With a thunderous roar in her head, Chelsea returned to consciousness. The sound of the horrible drill was the first thing she heard, and she made a squealing sound as she tried to bring her hands up to protect her face. She remembered that her hands were cuffed behind her back at about the same time as she realized that it was not the same drill, nor was it coming at her face.
    
    The man, crouched beside her, was using a power tool to remove one of the two bolts that fastened the neck brace to the wall. Was he letting her go?
    
    “Once I remove this bolt, you will have to support yourself. I will remove the other one as quickly as I can, but if you fall before I do, that thing between your legs will go in way too deep, and you will die. Do you understand?” he asked her.
    
    Sharp pain in her lips reminded her that they were not going to open as she tried to protest, to convince him that she could not possibly stand with her feet in their current condition. Unsure what to do, she ended up staring at him with tears in her eyes.
    
    “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” he yelled at her, “I can easily leave you here eternally, if you would rather. Now, will you stand when I remove the bolts?”
    
    Desperate to not be left in her current position, Chelsea nodded. After a few false starts, in which the pain in her feet made her wince, squeal, and slide back down the wall, she was able to push herself up and against the brace. Pain radiated through her body from her feet up, and from her collarbone, where it touched the metal. She was concerned that, although she could feel something moving, the pain in her nether regions had been reduced to a dull ache. She hoped it was just numb, and that she had not done any irreparable harm.
    
    Once both bolts were off, the man put his hands under Chelsea's arms to prevent her from falling. The poor woman thought that he was going to help her up and spare her the pain to her feet but, instead, he merely balanced her and waited for her to gather her own strength.
    
    The realization that the bastard was making her stand on her own, terribly bound feet, returned some of the fire to her spirit. Some women would have broken down further at the injustice, but Chelsea was a different breed. While pretending to be a bit weaker than she actually was, and leaning onto his hands, Chelsea tried to formulate an escape plan. In her current condition, there weren't many options, but she had to try. The logical part of Chelsea's mind demanded that she get medical attention for her internal injuries as soon as possible. The illogical part just demanded she do whatever she possibly could to get away, regardless of her current condition and the apparent futility of any attempt at escape.
    
    Closing her eyes against the pain, Chelsea willed herself to stand. For the first six inches or so, the very odd feeling of something sliding roughly out of her vagina made her nauseous. But then it was clear, and the ability to stand and stretch her legs gave her new energy. She didn't even attempt to stand all the way, however. That would have been foolish; there was no way she could walk with her feet as they were.
    
    Instead, using her hands that were still cuffed behind her back and the muscles in her legs, since she couldn't tell what her feet were doing past the pain, she pushed with all her might against the man in front of her. She would land on top of him, her weight at least temporarily pinning him to the ground, and slam her head into the concrete ground until he didn't move any more. With any luck, he would try to raise his head a few times, giving her the opportunity to smash it back in to the concrete floor. Then, once he was unconscious, she was confident that she would be able to pass her bound hands beneath her tortured feet as she was a small, agile person, and strangle him. Once he was dead, she could crawl around, find the key to the cuffs, and something to cut the shoes off. That is, unless she came to a phone first, which she could use to call 911 since what she really needed right now was a hospital. In fact, if she were really lucky, the jerk would have a cellphone in his pocket.
    
    That was the plan, anyway.
    
    Chelsea was an exceptionally bright young woman. Had she been pitted against her captor in any type of scholarly contest, she would have easily won. The difference between her IQ and his was probably over thirty points. Even mechanically and logically, her mind was far superior, which is one of the reasons she was confident in her plan. She hoped he had not considered any of those possibilities.
    
    The man, however, did have one advantage over Chelsea, and it was a big one: experience.
    
    As soon as he felt her weight shift in his direction, he instinctively knew that he would either have to catch her, or move out of the way. Having expected her to be desperate to escape, and he himself having a very well honed fight or flight mechanism, he chose the latter, as he could always collect the bound girl after reassessing the situation.
    
    Both Chelsea and her plan fell flat on their face.
    
    Shocking pain from her collarbone, mouth, and jaw, in addition to the fall onto her unprotected chest, knocked the breath out of her and made her pause for a brief moment, giving the man ample time to stand. Grabbing her waist length brown hair at the scalp, he yanked upward.
    
    “Stand up,” he said.
    
    Tears formed in her eyes, from both her failure and the pain in her scalp. She would have to think of another plan. She had to keep hope. After all, she was no longer attached to that damned brick wall, so she was still in a better position than before. Until she thought of something else, she would have to play the good girl.
    
