“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.”
By the time he’s finished his instructions, I’m on my feet completely dressed, feeling only slightly woozy. Still I ache.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“I’m not really sure,” I answer.
He’s close, his body breathing with mine as we stand together in the sunny sunroom looking into each other’s eyes. He leans in and kisses my mouth tenderly. “Then take some time to sort out those feelings. We’ll talk about them later.”
My body wants him. My brain screams for his body pressed to mine. I can hardly stand this intimate closeness. My first thought is to throw myself at his feet and beg. Yet, I remain quiet.
Lockhart reaches to my short hair and plays with it affectionately. “Let’s let this grow out. I think I’d like it long. As far as your clothes, I want you in skirts, your crotch available. Be ready any day for me to call on you, though it might be weeks between my visits. I come when I’m moved. So far, you’ve been a compliant slave. I trust this willing obedience will continue. Your only function is to do what pleases me.” As he speaks, his voice seems to deepen, his eyes become more intense, his focus more keen. He becomes more masterful and I quake feeling a surge of passion in me rise. “You’ll think first of me, Anna. Put all other thoughts outside your mind. You have no other master, no other reason to be alive. I own you. These marks define you as mine. You belong to me. Your body, your mind, your will, your purpose.” He wraps a shroud around me that draws me inside him. I hang on to his next word. “In the next few weeks you’ll need to arrange your life to accommodate the times I want your undivided attention—when you’ll serve me in this house. Your young employee must be able to handle your business without you. Is that understood?”
“I assumed as much, so I’ve been making those plans.”
“Good.”
As I stare into his face and breathe him into me, it’s difficult to think of doing anything but serving him. At this moment, I am his and I have no fear. Will this feeling last forever? Will it prevent my natural defiance? I can be a miserable sub when I’m in a mood, like a wild stallion that needs to be broken. Now, I’m as subdued as a child asleep. Perhaps the defiant child in me is simply napping. I can’t be too careful with this master. Though he comes on so mildly, I feel the steel behind him. Though at first, I couldn’t imagine him with a harsh tone of command, I can now. It will be all I dream of until I hear the first punch of energy strike my ears and engage my humble response.
He takes me home in his Mercedes. I’m in a daze while he’s talking casually about the history behind the landscape we pass by, as though we have nothing more than a platonic relationship. The day is growing older
now, the shadows longer, clouds taking away the cloudless sky. My body throbs in five places; these piercings claiming all my physical and emotional attention as I know they will for some time. I won’t feel them without feeling Lockhart inside me, and that is as he designed.
“I’ll be calling you soon. Let yourself understand what you feel. These are my marks; they are a sign of permanency that will never disappear. You will always know who gave you these and for that reason, I am your master and always will be.”
In the days that follow, I bathe my new jewelry in the way Lockhart instructed. I think of him each time I do. The rings move with me, tugging, sometimes biting—ever present the first week and then less so as that first week ends. I fondle them before the bathroom mirror thinking of Lockhart behind me when he fondly stroked my naked back. I think of him owning me, and surely, he does now; there are few thoughts in my obsessive mind but ones of him, and what will happen next.
On the first week anniversary of my piercing, Lockhart enters the shop late in the afternoon. I’m alone, Ellie gone for the rest of the day. My great Grand Opening is underway, but it remains an understated event in this small town where few things disturb the regular quiet of this cozy hamlet.
“You’ve made great strides with the place,” he says, admiringly. “It looks great.”
“Thank you, there’s still a lot to do, but I needed to get a few customers coming through the door.” The shelves are stocked with books and there are assorted trinkets on one wall, a coffee bar that serves expresso, mocha, and cappuccino. And with that, I decided we have enough to handle. Seeing it through Lockhart’s eyes, I appreciate what I’ve done. It’s hard to assess my efforts when I’ve had such tunnel vision—thinking of little more than my sex life. I’ve lived each day going from one task to the next with little thought. This work is easy for me, while being submissive to a new master is a task that scares me.
“And Ellie, how is she?”
“She’s perfect. Works almost at my pace. She’s responsible—at least so far. And has lots of fresh ideas that seem to spur me when I’m at a loss.”
“You’re often at a loss?”
“I’ve been thinking a good deal about you.”
He doesn’t reply, but peruses the shelves as though he’s actually interested in buying something.
“I suppose I can special order from you?” he asks.
“Anytime.”
He nods, then looks back at several volumes of art photography, only to whip around a moment later. “Your piercings?”
“Yes.”
“They are healing?”
“Very well.”
“So, let’s have a look.”
I stare at him a little uncertain what he means. “Right here?”
“Yes, right here. Raise your sweater.”
I should be wary of someone walking through the door, but where we stand, there’s a hefty shelf to block the view. Following Lockhart’s instructions, I lift my sweater above my breasts. As I do, he moves forward and pulls the lace away to reveal my nipple. Tweaking it ever so slightly, I jerk. Inside I’m screaming, but on the outside I remain firm.
“Hurts?”
“My, yes.”
“And your clit and labia?” He peers down at my crotch.
I raise my skirt exposing my nakedness, breathing anxiously as I do, sure any second the bell on the door will jangle and I’ll be flushed-faced greeting my next customer. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen. As before, Lockhart gently fingers the skin about my piercing and tugs lightly on the rings.
“Keep them clean,” he says. “Every day.”
“I’ve been religious about that.”
