Author's Note: This story starts out with a bit of a "horror" feeling, but what you think you're reading, you're not. There's a twist at the end that explains it all. If you're into horror movies and/or extreme situations, then you can read it straight through. If you're not, then you can read the ending first, then go back and see how "the magician did the trick."

The man drove slowly down the long, dirt road, his car clattering over the rattling washboard undulations as a cloud of dust billowed behind him. He didn't want to be abusing his car like this, but there was only one place he wanted to go in this God-forsaken country and this road led to it.

The scenery changed from trees to open field, back to trees as the road led through a cattle-gate that had been left open, just for him. A bit farther and he was in the thickest part of the forest, where he saw the truck, a late-model pick-up with a custom plate that read "CPTLSM" that told him he was at the right spot. He pulled in behind it, parked his car, and got out.

A man with long, unkempt hair emerged from the brush. "You have money?" he asked in a heavy accent.

"Yeah, Alexi," the man replied.

"Then I have girl." The long-haired man stretched his hands out towards his customer, waiting for payment.

The driver reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. "It's all there," he said, passing the package to the scruffy, heavy-set man.

"I like to count," came the reply as thick fingers pulled bills from the paper sheath. Holding a piece of currency up to the sun, the Alexi asked, "It is real?"

"Yeah. I'm not a counterfeiter."

"Good," the fat man confirmed, examining the note. "Good, good. Ok, you wait here."

The foreigner waddled back to the CPTLSM truck and opened the passenger-side door. He reached in and pulled out a plain cotton sack that rattled slightly as he walked back to his customer. "There are rules," he said, passing the bag to the man. "You can hit but do not break skin. No cutting. No choking. No breaking bones. No blood. Nothing on the face. You can use only the things in this bag. And, you only have until sun goes down, then she is mine again. Ok?"

"What? No blood? That wasn't the deal."

"This is new deal. My deal. I get girl for you, but it is not easy. Last time you leave marks."

That was true. He hadn't meant to, but he'd never used that whip before and it was stronger than he thought it would be. It had definitely left marks, and after the third stroke, when he saw the damage it was doing to her skin, he had backed off. By then it was too late. The marks were there.

The customer let out a sigh and accepted the bag. "Ok," he said as he opened up the sack to examine its contents.

Inside was a menagerie of different whips, floggers, and paddles. He took a quick inventory, deciding in what order he'd use them. First he'd start with a riding crop to warm her up, then progress through the longer and stiffer rods and canes. The Captain's Daughter would be worth a few swings followed by the bull whip for his grand finale.

Then he noticed the metallic shape at the bottom, oblong with a wide bulbous base and a turnscrew at the top.

The pear.

He reached in and pulled it out to examine it further, twisting the screw as the base opened up like flower petals. Each petal ended with a small tooth at the end, and he could only imagine what effect it would have when inserted into the human body.

He smiled. This would be better than he had imagined.

"Ok," he said. "Which way?"

"Down this path. She is at end. You cannot get lost."

The girl, stripped, was stretched out between two trees by thick coils of rope around her wrists and ankles. Dark-haired and well-toned with feminine muscle, she tugged at the bonds, her body twisting against the restraints. She was standing, her arms and legs spread wide, leaving her most sensitive regions open and exposed. Her Mound of Venus bore the smoothness of freshly-shaved skin and a thick blindfold covered her eyes.

Around her neck she wore a stiff collar with a small plastic box affixed to one side - a shock collar to guarantee obedience. A tiny light glowed green, indicating that the battery was fully charged. A number written on the side of the box said that she was number twenty-nine.

He smiled. He remembered her from the last session. He'd worked her over good, taking his time as he slowly increased the abuse of her body, pushing towards her pain threshold just to see how much she could take. She'd taken a lot. Alexi was right. Fuck yeah he'd left marks. The marks from that abuse had healed, and now, stretched out naked in the isolated clearing, she was ready to be taken to her limit again.

She heard his approaching footsteps and said something in a language he didn't understand. When he didn't respond, she repeated it, slightly louder and in a questioning tone. When she realized it was the customer, she tugged nervously at the ropes around her wrists, testing their hold on her body, knowing that she would soon suffer terribly.

The man placed the sack on the ground, and she said something to him in a flat matter-of-fact tone. A taunt? A challenge? He didn't know. He recognized the word "pain", but that was all. He ignored her. Soon she would be screaming too much to say any words at all. He wondered if she knew what would be done to her as she hung stretched out between the trees. Of course not. He didn't know himself. Yet.

He glanced towards the sun. It would set in a few hours. He had plenty of time to break her.

This was his fifth time with her. Or was it his sixth? Christ, he'd lost count. For what he was paying in rental, he should've been allowed to buy her outright. Then again, she'd be a depreciating asset. How much could she really take before it all caught up to her? He didn't know. But even if it was his sixth time with her, she still looked as fresh as the first time he'd fucked her up.

That had been an experience - the first time he'd had the courage to even try it. He'd been told about it in a hushed whisper from a friend, about a service across the old border where you could rent a girl for a couple hours of pleasure. Or pain. Or both. And with the windfall he'd gotten in an unexpected commission, he'd decided to blow it all on a few hours of fun. Why the hell not? His little contribution to the local economy. And a couple of weeks later, after the wounds had healed, she'd been just like new. Just like now. He'd made Alexi take pictures and send them to him, just to prove it to himself that she was ok, just to ease the guilt of what he'd done. After all, he wasn't completely heartless.

