Laundered

I was asked to write a story about someone going through the laundry. The fetish was for the torture, with the knowledge that it's not real, that it can't be real, and that it is potentially lethal.

Let me say that in different words: the following story is neither safe nor sane.

I figured the only way I could even get close to what was requested was if I set the story in another time period. So that's what I did.


Cleanliness is next to Godliness
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Hanging by his wrists, his raw skin burning in the cool mountain air, Richard considered the sadistic kindness of the nuns. He had come to them in his hour of desperate need, and they had taken it upon themselves to help rid him of the demons within, the demons who gave him such thoughts and urges that made him feel filthy, inside and out, for so long.

He came to them and told them his tale. It wasn't the first time he had told it. His local priest had told him to pray for guidance. At the monastery, they had proscribed introspection, prayer, and vows before the Lord. But Richard's demons were too strong for that.

He was dirty, and he needed to be cleaned. He knew that if he was not cleaned, sooner or later his will would fail, and he would engage in those acts that so desperately pulled at his soul. The temptations would lead him to hell, and there would be naught he could do. Each day, he felt the desires eroding his will away.

He felt it when watching the serving girls sweeping up the manor, imagining lacing the broom between their shoulders, pinning their arms so that he could ravage them against the wall and there would be nothing they could do to stop him.

He felt it when he saw the hunting dogs rutting and his own desires flared up.

He felt it when watching an acrobat, seeing the fine lines of the boy's body, feeling his own loins stir at the thoughts of what he could do with such a flexible man.

Depravity. Filth.

And not all of his desires involved buggering. Not all of them were domineering. Not all involved him as the master, as his station suggested would be good and right. When he was truly honest with himself, in those rare moments of actual introspection, he knew that he didn't want to bugger; he wanted to be buggered. He didn't want to bind the serving wench and have his way with her. He wanted her to bind him with the broom. He wanted her to wrench his shoulders from his joints, so that between the pain and the injury he would be completely unable to resist her as she had her way with him, with his tongue, using him like he was some common whore.

He wanted to be interred in the dungeon, tortured by an inquisitor who, if rumors were to be believed, took his sexual gratification from his victims as part of the process, part of breaking them down to the point where they would confess. Richard thought about those rumors and knew that he wanted to be the one on the receiving end, not the one asking the questions.

His fantasies grew more and more distinct, more and more detailed, and he knew that his will would last only so long. Eventually, the filth would stain his soul, and there would be no coming back. He would no longer be just, no longer be a true servant of god. He would be no better than a spawn of Satan, no better than a harlot or an incubus. Worst of all, he knew that considering that idea, that imagining himself as such a deviant whore excited him as much as it terrified him.

He knew he would give in sooner or later. And so he came to the convent, to the ladies of exquisite agony, who were kind enough to wash him, to purify him.

They made him tell them of his desires. They made him tell his darkest fantasies. And he told them, sparing no detail, sobbing in disgust at his own fantasies. He begged them to clean him. To wash him.

And they did.

They stripped away his clothes, tied him hand and foot, and tossed him into a large tub. At first, he thought he was being baptized again, that they were just going to give him a fresh start. He was disappointed, thinking that he had unburdened his mind for nothing, knowing that the desires would creep back in just as surely as they did the first time.

But the water stung him. It stung his eyes, and it tasted foul. This was not fresh water, not pure water. There was soap in the water. The nuns pulled at the ropes round his wrists and ankles, stretching him out against a large board. Then they pushed him down the board, and he realized what it was. A washing board. They pushed him down, dunking his head under the water, and then they pulled back, grinding his flesh against the knotted wood of the giant washboard. They pushed him under again, pushing him so far down that his knees wrapped around the bottom of the board, and then they dragged him up once more, letting him gasp for breath even as he wailed in pain. They were cruel, unforgiving, just as they had promised. They swore that he would emerge from their process clean and pure, but that they had to drive out the demons with pain.

