The box had arrived just in time. Nakamura’s two “gentlemen” went to work unloading it as soon as the garage’s roller shutter had closed behind the inconspicuous white delivery van. One of them I knew by name: Tanaka, a ridiculously muscular bloke in an ill-fitting jacket. He was beyond any doubt capable of dragging the box alone. Hence his scrawny new colleague was rather latching onto the wooden crate while it was pulled out of the van.
“Will she be missed?”
“Not in this country, Nakamura-san. A European tourist, wanted to discover Japan on her own – away from that all-inclusive stuff.”
Nakamura’s face kept its emotionless expression: “She will indeed gain insight into some interesting facets of our culture, I can promise that.”
Once the box stood on the concrete floor, the van was dismissed. Although on my payroll, the following was none of the driver’s business. With the gate shut again, I beckoned Tanaka to grab the crowbar.
“There she is…”
Only the base plate had survived Tanaka-san’s crowbar-assault. Draped on it – and I was delighted to rightfully use the participle “draped” – was my latest merchandise.
Please allow me to introduce myself at this point: I’m a freelancing trader of and trainer for private companions (persons of a more indiscreet disposition might use the term “sex slaves”). My dear Nakamura-san here represents a client with whom I had at least a dozen lucrative business dealings over the past three years. Today Mr Nakamura will inform his client about the conditions of another transaction – after checking the quality of the goods, of course.
The three hundred kilometre trip inside the stifling crate would have been much easier on her if she were nude, but that would send out the wrong signal. So her body had suffered the last six or so hours inside a tight – and I mean tight – black latex catsuit with mouth- nose- and eye-holes as only openings.
“Blond,” I answered as we closed in. I had ordered to keep her fair mane under latex, too.
She reacted to our voices by producing rasped sounds. When I had specified the openings, I had been imprecise. A latex blindfold was holding her in darkness and a large tube gag in silence. The former – wide enough to cover her nose-holes, too – bereaved her of four openings, whilst the latter forced a fifth into agonising dimensions. Ever since I saw its kind in Japanese hardcore bondage porns, I knew it to be the perfect travelling accessory for my trainees.
The gag’s head-harness ran unyieldingly over both hood and blindfold, with a rubber stopper dangling on a chain from the mouth frame. The fact that the stopper and its chain were identical to those which could be found on washbasins and bath tubs added to the contraption’s depravity.
Nakamura and I hunkered down before the girl, for she was on her elbows and knees, and only on her elbows and knees. Her claves were bent back against her thighs by the means of latex tape. I noticed with satisfaction that the wraps of tape had been applied smoothly and without kinks (pun intended). Same with her arms, but here additional bondage mittens engulfed her hands. A strong curb chain ran along the back of her neck to connect the rings at the mittens’ ends.
Nakamura reached out with his left hand to caress her rubber-clad and leather-trapped face, paying special attention to the obscenely wide opening of her mouth. He pushed his fingers through the reinforced rubber tube, all four and a half. He missed a part of his little finger, which made it quite obvious what nature his profession was of.
Sweetest sounds of distressed gagging came from my captive as her throat reacted to the invasion. The girl wiggled in her bondage, but had learnt the hard way during her journey that too much movement would cause her torment in addition to the gnawing cramps which were searing her muscles.
To ensure the correct body tension, the sender of this charming cargo had forced the female’s back into a severe arc. And to do this in the worst way, he had knotted a leather strap to the ring at the top of her head-harness. Nothing too wild so far; the fun came with the item at the other end of the strap. An anal hook was bending its shaft around her tailbone. From there the bare metal disappeared between the sliders of a naughty dual zipper running between the suit’s legs.
I didn’t know whether or not her juicy bum had received intrusive objects before. But I dared say that even without the relentless strain from her head this particular toy would be a challenge.
Not only was the steel hook absolutely unforgiving, it was also fitted with a two-inch sphere at the end instead of just a rounded tip. And to drive the point home, a legion of dull spikes covered aforesaid sphere. Since the strap wasn’t fastened centrically, the hook tilted every time it was pulled at, pressing the spikes into the tender wall of her rectal tract.
