alquis6-2

Five - The Chair

Three weeks after the whipping, Solana was once again fetched by
guards.

ï¿½It is time to face the torture again, girl!ï¿½

The Jailer fitted a key to her heavy fetters, unlocking her wrists,
and they again tied her wrists behind her back. H er fingers trembled.
She was pulled to her feet, marched from the cell. They traced a
familiar route to the torture chamber: descending into its dim depths.
Solana's leg s w ere weak with fear as they took her to a shallow pit,
an enclosure surrounded by torches.

ï¿½Ah! You are recovered from my little introduction to the lash!ï
¿½

Luisa Consuela leaned against a pillar, a hand on her hip. She wore a
brief tunic of sky blue, pinned at one shoulder, leaving her arms
bare. Its skirt fell high on her thighs: torchlight glinted on the
muscled lines of her magnificent limbs, tiny flames reflected in those
ice-blue eyes. She gave a smile, the pink tip of her tongue against
her teeth. ï¿½Let me introduce you to The Judas
Chair!ï¿½

Solana was brought forward.

The Chair was terrifying, everything she had imagined in an instrument
of torture. Its back was a narrow wooden board, twelve inches high,
four inches across, mounted on a notched wooden rail. By means of a
simple ratchet handle, the board could be lowered or raised. Bolted to
the back of the board, at top and bottom, were two heavy sets of
fetters. Two more fetter s w ere fastened to the Chair's sturdy front
legs, some six inches above the floor. A metal plate formed the base
of Chair's low seat, barely one-and-a-half feet from the ground, with
some manner of iron drawer beneath it.

But it was the obscenity of the ï¿½seat' itself that filled Solana's
belly with dread: An iron spike, sharp and vicious, fourteen inches
high, six inches across at the base. Its surface was rough, badly
hewn, the metal stained with unspeakable residues. Solana fought to
hide her horror.

ï¿½Oh, so brave,ï¿½ Luisa mocked.
ï¿½Put her on.ï¿½

Solana did not resist as she was marched to the Chair. The guards
untied her wrists, arranged her so that she straddled the terrible
spike. Solana could do nothing as her arm s w ere twisted behind the
back-board, and the lower set of fetter s w ere closed and locked
about her wrists, trapping them securely. Then, cruelly, her elbow s w
ere forced into the upper set of fetters. Solana gasped: the restraint
meant that her elbow s w ere touching behind her back, her arms and
shoulders cruelly stressed. She gritted her teeth against the
discomfort as the fetter s w ere locked tightly.

Next, they lifted her ankles into the lower set of fetters. This
transferred her body' s w eight to her twisted and fettered arms. It
hurt, but still Solana made no sound, looking to the ceiling as her
ankle s w ere locked in place.

When she was fully restrained, the guards stepped away.

Luisa drew close, regarding her prisoner with pleasure. Solana's dark-
nippled breasts, lifted by the severity of her restraint, heaved with
her anxious breath. Torchlight gave a velvety sheen to her muscular
belly, her spread thighs.

The humiliation was unbearable, locked in a sitting position above the
huge spike, naked and restrained before her captors. She held on to
her dignity by the slimmest thread, still the beautiful and dignified
Solana Degas of Sanguesa, but very much afraid.

ï¿½You have a lovely voice,ï¿½ Luisa was saying.
ï¿½I loo
k forward to
hearing you scream.ï¿½ Stepping behind the chair, she began to crank
the
ratchet. Grating and squeaking, the back-board to which Solana was
secured began to descend, impelling her body down towards the spike.

At once, Solana was fighting it. The muscles of her legs grew hard
with strain, her body quivering as she tried to resist the slow
descent. But she was no match for the machine, and Luisa calmly
cranked a few more notches, forcing her victim lower. Around the
Chair, the guard s w ere arranging themselves for a view of what would
soon follow.

Another inch, and Luisa stopped, leaving Solana suspended above the
spike.

ï¿½What do you want from me?ï¿½ Solana demanded, her
voice trem
bling. She
tried to see behind her, but the pain of her backwards-bowed shoulder
s w as crippling.

ï¿½Confess that you are indeed a witch, and thi s w ill go no further
,ï¿½
Luisa said.

ï¿½I am not a witch,ï¿½ Solana replied.

ï¿½Very well.ï¿½ Luisa began to crank the handle
again. Solana
let out a
wail as the back-board descended, despite her efforts to resist. The
first trickle of sweat ran down her face. H er teeth were clenched.
Cramp s w ere starting to spear through her shins and belly and
buttocks. And, slowly, the back-board descended, the ratchet's soft
clicks marking her descent towards the spike.

Luisa slowed her turning of the ratchet as the spike's sharp tip
disappeared into the cleft of Solana's gleaming buttocks. Then, one
notch further. Solana gasped as the spike's tip nosed the soft hairs
around her anus. Gooseflesh erupted all over her naked body and a
shudder of fear passed through her. She turned her face towards the
vaulted ceiling. ï¿½Oh, God, give me strength ...ï¿½
She could
feel the
teasing spike, poised a mere breath from the locked star of her
sphincter. It was dread, anticipation, horror.

Luisa cranked the handle: the back-board descended. Solana's mouth
flew open in shock as the spike jabbed her anus, cold metal
investigating the taut ring of muscle. H er bowels automatically
spasmed, but she could not rise. There was laughter from those around.
Without pause, Luisa turned the crank again, forcing Solana further
down onto the spike. It pushed an inch inside her, spreading the
flower of her sphincter. Solana's jaw cracked as she clenched her
teeth.

ï¿½Ah, yes, it begins to hurt,ï¿½ Luisa noted, with
satisfactio
n. ï¿½Confess
to me, whore.ï¿½

Solana's eyes filled with tears. The indignity was unbearable, but she
could not lie, not even under torture, so she shook her head. Luisa
turned the handle again. Solana's anus sank over the spike, and she
squeaked, tears squeezing from her eyes. Another turn, two more
notches, until she had been forced two inches onto the spike. Solana's
bowels heaved, but to no avail.

Again Luisa turned the handle. As she was forced to accommodate the
third inch of rough iron, Solana's mouth opened, a long moan of pain
carried on the frost of her breath. The spike was really beginning to
stretch her, and the pain was growing more severe with every turn of
the handle. Sweat glossed her bare breasts and shoulders. H er hair
was plastered to her back.

Another notch. Solana wailed as the spike grated deeper, forcing her
anus still wider. She was shaking, the pain roaring up her spine,
driving fresh sweat from her pores. It was all she could do to keep
from screaming at the top of her lungs. Another notch: four inches.
The pain was savage, the spike a huge and obscene invader.

ï¿½Confess,ï¿½ Luisa hissed, and cranked the handle
two more no
tches.
Solana was further dragged down onto the spike, and this time gave a
cry of pain. It was too much! Sweat coursed from her face, lay along
the ridge of her collarbone, crept between her breasts, patterned the
nap of fine hairs on her muscled belly. H er shoulders cracked as she
tried desperately to work her cinched elbows and wrists free of the
locked fetters.

Luisa cranked the lever again. Solana wa s w renched down onto the
spike: it rammed harder into her arse, and this time she screamed in
pain. From the hairy nest between her glistening thighs, urine
squirted, spilling onto the floor between her feet, steam crawling
into the chill air.

