Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)


By Andrew Blake

From Man's Story, January 1963

Modified and Extended for the GIMP by Bleumune

The peasants trembled as they whispered of the disappearing virgins and the castle of pain.

THE house was a large one, set back and surrounded with trees and fountains in the manner of sixteenth-century Italy. It was also surrounded by a wall, and guards walked those walls and guarded the gate. Passersby had to stay some distance from the windows, lighted with flickering candles, but as they walked along the paths of the city, they could sometimes hear, from the house beyond the trees, the faint sounds of suffering humanity—feminine humanity. Those terrible screams and bubbling moans from unknown tortured maidens were faint, and not everyone could hear them, but those who could hear them noted that, once started, they went on, by day and night, for a considerable time. Many hours, it was agreed.

And sometimes several days, as others swore. Then there would be quiet ... until the next time.

The more pious among them crossed themselves, muttering prayers as they went quickly by. "It is the devil lives in there," they said. "The devil himself, come to earth to torment us."

For none of them knew who might be next—whose wife or daughter might be picked to suffer the tortures of the damned inside the house of the Count of Cenara. Among themselves, the braver souls muttered of rebellion, of banding together and overthrowing the Count of Cenara to put an end to his reign of blood and terror. But all of them knew, secretly, that the day could never come. The Count had the city in the palm of his hand. Within Villecharina, there was no force to oppose him. Like many in various Italian towns, he even had his own "army," a hand-picked band of guards as well as servants and helpers trained to fight. No crew of untrained citizens could stand up against such force.


AMONG the most vocal of the citizens of Villecharina was Rodolfo Teschina, a woodworker of the town. Rodolfo, a middle-aged man with long, flowing moustaches and a missing left hand, lopped off in some forgotten accident during his apprenticeship, had reason for his fear and hatred of the Count. He had known the Count in childhood, and he never tired of telling the story.

"That one," he said to his cronies, "was always a bad one. Even as a small boy, there was something wrong with him—who knows why, except that the Devil sometimes chooses a man for his own."

Rodolfo’s mother had worked as laundress in the Count’s household for some little while, and his father was an assistant to the coachman. As a child, Rodolfo himself had played in the courtyard of the place. He had seen the young Count ... and his "amusements."

"At first it was the animals," he said. "The flies, perhaps—or even the cats and dogs. He liked to make them suffer, burning the flies in a fire, beating the animals until they could resist no more, even until they died. Some say he was kind and gentle as a child and that some love-affair turned him against women. But I say he was always a man of blood, a man of anger and terror."

Rodolfo’s mother had been pretty—and blonde, which was a rarity in Southern Italy. She had caught the eye of the young Count, who was then perhaps thirteen.

Ridiculous as it sounds, this young boy had come to Rodolfo’s father with an offer. If the elder Teschina would "put aside" his wife, some sort of divorce might be managed, and the Count himself would "marry" the woman, Violetta.

Naturally, Teschina refused.

"I was willing to offer her happiness," the Count said, in a casual tone. "You have insured that she will suffer torment instead." He bowed and turned away.

The reputation of the Count of Cenara was not yet widespread. Teschina never imagined he might actually carry out such a threat.

The next night he discovered how wrong he had been. In the dead of night, four guards broke into the chamber he shared with his wife and son and carried Violetta off, in spite of all the fight Rodolfo and his father could put up.

The two now realized who had kidnapped Violetta, and they went to the main room of the Count’s house after dawn and asked for him.

The Count of Cenara received them within an hour. "You are inquiring after the Signora?" he asked mildly.

"She has been taken away," Teschina roared, "and by your orders!"

"You wish to see her?"

Teschina nodded.

"I will take you to her," the Count said. "I have been attending to her most of the night. She has proved a most entertaining guest." Guards appeared; the man and the boy were escorted through the labyrinthine passages of the house until they found themselves in a small back room.

Teschina stared and screamed at the nightmare that confronted him. His son Rodolfo tried to run to his mother, but the guards held him firmly back before tying him to a chair along with his father. Trussed up, the two continued to stare at Violetta Teschina, wife and mother.

The beautiful woman had been stripped completely naked, exposing her lush body to the gaze of guards and the Count. She had been tied to a sturdy frame of wood, spread-eagled in mid-air by cords attached to each finger and thumb. Her legs had been pulled wide by similar cords looped about each of her toes. Her eyes were closed, and her head hung down in a faint, clearly due to the torture that she had suffered while the Count "attended" her.

The front of her body was covered with whip-marks from her breasts to her knees. Blood still oozed from some of the ugly cuts the metal-tipped whip had made in her tender flesh, and a grinning guard stood by with the long, braided, deadly-looking lash, waiting until she might awaken. But Violetta Teschina had suffered more than just a whipping. Long, metal skewers transfixed her generous breasts, speared up into her private parts, and were embedded in her plump buttocks and thighs. Smaller skewers protruded from beneath all of her fingernails and toenails and had also been inserted into her abdominal muscles. A spray of longer skewers almost obscured the indentation of her navel, inserted deeper into her belly. A metal brazier filled with red-hot coals and a variety of iron implements had been the cause of the multitude of burns all over her body.

Teschina was cursing, bitterly and steadily, at the Count. Rodolfo, round-eyed, could say nothing. The Count only smiled for a long second.

"I informed you of the bargain you had made," he told Teschina. "Now I am glad you have come to see it carried out. I have shown her a part of the torment that is her due because of your refusal ... but she still has much to endure."


SOON a fluttering of the eyelids, a faint stirring of the head, told the horrified watchers that Violetta Teschina was awakening.

Her staring eyes fell of the bound forms of her husband and son.

"Oh, God ..." she whispered. "Save me ... don’t let them ... don’t let him hurt me any more ..."

But there was nothing to be done to save the tortured woman, no way for Teschina or his son Rodolfo to escape from the bonds that held them tightly. The guard with the whip moved forward, and Violetta screamed at the sight of him. Then the braided whip flashed up and down, striking her tender, defenseless body, flicking actual bits of flesh off of her vulnerable body with the force of its blow! Again, and again, and again!

And there were other tortures, though the young Count was not nearly as proficient at that time as he later became.

A narrow trough on legs and filled with hot coals was slid between Violetta’s spread thighs, so close to her defenseless sex that the ends of the metal skewers which had previously been thrust upward into her sex all the way to her womb rested in the hot coals. Thus, the coals not only broiled her most tender flesh but heated the skewers between her legs red hot. She shrieked her agony to the uncaring ceiling as the soft skin of her sex reddened and began to broil and as the red-hot skewers so far up inside her sizzled and spat.

The torture was intensified by thrusting fishing hooks into the inner crease of her buttocks and pulling her ass-cheeks wide open. The searing waves of heat were channeled up the exposed cavern of her spread buttocks so the tender crease-flesh and the rosette of her anus could be seared by the burning coals.

Cotton was wrapped around the tips of wooden stakes and then set afire before the stakes were jabbed into the most tender portions of Violetta’s body, leaving circles of blackened, burned flesh when they were pulled away.

She was removed from the flame so that large meathooks could be thrust into the bottom of each breast before they were tied to a rope hanging down from the ceiling of the room. Then, the madly screaming woman was pulled high into the air by her breasts and a metal, wood-filled firepan with foot-high flames was placed under her bare feet. A huge tub large enough to hold her entire body and filled with water was heaved in place on a grate over the fire. Violetta was then lowered until her legs were knee-deep in the water.

The poor woman suspended in such a ghastly manner didn’t realize her peril at first. Her whole attention was centered on the cruel hooks from which she dangled. Only when the water grew warm enough to be uncomfortable did she realize what Cenara had planned for her.

Eventually, the water became hot enough to pull a shriek from the tortured woman, and she pulled her legs up out of the water. But she couldn’t hold her feet out of the fire forever, no matter what the pain below her. The burn of exhaustion in her thigh and belly muscles was a torment all its own. In about five minutes, her legs began to dip downward as the burning and cramping in her thigh muscles grew too great. Eventually, her feet dipped back into the water, which now had wisps of steam coming off it, and she jerked them upward with a strident shriek of agony. But she couldn’t pull them as high as before, and her legs tired quickly. The cycle continued, with her strength fading until her legs were so exhausted that she couldn’t pull them out of the frightfully hot water ...

Then they began to lower Violetta further into the water, accompanied by the most fearsome shrieks of agony as she descended into the hot water until it swallowed her nude body past her pierced breasts. The water wasn’t boiling but it was hot enough to cook the nude mother over the next two hours. They raised her out of the water several times so they could peel the blistered skin from her legs and torso before lowering her into the steaming tub again. The agony of that water on raw flesh was unendurable, and Violetta was raised from the water several more times to revive her. But she was always lowered back into the steaming water ...

By the time Violetta Teschini finally died, she had endured more than twelve hours of nearly constant, screaming, unbearable torture—six hours during the night, and six hours witnessed by her husband and son after dawn. It wasn’t as long as other women who fell into the Count’s hands would last in the future, since he was still inexperienced at the art of torture—Violetta was his first victim. But it was still a nightmare of absolute agony for the innocent woman. And her husband and son were helpless, unwilling witnesses to much of the terrible business.

When Teschina and Rodolfo were taken from the room, they were numb with horror from what they had been forced to witness, incapable of speech or motion. They again were brought before the Count in the main room.

"You will both be ejected from my house and will not be allowed entrance again," he told the man and his son, who watched him mutely. "I merely lived up to my bargain, to give your wife torment rather than happiness because of your refusal, but who knows? You might resent the valid consequences of your decision and attempt to harm me. You will not be allowed the opportunity."

Teschina, deprived of his occupation as assistant to the coachman, had little money and could not bestir himself to find another occupation. He died two months after that terrible night, having never spoken a single word.

His father dead, Rodolfo turned to woodworking as a means of scraping out a tiny living for himself. Three times he had attempted to break into the domain of the Count of Cenara. Three times he had been turned back by alert guards in the Count’s pay and household.

He dreamed of eventually succeeding, because of the memory of his mother buried deep in his heart, but he put aside thoughts of revenge when he married the sixteen year old daughter of a fellow woodworker. At the beginning, it was a marriage of convenience, since Olivia Foscari was twelve years his junior, but love blossomed in both their hearts. A year later, Olivia delivered a daughter, Donna, but the delivery was difficult, and the midwife told Rodolfo it was unlikely Oliva would be able to conceive again.

The midwife’s prediction proved true, though the couple tried energetically, both from duty and because they indeed loved each other. The young girl became the center of their universe, but a new fear grew in the heart of Rodolfo as Donna Teschina matured into a lovely young girl. Someday, the eye of the Count might fall on his daughter ... and that, Rodolfo vowed, could not be allowed to happen.

So, in an effort motivated partly as revenge but mostly as a protection for his daughter, Rodolfo finally managed to convince the villagers of Villecharina of the danger and induced them to form into something resembling an armed force. Their "arms" were agricultural and woodworking and ironworking implements, but, in the hands of strong men well used to a hard day’s labor, they could be used to crushing effect.

But if it were protection Rodolfo was after, he was doomed to disappointment. For the mere formation of even so loose and unplanned a group as his "force" created talk, and his name and his efforts were brought to the attention of the Count of Cenara.

And with his name, came the name of his daughter.

"Donna Teschina?" the Count asked quietly of his chief guard. "Is she a comely lass?"

"She is indeed, my Lord," said Carlo. "Only eighteen, but more lovely than her grandmother, who, if you remember, provided you so much entertainment years ago."

"I do remember, good Carlo. It sounds as if she might provide me with pleasure."

The chief guard was quick to add, "And her mother is even more full-figured than her daughter and is only a few years past thirty. And they have been kind years. She also is quite attractive."

"If the daughter is anything like her grandmother, she could prove quite entertaining. And your suggestion about the mother is a good one ... it would be highly amusing for mother and daughter to watch in horror as my executioners inflict excruciating torment on the each other. I’ll have my men torture them individually, one at a time, with the other forced to watch, so each of my dear ‘guests’ won’t miss any of the torments of their precious loved one before it’s their turn to suffer the same torture ..."

He smiled at the thought, a cruel, hungry, lascivious smile.

Carlo knew that smile, and he knew that tonight and for probably for several days and nights to follow, wild and frantic feminine screams and shrieks of excruciating agony would once again sound in the Count’s subterranean rooms of pain. Those outcries were significantly muffled these days, compared to the early days when the Count entertained his guests above ground. Still, some who were forced to pass the Count’s house, those with excellent hearing, might still hear just a trace of what was going on below.

As an added fillip, to his imagination as well as his Master’s, it would not be just two everyday females but a mother and her daughter, who would be slowly tortured to death in those renovated chambers. Two females who, if the reports were true, were as close as two women could be. His smile matched that of his liege lord as he contemplated the attractive prospect of two such terribly close relations who would watch each other’s naked bodies writhe in torments beyond nightmare.

"What are my orders?" he asked.

The Count smiled again. "Why, bring them to me, Carlo," he said. "The women of the surrounding areas are too often ugly, fat, and unpleasant to a man of refined tastes. They scream obscenities, and, when they finally surrender, they are—unsatisfactory. Suitable only for being returned to the rooms of pain. But this Teschina girl might be a faint echo of her mother ..." he paused. "Yes," he said then, in a quiet voice. "Bring both of them to me. Mother and daughter. Unharmed, of course. And be careful, Carlo—take a force with you. Two dozen men. Her father will not give them up without strong resistance."

That night, Carlo and twenty-four of his men went out along the twisted streets of Villecharina to the small hut where Rodolfo, his wife, and his daughter lived. Their passage was observed by a lookout Rodolfo had posted, and, by the time they reached the hut, men were standing ready for them. But Carlo was skilled at these raids, even though they were usually held in far distant villages, and he quickly deployed his own men into a wedge, driving drove straight for the hut. They were armed with pikes and swords—the villagers had nothing but clubs and agricultural implements to use.

They used them valiantly—by the time the pitched battle was over, two of the Count’s men lay unconscious on the ground, one of them to die later of a cracked skull. But four of the villagers were dead.

But neither Donna Teschina, Rodolfo’s daughter, nor his wife Olivia, was dead, though Rodolfo, whose wounds were being bound up, was beginning to wish they were. Instead, the raiding party had taken them captive, bound and gagged them, and thrust them into sacks before carrying them away.

But both were still alive.

They had taken the most precious people in his life to the torture chambers of the Count of Cenara, despite all of Rodolfo’s preparations and plans. He would have been grief-stricken if he had known that it was those very same preparations and plans that had brought his wife and daughter to the Count’s attention and thus resulted in this night.

But Rodolfo didn’t know he was the source of his own miseries, so he sat lost in agonized thought while the others patched their wounds and carried off the dead. The idea of Donna and Olivia undergoing the terrible torments of the Count’s pleasures was unbearable—there had to be a way out. But what?

Time passed, and night grew slowly into dawn. Rodolfo, driven by desperation, finally settled on a plan. Raiding the house, which was surrounded by a sturdy wall and guarded by armed men, was impossible. As grievous as it was to contemplate, he couldn’t save his wife and daughter from the insidious fate planned for them by the Count of Cenara. All he could hope was to give them an easier death than the long, lingering, and fiendish death the fiendish Count would inflict on them, for he had, according to every report, dramatically improved his abilities to keep his "guests" alive and in as much pain as possible for as long as human strength could endure.

There wasn’t a second to lose. He stood up, swaying, his eyes burning. He called out to the others and began to outline his plan.


EARLIER in the night, shortly after her abduction, the Count had smiled warmly as the virginal Donna Teschina, eighteen years old and beautiful as only a young woman of her age could be, had been dragged before him.

"I wish to enjoy your favors, Signorina Teschina" the Count had told her forthrightly. "But I will not do so without your permission."

He had looked down mildly at the girl, who was held by the arms by his guards, wearing the simple night garment in which she had been captured. His look was one of benignity, as if he was commenting upon the state of the weather. But he knew his reputation and knew it was deserved, so he expected to see terror in his captive’s face. Instead, the girl gave him a look of hatred and firm resolve.

Her answer had been a single word: "Never." Her lips had thinned with disdain at the mere thought of his suggestion.

The Count’s only response had been a knowing smile, as he said, "Well, then, I can see you need a little persuasion. Have you heard that I am very accomplished at ... persuasion? Perhaps your father has told you of his mother ..."

"You are a monster!" the girl had flared defiantly. "A murderer! A rapist! A torturer!" The guards moved in on her, but the Count waved them to stillness.

"The girl has spirit," he had said, and his smile was one of anticipation. "So much the better."

He had addressed her again. "Yes, my dear, you are partly right—I have always enjoyed the techniques of persuasion. Of torture, to be perfectly honest. I can see from your look of horror that you find it appalling that I can so casually discuss the concept, but it is a mere fact of life that I enjoy seeing pretty girls screaming wildly as they endure the most horrific extremes of agony possible."

