© Copyright 2006 - Andreabound - Used by permission
Storycodes: Sbf; enclosed; boxed; cons; X
#9 Andreabound in the Iron Maiden – Part One
My last adventure cast as an innocent girl accused of witchcraft and due to be tortured into a confession hadn’t quite worked out as planned. The water seeping into the oubliette had added a level of authenticity that had been more frightening than exciting and consequently the planned fantasy had been driven from my mind. Disappointing, but then the path of true fantasy is littered with rope burns and unforeseen bruises. Not to mention the occasional close shave; all part of a girl’s journey into self discovery.
Once the oubliette had dried out fully, I would be in there again; meanwhile I decided to try something different. Despite wearing thick gloves, my hands were in a sorry state after building cinder block walls and lifting heavy paving slabs. I needed a project that would be gentler on my hands if I weren’t to start getting calluses!
My next project would be to make something out of wood, my building material of choice. It was lighter, easier to work and, if I got stuck I could always ask advice of my night-school class. I thought for a while, about what it could be. I still wanted to build a bondage chair but I felt that was still beyond my skills. A torture chair in which the accused witch would be strapped and have various bits of her body subjected to tortures would be fantastic. I imagined it would include, self-tightening straps, a garrote, and built-in spikes for foot and leg torture. In fact it could have pins all over it so that even just sitting in the chair would be torture. I got a little wet thinking up all sorts of devious devices for my chair; but they would have to wait.
The spikes and pins did give me an idea though and that was to build an iron maiden. I could keep it simple by building a box into which I could lie or stand. The inside of the box would be covered in pins or nails to torture the poor innocent wretch. But how could I prevent real serious injury to myself. It was the idea of pain and the danger of possible torture rather than the pain itself that appealed to me most.
I ended up building a simple box that was just over two feet wide, a foot and a half deep and five and half feet tall. It stood in my basement looking like a poor mans’ coffin or the casing for a sarcophagus. I made a lid for it too, hinged on one side, and then proceeded to draw a grid over the whole of the outside. The grid showed where to drill small pilot holes which I would use for guides to hammer in nails. When I had finished, I had gotten through several bags of nails, the heads of which now made a neat pattern that covered most of the outside and lid of my box. The nails were closely spaced, about an inch between neighbors, and protruded into the inside of the box making a fierce looking interior when I peered inside. I’d done a fair job of knocking the nails in straight and the inside of the box was evenly covered in vicious looking spikes. The nails stopped at neck height as I didn’t want to risk damaging my head, or poking myself in the eye with one of these nasties. It was obvious that standing in the box the nails would press up against my flesh in a number of places and for that reason I had rinsed the nails in disinfectant before using them.
An eyelet screwed into the box at the back of one side provided a fixing for my detergent ice bag. The drawstring for this passed through the eyelet and was attached to a strong length of rubber tubing that I stretched to another eyelet on the front of the door of the maiden. The rubber was just stretchy enough to allow me to open the door but when released would hold the door firmly closed. The door could be opened from the outside easily enough. But the force needed to push the door open would be difficult to apply from the inside without receiving a serious injury from the nails covering the inside of the door. I didn’t plan to have use of my hands while inside, in any case, which would mean it would be impossible to escape until the ice in the bag melted sufficiently to allow the bag to pass through the eyelet and release the end of the rubber tubing.
The size of my box and the length and spacing of the nails, were just right. I could stand inside the iron maiden and the tips of the nails would just press up against my body at my bottom, tops of my thighs, breasts and my arms, assuming they were kept at my sides. In theory, if I kept perfectly still, I would avoid any injury. It would be best to wear nothing inside the iron maiden to increase the sensation but I decided to make an exception of wearing my high-heeled sandals. Not very authentic, but I could imagine them as one of the devilish devices I had to endure as part of my planned torture. I wanted to make sure it would be difficult for me to stand still inside the maiden and therefore increase the risk of falling against the nails.
The box was ready to go and so was I. Three ice cubes made it into the bag, giving me about two hours of captivity, and I strapped two belts around my thighs. I took my two sets of thumbcuffs and closed one end of each on to the relevant thigh strap. For good measure I added my harness ring-gag to my attire and slipped on the sandals. These had five-and-a-half-inch heels and were a size too small, making them difficult to wear for long periods. I made extra sure they would be demanding to wear for a while by pulling the straps tighter than was comfortable. I pulled open the door to the maiden and propped a stick into the gap to hold it open. Ducking under the stick, I slowly backed into the box until I felt the nails at my back. Then reaching down, I slipped each of my thumbs into an open thumbcuff and used my fingers to close the cuffs around my thumbs. I pulled on the string attached to the stick still holding the door open, but it took several hard pulls before the stick finally moved and the rubber tubing snapped back to its natural length slamming the door shut.
Andreabound in the Iron Maiden – Part Two
I howled in pain, or would have, if my gag hadn’t prevented the noise. I guess I had been unconsciously holding my back away from the spikes at the rear of the iron maiden so when the door closed with such speed, the nails in the door went straight into my out-thrust breasts. One nail made direct contact with my right nipple, which due to my arousal was hard and had taken the brunt of the assault. I was sure I’d inadvertently pierced a nipple in the process. I instinctively stepped back and the nails made contact with my behind. My arms flew up too, at least as far as the thumbcuffs attached to my thigh straps would let them. That wasn’t far of course but there was enough slack to allow me to scratch my elbows on the nails at the side. I forced myself to stand dead still.
Feeling around me for pressure points, I discovered I was being slightly pierced at my bottom, breasts and the tops of my arms. I managed to adjust my position so that I couldn’t feel nails anywhere on my body. Any slight movement though, brought me into instant contact with a sharp point somewhere. I would have to remain perfectly still for the next two hours if I wanted to avoid any more pinpricks.
The heels as it turned out were a clever addition to my torture. Apart from the growing ache of standing in the extra high heels so long, the sandals made it almost impossible to stand still. The tight straps and small size of the sandals was starting to tell and I found I couldn’t resist the need to shuffle my feet slightly, each time bringing a different part of my body in contact with some of its spiky tormentors.
And so the next couple of hours passed by predictably slowly. The unnatural position, I needed to hold my body in to avoid the nails, meant I quickly grew tired and, towards the end, I was using sheer will power alone to prevent my weary body from giving up completely and leaning against one of the walls.
I knew I wasn’t the witch they claimed, even if I was the only person in the world to believe that. They could torture me all they liked; I wasn’t going to give them that confession. For, despite their honey-coated promises, I knew that confessing to being a witch would only make things worse for me. They had talked about all sorts of devious tortures in store if I didn’t go along with their questioning. I shivered in my dark and dangerous confinement, wondering what a pear or a heretic’s fork was. I knew the rack awaited me at some point in the future, but I hadn’t heard of the other devices and my imagination was left to run wild, shut in this diabolical box of pain and left for here for hours in an attempt to wear down my resistance to their inquisitions.
The sound of empty ice bag being pulled through the eyelet by the tension in the rubber tube was a huge relief. The door, freed from its attachment to the side of the box, slowly swung open and I was able to step out, blinking, into the welcome light of the basement room. My first session in the iron maiden was over.
There was going to be no rest for the accused however. I was roughly seized by two of the burliest guards and dragged towards my next appointment with my torturers.