“Very good.” He lets my skirt and sweater drop back in place. “I’ll be bringing weights to hang on them, to keep the stimulation lively.” I’m shivering as his voice takes on a deeper resonance, and his eyes become less kind.
The shop bell tingles and he backs away.
“Soon, Anna Keller,” he says as we move out from behind the shelves. He exits while I greet the woman who’s walking past him through the door.
Two weeks later Lockhart returns bringing the weights he mentioned—beads really, though they are heavy enough for me to feel a dramatic difference as he puts two each on my genital rings. The nipples are still in the process of healing, so he’ll wait a while longer before adding weight there too.
His visit is brief; though a burst of passion jars me as his fingers work quickly to open the balls that hold the rings in place. He quickly adds the tiny pieces of gold and clamps them shut. Now when I walk I feel the same sensuous ache I felt when they were new.
“Your Ellie will have to handle the shop next week, or it will need to close. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“It shouldn’t be. This is what I planned on.”
“Very good, then. On Friday evening, you’ll join me at the house. I think it would be easier if you drove yourself.” His smile is again gentle, his manner kind. I still await the fire and brimstone that threatens beneath his mild surface, but still this gentleness seduces me.
My initiation is filled with subtleties that work my mind without my realizing. Truly, he’s done very little except pierce me. Yet, I can’t remember when I’ve felt so owned and taken care of.
Chapter Eleven
Delia is exceedingly submissive. I notice this most when it’s just the two of us together. With other people, she sometimes balks. I assume that’s because of her inherent shyness. She’s like a delicate flower. Often she needs guidance—especially when I’m not at her side. But when I am, her degree of surrender is brilliant and passionate.
She loves to expose herself. Our second excursion to a leather boutique took us to a higher-class shop than Cavenor’s crude one. Her eyes light with little stars as she runs her hands along the halters, bras, and tiny skirts she sees. She burns a hole in my pocket with all that I end up buying. But for the pleasure of seeing her attired this way in public, I have little problem parting with my cash.
Her favorite passion—and one of mine—is the slow tease in a restaurant. She dresses with little subtly, her well-endowed bodice beautifully disclosed by her revealing choices. And her shapely legs look good in dark stockings. She wears no panties, her skirts then hiking high as she sits. The possibility of someone seeing her wispy cunt hair is all the more likely when she turns to her side.
I order each move—when to cross her legs, when to open her thighs, when to raise her skirt. She blushes as though embarrassed, but we both feel the heat this generates in her. Transmitted to me, it takes little time before my cock is pulsing. We tease for awhile; her sly smiles and coy expressions often make me wonder where this little vixen came from. By the time we escape to the car, it’s hardly necessary to order her mouth to my crotch. She unzips my pants and pulls out my erection, ravenous to take it in her lips. Not that I’m not happy about her enthusiasm, I often stall her, force her to remove her clothes in the car so I have her vulnerably naked, so I can run my fingers on her snatch—see the way her aroused body shivers, or being meaner, slap her thighs and pull her pubic hair. If I’m particularly nasty, I pull out a collapsible cane and snap it rudely anywhere I choose. She has turned in her seat at my command, leaned over the back and then masturbated herself while I lay a dozen cuts on her ass, of course, this works best when the car’s not moving.
Tonight I’m particularly inspired. She’s wearing a black lycra skirt that clings to her ass, showing the crack of her behind since there’s nothing underneath but her thigh-high stockings. She wears a small sweater across her breasts, baring her midriff below. It’s an evening in late April—but the air is unseasonably warm for this time of year. As soon as we leave the restaurant, she wants to dive into my erection, expecting I’ll play with her crotch until she gets off. This time, however, I make her wait.
“No, you sit there, hands in your lap.”
“Oh, but…”
“Don’t,” I level her with a nasty stare that
only excites her more.
I drive to an adult movie theatre—this is an especially seedy place, though I know the owner. I hear a nervous rattle from her throat as we pull up to the curb in front of the entrance and she guesses what’s going to happen.
“I’ve never been in a place like this.” She shows the fear she feels, her brow knits tightly with worry.
“Then, there’s always a first time.”
Delia titters, her proud exhibitionist resolve a little unraveled. Yet, reaching under her skirt, I find her pussy is as wet as usual.
“You’re afraid?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Well, if it makes any difference, I’m not going to leave you by yourself.”
That’s hardly any comfort, but I hear no further protest.
The theatre’s dark, the men inside just shadowy forms. I remove her coat from behind while Delia gathers a necessary breath of stale, smoky air and then struts down the aisle of twenty rows until she reaches the front of the theatre. She moves to the center of the row, while I watch the eyes of the men behind us move from the movie screen to the sight of a real-life woman looking remarkably like a whore.
“They’re all staring, aren’t they?” she whispers.
“I think so.”
We settle into our seats and gaze aimlessly at the grainy color film of cunts, cocks and asses, which seem to swallow the place whole with their enormous size. I sense several customers moving closer—two to her right who stare directly at my slave. She looks shyly at them, then raises her sweater, her breasts in nothing but a tiny slip of white lace—a bra too small for her large tits. As her nipples poke above the rim, she stares down at them, then at the men. She winks like the flirtatious brat she is and taking the purple buds between her fingers, she pinches them—enough so we all see her shudder.
Delia jerks to feel two hands on her shoulders from behind. They massage her there for a few seconds while she tries to relax. She gazes down to see they are the hands of a black man.
“Do I know him?” she’s immediately thinking it’s Bernard.
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