That first time, he'd gone too quickly. He'd been too excited to really savor the moment, switching from whip to flogger to cane without really enjoying the ride. It was like when he lost his virginity. He was so shocked to be doing it that he hadn't had the awareness to really get into the act.

Alexi had laughed when the man had come back to return the bag of instruments. He knew his customer had already blown his wad at least twice, possibly three times, and now lacked the strength to use the rest of his time. The girl had been taken down, bundled up, and sent away before the sun had even hit the horizon.

The second time was better. That wasn't free money. He'd actually saved up for that session and had taken his time. He'd worked too long and hard to earn the cash, and he was pleasantly surprised to see a new whip in the bag. The bull whip. Long and black, it looked like it could do some serious damage. He'd saved it for last, building up to it.

He'd pushed her then, watching her writhe in the open air, enjoying the way her muscles twisted with pain. Her righteously taut torso had fascinated him as her ribs squeezed the air out of her body in deep choking gasps. The sweat that had coated her skin had really highlighted her musculature nicely.

When that long, black whip hit her the first time, she'd nearly jumped out of her ropes.

The second time it had hit her, she'd grunted with exertion.

The third time, she'd screamed.

By the time he got to the twentieth stroke, she was weeping openly. That'd just made him more aroused. So, he'd given her ten more.

She had surrendered after that.

Then, her spirit broken, he'd fucked her long and hard. Even in her condition, stretched out, beaten and crying, she'd waved her hips, grinding against him, just like she had been taught. Fuck. What he could do with a woman like her...

He'd rented her three more times since then, or so he estimated, and each time there'd been something new added to the bag. Something new to use on her body. And each time he'd left her hanging there, crying and spent, her body bearing the marks of her abuse.

And now he had a pear.

Fuck.

The pear wasn't like a whip. The pear could do some serious, serious damage. He could control the intensity of a whipping, pushing the girl as hard as he wanted by swinging harder or softer. But a pear... How the hell could he tell how much pain she was feeling? He couldn't. He'd have to judge how much she was suffering by how hard she would fight and scream once it was inside her.

That might be fun - imagining the metal object tucked in nice and tight against her pussy, stretching it, the little teeth tearing at the entrance to her uterus as he beat her with the whip. He'd make her crack, one way or the other. Maybe the cat-o'-nine-tails first. If that didn't work, he'd go with the bull whip. The bull whip would definitely break her, just like it had the last time. Fuck that had been sweet. And now with the pear, too? His cock twitched eagerly against his pants just thinking about it.

Alexi had given him quite a quiver of instruments. Too many, really. He only needed three or four. He smiled as he drew the short-handled buggy whip from the sack.

Most buggy whips, those used for actual horses, had a long, stiff handle with a short length of leather for the tail. But this one had been specifically crafted for use on humans, with a shorter handle that made it easier to control where it struck its victim. Very precise. But despite the shorter handle, the effect was the same. There was no doubt about that. He'd learned that after it had left an angry red welt just below his victim's left breast, a neat little J-shaped mark that quickly turned beet-red as she screamed and pulled against her bonds.

He decided right there he would repeat that little performance on her body again.

But first he'd play with her nudity, to remind her of her helplessness.

He snapped the whip a few times in the air, judging the stiffness of the handle. The woman recognized the sound of the tail swishing through the air and tensed instantly, waiting for it to strike her body. She turned her head demurely, resting her cheek against her left shoulder, preparing herself for the pain she knew would come.

He approached her outstretched form, the leaves and twigs snapping under his boots. Facing her, he reached behind her head and grabbed a handful of her hair, twisting her head roughly to remind her of her powerlessness. Then he pulled her head back and gave her a quick, forceful kiss. More symbolic than romantic. What she wouldn't give him willingly, he'd take from her instead.

The whip tapped down the front of her body, even as he held her hair, the long, stiff handle bouncing across her puckering nipples before continuing its journey across her lean, flat tummy. Her thighs, spread wide and lashed firmly to the trees, offered her no protection from the insistent tappings of the whip.

He flicked the whip quickly back and forth between her thighs, the tip passing millimeters from the opening to her snatch. She let out a soft moan and twisted her hips, trying to avoid the small blows to her sensitive region. The man noted with satisfaction that, even now, her pussy was beginning to awaken, instinctively preparing itself for intercourse.

He had once wondered why they did it, why the women sold themselves into Alexi's stable. Alexi had responded that the reason was simple. He had money. They didn't.

But the man hadn't been satisfied with that answer. Did the women, at some level, derive some pleasure from it? There were a lot of ways to earn money in the sex trade. Selling yourself for whipping and torture took a special breed of woman. Alexi said he had dozens, even though the customer had only seen Number Twenty-nine each time he'd purchased a girl. How did he find them? It wasn't like he could simply place an ad in the newspaper or online.

Alexi had smiled. The man asked too many questions. The women were there for him to abuse. That was all he should know.

That had ended that conversation.

And now he had Number Twenty-nine strung between two trees, naked and waiting, her pussy blossoming between her wide-forked thighs.

He paused and grabbed her hair again, twisting her head forcefully, reminding her that this was for his enjoyment, not hers. She let out an acknowledging grunt. Giving her hair one last yank, he went back to business.