    Slowly, precariously, and painfully, she stood on her mangled feet. One doesn't realize just how much the human foot squashes outward when weight is applied until there is no place for the tiny bones to go, and the too small wooden shoes certainly did not flex at all.
    
    Once he realized that she was legitimately trying to stand, he released her hair. One of his favorite parts was coming up, and he took a step back to observe.
    
    As she stood to her full, booted height, and all of her weight was applied, she could feel and hear a sickening crunch coming from both of her feet and knew that bones had been broken. Balancing was out of the question, and so she leaned against the brick wall for support, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain.
    
    He wouldn't punish her for not doing something that she simply was incapable of and, right now, that included walking. That would just be cruel, and though he was capable of doing what was necessary, he did not consider himself cruel. He pulled the keys to the cuffs out of his pocket and released her hands from their bondage.
    
    Chelsea was dimly aware that, had her initial plan worked, it would have been that easy to get her hands free. Damn.
    
    “Now, you must walk to the next room,” the man said, “I will help you, but you must walk on your own, to show that you volunteer for what will come next.”
    
    She shot him a teary eyed go-to-hell look whose venom was completely removed by the fact that her mouth was still sewn shut.
    
    “Either you go voluntarily, or I will be forced to put you back where you were,” he said, nodding to where the neck cuff had held her to the wall in the area that was now behind her. Struggling with her mutilated feet, but using the wall to help balance, Chelsea turned around, wanting to get a look at whatever it was that had caused her so much agony between her legs.
    
    Jutting up from a metal pole, which was in turn bolted to the ground, was a long, round, thick metal rasp. Blood coated the rasp and pole entirely, and had pooled in considerable amounts at the bottom of the stand. She stared in awe, disgust, and horror. She had effectively raped herself with a rasp. That certainly explained the pain between her legs. The damage must be horrible, she thought, maybe even fatal.
    
    The man put his left hand under Chelsea's right arm and said, “Walk.”
    
    As he was taller than her, and his grip hurt and bruised the sensitive muscles of her underarms, Chelsea did the one thing that might would relieve some of her pain. She walked.
    
    Being left handed, Chelsea led with her left leg with a tiny step that barely got her foot off the ground. Once her weight began to rest again on her left foot, the insistent throbbing turned into a white hot sharp pain as, again, she felt bones crunch. She was fairly certain that one of them was her toe this time, though she couldn't tell which one through the haze. Without thinking, she paused, humming a high pitched hum of agony, unwilling to lift the next foot.
    
    It hurt to stand, but it hurt far more to walk. Still, the man was there, pushing against her underarm, prodding her forward. Another step, another crunch, this time from her right foot. Stepping on a board full of nails would have been more pleasant.
    
    Both shoes held fast, solid as could be. Of all the shoes he had built, none had ever come apart during what he termed “The Walk”, and he had built shoes for women heavier than Chelsea's meager 110 pounds.
    
    She turned her gaze from the floor to the man, looking for any sign of compassion, any inkling of human emotion stemming from the obvious agony that she was in.
    
    He only looked impatient, nothing more.
    
    Another step, another crunch, this one less pronounced but no less painful. Chelsea had just thought she hated normal high heeled shoes.
    
    Another teetering step, and her right food was now equally ground. Step after step, she walked. After the fifth step, the crunching sounds stopped, though an occasional snap could still be heard if she moved her weight too quickly. She was convinced that, even if she somehow survived being reamed out with a rasp, she would never again walk normally. Her feet had both been reduced to lumps of pain; she could no longer identify any particular part. From toes to heel, her feet were just a mass of throbbing nerves to Chelsea.
    
    In a daze, she completed The Walk, her eyes never leaving the floor in an attempt to balance and hopefully minimize the pain, which had failed completely and utterly. As they had stopped, she looked up, rubbing her eyes with her hands to clear the tears and wondering idly if it was possible to run out of them. She had never been a crier, though she could hardly fault herself in this case.
    
    In front of Chelsea was a table of sorts. Facing her was the flat of the table, and there were a total of twelve metal cuffs, similar to the one that had held her throat against the wall, though of varying sizes. The wood of the table was strategically cut and hinged, and the table itself was on a stand that could be maneuvered to have its occupant laying anywhere from flat on its back to completely vertical, which was the position it now occupied.
    
    He spun the young woman around, and she offered very little resistance. She knew she was about to be bound again, and she knew that this could only mean trouble, but there was one thought at the front of her mind that completely overrode anything else: she might be able to lay down.
    