The four-fingered hand retracted, and the girl’s gaggings were replaced by coughs. Nakamura wiped his hand on a handkerchief. The rubber tube was wet with saliva, but the open mouth gag had dried out her throat cruelly. The fluid which should moisten her oral cavity was covering her rubberised chin and or was running lazily down the stopper’s chain. Said stopper had of course not been inserted during her trip – dead she would be of far less worth (although there was a market for that, too). No, for a sufficient exchange of air had been taken care of. Her mouth had been lined up with a hole in the – now removed – crate’s front wall. It didn’t take much imagination to reckon that air had not been the only thing going through his opening. For someone standing on the road behind the van, the crate had been in the right height.
It is important to understand that my special customer did not care if the merchandise was pure or virginal in any way or hole. The girls he bought were not precious in any way to him.
On the contrary: He loathed them, wanted to loathe them. That’s why he ordered – I better say demanded – only gaijin. Always gaijin. Always blonde ones, so their origin and therefore supposed worthlessness were even more blatant.
I’m a gaijin, too, a “person from outside”. I had travelled many countries before. But the Asian serenity had fascinated me ever since I had come to this country for the first time. That, and the prospering market for trained females.
Speaking of which: It was time to initiate the first step. Being kidnapped, bound in an agonisingly unnatural position, humiliated, boxed and orally raped had softened her up, no doubt about that. Yet these actions had induced no development, no progress towards the true aim. If I wanted to sell scared, abased puppets, I would just have them drugged and beaten up for three days. That did not meet my standards. At the end of her training, my little tourist – like all her predecessors – would be a high quality product, a fetish doll for sadists beyond sadism.
With some effort I pulled her blindfold away. Not only was it trapped under the snug gag harness, but also sticking to the hood. Yet I insisted upon her witnessing the following event.
As the blindfold finally came free, I was greeted by a pair of enchanting grey-green eyes. And although yon eyes were filled with fear, there was no trace of the mindless panic I had seen on so many other trainees-to-be.
“Well…” I took her passport from the inside pocket of my jacket, “… Illaun from Éire.”
I intentionally mispronounced it as “Eerie”, hoping to hurt her proud Irish ears with it. The photograph in her papers didn’t do her justice; Illaun was far better looking in real life. Especially gagged and hooded…
I looked up to the new guy.
“Oi! Have a light?” I knew that both Nakamura and Tanaka were non-smokers.
He just looked insecurely at me and smiled. The dumb gofer hadn’t understood one word.
Now his face showed genuine relief.
He handed me a cheap disposable lighter, and I turned my attention back towards the grey-green eyes.
“Are you with me, Illaun?”
She made a guttural sound.
“This is the last time you answer to that name.”
I lit the lighter and held the flame at her passport. Illaun made no further sounds, but the Irish eyes filled up with fresh tears as the red booklet was consumed by the fire.
I dropped the smouldering remains.
“From now on you will answer to dorei.”
The strong covers hadn’t burn up completely, and I used them as makeshift dustpan and brush. With quick moves I shovelled the ashes into her mouth and sealed it with the rubber stopper.
My new trainee withstood the temptation to shake her head in disgust (I only say anal hook), but tried vainly to push the stopper back out with her tongue. Next to me, Nakamura-san smirked. We both rose, and I grabbed the strap oh so cruelly tautened between the crown of her head and her rectal tormentor.
Doggie was a little bit unsure on her paws as I walked her away from the box’s wreck. Every “step” felt like a hammer blow to her tantalised joints. The hook embedded in her anal depths sent hot pain up her lower intestines every time I jerked at her “leash”. After a little tour through the garage (“That’s our new car hoist”, “Over there we store the engine oil barrels”) she was panting heavily and slipping every other second. I pulled the stopper and watched her retching out greyish saliva mud, decorated with partly burnt paper flakes. Satisfied with the achieved level of degradation, I called for Tanaka.
