Following his orders, I park my car in the woods at the bottom of the hill, just out of sight of the road.  I open the trunk, strip out of my clothing, tossing everything inside, including my purse and car keys, slam it shut and walk up the hill, mother naked and already as sexually turned on as I've ever been.  I have heard the stories of this magic man and his tower of power and I have come to see for myself what all the fuss is about.  I feel like a pilgrim, stripped of all pretence and entering the most holy of holies.  It is a long climb and when I get the first glimpse of the high, phallic, stone tower through the trees I feel a mixture of dread and anticipation the like of which I have never before known.

For this is the Wizard's Tower.  It is an old medieval castle keep brought to America from pre war Germany and reassembled on this deserted hilltop by the current owner's crazy old uncle.  In it, it is said, women are rendered helpless and given the sexual experience of a lifetime.  They say it is something to fondly smile about on your deathbed.

I first heard about it as a rumor, a whispered secret shared among the girls in the dorm.  I didn't give it much credence, at first.  It just sounded too fantastic.  I mean, a man who takes women up in a tower and fucks them so silly they speak of it as if it were a magical, religious experience?  Now really.

But then I met a couple of his satisfied customers.  Girls who I trusted, one of which showed me her recently welted ass and who described in nipple hardening detail how it got that way.  From the dreamy way she told the story I began to understand what kind of magic this wizard fellow practiced.  I decided to see if I could get invited up there.

That was in January and now it is June and here I am, naked and alone, knocking on the heavy old iron bound door in the Friday evening twilight.  I am glad he had me leave my keys and clothing locked up in my car.  It takes away most of the temptation to run away.  When he is done with me he will give me his copy of my car key so that I can go down, get dressed and go back to town.

The door creaks open, exactly as if it were in a B movie.  Standing in the doorway is Howard, the Wizard of Jackson Michigan, a handsome faced man, dressed in a wizard's robe, complete with stars, planets and signs of the zodiac embroidered on it.  He steps aside to let me enter the coolness of the stone building, closes and bars the door, smiles in a way that makes me think of a crocodile lying on a mud bank, picks up a pair of hinged planks drilled to hold my wrists and throat and says, "On your knees, woman, I want to put these on you"     

I obey, aware that once in the stocks I will be his to do with as he might please.  I feel the weight settle on my shoulders, hear the closing of the hasp, see the fire deep in his eyes and know the thrill of being made helpless.  It is so much like my wet dreams that I wonder if I will survive the pounding of my heart.

He uses the leverage of the stocks to force me to bend forward so as to rest the front of the wooden portable prison on the floor.  He then produces a short bar drilled at each end and fitted with two lengths of rope.  I can see nothing of my body behind the stocks but feel my ankles being bound to the ends of the bar, spreading them and preventing my either kicking or running.

I am then helped back to my feet and intimately caressed between the legs until I am moaning in desire.  His next trick consists of a set of three toothy clamps upon which dangle three heavy lead weights, two of which he hangs on my erect and supersensitive nipples, the third on my clitoris.

I stand there, my head swimming in the burning pain of my tortured nipples and clit, the memory of his caress, the overwhelming feeling of being possessed, body and soul.  I want . . . more?

He seems to understand my need and, picking up a riding crop, gestures toward a steep set of spiral stairs saying, "Up there Honey, the tower awaits."

The spreader bar and stocks make every step an adventure.  The riding crop and swinging weights make it a pain filled one.  The total effect is somehow like sex, building toward some unimaginable climax.   

The tower is almost forty meters tall, built circular and ten meters in diameter all the way up until the top floor which overhangs by two meters all around, kind of like a glans penis of defensive architecture.    

At the top of the long climb is a landing.  There is another heavy wooden door exactly like the one down below.  It appears to be made to insure two things.  Intruders will stay out and prisoners will stay in.  He reaches past me and pushes it creakingly open, revealing the classic medieval torture chamber, complete with witch's chair, rack and spread eagle shackles on the wall.  I want to run, but of course it is much too late for that.  I consider using the safe signal, but do not, aware that if I give that signal I will be sent home, un-fucked and bared from this place for life.  I find myself breathing hard, my body burning up with a kind of sexual fever. 

I shuffle in, the bar between my ankles keeping me under his complete control.  He guides me forward until I stand beneath two pairs of hanging chains.  Stopping me, he connects these chains to the four corners on my stocks, tethering me in the center of the room, my naked body on display.

He spends several minutes caressing my helpless body knowingly inciting me to a level of lust I've never before known.  There is something magic in the air as he caresses my naked, sweating curves, rendered so vulnerable by his bondage, so excited by my helplessness, so horny by my need.