"Monster!" the girl hissed, but the Count ignored her and continued.

"So you see, I am not really a murderer. I put my guests to the severest of tortures. But I do not murder them. The bare, defenseless body of a lovely woman is like a sensitive instrument, an instrument on which a hundred different sounds can be played—from a moan to a scream to wild wails of intolerable pain. I am not disappointed by your refusal, Signorina Teschini—not at all. Your refusal simply means I now have the opportunity demonstrate to you a few of the techniques of persuasion I have perfected over the years. You will be stripped naked before we begin ..."

An instinctive cry of outraged modesty had been ripped unbidden from the throat of the young girl, and the Count smiled. "I see you are a modest young woman, Signorina, and that pleases me. I enjoy seeing shy young things as their most intimate feminine charms are revealed to me and my men. But it is a preordained fact that you will soon completely forget about your lack of clothing—you will have other things ... much more important things ... on which to focus your attention ..."

Donna had again voiced her protests, but the Count had ignored her as he continued, "As I was saying, you will be stripped naked. Completely, totally naked. Of course, part of the reason is that I find the unclothed body of a beautiful woman so very enticing. But it’s not the only reason for removing your clothing. No, not at all. It’s because women hide so many of their most sensitive areas underneath their clothing, and my torturers will need access to all those sensitive areas once they start your persuasion. Assuming you’re reasonable and come to your senses soon, they’ll only have to show you SOME of those sensitive areas. However, if you remain excessively stubborn and continue to refuse my reasonable requests, they’ll show you MORE of them. And if you prove to be terminally stubborn, they’ll eventually show you ALL of your most sensitive areas of your beautiful body. Of course, their demonstration will be accomplished in the most effective manner possible—by applying their tortures to the most sensitive parts of your bare body and stimulating them with the most extreme pain possible. Of course, your mother won’t have that opportunity—she’ll learn the location and sensitivity of every single sensitive area of her lovely body many times over before she dies ..."

"My mother?!?" Donna had shrieked the question, because she hadn’t known her mother had also been captured. She’d been gagged and a filthy sack thrown over her body when she had been seized in her own bed, so she hadn’t known that her mother was also a captive.

"Yes, your mother," the Count said serenely, ignoring the further outcries from Donna. "She is still a comely woman, still beautiful despite her years, and well-formed. But she doesn’t interest me personally, as you do. Still, as I said, I enjoy seeing beautiful women in the throes of unbearable torture, so it’ll be pleasant to observe her screaming and writhing in agony as my executioners work on her for my amusement ... for as long as she lasts, at least. But first, she’ll get to watch my executioners work some of their persuasive methods on your own shapely body. I imagine it will be truly terrible for your mother to actually see her daughter in the throes of excruciating torment ... until you accede to my requests. It should be interesting to observe her reactions. Perhaps she’ll advise you to give in quickly and save yourself needless suffering ..."

"She’ll never do that, you swine!" Donna spat angrily.

"Perhaps not. But neither of you have seen how effective my persuasiveness efforts are, and she hasn’t yet seen you in agony. Of course, later, after you surrender, she’ll have ample opportunity to assess the efficacy of those methods herself ..."

"What!" screamed Donna in horror, as if she hadn’t comprehended his earlier threats.

"Of course," said the Count, not really surprised by his captive’s reaction. He well knew how so many of his "guests" couldn’t seem to truly listen to the threats which he loved to recite for them as he told them the details of the horrible fate they were going to endure. "Surely you knew that most of my unwilling guests are put to the torture.

But I don’t desire your mother’s sexual favors, and thus her tortures can be much more intense than yours. Fatally intense, as I said earlier. Your torture will be ... persuasion. Unless you’re stubborn and force me to resort to more extreme measures such as your mother will experience. Naturally, she’ll be absolutely naked—my feminine ‘guests’ are always naked when they’re put to the torture. There must be no covering, no shield between one of my ‘guest’s’ bare skin and the implements that are used to inflict the pain that I enjoy so much."

Despite herself, Donna shivered at the mad little giggle the Count gave before he continued. "Your mother’s torture and death will be for the purpose of punishment rather than persuasion. Punishment for her husband’s plots against me. Which I’ll enjoy, of course, but still punishment. Unlike you, she’ll have no way to stop her torture. Her torment will go on and on, getting worse all the time, and she’ll just have to endure the torture, which will be merciless in the extreme, until her very lovely body is completely and utterly destroyed. Only then, when that superb body of hers can no longer sustain life, will she die. And her last dying breath will be breathed while enduring the most supreme agony my executioners can bring about. My men will never stop torturing her, no matter how close she is to dying, until life actually fades from her body ..."

"You hideous beast!" Donna shrieked, trying to ignore the sudden void inside her at hearing such a death sentence pronounced on her mother.

But deep inside, she wasn’t as surprised as she appeared. Ever since being captured—and knowing how her grandmother had died—a part of her hadn’t been able to dismiss the suspicion she was going to die in just the same way the Count had just outlined, no matter what else he said. She had tried to screen it from her consciousness with anger and hate, but it had been there. No matter what this fiend had said about "persuasion," a little voice inside her kept whispering that she was going to die in this chamber, in this fiend’s rooms of pain, screaming as her grandmother had screamed. Now that she knew of her mother’s capture and the hideous fate this monster planned for her, that little voice whispered louder. Unless her father rescued them ...

"I do hope your mother stands up well to her torture," said the Count musingly. "It’s always more enjoyable when one of my ‘guests’ doesn’t give in to sniveling weakness. I like it when they resists their torture. It’s not anywhere as enjoyable when they give up and stop responding. But I think your mother has strength and spirit to remain aware of what’s being done to her until the very end. I don’t ask my guest to endure their agony without screaming—I want them to scream and struggle. I just don’t want them to sink into apathy."

He seemed to stare off at some image in his mind before he resumed. "Your father should have known there would be no mercy for those who conspire against me. Yet he persisted in his plots, and now justice must be meted out. I want his wife to experience the fruits of her husband’s plots against me to the fullest. She showed defiance when I informed her of her fate. I look forward to seeing how long her bravery can stand up to what she will soon be enduring here in my play rooms."

The Count saw the grief in the girl’s eyes, but he also saw a bit of confusion, and he cocked his head at her. "If you’re wondering why I’m telling you of your mother’s fate, I’m actually doing it as a mark of kindness. You’ll have to watch her suffer and die after your surrender, you see, and I’m giving you a chance to prepare yourself beforehand. To steel yourself against the atrocities my torturers are going to inflict on her before your very eyes."

The Count’s face was hard as he leaned forward. "Her fate is certain—a long, slow death filled with nothing but unending agony. But your fate rests in your hands. But believe me when I tell you that you will suffer and die beside her unless you give in to me. And you will give in to me, sooner or later."

Donna shook her head slowly. "Never," she said again.

"We’ll see," the Count said, smiling at her. He wasted no further words and waved to his guards, who dragged the girl from the room. By himself now, the Count allowed himself the luxury of anticipating what would happen—seeing in advance every scream, every moan, every jerk of the lovely, helpless, tormented body of young Donna Teschina—nude, of course!—while her mother looked on in grief and dismay. Of seeing the daughter’s final surrender followed by her horror at watching her mother stripped naked and bound tightly for the start of her torture. Of the debauchery to follow as the delicious, virginal eighteen-year-old gave up that virginity and then outdid herself to think of ways to please him while she tried to ignore the savage, merciless torture and mad shrieks of her mother only feet away from the couch on which she lay with her tormentor.

It would be indeed sublime to witness the shame and degradation of the young girl as he brought her to repeated peaks of passion while she tried to shut out the vision of her mother’s hideous suffering and the sound of her squealing in agony. But he already knew his pleasures would come to an end eventually, as they always did. The older woman would suffer while her daughter disported with their tormentor, yes. But the mother would still be very much alive and capable of even more suffering when the end of his pleasures with her daughter was reached.

The end-result would be that Donna Teschina, hopefully not too badly marked by the torture which would cause her surrender, would join her mother to sample the efficacy of his executioners. He imagined the horrified screams of protest and denial from both the naked teenager and the equally naked mother as the daughter took her place at her mother’s side in one terrible ordeal of torture after another. The pleasures of debauchery would be replaced by the equally pleasant vista of two true beauties enduring the unendurable ... until, after an eternity of suffering, death finally came to release them from their tribulations.

Death, he told himself sadly, is inevitable, given the pleasures I enjoy so much. But hopefully these two will last for a long time ...

He ran over the list of his torture machines and torture implements in his mind, wondering which to use first on Donna. The whip was his usual instrument, but the whip by itself was hardly persuasive enough for a obstinate young woman like her. But perhaps if fire was added?

Yes, fire, he thought, nodding his head and smiling. Fire is just the thing for a beautiful young thing like her ... but how? It must be enough to cause her great pain but not enough to completely ruin her loveliness ...

He made a decision before calling for one of his executioners and ordering a generous fire kindled in the fire-pit in the middle of one of the rooms below. Then, while he waited, he took the time to indulge himself with a glass of excellent wine. One that needed to be sipped, not gulped. That should provide time for his instructions to be carried out.

After draining the last drop from his goblet, he unhurriedly descended the stairs, following the route young Donna had unwillingly taken in the grasp of the guards. That path led downwards, toward chambers delved deep below the house some years previously. The single room where he originally set up his torture-machines had grown too cramped as he expanded his collection. He had then moved to the present set of underground chambers, adding new rooms and connecting them by doorways as his interests expanded and he explored new ideas.

And also, he thought, to at least muffle the sounds of the unhappy victims who suffer for my pleasures. Mustn’t upset the peasantry more than absolutely necessary, after all.


WHEN HE reached the torture chamber, the Count found mother and daughter waiting for him, standing before his large chair in the grasp of guards. Though they didn’t look at each other, he easily recognized the fear both females were trying to conceal. Donna was still clad in her sleeping garment, but she had been the first to be captured and dragged out into the night. Her mother had had more of a chance to resist before she was subdued, and her garment was ripped and shredded so badly by her struggles that she might as well have been naked. The Count smiled inwardly at the expanse of firm, smooth flesh visible through the multitude of tears and rents.

He took his seat and looked over the two delicious ladies, seeing and savoring their terror as they rigidly kept their eyes focused straight forward, trying desperately to avoid looking at him or all the horrifying engines of torture and torture implements hanging from walls or inserted into holes or shelves in racks. He knew how terrifying this particular room was—he had given considerable thought to laying it out, striving not only to place the various torture devices and instruments in places where they would be usable but also trying to look at them through the eyes of those who would be brought unwilling to these chambers. He wanted the room to be terrifying. He delighted in the sensation of dread his "guests" displayed when they were first brought down here. It amused him immensely to ratchet up that trepidation to a maximum before the torture actually started.

After the actual pain began, he didn’t think the layout and view of the chamber mattered too much to his "guests." But he still thought the overall scenario might have an effect during the occasional, necessary breaks in the torture. He had learned the necessity of those breaks early on when gaining experience in how to prolong and intensify his captives’ ordeals. It was necessary to replenish the water the captives lost through sweating and exertion while they were being tortured as well as to give them a chance to rest so that so they could keep their strength up. He and his executioners had learned much over the years as they continued to seek new ways to keep their female victims alive and suffering for as long as possible.

When he looked at Olivia Teschina and her daughter, his experienced eyes told him that what the two had seen of this room, added to what they already knew, had them at a fever pitch of terror. This was especially so since their worry on their own regard was accentuated by their concern for each other. Despite her bravado when he had spoken to her upstairs, he saw how Donna struggled to control her shivering. Her mother was more controlled, but it was quite clear that both of them wanted to reach out and hold each other’s hand. They were, however, prevented from doing so by the guards’ grip on their arms, which was also by plan, since he didn’t want them to be able to qualm their fears by physical contact such as embraces or even holding hands.

He also savored the expressions which flitted across the faces of the two. He knew their minds had to be in a quandary and all kinds of fearsome scenarios were cascading through their thoughts. Both of them knew they were going to be tortured. But one of them, Signora Teschina, knew she was going to be tortured to death. Or so she had been told—whether she actually believed it was something only she could answer. But, whether she believed it or not, she couldn’t give in to her fear, because she knew—or, rather, she thought she knew, the Count thought sardonically—that her daughter was only going to be tortured until she surrendered to his lustful desires.

Yet he also knew that an unthinkable thought had to be running through both Teschinas’ minds—that he might order the daughter tortured like her mother after she satisfied his passions sufficiently. Surely both of them had to suspect it, didn’t they? His reputation was well known ... and they had to know that none of the "guests" who had entered his abode previously had ever returned.

Yet he was well aware of how a person could fool themselves when they wanted so very badly to live. It was part of the delicious game he played with his prey ...

He waved his hand at the younger of the two and ordered, "Remove the younger one’s gown and prepare her for persuasion. Bind and gag her mother, but make sure she watches everything done to her daughter. It will prepare her for when it will be her turn to experience all the ... delights ... of these chambers."

A guard stepped forward and gripped the shoulders of Donna’s thick sleeping garment and pulled upward. She started to resist, but her mother spoke sharply.

"Let him take it off, Donna," she ordered firmly. "It will give you something to put on ... afterwards."

The Count smiled inwardly at the doubtful look on Donna’s face, but the girl quieted and allowed the guard to pull the gown upward over her head. He didn’t throw the gown on the floor or otherwise indicate it would no longer be needed—he stepped over and hung it from an unused hook on a rack of whips.

All part of our little act, the Count thought pleasantly, relishing the deception his people were putting on. Then his attention was jerked from contemplation as he actually focused on young Donna Teschina, who stood before him without any clothing whatsoever. She would have liked to cover herself with her hands and arms, however insufficient that might have been, but her arms were held firmly ...

"By the gods!" the Count breathed, sitting back in his large, throne-like chair as he gazed, mesmerized, at the eighteen-year-old.

The girl was breathtakingly beautiful!

Even more so than he had imagined when he interviewed her upstairs! Her body was slim, her complexion an exquisite olive, and her breasts were very full, despite her youth, and set high and firm on her chest. Her nipples were thick, and both nipples and aureoles were dark brown, an exquisite match to the olive tint of her complexion. The buds themselves were visibly stiffened—either from fear or from the cool air of the dungeon. Her waist was the narrowest the Count had ever seen, with a very flat, well-muscled belly over hips that swelled almost as much as her mother’s. Her legs were long, slim, and straight, firmly muscled and exquisitely shaped. Her bare feet had high arches, which he liked, and her toes were long and supple. He reminded himself to have her feet and the rest of her washed once she was pulled off the floor—he detested a dirty "guest" in this, his most special place.

Despite her advice to her daughter, Olivia Teschina was finding the actuality of Donna being completely naked in front of these men to be much, much worse than she had imagined. It wasn’t the humiliation, though it was humiliating enough. Rather, it was the menace.

With her clothing removed, Donna’s total and complete vulnerability in this chamber of horrors crashed home in Olivia’s consciousness like a bolt of lightning. Olivia herself had never in her life felt so helpless, so completely defenseless, and she was sure Donna felt the same. But the disturbing thought that she was trying to ignore kept rearing its ugly head. That thought was that both she and her daughter were going to die in these rooms in exactly the same way—in pain and agony at the hands of this despised man’s executioners.

She was suddenly furious that this man, who had already caused her family such pain, now had the two of them in his power. Without forethought, her voice was raised in sudden, strident cursing, calling down the wrath of God on this evil Count and his minions.

Her vituperation, however, didn’t last long. One guard had already affixed iron manacles on each of her slender wrists and was chaining her arms together behind a nearby whipping post. But another guard that she hadn’t noticed was waiting to execute the Count’s order to gag her. As soon as Olivia paused to draw a breath, he stuffed a wooden mouth pear between her teeth. Before she had a chance to realize what he intended, he gave the stem a quick turn, and Olivia’s cries were effectively muffled.

Meanwhile, Donna also felt the mortification of men seeing her bereft of clothing. She had never before been unclothed except before her mother, and she felt every eye roaming over her nudity, drinking in the perfection of her feminine charms. She felt the instinctive impulse to cover her revealed body, but the firmness of the guards’ grip kept her from covering her breasts and groin as she so desperately wished to do. But her anger was also fired by the blatant unfairness of the way she and her mother had been seized, and she commanded herself to ignore the beasts who stared so slaveringly at her. Instead, she stood taller, revealing the lush glory of her curvaceous young body to everyone in the chamber.