The workshop I used as façade for my true business didn’t provide the right, non-retraceable background. Temporarily freed from of her latex prison, Illaun was standing in the middle of a sterile, well-lit room. The practically naked woman was shivering in both fear and apprehension, but otherwise held up well. She had even put up a quite entertaining fight when Tanaka and I had peeled off the punitive suit. A rapid extraction of the anal hook and the threat of it being equally fast rammed in again had put an end to her little rebellion.
Being essentially nude didn’t mean she wasn’t fitted with any new regalia. A very strict four-inch posture collar raised her chin towards the light, advantageous for the upcoming photo shoot. Even more beneficial in my opinion was the leather monoglove holding her arms in a merciless grip. It was one of my severest models, running all the way up to her shoulders before sending out straps around her chest. Fully laced like it was now, it made her elbows touch. I normally didn’t use this kind on fresh trainees, but, oh boy, did she look hot in it! Shoulders bent backwards to the utmost, arms neatly stowed away, her full breasts pushed out.
Not that she was in need of it. Especially Tanaka admired her womanly attributes, now not longer compressed by the restrictive material of the suit. I confirmed that she was quite boobed (a term that made the 110 kilo hulk giggle like a schoolgirl).
The photo shoot which was scheduled next was an important part of the almost ritualised procedure of trading (Japanese love rituals). On the basis of the photographs Nakamura’s boss, his oyabun, used to decide whether to purchase my charming captives, once their training would be completed. If his answer regarding this one were “no” – and I saw no reason to expect that –, I would have little problems to sell Illaun elsewhere. Quality was always on demand.
First came the face shots (not what you’re thinking), which required her not to be gagged. Due to the posture collar Illaun wasn’t able to turn her head away, and did not dare to move her whole upper body. I had made myself quite clear by showing her some tools from a roller cabinet that I did not accept blurred photos.
Nakamura and I waited in the far corner while Tanaka was taking the first set of pictures. The scrawny lighter-boy had stayed in the workshop, just in case of unannounced visitors. None of us wanted to get on a pic accidently; you never knew who would look at it in the future.
With the close-ups done, it was time to re-gag Illaun. I chose a nice 8-buckle bishop gag.
“No, please!” She turned away at the waist. “I won’t scream for help, I promise!”
I believed her to a certain degree, but that wasn’t the point. I could indulge myself in the psychological meaning of a gag, about humiliation and de-humanisation. All of that was correct. It was correct that I adored the muffled noises of a beautiful woman in oral distress. That I did not want to hear endless pleadings once things started to get truly serious. That I took her ability of speech because I had the power to do so.
The point was: Illaun just looked so fuckin’ cute with her mouth filled to the brim!
Realising that begging was of no avail, she clenched her teeth. Smooth move. A trip to the large toolbox got me the needle nosed pliers. When she saw them, she actually backed off, but couldn’t escape me. The pliers found her left nipple and closed. Squashed for resisting in the first place. Pulled for moving away from her new master. Twisted to coerce her into opening her unruly mouth.
I stuffed the ball through between her teeth, transforming her long sweet scream into a battered grunt. Two and a half inches of hard rubber – there’s something about nearly dislocating a girl’s jaw…
After securing the straps behind Illaun’s head not too gently, I flipped the leather panel over her sensual and now very strained lips. I buckled it tight, really tight, to teach her a lesson. It forced the oversized ball even deeper into her mouth, grinding her tongue and palate. If she wanted to keep screaming, she had to put a little bit more effort into it.
Full body shots came next, and I wasn’t happy with her posture. The armbinder did a wonderful job, so did the collar. But something was missing.
“Feet together, more! Knees, too! C’mon, dorei, show some enthusiasm!”
Better, but still…
“Up onto your toes,” I commanded, which got me a puzzled look from her reddened eyes. But as soon as her left nipple was caressed by the pliers once more, her heels left the ground. I literally pulled her up by her breast.
“You stay like that. If anything else of your body beside your toes touches the floor, I crush this bud…” I emphasised it by closing the handles a bit more, “… and then move straight over to your right one.”