The whip tap, tap, tapped against her pussy, the leather tail dancing across the sensitive folds of skin, reminding her of his control over her body, warning her of the pain that was to come.

He flipped the whip just above her cleft, smacking against the crest of her mound. She gasped but did not cry out. He struck her again, the leather tip crossing over her bare-shaved pubis. He repeated the blow five more times, watching as she tried to curl her hips back and away, trying to avoid the stinging kiss of the whip.

He studied the way her body moved, how her face contorted with the first tinglings of pain. How old was she? It was hard to tell. She had the hardbody of a teenager, petite and tight, with absolutely no fat other than a pair of breasts that were high and firm with a natural softness, just as they should be.

Just the way he liked them.

Her face was mature, though, making it hard to guess as to her true age. She could be seventeen or thirty-seven. Her eyes would be the truest way to know, but they were obscured by the blindfold. Alexi had warned him against removing it, telling him that it protected the identity of both the torturer and the victim. He could pass her on the street and not even know it was her. Likewise, she wouldn't recognize him, not even in a police line-up, and there was a definite safety in that.

The man returned to the task at hand.

He tapped the whip against her pussy, then let the leather tip trace a line up her body, across the ripples of her tummy, tapping at the dimple of her bellybutton before rising up to poke an exposed breast and tap at a hardened deep-red nipple. She moaned and tried to twist away from the instrument of torture, but the leather tip simply followed its target around the curve of her body, tapping at the hard nub centered on the bulls-eye of her breast, causing the sensitive tissue to draw tighter.

Now the man leaned in, letting the shaft of the whip draw against the puckered flesh.

Like a violinist, he stroked the whip against her nipple, watching as the nub bounced along the seams of the woven leather strips. She winced and tugged at the bonds holding her fast, her muscles tensing. Leaves rustled overhead, warning of a coming breeze, and then the air was wrapping itself around her body, lifting her hair as her breath escaped between her parted lips.

God, she looked so beautiful.

The man wanted to take her right there, to drive himself into her and cum inside her belly. He wanted to fuck her so bad. Right there. And nobody could stop him.

Except himself.

He'd made that mistake the first time - fucking her too early and ejaculating too soon in the session. Now he had learned some self-control. He wanted to stretch this opportunity out as long as he could.

He switched to her other nipple, running the length of the shaft along the sensitive oval, the flesh bouncing along the ridges. He drew it back, then pressed the whip forward again, sawing at the tiny protruding dot. She turned her head away and let out a soft moan, her body trembling with pain and excitement.

The man smiled. She may have sold herself for money the first time, but she had kept coming back because she liked it. Her body told him that much.

Maybe that's why Alexi didn't want him to ask too many questions. Maybe Alexi was afraid he'd lose one of his best girls to a customer forever.

The man drew the shaft across the girl's nipple again, studying her reaction. Her body confirmed it. Yes, she most definitely enjoyed it.

He slid the shaft along the length of her body, letting the stiffness glide along the curves of her torso, down along her flanks and across her hips. Her tummy expanded as she inhaled, then tightened as her ribs pushed the air out of her lungs and across her lips. A gasp escaped from her mouth as she hung, spread-eagled, in the wooded hideaway. She dropped her head back, pushing her breasts forward, offering them to the man should he choose to stroke her nipples.

There was a whoosh, then the whip cracked against the soft mounds, her teats bobbing from the impact. She gasped sharply, then let out a low moan as the pain flowed through her body.

The man reached forward with his left hand, letting his palm slide down her torso. Her pale skin felt warm and soft as his fingertips traced the natural crease of muscle dividing her tummy. A shiver ran the length of her body and tiny goosebumps appeared on her arms and the tops of her thighs. The man saw her pussy in full bloom, advertising her arousal, and slid the contoured shaft between her blood-rich petals. She shivered again and hung her head, her hair cascading across her shoulders and against her back.

The man slipped the whip back along her pussy, letting each seam tug at the sensitive tissue. Reaching the end, he tapped the leather tail against her sex, causing her to flinch and jump reflexively. Then, he slowly slid the whip along her sex again, repeating her small torture as she tugged helplessly against the ropes.

He moved the shaft to the left of her sex, pressing against her opening, teasing the blood-rich nerves hidden there, then moved to the other side, stimulating those as well. The girl twisted her hips, trying to avoid the touch of the shaft against her pussy, but the whip simply twisted with her. Letting out a frustrated whimper, the girl tilted her head against her shoulder as the man continued to play with her nakedness.

For what seemed like an eternity he did that, sliding the whip against her snatch the way a musician plays a violin. He was playing her body, watching how she writhed against the ropes, aroused and helplessly bound.

She shivered again and let out a soft moan.

The man pulled the whip away from her pussy, but only to switch ends. Now he pressed the knobbed handle against her opening, watching as her cunt separated to accept the rounded handle as if it were a cock.

His cock.

She shivered and moaned again.

The man stepped back and reached for the bag of instruments. He set the whip aside and sorted through the menagerie. It was time to play with the newest addition to his little collection.

It was time for the pear.

He lifted a small bottle, flipped open the lid, and squeezed a generous amount of clear oil around the wide base, letting the liquid coat the cold metal. Satisfied with his handiwork, he approached her nude, spread body.