The Count watched her intently, drinking in her beauty. The girl had inherited the blonde hair of her grandmother and mother, but there was something about her that excited him even more than her unmatched youthful beauty and her luxurious blonde hair, which she had piled up on her head for sleeping. That was her pride. Even now, as she stood completely exposed before the Count himself and his guards, she held herself with upright dignity, her eyes blazing at him as he stood watching her.

"Pig!" she blazed, as she caught his eye roving over her exposed charms.

The Count laughed. "I hope your spirit helps you withstand my ‘persuasive methods,’ Signorina," he told her. "I have thought of something special for your first taste of my unique methods. Something for just such an obstinate young thing as yourself."

Turning to his guards, he said, "The ceiling. And the weights. When she’s ready, pull her into the air and move her over the fire-pit. A ‘guest’ this special should taste fire as well as the whip." The words were actually not necessary—the guards knew his plans already, and everything was in readiness, but the Count smiled inwardly at the sudden concern that he saw the girl try to conceal. Without delay, harsh iron manacles were fastened to Donna’s wrists and connected by a short chain, which was attached to a hook on a chain descending from a ceiling pulley. One of the executioners began to work a winch attached to the chain, which pulled her arms over her head. The guard worked the winch, which pulled the heart-achingly beautiful girl up onto tip-toe. She attempted to kick one of the guards who reached for her feet, but he caught her legs without effort and secured manacles around each trim ankle. She was then pulled all the way into the air, and the Count gave orders to wash her, which was done with a cloth soaking in a bucket of icy water. Donna shivered from the cold and the drying water while she tried to stifle a groan at the pain in her shoulders and wrists from bearing the entire weight of her body.

A twenty-pound weight on a hook was hung from her ankles. Donna gasped from the strain of the weight pulling down on her arms and shoulders.

"Not enough," the Count said, after looking at the column of Donna’s nude body stretched downward by the heavy weight with the experience of years. "She can take more than that."

The twenty-pound weight was removed and set aside, being replaced with a much heavier fifty pound stone weight. Donna groaned in real anguish this time as the heavier weight at her ankles, equal to almost half of the full weight of her body, pulled her youthful body into a cruelly taut column of pain. It was suddenly harder to breathe, and the strain on her shoulders ratcheted her suffering upward. It also made it impossible for her to move any part of her body other than her fingers and toes.

"Pull her well into the air before you move her over the fire-pit but not so high she can’t feel the heat," the Count ordered. "It will give her the merest indication of how painful it will be when you lower her toes into the fire."

Donna gritted her teeth and stifled her groan as she was pulled higher into the air, but the Count’s words had finally reached her consciousness and revealed the peril she faced. The fire in the stone fire-pit in the middle of the room was well ablaze, with dancing flames reaching up several feet. But the ceiling of the room was twenty feet overhead, and the pulley from which she hung was positioned on a metal rail so it could move. As the executioners used a long pole to maneuver her toward the fire, she started to feel the heat rising toward the pair of overhead chimneys which allowed smoke and heat to exit the room without fouling the air. She shivered in dread as she felt the warm air moving over her nudity, and suddenly the Count’s words, "when her toes are lowered into the fire" assumed a terrifying menace.

Looking down the taut column of her naked body, she saw that she was now directly over the fire. Already, beads of sweat had popped out on her smooth skin from the pain of her shoulders and wrists, and she saw one of the executioners dipping a long, vicious-looking black bullwhip into a bucket of oil and limbering up the leather. Her brave words of defiance earlier were suddenly ashes in her mouth, and she hadn’t even started her "persuasion."

The Count left his chair and stepped over to the fire-pit, looking up appreciatively at Donna as she twisted slowly in the air. One of the guards reached up with the pole and hooked it in the eyelet of one ankle manacle, halting her so she faced toward the Count.

"Do you understand what’s going to happen to you, Signorina?" the Count asked her, but the suspended young girl answered him only with a curse. "Very well, then," he said mildly. "I shall tell you. You will be lowered toward the fire so the flames can tickle your toes. You can already tell that you won’t be able to pull your feet up with the weight at your ankles. You will also be lashed by one of my executioners, while another lowers you until the flames are actually licking at your toes. You won’t be kept there long—just long enough to inform you that it would be much better to surrender and save yourself further pain. Then you’ll be pulled up again and given a minute or two to catch your breath and to give you a chance to surrender. If you fail to do so, you’ll be lowered again, and the whipping will resume. This will be repeated, and each time you’ll be lowered further to encourage you to see reason as your toes dip further into the fire. If you remain obstinate, you’ll be lowered even further. Perhaps you think you’ll be able to stand having your feet or even your calves enter the fire, but I don’t think you’ll be that stupid."

"I’ll never ... surrender!" Donna gasped. "You’re ... going to kill me ... anyway ... I might as well ... start dying ... now.

"Oh, I think you will," said the Count placidly, astonished that Donna had actually had the temerity to speak her inner fears aloud. "You won’t believe how bad the pain of fire on bare skin is. And, if you somehow manage to endure this ordeal, there will be others, even more painful, though you might find that hard to believe right now. Eventually, you will give in to me."

He gave an eloquent shrug as he continued, "And if, by some miracle, you hold out until your beauty is marred so you no longer interest me, then I will give you the opportunity to start dying now. I’ll let you join your mother, and you’ll both be slowly tortured to death, one beside the other. Perhaps you’ll find that more fitting than to surrender to me—to die in agony alongside your mother. But I warn you that it wouldn’t be an easy death for either of you—nor would it be over in a short time. Your mother is going to experience a slow death, a very slow death, as punishment for her husband’s rebellion. She’ll suffer much, much longer at the hands of my executioners than your grandmother suffered twenty years ago—my executioners and I have learned much over the years. And, should you prove fatally stubborn and decide to join her, you’ll join her, and you’ll last equally long."

He signaled to the guard behind the girl, who drew back his long, leather whip and lashed out with a skillful snap of his wrist. The "CRACK!" of leather against unprotected female flesh was startlingly loud, and Donna stifled the sudden cry that tried to leave her lips. Tears started from her eyes as she gritted her teeth, biting off her scream, as her smooth skin was marked by a livid weal around her waist. As the Count watched, the reddened welt was dotted with pearls of scarlet blood along its length. Then the leather swept through the air again, curling about Donna’s full breasts, and, though she remained silent, she couldn’t stop herself from convulsing to the extent she could from with the pain.

Now she felt movement as the chain rattled over the pulley and she started downward. The fire was growing closer, and she imagined the heat was growing. She groaned as she tried to lift her legs, but a moment’s effort proved the uselessness of that effort. She jerked again as the next lash curled around her hips, but she couldn’t stifle a sob of despair as she looked down again and saw the fire even closer ...

Donna’s lashing continued but at a carefully controlled pace as her feet got closer and closer to the fire. The whip seared her soft flesh until her toes were so close to the flames that the pain was unbearable. She had never felt anything close to the pain of the fire in her life, and it took all her courage to keep from bellowing her anguish. Tears flowed from her closed eyes as she gritted her teeth harder. It seemed like forever, but it was only a couple of seconds before the executioner worked the winch and pulled her high.

She refused the Count’s offer to surrender, and, after an interval that was far too brief, the winch rattled again and she began to descend. When she got close enough to the fire, she heard the sound of the whip cutting through the air, and sudden fire bloomed in a line around her waist. Now Donna comprehended the full horror of this torment, contrived so carefully by the fiendish Count and his equally despicable minions. The timing of each lash allowed her to feel the full effect as each strike of the cruel whip seared her velvety skin with red weals of pain. And, because her body was stretched into an immobile column by the heavy weight at her ankles, she couldn’t move her feet away from the fiendish flames nor could she avoid the lash.

And now she was close to the fire, and she opened her eyes to see that her slow twisting had faced her toward the executioner with the whip. She was able to see him draw back his arm ...

... but the pain of the latest whip-stroke dissipated as the executioner at the winch lowered her so the fire actually licked at her toes. The suddenness of the shriek torn so unwillingly from her lips brought her mother’s head up in horror, and she closed her eyes in horror as she saw every muscle in her daughter’s belly and thighs bunch as she tried to pull her feet up ...

... and failed completely.

The pitch of Donna’s shriek went up an octave as the oiled bullwhip curled around her large breasts with an ugly SMAAAAAAAAAACCKKK!


But one scream wasn’t enough. Other shrieks were torn from her lips at the unbearable heat of the fire, then the winch sounded as she was pulled back up into the air. When her scream subsided, Donna began to sob helplessly. Her breasts, pulled high on her chest by the strain of her suspension and seared by that last ferocious lash, hurt ferociously. Her toes also hurt, but that was subsiding into a tingly type of ache. That ache that was actually more frightening, since it was a foretaste of what was to come. She knew they were going to lower her again. Further this time ...

But again she refused to accede to the Count’s demands, and the torture continued!

Her sob caught in her throat as she moved downwards. The feeling of being absolutely helpless was enough to choke her, but she just couldn’t submit to that monstrous fiend! He’d killed her grandmother and was going to do the same to her mother! Better to die in agony, as that despised monster had promised!

She prayed for unconsciousness now, prayed for death, prayed for anything but a continuation of the ghastly torment of the whip and the fire. Her shrieks now sounded with each whip lash, followed other screams as her feet neared the fire. Her mother’s eyes were wide pools of horror at the ordeal her beloved daughter was enduring. She wanted to beg the Count for mercy for her daughter, to let her replace Donna over the fire and suffer in her stead, but she couldn’t speak with the wooden pear in her mouth.

But there was no mercy for Donna Teschina in that room that terrible night—the whip continued to sing through the air and add further welts to her body, and the merry flames continued to lick at her wriggling toes when she was lowered. She continued to scream her incoherent torment as her ordeal continued until she finally fainted.

It was her first respite from the terrible torture since it had started.


Even as his chief executioner raised the suspended girl so she would suffer no damage while she was not conscious to feel the heat of the flames, a cry of, "Fire!" suddenly resounded down the stairway. The Count looked away from the delightful view of Donna as she dangled by her wrists while he was idly anticipating the resumption of her torment. He was angered by the interruption and rounded furiously on the guards who burst into the room from the stairway with news, demanding information.

The first of them began to babble of burning brands of wood and homemade slings and fires threatening the house, and the others added their voices to the tale of impending danger. But, before the panicked guards could finish, the chief of his guards made a sudden appearance. The calm expression on his face settled the nerves of the Count—he had begun to grow concerned at the possible danger.

"Quiet, you foolish babes!" Carlo thundered, and the panicked guards instantly fell silent and shrank away from the hard-faced superior.

"Get back to your posts!" Carlo raged, and the guards scrambled out of the room and up the stairs. Turning toward the Count, Carlo shook his head and smiled sardonically. "They’re good lads, mostly, but they haven’t much experience with resistance from the peasantry. Indeed, this might have turned out badly if I hadn’t been expecting something of the sort. A band of men suddenly came out of the woods just before dawn and crept close enough to catapult some flaming branches toward the house before the alarm was sounded. But they only managed to hit it twice before the archers I had posted responded. They hit a number of men at the catapult before the survivors bolted for the woods. The fires were easily doused with water, but several of the guards hastened to warn you, not knowing the danger was small. Like I said, good lads but needful of further experience."

"So the danger is over?" asked the Count, settling back into his large chair, and Carlo was quick to assure him that it was, though his men were maintaining a close watch about the walls.

"Yes, my Lord. Most of the men who tried for the woods were brought down by my archers, and only a few escaped. I went out to examine the dead personally, and I found that one of them was the man, Rodolfo Teschina, the father and the husband of the two ‘guests’ you’re entertaining." He waved at the naked girl hanging from her wrists and her mother, bound to the pole.

"He must have known there was no chance to save his daughter and wife from torment in these chambers," Carlo continued, "and he sought to give them the mercy of a quicker, though still painful, death. But it came to naught, and he’s dead with an arrow in the throat."

"Too bad, that," mused the Count. "Rodolfo once watched his mother die under torture. It would have been amusing to have him to watch his wife die in a similarly slow and painful fashion. Perhaps his precious daughter will join her mother, if she remains resistant to my request for her favors." He waved at Donna, who was just starting to awaken.

"I’m just getting ready to resume his daughter’s torture. She’s a most delightful young girl and has shown considerable resistance to my persuasions so far. Perhaps you would care to stay and watch?"

Carlo turned to admire Donna Teschina’s beautiful body as she twisted slowly in mid-air, his eyes roving over her youthful loveliness, assessing what she had already suffered at the hands of the Count’s executioners. He licked his lips at the thought of everything else that she and her delightfully formed mother were going to endure down here, since he was well aware of the Count’s games and enjoyed them as much as his Master. He already knew that Donna was going to suffer the same tortuous death as her mother—the Count’s "guests" all met the same end, no matter what games he might play with them in the meantime. Naturally, he ignored her mother’s muffled screams of grief at hearing of the death of her husband.

"The daughter is truly is a delightful morsel, Count, and I am tempted," he said, shaking his head unhappily. "As you well know, my Lord, I would indeed enjoy two watching two such lovelies writhing under the tender mercies of your executioners. But it would be best if I made sure my men were alert and ready until the night is gone. When it’s full daylight, I would return, if I may." "Of course," said the Count, with a magnanimous wave. "The Signorina will surrender eventually, and we’ll then start on her mother. If the mother shows anything like her daughter’s fortitude, she’ll last for quite a long time. I’m sure you’ll have many an opportunity to be entertained by her screams."

An afterthought struck him, and he said, "And you may bring your wife down to watch the festivities, if you so desire. You mentioned she’d shown some curiosity about what happens down here."

"I thank you, my Lord," said Carlo, with a bow. "Yes, she’s said on several occasions that she’d likely enjoy the entertainments in these rooms. She’s heard the screams, of course, and they haven’t bothered her. Nor has she hasn’t shown any distaste when I’ve described what your ‘guests’ have endured before they died—in fact, it rather excited her. It should be interesting to see how far her curiosity extends."

With that, Carlo gave another quick bow and departed upstairs, while the Count turned his attention back to Donna Teschina, who had regained consciousness and looked at the Count in trepidation.

"Ah, you have rejoined us, Signorina. Perhaps you now see the efficacy of my persuasive methods. Perhaps you’ve rethought your refusal of my request?"

Donna, despite the strain of the weight at her feet, the blood-seeping welts from the savage whip, and her scorched toes, was still defiant.

"Never ... you ... monster!" she gasped.

"Very well, then, Signorina," he said mildly. "Your persuasion shall continue." He turned to his executioner and ordered, "Resume with the whip, but leave her toes in the fire for an extra two seconds. Perhaps she hasn’t been appreciating the agony of fire on female flesh to the extent I wish."

"Yes, Master," nodded the chief executioner, and Donna Teschini’s screams were soon resounding through the room, first from the whip that curled around her strained body and then from the pain of the fire as her toes dipped into the flames. Her determination was put to the severest test possible over the next hour as her body was marked by the scarlet stripes of the bullwhip and she was lowered again and again down to the fire. Her poor toes may have been the first to feel the kiss of raw flame, but the executioner lowered her just a little bit further each time until the flames swallowed her feet to the ankle. The duration in the fire was longer than before, as the Count had ordered, perhaps three or four seconds, not time enough for a severe burn, but long enough for a good scorching of her skin. But the pain—and the damage—would be progressive as the torture went on.

She endured fifty lashes and three dozen trips into the flames, with the flames reaching halfway up her calves, before she fainted once more. Again, somehow, she refused to surrender, and her torture was resumed. But the Count thought her latest refusal lacked the strength of her earlier rejections, and her screams were becoming wilder, more unrestrained, and more maniacal each time she was lowered until her feet entered the fire. The bloody stripes on her body increased, and her soft body strained even more mightily as she was lowered deeper and deeper into the blaze from the fire-pit. She managed to endure another thirty five lashes and another two dozen trips into the fire before she finally couldn’t take any more. The skin of her feet had turned bright red, and the flames were reaching to her knees when she broke completely.

"Please!" the delectable, eighteen year old virgin gasped, her strained, exquisitely nude body erotically agleam from sweat as she twisted slowly with her lower legs in the fire. "No more! No more! I’ll do anything, but don’t hurt me any more!"

"Anything?" the Count enquired with a leer. "You’ll take my male member in every part of your body and pleasure me with your mouth? All of it?"

Donna, having no experience with sex, had little thought of what she was agreeing to. Her only concern was getting pulled up out of the terrible fire, and she quickly gasped, "Yes, yes! Anything!"

"You’ll really take me between the luscious cheeks of your ass?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" she screamed frantically. "Anywhere you want!"

