The South American Dungeon

The South American Dungeon

Foreword

This is a sequel, of sorts, to The Ancient Dungeon. Although it is not essential to read that vignette, it is suggested. It features the same busty masochist as in that tale. It also features a character created by the writer electrosadist. I hope that he does not mind me borrowing his creation for this little tale.

The South American Dungeon

It was not that I had become bored of the ancient dungeon which I had recovered, where I had found that I could be tortured to the point of death, in brutal ways, by the ghostly torturer of ages part, and be fully restored once I gained consciousness with the coming of the dawn, with not a single mark marring my body. No, for how could one become bored of being tortured? Each time that I went it was a transformational experience, taking me far beyond my normal limits, breaking my soul if not my body. I could suffer the tortures of the damned, and suffer no long-term effects. Well, no long-term physical effects. I had become addicted to the pain, and the endorphins released. I had become addicted to surviving the whole terrible experience. But I found that I needed more. There was only so much which could be done with a mediaeval dungeon and its instruments of agony. I sought something more.

So I began researching legends to see if there might be any other such places, ideally some Nazi cellar where people had been tortured during the Second World War. I did not believe that the place which I had found was the only such place on the planet, where some ghostly torturer of the past became solid, once more, to carry on their terrible occupation. For months I searched. Then I read an account – widely disbelieved – of exactly what I was searching for.

The tale was of some woman who had found a site hidden in the South American jungle, in an area disputed by a couple of the nations. The internet report did not go into details, only that the woman had been tortured “in a gynaecological manner” before she had managed to escape, and get back to civilisation. But her report was not investigated, as she had not had any marks on her body. It was thought that she had been making it all up. But it sounded to me like another dungeon where the ghosts of the past carried on their terrible work. Just the thoughts of being subjected to the sort of tortures which had taken place in those cruel South American regimes made my cunt get wet.

The woman, in her disbelieved report, claimed that the torturer had been a woman, a blonde by the name of Natasha. I had read of a Natasha who had been a torturer, back in the day, and who, along with a General Garcia, had been responsible for the torture of dozens of young women. But they were both dead. General Garcia had been killed in a regime change, and Natasha had died at the same time. But I bet that those two miscreants had had some black site, out in the jungle. I bet that it was the Natasha who had loved to cruelly torture vulnerable young women.

Come my next annual leave, I was trekking through the Amazon jungle, to that disputed area of land where few people ever went. I had had all my shots, and I had done all that I could to protect myself from the insects of the rain forest. While I was hoping for some agonising electrical torture, I had no desire to be bitten to death by mosquitoes.

I entered an area where the jungle was quiet. There were no insects in the air. I could not hear the cries of birds or any other creatures. I had reached an area where the animals stayed away. It was then that I knew that I was getting close. The living tended to avoid the dead.

Then I entered a clearing, where the trees did not grow, despite the fact that nobody hacked them back. I saw a plain, unmarked concrete bunker, sitting out here in the jungle, miles away from the nearest habitation. It was the place.

I felt nervous. I had read up on this Natasha. She had been a former KGB interrogator, recruited by General Garcia in the late 1970s. According to the few survivors of her less-than-gentle ministrations she had been inventively sadistic, using electricity and heated needles, among other things, and concentrating on the breasts and genitalia of her victims. She had not known the meaning of mercy.

I stripped off my sweat-stained clothes. There was no danger of being bitten by some insect now. I took off all of my clothes. I put them in my backpack. My double D breasts were free once more. I could not resist holding them, and teasing the nipples into erection, as I anticipated that they would soon suffer terribly.

There were concrete steps leading down to an old, rusting metal door. I hoped that it would open. I would feel very silly if I had come thousands of miles only not to be able to get into the place. I walked down the concrete steps to the door. In the South American sunshine the concrete steps were hot on my bare feet, almost burning them. I raised my right hand to try the door. But the door swung open before I could touch it. It appeared that I was expected. I went in.

Beyond the door there was a concrete passage leading into the depths of this former black site. It was cold inside, and I shivered. Flickering bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, illuminating the dank corridor. But at least it meant that the place had electricity. The place smelled damp. Here and there were dark stains on the concrete. This was not a welcoming place. I could imagine that many people must have died here, as the torture grew too severe for them to survive. I was scared. I was turned on.

I could see an open metal door down the corridor. The other doors were closed. Somehow I knew that the torture chamber was beyond that door, and that, once I passed through the threshold, that I would suffer such pains as few people had ever endured. But I need it. I walked down the corridor and into the room beyond.

As soon as I went into the room the metal door clanged shut behind me, trapping me in the room. There was no turning back.

The room was large, larger than I had expected. The floor and walls were bare concrete. There was a table with straps on it, so that a person could be strapped down, unable to escape. There was a metal bar contraption which I recognised as being the torture device called the parrot’s perch. There was a gynaecological chair, with leather straps. There were chains hanging from the ceiling. There was a large wooden table with an assortment of torture implements. But, standing in the middle of the room, waiting for me, was Natasha.