He had neglected to mention how excited that idea made him.

The rope stretched him like a rack, and the slats of the washing board pinched his skin, ground the muscles of his back, adding to the agony of the pull. He went under again, going so far that his legs started to wrap all the way around, and he felt as if his hips would break out of their sockets. They held him under like that, aching in all his joints, wanting to scream in pain, but desperately hanging on to what breath he had managed to take. He struggled, but it was in vain.

It felt like hours as they dunked him again and again, each time letting him catch his breath as they tortured the flesh on his back and his thighs.

Finally, they untied his ankles and turned him around, so his face was against the wash board. He had brief and terrifying images of how mangled his manhood would be after just a few times up and down. The thought was so horrific that he moaned in gratitude when they pulled his ankles up behind him, tying them off to his wrists so that his chest was pressed to the wood, but his manhood was pulled back.

They slapped at his erection, citing that as proof that there was still a great deal of work to do. And then one of the nuns stood above him, put her hands on his shoulders and dug her nails into his flesh. She pushed him up and down the washboard, her voice a mask of stone, completely impervious to his screams as she turned the flesh of his front into a mass of bruise. She made no reaction at the loud pop when his shoulders separated, just as they had in his fantasy with the maid. She just continued her merciless torture.

They let him drip dry after that, hanging close enough to the hearth that he would feel the warmth, but not so close as to burn him as the fires of Hell surely would if he gave up, they said.

His shoulders settled back into place during the night, and the pain was excruciating. Richard found no rest that night, save the brief time when he lost consciousness from the agony.

He was awoken when the threw cold water on him. They took him and wrapped him head to toe in linens from one of their beds, then soaked him with liquid that they warned him not to taste. It was some sort of poison, something that would burn him from the inside out. He was put back in the tub, but not alone. Other sheets took up much of the space, and while Richard could not see, he knew that the water level was far lower than it had been. Breathing was difficult, but not impossible.

And then they began to stir the sheets, using what felt like a long oar from a boat, pounding into him, tossing him around, cracking against his already bruised flesh. He was sure that he would have been broken and bleeding without the linen wrapping around him as a second skin. But even with that flimsy protection, the impacts, the shifting and movement of being tossed around with the other linens brought him to new levels of suffering.

They hung him, along with the other linens, to dry once more. This time, he was hung outside, the rope wrapped around his wrists. He could barely feel his hands anymore, and was sure his fingers would never have the dexterity they had once possessed. A small price to pay, he told himself as he shivered.

Hours passed, and then the nuns came out with long staffs topped with some kind of racquet. He watched them as they started on each side, slapping against the linens, hitting the dust that had gathered off of them. They swatted the cloth again and again, pounding away at each sheet before finally taking it down and moving on to the next.

Richard looked back and forth between them. They moved methodically, coming ever closer to where he lay. The rope began to vibrate with the impact, and he felt each hit as it caused his whole body to twitch, sending jolts of new pain through him with every strike. It got worse and worse the closer they came to him, so that he was sobbing in pain before they even stood near him.

Eventually, they stood, one in front and one in back. They took turns hitting him, each strike knocking some of the dirt from his spirit. His skin was already a mass of bruise by that point, and a gentle caress would have hurt. But the sisters were not being gentle. They slapped against his skin again and again, completely ignoring his sobs of pain or his pleas for them to stop.

Be begged them, but they ignored him. He sobbed and insisted that he would repent, but they hit him again. Even after the skin split open, even after he could see his own blood splash onto the cloth of their habits, they continued to beat him.

The soapy water burned the fresh cuts, and they didn't have to do anything more to torture him.

Richard came to hanging by his wrists once more, dangling over the ground. The sun was beginning to crest the horizon, and he watched as the cool mountain air stung his raw skin.

He watched, thought about the sadistic kindness of the nuns, about the terror they had put him through.

He watched, and he hoped that none of them were looking at him right then. Hoped that none of them would notice his erection.