ï¿½Where's your pride now, you filthy half-breed?ï¿½
The shout
of a guard
was echoed by more laughter from the others. Solana's head rolled,
tears streaking her face, her mouth contorted in pain as she fought to
endure.

Luisa cranked the handle again. Solana let out a long scream of pain
as she was pushed down onto the spike. She no longer tried to choke
her cries, the pain too much to bear, now forced six inches down the
spike. H er rectum, distended, stretched, was on fire, her whole
pelvic floor cramping and burning. She still fought the dreadful
machine, but had no strength against it, and was helpless as Luisa
slowly cranked the lever another three notches.

Solana shook her head, a long scream of pain., tears and sweat rolling
down her brown face. She could feel the spike deep inside her bowels,
pressing on her organs: her head reeled, vomit lurching in her throat.
Then, another click, another half inch. This time, she was sick,
watery vomit gurgling down her chin, splashing over her breasts. She
groaned.

ï¿½Confess, witch! Confess, and it ends for you!ï¿½
Luisa Consu
ela hissed
in her ear.

Tears coursed down Solana's face. Luisa turned the crank again, with
slow, measured pace, impelling Solana's anus another inch down the
spike. Solana gave another cry, sure that, by now, she must be
splitting in two. Nine inches of iron impaled her, its girth
distending her.

But there were still five terrible inches to go. H er belly spasmed.
In the dungeon's chill, her wet body steamed. She had never known such
humiliation, bound over this obscene spike, being forced slowly onto
it. The pain was savage, but Solana was determined not to break. She
let her head hang forward, panting hard, groaning in pain.

Cruelly, Luisa again cranked the handle, twice, three times, further
spearing Solana onto the spike. Solana's head lifted on a scream. It
felt as if she had been torn open, as if her pelvic bone had snapped,
as if oil burned inside her. H er magnificent brown body, gleaming and
defined, instinctively fought the torture, though she knew she could
not stop it. Another notch, the pain grew worse, Solana gave another
scream of pain. More bile escaped her throat, and groans reverberated
from the pit of her belly, the spasms of fiery pain surging through
her bowels in slow, awful waves.

Behind Solana's back, her twisted and manacled arms ached, the iron
biting into muscle and bone. H er shoulder s w ere racked with pain,
cramps spearing down her back: but they were minor compared to the
agony of the spike. It seemed to have reached her very core, filling
her abdomen with a ravaging pain that made her legs and arms ache in
sympathy. Every breath hurt, but the fire's cruellest focu s w as her
poor, torn sphincter, nerves stretched around the spike's obscene and
rough-hewn circumference.

Luisa cranked another notch. There was a sickening crack from
somewhere within her bowels, and Solana screamed. It, like the rack or
thumb screws or pear, was a progressive torture. It grew steadily
worse with every turn of the handle. Such a simple concept, such
exquisite and unbearable torment.

ï¿½Confess,ï¿½ Luisa urged, her hand on the lever.
Solana said
nothing, so
Luisa cranked again, watching as Solana was forced down onto the
spike, the rough iron tip probing thirteen inches inside her bowel,
distorting and distending her innards, her anus spread six inches. H
er body wa s w eak from over an hour of struggling. Sweat covered
every inch of her bare coffee flesh. Luisa let her suffer for perhaps
ten minutes, then cranked another notch.

Solana's scream was heart-rending, a roar of agony that echoed through
the torture chamber, disturbed the anguished rest of prisoners. A
bright red trickle of blood ran down a leg of the chair, groaning
sounds coming from inside the tortured woman's body. H er buttocks all
but kissed the chair's base, nearly all of the spike's immense length
inside her, forced in by the slow insistence of the Chair.

Ten minutes. Solana's screams died to long, low whimpers of pain.

ï¿½Confess to me,ï¿½ Luisa urged.
ï¿½Confess, and I will
let you up. I will
stop the pain. Just confess, and it stops.ï¿½

Solana's head fell forward. H er back-twisted arms shone, muscles
fiercely defined in their awkward confinement. Another line of blood
ran from beneath her. But no confession came. Luisa tightened her grip
on the lever, cranked the last notch.

The back-board descended, ramming Solana down onto the spike, and her
head bucked at once, sweat spraying into the air, a desperate scream
of agony breaking her throat. H er eye s w ere wide, her breasts
heaving rapidly, the sweat glossing her naked body. H er forced
movement on the spike, the added distension of her rectum, the fresh
intrusion into her bowels combined to heighten her agony tenfold. She
automatically tried to pull herself off, but the fetter s w ere
secure, holding her in place.

After a minute, Solana managed to bite down on her screams, panting in
high shrieks, her black hair glued to her shoulders and back, her face
taut with suffering. Luisa stood by with arms folded, watching,
waiting, and finally gave her offer:

ï¿½Confess to me, and I will let you up.ï¿½

Solana's head fell forward, then slowly rose again. H er dark eyes
fixed on Luisa, white teeth bared in pain and defiance, her voice a
quavering hiss. ï¿½Never.ï¿½

ï¿½Then get used to having that iron cock in your black arse, whore,
ï¿½
Luisa growled. ï¿½Get used to it. Because if I have to put you on thi
s
chair again, and again, and again just to make you confess, I will. I
will break you.ï¿½

Solana was unable to reply. Through eyes that swam with pain, she saw
Luisa signal that the guards remain, and strode into the depths of the
chamber.

They did not take Solana from the Chair that night.

Luisa had taken her time impaling her victim upon the iron spike,
making the torture last an hour and a half. Now, as the night crawled,
Solana suffered. The pain was unending, her body glossed with sweat,
her head lolling in anguish. H er arms, manacled together behind the
back-board, had grown numb, though pain still throbbed in her strained
shoulders. But it was nothing compared to the unceasing agony of the
spike. Fourteen inches in her bowels, her pelvis burning. Cramps
racked her colon, so savage and violent that crie s w ere torn from
her throat, echoing into the chamber's vaulted depths.

From time to time, the guards standing nearby heard her muttering
breathlessly, hysterically, as if in prayer or desperate pleading,
imploring Death to embrace her. At other times, she swooned from the
pain, and her head drooped to her chest, until another crippling spasm
forced her awake.

The torches guttered and flickered, were refuelled, burned on.

Eventually, Solana's crie s w eakened, and her head sagged.

It was this to which Luisa Consuela returned, the following afternoon.
She circled the Chair slowly, inspecting the barely-conscious Solana.

ï¿½Wake her.ï¿½

The icy water flung into her face and breasts shocked Solana to
lucidity. H er head lifted, and the tensing of inner muscles sent a
wave of agony through her skewered bowels. A long, miserable cry
escaped her lips. Luisa was there at once, to fix a hand in the
unfortunate woman's hair, wrenching Solana's face towards her own.