"Very well," the Count nodded and turned to the head executioner. "Remove her from the fire and bring her to my couch. Put her mother in her place so she can experience the torment her daughter just went through and couldn’t withstand. Except the mother won’t be able to stop her pain by surrendering, as the daughter did ... she’ll just have to endure it as best she can. And you can dip her feet into the flames for as long as you think appropriate, while keeping in mind that this is to be the first of her many ordeals. But don’t be gentle with her—your goal is to keep her pain at a maximum. Don’t worry overmuch that she’ll expire prematurely—if she does, she does. It’s not as if there’s a reason to preserve her life longer than she can provide entertainment, after all!"

The two men shared a coarse chuckle before Donna was lowered to the floor. The chief executioner carried her to the Count’s couch because her feet were so tender from the "persuasion" and then turned to Olivia Teschina, who was released from the whipping post in short order. She fought ferociously as she was dragged over to the hanging chain, since she had nothing to lose, but she was helpless in the grip of the Count’s men. They brutally ripped the already pitifully ravaged shreds of her gown from her and threw it into the flames, not even bothering with the charade of hanging it from a hook as they had done for Donna’s gown. As one of the guards cruelly told Olivia, she was never going to need clothing again! Both guards laughed merrily at their crude jest—Olivia only fought harder.

Not that it did her any good. It only took a moment to connect the chain to her own wrist manacles, then she was pulled into the air and ankle manacles went about each trim ankle. She groaned, just as her daughter had when the fifty pound weight was attached to her ankles.

The Count was very pleased by what he saw as Olivia twisted slowly in mid-air. She had the full figure of a woman, though her waist and her belly did not match the slimness of Donna’s, and her complexion was a smooth, pale white in contrast to Donna’s olive-tinted skin. But the Count thought Signora Teschina possessed an admirable figure for a woman in her thirties, with trim thighs and calves and a bosom even larger and firmer than he had expected. In fact, the Count thought she had a sturdier frame than her daughter and ordered the weight increased to a hundred pounds. The suspended woman groaned again as another fifty pound weight was added to her feet and she was maneuvered over the fire.

But despite her own travails, Olivia still had some awareness of her daughter’s degradation, and she sobbed in despair as she saw the Count spread Donna’s legs and thrust deep into her virgin pussy. The eighteen-year-old gave a sharp cry of pain as her maidenhead was ripped asunder, for the Count was a well-endowed and lusty man. But Oliva not only could not blame Donna. She was actually grateful that Donna had surrendered to the monster. Perhaps she would escape the fate that Oliva feared she faced.

But she was heartily terrified that her daughter’s respite was only temporary. This was the Count of Cenara, after all ...

Then Olivia’s attention was drawn from her daughter’s plight to her own as she began to descend. She couldn’t stop herself from looking downward, conscious that she was seeing what Donna had seen when she began her first descent—the strained column of her absolutely naked body twisting slowly above the fire.

The fire which waited for her below ...

The "CRACK!" of leather against soft flesh resounded through the chamber from the first lash with the bullwhip. She screamed as the leather curled around her chest and her bounteous breasts. She didn’t try to hold back her scream—there was no need. She was all too aware of her fate—torture, torture, torture, and more torture.

Until she died. Under torture.

Other lashes followed at a controlled rate, but the fire beneath her began to assume more menace as she neared it. Olivia was a mature woman, with more control than her daughter, so she was better at controlling her scream when the flames first licked at her toes. For the first dozen or so descents, at least.

But soon her feet were actually dipping into the fire more and more, and Oliva could no longer restrain her screams at the terrible pain. She couldn’t stand it any more! It was hideous! Beyond anything she had imagined! She could easily understand Donna’s screams. But how had Donna withstood the pain so long before surrendering to the Count?

The mother began to follow the same cycle that Donna had followed, descending, being lashed, being burned by the fire, and then raised. But each descent took her feet further into the fire. Later, as both feet were completely swallowed by the flames to the ankle and left there for almost ten seconds, she was so suffused with agony that she didn’t see her daughter take the Count into her mouth. Nor did she see Donna, at his command, begin to suck him vigorously, if inexpertly. And, needless to say, twenty minutes later, as the fire rose halfway up her calves, she wasn’t aware of Donna swallowing his seed while sobbing helplessly at her mother’s screams only a few feet away. Olivia Teschina’s world had shrunk to only two things—the lash behind her, and the searing hot fire that waited for her each time she descended ...

Olivia’s stretched body twisted slightly each time she tried to convulse from a lash or from the terrible fire that burned her, and the Count marveled at how erotic she looked in her helpless suffering as she twisted in mid-air, a helpless plaything for his skilled executioners. She had endured more than a hundred welts from the whip, and the marks left by the oiled leather leaked droplets of rich, red blood. She fainted again and again, only to be awoken to the continuing torment as the executioner started lowering her again to the waiting flames. By the time the count reached a hundred and fifty lashes, her lush body was marked from ankle to neck by many more savage weals than Donna had endured, and each descent into the fire allowed the flames to reach past her knees part-way up her thighs.. Donna had no choice but to watch her mother’s torture now, since she was sitting on the Count’s loins with his cock up her ass, sobbing at the shame of her own abject surrender as well as the more harmful peril of her mother’s vicious torture.

But her sorrow came to an abrupt end as the Count erupted inside her, filling her rectum with his foul ejaculation. Then, sated for the moment, he gave a signal to his chief executioner, and Donna found herself dragged off him.

"What ... what are you doing?" she asked tremulously.

The Count didn’t answer her directly, instead saying to his chief executioner, "Remove Signora Teschini from the fire and put her on one end of the Spiked Donkey. Put this one on the other end, facing her mother. Put them close together so they can watch what’s done to each other."

"Noooooooooooooooooooo!" cried Donna. "I did everything you said! You promised no more torture!"

"Well, actually I didn’t exactly say that, but it hardly matters. I can do anything with you I care to."

Donna couldn’t say anything in protest, because her mouth was suddenly as dry as a desert. But the Count could easily see her question on her innocent face, and the words she dreaded fell easily from his lips.

"Yes, child, you’re going to be tortured at your mother’s side," he told her.

"But I’ll do anything!" she wailed in despair. "Anything you ask!"

"But there is only one thing I now want from you, Signorina Teschina" he replied, his lips curling in a sneer of derision. "It’s the same thing I wish from your mother. I want you to suffer, child. I want you to suffer every torment possible, the worst and most extreme tortures my executioners can devise, and they have gotten very, very good since they tortured your grandmother to death before your father’s eyes. The tortures they will inflict on you and your mother will be agonizing beyond your wildest nightmares."


"You and your mother will be together, if that provides you any solace. Both of you will endure the most terrible tortures possible for as long as my torturers can keep both of you alive. You’ll pray and beg for death many, many times, hoping I’ll sometime think you’ve suffered enough and will grant you a quick, merciful death. But it won’t happen child. You and your mother will both die while being subjected to one terrible torture or another, screaming and shrieking in unimaginable, hellish agonies that you’ll simply have to experience in order to comprehend. You’ll learn that a woman can endure pain far, far more extreme than you know at this time. But you’ll learn, Signorina Teschini, you’ll learn, and you and your mother will suffer and die in excruciating, soul-searing agony. And I’ll enjoy every single second of the long, drawn-out torture you and your precious mother will endure. You’ll thank me when you finally feel Death reaching out to clasp you to its bosom ..."

Donna Teschi screamed in terror at the Count’s threat, especially since his tone was so mild. She couldn’t believe such a horrendous fate could be ordained so unemotionally, so matter-of-factly. She had always known, since being captured, that he had the power to condemn her, and she had more than half-suspected he would do what he had just done. But she would have expected a voice filled with venom and hate, emotions appropriate to such a dire sentence.

She gave a different type of shriek, that of impending danger, as the horny hands gripping her arms dragged her over to a fearsome device that had to be the Spiked Donkey the Count had mentioned. This was a modification of the Count’s own fertile imagination, derived from the Spanish Donkey. Like that staple of the torture chambers of the Inquisition, this device was a wooden wedge mounted on sturdy legs. But the top edge of the wedge had been truncated to a flat surface about three inches wide. Worse, that flat edge was studded with a triple-line of sharp, two-inch-long metal spikes sticking straight upward, and the sloping sides were lined with similar spikes pointing outward. The brown stains on the spikes and the wood along the top and sides were, she knew without having been told, blood stains from maidens who had ridden the Donkey before her ...

Already her mother had been released from her suspension over the fire-pit and was even now being lifted up above the wooden wedge ...

Olivia Teschini’s wild shrieks and struggles came to a sudden stop as two torturers pulled her legs wide while two others lowered her close enough to the Donkey to feel the pricks of the spikes. She froze with horror, looking down in horror at the blood-stained, spiked top of the Spanish Donkey.

"No, please!" she begged. "Don’t drop me on that thing!"

The torturers didn’t drop her, but it did her no good. They eased her into place and held her there, just barely touching the spikes while yet another assistant pulled her plump sex lips apart.

Then they lowered her ...

Olivia screamed as the sharp spikes dug into her sensitive vulva from her pubic bone back to the rosette of her anus and then pierced her flesh. When the assistants let her go completely, she screamed as her body weight ground into the spikes. She couldn’t keep from struggling as the spikes pierced her in her most private, feminine area, so sensitive to pleasure—and to pain. Her inability to hold still meant that it didn’t take long until the full two inches of sharp metal sank all the way into the soft, delicate flesh and membranes at the juncture of her legs.

Then the two assistants holding her legs wide apart attached a twenty-pound weight to the manacle at each ankle and eased her legs down until her inner thighs felt the sharp prick of a multitude of spikes. Even as the spikes began to sink into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, they let loose of her ankles and left her to her pain, turning to her daughter.

Donna was completely terrorized by what she had just seen, unable to believe that anyone could be so cruel as to do what they’d just done to her mother. And now they were turning to her! They were going to do the same thing to her!

She struggled wildly as she was lifted into the air until she was over the fearsome Donkey, with her mother less than a foot away. She screamed in terror and denial as they began to lower her, and her screams went up an octave in pitch as she felt her sex lips pulled apart and the sharp spikes pricked the tender flesh of her vulva. Then the assistants let her go, and the metal points burst through her membranous flesh and sank inward into her precious femininity as she shrieked her horrific torment. Then weights were attached to her ankles and her legs were released, so a hundred spikes began to spear into the tender skin of her inner thighs ...

"Now that both of them are held in place, I think the hooked knives and the barbed needles would be nice," the Count ordered, as his torturers attached chains to the wrist manacles both mother and daughter still wore and then hauled their arms into the air by ropes from the ceiling. "Show them the implements that will be used to peel their velvety skin from their bodies and to pierce them deeply ... let them know what they’re to face so they can anticipate the pain to come ..."

The screams of both mother and daughter were gradually lessening, but they still groaned, their faces twisted in anguish, as weights held them immovably on the spiked Donkey. But, when they saw the brazier moved beside the Donkey, their eyes bulged at the awful menace of the multitude of glowing implements thrust deep into the red-hot coals.

But the horror on their faces escalated as one of the torturers plucked an implement from the coals and waved it in front of their faces. "This is one of our favorite implements down here, girlies," a torturer smirked, waving the glowing blade of the knife in front of Olivia and Donna’s terrified eyes. "We use it to peel patches of skin off the Count’s ‘guests,’ and you and your daughter are going to lose any number of pieces of that delicate complexion you both have. The hooked tip is what we start with, like this ..."

The knife blade had been carefully ground to form a backward-pointing hooked tip about a sixteenth of an inch long. He pressed the glowing hook to the skin at the side of Olivia’s thigh and pushed inward, piercing her skin and drawing a sharp cry. But the cry became an inarticulate scream as the torturer drew a line about an inch long over her thigh. He drew another line of smoking flesh about an inch away, exactly paralleling the first cut. Neither cut bled, the skin cauterized by the hot metal. Quickly, he connected the two lines with another two swipes of his fearsome blade, forming an inch-wide square of seared grooves. He put the knife back in the coals to heat and drew out another which looked an exact twin.

"And then we use the other side of the tip, which has a nice edge, to remove the square of skin we just outlined, like so ..." he intoned, and skillfully stroked along one seared groove at a shallow angle to cut just underneath Olivia’s skin right at the seared groove. She screamed but couldn’t pull away as he slowly and deliberately sliced under the square of skin. He worked carefully, gradually slicing a square of ivory skin free, revealing raw, cauterized under-flesh beneath.

The torturer skewered the square of flesh on one of the spikes at the top edge of the Donkey while another torturer, who had pulled on a leather glove, pulled a barbed metal skewer glowing with heat from the brazier of coals. He waved it in front of Donna’s eyes and told her, "You’ll get this instead, Signorina. Then we’ll demonstrate the hooked knife on you ..."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Please! Don’t!" pleaded the once-virginal young girl as he pulled her right breast into a cone of creamy, whip-marked flesh, positioned the glowing needle against the plump underside, and then slowly shoved it up into her helpless globe.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh!"

When Donna finally stopped screaming, the torturer pulled the hooked knife from the brazier and smirked, "Now that you know how the skewer feels, I’ll demonstrate how we used the hooked knife on your precious mother ..."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo!" Donna screamed, her eyes following terrifying implement as the torturer lowered it to her belly. He used the hooked end to draw a square of smoking, grooved skin just below her navel.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Stop! Not again ... please ... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!"

The poor girl continued to scream while the torturer used the sharp end of a freshly glowing knife to separate the square of flesh from her with a succession of deft slices that sent shock waves of agony coursing throughout her abdomen. The cauterizing effect of the knife as it sliced just below her skin sent tendrils of smoke upward to assault her nostrils even as electric shocks of pain radiated outward.


Stoooooooooooooooop! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"

But the torturer paid no attention to her wild pleas and didn’t stop slicing until the square of Donna’s soft, female flesh was separated from her belly, whereupon he skewered the living tissue on the same spike as her mother’s flesh. Olivia was screaming in concert with her daughter, unable to believe the horror in which they were both immersed and heart-broken at the agony that Donna was enduring. She was even more terrified of the harsh and pitiless torments they were both going to undergo in the future, in what was left of their lives. She knew it would be many, many hideous hours of untold anguish before these fiends finished ripping their soft, feminine bodies into hideous, twitching shreds of bloody and burned flesh.

"Please, God, please let my daughter die!" she prayed fervently out loud. "Don’t let her suffer any more!" Then her eyes were drawn to a torturer who pulled out one of the hideous red-hot skewers. Her eyes widened in terror as the bare-chested man stepped over to her.

"And please let me die soon also!" she finished hurriedly. "Please, oh please, oh please, oh please ..."

"Too bad neither of ya’ll get yer wishes, Signora," the monster rumbled, in his gravelly voice with an evil grin. "Ain’t neither of ya gonna die any time soon. Not anytime soon at all. Now, here’s a little sumpthin’ ta let ya know what yer daughter just went through ..."

Olivia’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in an "O" of horror as she felt the prick of the glowing needle at the bottom of her left breast. The cruel torturer grinned at her reaction and brutally shoved the needle upward. But he did it very slowly, wanting the tortured woman to have ample opportunity to experience to the fullest the horror and agony of the glowing-hot, barbed needle ripping through her inner tissues.

Olivia’s horror instantly turned to pain as the needle penetrated a half-inch into the bottom of her breast, and she shrieked like a mad-woman as the glowing shaft and barbs deliberately ripped upward, unhurriedly tearing a channel of sizzling, spitting, white-hot agony that spread throughout her precious female organ. Her bosom was significantly larger and more mature than her daughter’s, though it still retained much of the firmness of her daughter’s virginal mammaries. But her globes were, if possible, even more sensitive than Donna’s, possibly the result of nursing her daughter as an infant, and her screams reflected the agony being inflicted on her. The completely naked mother being so mercilessly tortured was the erotic embodiment of a sadist’s most perverted dreams, and the Count easily perceived the depth of her suffering. His delight in her agony was boundless.

Then Olivia’s eyes bugged out as her skin on the top of her mammary bulged upward. Through tear-filled eyes, she watched through tear-filled eyes as her skin was split by the point of the skewer and the barbed shaft, still smoking with heat, slid up and out of her pain-filled orb.

The torturer left the sizzling needle transfixing her breast in place and turned to her daughter, who was already shrieking in terror at again being the focus of the torturer’s attention. Her screams grew shriller as the skilled executioner retrieved a glowing, hooked knife from the brazier of red-hot coals and began to flay a square of flesh from her sensitive armpit.

The scene of horror was so depraved that only a sadist of the most extreme perversion could find any beauty whatsoever in the scene, but the simple fact is that the Count, as well as his long-time executioners, could not remember seeing anything more beautiful than this scene, with mother and daughter being forced to undergo tremendously hideous suffering while only inches from each other. The Count especially thought Olivia’s suffering must be reaching even greater heights than her daughter, since she had to watch what was being done to Donna as well as endure what was done to her.