This blonde was wearing some sort of military uniform. Her blonde hair was drawn back into a tight pony tail. Her fingernails had been painted red, and she had bright red lipstick on her lips. Her face was stern and unsmiling. But it was more lined than I had been expecting. I had thought that Natasha had been killed when she had been in her forties. But I was faced by a woman who looked like she was in her sixties.

“Get in the chair.” Natasha said. Her voice still had a faint Russian accent. I was very nervous, wondering whether I would be able to deal with the pain. But I was going to be strapped down. I would not have a choice in the matter. If I had had any sense I would have tried to get out of here, despite the metal door which had clanged shut. But if I had any sense I would never have sought out such extreme torture in the first place. I climbed into the gynaecological chair, put my feet in the stirrups, and my arms in the armrests.

Natasha buckled me into place, using a welter of leather straps. The straps creaked as they were tightened as tight as they would go. I suspected that I would soon lose the feeling in my hands. But that did not matter. I knew that my body would be restored when I returned to consciousness, once the terrible torture was over. That was the magic of such dungeons, and their ghostly torturers.

I could not move, apart from my head.

“First, let's make it a little more sensitive, shall we?” Natasha said. She went over to the wooden table and picked up a small brown glass bottle. She took up a syringe and drew a blue liquid up into the syringe. She tapped the side of the syringe. She pressed down a fraction, so that a tiny bead of blue liquid appeared out of the end of the metal needle.

“This will stop you from fainting, no matter what I do to you.” Natasha said. “It will also enhance the pain. Do not worry, I have an inexhaustible supply of this elixir.”

I began to get a little worried. If I could not faint then how could this scenario end? But Natasha had already found a vein, and had injected the blue liquid into me. Within seconds I felt a lot more alert, as though I had overdosed on coffee. I could sense everything, from the hammering over my over-excited heart to each separate bead of sweat slowly sliding down my naked body.

Natasha moved back to the table. She picked up a long needle with a wooden handle. The metal of the needle was around three inches long. Natasha pulled up a stool and sat down next to my chest. My nipples had hardened with fear.

“So rarely do I get to torture such a voluptuous woman.” Natasha said. “I am looking forward to destroying your breasts, a little bit at a time.”

She began pricking the skin of my breasts, not fully inserting the needle, just using the tip to bring me pain. I liked pain, and I began to get turned on. Fear and pain, for me, were great aphrodisiacs.

“You are enjoying this too much.” Natasha said. She took the needle away, and went back to the wooden table. I turned my head to watch. I saw her light a Bunsen burner. She turned up the flame until it was a bright blue colour. Then she held the needle in the flame until the metal was orange.

I had suffered heated needles in the ancient dungeon. It was always torture. I could never stand the pain. But that was the point: to suffer pain beyond what a normal person could stand.

Natasha grabbed my left breast. She squeezed, so that the flesh of the breast bulged out. I watched as the glowing point of the needle approached my erect nipple. I could feel its heat before it touched me. I was turned on and fearful. But there was no turning back, and I knew that this Natasha would show absolutely no mercy.

I screamed and banged my head against the headrest as the needle touched the very centre of my nipple, the little dimple from where a pregnant woman’s milk would issue forth. But Natasha was not happy to merely prick the nipple with the glowing needle. She forced it down, its full length, down into the heart of my breast. If not for that blue liquid I might have fainted then. But I was going to have the pleasure of feeling every iota of tortuous pain.

Natasha left the needle inside my breast, cooking my flesh, as she heated up a second needle. Again she waited until it was glowing. Then she grabbed my right breast. I hyperventilated as the glowing metal approached my right nipple. Then that, too, was forced down into my milk duct, destroying flesh and causing incredible pain. The liquid really had enhanced my pain. This was worse than anything I had suffered there. It was worse than having my nipples removed with red hot pincers.

There were a lot more needles. Natasha laughed as she heated up another needle. There were a lot of needles. I knew that they would all be lodged inside me. And they were, needle after painful glowing needle, slowly pushed into the flesh of my bountiful breasts until I resembled a human pincushion.

Natasha waited for the needles to cool before she removed them, letting me feel every bit of heat. She had plenty of time. I wasn’t going anywhere. When she removed the now-cold needles she wiggled them on the way out, to cause me every little bit of pain as she could.

She left the two needles that pierced my nipples and went deep into my breast, though. She pulled them out only the tiniest amount, so that a little bit of metal could be seen. Then Natasha attached an alligator clamp to each needle. One had a red light attached, the other had a black wire. The wires trailed away behind me, out of my field of vision. But I had glimpsed some generator as I had entered the room.

I saw that Natasha had some control in her hands, with wires leading off. There was a dial going up to ten, and a big red button.

“This will not kill you.” Natasha said. “But you will wish that it did.”

This was what I had come for, a more modern form of pain than leather whips and glowing branding irons. I saw her turn the dial to three. Then she pressed the big red button and held it down.

Lightning went through my chest, from one needle to the other. I arced in the chair as much as the restraints allowed. I couldn’t breath. All that I could do was scream. It felt like an eternity before she released the button. I think that I begged to be released when I could finally talk. But release was not an option. This was a torture which I could not escape, but only endure.