ï¿½Welcome back. H as eighteen hours been enough for
you?ï¿½

Solana's mouth weakly tried to form words, her lips trembling, her
eyes unable to focus on the beautiful torturer. Finally: ï¿½ ...
Please ...ï¿½

ï¿½Do you confess?ï¿½

ï¿½I am innocent.ï¿½

ï¿½You are stupid,ï¿½ Luisa corrected. She spat
fully into Sola
na's face,
the saliva smacking across Solana's nose and mouth. Stepping from the
chair, Luisa waved towards another of her guards. ï¿½Bring the coals.
We'll give her something to think on.ï¿½

At that, Solana's eye s w idened. Two guards approached, leather
gloves on their hands, carrying between them a metal basket of
fiercely-orange coals. Smoke trailed their approach, sparks dropping
through the grating to the floor.

Solana's brows rose in panic, adrenalin flooding her veins. ï¿½No, no
,
no, no! Please, please, I beg you, please!ï¿½ But her imploring voice
echoed fruitlessly as the guards, behind the Chair, tipped an
avalanche of burning coals into the drawer beneath the spike. Solana
felt a moment of radiated heat on her bare back, then nothing more.

There was the sound of bellows being pumped, the whispered roar of
coals fired. For an awful time, Solana remained, impaled on the spike,
her heart thudding, wondering what this new torture might entail.
Then, finally, realisation: heated from below, the spike itself was
growing warm.

ï¿½No, oh, God, no!ï¿½ Solana had never struggled
with such fie
rce
strength as now, full awareness returning. Despite cramped muscles,
joints frozen from immobility, she jerked at the fetters about her
elbows and wrists, throwing her head forward, wrenching against the
spike in an animal urge to escape. She could feel the iron inside her
growing hotter, and sweat began to bead across her brow and back.
Desperate, she appealed to Luisa. ï¿½Please, let me up! Oh God, pleas
e!ï¿½

ï¿½You know what you must do.ï¿½

With a groan of dread, Solana turned her face from the torturer,
closing her eyes. The heat of the spike inside her was growing
rapidly, adding to the pain. The bellows puffed, the coals roared.
Already the spike's very base glowed dully, heat translating along its
length. Solana's breasts rose and fell rapidly. And then, from deep in
her throat, the first wail of pain.

The bellows pumped.

Solana gave another cry. The muscles of her arms deepened as she again
fought to free herself, reflexes driving her to test the manacles'
hold. No avail: but as the heat grew, her struggles became more and
more frantic. She shouted in pain, tried to lift her hips, but the
locked ratchet prevented her from rising.

Another long minute, The spike in her rectum was too hot to endure,
and, as sweat poured down her body, Solana's mouth opened as she began
to bellow in pain. The first wisps of steam curled from between her
spread thighs.

ï¿½Oh, God ... God!ï¿½

Solana threw her head from side to side, crying out endlessly. H er
ribcage, stark and thrust forward by her unforgiving bondage, heaved
with shallow breaths, streaked with sweat. Those close by grew aware
of a hissing sound from between her legs, as sweat trickled down the
hot metal.

Solana began to scream. No longer just cries of pain, but maddened
animal roars of agony, as the hissing of the metal softened to a
squealing sound. The bellows pumped. Slowly, the sweet smell of
burning flesh drifted up on faint wisps of smoke. Solana's yell s w
ere demented: she was burning from inside. She thrashed and howled,
agonised, while those gathered watched.

ï¿½Confess!ï¿½ Luisa shouted. Solana screamed and
shrieked and
howled,
flinging her head about, the chair rattling and shaking to her frantic
struggles. Blood ran from her fettered ankles. Scream after scream
echoed through the chamber, the maddened howls of a woman in agony
beyond all comprehension.

Then, for a moment, she went rigid, and her scream trailed into a
long, anguished wail. H er eyes rolled back, and her head flopped.
Luisa was by the chair in an instant, and slapped the unconsciou s w
oman sharply. Again. No sound, but the spitting and crackling of
searing flesh.

Luisa shook her head wildly. ï¿½No! You black whore! Wake, I order yo
u!ï¿½
Four slaps, with formidable strength, each blow snapping Solana's head
about. But the bound woman was unresponsive, limp. Luisa frantically
beckoned her guards. ï¿½Quick! Douse the coals! Remove
her!ï¿½

In moments, the ratchet was loosened, the back-board raised. By her
strapped arms, Solana was lifted, the steaming spike sliding endlessly
from her rectum, stained with blood and filth, a burnt crust at its
base. The fetters on her ankles, elbows and wrist s w ere unlocked,
and her body dumped to the stone floor.

Luisa stood, regarding the sweat-oiled figure still unconscious at her
feet. She levelled a finger, her face twisted with rage. ï¿½You, my
sweet, I will break.ï¿½

Six - Esmerelda

The iron door to Esmerelda's tiny cell creaked open. Chains clinking,
the grubby woman pulled herself a little higher in her manacles. For
months, she had been restrained. H er long, straight, black hair was
filthy, tangled, hanging slack about her face and shoulders. H er skin
was smudged with dirt and filth. The black hair in her armpits and
between her thigh s w as matted, her full, round breasts gleaming. H
er wrist s w ere scored and raw from her long bondage.

H er dark eyes turned aside as the guards unlocked her fetters. H er
arms fell, but she was quickly turned over, her hands bound behind her
back, and hauled to her feet. The walk to the torture chamber she knew
well, and made it with head lowered, hands bound behind her,
hopelessness in every step.

In the torture chamber, they re-tied her hands before her body with
one end of a long rope. The far end ran through a pulley twenty feet
overhead, and was drawn in by three guards. Esmerelda's arm s w ere
yanked over her head: another pull, and she was hauled off her feet,
her toes an inch off the floor. The long rope creaked as Esmerelda's
slender body hung, suspended by the wrists, taut and exposed. She
tipped her head back, seeing if there was any way she could loosen the
knots, knowing that it was useless to try. The guard s w ere preparing
implements behind her back, out of sight, and she feared the terrible
strappado again.

ï¿½It is time to reconsider your claim to
innocence.ï¿½ The voi
ce belonged
to Luisa: she idled into Esmerelda's view, a ragged cloth about her
breasts, another about her hips, her body muscular and gleaming in the
light of torches. She stood before the helplessly-hanging Esmerelda.
ï¿½Lovely breasts, truly beautiful.ï¿½

That much, Esmerelda had always known. H igh, full, her breast s w ere
like rounded melons, topped by light-chocolate aureole, the nipples
like sweet stones, standing half an inch in the dungeon's chill. Luisa
put a cool hand to cup the weighty swell of one breast. ï¿½A shame I
have to ruin them.ï¿½

ï¿½I beg you, do not hurt me!ï¿½ H anging by her
wrists, Esmere
lda was
unable to do anything but plead for mercy. ï¿½I have done nothing to
you! I am not a witch!ï¿½

ï¿½We shall see.ï¿½ Luisa retreated to a table, upon
which inst
ruments of
torture were laid. Esmerelda tipped her head back, regarding her own
bound hands, and the long rope by which she hung, with despair. A tear
rolled down one cheek. When Luisa returned, it wa s w ith a savage-
looking pair of iron pliers, the grip cruelly studded with triangular
teeth.