The torturers alternated back and forth from one to the other and then back again as they slowly and carefully worked on their prey like master artists, keeping the pain level of both luscious beauties at a maximum and drawing wild screams of intolerable anguish from them. They brought out small candles which they used to lightly touch the skin of each woman in a dozen places about their body, then Olivia had a square of flesh stripped from one of her lush, quivering buttocks, and her attempts to lunge away from the horror only ripped her pierced flesh on the spikes of the Donkey so firmly embedded in her body. Then a glowing skewer went right into the square of flayed flesh ...

Donna shrieked as the candle-flame surrounded the nub of her nipple, searing it for just a second before moving to her other nipple. Then it was back to the hooked knife, and she lost a square of skin between her shoulder blades before a glowing skewer was shoved between two toes on her right foot, going up along the line of the long bones of her foot ...

And these torments were only the beginning of what both mother and daughter were going to suffer. The executioners were delighted with the spirited responses of these two "guests" of their Master, and they were determined to provide a show worthy of their skills. There was so much for these two exquisitely beautiful maidens to endure ...


The torture continued for endless eons, eternities of hideous agony for mother and daughter, though the Count only considered it to be several hours of very pleasurable entertainment as both deliciously naked damsels screamed and convulsed on the spiked Donkey as the candle-flames played about their shapely bodies. Square after square of their skin was painfully cauterized and sliced free, each square being either skewered on spikes atop the Donkey or forced between the lips of the other sufferer. The first time, Olivia balked at swallowing a square of Donna’s flayed skin, only to have a glowing, barbed needle inserted through her thigh. When the second skewer was brought out, she was quick to comply. Donna, having seen what happened to her mother, hardly raised a protest when the skin so expertly flayed from the indentation of her mother’s navel was forced into her own mouth. She simply gulped it down without chewing.

The torturers often made them look down at the flayed areas of their curvaceous, feminine bodies and the pieces of skin impaled on the spikes between them so they could be well aware of the irreversible mutilation being done to them. These tortures were alternated with red-hot skewers plunged deep into the various portions of their quivering flesh—again and again into their bounteous breasts, their buttocks, their thighs, their calves, and their arms. The sexy armpits of both mother and daughter were bathed by the candle-flames before being thoroughly and completely flayed in an orgy of ripped skin and seared flesh. The raw, exposed under-flesh was then pierced by one glowing skewer after another, driving both mother and daughter mad with the unbearable pain.

One of the torturers was applying the candle again to the right nipple of Donna’s very plump, heaving breast when Carlo came down to the chamber with his wife, a plain-faced, short, plump, very busty, and well-formed girl a dozen years his junior, who clung tightly to his right arm as he led her into the chamber.

She stopped cold as they entered the chamber and she got a good look at the spiked Donkey and its two wildly shrieking and thrashing occupants.

"Is it too much, Sophia?" asked Carlo in concern, for he really loved his wife.

"No, of course not!" Sophia breathed, mesmerized, as her eyes took in the luscious young figure of young Donna Teschini shrieking madly as the torturer took the candle-flame away and examined her burned and blistered nipple and aureole. What he saw must have been to his satisfaction since he took up a glowing knife and gently sliced around the circle of blistered skin, lifting the greyish flesh away to disclose a circle of raw flesh underneath. "It’s everything I visualized when you described what happened down here!"

She looked away from Donna, sitting astride the terrible Donkey as her rich, red blood ran down between her thighs, and said breathlessly, "It’s wonderful, Carlo! Just wonderful! Can we go closer?" She wasn’t looking, so she missed the torturer putting the blister-flesh he had just peeled from Donna’s breast into Olivia’s mouth for her to swallow.

As her husband led her over to the Donkey, Sophia took a closer look at the older but still beautiful woman who faced her daughter from only a foot away. She knew this was the younger girl’s mother, and she took in the many whip-marks, burns, squares of flayed flesh, and deeply embedded skewers that marked her still-shapely body. She was incredibly excited by imagining the suffering the mother must have endured to this point, but her eyes were drawn back to the younger girl, who was actually being tortured at this moment. She leaned closer to see the torturer work more clearly, and her inner belly shuddered in sexual arousal as she watched him take up his glowing knife again. He had pulled off the top layer of skin when he sliced around the large blister that covered her aureole and her nipple, but he was after the underlying layers of skin this time. He used the hooked edge to trace a square that enclosed her raw nipple and aureole before he took up another hooked bladed and slid the glowing sharp edge under the square of flesh he had outlined, beginning to separate the remaining layers of flesh at the tip of her breast. He pulled carefully at the square of skin as he worked, not even bothered by the heaving of Donna’s large breast as she shrieked her torment. Sophia felt a thrill of pure, erotic arousal flood through her belly as the skillful executioner worked to expertly slice the flesh free as tendrils of smoke curled upward from the searing hot blade.

"He’s really, really good, isn’t he, Carlo?" she asked, and her husband nodded without moving his eyes from the exquisitely luscious agony of the ravishingly lovely, wildly screaming eighteen-year-old wench.

"My God, look at how gorgeous the daughter is in her pain! She doesn’t like what that executioner is doing to her one little bit, does she?" Her eyes never left the grisly work before her, loving the way Donna Teschini threw back her head and absolutely squalled her agony from the horror taking place only inches away from her bulging, disbelieving eyes.

"Listen to her scream!" Sophia enthused. "Her screams are so loud they actually hurt my ears! And I simply cannot believe how beautiful she is! To have tortures like this inflicted so mercilessly on two turtledoves as beautiful as this mother and daughter is simply unbelievable! Look at the way the poor young thing is sweating! Both of them, actually! It’s making their gorgeous bodies shine in the torchlight like I never imagined!"

"So you like it?" Carlo asked, and his wife nodded vigorously, watching avidly as the torturer finished slicing away the skin of Donna’s nipple. Her eyes widened as he stepped over to the girl’s mother and put the square of burned and partially bloody flesh to her lips. She stared in open disbelief as Olivia Teschini meekly opened her mouth and, gagging slightly, swallowed her daughter’s nipple-flesh.

"I cannot believe that!" Sophia said.

"See the other executioner holding the red-hot, barbed needle? I’ve seen the Count play these games before—the executioners would have shoved skewer after skewer into the woman until she did what was demanded, and she knows it. It seems unbelievable that she’d do what she did, since they’re going to put the skewers into her anyway, but one of the ‘guests’ down here will usually do anything just to buy herself a few minutes—or even a few seconds—of relief from the torture. I’ll bet the Signorina has already swallowed more than one patch of her mother’s skin."

"More’n two or three score of bits of skin’s gone down the gullet of both of ‘em," said one of the torturers. "Both the other’s flesh as well as their own. We uns is very careful with the Count’s guests—these two lovelies’ll need all the rations they can get for everythin’ we’re going to do to ‘em before they finally die!"

"I see," Sophia breathed, then looked upward at her husband. She licked her lips and a gleam came into her eye. She rose up to her tip-toes and whispered into her husband’s ear, "They’re really going to die? Both of them?"

"They’ll definitely die, but only after they’ve been tortured so long and so savagely that their bodies are completely destroyed," her husband answered. "The Count’s men are very thorough—they’ll take their time so both of them suffer every possible agony, but eventually they’ll rip both of them to shreds. And they’re very thorough—they’ll tear up the outside their body, of course, but they’ll also attend to their insides—deep inside them!"

"The inside, too?" Sophia said softly, understanding her husband reference to the nether orifices of both mother and daughter. "Wonderful! Simply wonderful! How long can we stay?"

"As long as we wish," he said softly, as Olivia started to scream as the red-hot hooked knife began to cut around her own, larger aureole and nipple. Her nipple and aureole was no longer pink, since both nipples and aureole had been blistered by the candle and the blister-flesh peeled away by the hooked knife ... and swallowed by Donna. "We don’t have to leave unless we want to." "So we can stay ... all the time they’re being tortured?"

"The Count said we could, Sophia. We can stay and watch everything that’s done to both of them, all the way up until they die under the most extreme tortures the Count’s executioners can devise."

"Oh, glorious!" she breathed. "I didn’t dream we would be allowed such a lovely privilege ..."

"It’ll get very bloody toward the end, Sophia," he said in caution. "But we can leave if it ..."

"I’m a farm girl, Carlo," she interrupted, with a smile. "I’ve butchered pigs on my father’s farm. I think I can stand seeing a pretty girl—even a girl as pretty as this Donna—tortured to death without undue nausea. It doesn’t matter to me how pretty she is. Or how much she suffers. And I don’t care how bloody it gets toward the end, just as long as these two beauties keep screaming!"

She looked up at her husband, and her smile was sly this time. "It may shock you, my dear, but I’m actually looking forward to watching beautiful young Donna get slowly butchered! It’s even better that her very pretty mother is going to have to watch what happens to her darling daughter, and then she’s going to being tortured and butchered in exactly the same way!"

Sophia licked her lips hungrily. "In fact, I think what’s going to happen to both of these beauties is utterly delightful! I really, really do! Even more, Carlo, I think what’s going to happen to them is sexy! Incredibly, unbelievably erotic and sexy! It doesn’t matter one whit to me how bloody the slaughter is—in fact, I want them both to suffer for just as long and as hard as possible and to eventually die in the worst agony a mother and daughter could possibly endure! For me to be able to watch the horrors they go through and to listen to them scream from the unbearable pain until the very end is just ... well, it’s just unbelievable!"

Carlo nodded in understanding. He thought Sophia was quite attractive, but that was possibly his affection for her, since he knew she’d always been jealous of those beautiful girls who seemed to look down on her rather plain-faced aspect disdainfully. It was no real surprise to him that she would have little empathy for the suffering of these two lovelies, though he had not expected she would find it as enjoyable as she obviously did.

But, since he felt exactly the same way, that was certainly not a problem!

"In fact," she continued, her eyes bright, "what’s happening down here is so ... exciting ... that I wonder if ... can we ... uh ..." Her head nodded over to the Count, who sat in this comfortable chair with one of the several serving girls in his household who had shown a taste for the bloody and agonizing pleasures of his dungeon sitting in his lap. She was completely naked, and she squirmed and moaned in pleasure as the Count thrust deep into her ass. The serving girl pulled herself downward, trying to take even more of the Count’s rampant cock into her ass while he thrust into her to the hilt and fingered her clitoris and vagina.

Carlo gestured over to a couch against the wall, rather surprised at his wife’s forwardness. "We can have that pulled over by the Donkey, if you wish ..."

"I do wish," she whispered urgently, beginning to unfasten her dress. "In fact, I can hardly wait to lie down and get you inside me. This is so exciting! It feels like everything between my legs is throbbing and on fire. I don’t care if everyone can watch us as you fuck the shit out of me ..."

Sophia forced herself to be careful as she worked on her dress. It was her best dress, and she only wore it on very special occasions, which she had thought this might be. She only had two other dresses, and she didn’t want to tear or rip this one in her hurry. But she felt like the heat in her belly was going to explode if she didn’t get her husband’s hard cock inside her ... somewhere inside her ...

She handed her dress to her husband, who hung it on the wall. Then, she slid the straps of her shift off her shoulders so it fell down her bare body and puddled around her feet. Her nudity appeared not to bother her in the slightest as she lay down on the couch, and she looked over at the serving girl in sudden speculation. She had never let Carlo put it up her backside, because his cock was so immense, but she suddenly wondered why. At the moment, the thought of the huge girth of Carlo’s cock stretching her asshole like the Count was doing to the serving girl suddenly seemed just the thing for the sexual frenzy that was gripping her. That girl certainly seemed to be enjoying it!

"I think," Sophia said, leaning close and whispering in Carlo’s ear, "on the topic of fucking the shit out of me, that I’d like to watch these two beauties in agony with that huge, long cock of yours up my ... my rear!"

"Really?" asked Carlo in surprise, because he was so well endowed that Sophia couldn’t take all of him in her love channel. She had always been too fearful to have him up her ass.

"Really," Sophia confirmed. "After watching the Count, I think yours will fit inside me from behind ... if you go slow, that is, because you’re larger than he is. It may hurt, but I don’t care. I just want all of that wonderful cock inside me ... all the way inside me ... to the very hilt ... while the Count’s torturers continue their lovely work on this mother and daughter. Please hurry ... I can’t wait!"


Sophia lost no time in discovering how much she could enjoy having her husband’s hard cock up her rear orifice, and she purred with delight as his huge cock rather painfully distended her asshole. She was surprised to find herself actually enjoying the pain as Carlo thrust deep into her, but she supposed that was because she knew that any pain she felt was more than offset by the pleasure stimulated by watching Olivia and Donna suffering far, far more pain than she. Suffering the most extreme and excruciating tortures the count’s executioners could dream up, in fact. Rather quickly, the pleasure she was feeling in her ass began to feel so good that she began to bounce up and down enthusiastically, moaning in pleasure as Carlo’s huge manhood plumbed the very depths of her rectum—Carlo was a very well-endowed man, both in girth and in length. She closed her eyes and moaned as another orgasm swept through her belly as she seemed to actually absorb into her nervous system the wild shrieks echoing through the chamber from the frenzied mother and daughter, who could do nothing to stop the pain being inflicted on them. She held Carlo’s huge hands to her Junoesque breasts, urging him to squeeze them hard and to twist her nipples even harder, just as hard as he could. It was another element of pain that just made her pleasure greater. She had already climaxed numerous times, and another wonderful surge of molten lava filled her belly as she watched the torturers put aside their hooked knives and hot skewers and bring out another coal-filled brazier stuffed with wooden handled, glowing implements.

They left mother and daughter astride the Donkey, the spikes fully penetrating into the soft flesh at the juncture of their legs, while one executioner pulled a simple hot poker from the coals and thrust it quickly into a bucket of oil to quench the heat slightly and prevent skin from sticking to the hot metal. He stroked the smoking iron lightly across Olivia’s indrawn belly with a "hsssssssssss" and a tendril of white smoke. The naked, tortured mother shrieked madly—even the lightest touch of the iron was beyond excruciating, even after what she had already suffered. The red burn in her soft skin was the center of pain that spread out over her whole abdomen for long minutes, and she continued to scream even after the iron was plunged back into the coals to heat. It was only when her cries waned to choking sobs that it was the turn of her daughter.

The chief torturer lightly touched the tender underside of Donna’s shapely breast with another quenched iron before the heat had boiled the coating of oil away, and the young girl arched backwards with a squeal of juvenile anguish that transformed into the full-throated scream of an adult female as the searing agony spread through her tender globe. The onlookers leaned forward avidly, and Carlo’s wife whispered urgently in her husband’s ear. He nodded in agreement and they carefully uncoupled from each other. He took her hand and led her over to the Donkey and the two suffering females. There, he took her hand and stretched it out to Donna’s belly as the young girl shrieked her torment as the iron caressed her other shuddering breast.

The Count drolly noted the way Carlo had to hold his wife upright as the plump girl’s knees suddenly seemed to lose their strength. Then Carlo lifted Sophia’s hand to the plump underside of Donna’s heaving breast and nodded to the executioner, who gently touched a newly quenched iron to the tip of the raw stalk of the tortured teenager’s flayed, protuberant nipple. When the smoking iron gently touched the red, weeping flesh with a "sssssssssssss," it jerked a shriek of mortal agony from the shapely young victim. Sophia did indeed collapse at the intensity of the climax that swept through her belly. She actually felt and seemed to experience—in a transcendental way—the incredible, unendurable agony that the youthful maiden felt at that moment. Her gestalt with the naked, tortured girl, the shared experience of the girl’s terrible pain, made the explosion of divine ecstasy in Sophia’s belly literally soul-shattering ...

Carlo carried his wife back to the couch and took her into his arms after her convulsive sexual climax. The plump young wife remained quiescent for a little while, nestling into her husband’s arms and seeming to doze off. But it wasn’t long before the shrieks from the two victims seemed to re-energize her. She smiled up at Carlo and wriggled out of his arms, squirming around to greedily capture his still-rampant cock in her warm mouth. She did her best to take as much of his huge shaft into her mouth as she could, while also rapidly moving her head up and down, scraping her teeth lightly along the shaft in the way she knew he loved. Not coincidentally, she maneuvered herself so that she was still able to watch the two luscious, nude females as they screamed their intolerable agony. After the intensity of her climax when she had her hand on Donna’s breast, she was surprised at how quickly the wonderful, warm surge of sexual arousal in her pussy returned. She knew it was the sight of the beautiful, innocent daughter and her dear, dear mother reacting to the onslaught of pain from the hot irons being gently stroked along their bare, defenseless skin again and again.

The Count was equally pleased with the extremely vigorous reactions of his two "guests" to these beginning torments. Clearly, these two females, adult and teenager alike, were highly sensitive to pain, yet had the inner strength to react to and to endure the agony without relapsing into the apathetic dullness of some of his "guests.". He hoped they’d continue to show the same energetic reactions when the ordeals became more stringent—the Rack, the Strappado, the spiked bed, and as many others as they could withstand without dying.