He reached underneath her, cupping her sex with his left hand as he held the evil device with his right. Slowly, he rubbed her pussy with his open palm, feeling the warmth of her cunt. Then, he slid two fingers into her, drawing a gasp from her as he probed along her walls. She exhaled, shivered, and tugged at the ropes. God, she was so fucking wet. He'd have no trouble getting the torture device into her body.

His fingers withdrew from her tunnel, only to be replaced by the hard, unyielding metal fruit. He slid the bulbous end along the length of her slit, then, fighting the resistance of her vagina, pushed the device into her. She squirmed at the pressure of the intrusion, twisting her hips as she sought to accommodate the girth of the pear's base.

He continued to push the evil tool into her, letting it slide deeper into her cunt until only the stem of the crank protruded from her pussy.

He waited patiently until she had calmed. He wanted her to feel every turn of the screw. He wanted to watch her struggle with each successive increase in size. He wanted her to feel her body slowly being destroyed.

Finally, she settled back onto the earthen floor of the forest, her bare feet, captured by the bonds around her ankles, resting on the ground.

He reached underneath her and turned the screw.

The effect was immediate. She inhaled deeply and pulled on the ropes around her wrists, trying to pull herself away from the pressure. The man, encouraged by her reaction, reached underneath and turned the screw again, imagining the petals of the device spreading and pressing against the walls of her pussy. She moaned and began to wiggle her hips, trying to push the instrument out of her vagina. But, with the petals extended, it was locked firmly in place.

The man reached between her legs and turned the crank again.

She moaned with pain, sharper this time. He smiled. He was getting the reaction he wanted. Now it was time to use the whip again.

He'd used the Captain's Daughter on her before. Short-handled, it wouldn't generate much velocity, but nine tails felt like an explosion of pain when it struck the skin. With each blow she had cried out beautifully the last time he'd used it, and he looked forward to bringing her to tears again. He reached into the bag and pulled it out.

Walking casually back to his victim, he let the leather straps dangle from his hand, sorting themselves out as he stepped behind the outstretched woman.

Without any warning, he suddenly brought the short whip forward, letting it land with a smack against her back as the black cat-o'-nine-tails splayed across her skin. The blow lifted her up and forward, her body stretching tightly against the tension of the ropes around her wrists and ankles. She cried out with pain and surprise, just as he knew she would.

Before she could recover, he brought the whip forward again, the leather straps exploding across her back. Again she was pushed forward, and again she cried out.

He settled into a rhythm, landing blow after blow against the girl's back. With each strike she cried out, tugging at the bonds holding her body fast. How many could she take? He'd counted almost fifty the last time.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty... she was crying, but she hadn't broken yet. He kept striking her, blow after blow, pushing her towards her pain threshold. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight...

She began to undulate her hips, trying to squeeze the pear out from its wet hiding hole. Even as the whip clawed at her back, she was focused on the small metal orb lodged in her pussy. God, what that must feel like, being torn from inside as the whip raked her back. Still, he kept whipping her. No mercy.

Forty-nine, fifty... he paused, studying his victim. Her skin glowed with perspiration and strands of her dark hair clung to her back and shoulders. She was crying, choking, but still she hadn't broken. He shook out the tails of the whip and resumed her beating.

Fifty-one, fifty-two... she was crying, screaming, begging for it to end.

He slowed his tempo, letting each blow reverberate throughout her body before striking her again. He wanted her to feel the full impact of her whipping. Eventually she would break. And when she had, the real fun would begin.

She was crying loudly now, hanging from the ropes around her arms more than she was standing, her toes clawing at the ruts she had dug into the earthen floor of the forest as her body swayed from the beating she was enduring. She was suffering terribly, struggling to absorb the pain of the evil lash.

The man's arm began to grow weary with fatigue. Christ! How long could she last? She'd never gone this long before.

Finally a long, pitiful wail came from the woman's throat. She was crying, sobbing, and her head hung loosely between her outstretched arms. She hadn't broken, she hadn't surrendered yet, but she was close.

Close enough.

Time for a new toy.

He went back to the bag and pulled out the bull whip. No need to mess with the other floggers. This one would do the job nicely.

Like a long, black snake, he coiled it around his wrist, gathering the length in his hand to keep it from dragging behind him as he moved to the woman's backside. He always wondered if she could see through the edges of the blindfold. At least by moving behind his victim, he was certain she'd never see the blows coming.

He paused, studying her, noting the way her body formed a near-perfect X as she hung between the trees, the tiny silver knob of the pear barely visible between her wide-forked thighs. Her back glowed red from the kiss of the Captain's Daughter, but he hadn't broken her skin. Alexi had warned him about that. Break a rule and the game is over, and she was too good to lose to stupidity. He'd just have to exercise a little self-discipline. That's all.

He relaxed his grip on the bull whip, letting the long, dark leather uncoil. The tail landed with a dull thump against the ground as he positioned himself behind her. She turned her head slightly, as if trying to see what was going on just beyond her range of vision.

There was a whoosh and a loud crack as the long length of black leather wrapped itself around her hip, forming a belt just above her tightening ass-cheeks.

She let out a cry and kicked at the ground, her muscles twisting deliciously, drawing her ass up and away from the pain. The whip clung to her damp skin for a moment, then gently fell away, its energy spent. As the leather parted from her skin, he could see the angry red line already beginning to form.

