me go!” Britney shrieked. With hands still tied behind her, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows. Desperately she twisted her feet from side to side, jerking at the ropes in an attempt to free herself. Her blonde hair had tumbled across her face, but without the use of her hands, she couldn't clear it away. Her eyes were wild with bewilderment and fear as she looked towards me.

And saw the knife.

“What are you going to do with that?” she gasped. “Oh, God, please …” She stared in horror as I stepped closer, lowering the knife towards her belly. She tried to wriggle away, but was held by her restrained ankles, and closed her eyes in near-panic as I laid the blunt side of the blade along her stomach.

“Be very, very still,” I told her softly. I slid the knife up along the gentle groove of her belly. Its blade eased under the white fabric of her tank top, and, almost without noise, sheared it open. It was like undoing a zip; as the knife slid higher, the top split into two, each half draped over a breast. The skin between her breasts was gleaming and tanned.

Britney whimpered as I sliced through the last thread. Then, without a word, I took each shoulder of the tank top and quickly severed it, then pulled away the ruined garment.

There was an audible groan from behind me. My male assistants, watching all along, were unable to control their astonishment at the sight of Britney's bare breasts. Round and high and firm, gleaming with youth, topped by pert cinnamon nipples that jutted into the chill air of the dungeon.

I turned, laying the knife aside. “Oh for heaven's sake, you pair of drooling perverts, just tie her on, would you?”

Their ogling put me in a foul mood. I'd dressed as sexily as I could, but my bare back and the occasional glimpse of thigh were obviously no contest for this near-naked young goddess. She was shrieking again as they untied her hands and pushed her down onto the rack. With slightly less efficiency than earlier, the two men pulled Britney's arms up over her head and tied the roller's ropes around her wrists.

Finally, they were done, and moved aside.

“Fine, now go away,” I said irritably and went to stand over the rack.

I had to admit she was gorgeous, especially now that she was starfished out on the cold oak of the rack, her wrists and ankles roped to its opposing ends. Her legs were slim and gleaming; her hips slender, her belly flat and firm. Her ribcage formed a gentle arch topped by her proud breasts. Her long arms were sleek and toned with young muscle.

If I had hoped she would become a snivelling mess at the first hint of danger, I was to be disappointed.

“Just let me go, okay?” Her voice somehow remained calm despite her fear. I could see her small hands clenched into fists beyond the ropes. Her face, framed by her raised arms, told of a battle for composure. “I've got connections … we can talk about this, maybe come to an arrangement?”

I had to smile, and put out a single finger; touching her arm just below the elbow, tracing an invisible line down towards her armpit. Her skin was warm and deliciously smooth. “I'm not interested in making arrangements. That's not what I want.”

“Then …” She was hesitant to ask, but lifted her head to look at me. “What do you want?”

“To make you scream and beg.”

That was bad news to Britney, and she let her head drop back to the rack, turning her face away. Now she began to cry, the first fat tear rolling down her flawless cheek as I went to the handle that would turn the roller. “Do you know what this machine is called?” I asked. Of course Britney didn't answer, so I went on. “The rack. One of the oldest-known torture devices. I have no idea when the first one was built, or who built it, but I know why they built it. When you stretch a person, it hurts. Not just a little – but a hell of a lot. It hurts long before any real damage is done, which is the beauty of it.

“See, why ruin a woman's back with a whip, or scar her skin with hot irons or sharp needles, why wreck the bones in her hands with thumbscrews, when you can achieve such spectacular results by applying a little tension to her body?”

“You're a fucking psycho!” Britney's breath was coming faster, now, and I could see the first sparks of perspiration between her breasts. She was scared.

“Whatever. You'll see.” I gripped the rack's cross-shaped handle, and gave it a turn. The roller shifted, and the ropes pulled on Britney's wrists, straightening her arms. She looked up towards her hands in sudden alarm, and the ratchet locked in place with a satisfying sound.

“Come on, give me a break, ok?” she whimpered. Her bare breasts were shifting quickly with fear.

