Scratching The Anal Itch

Eleanor Hargrove didn’t even wait for the calendar to turn fully. Thirty-one days after she had crawled out of Marcus’s dungeon—arse ruined, nipples bruised purple, stomach still churning with the memory of piss and dog food—she was back at the steel door with another thick envelope of cash. This time it was £4,000. She had doubled it without being asked. Her cunt had stayed dry and dead, but her rectum throbbed constantly now, a hollow, aching need that only grew worse with every passing hour. She needed worse. Bigger. Longer. More permanent.

Marcus opened the door wearing the same cold expression. He took the money, counted it twice, then looked her up and down like livestock. “You’re early, old whore. Greedy for more?”

She nodded, eyes already glassy. “Please, Sir. Make it hurt this time. Really hurt.”

He didn’t smile. He never did. Instead he dragged her inside by the hair and slammed the door.

This time the preparations were slower, more methodical, and infinitely more cruel.

First came the metal chastity cage. Not the flimsy plastic kind she had seen online. This was a custom-forged stainless-steel belt, heavy and cold, with a thick curved plate that crushed her useless clit flat and sealed her cunt behind tiny ventilation holes. Two thick pins slid through her labia, locking the plate in place with a loud click. A third, narrower band ran between her arse cheeks, framing the hole but leaving it completely exposed and vulnerable. Marcus ratcheted the waistband so tight her soft sixty-year-old belly bulged obscenely over the top edge. The lock was electronic, coded to his phone, and set for a minimum of ninety days. Three full months. No removal. No touching. No relief except through her arse.

“Until I decide otherwise,” he said, pocketing the key. “Your cunt is dead anyway. This is just to remind you who owns every hole now.”

Next came the latex. He forced her into a custom black catsuit so tight it felt like a second, suffocating skin. The rubber was thicker than usual, reinforced at the stress points, and it squeaked obscenely as he zipped it up her body. Built-in boots locked around her feet with internal steel rods that kept her en pointe. The hood was the worst part: total enclosure, only two tiny nostril holes and a wide-open mouth ring that kept her jaw forced wide. Inside the hood, thick rubber pads pressed against her ears, dulling sound to a muffled roar. She was blind once the outer lenses were snapped shut. Only the mouth hole remained, ready for whatever he chose to shove inside it.

Over the latex he layered the metal bondage—far more severe than last time.

Heavy steel stocks locked her wrists behind her back, elbows forced together until her shoulders screamed. A thick steel waist cincher, bolted to the chastity belt, crushed her already constricted middle. Her ankles were shackled to a short spreader bar, forcing her legs apart. Then came the throne.

It wasn’t a chair this time. It was a heavy steel frame suspended from the ceiling by thick chains. In the centre rose the new anal impaler: twelve inches long, three and a half inches thick at the widest point, covered in vicious, jagged metal spikes that were no longer rounded. These were designed to rip. The base flared out into a brutal ring of inward-curving barbs that would hook under the rim of her sphincter and lock her down like a fish on a spear. Marcus lubed it with the bare minimum—enough to get it in, not enough to spare her—and guided her down.

The first six inches made her scream through the hood’s mouth ring. The spikes tore at her rectal walls, scraping raw furrows that burned like fire. By the eighth inch she was sobbing, drool pouring from the open mouth hole. At ten inches the barbs at the base caught and hooked, and her full weight slammed down the final distance. The dildo was buried to the hilt. Her arse was impaled, stretched beyond anything she had ever taken, the spikes grinding and tearing with every tiny shift of her body.

Marcus locked the suspension chains so she hung there, feet barely touching the floor, every ounce of her weight driving the monster deeper. Additional chains from the stocks to the frame kept her arched backward, forcing the dildo upward into her guts. Her heavy breasts were pulled through zippered openings in the latex and clamped with the same jagged-toothed clover clamps, but this time he added weights—small lead balls that swung and tugged with every tremor.

The program started.

The new dildo was a nightmare of engineering. It vibrated, it pulsed, it rotated in slow, grinding circles that made the spikes churn inside her like a meat grinder. It expanded in micro-bursts, stretching her torn walls even wider. It heated until her insides felt branded, then chilled until the metal burned with frost. And still the sensors denied her. Every time her ruined arse clenched toward orgasm, the machine throttled back, leaving her howling in the latex hood, body convulsing in the stocks, tears soaking the inside of the rubber.

Marcus fed her exactly as before—his piss through a long tube forced into the mouth ring, followed by handfuls of dry dog food mashed into the funnel. But now she was completely encased, unable to see, barely able to hear, reduced to nothing but the constant, ripping agony in her arse and the endless denial.

Day after day blurred into a hell of latex, metal, and torment. The chastity belt kept her cunt a sealed, aching void. The spikes in her rectum tore fresh grooves with every vibration cycle. By the fourth day her arse was bleeding lightly around the base; Marcus simply wiped it away, re-lubed the exposed metal, and let the machine continue. The latex catsuit trapped every drop of sweat, every tear, every dribble of piss that leaked from her when the pressure became too much. The smell inside the hood was thick and animal.

On the morning of the seventh day he left her hanging for twelve straight hours at maximum intensity. The dildo thrashed and ripped and swelled until Eleanor was a broken, quivering wreck inside the black rubber prison, mind blank except for the screaming need to come that would never be granted.

Then, on the final evening, Marcus lowered the frame until her knees touched the concrete. He removed the hood just enough to expose her face—red, sweat-drenched, mascara-streaked, sixty-year-old features twisted in exhaustion and desperate lust. He stood over her, naked from the waist down, cock already hard.

“Last meal, slut,” he said softly. “No dog food tonight. You’ve been such a good, broken old whore that you get something special.”

He turned, bent slightly, and pushed. A thick, solid log of shit emerged from his arse, still warm. He caught it in his gloved hand and held it in front of her wide-open mouth ring.

Eleanor’s eyes widened in pure horror. She tried to shake her head, but the stocks and chains held her rigid.

Marcus smiled for the first time in two visits. “Open wide. You’re eating every inch. And you’re going to thank me while you chew.”

He pressed the warm, foul-smelling turd against her tongue. The taste exploded—bitter, earthy, revolting. She gagged violently, but the mouth ring kept her jaw locked open. He pushed deeper, forcing her to bite down. Tears poured down her face as she chewed the first mouthful, the texture gritty and sticky, the flavour coating her throat. Marcus fed her the entire log in slow, deliberate pieces, making her swallow every lump while the dildo in her arse continued its merciless grinding.

When the last piece slid down her throat he stepped back and watched her retch and sob, shit smeared across her lips and chin.

Then, for the first time in seven days, he unlocked the orgasm protocol.

The dildo exploded inside her—full power, full expansion, spikes flaring outward. Eleanor’s scream was guttural and animal as the orgasm tore through her ruined body. She convulsed so hard the suspension chains rattled, squirting in powerful jets around the base of the impaler, her clamped tits bouncing, the chastity belt digging cruelly into her flesh. The orgasm lasted almost four minutes, wave after wave, until she was nothing but a twitching, shit-tasting wreck hanging in the frame.

Marcus finally switched the machine off and left her impaled, locked, and trembling.

He leaned in close, voice low and cruel.

“Three months in that chastity belt, Eleanor. Next visit we go bigger again. And I have plans for your nipples that’ll make these clamps feel like love taps. Same time next month?”

She could barely speak, throat raw from piss, dog food, and now shit. But she nodded frantically, eyes shining with broken, grateful tears.

“Yes… Sir… please…”