And Illaun did stay like that. Tanaka spent the next ten minutes documenting her constrained body. The who-knows-how-many gigapixel camera almost disappeared between his huge hands as he was circling her methodically, taking pictures every twenty or so degrees.
My trainee was unintentionally helping him by looking stoically towards the far wall, trying to deal with her captivity and bondage in general and with her straining leg muscles in special. Now and then muffled groans escaped her gag, and sweat appeared on her forehead.
Soon she wobbled on the balls of her feet, first noticeably, then dramatically. Illaun’s groans turned into howls. Her calves were cramping up nicely, so were her insteps. Forcing someone to stay on their toes is an official torture technique.
She kept looking at the wall. Had to be a really interesting spot over there.
Tanaka had finished his creative phase and joined his comrade (actually I had asked him to do so, for I suspected the scrawny bloke to smoke in the workshop). I discussed some final details with Nakamura. Illaun was balancing.
Illaun was still balancing after I had sped the three yakuza on their way. By now she was in real torment, every fibre in her muscles a red-hot wire of pain. Several times she had lost her posture and hit the ground with her heels, only to rise up again in a rush. I pretended not to notice it. To say the truth, I considered it quite entertaining. Watching her fighting. Watching her tormenting herself. She was obviously afraid of the punishment. But at least to the same degree Illaun was unwilling to give me a reason to punish her.
I loosened the gag and let it dangle around her posture-collared neck, both as a reminder and decoration. She winced as her stiff jaw muscles answered her attempt to close her mouth only with pain. The ball gag bore the danger of suffocation, but soon she would learn how to sleep with an open-mouth gag.
I stepped through the door of the soundproof room and switched the strong lights off from the outside.
“Lie down and sleep, dorei.”
I closed and locked the door, leaving Illaun in total darkness.
After a night in the armbinder, her shoulders were petrified. So Illaun gave me little trouble during the very thorough washing routine in the morning. Afterwards, I hung her out to dry by a septum clamp. That brought back bad memories to her feet as she was tiptoeing under the pulley, hands cuffed behind her.
I used her delicate position to stretch a fresh catsuit over her body, releasing her hands only temporarily.
“Yesterday’s formalities may have bored you,” I reflected as I re-connected her cuffed wrists, “but today we can get to know each other better and have some real fun!”
She was looking straight up the ceiling due to the nasal clamp, so the single tear ran down her right temple and into her silken hair.
Soon more followed. Some might be out of humiliation, others out of repulsion and anger. All were caused by my diligent hands on the hugging latex as I polished the already shiny material to spotless brilliance. Apart from aesthetical reasons that sweet work served to drive a very important point home: It was not on her anymore to decide when and by whom her body was touched.
That, and I like to honk boobies through squeaky rubber.
“Do you know what these are?”
I had lowered the pulley chain, so Illaun was able to stand flat footed and look ahead. Not that she liked what she was looking at. I held the items closer to her.
She made a sour face.
“Louder, please, and in a complete sentence.” Then, abruptly, I pulled the septum clamp up again, even higher than before. “And mind your damn language!”
Illaun gave a howl, then screeched:
“These are ballet boots, sensei!”
“How do you know? A little bit on the kinky side, aren’t you?”
She intuited that these were rhetorical questions and did not answer. Fine with me. I disliked being called “master” too often, neither in Japanese nor in any other language. Didn’t go well with my delusions of grandeur. I just had to make sure that my trainee always remembered the correct form of address. In her later career, a mistake would cost her dearly.
I released the pulley again, this times completely, and let Illaun slump to the ground. It was easier for me to fit her with the devilish boots that way, trapping her legs against my chest in turn while lacing her up. Each boot sported a wide leather flap at the top which covered the knot when buckled. Compact padlocks, two per flap, made sure that only authorised personnel could release the trainee from her demanding footwear.
She was not even standing, but already Illaun felt how these beautiful knee-high torture implements challenged her strength and flexibility.
“That was fun! Let’s try another one, shall we?”
I showed her a contraption made of black leather straps and even more shiny latex.
“What could it be?”
That she knew not.