“Not just yet.” I turned the handle again. This time there was resistance, as Britney's body was moved into place by the tightening process, the ankle and wrist ropes all pulling taut. I noted with pleasure that her fingers closed around the ropes from her wrists, her toes fanning out, an unconscious reflex to resist.

Sure enough, when I started to turn the handle again, I saw her muscles tense. Her arms and thighs became defined as she pulled on the ropes in opposition to the rack's force; but it was a short lesson in the overwhelming power of leverage as the roller moved regardless, drawing her body a half-inch tauter. She gave a moan of panic as the ratchet clinked home.

Just to prove my point, I gave the rack one more turn. This time, the stretch was visible; her arms and legs, already straight, grew tauter, her ribcage lifted, her belly hollowed, and she gave a gasp. Her fingers released the ropes, a sign that she had already started to accept the inevitability of the torture.

So I gave her the break she had asked for.

“I'm cold,” was my excuse. “I'm going to go and warm up. We'll carry on when I get back.”

“Wait! Don't leave me like this!” Britney called. “Please!”

“You don't have a choice,” I told her. “Don't go anywhere.”

I needed half an hour in the trailer with a hot coffee to get some warmth back. Recharged, I shrugged off my coat and headed back down into the dungeon.

Britney lay where I had left her, a picture of discomfort. Her near-naked body spreadeagled on the rack. She was shivering, her ribcage stark in the cold air, her nipples standing like fleshy bullets. There was frost on every trembling breath. I smiled; cold only improved the effect of the rack, reducing the flexibility of muscles and tendons.

Britney's face turned towards me as I neared. She had been crying. “Please. Let me go?”

“Now why would I want to do that?” I purred as I circled the rack. Britney tipped her head back, looking along her own upstretched arms towards the roller as I passed, biting her lip in helpless fear. “… When there's so much fun to be had with you as you are?”

Britney's eyes widened as I stopped at the rack's handle. “No! Don't touch that, please!” she yelped. Her fingers spread and searched helplessly, her toes flexed, and she shook her head in desperation. I closed one hand over the stout wood, winking at her.

“Ready?”

“No-o-o!” Britney wailed, but she could do nothing as I pulled the lever like the handle of a slot machine. The roller turned, the ropes were pulled, and by her wrists, Britney was stretched a half-inch further. Her muscles and joints were already tense with cold, and pain hit at once. She gave a gasp, then a whimper, clenching her teeth. I waited a few seconds, then turned the lever again; as the ratchet clinked into place, Britney was stretched, and this time she gave a shout.

“Stop! Please, stop!” she wailed.

“Honey, I've only just started!”

Britney's fingers curled and flexed uselessly as sweat began to bead on her breasts and neck. The muscles in her arms and legs were hard with the strain, the ropes tight at each end of the machine. Now it was getting interesting; the pain had started, and every time she stretched it would grow exponentially.

I put my hands on the lever, fixed my eyes on her. “Feel this!”

I turned the roller. I saw Britney's lithe young body stretch as the wrist-ropes shortened another half inch – and as pain flashed through her limbs, Britney gave a scream.

“AAAAAAH! Sto-o-op!” Her head tipped back, her eyes squeezed shut. I could see the tension all through her body, her ribcage stark. I knew at this early stage that the pain was intense and burning, but it was through muscles rather than tendons, so relatively mild.

All the same, she was hurting, and I took a moment to relish her pain. Sweat shone on her face, her breasts shifted fast as she panted for air. Her hands were crimson-coloured with the pressure of the ropes.

Finally, I put my hands to the handle again, and gave the roller a turn. Britney screamed as she was stretched, and this time I heard the ropes creaking as they pulled her body tauter. The ratchet clinked into place; Britney's brown eyes were now wide, her mouth open as she drew breath and screamed again. I could see now the tendons in her arms and legs were tight, the muscles drawn taut. Her spine popped as it flexed out.