In particular, he savored the thought of how the two of them would react to what he considered to be the truly definitive torture all his female "guests" endured—except those who expired unexpectedly—the torture of having their highly sensitive female parts, both their love tunnel and their rear passage, probed by irons ruddily glowing with heat. His torturers would quench the irons in oil to reduce the heat and to lubricate the searing hot metal, and the first insertions of the fiendish tools would plumb the ultimate depths of both Olivia and Donna’s supremely intimate orifices—their sweet pussies. Later insertions would utilize variations of those first tools, involving irons heated equally hot but studded with interesting modifications to make the experience even more terrible, such as short, tearing points, hooks, or spikes. Then, of course, the torture would be repeated on their rear orifice, an ordeal which seemed to have just as much impact as the other torture.

He always loved this ordeal, but it had to be saved until closer to the end of their strength, when they still retained enough inner resources to feel the full effect of that horrific torture because of the damage it caused. He didn’t want to end a "guest’s" ordeal too early. Just when it was time to inflict that torture varied from one "guest" to another, but he could safely leave that in the hands of his executioners, who seemed to know the best time to begin.

Of course, there were the other, more ordinary torments to be relished, such as the hot pincers, whose sharp, glowing tips would squeeze and tear soft feminine flesh. And there were many other areas of both Donna and Olivia that could be visited by the very effective candle-flames, which had already elicited such lovely struggles and shrieks. Plus so many others, including extracting a female guest’s finger- and toe-nails, burning their tongues and the insides of their nostrils with the candles, the spiked breast press, the red-hot cutters for elegantly slim fingers and toes, and so many more.

But he put aside such anticipatory thoughts and concentrated on the alluring and captivating anguish both of his beautiful captives were enduring at the present moment. He didn’t know whether the misery he discerned in the eyes of Olivia or Donna was greater when they were suffering themselves or when they had to watch the dearest person in their universe writhe as the hot irons sought out the most sensitive spots on her squirming, nubile body. He treasured the delicious mental suffering of both mother and daughter almost as much as what they endured physically when the hot metal was stroking along their own velvety skin.


It was eons of excruciating torture before the executioner deemed that sufficient agony had been wrenched from Donna and her mother by the spiked Donkey and the hot irons that roved freely about their naked bodies. When the tortured pair were pulled upward from the Donkey, Carlo took Sophia up close so she could peer between the spread legs of the two female victims as the spikes sucked out of their tender flesh.

"I’m surprised there’s no more bleeding," she said to her husband matter-of-factly as they returned to their couch and she settled herself on his cock, replenished from their last bout of lovemaking. "Puncture wounds don’t bleed much on the outside," Carlo said knowledgably, "but I guarantee you they both feel every single spike wound. But hey! What’s this?"

Sophia’s glance showed that Olivia and Donna had been shoved up against each other, bare breast to bare breast and belly to belly. Ropes went around their waists and shoulders to keep them in position, and they were pulled into the air by cords wound around their thumbs. The two naked females were thus held together in a ghastly embrace, revolving slowly in mid-air. While the strain of being suspended was not quite as horrible as previously, as when the weights had been attached to their ankles, it was horrible enough, since the full weight of their bodies was borne by their poor thumbs. Olivia tried to stifle her groan as electric shocks of pain radiated down her arms, but Donna was past any ability to stand up against the torment and could only sob and mumble pleas for mercy, crying out in desperation to her father, her grandmother, and even her mother, who was actually suffering in an unholy and incestuous embrace with her.

But dangling by their thumbs wasn’t the point of this ordeal—that purpose was revealed when the pulley from which they hung was maneuvered back over the fire-pit. The flames were high enough to surround their feet, and both mother and daughter instantly gave a strident shriek and tried to pull their feet up out of the all-too-familiar torment of raw flames on their bare feet, already toasted a bright red by their previous sojourn over the fire. Their movements, however, were hampered by the way they were bound together, and they couldn’t really lift their feet. They had to settle for bending at the knee to remove their bare feet from the fire, but that wasn’t a real solution. All too soon, their muscles tired, their legs crept downward, and the flames licked at their toes, after which they bent their calves up again.

But not as high as before. And their muscles tired more quickly, and their feet crept back down toward the fire ...

"Let us die!" screamed Olivia, desperately trying to jerk her feet upward away from the flames as her legs burned with a different fire, the fire of exhausted muscles. "At least ... yyyyiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeaaahh! ... kill my daughter ... aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeehhhhh ... and let me ... eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ... suffer in her place! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

The Count only laughed at her, watching as she and Donna shrieked and jerked and bounced from the pain of the flames reaching out for their wriggling toes. "No, no, my good woman!" he called. "Your daughter’s girlish agony is far too delicious for me to stop her torture! She’s providing entirely too much entertainment to all of us for me to bring her torment to a premature end!" The Count’s comment drew no response from the two females other than even more strident screams, and he was pretty certain neither of them had even heard his comment. He continued on the topic, nevertheless, because the subject of beautiful ladies under savage torture was his favorite interest.

And also, of course, because he enjoyed listening to himself talk, and he was the Count, after all. From the smiles on various faces, it was clear that that his remarks had found an audience among his companions and executioners.

"You’ll both just have to continue as you are, Signora and Signorina! You’re suffering magnificently for us and putting on an absolutely marvelous show! Just marvelous! Of course, you’re learning, to your wretchedness, just how much pain a female can really endure! Far more than you ever imagined, I’ll warrant! Even worse, you’re learning you can suffer still more! By George, watching a mother and daughter being tortured together and enduring the most ghastly agonies side-by-side like this has to be one of the most exciting performances any of my guests has ever delivered!"

He laughed aloud, a cruel, mocking laugh, before continuing. "And as for your plea to kill either or both of you ... you should have known that I never grant an early death to any of my ‘guests!’ No matter how young and innocent a guest might be, and no matter how bad the might pain get for her, my ‘guests’ have to endure every possible agony, all the way to the bitter end! As will the two of you! Suffering unbearable pain that is far, far, far beyond what either of you ever thought possible is why I had you and your daughter brought here!"

Mother and daughter indeed heard nothing the Count said. In any case, it would have made no difference if they had heard, since they had no choice in what was happening to them. No choice but to dance and wriggle and squirm in mid-air in an obscene dance of incestuous, excruciating agony with the fire stimulating them to constant convulsions. Again and again they managed to lift their feet out of the fire, but always their muscles tired and the fire inevitably licked again at their tender soles of their feet and their wriggling toes. Before the ordeal was stopped, their feet were seared a greasy brown and were aflame with pain. When they were finally lowered, neither of them could stand on their burned feet, and it proved necessary to call a halt for a half hour to allow them some rest and force them to drink sufficient water laced with wine to restore their spirits for more "entertainment."

When the torture resumed, two executioners carried Donna to a bed of spikes with leather manacles at the four corners. She couldn’t walk, and the torture she had already undergone kept her from putting up much of a fight as she was lifted and suspended by her ankles and wrists over the terrible bed. The torturers gradually lowered her onto the spikes, which were about an inch long, and the eighteen-year-old froze as she felt the sharp points prick her from her ankles to her wrists as she was secured in place. Because of the large number of spikes, she didn’t sink onto them—at least, not very far and not right away. But the torturers had plans to make her move and thus both settle downward onto the spikes and to tear at her pierced flesh at the same time.

Their plan would utilize the Lead Sprinkler, and they started by explaining what they were going to do to the terrified girl and advising her to hold still so she wouldn’t cause herself more pain. Then they filled the bulb at the top of the six-inch long device with molten lead ... and shook it gently over Donna’s belly!

The motion allowed drops of molten metal to come through the holes in the bulb, and the silvery dots fell and splashed onto the delicate bare skin of her belly with a "hsssssssss!" that foretold the viciousness of this torture. Donna bellowed her agony as she learned that the pain of molten metal coming into contact with her skin was so far beyond hideously unbearable that she never even thought of making an effort to control her convulsions.

"Oh, wonderful!" burst out Sophia, clapping her hand in delight as the silvery circles of cooling lead which dotted her torso sent up a score of small tendrils of whitish smoke. Donna surged upward against the hideous pain but then collapsed back onto the bloodied spikes.

The helpless girl could do nothing but scream as this torment continued, providing exquisite entertainment for the Count and his guests. The Sprinkler was shaken over her breasts, causing her to shake her chest in a frenzy as her already tortured bosom was decorated with another score of silvery blotches that sizzled and smoked. The device was also shaken over her groin and hips, drawing the most delightful wails of agony from the bound girl as smoke tendrils drifted up from her lush blonde pubic hair as fiery drops fell among the tight curls. The torturers were thorough, shaking the Sprinkler along the lines of her arms and legs, driving her to a frenzied quivering as she now desperately tried to hold herself still. She had learned the penalty for struggles on this bed of pain despite the terrible pain. But her resolve was tested—and often tested too severely—as the torturers went back over the same areas, torso, breasts, belly, hips, and her quivering limbs. The volume and pitch of the frantic screams of the nude, teenaged maiden gave evidence of the depth of her torment.

Later, the skilled executioners took advantage of knowledge gained in blood and pain in this very chamber, and they began to shove red-hot, inch-long needles into her belly muscles. They knew just how long a needle could go into a healthy girl’s belly muscles without piercing through into her abdominal cavity, and they ruthlessly exploited that knowledge, driving the glowing skewers into Donna’s belly muscles one at a time, until they had driven her half-insane with the pain.

Then they lifted the naked girl up off the spikes and turned her over, face down. Gently, they lowered her again, while she wailed in denial as she saw the multitude of spikes getting closer and closer until she again lay on top of them. Then they secured her in that position, with her belly and breasts assaulted by the already bloody points ... and brought out the Lead Sprinkler again ... Olivia wasn’t ignored while her daughter was suffering so terribly on the bed of spikes, and the older woman’s ordeal began as she was lifted into the air and lowered onto a thick wide wooden stake with a tapered top. Only at the last moment did the peril of the stake smash through into her consciousness, but her weakened struggles did nothing to impede the fiends’ intentions. She sobbed as the blunted, polished point of the stake spread her sex lips apart and cruelly thrust its way into her tender vagina. The expanding girth of the stake stretched her vaginal orifice brutally as she settled downward, but the blunted point avoided real damage ... at this point.

The executioners had fashioned the top of this particular impaling stake to stretch a woman’s love-tunnel rather than to tear it as she was put on it. But further down, the girth of the stake would tear her vagina and then her womb as it thrust into her intestines. Such an excessive instrument would lead to excessive bleeding and eventual death as it tore its way into her torso and then her chest. But, if the girth of the top of the stake was not sufficient to do her mortal harm, the stake beyond the polished point was rough and splintery. Olivia cried out and moaned as the rough wood scratched and tore the membranes of her vagina as she settled downward, and the width of the stake actually inside her vagina was three inches wide. It filled her more fully than anything had since she gave birth to Donna.

Still, with four inches of it inside her, her toes, which strained desperately toward the ground, were two feet from being able to support her. If left alone until the doomed woman’s feet reached the floor, the stake’s six-inch girth further down the stake would do mortal damage as it gradually tore its way through her vagina and womb.

The gruesome agony of impalement was a favorite of the Count at times, but, though it was an attractive vision, it was not his plans to allow Olivia to die by sitting on her own intestines for a couple of days before the stake gradually shoved her organs aside and moved further up her torso. True, it could take her several more days to die if the stake missed her diaphragm and heart, but it would be hardly appropriate for this delightful pair of mother and daughter. Instead, his torturers had selected a variation, and it was one he found quite amusing, since it would require Olivia to torture herself so she didn’t die by impalement.

Mounted in the floor on either side of the stake were a pair of tall, upright spikes, and the head executioner forcefully pointed out them out to Olivia, who was screaming maniacally as the hideous stake forced its way into her. It was difficult to get her to pay attention, but they finally made the half-demented woman understand the fiendish attribute of the wickedly-sharp spikes—they had a cross-piece of iron bolted to them about six inches down. The head executioner brutally instructed the nude mother—by ruthlessly slapping her every time her attention wandered—that she had a choice. She could let herself settle on the stake so it ripped up into her belly until her feet reached the ground, which might take several day, after which she would spend the next few days dying in agony as her entrails and other organs began to rot. Or she could place the tender soles of her burned feet onto the top of the spikes, place her weight on the sharp points, and ... press down. Hard.

The spikes would pierce her feet, yes, but she could stand on the crosspiece. That way, she could support her body with her legs. It would be painful ... but not as painful as allowing the stake to tear its way through her. It was her choice ...

Oliva sobbed at the demonic alternatives given her, but her decision made itself when she felt the blunt tip of the stake at her cervix. From the way it pressed upward, she knew it would tear its way into her womb if she didn’t do something. With her hands bound behind her, she had only one choice and she gave in to it. Looking down, she lifted her feet and positioned the tender, burnt soles over the points of the spikes. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes in despair, she shoved downward ...

She screamed as she drove the points into the soles of her feet, but the pain in her belly was too much to bear and getting worse. She pushed hard, really hard ... and drove the spikes all the way through her feet so the points passed between the long bones and emerged from the top of her feet. She shoved all the way down, until her soles met the crosspieces, and she was able to stand ... after a fashion. The pain in her pierced feet terrible ... but the pain at the top of her vagina was overwhelming. The stake was threatening to tear through her cervix and then into her belly. She stood up fully, all her weight on her pierced feet ...

... and screamed and screamed and screamed!

After a period, other torments were added to her ordeal. The breast press, two wooden boards with a number of spikes protruding through the boards on the inside, was placed against her chest and screwed down with large screw devices at the end until the spikes were forced deep into her breasts. Blood leaked out from the many puncture wounds and dripped from the bottom board of the press. The screws on the end were cranked even further, crushing her tortured breasts cruelly until the plates were little more than an inch apart. And then the all-too-familiar brazier with the glowing brands was brought over to the stake, and her mature, bellowing screams joined the higher pitched screams of her daughter on the spiked bed as searing hot irons stroked the parts of her large breasts which bulged beyond the breast press ...

Olivia Teschina and her daughter suffered indescribable and terrible tortures as the slow hours of torment continued endlessly. Despite the unendurable suffering the torturers inflicted on each nude female, they tried to restrain the physical devastation wrought on their captives’ beautiful bodies as much as they could, but they were, however, a bit limited in their ability to lessen the mutilations inflicted, given the preferences of their Master. While they had learned much over the years in seeking to make a victim last as long as possible, that was not their sole objective, since they also knew that the ordeals their Master liked the most could not help but gradually mark the nude bodies of their beautiful, nubile female victims with a multitude of burns, punctures, and lacerations. So it proved in the case of Olivia and Donna.

Among the "highlights" of the what remained of their lives, both mother and daughter took turns sitting on the Judas Cradle, screaming as the point tried to tear into their anuses. There also was an increase in the number of squares of flayed skin on their nude bodies, since the red-hot hooked knives were a special favorite of the Count, and were applied again and again to the madly screaming mother and her even more frantic daughter. They couldn’t scream too successfully as they were stretched, side by side on the Count’s massive Rack, until their shoulders and hips were pulled out of socket and their belly muscles were torn half-apart.

They also screamed maniacally after being spread-eagled in mid-air, side by side inside the stretching frame so often used for flaying, while glowing irons were applied to the most private area of their bodies. They alternatively watched in horror or surged against their bonds as the oil-quenched irons stroked along their soft sex lips and lightly touched their sensitive clitorises again and again until only a blackened crater marked where the most sensitive organ of their body had once existed. They shrieked like madwomen as the smoking iron slipped between their burned folds of flesh and slowly moved up their vaginal tunnels until reaching their cervixes. The hideously hot iron was only left there momentarily, being spun by the executioners so it wouldn’t stick to the seared internal membranes of the convulsing victims. Then the still hot iron was withdrawn from their horribly ravaged orifices with equal slowness.

The horror was repeated again and again with different irons studded with short but fearsome points and hooks, which tore smoking grooves in their burned membranes until both mother and daughter thought they’d go insane. The executioners went back and forth between mother and daughter with their various irons, until the searing hot shafts burned through the cervix of each female and roved upward into their wombs. The torment didn’t cease until their diminished responses indicated that too many nerve endings had been seared and destroyed for the torture to provide any more entertainment.