Delighted to present her some new and exciting bondage toy, I made Illaun sit up and removed the chain from the septum clamp. The clamp itself stayed.
“You put it on like a pullover – a very tight-fitting pullover.”
Once her head appeared from the contraption’s neck-hole, I chained her nose up again. Only then I opened her cuffs, removing them completely instead of just disconnecting them like before.
“Now your arms go into the sleeves,” I continued, only waiting for her to resist. There was indeed a good deal of hesitation in her moves, and I reached out for the chain.
“Your arms go into the sleeves, dorei.”
Illaun kept her eyes closed as she finally obeyed. Maybe she tried to block out the fact that she was following my orders after all, that she was indeed obeying.
The sleeves ended in closed leather cones, similar to those bondage mittens, so her hands did not appear again.
I flipped her over onto her belly. By now my trainee had realised – to her dismay – that this fashionable item was some sort of straightjacket. Yet with a nasty difference from its medical counterparts, as Illaun was about to learn.
Since I had no intention to remove the jacket from my charming victim any time soon (or any other item, to that matter), I snapped a rubber-lined steel collar around her neck. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and more practical than the posture correction device she had worn until this morning. Plus, it was fully compatible with the straightjacket. The jacket sported straps and laces, belts and buckles at every strategic spot thinkable, and while some were designed to tether arms against each other or against her body, others needed strong external anchor points.
The two straps from Illaun’s mittens found said anchor points at the back of her new neck-long collar. I pulled, and her arms rose from small of her back up her spine. I pulled more, and her encased hands reached her shoulder blades. I pulled again, and Illaun replied with a whole lungful of screams.
Her fingertips had reached the base of the collar, which explained the intensity of my trainee’s reaction. The tendons in her shoulders and arms immediately started to ache under the stress.
To make things worse, I buckled her elbows together. A new cascade of high-pitched shrieks confirmed that this bondage position brought even a young, limber woman to the limits of her endurance. A perfect reverse prayer was downright beautiful to look at, but it took its toll without mercy.
Soon her muscles would fatigue, and her vulnerable ligaments had to bear the horrid strain accumulating in her joints. The grinding pain Illaun was experiencing now would heat up to true suffering, a sensation she better got used to quickly.
Most of her upper body was now covered by two layers of rubber. Unlike normal straightjackets, this model wasn’t bulky at all, and since her arms were neatly stowed at the back, Illaun’s torso was gorgeously emphasised.
It was easy to decide what to use on her next.
“It’s a corset, sensei.”
“Ever worn one?”
This one took her breath away nonetheless. Heavily boned, it covered the lower part of the jacket, and I had quite some difficulties to get it under her belted elbows. She gasped and moaned as the black item shaped her into an hourglass.
Illaun started to cry openly when she identified the bondage paraphernalia I was holding up, one in each hand. The suffocating hours inside the box, agonising and endless, had left scars. Finally, she managed to answer.
“And this?” I raised my left hand.
“A… a gag,” she sobbed.
“And what did you forget?”
“The correct address, sensei.”
Illaun didn’t resist as I removed the septum clamp and rolled the smooth latex down her head, covering the last free part of her. I did not take this as a sign of her being broken. I had had trainees who had cracked during the boxing or after their first night in bondage. But what the blonde kneeling in front of me performed was another kind of not resisting: Illaun was gathering strength to endure the inevitable.
An oval mouth-hole was the only facial opening the hood provided. I carefully adjusted the latex rim around her lips before feeding her the gag. Like the majority of the gags she would wear in the future, this again came with a head-harness.
But far more fetching was the design of the mouthpiece itself: It could be named by several terms, such as pump gag, butterfly gag, inflatable. But the one I preferred – and what described the severest aspect of this particular implement – was throat gag.
Operating the harmless-looking hand pump caused her tongue to be squashed under the main rubber bulb. It made her cheeks bulge out as the butterfly’s “wings” grew. The former sensation Illaun had already experienced, the latter was new to her. But what finally caused her struggle against her bondage was the phallic element forcing its way down her throat (hence the name “throat gag”).