“Oh, God … stop the pain, please!” Britney wailed. Sweat began to shine on her bare ribcage and breasts, in the hollows of her taut armpits.

I couldn't resist her. Slowly I moved to the base of the rack, and put my hand to her foot. I trailed my fingertips up the pale sole of her foot, through the arch, then around to her ankle, where the taut rope was grinding against her flesh. I ran my hand up her smooth shin to her knee, then slowly up her thigh; it was hard and taut with the strain.

At her hip, I playfully pulled her panties down an inch; there was nothing she could do to stop me, and it revealed a tantalising glimpse of her trimmed brown pubes. Britney wailed heedless, too overcome by the pain of being stretched to notice what I'd done.

Gradually, I slid my hand up over her belly; it was hollowed by the strain on her body, a rivulet of sweat running sexily down the groove to her navel. Her sweat-streaked ribcage, by contrast, was lifted and harsh; I ran my fingertips over each bony ridge, until I reached the softness of her breast. Her skin was warm and downy, now clustered with droplets of sweat, and I tickled my fingers to the peak, where her nipple stood stone-hard and pale.

“Please!” Britney's tear-filled eyes found me. “Please, loosen it – please!”

I looked at her, and smiled. “No.” Instead, I walked to the handle again. Britney followed my move with her eyes, and a look of terror filled her face.

“No – no! NO!!” She could only cry out as I put my hands to the lever, and wrenched the handle around again. Britney was stretched, and let out a long scream of pain. It was getting harder to turn the roller; she was nearing the limit of her body's capacity to stretch. She threw her head from side to side, screaming in agony. Such a simple method of torture, and yet so effective.

Her rounded breasts were heaving fast as she screamed, her hands curled into tight fists beyond the groaning ropes. Her whole body was covered in sweat, now.

“I was wrong about you,” I told her, raising my voice over her screams. “You do sing beautifully!”

Britney was unable to respond, but as the minutes passed, her screaming died to wails and moans. She lay on my rack, turning her head endlessly. She failed to notice as I took up my knife again, crossed to stand at her hip. Her panties were soaked with sweat; there were droplets over her hip bones. I gently lifted one hip-string of the scanty garment, and sheared through. I did the same with the other hip, then whipped away the scrap of fabric, baring Britney's sweat-wet pussy. With her legs spread, she was quite exposed, and my two accomplices could have done whatever they wanted with her.

But I wasn't finished. I returned to the rack's lever, braced myself for the effort of turning it. Britney's wailing became a rising shriek of terror, but she was absolutely helpless to stop me, and I cranked the rack over anyway.

Squealing and groaning, the ropes hauled another half-inch out of Britney's pain-wracked body. Her scream of agony was deafening, her body creaking to match the sound of the rack. Impossibly, her ribcage crept a fraction higher still, her belly hollow and taut. She fought for each breath, only to scream her lungs empty. The sweat ran from her body; in the cold dungeon air, wisps of steam curled up from her tight skin.

I backed away, watching her agony, my eyes sweeping the taut lines of her straining bare limbs, her hollowed belly and raised ribs. Now was the point of conflict. Did I continue stretching her, and risk pulling her arms out of their sockets? What if I was to wait a few hours – might her tendons and ligaments adjust slightly and withstand a few more notches, or were they already at breaking point?

There was only one way to find out.

I grasped the lever again. Britney's eyes widened, but she was too agonised to beg. I threw my weight against the lever, pushing hard. With a groan, the roller shifted. Britney's wrists were pulled towards the head of the rack, her ankles remained anchored to its foot; her body was thus lengthened. This time, instead of a scream, she gave a high-pitched wail. Her fingers and toes fanned out, her eyes rolled back, and, as I watched, Britney finally passed out from the pain.

I waited, listening to the slow creaks of the rack, the shallow breathing of my unconscious victim. I half expected to hear the muted pop of a joint dislocating, but there was nothing. Britney's youth, her years of dance training and stretching had created a lithe and flexible body; which meant she had withstood a serious racking without injury.