He drew the whip back and there was another whoosh, then a loud crack as the whip landed just a little bit higher on her body, wrapping itself tightly around the rim of her lean tummy. The tail of the whip caught itself around the woven leather strands, loosely tying itself around her body. The man tugged on the handle, encouraging the whip to unravel, pulling the woman towards him as her feet struggled to maintain contact with the ground.

Another whoosh and another loud crack, the whip wrapping around her torso, leaving an angry red welt across the lattice-work of her ribs. She jumped and screamed, but she did not surrender. He'd have to keep working on her.

The whip flew through the air again, impacting across the lower curve of her breasts, causing them to tremble and shake from the blow. She threw her head back and screamed, an ear-piercing cry of pain as the whip's tail fell limply to the ground.

Again the man drew the whip back, and again there was a whoosh and a crack. This time the leather found fresh skin, higher across her breasts, directly over her nipples. She let out an anguished cry and tugged at the ropes around her wrists, trying to lift herself up as the ropes around her ankles held her firmly in place.

He repeated her whipping ten more times, and each time she cried out in agony and tugged furtively at the ropes. But she did not surrender. Her will was too strong.

He'd have to use the pear again.

He stepped closer to her and drew a line with his fingertip along the inside of her left thigh, starting just above her knee. She shivered at the sensation and instinctively tried to press her legs together, but the bonds held her fast. She was helpless to resist his touch.

His finger travelled upward, tickling the opening to her snatch before coming to rest on the silver turnscrew of the devilish device buried inside her body. He gave it a solid crank, spinning the small dial a full rotation, and as the petals expanded inside her she inhaled deeply, struggling to absorb the pain. He patted the nether region of her ass-cheeks gently as the twin globes of muscle tightened with exertion. As she settled back onto the ground, he gave the screw another full turn.

She howled in agony, the pain becoming too much. She shook her head and screamed, begging, pleading with him for mercy. But still, she did not surrender.

The bull whip would finish the job.

He stepped away from her even as she continued to pant and choke and gasp and cry. The long leather strips, woven into a single tail, slid along the ground as he prepared to deliver another stroke. She shook her head and cried. She knew what was coming.

There was a whoosh and a crack and her whole body seemed to explode in pain and agony. A frightened yell tore from her throat and fresh sweat matted her hair. The twisted strands of leather fell to the ground as she screamed again.

She coughed and panted and begged for mercy. Then he heard the words he had longed to hear.

"Ich kapitulieren!" she cried out. "Ich kapitulieren!"

The man chuckled as the woman hung sobbing, her sweat-slicked body glistening before him, suspended between the trees, open and helpless and defeated.

He dropped the whip on the ground and approached his prize. Broken, she was now his to do with as he pleased.

He reached between her legs and spun the silver knob, closing the evil petals of the pear. She let out a long sigh as the pressure decreased in her pussy. Her whole body seemed to relax, knowing that her ordeal was over.

Or was it?

The man pulled the pear out of her body, the orb making a wet, slurping sound as it slid out of her pussy. The man studied it briefly, noting how it shined in the dimming sunlight and marveling how something so small and innocent-looking could be so sinister. It had certainly served its purpose.

He glanced up at the woman who hung panting from the ropes around her wrists. Sweat coated her body, and her head hung with defeat.

It was time.

He reached for his belt and loosened his pants, the buckle clinking loudly as the fabric fell away.

His cock sprung forth with eager anticipation. Released from its bondage, the head throbbed with arousal, impatiently waiting to do its job. The man leaned closer to her and pressed himself against her well-prepared hole. She gasped slightly as he entered her, but that was all she did. She could not resist him.

He gave a long slow pump, driving his cock deep into her belly. She winced with discomfort, the walls of her pussy ravaged by the evil pear. Her reaction made him smile. The device had certainly served its purpose, causing her intense pain, and he imagined how her genitals must look after those teeth had dug into them. But her pain was not his concern. He slid back slightly, then drove himself forcefully into her.

She inhaled deeply, then let her breath go in short, quick gasps as he pulled back and prepared to drive into her again.

She followed him.

He pumped his cock into her pussy, and now she was moving her hips with him still inside her. She squeezed his cock encouragingly, as if trying to draw out his seed on her own. The man smiled. God, she was fantastic.

Together, they began to fall into a rhythm. Her body had been ravaged, her spirit broken, but still she had the strength to fuck him. Too weak to stand on her own, she seemed as if impaled on his body, her weight supported by the strength of his blood-infused tissue that pulsed with energy inside her. She gasped in raspy, choking, breaths, her lips slightly parted to reveal the clean white teeth beyond.

He was building to his climax, his balls tightening as they prepared to shoot their load into the girl's body. With a mighty thrust, he drove himself into her, wrapping his arms around her back to hold her as his cock blew his wad against the puckered bulls-eye of her cervix. She let out a cry and a small squeal as she, too, exploded in an orgasmic supernova. They stayed there, perched on the edge of eternity as their primitive instincts took over, as his cum filled her belly. Then, his energy spent, he exhaled and withdrew his softening penis as the woman hung wet and naked from the ropes, her hair damp with sweat.

He looked down to examine his manhood, to congratulate it on a job well done.

Specks of blood dotted the rim of the softening head, the skin already beginning to wrinkle. He cradled his cock in his hands to check the mighty sword for damage. But the blood wasn't his. It was hers.