The layout came closest to completely mute a victim (which would require to block the vocal cords), but the sexual symbolism was evident. Illaun was semi-deep-throating.
Naturally, her gag reflex kicked in after the forth squeeze of the bulb.
“You aren’t going sick on me, dorei, are you?” I taunted.
She managed to overcome the convulsions of nausea, and I gave her two more squeezes. After all, she was in training.
“If you think you can’t take it anymore and have to puke, better think again…”
Right now, the gag invaded her to tip of her epiglottis and wouldn’t go much deeper by design, so there was no risk of it to obstruct the entrance to her trachea.
“Calm down and breathe, dorei. There is a hose running through the gag.”
What I concealed from her was the existence of an adjustable valve at the hose’s outer end. Currently, it was completely open. But it could reduce and eventually shut down the air flow, thus making it very easy to control Illaun’s breathing.
She had successfully fought the second wave of gagging. Brave girl. I caressed her rubberised face. Without the thick hood, her cheeks might positively burst from the pressure.
It was quite an extreme gag; I had trained many who hadn’t been able to stand it physically and/or psychologically.
I took the pump again and tweaked it, just to let her know I was holding it.
“Is your mouth now full enough to make you remember how to address me, Illaun?”
She produced frantic noises. Of course they were completely unintelligible and severely muffled – yet I understood enough to know that she had reacted to her old name. A punishable offence. Sure, it was a perfidious trick, not to say a setup. But she was here to learn, and learn she would.
I gave more squeezes and only stopped when I heard something crunch in her jaw joints.
The bulb dangling on its hose gave Illaun’s face an even more degraded and controlled appearance. Yet I disconnected it, for it hampered me polishing the hood to the same perfect blackness as her suit.
My trainee commented my task with strange guttural moans, occasionally interrupted by retching noises. (When I touched her collar during those retchings, I could sense her convulsing throat through it.)
To keep her happy, I parted the double crotch strap of the jacket and opened the notorious zipper. Her body, still half-lying, half-sitting, stiffened as I ran a chrome dildo along her private parts. The cool metal’s touch elicited an inchoate yelp from her rubber-filled pharynx.
“Front or back?”
Embarrassed silence. Or maybe she was just playing on time.
“One grunt or two grunts? Quick, or I get a bigger one and decide myself.”
She uttered a choked sound. Front.
Illaun (I kept thinking of her as Illaun, I couldn’t help it) took the whole length in one slow and steady push, but it would have made her gasp even if her breathing weren’t hampered.
My trainee would soon come to cherish those ministrations, for her days of unearned orgasms and free self-pleasuring were over. Sexual slavery had a very unfavourable pain-to-pleasure ratio.
I closed the zipper and re-tightened the crotch straps. Better be sure…
The chain that had held her nose clamp found a new counterpart in the strong ring at the top of the head-harness. I worked the pulley and listened to the sweet sounds of pain and distress as the rising chain forced Illaun onto her ballet-booted feet.
If you have seen a girl prancing around en pointe in ballet boots, you know what sexy dance I was watching at. If not, you have something to look forward to.
Even in the lying position, the cruel fetish footwear had been harsh to Illaun’s calves, insteps and toes. Standing in them was draconic. But teeter in them in order to keep balance – blind, breathless and without the help of one’s arms – was torture.
“This is the basic outfit for a fetish pet,” I informed her, emphasising the word “basic” not without a trace of sadistic Schadenfreude.
Unlike during her time in the box, her blonde mane wasn’t trapped underneath the hood. So her now freely falling hair was glowing in great contrast against the dark splendour of the latex. Every mincing, tottering and near-overbalancing sent it in new waves over her armless shoulders.
I savoured her tip-toe torture for the rest of the morning.
I always enjoyed the first full day with a new trainee, used it to break the ice, to show her the possibilities I had to ensure her cooperation. Yesterday I enjoyed it all the more, for Illaun looked set to become a tough yet worthwhile job.
