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“Here,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. A shot of whiskey tastes awfully good and reasonably settling on my anxious stomach. I’m lightheaded almost seconds later as though I’d just consumed three shots, not just a quick swig. I take another and return the flask to him.
“On the table, Anna.” The order is firm.
I sit for a time with my legs dangling down childlike, while Lockhart pulls on surgical gloves and carefully marks my nipples for the piercing. He seems practiced at this, though that does little to put me at ease.
“Now lie down,” he orders.
“Will there be blood?” I ask.
“Very little. More at your labia than anywhere else.”
“Not at the nipples?”
“Only a trace, perhaps.”
He raises my arms over head, and secures the wrists in malleable cuffs that tighten like steel. My legs go into stirrups—the kind that support the upper thigh and the back of the knees. He pulls them wide apart. Exposed. Vulnerable. Cunt sticky wet. Mind turning reasonably groggy. I feel like an experiment in terror prepared for some devious torture.
I can watch only a fraction of his careful ministrations. When I see the clamps, I shut my eyes.
“No, Anna. Keep them open.”
Open? How? I stare out the windows as though that might comfort me. While I feel the metal clamp clutch my right nipple firmly, Lockhart tells me to relax.
I hear the tearing of the sterile packet. But refuse to watch. I feel it all, and see it so clearly in my mind that I don’t have to watch.
Suddenly, a swift, sharp pain thunders downward through my crotch—like a fireball brightening everything inside me. Lockhart moves to the other side of me and repeats the ritual. Another thunder of pain whooshes from my breast to my crotch. My cunt throbs in a maddening pulse. I feel him fiddle with the piercings, securing the gold rings through my nipples. They ache abundantly, but it’s not an unwelcome feeling.
As he finishes, he strokes my brow, looking down on me with kindness. “You’re doing beautifully.”
“I’m turned on,” I say whispering.
“Of course you are. I’ll let you rest a bit and remove your pubic hair so I can get to these others.”
“All of it?” I wonder aloud.
“Yes,” as if I didn’t know.
Lockhart froths my snatch from stem to stern with shaving cream. The feel is cool and the minty fragrance pricks all my senses. Everything in me is alive, and yet the whiskey he’s given me takes away the threatening edge of hysteria. I’m in this peaceful, senseless wave of energy, enjoying every swipe of his old-fashioned razor as it scrapes away the hair from my cunt. Though I’ve kept my crotch neatly trimmed, he shaves further back than I’m used to going. There will not be a hair anywhere from my belly to my anus.
As Lockhart finishes, he lays a steamy towel on my crotch, then turns away to prepare the three remaining needles to pierce my genitals. “A lovely cunt, Anna. Ready for more?”
As if I have a choice. “Why not?”
I expect his fingers pulling at my clit or labia, but their first task is much more basic. He’s bringing me off with his hand, taking the top off all this roaring energy. My body falls back for a time in the cumming, my hips wiggling as they will. They are fired with heat. Each resplendent wave that jars me settles me more. I drift in the sensation, and am almost surprised to suddenly feel a stirring pain shriek through me; he’s pierced the hood of my clit, and the fat thing swells like its going to supplant the rest of my body. The harsh burst leaves me weak, and everything in me trembles.
As the pain dies off, he inserts the ring, then moves downward to my inner labia.
There is some device holding my pubis wide so I feel a tickle of air on the inner skin and the fluttery petals of my hole. Did he have any clue that these inner folds are as large and prominent as they are? Heinrich said they are a sign of sexual prowess, an indication of the prominent role that my cunt will play in my life. His reasoning seemed sound and I’m proud that I have such distinctive sexual features. I love when they’re noticed in the middle of a shared scene. Perhaps, Bernard told Lockhart how well I was equipped—unless he simply guesses well. I’m already certain that the man is profoundly intuitive. He asks so little, and knows everything. He secures my obedience without my understanding how. I know enough not to question.
The concoction of liquor, sexual arousal, and numbness that describes my state of being allows me to take the final two piercings with hardly a gasp. Not that they’re not felt—they are perhaps the most intense, but I’ve become used to the jarring puncture and the pain doesn’t seem to linger as long. It joins the rest in turning my body into a bold and torrid fire.
I lie for awhile recuperating from the heavy sensations—getting my bearings and becoming a little more sober. Lockhart cleans the rolling table, removes his surgical gloves, and discards the empty packets and the used needles in the trash. He’s mindful of me, looking my way several times with a smile on his face.
“There’s been no bleeding?” I question him again.
“Humm, just a little, but it will be over before you leave.” He looks at my snatch. “I think you should wear panties, though. I’ll see if I can find some.” Undoing my wrists, he then hands me a mirror, so that while he’s gone I can look at my new jewelry. It seems as much a part of me as any feature of my anatomy—as though it belonged here all along. As I stand, I feel a heaviness in my crotch, and a throbbing ache in each breast.
“I usually do these over time, but since you’re such a practiced slave, I’d rather not waste weeks extending this out. Getting the preliminaries out of the way, we can begin in earnest soon. You’ll spend some time taking care of these. They’ll need to be bathed with salt water daily as they heal. You’ll keep them clean with disinfectant and antibacterial soap. I’ll inspect them regularly to see how they are doing. It will take six weeks to thoroughly heal the genital piercing, and much longer for your nipples. But in that time, allow yourself to enjoy them.”