ï¿½No!ï¿½ Esmerelda stared in horror at the awful
implement. Bu
t she could
do nothing, hanging by her wrists, and could only watch as Luisa
closed the pliers over her erect nipple. Luisa squeezed hard, twisted.
Esmerelda let out a scream of pain as blood oozed from between the
pliers' mashing jaws, her nipple wrenched first one way, and then the
other, stretched and torn, tender flesh savaged. The muscles of
Luisa's forearm worked as she crunched the pliers hard, turned them a
full circle, then twisted back in the other direction. Esmerelda's
scream s w ere maddened with pain, her whole body swinging on the end
of the rope with the force of the torture. Finally, Luisa released
Esmerelda's nipple.

H anging, Esmerelda gasped and sobbed, tears streaming down her face,
sweat beading in droplets all over her suspended body. A line of blood
ran down the curve of her breast, mixed with sweat on her ribcage. H
er chest heaved. H er face, framed by her upraised arms, was a picture
of suffering.

ï¿½Say you are a witch,ï¿½ Luisa demanded coolly.

ï¿½I am not,ï¿½ Esmerelda gasped.

Luisa crunched the pliers onto the same, bloodied nipple. Esmerelda
gave a terrible scream as her nipple was again twisted, pulled,
crushed beneath the teeth of the awful pliers. Blood squirted from
between the iron jaws, spattering her breasts. Esmerelda's bare feet
pedalled desperately for some kind of leverage, her body twisting from
the rope as Luisa turned and tugged on her nipple, all but tearing it
from her breast.

Finally, release. The nipple was black, misshapen, bloody. Esmerelda
turned her face to the high ceiling, weeping in pain, the sweat now
running down her sternum and the groove of her spine. She hung limply
from the creaking rope.

ï¿½I want your confession, whore!ï¿½ Luisa grasped
Esmerelda's
jaw.
ï¿½Confess!ï¿½

ï¿½I have nothing to confess,ï¿½ Esmerelda wept.
ï¿½Pleas
e, please, hurt me
no more!ï¿½

But Luisa put the pliers to Esmerelda's unhurt breast, lightly closed
the teeth over the fat stub of the helples s w oman's nipple. ï¿½Are
you
a witch?ï¿½

Esmerelda bit her lip, sobbing, hanging, knowing what her answer would
bring.

ï¿½Are you?ï¿½

ï¿½Please,ï¿½ Esmerelda wept.

Luisa squeezed hard with the pliers. Esmerelda gave a scream as her
nipple was crushed between the studded jaws, then twisted savagely,
one way, then another. Urine snaked down her dangling legs, her head
shook, and she yelled in pain. Luisa now squeezed with both hands,
crushing tender flesh, wrenching Esmerelda's nipple, twisting it
around and around like the stalk of an apple. Esmerelda could only
scream and beg for mercy, agonised by the torture. For a full two
minutes, Luisa kept turning and tearing Esmerelda's nipple, finally
releasing a swelling, bloodied knob of flesh, leaving Esmerelda
gasping.

ï¿½I shall have your confession, witch,ï¿½ Luisa
growled, and r
eturned to
the implements. She returned with a thin cane. ï¿½Confess to me!ï
¿½

ï¿½Please!ï¿½ Esmerelda's brown eyes grew wide at
the sight of
the cane.
She could do nothing as Luisa slashed down with her whole arm, the
whistling cane whipping her breast with a crack! Esmerelda jolted
where she hung, screaming shrilly in pain. A second blow, then a
third, savage strokes over her breasts and tormented nipples, drawing
lines of blood.

On and on: ten blows. Fifteen. The whistling, hissing cane landing
with terrible cracks, Esmerelda twisting on the end of the rope,
screaming, crying, begging for mercy as the beating continued: twenty,
twenty-five. Luisa's magnificent, semi-naked body gleamed as she
slashed left, right, left, right, the cane catching nipple and breast.
Esmerelda's full breasts jiggled and jolted with each blow, quickly
becoming striped with red marks and blood.

Thirty strokes. The final lash was harsh, across both nipples.
Esmerelda gave a scream, then hung limp, her body swinging slowly like
a pendulum, her head drooping between her stretched arms. Blood and
sweat ran on her naked body, dripped from her dangling toes.

ï¿½Wake her,ï¿½ Luisa commanded.

Guards fetched a pail of icy water, sluiced it over Esmerelda's body.
The shock woke her with a gasp, the water searing the wounds on her
breasts. They were swelling with bruises already, tender and doubly
sensitive. But hanging as she was, Esmerelda could do nothing as the
next stage of torture was prepared.

Two simple devices of iron: each a pair of studded bars, separated by
turn-screws, the blunt spikes directed inwards. Closed on a limb, or
hand, or foot, and tightened, the vice s w ere a most effective
torture. Such was Esmerelda's condition that the mere chill of the
dungeon was enough to make her wounded breasts ache, and when the
first vice was fitted over her left breast, she gave a long howl of
anguish.

ï¿½I beg you, no!ï¿½ she shrieked, desperate to
avoid the tortu
re. But
Luisa tightened the screw until Esmerelda's breast was squashed
lightly between the studded bars, the vice holding itself in place.
The second vice was fitted to her right breast. Luisa stood back, and
waited for Esmerelda to stop thrashing. Eventually, the woman hung
limply on the end of her long rope, arms stretched above her head,
ribcage stark, body drawn, down-pointed toes swinging above the stone
floor.

ï¿½Confess that you are a witch,ï¿½ Luisa said,
ï¿½and I
shall not proceed.ï¿½

ï¿½I am not a witch. Please, why won't you believe me? I am innocent,
I
swear, I am innocent!ï¿½

ï¿½We shall see.ï¿½ Luisa grasped the lever of the
first vice,
and gave it
a turn. The toothed instrument crushed down on Esmerelda's breast,
drawing a wail of pain from the woman. A second turn, and Esmerelda
gave another cry, blood oozing from the wounds on her breast. Luisa
then did the same to the other breast, two full turns of the screw,
compressing it hard over Esmerelda's tender flesh, drawing screams
from her victim.

ï¿½Oh, Mother of Jesus, it hurts, it hurts so
much!ï¿½ Esmereld
a roared in
her pain, weakly stirring her feet above the floor, helplessly hanging
with her breasts tightly squeezed in the cruel clamps.

ï¿½Let her hang here,ï¿½ Luisa told her guards.
ï¿½We wil
l resume in the
morning.ï¿½

Seven - The Fear

Awareness returned slowly. Solana stirred, opened her eyes into
blackness. H er first awarenes s w as burning pain in her rectum,
though less intense than she might have thought. The spike had done no
permanent damage, her burn s w ere superficial.

Gradually, Solana realised that she lay on her back, on wood: arm s w
ide above her head, thick ropes about her wrists. H er leg s w ere
uncomfortably spread, so wide she could feel the cool air on her
labia. It was pitch dark. The air was cold, gooseflesh covering her
naked skin, her nipples jutting into the blackness. Water dripped:
from the lack of echo, she judged herself to be in a small cell.

She was stretched taut, spreadeagled and tightly bound: she tried to
move, and managed a little leverage, hearing the ropes creak, but
there was no way she could bring her wrists together and free herself,
nor tug her feet from their wide confinement.

Long hours crawled by.

Lying on her back, stretched out, Solana had never felt so exposed, so
vulnerable, so absolutely helpless. H er limbs, for all their
strength, were useless. H er torso ached from the slow strain of
muscles unused to such restraint.

