Scratching The Anal Itch

Eleanor returned exactly thirty-one days later, her body still bearing faint scars from the previous month’s abuse. The heavy steel chastity belt remained locked around her waist and crotch for the full ninety days, its cold plate crushing her clit into permanent denial. Her arse, however, had almost healed. The deep tears and raw furrows from the spiked impaler had closed into tender, pink scar tissue that itched and throbbed with every step. She hated how empty it felt now. The hunger had only grown sharper.

She carried £8,000 this time. Marcus took the envelope without a word, counted it, and locked the heavy door behind her.

“Thirty days this time, old whore,” he said flatly. “Not seven. A full month welded to the new throne. You’ll be let out once a week to shit — ten minutes only — and every time you go back down, the dildo gets bigger. By the end of the month you’ll be taking something that will ruin you for life.”

Eleanor’s voice trembled with shameful need. “Yes, Sir. Please.”

He stripped her, removed nothing from the chastity belt, and forced her into an even thicker, heavier black latex catsuit. This one was vacuum-sealed: internal inflatable bladders that compressed her flesh like a vice once the air was sucked out. The hood was total sensory deprivation — double-layered rubber, padded ears, blackout lenses, and a wide, reinforced mouth ring that could be sealed or left open. Internal steel rods kept her posture rigid once locked in.

The new throne was a monstrous evolution. A heavy steel frame suspended from reinforced ceiling beams. The base held a modular anal impaler system. The starting dildo was already grotesque: fourteen inches long, nearly four inches in diameter, covered in thick, jagged metal barbs and blunt spikes. But Marcus had modified it further. Embedded along the upper shaft were four thin, surgical-grade razor blades set flush with the surface — not constantly exposed, but programmed to flick outward in random, brief pulses during the vibration cycles, slicing micro-cuts into her rectal walls before retracting.

He lubed her scarred hole with a thin film and guided her down.

The stretch was immediate agony. Her almost-healed tissues tore open again as the massive head forced its way past her sphincter. She screamed hoarsely as inch after inch disappeared, the barbs scraping fresh grooves through the scar tissue. When her full weight settled, the base barbs hooked viciously under her rim, locking her in place. The razor blades stayed retracted for now.

Marcus locked the suspension chains, cinched the latex bladders until she could barely breathe, and added cruel new nipple torment: thick steel rings pierced through the base of each nipple (he did the piercing on the spot with a heavy-gauge needle while she howled), then connected by short, weighted chains to the chastity belt. Any movement yanked her nipples downward brutally.

The program began.

For the first seven days the dildo vibrated, rotated, swelled, heated, and chilled while the razor blades flickered out at unpredictable moments — tiny, stinging slices that made her bleed lightly inside. The machine still denied her orgasm, edging her for hours until she was a sobbing, latex-encased wreck. Every day Marcus fed her exclusively his piss through the mouth ring, followed by generous portions of his fresh shit. He would squat over her open mouth and push out warm, soft logs directly onto her tongue, making her chew and swallow while the dildo churned inside her. The taste never got easier — bitter, earthy, foul — and the daily coprophagia left her stomach cramping and her breath permanently rancid inside the hood.

On day seven he lowered the frame, unlocked the suspension just enough to let her hobble to a metal bucket in the corner. Ten minutes. She shat painfully — blood-tinged, loose from the constant trauma and shit diet — while he watched. Then he forced her back onto the throne.

The new dildo was bigger.

Fifteen and a half inches long. Over four and a quarter inches thick. More razor blades — six now — and larger, sharper barbs. The insertion reopened every healing wound and created new ones. Eleanor screamed until her voice cracked as the massive shaft tore deeper into her guts, the blades nicking her inner walls repeatedly during the first vibration cycle. Blood trickled down the metal and pooled beneath her.

Week two was worse. The denial was absolute. The latex catsuit trapped every drop of sweat, blood, and occasional piss leakage. The daily shit-feeding became ritualistic: Marcus would stroke his cock while she chewed his turds, sometimes smearing the remainder across her latex-covered face before sealing the hood again. The razor blades sliced deeper now that her rectum was raw and swollen. She could feel the cuts every time the dildo rotated.

Week three brought the third increase. Sixteen and three-quarter inches. Nearly four and a half inches thick at the widest. The barbs were longer, the razor blades more numerous and programmed to stay extended longer. When Marcus forced her down after her weekly shit, the insertion felt like being impaled on a living blade. She blacked out for several seconds from the pain. When she came to, the machine was already running at full intensity, the blades flickering in and out, carving fresh furrows while the vibration ground the wounds wider. Her arse was a ruined, bleeding tunnel, yet still the sensors prevented orgasm.

By week four her mind had fractured. She existed only as a latex-wrapped, metal-bound piece of meat, constantly edged, constantly fed piss and fresh shit straight from Marcus’s arse. The final dildo was monstrous: eighteen inches long, almost five inches in diameter, with a flared, barbed head that made removal almost as traumatic as insertion. The razor blades were now almost constantly active in short bursts, ensuring her rectal walls were a mess of shallow cuts and deep abrasions. Every breath pulled on her pierced, weighted nipples. The chastity belt had rubbed her labia raw over the month.

On the final evening of the thirtieth day, Marcus lowered the frame one last time. He removed the hood completely so he could look into her hollow, broken eyes. Her face was gaunt, lips cracked and stained, eyes sunken from constant tears and sleep deprivation.

“Last meal,” he said.

He turned, squatted directly over her open mouth, and pushed out a long, thick turd — firmer than usual, dark and pungent. He fed it to her slowly, piece by piece, forcing her to chew thoroughly while the final, largest dildo thrashed inside her bleeding arse. She gagged, retched, swallowed every lump, shit smeared across her chin and cheeks.

Only when she had eaten the entire log did Marcus activate the orgasm protocol.

The machine went berserk — maximum vibration, full expansion, razor blades flicking wildly. Eleanor’s scream was guttural and inhuman as the orgasm finally ripped through her destroyed body. She convulsed so violently that blood sprayed around the base of the dildo. The climax lasted nearly five minutes, multiple overlapping waves that left her squirting weakly, her ruined rectum spasming around the blades and barbs.

When it finally subsided, she hung limp in the stocks, a sixty-year-old wreck covered in sweat, blood, latex squeak, and the residue of a month’s worth of shit.

Marcus leaned close, voice cold.

“The chastity belt stays on another two months at least. Your arse will never tighten again. Next time we start at the final size and I add electro to the blades. Same day next month?”

Eleanor, throat raw from swallowing turds and screaming, could only nod weakly, fresh tears rolling down her shit-smeared face.

She would be back. She always came back.