Vrasha

Vrahsa could see nothing. It was dark, and the strip of fabric pressed against her eyes. Prestor's voice rang in her ears, but she couldn't make herself focus. The collar around her throat was cold. The rope which bound her arms behind her back was rough. More than any of that however was the feeling between her legs. Painful and arousing and humiliating all at once. Prestor was correct; the wooden horse was making her squirm. The hard feeling of its upper section protruding between her lower lips had become more and more impossible to ignore. Her weight pressed down upon it, chains holding her legs apart so that all of her bodyweight was distributed to her womanhood. At first it had been simple to push herself up with her feet. Standing on the tips of her toes she could - just- raise herself off the device. But as time had gone by, her feet had gotten tired. She had felt herself sinking slowly, feeling the wooden length of the horse start to press into her pussy.

Soon, that became uncomfortable. She rested and lifted herself into the air again. But she could never stay standing for long and the rests started to last for longer and longer. Her clit buzzed, feeling the wooden device push her lower lips aside made her more wet than she would have expected. It was cold and distant, almost clinical. It added to her sense of helplessness, standing in the cell with her arms bound and her eyes blinded. Anyone could be watching her now and she would have no way to tell. Alone in the cell, she'd gone through her fantasies, feeling her inner fire flare and grow.

Maybe she'd been captured during the war and she was being make an example of. Maybe there had been a rebellion and she was being humiliated and displayed to the public. The former queen turned public whore. That thought made her tingle, filled her mind with images but her hands were bound so she could not touch herself even if she had wanted to.

Her legs felt weak. Her pussy grew hot and wet. The wooden horse began to become painful, Vrasha writhed, trying to find a comfortable way to sit upon it but there was none. She simply had to endure, feeling herself being spread and displayed by it. At once both punished and exposed.

It made her feel so aroused and so humiliated.

When Prestor told her what he planned to do that day, Vrasha felt a jolt of panic. She was going to get piercings? But they would see her! They would know who she was! That was against the rules of their little game, but Prestor didn't seem to notice. She'd made sure to tell him that her identity had to be kept hidden and he had agreed. Had he turned on her? Had this become real? She wriggled, and then felt his hand as it cupped her chest. His fingers teased her nipple, making her gasp for air and moan wantonly. His touch was heightened by the feeling of the wooden horse between her legs.

She had been sure of his loyalty. She still was. She did not think that he would reveal her identity. But then how was he intending to get her pierced? Did she even want to be pierced? The idea caused a lump to form in her throat. She knew she could end it with a word, but something stayed her voice. Was it desire or a want to see how far this would go? Simple huniliation and enjoyment of her degradation? She ddin't know, but he gave her an hour to decide whether to submit to him and beg for forgiveness or accept the punishment.

Then he left her in the cell and she rode the wooden horse.