But the executioners had another private orifice to exploit with the searing irons, and they moved to the delicate back passages of both Olivia and Donna, spreading the soft cheeks of their well-tortured buttocks apart to reveal the delicate rosettes of their anuses. The irons were forced through the anal sphincters of both mother and daughter with the malevolent "hissssssssssssssss!" of hot metal on soft, sensitive female flesh never meant to feel such instruments. White smoke curled up from between the globes of their firm buttocks as the hot irons delved deep into the spasming rectums of each captive. The agony each of them felt as the long handled irons plumbed more than eighteen inches up into their bowels cannot even be imagined. Equally unimaginable was the suffering both convulsing, beautiful creatures went through as the torment was repeated, sliding again and again into their entrails with spiked and hooked phalluses, searing, ripping, and cauterizing the internal membranes, until the executioners deemed the devastation wreaked on the inner tissues of both mother and daughter had gone as far as practicable.

The horror continued as both mother and daughter were dragged to a matching pair of Witch Chairs placed facing each other only a few feet apart. Despite the torment they had already endured, the two of them screamed in horrified denial at seeing these menacing engines of maniacal torture, with the surfaces studded with wickedly sharp spikes and with a large firebox under each metal seat. Olivia and Donna struggled but they weren’t able to prevent being strapped into the fiendish chairs, with the hundreds of spikes already starting to pierce their helpless flesh promising untold eternities of horror to come.

That terror was not long in coming, as brisk fires were set in each firebox, and the metal seat and the spikes began to heat. Soon the pain of the heat rising off the metal seat and heating the spikes which were gradually working their way deeper into their bodies was too much to stand. The all-too-familiar wild shrieks of two desperate damsels being subjected to tortures far, far beyond what any woman could ever be asked to endure echoed through the chamber and fell pleasurably on the avid ears of the onlookers. But enduring the unendurable was what passed for normal in this chamber, and the torture of the Witch Chair was not enough for the Count’s skilled practitioners of the art of Pain. Other torments were added to the more-than-sufficient torment of the mother and daughter sitting in their Witch Chair facing each other, with the spikes fully embedded in their already lacerated bottoms and thighs and with the merry fire ablaze in each firebox. First, each woman’s fingernails and toenails were pulled out, one at a time, by the roots. The extraction was, of course, done very slowly and with the maximum pain possible. The volume of their screams escalated when molten lead was dribbled onto the raw nail-beds left behind by the executioners’ pliers. With that complete, metal, spiked breast-cups were heated until they glowed with heat and then clasped over the bosom of each screaming victim. The executioners pulled the chains on the sides of the breast-cups as tight as they could, ensuring that the glowing spikes pierced each tortured breast fully. Finally, thumbscrews were put on their thumbs and their large toes and were then slowly and remorselessly tightened. The pressure became greater and greater with each turn of the tightening wheel, eventually crushing the joints of these appendages with loud "Crrraaaaaaaaacckks!" and the associated maniacal shrieks of pain.

Other ordeals, such as the Strappado, contributed to the slow disintegration of sinew and muscle, even if they didn’t leave a mark on the outside.

The Count did not appear to find the increasing wounds and burns that marred the bodies of Olivia and her daughter to be a detriment to their attractiveness, however. He well remembered the loveliness of both of them when their ordeal of agony had started, and he savored every single wound they both had suffered since that first night. Their torment had been halted occasionally, when the Count’s executioners deemed that the two ladies required time to rest and recuperate before their torture was resumed.

Twice they had petitioned their Master to halt the ordeal for the night so the two "guests," as well as the avid audience—and the executioners themselves—could be given a chance to sleep and recover their strength for the resumption of even more savage tortures in the morning. After a few hours of recuperative sleep by all concerned, the Count and his guests had returned to the dungeon to enjoy another much-anticipated day of entertainment, made even more delicious because that entertainment was provided by the two highly unwilling "guests."

The unwilling guests naturally didn’t share anything like the anticipation of the audience. They were all too aware of the ghastly horror that awaited them at the hands of the Count’s executioners, and the mother, still strong and spirited despite her many wounds, and her equally sturdy and even more vibrant daughter, fought their captors with the strength of utter desperation. Their struggles were useless, of course, and they hardly impeded the guards as they were dragged, kicking and screaming, into the dungeon and bound in place.

With everything now ready and the "entertainers" helpless to affect their fate, the executioners lost little time in resuming the savage, merciless torture. Robust, forceful screams rang through the chamber in concert with the frantic, erotic twisting and thrashing of two nubile bodies. The Count and his guests stayed in an elevated state of perverted, sadistic sexual lust as Olivia and Donna provided both entertainment and stimulus.

The Count’s highly skilled torturers enjoyed their work just as much and perhaps more than the audience as they mercilessly worked on the two lovely creatures their Count had so graciously given them to play with. They kept both mother and daughter in a virtually constant state of pain the entire time they were working on them, alternating from mother to daughter and back again so the other could see just what sadistic horrors were being perpetrated on their loved one.

A lovely byproduct of subjecting this pair of "guests" to pain this extreme was that, no matter how badly they wanted to faint in order to escape the agony, they were unable to do so. They stayed completely aware and conscious over the endless hours and thus experienced to the fullest wash and flow of never-ending agony through their nervous systems and their minds. Neither Donna or Olivia were really aware of just how enticing the avid audience found the desperate struggles of their shuddering, totally feminine forms as the fiendish executioners plied their tools of torture on them with devilish inventiveness.

So many of the Count’s "guests" would have sunk into an unresponsive apathy well before this point, but both Olivia and Donna reacted most vigorously to the glowing pincers, the hot needles, and the spiked rollers which pierced and tore their ravaged flesh time and time again. Both mother and daughter continued to exhibit a responsiveness to the pain virtually identical to that which the Count had noted at the beginning of their ordeal, even on the third day of their torture and despite everything they had suffered previously. Their vigorous, piercing screams rang through the dungeon and entertained the small audience from just after sunrise and continuing well after midnight until dawn was breaking.

It was only then that the head torturer approached his Master and said, "M’Lord, we’ve got to th’ point where neither of yer guests’ll last a lot longer if we keep th’ tortures up as high as we’ve been doing. Perhaps if we give ‘em a chance t’ rest up they’ll recover, but ..."

The chief executioner gave an eloquent shrug indicating his uncertainty, and Count nodded, since this point was always reached when his executioners were entertaining one of his "guests." Especially toward the end, when the damage to their tortured bodies mounted. None of them could last forever. If he were more patient and allowed them to recover for days or even weeks between sessions, perhaps they’d last longer and suffer more before they weakened and died. But he was simply not patient enough—he loved the remorseless nature of the sufferings of his helpless, tortured "visitors" too much.

Still, more than three full days of savage, merciless torture had been inflicted on the lovely, naked bodies of a pair of spirited and strong females, with only occasional breaks in their ordeals.. It had been wonderful to witness the two beauties, a voluptuous mother, still beautiful in her thirties, innocent of any crime, and her equally innocent, almost as full-bodied, young, and even more beautiful daughter, endure three full days of unrelieved, relentless, and soul-searing agony.

So the Count was well content as he said, "And your recommendation, Executioner?"

"A final ordeal, as usual, m’Lord—sumpthin’ they’ll not survive. Impalement, maybe. Or drawing and quartering. Perhaps roasting ‘em over the fire. Sumpthin’ like that. Even females who’ve endured as much torture as these two’ll show renewed energy when they settle onto the stake. Ye saw how the Signora reacted when we put her on the stake. Or we could put ‘em on a spit over the fire and roast ‘em alive."

The eyes of the serving girl, who had remained in attendance to the Count, lit up as she looked at the two females who hung beside each other from reversed, dislocated arms. They were suspended by cords wound around each dislocated finger in mid-air, with heavy weights hanging from each of their equally dislocated toes, and she remembered the glorious suffering of the girl and her mother over the past days.

"Perhaps the fire, my Lord?" she asked in a wheedling tone. "The only girl I’ve seen die over the fire was that milkmaid last year. She really put on a show for you, if you remember! She really couldn’t stand the pain of the fire as the spit turned her so that the heat bathed every bit of her bare skin!"

"Yes, I remember," the Count said, nodding, closing his eyes in pleasure as the serving girl’s mouth suddenly engulfed his quickly stiffening cock. He remembered the lusty screams of the madly shrieking young milkmaid, her plump but very well-endowed body tightly chained to the iron spit as the executioner turned the handle slowly. The searing waves of heat off the fire sought out every nook and crevice of the milkmaid’s pale, nude body, well-greased with animal fat against the flames, as she turned slowly over the fire. He remembered with mounting arousal the way the fire had seared her smooth, exposed flesh mercilessly as she desperately squirmed and heaved against her chains. She’d been freshly captured along with several other girls and hadn’t been tortured before she went over the fire. That was probably one of the reasons she had lasted so long over the fire, more than eighteen hours, as his executioners took her spit off the fire at regular intervals to make sure she was well replenished with liquids. Eventually, of course, the fire, which was hot but not so hot as to bring about a premature demise, had its way with her. Her ivory skin had gradually turned pink from the pervasive heat off the fire before turning red and eventually a deep brown. The memory of the milkmaid’s immense, Junoesque breasts swaying from side to side as the spit turned, hanging down so far when she was face-down that the tips of her breasts were swallowed by the flames, was a luscious, treasured memory, and he honored the sturdy constitution of the hapless girl in lasting so long over the flames.

Now, as these memories floated through his mind and the serving girl worked her exquisite skill with her mouth and tongue on his cock, actually swallowing it part way down her throat, he was more than inclined to give her what she wished. But then he had another thought ... there was another guest in the chamber today ...

"Signora Rinzetti!" he called to his chief guard’s wife as she lay beside her husband on the couch they had occupied almost continuously over the past two days.

"Yes, my Lord?" she asked, looking away from the tortured mother and daughter as she sat on her husband’s lap, bouncing up and down gently on the thick cock that stretched her ass. She made no attempt to cover her nudity. Not after what she had witnessed and experienced. All of the executioners were nude also, since they had raped the prisoners being tortured on multiple occasions. And she had several times changed places with the serving girl and serviced the Count as lustily in all her orifices as the serving girl had serviced her husband. By this time, false modesty never crossed her mind.

"Ingrina would like to see Signora and Signorina Teschi suffer a final ordeal over the fire. Since this is your first visit, I would welcome your opinion."

"Ah ... my Lord, I am not squeamish, as you have witnessed, and I’m a farm girl," Sophia responded carefully. "Seeing a pretty girl roasted over the fire sounds much more enjoyable than watching a plump pig in the same situation, since the girl would still be alive and screaming as she roasted. That’s an image which I think would be ... highly entertaining. But ... everything down here has been new to me, and I ... I just don’t know enough to have an opinion. You would be more ... qualified ... to judge the appropriateness of any ... last ordeal."

"But you are our guest, and I value your wishes in this matter," the Count smiled, remembering the way her tight asshole had spasmed around his cock as she had reached orgasm after orgasm watching mother and daughter suffer so divinely. "But I understand your lack of knowledge, so this is what our guests would experience. We often put a girl on the spit and roast her like a pig, as Ingrina mentioned, or we sometimes tie her in various positions and dangle her in mid-air, lowering her so the fire can toast various portions of her body. But we also have a fire-pit over by the wall with a chimney to the outside, which I’m inclined to use in this case. We build a fire—a low fire, rather than a blazing bonfire—and we secure our ‘guest’ to an iron grate which is then lowered until it is horizontal over the fire. It’s high enough so that the heat doesn’t sear the guest too fast, but it slowly roasts her alive. It can take up to a full day to roast a fresh, strong guest, but it’ll probably take significantly less time for Signora Teschini and her daughter."

"Will they roast together, side by side?" asked Sophia with interest, but the Count nodded sadly.

"Alas, I never considered roasting two girls at the same time, so the grate and the fire-pit are sized only for one guest."

"Still, that sound most ... intriguing, my Lord," Sophia said, and there was eagerness in her voice and expression. "Most intriguing ... and most attractive. I believe I would very much like to see both of your lovely guests die slowly on your fire-grate."

"Then it shall be done!" agreed the Count, who turned to his Executioner. "Put the young Signorina on the grate first. Let the mother see the way her daughter is slowly seared and roasted before her very eyes. When the Signorina finally dies, the mother can take her daughter’s place on the grate. That way, she’ll know what she faces as she experiences the delights of the heat probing everywhere at her own bare body. As you know, fire in all its various forms playing about the naked bodies of our ‘guests’ is one of my favorite pastimes."

"Very good, my Lord."

Thus, Olivia Teschi, weakened and battered, was released and carried over to a sturdy chair facing a fire-pit near the wall of the chamber and securely bound in place. She hadn’t heard the Count pronounce the horrible sentence of death on her and Donna, but it only took one look at the executioners filling the fire-pit with wood and coal with the huge grate leaning up against the fire-pit to let her know what the next ordeal would consist of. She shuddered at the thought of her and Donna being fastened to that grill over the fire. She instinctively knew that their next ordeal would be their last ... and their most terrible.

When the fire was merrily ablaze, Donna was released and carried over to the fire-pit. She hadn’t been aware of her mother’s thoughts, but the leaping flames told a story of their own. Her eyes were wide with terror as she took in the flames and the large iron grate resting at a forty-five degree angle against two stone blocks.

"No, please!" she pleaded, as she was set on her burned feet and pushed up against the grate. Her head twisted around as she stared in horror at the fire behind her. "No more fire! Oh, God, don’t burn me any more! I can’t stand any more fire!"

The head executioner smiled at her futile pleas and said cruelly, "My Count cares nothin’ for what ye want, silly child. And none of us care anythin’ at all about what ye think ye can or can’t stand. We know ye can stand anythin’ we do to ye. Which is why ye’re going over th’ fire, as naked as ye came from yer mother’s womb. Ye’re gonna cook just like a pig, girlie. I’m sure ye think ye won’t be able to stand being slowly roasted over that fire, but ye ain’t got a choice. Ye’ll just have to endure being slowly burned to a crisp. And we’re going to grease ye up like a pig, to protect yer skin from burning too quick. That way, yer roasting will last even longer."

"No, please!" Donna shrieked. "Don’t roast me! Oh, God, please help me! Anything but being roasted!"

"Ye cain’t stop us, girlie!" laughed one of the torturers. "Ye’re going to slowly broil for my Master’s entertainment. And it’s gonna be bad, girlie—really, really bad. More painful than anything ye’ve endured so far."

"Oh, please don’t!" wailed Donna. "Please don’t!"

"And just to be thorough, little one," the first torturer said, "we won’t burn just yer back. We’ll turn ye over regular-like, to make sure yer belly and teats also feel the delights of the fire searing every part of yer delicate, bare skin. Ye’re gonna die a horrible death, girlie, really, really horrible. And it’ll be so very, very slow ... yer torment will go on and on and on ... with yer mother watching ... ye’ll burn forever ... for an eternity ... it won’t stop until ye finally die ... and then yer precious mother will take yer place."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!," the frantic eighteen-year old protested. "That’s too cruel! Kill me first! Don’t burn me any more!" But Donna’s pleas were ignored, as the executioners proceeded to rub down her bare skin with animal grease until she gleamed all over. Then her squirming body, battered and wounded but still showing how lovely she once had been, was secured to the iron grate, facing outward with her wrists and ankles locked into iron manacles. The terrified girl looked about wildly, jerking uselessly at her unyielding bonds, as the grate stirred. Looking up, she saw the ropes attached to the upper corners pulled taut, and her terror was a living thing pressing inward on her chest and heart.

"Oh, God, let me die first!" she sobbed, as the grate was raised to the vertical until it swung free in the air. "Mother! Don’t let them burn me! Please!!" But neither Donna Teschini’s prayers nor her pleas were answered, and the bottom edge of the grate was swung into place so it fit into slots chiseled into the two stone blocks at the end of the fire-pit. Then the ropes were slackened slightly, and the terrified girl felt herself tilt backwards.

Backwards toward the fire-pit ...

She looked over her shoulder in a state of total panic as the ropes were slackened and the grate began to incline toward the dancing tongues of flame below her.

"Please, God, please, not the fire again! Please! Please! Please! Please! Oh, please! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaase!" she begged, as the grate inclined further and further. She felt the heat rising off the fire now, and it grew greater. When the grate had inclined to the forty-five degree point, the heat grew great enough to become distinctly uncomfortable, and the eighteen-year-old girl began to cry out.

"Nooooooooooooooooo! The fire! It’s too hot! It’s going to burn me! Oh, God! It’s too hooooooooooootttt! It burrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnzzzzz!"

Only laughter greeted her protests, and soon her wild, maniacal shrieks echoed through the dungeon as she tried frantically to lift her wounded body upward, seeking to evade the steadily increasing heat which ate into the back of her body from ankle to neck. But there was no escape for the innocent and completely helpless daughter of Rodolfo Teschini this night. Her completely unclothed body was entirely open to the heat which rose and remorselessly ate at her flesh. Her father, who had tried to protect his daughter, had failed completely in his intention. Instead, he had attracted the attention of the devil-spawned Count of Cenara, and now his enemy leered at the tortured nakedness of her father’s beloved, innocent daughter. He would have been nauseated at what she had suffered before now and especially nauseated as the steadily increasing heat made her throw her body about with wild abandon and turned her pleas for mercy into shrieks of unbearable agony.

