The Masterpiece

Every­body knows that a prison is an aw­ful place but poor Fynn had to taste its hor­rors on his own flesh. Hav­ing been a thief since an ear­ly child­hood, he was even­tu­al­ly sen­tenced to be locked in Bel­ti­more.

And thus, Fynn van­ished from his moth­er­land for­ev­er and was tak­en with a car­a­van to the for­eign king­dom. Up­on ar­rival, he was stripped of clothes and his waist was bound with a suf­fo­cat­ing steel cinch­er that the guard locked with a key be­fore throw­ing him in­to the small cell.

The first day was the hard­est in his life and he threw up a few times but couldn't do any­thing to re­lease him­self from the cinch­er's pres­sure. On the sec­ond day bear­ing it be­came eas­i­er and af­ter a week he even got used to it, and then the guard who locked him be­fore paid a sec­ond vis­it. He hand­cuffed Fynn to a high bar and con­vinced the trem­bling youth not to move or else...

Ap­par­ent­ly the cinch­er was more so­phis­ti­cat­ed than Fynn could have imag­ined, it was dou­ble-lay­ered and the in­ner lay­er was made of a soft­er met­al which could be pushed to bury deep­er in­to Fynn's waist with large screws that the guard turned sev­er­al times un­til Fynn al­most faint­ed of the pres­sure...

Fynn fig­ured out he was screwed. The first day re­peat­ed but in­stead of throw­ing up he sud­den­ly felt very aroused while touch­ing his poor waist, his so de­fined ribcage and the tense, round tum­my right be­low the hard cinch­er.

Fynn would of­ten feel high be­cause of the suf­fo­cat­ing con­stric­tion of his body. The sense of pres­sure, the lack of air and the mas­sage of the mil­lions of nerve end­ings in his tum­my, all did it for him, keep­ing him all day in a state of some mind­less ec­sta­sy.
Time passed and Fynn's waist be­came so numb that he pret­ty much didn't feel the pres­sure any­more, the pain was ei­ther gone or his body just un­learned to sense it. His guard, how­ev­er, kept get­ting more and more ex­treme ideas and Fynn's waist cinch­er end­ed up look­ing more like an ex­oskele­ton that wrapped around his chest, clenched his waist and buried deep in­to his bel­ly and un­der his ribcage, crush­ing every soft spot on his tor­so, squeez­ing it to the very bones. The guard was very proud of this "Mas­ter­piece" cinch­er, as he called it, and he was al­ready sketch­ing the next in­ven­tion...

See al­so

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