R. C. SmithShort Stories and Vignettes

Do not read my works if you are offended by descriptions of sexuality and violence.
(Do not read them just for those descriptions, either.)

There is Nothing

“I will not confess,” I say, “because I cannot. I had nothing to do with the rebellion, did not know about it, and I do not know of anyone who did.”

“Personally, I am inclined to believe you, Milady,” the torturer says. He still calls me Milady, as he had done all the years he had been employed at my estate, even though I am the prisoner now, naked, bound, helpless, fully in his power, and he is the one who is going to rape, torture and kill me. He is not mocking me, he shows his respect to someone who had always treated him kindly, and it was not by his own doing that things have changed, but changed they have.

“You understand, though, that it does not matter what I believe,” he continues.

I understand. I am going to die, and he cannot let me die without having questioned me thoroughly. Questioning means torture.

“I can still make it easier for you,” he says, “but not if you do not talk.”

“I know nothing, there is nothing I can tell you,” I say.

He looks at my naked exposed body, and there is no doubt that he likes what he sees. All those years, he had never acted, spoken or even looked at me in any even slightly improper way — it could have easily cost him his head if he had — but I had always been aware of the looks he had cast at me in his mind. Not in his wildest dreams, though, could he ever have imagined to have me at his disposal as he has me now.

He does not speak as he takes off his leather gown, shortly touches his penis to make it fully erect, and enters me between my thighs that are spread wide by the bonds that hold me. He comes after a short time.

“I have always wanted this,” he says as he withdraws, “and a few other things, though I had not wanted what will have to follow.”

“But you will still do it,” I say, a statement of fact, not a question.

“Oh yes, of course,” he says. And he wants it, now. I see his eyes flashing for a fraction of a second before he drives his knee into my crotch, with full force. The pain shoots through my whole body, and the shock of the impact makes me gasp.

This is not yet torture, I know. This was just to point out, to me as well as to himself, that he is my master now, and that I cannot keep him from doing whatever he chooses to do with me.

Not unless I give him what is not mine to give. And even if it were, there would still be torture, agony and death.

We are not alone in the dungeon. On another wall, strapped to a similar wooden frame as I, is a girl. She has not spoken a word — how could she have, with her mouth gagged? I do not know her, or at least I do not recognize her, she must be a peasant girl from one of the near-by villages. Like me she is naked and fully accessible, with her arms tied above her head and her legs spread wide. Unlike me, she has not ceased to strain at her bonds, and she looks around with wide, dark, fear-filled eyes. She is quite pretty, if a bit on the chubby side, her breasts full and larger than mine. She is an appealing sight to behold.

“You know the law,” the torturer says. “Before a Lady of nobility gets tortured, she will be shown the tortures that await her, so she can make up her mind to cooperate.”

“I know the law,” I reply. In here, he is the law.

“Talk, or she will have to suffer horribly,” he says, taking a red-hot pair of pincers from the fire and holding it close to her left nipple, causing her to emit strange wailing sounds through her gag.

“Take out her gag,” I say, “or she might suffocate on her vomit when you rip off her breasts. Also, I would like to hear her scream.”

“You — what?” he says, turning to me, touching the girl’s side with the glowing iron without even noticing it, or the changed pitch of her muffled wails.

“You’ve heard me,” I say. With or without her gag, she cannot possibly know anything.

“This … this is not a trick to make me spare her?” he says. How little he knows me. How little he knows. How inexperienced he is in his new role. How easily he is distracted.

“Why would I want you to?” I ask.

“You will suffer and die the same as she,” he says, still hesitating.

I would shrug, if I could. He reads it in my face.

“And there is really nothing you can tell me about the rebellion?”

“There is nothing,” I say. “Go on.”

With a knife he cuts the straps of her gag and takes it out, before he turns to take a fresh pair of pincers from the fire. Her mouth still half open, drool running out of it, the girl looks at me in horror. Time will pass, and things will change again. They always do. I smile.

(07/2009, 01/2020)

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