But today, more formalities were scheduled. First of all, my Irish captive was to be ringed. Every proper slavegirl sported rings or barbells in various sensitive parts of her body to offer her owner adornment and control. So I had had no understanding for Illaun’s fuss when she had seen Yukiko and her piercing equipment.
Yukiko was a young, aspiring artist from Yokohama, an adept with needles of all sorts. And a born sadist.
Two minutes after I had left my trainee in her care, the black-haired lady had already underlined her non-nonsense attitude by installing a nose hook deep within Illaun’s nostrils.
It forced her head far back against the angled bamboo frame she was tied to. In this position she surrendered her spider-gagged mouth beautifully to forceps and needle.
I had asked for a ring through the tip of her tongue and a stud in the middle, both 10 gauge. Yukiko was only too eager to fulfil my wish.
Illaun tried to raise concerns, but my Japanese guest caught the blonde’s tongue with the forceps and gone to work.
I watched the scenery in silence, just relishing what I saw: This morning I had chosen a different style for Illaun, an outfit that could be described best as a white latex bolero jacket with integrated hood. I didn’t have to mention that it was skin-tight and that it did a great job in not covering her breasts at all. The hood offered openings for mouth and nostrils as well as for the eyes and impressed with a face part decorated like a Venetian carnival mask (I had a weakness for weird details, so I tested it on Illaun). Ballet ankle boots, of course white, completed the outfit. Consequently, she was nude from her collarbones down to her ankles.
Ringing was always an excellent opportunity to introduce my trainees to shibari. After all, the ancient art of Japanese rope bondage was originally developed to immobilise captives for torture.
Asanawa, the rope used for shibari and hence used on Illaun, featured an almost silken quality, caressing the latex underneath instead of scratching it. Same for the skin, of course.
The hooks’ prongs had enough space behind them for Yukiko to pierce Illaun’s septum as well. No more fiddling with the clamp – a permanent nose ring had so many advantages. Yukiko showed me a rather extreme heavy-duty version. To say that I was pleased with her suggestion would be an understatement. With a brutality I had not expected residing in a petite woman like her, she punched a hole into the cartilage of Illaun’s septum. My trainee’s frantic screams were even intensified as said hole was fitted with a 6 gauge grommet. The ring through this grommet, resting heavily on her upper lip with its diameter of one inch, might look a bit freaky, but could take a lot of punishment.
The nose ring was one way bringing unruly trainees to heel. Another one, more delicate, but also even more effective, was to pierce her nipples. Of course, Illaun anticipated our intention and pled through her rigid gag, despite her smarting tongue. But the ropes were masterfully wound around her chest.
Yukiko didn’t care numbing the flesh – pain should always be given to slaves in its purest form. She just pinched Illaun’s nipples into hardness, grabbed them with her forceps and let them suffer the needle, prolonging the torment by slowly drilling the steel instead of just pushing it through the nerve-rich tissue.
My trainee seemed to have especially sensitive nipples, running out of breath more than once during their ringing. Maybe I should check whether she would faint from having her clitoris pierced…
Eventually, her breast jewellery was installed; stainless steel and irremovable like the other three. I had chosen rings again, yet more decent than the one in her nose: 11/16″.
With her work done at her chest, my sadistic friend moved between Illaun’s spread legs. My trainee actually feared a clit piercing and baulked once more.
With some quick slaps to her breasts I pointed out to her that such outburst were not tolerated.
“You better hope I haven’t any more modifications for your body in mind, dorei!”
Tears ran down the second skin of her latex mask as she submitted.
Yukiko, who was used to difficult working conditions and unwilling customers, had fired up her tattoo machine. She guided the tip with its three pulsating needles below Illaun’s navel, way below, just above the spot where it really got interesting.
When I had restrained Illaun, I had used variations of traditional styles to meet Yukiko’s requirements. In particular, there were no crotch ropes involved.
During the next quarter of an hour, first one, then a second Japanese character appeared in the waxed skin above her clitoral hood. I had seen those two kanji countless times before, but once again I was deeply thrilled by them – those two kanji which would haunt Illaun in the demanding and demeaning life that lay before her.
do and rei
[ (c) v1.0: 2011]