After eight hours, the shuk of a bolt being drawn snapped her from her
dazed state. A door swung open, the light of an oil lantern spilling
inside. Solana's stomach tightened. Two figures entered: the graceful,
muscular form of Luisa Consuela, and the slighter figure of Maria. The
latter carried a basket in one hand, a lantern in the other.

Luisa's deep voice reverberated in the cell. ï¿½Ah. You are awake.
Good.ï¿½

ï¿½Where am I?ï¿½ Solana's voice wa s w eak, shaky
with exhaust
ion and
fear.

ï¿½Take a look.ï¿½ By the lantern, Solana saw that
she lay in a
cell,
twenty feet square. It was more roughly hewn than her former prison,
the stones ragged. Water dripped from fissures in the walls. In a
corner, by a niche in which a single unlit candle stood, was an
ancient pulpit, a Bible open upon its stand.

Solana lifted her head to look along her own spreadeagled body. She
saw at once that she lay upon a great wooden bed, her ankles roped to
iron rings at the bed's base. Tipping her head back, she saw that the
ropes from her wrists ran to a sturdy winch with a single four-handled
ratchet.

Luisa Consuela was smiling. ï¿½You lie upon the rack. Thi s w ill bre
ak
you. One way or another.ï¿½

Solana was terrified. From where she lay, she fixed her eyes to the
beautiful torturer. ï¿½Please, have mercy ï¿½ I
cannot confess!
ï¿½

Luisa laughed. ï¿½I love to see you so afraid! Girl, give her water.
ï¿½

Maria obediently stepped forward. Solana accepted the carafe offered
to her lips, drinking deeply to quench the agony of thirst. A little
food followed, bread, interspersed with sips of the water. Solana's
shrunken stomach could accept little though, and Maria stepped away.
Luisa now idled to the wooden lever that would turn the roller.

H er hands closed around the lever, and she cranked it over. The
roller turned. By her bound wrists, Solana's arm s w ere drawn an inch
tauter. Strain spread down her sides, through her hips, down her legs.
A second notch. Unexpectedly, pain flared. Solana tipped her head, her
mouth opening as a muffled pop came from deep inside her shoulders,
and the pain spread hotly, along her arms, deep in her hip-joints,
down the muscles of her back. H er ribcage jutted starkly, breasts
drawn flat and gleaming in the orange light, nipples stiff in defiance
of her pain. Sweat began to bead on her skin, adding to the shine of
her coffee skin. H er belly shifted rapidly with fearful breath.

Luisa released the lever, looked over the woman on the rack. Solana's
hands, squeezed beyond the ropes, feet moored firmly; her legs long
and taut, her stomach hard. ï¿½You are now prepared for torture.ï
¿½

Prepared? The question was plain on Solana's face.

ï¿½When I next speak to you,ï¿½ Luisa explained
slowly, ï¿
½it will be to ask
for your confession. If you do not give it, I will begin torture. You
will be stretched to the tenth turn of the rack.ï¿½ There were tears,
now, in Solana's eyes. H er breasts quivered with each fearful breath.
Luisa went on. ï¿½I warn you, nobody has ever survived the eleventh
turn: some have died even on the seventh. So think carefully.ï¿½

ï¿½I am no witch,ï¿½ Solana said quietly.
ï¿½You need not
make me suffer so,
to know it.ï¿½

Luisa reached out, put a cool hand to Solana's ear, fingers stroking
through thick hair. ï¿½You are a beautiful woman. It shall be a pleas
ure
to work on you.ï¿½

The door was slammed shut, locked and barred.

Luisa Consuela sighed. Perhaps she had been doing this for too long?

H er father had grown ill when she was just seven. An accomplished
torturer for almost forty years, he had been a compassionate man
outside the dungeons in which he practised his craft, and had taken
pride in hi s w ork. H e rarely spilled blood, never maimed, and
almost always gained confession, driven by a pious heart, and the
patience of a monk. Though hi s w ife died having never borne him a
son, he loved his only daughter deeply. Upon learning of his own poor
health, he had started teaching her how to torture; taking her to see
how the machines of the dungeon worked, how to gain the most effect
with the least effort. She had exceeded all his expectations, learning
quickly, growing into a strong and wise young woman. On her sixteenth
birthday, he had taken her before the Inquisitor, asking that she be
chosen as his replacement. Loath to break with tradition and place a
woman in such a role, the Clergy had been hesitant: but upon
demonstration of her skills in the torture chamber, they agreed to let
her work as an apprentice.

That was twenty five years ago. For the last eighteen, she had been
Torturer In Chief, and her work was second nature. She barely heard
the frantic pleas of Esmerelda, as she turned the screw of first one
breast-vice, then the other. The scream s w ere shrill, frantic, the
woman twisting from her wrist-manacles like a fish on a hook as her
blue-black breast s w ere crushed by the fierce metal teeth.

ï¿½Mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy, ohhhhhhh!ï¿½

Twenty-four hours after first being hoisted from the floor, Esmerelda
still hung by her wrists in the torture chamber. H er brown skin
shone, her petite toe s w ere just inches from the floor as she kicked
in desperation and pain.

Luisa Consuela could not stop thinking about Solana Degas.

She had tortured many beautiful women in her time, and many strong
ones. But never had she come across a prisoner with such a mix of all
that was good in people. Beauty, intelligence, spirit, integrity.
Solana did not try to hide her fear, nor her screams, as some did. Nor
did she make desperate promises in a bid to escape the pain. She
suffered as any human would, letting go of her dignity, but never
doubting her own innocence.

Luisa returned to the brazier, pulled on a heavy gauntlet. With one
hand, she pumped the bellows, making the coals roar. She turned the
branding iron, giving it a final burst of heat. It was ready,
shimmering, white hot.

Luisa returned to the twisting, moaning Esmerelda, steadied the woman
with a hand on one slick hip, and pressed the white-hot tip of iron to
the base of Esmerelda's spine, just above her gleaming buttocks. There
was a soft popping sound, a puff of steam, the squealing and spitting
of flesh burning. Esmerelda jolted violently, then roared in agony,
throwing her head about, her feet thrashing.

Luisa lifted the iron away, taking burnt flesh with it. Esmerelda
still screamed, steam and smoke rising from the angry red wound above
her buttocks. Tears streamed down her face, the torture of her breasts
forgotten in this new excruciating agony.

ï¿½Confess!ï¿½ Luisa pressed the iron's fiery bar a
second time
to
Esmerelda's flesh. The young woman bucked in her fetters, kicking her
feet, screaming and screaming as her skin crawled back beneath the hot
metal.

What were these feelings? Luisa wanted to break Solana, to control her
- and yet, part of her hated inflicting such pain on the beautiful
mulatto. Nor did she want to hear a false confession from those lips:
that would only mean Solana would be taken away to the flames. She
wanted to keep Solana here, in the dungeon. But even that would soon
rob her of sanity, age that perfect body, wear lines of misery into
her beautiful face.

Luisa returned the iron to the brazier, while Esmerelda hung, sobbing
uncontrollably. H er whole body was running with sweat, drenched as if
she had been submerged in water. Nearby, the scribe wrote, the Bailiff
stood with arms folded. Luisa was sweating too, her tunic clinging to
her wet body as she drew another smoking iron from the fire. She
approached the limp Esmerelda, paused, then pressed the shimmering
metal into her armpit.