Cut, bleeding, whipped, and finally broken, she had still managed to fuck his brains out. God, what he could do with a woman like her.

He stepped back and tucked his manhood into his pants, fastened the zipper and buckled the belt. Gathering the pear and the whip, he then strode over to the bag and placed the collection of torture instruments back inside. He wouldn't release her. That was Alexi's job.

Giving her a final glance, he turned and walked back down the small path.

"She was good?" Alexi asked as the customer handed him the bag.

"Yeah. Fuck, yeah," he replied. "That was the best yet. I wish I could take her with me."

The fat man chuckled. "Is too bad you cannot." Then Alexi raised his hand to cup his chin. "But perhaps we can make new deal..."

The man examined the signs, looking for a particular room number. Alexi had called him that morning, after the man's funds transfer had cleared. Go to Room 366 and await further instructions. The man had blanched at the message, complaining that Alexi was going to have him going all over town on a wild goose chase while Alexi escaped with his money. But Alexi had given assurances and, finally, the man had agreed. What other choice did he have?

His heels clicked loudly down the deserted hall. This time of year, the university would be empty except for a few maintenance workers. He turned a corner. The room would be at the end of the hall, secluded in a remote section of the building. He fleetingly wondered if Alexi had set him up to be murdered.

No, not likely. If Alexi had wanted him dead he could've done it in a deserted parking garage or an abandoned building. There were plenty of them around. No, a university building would make a clumsy crime scene for a homicide.

The man counted down the room numbers, each door bearing the marks of discarded tape and tacks where jokes, reports, and once-important notices had been posted. He laughed at the thought of the political propaganda that must've once been put there, espousing the virtues of a new economy. That hadn't worked out quite the way the illustrious leaders had promised.

Then he found it. Room 366. Dr. Alina von Wolfsburg, Associate Professor of Germanic Studies.

The man stood frozen in the hall, trying to wrap his brain around that little tidbit of information.

A professor?

He had been torturing and fucking a professor?

And she had liked it!

He started to turn away, to walk away from the woman behind that door. He regretted even knowing her name. Even if he hired Alexi again, he could never work with Number Twenty-nine again. Ever. That fantasy had been interrupted by reality. She wasn't just another girl. Now she was Dr. Alina von Wolfsburg, who had probably delivered her doctoral dissertation on sexual torture and had used him as an example.

Fuck!

He took a few hurried steps, trying to make good his escape. Then he paused.

A professor. He had been paying for a woman who was a college professor. Why would a college professor sell herself like that? And not just once, but at least a half-dozen times. Why?

Was it the money? Was it for the adventure of doing something dangerous? Or was the sex just that good?

There was only one way to find out.

He hesitantly knocked on the door.

"Jah?" a female voice called out.

Go get'em, sport.

The man turned the handle on the door and slowly opened it.

He sat in the guest chair of Dr. von Wolfsburg's office, taking in the information that the woman was giving him.

Her grant had expired with the change of government. On a whim, she had answered an advertisement in the local Classifieds. "WANTED: FEMALE MODELS AND ACTRESSES. MUST BE WILLING TO DO NUDITY. HIGH PAY. SAFE. SECURE. DISCREET. TRAINING PROVIDED." That was all it took. She'd responded with a made-up name and a photograph of her in a bikini. They wanted her real name, personal information, and full-body profile shots of her nude - front, back, and sides - for casting purposes. That was her first big hurdle, getting over her self-image.

She hadn't liked any of the shots she'd taken so she'd spoken with a fine arts professor about photographing her. A bargain had been made, her picture in exchange for her posing as a nude model in a figure studies class. That had been her second hurdle, getting over her fear of being nude in front of strangers. But she had done it. And she had found the challenge exciting.

She had sent in the photos and three days later "Sergei" had called her.

"Sergei?" the man asked.

Yes, that was the name he had given her.

The man laughed. Of course the fat bastard would use two identities, depending on who was contacting him.

She'd come in for a personal interview. There were other girls there, most of them younger than her and obviously recruited from the sex shops judging by their dress, tattoos, and piercings. That was her third hurdle, accepting that she was now in the sex industry. It made her feel cheap. She didn't belong there. She wasn't one of them, and she almost left.

Then a woman came in with everyone's papers. She called out some names and dismissed a few of the gaudier ones, and a few girls, either very heavy or very thin or with obvious addiction issues, were directed into another room still. The rest were told to wait to be called, that they would be given individual interviews with Sergei.

A few of the girls knew each other and chatted quietly, but most kept to themselves. The girls that she was with looked pretty and could pass for normal students with a change of clothes. But of course they wouldn't be wearing clothes in this job. She laughed.

Then Sergei had come and had taken her into a room where he had asked her some questions, asking her to describe herself and her sexual history. She'd had boyfriends and had done a little self-bondage, but nothing serious. Why did she want to do this job? Her own "Sturm und Drang" perhaps. She was studying the influence of the German Inquisition on 17th-century literature for her doctorate dissertation and had been fascinated by the accounts. How could she expect herself to accurately describe what the poor victims had gone through emotionally if she herself had never felt that same fear and helplessness?

Sergei had liked her answer.

She had filled out a form listing various things: whipping, choking, urination, and a few others. That was another hurdle, imaging those things being done to her. The more she checked the more she could earn, so she had checked as many as she thought she could handle.

