The Rack

I am a transvestite who enjoys BDSM. Many years ago, I built an automatic rack for self torment. The device consisted of a 1 x 10 inch plank, nine feet long, that was supported by bookshelves along one wall of my apartment. At the foot end a piece of one by three pine was bolted to the plank longwise, set on edge. I cut notches in this piece about 1-1/2 inches deep. It looked somewhat like a sawblade parallel to the plank.

At the other end I attached a piece of 1/4 inch cord, arranged in a "W" layout: The bottom points of the "W" ran through pulleys that were attached to wrist cuffs; the upper center point ran through a pulley attached to the end of the plank; the upper right end of the cord was fixed to a screweye at the upper right end of the plank. The left upper end of the cord "W" ran through another pulley at the upper left of the plank.

This end of this cord extended upwards for a couple of feet to the end of a four strand block and tackle that hung from a sturdy hook in the ceiling. The rope of this tackle was tied to an empty 2-1/2 gallon can. When the can was full of water, it weighed a bit over 20 pounds. Multiplied by the four part tackle, this became 80 pounds on the end of the "W" cord. This became 160 pounds at each wrist cuff, or roughly twice my weight.

On a shelf above this apparatus was another 2-1/2 gallon jug with a quick release valve at its spigot. A plastic hose ran from this jug to the one hanging from the end of the block and tackle.

After constructing this apparatus, I transformed myself into a woman: shaving close, putting on false breasts, wig and makeup. I dressed as a businesswoman in a skirted suit, dark hose and heels. Near the end of a tape cassette, I had recorded my own voice as a cop making an arrest. I started this, and I also started a timer. I imagined myself as an embezzler, about to abscond with the company receipts. If the timer went off before the tape reached my pre-recorded arrest, I would grab up a briefcase supposedly full of funds I'd embezzled, and pretend I was going to the airport to catch a plane for Rio. I imagined myself leaving the office, the cab ride to the airport, waiting in the lounge for my flight, dreading the voice of Authority......

"Are you Ms Cynthia? You are under arrest!" The voice (my own) erupted from the tape player. Caught! I sighed, got up from my desk and stood with my hands on the wall, legs spread wide, imagining hands running over my breasts and body, and up my skirt as I was searched. I used a twisted loop of rope to tie my hands behind my back. Then I began walking around my apartment, imagining the secretaries looking on as I was taken out of my office by the police, humiliated.

The foyer of my apartment stood in for the police station. Here I fingerprinted myself and took mug shots with my instant camera. I had converted the small coat closet in the foyer into a cell by removing the contents and faking up a barred door from wood dowels. I could almost feel the cop's hand shoving me inside and closing the door.

I stood there in my cell (it was too small to do anything else), my high heels rustling in the shredded paper that covered the floor. I imagined other inmates -- prostitutes and such -- taunting me, a well-dressed executive in the slammer with them.

Then came my first interrogation. I was taken out of the cell, forced to remove my suit, leaving me in black bra, garter belt, hose and heels. My hands re-tied, I was marched to the Rack. Seated on the plank, I tied my ankles in a loose figure-8 pattern. I inserted a knotted scarf for a gag, to muffle any screams of agony I might make ( also indicated to me that nothing I could say would reduce my torment) Then I lay on my back, reached up over my head, and buckled the cuffs attached to the "W" cord around my wrists. Finally, I schooched down as far as I could and dropped my ankle bindings into one of the slots on the wood piece.

There I lay, gagged, pinned at wrists and ankles. But worse was to come.

I pulled the thin cord that opened the valve on the water jug. The water began to flow into the can attached to the block and tackle, inexorably increasing the weight. Nothing happened at first, but then the weight overcame the friction and the whole apparatus of tackle and cord slipped. My body was pulled tight. I sucked in my breath around the gag. I imagined inquisitors asking me questions, demanding that I confess, then pulling the rack tighter when I didn't respond. The weight increased, and my body was stretched harder and harder, the weight of the water multiplied tenfold by the tackle. I raised my head, looking down my body, past my breasts to where the toes of my pumps stuck upwards. Then I threw my head back between my arms as another jerk of the apparatus stretched me even tighter.

There was no actual pain involved. The full weight of the water, although multiplied eightfold by the pulleys, distributed throughout my body was merely uncomfortable. It was the exquisite sensation of being racked, of being tormented into confessing, that was delicious.

Finally, the last of the water dribbled out to the upper tank into the suspended one. I reveled in the tensile force stretching my body. I wriggled a little, getting one more pull out of the apparatus... then I kicked my legs sharply upwards, freeing my ankles and releasing the tension. I reached up and unbuckled the cuffs from my wrists, then sat up, untied my ankles, and re-tied my hands behind my back. Then I imagined my jailers half-leading me, half dragging me back to my cell.

My imaginary jailers let me stand there alone for some time, to contemplate what would happen next. I clutched the bars, and my legs trembled with the strain I'd experienced. I had dimmed the lights in my apartment to simulate a dungeon, and a tape of dripping water, clanging doors, and distant screams played. A plate of nibbled bread and a cup of water lay on the floor.

Finally, after a half hour or so, I imagined them coming for me again. My cell door opened, my hands were tied, and I was marched down to the torment chamber...

This time, the sight of the rack was enough. "I Confess!" I sobbed. I had already prepared an elaborate confession on parchment-colored paper, admitting to everything from embezzlement, to seducing the Comptroller, to securities fraud, to the murder of Cock Robin.

After I signed, I allowed myself to go to the bathroom, pretending that it was a more spacious cell. Here I put on a black dress and touched up my makeup for my court appearance.

I had made another tape of a court in session -- a bailiff ordering "All Rise - Court is now in session". I stood before the judge's bench (my dresser) with one ankle chained, my hands tied behind me, and a wide piece of tape over my mouth. .A judge -- my own voice -- read my confession:

"Ms. Cynthia," the judge intoned, "The court has your signed confession, freely given, with no coercion being used to secure it. Therefore, the court finds you guilty. Have you anything to say?" (I 'Mummfhed' through the tape) "Thought not, you thieving whore. You are hereby sentenced to -- a session on the Rack!"

There really wasn't anything else, of course. Once again I lay supine, my ankles fastened to the cleat, my wrists cuffed, while water ran into the jug. Again the cords tightened inexorably, stretching me more and more while I tossed my head from side to side, moaning and sobbing. I lay stretched for some minutes even after the water had stopped, getting every last sensation from my punishment before I kicked up and freed myself.

Of course, as a convicted felon, I couldn't hold a job like I had. I would be reduced to walking the streets. Luckily for me, the punishment for prostitution was the Rack....

Ms. Cynthia

25.06.08