    Poor Chelsea was so tired, and in so much pain, that the wooden table with all its manacles looked like a bed in a Hilton luxury suite.
    
    Moving her left arm only slightly from it's position at her side, he began to cuff it into place while Chelsea leaned against the table for support. A part of her mind was screaming, yelling to fight, to stop him from securing her other arm, but she didn't care. The metal cuffs, which felt as if they had been tailor made for her little body, fit snugly at her bicep, elbow, and wrist. Once her arm was secure, she tried to move it, and was surprised that, due to the way the table was cut, she was able to move her arm, along with the wood, out and away. The other arm was secured similarly, and could also be moved.
    
    After making an adjustment of some kind under the table, the man tilted her back. Although she was mildly alarmed by the sensation, and the jerking on her arms was not entirely comfortable, the slackening of her weight from her feet was heavenly.
    
    Each leg was secured at the ankle, knee, and thigh and, again, they seemed to be just the right size without any adjustment. She was able to move her legs apart and back together again, though that was all.
    
    Even the length of the table itself was only 5'4”, which nicely complimented Chelsea's 5'2”. Had she had all her wits about her, Chelsea would have been alarmed at these supposed coincidences.
    
    Turning her back vertical, the man made some adjustments behind the table which Chelsea quickly discovered prevented her from moving her legs apart or arms away from her body. She was even content to be still, to rest, until he flipped her back into a laying position, and closed the cuff over her throat, causing an immediate panic attack. Unfortunately for Chelsea, it was far too late to do anything about her position now.
    
    Another brace was closed lightly over her belly, not quite touching the skin. A few more adjustments under the table, however, and the brace tightened, lightly compressing her soft stomach.
    
    Chelsea heard the man produce a ratcheting sound from under the table, and her legs began to move apart. Exhausted, she put up a meager effort to keep her legs closed, but was entirely unsuccessful. Once they were at around a 180 degree angle from each other, the spreading stopped. Chelsea just knew that he was going to rape her now. The concept was terrifying and revolting, and she wondered just how much it would hurt considering the condition of the area between her legs, but maybe, just maybe, he would release her afterward. Drop her off in a ditch and call 911, she didn't care, just as long as she got to a hospital. The idea of never being able to walk normally again was somehow more disturbing than dying from her injuries.
    
    With her throat tightly secured, she could barely turn her head, and even then could not tell where the man was. Straight above her, mounted to the ceiling, was a television that was currently off. Strange that he would suddenly decide that she shouldn't be bored, she thought.
    
    She heard a clattering sound and a swishing on the floor, then felt something cold touch her anus, causing her to immediately clench it shut. Again, as she was still not yet used to the fact that they were not going to open, Chelsea tried to yell out, only to produce a very muffled squeak and a sharp pain in her lips that made her eyes water again.
    
    Whatever it was that was trying to enter her, it felt enormous, and more and more pressure was being applied.
    
    “Relax your anus as much as you can, Chelsea,” the man said, “it's going in either way.”
    
    She tried to shake her head no, and continued squeezing as hard as she could, hoping to prevent the invader. The pressure kept increasing, but it was at an oddly measured pace. Then she heard the sound of a machine whirring into action, and felt the pressure begin to increase in earnest.
    
    The man watched, waiting for the metal nozzle to enter her rectum. Chelsea began to squeal insistently, and it looked to him as if her thighs were spazming more out of pain than trying to keep things closed up. Still, with no lube, and the nozzle being a good three inches in diameter, there was no amount that she would be able to relax to make this not hurt. The anus simply wasn't designed to take three inches all at once – especially not a virgin one, such as Chelsea's. This was why he had built the simple hydraulic machine. Although it could provide up to 100 lbs of torque, he had yet to need to go above 25, and Chelsea was no exception.
    
    Finally the nozzle began to enter, and the man watched a bit of blood trickle down the clean, metal surface. He would have been very surprised had there not been blood; Chelsea would have been the first that hadn't torn, if so.
    
    After the nozzle had buried itself to a pre-determined five inches, he turned the machine off and followed the garden hose that was currently running from Chelsea's ass to his bathroom sink, and turned the cold water on full blast.
    
    Chelsea was sobbing quietly to herself on the table. Being a small town farm girl, and a virgin, she had never even considered the idea of something going in her ass. She had an intense feeling of needing to shit, but not being able to, and her anus hurt where the nozzle had bulldozed in.
    
    Then the water started flowing, and the overhead monitor clicked on.