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Fera must survive to carry the honor of her fallen comrades.

You feel dampness, warm water, I'm gently rubbing a wet cloth against you, making sure I rub it just enough to bring you to simmer again but not nearly enough to bring you to the edge. I think you can guess what I'm doing, can't you? Even if you can't, you realise soon enough as the cloth comes away to be replaced a few moments later by the icy steel touch of a razor blade.

"Have to make sure you're nice and smooth and presentable... Not to mention easily accessible." Perhaps you whimper a little for the first time as I slide the razor down across your hair in long, careful strokes, shaving you smooth and bare.

"Like a porn star," I laugh, although I doubt that makes you feel any better about it. The cloth comes back again as I wipe you clean and smooth, then there is silence as I stop again and leave you there to think, fear and wonder.

After a few minutes, I come back towards you. You've had time to cool down, to calm yourself. You think you're ready to take anything I've got to throw at you, but at the same time you're wondering what I could have thought of to try and make you suffer more than you have done already. Well, what's already done has been child's play compared to what's about to come.

"I once read about this," I explain coolly. "I've always been quite interested to see if it works." You can't see what I'm doing, but you hear me setting something up over the edge of the table. I walk around to your head and stroke your hair gently, letting a finger trail tenderly down the side of your face.

"Quite an exciting idea, I thought," I tell you. I reach forward and turn a control. Nothing happens for a few moments, then you feel a drip of water splash onto the inside of your thigh and trickle slowly downwards.

"Oops, a little off-target," I mutter. I reach forward and adjust the nozzle of the tall, thin tap that is arcing over the gap between your legs.

"That should do it I think."

There is another drip. That one hits the spot. Your back arches as the drip splashes over your most sensitive of spots, setting you going for just a second before it trickles down to the table top, leaving you aching and unfulfilled.

"Oh yes, that's definitely it," I smirk.

Ten seconds pass.


The same effect, a moment splash of sensation that leaves you craving, needing, aching for more and not getting it. You moan desperately and strain at your bonds harder than ever before, but I've tied you down very, very tightly.


It's only been three drips, and already you're on the edge of madness from it. I laugh.

"I thought you could take more than that," I mock, adding just a splash of verbal humiliation to compliment the physical torment.


"What was that?"

You're trying to say something through the gag, but of course I can't make it out. Perhaps you want me to stop, to let you go. Perhaps you want more. Of course, I can't tell. If I took the gag off I'd know, but I don't think I shall.


Oh how good it is to see you squirm, struggle, do anything to try and get some release, some satisfaction, something to complete the urge building up inside you, the desperate, aching want for something to push you over the edge. I wonder how long you can stand it, laying there, the drips coming every ten seconds, keeping you bubbling hot but not letting you go.


I think I shall leave you there for a little while, as I prepare for what's to come next. I do hope you enjoy yourself...


How long has it been? Twenty minutes? I can see you've been trying to keep yourself out of the way with some of the give in your bonds, but it seems to find its spot more often than not. My my, but you do look so hot and flustered. Is that a tear or two I see escaping from your blindfold.


More moisture, hot fitting. Tears of anger, of fear? No, of frustration. I can tell. How hot are you?


I put a still gloved finger to you and you buck and jerk wildly, trying to push yourself down onto it, but I take it away before you get the chance.


Oh you'

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