Steam exploded from Esmerelda's flesh, tiny flames erupted around the
brand, and Esmerelda gave a hideous scream, jerking about in the
manacles. She screamed for the full fifteen seconds that the brand
burned into her, and, when it was finally pulled free of her damaged
flesh, her wail was full of misery.

ï¿½I confess!ï¿½

The scribe stepped forward. ï¿½Say again!ï¿½

ï¿½I confess,ï¿½ Esmerelda sobbed.
ï¿½I confess to witchc
raft. I am a witch,
please, just stop the torture, I will sign anything you want ...ï¿½

Esmerelda's tongue was finally loosened. Luisa's job was done, and the
torturer returned the iron to the brazier.

Eight - The Rack

An entire day passed.

Time was a cruel torturer. Lying stretched as she was, Solana was
helpless to the torments of strain and immobility. H er joints burned
with slow fire, and worse, as twelve hours became eighteen, cramps
speared along her long limbs like shards of hot metal being hammered
into her bones. She called out into the darkness, unable to fight the
pain. H er tendons, stressed already, began to ache as if broken glass
had been packed into her joints. The hard ropes ground into her wrist
and ankle bones, sending deep aches into her arms and legs.

Solana tried desperately to faint, to find some focus other than pain:
but in darkness, feeling herself naked and spread wide on the chill
wood, distraction was impossible. At times, Solana groaned: at others,
she called out to the God who had deserted her.

She knew she could do nothing to prepare herself for Luisa's return. H
er mind returned again and again to the rack's roller, just two feet
away, but forever beyond her reach. Its power over her was
overwhelming. She heard, in her mind, the winch's metal clicks, the
creaking axle, imagined the growing tension in her limbs.

An eternity had passed when the cell door opened once again.

Luisa Consuela hesitated in the doorway, then advanced a step, lifting
the torch towards the stretched Solana. She was flat on her back, lips
slightly parted to reveal the gleam of perfect teeth, her woolly mass
of jet-black hair splashed across the wooden bed.

Luisa's eyes trailed from Solana's hands, distorted by the ropes,
along the gentle lines of her forearms to the elbows, the firm swell
of biceps and triceps, the ridges of taut pectorals and deltoids
forming the deep hollows of her armpits. The black hair beneath her
arm s w as thick, naturally trim. Solana's breast s w ere drawn to
almost nothing, her ribcage lifted by the tension in her body, forming
a defined arch over the muscle of her belly. H er hip s w ere slender,
sleek, the cradle for a tidy patch of black pubic hair. H er long legs
gleamed, widely spread, thighs defined, calves strong. H er feet were
perfect, slender toes, pink nails and soles.

Luisa stared. Solana was gorgeous beyond words.

Quickly placing the torch in its bracket, with a glance over her bare
shoulder to check no-one looked on, Luisa drew close to the rack.
Today, Luisa had dressed in a brief Greek-style chiton, open at the
sides but for a rope belt at the waist. H er muscled arms and leg s w
ere bare. H er black hair was loose, casually cast over one shoulder,
her haughty face beautiful in the half-light.

Gently, she cupped Solana's chin in her fingers, turned the woman's
face, stared deeply into her victim's suffering soul. ï¿½Confess to m
e,
Solana Degas.ï¿½

Though it seemed, at first, that she had failed to comprehend, Solana
slowly moved her dry lips, found weak voice: ï¿½I am
innocent.ï¿
½

Luisa nodded. ï¿½Torture, then.ï¿½

ï¿½No!ï¿½ Solana cried.

But Luisa stepped back to the open cell door. ï¿½The prisoner is read
y.ï¿½

Five men filed in: two armed guards, who took up positions flanking
the rack, a physician, a Bailiff, and a scribe. The latter carried
with him a wooden stool, and placed it in a corner of the cell,
sitting, setting up his ink-well and quill in order to log the
proceedings to follow. The physician, meanwhile, circled the rack
slowly, putting his hand to the muscled satin of Solana's taut limbs.

ï¿½She is fit,ï¿½ he pronounced.
ï¿½She may be tortured.
ï¿½

Solana turned her hands desperately in the ropes. ï¿½Please
ï¿½
ï¿½ she
wailed.

The Bailiff waited for the physician to leave, then ordered the door
closed. Solana looked on in dread as the heavy oak slammed into place,
was locked from the outside. Luisa Consuela crossed to the rack' s w
indlass, took a firm grasp of its lever.

The Bailiff spoke slowly. ï¿½You may begin.ï¿½

Luisa smiled. ï¿½One.ï¿½

The roller turned, and Solana's limbs shifted visibly as she was
stretched a full inch. H er body was already strained from a full day
lying stretched, and this new tension, Luisa knew, was pure fire.
Solana's body began to shake, beads of sweat appearing on her face and
breasts. Deep popping sounds came from her joints. Most prisoner s w
ould have screamed. Solana gritted her teeth, made no sound.

ï¿½Confess, and it will stop now!ï¿½ Luisa
whispered.

Solana turned her head, glaring past the upsweep of her own taut arm,
tears already spilling down her cheeks. ï¿½Please, do not hurt me mor
e!ï¿½

Luisa's eyes showed nothing. ï¿½Two!ï¿½

Slowly, the winch rolled over again, another notch, and the thick
ropes hauled on Solana's stretched limbs. H er face screwed into an
expression of agony: her teeth grated. She tried to hold back her
groan, but it escaped anyway. Being so stretched felt as if her flesh
had been coated in grease and set alight, fierce and terrible pain.
Sweat was already pooling in the notch at the base of her throat.

Luisa waited. The key to torture on the rack was making it gradual.
Solana's dark eye s w ere full with tears. The muscles of her arms and
leg s w ere in spectacular definition, her entire body resisting the
torque upon it. Through shallow breaths, she muttered, her voice
barely under control: ï¿½God in heaven, I will be strong ... God in
heaven, I will be strong ...ï¿½

Luisa knew better: ï¿½I shall now give her the third
turn.ï¿½

The roller turned, the groaning rope s w renched another inch from her
body, and Solana's resistance broke. She screamed, abandoning herself
to the savage pain of being stretched.

As a sixteen-year-old, Luisa had allowed her father to place her upon
the rack, and stretch her only a little. It had been enough: although
she had not cried out, the pain had been overwhelming, like liquid
fire spreading from one end of her body to the other. Often, victims
fainted by this third turn, confessed by the fourth. It was rare that
anyone held out beyond the seventh.

Sweat beaded on Solana's body.

The Bailiff spoke, again. ï¿½Send for me if there is any
progress.ï
¿½

ï¿½Aye, Sir,ï¿½ Luisa said. The Bailiff tapped on
the cell door
, and
departed. Luisa went to the pulpit, calmly lighting its candle, and
began to read to herself. The dam of Solana's resistance had been
broken. The pain had shattered her threshold with a turn of the winch,
putting more strain on her joints and limbs than nature had ever
intended.

For half an hour, Luisa read. Solana's long screams became desperate
anguished pleas for mercy and release, shouts of pain. She was
restless, her head turning, her fingers grasping and clutching at the
ropes, tears spilling endlessly on her face, sweat running constantly
on her body. The pain was unbearable. And yet, no confession of
witchcraft.