Time and time Natasha pressed the button, causing electricity to shock the insides of my breasts. I feared that my heart would give out, as Natasha slowly turned up the dial, and held the button down for longer and longer. I could not breathe during the shocks. I entered a plane of agony lower than the lowest Hell. But I did not die. All that I did was suffer.

Finally I noticed that the shocks had stopped, and I could breathe again. My heart was beating very fast. But Natasha was very good. She had taken me to the verge of death, but not beyond. There was still so much to do.

Natasha surprised me, then, by kneeling down between my crotch. She began to lick around my labia. The sensation was incredible. The blue liquid had not only heightened my sensation of pain, but also pleasure. Not that Natasha really needed the blue liquid, she was such a skilled cunnilinguist. She brought me such pleasure as I had never felt before. All around my labia she licked, before dipping within to lick up my flowing juices.

I came when she began sucking my clit.

“The clit gets a lot more sensitive after orgasm.” Natasha said. “But let us see how many I can bring you.”

The licking continued. It went on for hour after hour, and I came more times than I could count. Natasha only paused to inject me with more of the blue liquid. But, as the orgasms carried on, and on, they became painful, as they were forced out of me, and I begged Natasha to stop. Eventually she did.

“Your clit is now as sensitive as ever. It is sensitive to a superhuman level, due to that wonderful injection.”

I was too exhausted to comment. My eyes were closed. Thus I didn’t see here release an alligator clamp on my sore and very swollen clit. I screamed to high heaven as it went crunch on my very sensitive nub of flesh.

I opened my eyes to see Natasha approach my crotch with a bulbous metal dildo. It had a collar at one end so that it could not disappear up into the body. I sighed in exhaustion as Natasha greased up the metal dildo and forced it into my anus. Just entering my anus was painful, as the flesh was forced to expand. She pushed it in until the anus settled down around the collar. I could not expel it. It was in my arse until Natasha took it out.

More electrical shocks came, from the metal dildo too the clamp on my clit. The shocks seemed to last for hours. I screamed until my voice was hoarse. All I could hear was Natasha laughing. She was a real sadist, taking pleasure in my torture.

I noticed that she was now naked. I had not seen her remove her uniform. I noticed that her crotch was fully shaved. There was not a single strand of blonde hair on it. She was rubbing her crotch. Her body did not look all that bad for an older woman. But I noticed that her face did not look as lined as when I had entered her torture chamber. She now looked no older than a woman in her forties. Perhaps I had been mistaken. Or perhaps something else was going on here.

Natasha, in between rubbing her pussy, removed the dildo from my anus, and the clamp from my clit. But she had only taken them off to replace them with worse items. She held up a long needle, at the end of a red wire. The needle was forced down into my clitoris, and down into my body. I felt every inch of it, as it went down all of the way through my clit to prick my Graphenberg spot.

Then Natasha held up a metal sound, attached to a black wire. The sound had vicious looking barbs on it. I was very afraid, but could do nothing as Natasha forced it up my urethra. It scratched and pierced my pisshole as I screamed in agony, still unable to achieve the solace of fainting. But the pain only got worse, as Natasha sent shocks down the wires, between my clit and urethra. She held the control in one hand, and frigged her pussy with the fingers of her other hand. I could see Natasha’s now youthful face was red, as she neared orgasm. Every shock was on level ten. The electricity was so powerful it was beginning to fry me inside.

When Natasha came she held down the red button for the length of her orgasm, as she collapsed to her knees in pleasure.

The pain had gone, at least for the moment – until the naked Natasha pulled the sound out of my urethra, eliciting a scream which I could barely recognise as my own. I could feel a little blood trickle out of my ruined pisshole.

On and on through the long night the torture went. My labia and clit were cut off with a red hot scalpel. My breasts had the skin removed. Red hot needles were introduced to the inside of my cunt. The flame of the Bunsen burner was played over the soles of my feet and on my flayed breasts. Everything that could be done to me was done, until even the injections were not enough, and I finally reached the oblivion that came at the end of all of these occult sessions of torment.

I awoke. My body was fully restored, all of my wounds gone as though they had never been. I felt incredible for having survived the ordeal, one which I had decided that I would never repeat. With the blue liquid it had been just too much – a lot too much.

I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes to see that I was still tied up in the gynaecological chair. I had not awoken outside of the dungeon, as I had when using the ancient dungeon.

Standing before me was Natasha, now looking no older than thirty.

“Your pain has restored me, and will keep me alive forever.” she said. I realised that she fed on pain. She was some sort of vampire, but of pain, not blood. “You will never leave here, as I see there is something mystical about you, the way that your body has been restored with the coming of dawn. You are an incredible find. With you as my victim I can live forever…”

It was then that I really did scream, as I realised that I would be tortured forever and ever and ever, with no mercy, and no chance of escape. All that I could do was suffer at the hands of one of the greatest sadists of all time. I was in Hell.

I was in Heaven.

The End.