After that, she'd been asked to select what instruments could be used on her. She'd never been whipped before, so she'd chosen the smaller ones, assuming that the shorter handle would generate less velocity, and with less velocity less damage.

Then her pain threshold had been tested by having her grasp a ladder rung with two electrical contacts on it, wired to a circuit box that was in turn wired to a laptop. A computer cable ran from the laptop to a motor mounted on a small cart, and attached to that motor was a thin piece of rubber hose. She was told that as long as she held onto the two contacts on the rung, the machine would continue to whip her with the hose, once every three seconds. The longer she held on, the more money she would make on her assignments. The computer was there to make sure that the whip struck her at the exact same velocity every time, and at a regular interval.

She had nodded her understanding and had stripped off the last of her clothing, leaving her naked for the examination of the men in the room as she grasped the rung, bracing herself against the ladder. To make sure the whip was able to find its mark as the session continued, her legs, hips, and shoulders had been tied to the ladder's frame. Then the camera had been turned on and the whipping program initiated.

The first bite of the whip stung the worst. The anticipation, laying there tied to the wood frame, waiting to be struck, was what had made it so bad. Once she had gotten past the first handful of blows, the endorphins had kicked in and it hadn't been so bad. At least not until the thirty-seventh shot.

She'd let go, and then immediately regretted it. Sergei had called out her wage. Far too low. She could go further. Start the program again.

Sergei conferred with a nurse who was there to monitor Alina's health. A quick check and she was cleared. No problems.

The machine had whipped her again.

The second round she had nearly doubled the count, and her wage. As they had cleaned her marks with astringent to prevent infection, he had playfully asked if she wanted to try again a third time, and she had said, "Nein."

Sergei had explained that it was a long-term assignment requiring physical training and preparation, that she would only be called if a client matched her criteria, and that she could always decline the offer, but once she accepted and the client had confirmed, she was committed. If she tried to back out at the last minute, they would find her, kidnap her, and deliver her to the client as promised. Some clients preferred an unwilling girl.

That had set off some alarms. What had she gotten herself into? But she needed the money and wanted the experience, and they assured her she would be safe if she obeyed the rules, so she had signed the contract.

There was a three-month training program, very strict. Cardio and weights, a diet plan, and random check-ups. No tobacco, no alcohol, no drugs. They'd cleared all the bad food out of her kitchen. A nurse had come by once a week for blood tests and to check her heart, lungs, and vitals. Sergei conferred with her exercise trainer to make sure she was progressing in her work-outs, explaining that the work she would be doing was extremely physical and she needed to be in top shape.

And there were benefits. She noticed that the "lazy" weight was coming off. Her body was slimming down and firming up. She looked good and felt great. She even noticed she had a better attitude at her day job. A lot of people pay a lot of money for such a regimen, but for her, the training was free. Or so she thought. Sergei was keeping a tab that would have to be repaid.

Then had come the first call. She had an assignment. Please respond if interested.

She'd thought about it overnight. Could she do it? Could she prostitute herself? And what would happen to her? It would be dangerous. But, that was what had attracted her to it. Plus, she owed money to Sergei and her "real" creditors. She had called Sergei and accepted.

As the woman described her adventure the man found himself beginning to drift.

Her eyes. She had what some described as "romantic eyes", dark and clear, with just a bit of eyeliner and mascara to bring them out. He hadn't noticed them before because they had been covered by the blindfold, but now, as she began to open up emotionally in her story, he could see the adventurous soul that lay behind those eyes. What he could do with a woman like her...

He imagined what it must have been like for her, to be stretched out naked while some stranger acted out his darkest desires. What had she felt? Fear? Excitement? A mix of both perhaps? And how many men had taken her that way?

The first man had been very quick, she explained, whipping her only a handful of times, then fucking her, then whipping her again. He had tried to fuck her a second time but his tool just wasn't up to the task. She'd gotten home in time to catch up on laundry and watch a little television.

The second man was better, showing more patience and experimenting with most of the things in the bag. Surprisingly, he hadn't tried to fuck her. He just wanted to play with the toys. She'd gotten plenty of experience at the end of a whip in that session.

Two men, two sessions, and she'd only been fucked once. She began to wonder if something was wrong with her. Sergei began to wonder, too. Was she screaming? Yes. Was she crying? Yes. What about acting terrified? No, she hadn't done that. Ok, do it next time and see what happens.

She had. And she hadn't even had to fake it.

The third man had snuck a small butane torch in his coat pocket and had used it to burn her. Of all the things that had been done to her up to that point, that was the worst. She felt the tremendous heat as she was cooked alive, and she could smell her skin burning. It was terrible and she had screamed horribly. She'd surrendered almost immediately, but the man had continued to torture her, holding the blowtorch against her body as her skin bubbled. For the first time, she knew true terror.

Her screaming was excessive, even for a woman being whipped, and Sergei had come.

She had heard yelling, then punching and grunting, and when she was released she could see where the grass had been chewed up. The torch lay abandoned on the ground but the man was nowhere to be seen.

After that, she'd been given a room at the Vinoy, with a nurse to tend to her wounds until the scabs had dropped and bandages were no longer necessary. She had asked about the contract, about how much longer she had to do the assignments. Sergei had said, "Just one more."