When I am as ready as I've ever been he goes to the wall, turns the handle on a windless a couple of times, pulling me up off the floor to hang by my throat and wrists, my toes a good ten centimeters above the tiles.  He stands before me, a long hardwood rod in his hand.  I swing around, helpless and open, my naked body inflamed with lust and pumping out pheromones from every pore.  The bippy whistles as it cuts the air and suddenly the burn in my nipples becomes an explosion of razorblade agony as my clamped nubbins absorb the impact.  I scream out, my spreader bar restrained feet kicking against the ropes that hold them.  Again the bippy whistles, leaving a welt on the under side of my tortured breasts.  I dance on thin air, needing to escape but fully aware that escape is impossible.  Between my legs the third weight dances and tugs on my blood engorged clitoris, hurting me and stimulating me and driving me ever higher in my passion.  The bippy strikes a third time, marking my bottom with a line of burning lust.

I scream and scream, aware that there is no one to hear, no one to come and rescue me from my own foolishness.

He comes to me, his wizard's robe now tossed onto the rack, his big cock glistening in the candlelight.  He grabs the spreader bar and lifts my feet over his head so as to put them behind his back.  He removes the clitty clamp and as I scream in the resultant rush of agony, slides himself into my gulping vagina and begins fucking me, his hands squeezing my burning, weight tortured, bippy marked breasts in his big powerful hands.  I can see nothing of what is going on beneath the wood of the stocks but in my mind's eye I see his big penis stretching my sex, filling it to seam splitting fullness, its thundering bulk massaging my swollen G spot, his hammering pelvis mashing my erect and tooth marked clit between our sweaty bodies.      

I clutch around him, holding him with my love muscle as he fucks me.  I am suspended in passion, anchored only by his big, thundering magic wand filling me and fulfilling my every sexual fantasy.  I scream in pleasure, pain and lusty hunger for his seed.  I milk him, trying to strip his big balls of his essence, his spunk, his cum.

He begins whipping my ass, the bippy swishing into my bottom with every thrust of his powerful organ. 

I hang on, feeling that if I let go now I might fly away on the wings of my passion.

He grips my burning bottom with his whip hand and slides his other down between us, finding and massaging my clit with his knowing fingers even as his organ continues to massage my G spot.  Behind me, his first two fingers find and enter my anus, stretching me open there as well.

I bounce on his phallus, desperate for his climax, but he suddenly withdraws, leaving me hanging fire, my helpless body dripping passion from every pore, every orifice, my spreader bar hindered legs trying desperately to pull him back into my needful vulva.  I scream in wordless frustration as he disentangles himself from my legs, then, his quarter meter dong pointing the way, he walks back to the windless and lowers my feet back to the tiles.  As the support chains continue downward I discover myself too weak to stand and I soon find myself back on my knees.  He unlocks the two support chains on the front of the stocks and I fall forward, the front edge coming to rest on the floor before me.

He picks up an old witches broom and I see that its upper end is carved into a realistic penis.  His eyes seem to glow down at me as he rolls a black condom down over this carving and smears it with lard from a can.  When he walks around out of sight behind me I again consider giving the safety signal but find myself too much in his thrall to do that.  I hear a loud humming sound and when the broomstick touches my labia it is vibrating like a jackhammer.  He works it into me, letting the vibrations do most of the work of opening my clenched circle of love muscle.  When the broomstick is fully inside of me he steps back and begins cutting my bent rump with the hurtful bippy once again.

I find myself coming, no more able to control my orgasms than a butterfly can control the tornado.  And still the bippy whistles, striking my thighs, my ass, my hanging, weight-tortured breasts and even the soles of my kicking feet.  The pain in my helpless body is not felt as pain so much as stimulation.  My passion has rewired my brain to accept his discipline as powerful proof of his love.  His caresses leave welts on my body and the memory of pleasure in my mind.  My passion becomes something alive within me, something hungry and needful and filled with wonder.

Finally, when I am beginning to fear for my very sanity, he withdraws the vibrating broomstick and replaces it with his own magic phallus, his living wand of pleasure and fulfillment.

I accept him within me, gripping on him like a milking machine.  I thrust my hips back against him, impaling myself on his pleasure, mewing in wordless need for his spunk, his tribute, his essence.

He begins a slow grind that drives me even higher in my passion, sending me floating in a kind of sexual heaven, my discomfort forgiven, my passion washing away all memory of my pain, leaving only the cleansing pleasure of a man and a woman's joyfully shared passion.

It is late Sunday afternoon when he escorts me down the hill and back to my world.  I am, of course, still naked.  My body is welted, sore and exhausted, despite the time we have spent in his hot tub and comfortable bed.  I am as content as a milk-filled kitten, so relaxed that I wonder if I could walk, were it not for his supporting arm around me.  I wish I did not have to go, for he is a keeper, no doubt about it.