Finally, Luisa returned to the windlass.

ï¿½No, NO! I beg you, oh God, I beg you!ï¿½ Solana
shrieked des
perately.

Luisa placed her hands on the lever. ï¿½Four.ï¿½

Solana was stretched. New pain exploded through her limbs: she gave a
long, animal scream of excruciated torment, her elbows and hips
creaking. She threw her head about, her mouth wide, cheek s w et with
tears and sweat.

Luisa waited, watched, while Solana screamed. ï¿½Oh, stop it, stop th
e
pain!ï¿½

Each turn of the rack easily doubled the pain. Luisa stood back and
let Solana suffer, her screams and shouts unceasing. H er hand s w ere
purple, her feet likewise, bones all but bending under the stress of
the ropes.

The scribe wrote. The guards stood silent, fists tight about their
halberds.

H alf an hour after the fourth turn, Luisa again closed on the
shrieking, wailing prisoner. Not an inch of Solana's brown body
remained dry, sweat streaked over her ribcage, dewdrops over her
belly, shining on her arms and legs. H er throat wa s w et. The hair
in her armpit s w as saturated.

ï¿½Do you confess that you are a witch?ï¿½ Luisa
demanded over
Solana's
cries.

ï¿½Oh, please, please!! I am innocent!ï¿½ Solana
shrieked in te
rror. H er
body was shaking. She had no strength.

ï¿½I am obliged to give the fifth turn,ï¿½ Luisa
said calmly, p
ut her
palms to the lever, and heaved. Solana began screaming in agony as the
winch turned, and her body was subjected to new stress, fresh pain
exploding through her. H er long leg s w ere wet, muscles defined.
There came the nauseating cracks and groans of cartilage and bone
loosening, her hips and shoulders beginning to break anchorage. A
fresh dribble of urine ran from between her parted thighs.

ï¿½Confess!ï¿½ Luisa shouted, over Solana's screams.
ï¿½C
onfess now! Confess!
ï¿½

Solana shrieked and bellowed, howled for mercy, but gave no
confession.

Luisa turned, strode to her bible, resumed her study.

Solana's screams ebbed, became cries for mercy. H er wet face, between
her raised and wet arms, showed the magnitude of her pain. Already,
the damage to her body would take weeks to heal. Sprained tendons and
muscles, cracked joints, strained ligaments. Every breath brought
shattering agony.

Luisa listened to the sounds that were so familiar by this stage of
the torture. The slow creaks of the rack, the occasional squeal of
rope, the high-pitched wailing and lung-deep shouts of the victim. She
eventually yawned, stepped from the pulpit. H er bare feet felt the
chill earth as she returned to the rack: the flimsy hem of her tunic
played at her bare thighs. Cocking her hips, she stood beside the rack
with arms folded. ï¿½Well?ï¿½

Framed by upstretched arms, Solana's face was pale, her eyes restles s
w ith pain. She had been under torture for two hours. ï¿½Please,ï
¿½ she
managed to gasp. ï¿½Please, have mercy, it hurts so
much!ï¿½

ï¿½I hereby pause the interrogation, and we shall resume tomorrow
morning.ï¿½

ï¿½Nooooooooo!ï¿½ The horror in Solana's scream
chased Luisa's
departure,
the guards leaving with her, the cell door booming shut. To be left in
such agony, where every second was an hour of unbearable suffering!
She surely would not live to see the morning!

Solana lay, shaking, shouting out in pain. H er body felt torn between
roller and anchoring rings. H er wrists, forearms, elbows, shoulders,
pectorals, sides, back, abdomen, hips, buttocks, thighs front and
back, knees, calves, and ankles, all burned with savagely-hot,
unbearable pain. Solana could not, for a moment, find respite from the
torment, nor put her mind to anything but its terrible fire. It seemed
unbelievable that such tension could be inflicted, and maintained, on
her body. The sweat beaded on her face and throat and breasts, glossed
her arms and legs. The muscles in her limb s w ere taut, the tendon s
w ere hard like cables.

She lay.

Every minute was an eternity. Every laboured thud of Solana's heart
was enough to send a shockwave of pain through her taut body. Even
without the roller being turned, Solana could feel her joints
gradually separating as the first hour crawled by. The sweat crept and
trickled on her body, oozing down intimate creases and crevices. H er
taut ribcage heaved and shifted as she fought to breathe.

Two hours. It seemed obscene that simple knots at her wrists and
ankles could be all that kept her from slipping free, that the ropes
alone were enough to hold this awful tension on her body, tear muscles
from anchorage, fill her with such constant and fierce pain.

Through the night, Solana prayed for some kind of relief, for a way to
endure. It became like a nightmare, neither unconscious nor awake, but
in a half-arousal of sheer, unending pain, hour after hour.

When Luisa unlocked the door to the cell and led the men inside, she
wondered if Solana was still conscious. She saw the wet body, drawn
out upon the rack, anchored by wrists and ankles, fiendishly tight.
But as Luisa drew near, Solana's head slowly turned, her hair in
disarray, her face weary between her upstretched arms.

ï¿½I trust you thought about your confession?ï¿½
Luisa asked.

Though filled with pain, Solana's eyes fixed upon the torturer. H er
voice wa s w eak with long hours of suffering. ï¿½Your cruelty cannot
break me,ï¿½ she whispered. ï¿½I am innocent, and
nothing can c
hange
that.ï¿½

ï¿½On the contrary.ï¿½ Luisa put a hand to the
slickness of Sol
ana's
strained ribcage, inspected the sweat gathered by her palm. ï¿½This i
s
just the beginning. You will now learn the true power of the rack, and
it shall wrest the truth from you.ï¿½ She turned to the scribe. ï
¿½We
resume the questioning.ï¿½

ï¿½No! No!! I am innocent!ï¿½ Solana cried, but
could do nothin
g as Luisa
put her hands to the lever, and cranked the roller. The ropes again
shifted, wrenched a fresh inch from the woman on the rack, and Solana
gave a hideous scream. H er body exploded with pain. A series of wet
popping and cracking sounds reverberated from her shoulders, and her
arms, suddenly, seemed to lengthen as her shoulder joints dislocated.
Tendons cracked, ligaments groaned, her hand s w ent limp. H er scream
s w ere dreadful. Tears coursed down her upturned face. H er bare
belly spasmed in her desperate efforts to breathe.

ï¿½That was the sixth turn!ï¿½ Luisa shouted.
ï¿½Do you w
ish for the seventh?
ï¿½

ï¿½Mercy!ï¿½ Solana shrieked, half-demented with
this new and u
nendurable
agony.

Luisa shook her head. ï¿½No mercy. Seven!ï¿½

The rack slowly stretched Solana another inch.

For a few seconds, she was unable to make a sound, her breath stolen
by pain. Then came a distinct wet, fleshy tearing sound, as her left
hip bone was ripped fully from its socket. A few awful seconds later,
the right dislocated with a crack! To Solana, it felt as if her hips
had exploded, fire flashing the length of her legs to her ankles,
extreme agony spreading like molten lead through her abdomen. She
screamed, the most terrible yet, her voice breaking, her head rolling
as the pain seared through her spread body.