The first man, who had been so quick, wanted her again. Dr. Alina von Wolfsburg, remembering how quickly he had finished, figured it was an easy assignment and had agreed to do it one more time.

Cosmetics had been applied over the pink skin where the burns had cooked away her flesh, and then she had once more been blindfolded and stretched out between the trees.

"That time, you were better," she said.

"Hmm?" the man replied, snapping out of his daydream.

She smiled. "That time, you were not in such a rush. Yes, I know it was you. You were special to me. After the first time, you ask Sergei to take pictures, to make sure I was ok. You were concerned about me, yes? And that second time, you took your time and went slow, and that was the speed I wanted. You pushed me, but not too fast. It was good for me, too."

The man sat there, stunned.

"I could have quit after that, and for a while I did," she continued. "I had my degree and this job then, and did not need the money so bad. There were other calls for assignments but each time I said, 'Nein' because I did not want to do it anymore. Four times was enough. But then Sergei called me and said my special friend wanted to hire me again, so I came back, just for you."

"For me?"

She nodded.

"And the third time?" he asked.

"I come back each time only for you. The money was nothing. You were special, not like the others. I feel that you know me, not my identity of course, but what I like. What I want. You come back, so I think maybe you like to try something new, so I add a toy to the bag. Each time. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Each time something different to use. And you did."

A dawning realization crept over the man. He hadn't played her. She had played him. It was no coincidence that he had drawn Number Twenty-nine every time. She had selected him, and had been using him to act on her fantasies. And he had paid for the privilege! He shook his head in disbelief at his foolishness. All this time...

Clever girl.

He returned her smile. "So tell me, where did you find that pear?"

"A friend builds for the Renaissance Fair, the custom armor and metal bits for the actors. I ask him to make something for me, something secret. He says ok, but I must do something for him, too." She laughed. "I spent a lot of holidays wearing only a burlap sack with my hands and feet in the stocks, snarling at people like a witch." She made a face and giggled. "It was funny. All the men try to look at the sides, to sneak a peek at my boobs. But, of course I had done public nudity already, and worse things, too, so to me it was just a joke. And, it helped me to understand what it was like to spend all day in the stocks while people watched. My friend say I only need to do it for a few hours, but I stay all day and the next, to get the experience. Burlap is very uncomfortable, very itchy, but I wear it because the witches did. I even pee myself. Right there. Like they did." She frowned. "Not pleasant, but not as bad as being burned."

He imagined her there, clad in a simple burlap tunic, a rope tied around her waist, the sides open to curious eyes wondering if she really was naked underneath. All day like that, helpless to cover herself, just so she could later be subjected to the pear by a stranger. The strength she must have to do that, to endure something like that.

And those eyes.

She smiled at him. "You are thinking of me in the stocks, yes?"

The man laughed and began to relax, studying the way the woman was completely at ease about the whole thing. That had been one of his concerns, that she would hate him for what he had done to her. That had bothered him.

Why?

He began to think. Why did he care about her? She had just been a random girl, something to be used and discarded. Sure, he had paid good money, but did that really mean anything to him? She was a prostitute. Nothing more.

No, something more. He knew it. She was special. And he cared about her. Was he falling in love? No, check that. He was already in love. With her.

"Have dinner with me," he blurted out.

She shook her head. "No, I do not date my customers."

"Then I won't be a customer. Have dinner with me."

She laughed. He was impossible. She smiled tenderly. "You can get another girl."

"I don't want another girl. I want you. And I want you to have dinner with me."

"No. Call Sergei. He will get you another girl." Alina's eyes narrowed with thought. "Ask for Number Twelve. She is pretty. And she is younger than me. You will enjoy her."

The man leaned forward. "I don't want Twelve, or any of the other girls. I don't want Number Twenty-nine, either. I've had her seven times already," he said with a smile. "I want you. I want to know you. The courage you must have to do what you did. And the strength! My god! You're an amazing woman." The man shook his head slowly. "No, I don't want another girl. I want you. And I very much want you to have dinner with me."

Alina started to say something, then changed her mind, tapping at the desk in contemplation.

"Please," the man said.

She glanced at him, then at the clock, then back at him. "It is a long time until dinner," she said.

The man opened his mouth, trying to think of something witty to say. He was coming up deuces.

Alina saw his uncertainty and opened her desk drawer, then pulled out an old-fashioned ring of keys, some modern, some weathered.

"What's that?" the man asked.

"It is to the university's Inquisition exhibit. It is a long time until dinner, and the museum is closed."

"And you have a key," the man said.

"I am the curator," she answered, tilting her head devilishly. "I have responsibilities. I test the artifacts sometimes, to make sure that everything is in good working order."

She pushed herself away from the desk, stood up, and dropped the ring of odd-shaped metal bits on the tabletop. "If you want me, forever, pick them up. Or go. And do not come back."

She had given him an ultimatum. No more teasing. No more anonymity. The man looked at the keys, then at her, then back to the keys. She was daring him to do it, to explore their sexuality together. It was one thing to torture someone you didn't know. It was quite another to do it to someone you did. And loved.

She had come back. Five times. Just for him. All he had to do was come back once. Right now. And he would have her. Forever.

He picked up the keys.

She smiled and reached for his hand. "Come," she said seductively, "I will show you some things."

The man chuckled. God, what he was going do with such a woman...