So far.

“Guys … fetch some water.”

“Is she still alive? We heard some ba-ad screams coming from down there,” one of my hooded accomplices said shakily. “We thought maybe you were killing her already.”

“Not quite,” I smiled.

They threw a bucket of icy water over the naked girl on my rack, and she woke with a shriek that trailed into a long wail of agony as the veil of oblivion fell away. The burning agony in her arms and legs, the fire in her spine, the rending pain in her taut belly; being stretched was an overwhelming, all-enveloping torture, affecting every inch of her body from wrists to ankles.

It was time for me to take a break, so I returned to my trailer.

I woke up cold. The blanket had fallen off, baring my arms and back again. I glanced at the clock. Oops: I'd been asleep for five hours.

Britney was still conscious when I got down there, and still in terrible pain. Two of the torches had gone out, and by the weak light that remained, I saw her shining, stretched body, taut and spreadeagled on the rack. Her head rolled towards me as I neared, her hair stuck to her face with sweat.

She groaned. “Oh, please … please, I'll do anything … it hurts … loosen it, please!”

God, that was hot! I was mesmerised by her suffering, by her sweat-polished skin, by the cable-tight definition of tendons through her armpits and the corrugations of her lifted ribcage; of her curled and purple hands and feet beyond the straining ropes. How could a girl be stretched almost to breaking point, then left for five hours, and still be aware of her surroundings?

I edged closer. I could see now that despite the sweat that covered her, she was desperately cold, her skin peppered with goosebumps, her nipples crinkled and erect, wisps of white on her shallow breath. Britney looked at me with those wide brown eyes, and a tear spilled, quickly hidden by the horizon of her upstretched arm.

“I have money,” she managed to gasp. “Whatever you want, just say, oh please, just say!”

“I want to break you, Britney,” I told her. I couldn't believe how turned on I felt. It was power, sexiness, lust and sadism all merged into one. In a dress more daring than anything I'd normally wear, in a role that was sheer cruelty, I was a new woman. I loved who I had become. I passed the head of my wonderful rack, running my hand across the locked roller.

Britney was sobbing. “Don't stretch me any more, I beg you!”

“But that's the joy of it,” I told her. “All you can do is beg. And why should it affect me? I meant to make you beg; it's proof that I'm doing my job well.”

I closed my hand over the lever of the rack, caressed it as if it was a cock. Britney tipped her head back between her straining arms and watched, horrified, mesmerised, terrified. “And I am doing it well.”

I hauled on the lever.

Britney started screaming. As her tortured body was subjected to new strain, the pain exploded through her limbs with a fresh intensity. Even so, the roller barely moved; I had to throw my weight against the lever, using all the strength of my arms to wrest it around. Slowly, creaking and groaning, the roller turned, Britney was stretched further, and her screams reached a new frenzy. I kept wrenching the lever, until the ratchet finally dropped into place, locking Britney tight.

She suffered beautifully. I watched in amazement, astounded that her body had taken such punishment. Maybe her young frame had adjusted over the long hours I'd left her to suffer? I had stretched her five inches, and she was in serious pain, but not a joint dislocated, not a tendon snapped.

What would happen if I gave her another turn?

The thought sneaked into my mind, and I grew moist between my legs at the thought. I had to find out.

“No! No! No, God, no!” Britney started shrieking through her pain as I returned my hands to the lever. But she could do nothing as I heaved again, putting my shoulders into it. The roller grated and creaked, winding in its rope, and Britney's body was stretched. She let out a hideous scream; then, as the ratchet locked in place, gave a series of high, breathless gasps.

Her naked body was impossibly tight, shining wet with sweat, muscles and ribs and breasts and that little patch of brown pubic hair. Britney's eyes seemed to see nothing as she lay gasping, unable to catch her breath. Finally, with a little whimper, her head fell to the side as she fainted once again.

Reluctantly, I put my finger to the release lever.

Then hesitated. Should I …?




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