ï¿½Say that you are a witch! Say it! Say it!ï¿½

Solana could only roar in pain, the tears spilling from her eyes, the
sweat running on her spreadeagled and broken body. It had been twenty
hours of torture, and the pain was a thousand time s w orse than any
Solana could have imagined. Luisa watched her suffering victim,
wondering if indeed Solana would break, if her resistance could snap
as surely as her ligaments.

A half hour. Solana, pulled between the rings and roller, her
shoulders and hips dislocated, muscles torn, could do nothing but
scream in agony. Sweat polished her naked body in the flickering
light. Luisa turned pages, read patiently, before finally stepping to
the lever once more.

ï¿½Do you wish for the eighth turn?ï¿½ she shouted
over Solana'
s unceasing
cries.

Solana's voice. ï¿½No! ... oh, please, have mercy ... please ...ï
¿½

ï¿½Then confess,ï¿½ Luisa said, and heaved against
the resistan
ce of the
winch. Solana was stretched again, and her desperate pleading became a
long scream of torment as her broken body was subjected to more
strain. The agony in her arms surged, became a white hot fury that
caused her voice to rise in pitch. Then came the wet ripping and
snapping of her elbows pulling apart. H er arms grew fractionally
longer, and she all but fainted with the pain that burst along her
forearms.

Luisa stopped to tie her hair in a knot, watching Solana suffer. Let
the pain do it s w ork. Sweat was again running along the mulatto's
tortured body: her ribs strained against the taut and droplet-wet
skin, her cries frantic as she fought to breathe.

ï¿½No more!ï¿½ she managed to shriek.
ï¿½No more!ï¿
½

ï¿½Say the word!ï¿½ Luisa urged.
ï¿½Say you confess, and
the pain will stop!
ï¿½

ï¿½Oh God! Please believe me, I am innocent! Stop the
pain!ï¿½

But Luisa had no mercy, and stood back to watch. Shatela's poor hands
and feet were bent quite out of shape by the strain. H er drawn limbs
burned with unbearable agony, her torso all but torn assunder. H er
dislocated shoulders, elbows and hips raged with pain beyond
comprehension, her torn and strained muscles causing her to shriek and
cry without end. Slowly, with a wet and sickening sound, her knees
came apart. Luisa watched, knowing that this, besides the spine, was
the most painful dislocation of all. A puddle of urine spread across
the wood, and Solana's head rolled. Every joint in her body was now
broken. One of the guards gave a groan, and fainted, clattering to the
floor. H is comrade faltered, then tightened his jaw. The woman broken
upon the rack was making sounds that barely seemed human.

After half an hour watching Solana' suffer, Luisa finally stepped
close, grasped the helples s w oman's jaw in her fingers, angled
Solana' s w et face towards her own. ï¿½Confess that you are a witch,
and it will stop. I promise this pain will stop.ï¿½

Solana did not, or could not, reply.

ï¿½There are still two turns of the rack to go,ï¿½
Luisa warned
. ï¿½Your
body can yet be broken further, and the pain grow worse still. Are you
prepared for that?ï¿½

ï¿½Oh, I beg you, do not!ï¿½ Solana begged. Sweat
ran down her
face,
trickled the brown ravines of her belly. H er dislocated shoulders and
hips, elbows and knees looked half deformed, her body extended by
eight inches. H er ribcage was sharp and inflated, the skin taut. H er
wet throat shifted as she fought to breathe.

ï¿½So be it, then,ï¿½ Luisa said coldly.
ï¿½The ninth tur
n.ï¿½

It did not seem possible that Solana could be stretched further, but
after a minute of struggling with the lever, pushing with her shoulder
against its resistance, Luisa managed to turn the roller another
notch. Solana's head jerked repeatedly as she stretched. Agony came
only in a panted ï¿½uh-uh-uh-uhï¿½ as her strained
ribcage shif
ted. With a
dual crack! her wrists broke, bones separating. One of the guards
suddenly fell to his knees, vomiting in disgust. Solana's abdominal
muscles tore, with the squeak of rending tissue. H er spine was on
fire, the separating vertebrae an agony beyond all imagining: but she
could no longer scream. H er disjointed body was drawn so that her
diaphragm could barely function, and her breathing was rapid, shallow.

She fainted.

ï¿½Bring water,ï¿½ Luisa commanded. The guard who
had vomited n
ow hurried
from the cell, returning with a pail of water from the well, some of
which he splashed over Solana's prone body. She woke, then, but made
no sound. H er head rolled about, eyes glazed with agony, fixing to
the ceiling, as sweat and tears and saliva ran from her face. H er
mouth wa s w ide, but she could only make faint panting sounds in her
extreme torment.

Luisa waited. This time, she did not return to her bible, but stood,
hands braced against the lever, watching. Solana's ribcage shifted
only slightly, such was the tension in her spreadeagled figure. Creaks
came from the stressed machinery of the rack.

It had been more than twenty-one hours, now. To continue the torture
much longer would be to damage Solana's body beyond all chance of
repair. Already, recovery would take time, and great care, lest she be
crippled. If confession did not come with this last, most painful turn
of the rack, it might never be wrested from her. Luisa grasped the
winch for the final time.

ï¿½Scribe, note the tenth turn.ï¿½

Solana's feet remained anchored by ropes to the rings: but her hand s
w ere wrenched another inch towards the roller, and fresh fire shot
down her broken arms, her taut body, her disjointed legs. A new and
unbelievable agony exploded into her lower back, spreading like
tearing metal barbs up her spine as her vertebrae began to separate,
rending her spinal column, and filling her with the most terrible
pain. She could not scream, though, and merely gave a long groan, tear
s w et on her face, unable to believe that she was still awake, still
aware, still suffering. Luisa waited, listening for the muffled sound
of the victim's diaphragm tearing, or the more distinct cracking sound
of her spine actually breaking: either would herald death, the former
within minutes, the latter a few hours. But Solana's body was strong,
drawn to within a hair's-breadth of death, but no further.

Luisa slowly circled the rack. In the semi-darkness, Solana's dark
skin shone with sweat, steaming, her body taut. H er elbows,
shoulders, hips, and knee s w ere dislocated, her wrists and ankles
broken, muscles and ligaments torn, her body so stretched that she
hovered on the edge of suffocation, lapsing into fitful moments of
unconsciousness. H er mind knew nothing but pain - she was a being of
pure suffering, without concept of past or future, life or death.
Saliva wet her chin and breasts, tears streaked her face.

And yet, somehow, she had withheld confession.

Luisa looked away. ï¿½Guards, fetch the Bailiff. Scribe, let it be no
ted
that I can do no more without causing irreparable harm to the
prisoner.ï¿½ As the two guards departed, and the scribe, in his relie
f,
hastily wrote, Luisa drew close to her victim, put out a hand to
Solana's face. Though the prisoner's eye s w ere partially open, there
was no sign that she was aware of anything but the agony in her
ravaged body. H er breathing was shallow and fast. ï¿½Just say, and I
shall give you the eleventh turn,ï¿½ Luisa whispered.

Solana gave no response: perhaps she was incapable of it. Luisa gave a
nod. Then, she turned, and left the broken and torn Solana to her
suffering.
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