The grate inclined further and further with its desperate passenger who couldn’t stop her useless struggling. Finally, it clattered into place on the corresponding stone supports at the other end of the fire-pit.

Donna Teschini’s soft, well-greased, and wonderfully rounded, if more than a little ravaged, body was now bathed in the searing waves of heat off the fire more than four feet below. It had been terrible when her feet dipped into the fire earlier, but now she was being seared from ankle to neck in the most dreadful torture anyone, especially an innocent young teenaged girl like herself, could be forced to undergo—the agony of having her entire body completely roasted, slowly and carefully, while she was still alive to experience every excruciating second!

Worse was her dreadful knowledge that her broiling would last just as long as these fiends could extend it. She would be cooked very, very slowly indeed ... and it wouldn’t stop until she died! Her powerful, robust screams echoed with renewed energy through the chamber as she arched her bare body upward off the grill, away from the heat. But there wasn’t enough slack in her bonds to permit her to raise herself very far above the grate. And she couldn’t maintain it long anyway.

The grease on her back liquefied in the heat, but the doomed teenager wasn’t aware of it—her agony was too all-consuming. Her whole world was the terrible fire below her writhing, stark-naked body and the totally despairing reality that she couldn’t get away from hellish waves of heat.

Olivia had thought she was cried out from all the vicious tortures she had seen inflicted on her precious Donna in this terrible chamber, but now, watching her daughter suffer the torments of the damned on the grate with the fire below, she learned she was wrong. A large hand seemed to be clutching her heart, and she sobbed heartbrokenly, praying for the only release possible for her only daughter—that she would die and end the terrible torment of the merciless heat that ate at her bare flesh. Inwardly, however, she was convinced that her daughter’s death was some time away—hours, certainly, and maybe longer. These fiends were too clever—they wanted Donna to survive over the fire as long as possible. It was especially repugnant that Donna’s terrible suffering was so sexually arousing to these degenerates. She had been vaguely aware of the Count and his guests were also naked and had been engaging in every possible manner of obscene, sexual perversion during the entire time she and Donna had been suffering such ghastly agony ...

Now, she wanted very badly to look away from the sight of her daughter’s thrashing body above the flames, but she wasn’t able to do so. At the Count’s order, one of the executioner’s assistants held her head steady, forcing her to face toward the fire-pit. Meanwhile, also at the Count’s order, Ingrina, the serving girl held Olivia’s eyelids open so she had to watch her daughter’s torture.

Meanwhile she and Sophia, the head guard’s wife, who had joined her, whispered obscenities into Olivia’s ear about how wonderful Donna looked over the fire and how much she had to be suffering. The distraught mother was in a hell beyond imagining at the sight of Donna suffering over the fire in front of her while the two depraved women told her repeatedly how much they were enjoying her child’s horrible plight.

"It must be pleasing to you, Olivia, to have raised a daughter strong enough to endure such a ghastly torture as this!" whispered Ingrina into Olivia’s horrified ears. "Isn’t it wonderful that your child is able to withstand such an extreme torture as being roasted alive? And so slowly! So very slowly! It’ll take hours for her to die!"

"The poor girl’s already entertained our Count so delightfully by her suffering over the past three wonderful days!" said Sophia into her other ear. "Three days of the most hideous pain imaginable! But now she’s really showing her strength and spirit! The fire is already taking her to heights of agony beyond anything she’s endured so far!"

"Look at your darling daughter wriggling about in her agony!" Ingrina said happily. "It’s unbelievable how energetically your child is still able to throw that luscious young body of hers about on the grate, isn’t it? Look at the way all her feminine charms are shaking about! She’s really suffering, isn’t she?"

"But she can’t get away from the pain—not even for a second!" Sophia put in. "Oh, it’s unbelievably wonderful that you have to watch the daughter you love so much suffer so dreadfully! And with you so helpless to stop it! She’s your only daughter, isn’t she? How does it feel to see her suffering so badly and not be able to stop it? It feels terrible, doesn’t it? I know it does! With your husband dead and with Donna destined to die in agony over the fire before you take her place and die like she will, that’ll be all the Teschinis, won’t it? Too bad!" Sophia’s tinkling laugh belied her words, and the icy hand of despair clutched Olivia’s heart as the flow of cruel words continued.

"See how the heat’s burning poor Donna so dreadfully!" Ingrina added. "All over her bare body! Isn’t it wonderful the way she’s absolutely naked over the fire? I think it is! As bare and as naked as she was when she came from your womb—but now she’s a magnificently formed young woman. And she has nothing at all between her unprotected, oh-so-sensitive skin and the heat!"

"The pain of such blazing heat on Donna’s unprotected skin must be truly unendurable!" Sophia agreed enthusiastically. "It has to be! Listen to your darling little daughter scream! She’s so very young and beautiful, isn’t she? Yet she’s also unbelievably magnificent in her agony!"

"Just imagine how it’s going to feel, dearest Olivia, when it’s you on the grate and when the heat’s searing your delicate skin!" the serving girl said.

"Your Donna is so very beautiful and so exquisitely sensitive to every little torment!" Ingrina said. "Do you think her blood will actually boil in her veins, Sophia? Oh, I hope it does! That would be too marvelous for words!"

The two women were silent for a few moments, just watching Donna shriek and shudder and thrash about. Then Sofia said, in a soft voice filled with malevolent sexual arousal, "It’s going to be marvelous after your sweet Donna finally dies and it’s your turn over the fire!"

Ingrina crooned, "It was exquisite when they skinned your belly and thighs, dear Olivia! It’s going to be ... extraordinary ... when the heat can bathe all that raw flesh! Here, let me rub a little salt on your thighs to take your mind off your daughter’s torture! There! Isn’t that nice?"

"Here’s some more!" chortled Sophia, as she sprinkled more of the rough, whitish granules on the tops of Olivia’s thighs, which were missing more than half of the skin. "Oh, wriggle, cow! Try to get away from the pain! But you can’t can you? And neither can your doomed daughter! But in the meantime, both of you are putting on a magnificent show for our Count!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" screamed Olivia finally, driven beyond her ability to stand it as the serving girl’s fingers massaged salt into her flayed belly. "You monsters! Yiiiiieeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh! Stop! Devils! Ahhhhhh God! I can’t staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnddd it!"

But Sophia only laughed and said, "But of course you can stand it, you darling creature! Just like you’ve stood everything so far, no matter how much it hurt! Just like your daughter is standing being roasted alive!"

Donna had been condemned to be roasted to death, but her death didn’t come soon or easily. After the first half hour, the grate was raised so she could be given water. She was also turned over to face the grate, so the fire could sear the front of her body when the grate was lowered. Over the long hours, her suffering certainly lived up to all the taunts and derision of Ingrina and Sophia as the fire seared both the front and back of her body from ankle to neck. The cycle was repeated again and again, and it wasn’t until a full three hours had passed that the valiant girl gave the first signs of weakening. Her shapely body had been roasted evenly until her olive-tinted skin had turned a deep, chocolate brown all over. But her strength and the vitality of youth offset the first stages of weakening, and it took another hour before the flames finally claimed her. The Head Executioner flushed in embarrassment at having mis-estimated the reserves of this eighteen year old girl.

Olivia heaved a sigh of relief when her daughter’s naked, seared body finally slumped back on the grate and didn’t move. Her ordeal was finally over.

But her own final ordeal was now ready to start ...


Olivia was so glad that her daughter’s seemingly endless nightmare had finally ended that she didn’t even struggle when she was released from the chair and half-led, half-carried to the grate. She was so accepting of her final ordeal that when the executioners reached the grate with her and turned her around, she shrugged off their hands and, without being forced, leaned back against the still warm metal. She not only didn’t resist being bound to the instrument of her destruction, she actually raised her wrists to the unyielding manacles above her so the guards could lock the cold iron bands about her slim wrists. She closed her eyes as her legs were spread wide to the corners of the grate, which lifted her feet off the ground and removed the little support she could manage with her burned feet. She stifled a groan as the full weight of her body now dangled from her pinioned wrists. But, other than the single groan, she remained silent, accepting the pain of the cruel metal biting into her wrists as similar bands were secured about her trim ankles.

She even said nothing as the grease was brought out and great gobbets of the slimy stuff was rubbed into every part of her nude, terribly wounded body, though she did wince when the careless hands roughly contacted her wounds. She accepted the fact she was being greased like a pig, just as Donna had been. The torturers were preparing her for her horrible fate, and they wanted her dreadful ordeal to last just as long as they could make it. The grease would keep her skin from burning as quickly as it would otherwise, so she could last longer over the fire, just as Donna had. In her fatalistic mind-set, she didn’t waste time or breath protesting against the inevitable or begging for mercy that was a meaningless concept in these chambers of horror. Just like her daughter, she’d soon be on the grate over the fire-pit, being roasted exactly like a pig. Except she’d be alive and aware of the fiery heat—fully, terribly, excruciatingly aware of it and the unendurable pain that would result—when the grate was lowered to the horizontal over the fire. Then, her final and most terrible torture could truly began ...

But she was ready now—ready to die, no matter how horribly—and she was glad her nightmare was at hand. She wanted nothing more than to die and join her daughter and husband. There was left for her in this life but unendurable pain and agony, the same as Donna had experienced, but she wanted it to start. She couldn’t do anything about what she’d have to experience, but she wanted the pain to start, so it could end. When she was over the fire, she knew she could stop thinking ... stop remembering ...

So Olivia said nothing and made no protests as the grate was lowered into the indentation in the stone blocks and began to incline toward the fire, carrying her naked, helpless body toward her final ordeal ...

Olivia Teschini didn’t even scream when the grate clanged into place horizontally above the fire and the waves of heat began to lave so terribly at her bare body. The pain increased upward to an intensity far, far beyond endurance as the heat ate at her flesh and penetrated deep into her tissues. Yet still she remained silent, holding her body still and accepting the pain. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stand the torture forever, but for now she suffered in silence and remained relatively motionless. Her fortitude lasted for the full thirty minutes before the grate was raised and she was turned over on her belly.

As the grate descended once more and the hideous heat began to eat at the tissues of her front side, especially her flayed belly and thighs, she could tell she was beginning to lose control. But she was a valiant woman, and she remained silent and motionless for more than a quarter of an hour before she reached her breaking point.

It’s terrible! she finally thought, giving in to the excruciating pain as her self-control and fatalism disappeared. She felt the briefest of spasms of despair at being unable to maintain her stoicism, then there was nothing but pain.

It’s unbearable! she thought, as her bone-deep scream echoed around the chamber. I’ll die from the pain! I have to! No one can stand such pain! It’s intolerable beyond nightmare! I have to get away from the fire! The fire! It burns! It burns! It buuuuuurrrrrrrrrrnnnnnsssssss!

And it’s only begun! she realized dimly, as she began to throw herself wildly against her manacles for the first time as the agony overwhelmed her. And I haven’t died ...

There was a vague knowledge in the recesses of her pain-maddened mind how long Donna lasted over the fire ... she’d lasted for hours and hours ...

Her daughter’s death over the fire had been terrible beyond description, and the young girl’s torment had been so nightmarish that she had been conscious of nothing but the agony of the fire during the entirety of her roasting. It was no wonder that the poor thing had been totally incapable of wondering what was going to happen to her mother. If she had, she would have expected that her mother’s torment would have been roughly the same as her own, lasting almost four hours of mad, screaming agony.

But Olivia Teschina was a mature, strong woman, one who had survived a dangerous childbirth and came of sturdy, robust peasant stock, and she was unfortunately destined to last longer than her daughter on the grate. Her suffering was not only longer but much worse in intensity than Donna’s, because her very maturity and the stability of her personality kept her awake, sane, and heart-breakingly aware of every single second during the almost nine hours of blazing torment she endured over the fire. As the searing heat off the fire-pit bathed her gleaming, battered nudity and as her feminine charms juddered and shook as she threw herself about, the Count was highly appreciative of how lustily the thirty-five year old mother bellowed her agony. He also loved the surging movements of her lush body as she strained lift herself backwards off the grate, desperately but vainly seeking to somehow evade some part of the dreadful torture. She was on her stomach, and the fire ate at the many flayed areas on her breasts, her belly, and her thighs. Her screams rang through the room as the heat stimulated the multitude of exposed nerve endings with messages of transcendental agony to her pain-demented mind, and she threw herself about like a madwoman in the extremities of her indescribable suffering.

Ingrina already had her mouth glued to his manhood, and she sucked harder as his turgid member surged in her mouth as she drank in the wild shrieks of the tortured mother. The Count was a lusty and skilled lover, capable of maintaining an erection for hours while he ploughed one of his serving girls and brought them to orgasm after orgasm. But Ingrina was as energized as her Master and was able to match his capacities, riding and stimulating him to orgasm after orgasm as the poor tortured woman over the fire found heights of pain to endure that amazed even the hardened executioners. They had never seen a woman die harder than this Amazonian peasant mother, who shrieked and thrashed and shuddered continually as she was turned on the grate again and again so all parts of her body were well-roasted in the searing heat. Her suffering was an especially ecstatic delight to Ingrina, who had suggested this final ordeal.

The broiling of Olivia Teschina was declared by all concerned, including the Count, to be the absolute high point of any of the ordeals endured by either mother and daughter over the past days. Not even Donna’s stunning beauty could match the superb stamina and endurance displayed by her mother during her final—and exquisitely erotic—martyrdom. During the endless hours of her ordeal, she had remained delightfully aware of every single second of the terrible agony she was enduring, enhancing the stimulus, if any was needed, of all the onlookers. They thought it was especially cute the way the delicate skin of her lovely pale body first turned pink, then red, and finally, at the eight-hour point, a rich brown. At the end, the fire had turned her a darker brown that was almost black. That was all below the neck, of course, since her head was positioned beyond the stone wall of the fire-pit so she could breathe and scream while the rest of her was subjected to the searing heat. The same had been true of her daughter, of course, and she had died wonderfully, but she hadn’t been able to match her mother’s responses and duration.

Ingrina had begged the Count to allow mother and daughter to die over the fire, and, though the martyred mother was still shrieking her pain on the grate, the serving girl knew she had witnessed a pair of ordeals beyond her dreams.

She had also drained the Count of every last iota of his impressive store of sexual energy. By the time Olivia’s screams finally dwindled to barely audible moans, the Count’s seemingly endless store of masculine energy was completely sapped. As servants helped the exhausted nobleman up to his bed while the tortured mother still twitched and mewled over the flames, the serving girl looked on the suffering woman’s final, pathetic movements with interest. It still took twenty more minutes before Olivia was at last still, and Ingrina rose to her feet, gazing about the dungeon room with satisfaction.

Despite her many orgasms, Ingrina still felt energetic stirrings of warmth in her belly as the images of the suffering of Olivia Teschina and her innocent daughter ran through her mind. She looked over at Carlo’s wife, who was helping her own husband upstairs to his bed. He appeared as sapped as the Count, but Ingrina was interested in the fine, luscious body of his plump wife, who was as nude as she was. Ingrina’s sexual hunger was plain to see in her expression when Carlo’s wife looked up at her, and it was plain that Sophia felt the same stirrings of lust as Ingrina. Their eyes met, and a slow smile spread over Sophia’s face, as a visceral feeling of anticipation seemed to flow between the two women. Sophia gave a little nod, smiling and licking her lips hungrily before she left the room. Ingrina felt a surge of lust in her belly and a wetness inside her cunt at the certainty that Sophia would return.

Ingrina loved girls as much as she loved men, though she didn’t know how experienced Sophia was with women. But it didn’t matter—she could teach the other woman everything necessary ...


The Count of Cenara lived a number of years after Olivia and Donna Teschini’s ordeals in his torture chamber, and, when he died, it was by fire, which Rodolfo Teschini had unsuccessfully tried to use to save his wife and daughter from torture. But the fire that killed him was an accidental one, and he could have escaped if he had responded quickly when the danger was reported to him. But he was too engaged in watching a plump nursemaid captured several counties away being flayed alive in the flaying frame. Her skin from her fingertips to her knees had been peeled away and hung down to the floor, a sight he found quite entrancing. By the time he realized the severity of the emergency and tried to leave, the stairwell was filled with smoke and flames. So the Count died along with his victim in the flames—flames which were, perhaps, only a prelude to hotter and more permanent flames awaiting him—in the hell which was reserved for the man the townsfolk called the Devil himself!



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