Seva Kandrin’s about to Make You Her Bitch
Our primary sense is our vision (at least as long as nobody comes up with the idea of putting full blinkers on us). The sense most closely linked to our memory is said to be the olfactory one. Yet there is something deeply influential about our hearing, too. Maybe it is the duality of hearing and feeling, of how the same sensation is processed twice by our minds. Or maybe I own a tendency for heightened acoustic recall, a proneness to certain rhythms and frequencies. To the latter, the frequencies, I was subjected again the next morning as Miss Cuntling whistled us out of our bunks. The insufferable sound heralded another day of anguish.
The former ran deeper. An imageless dream about the never-changing cadence of horseshoes had exhausted me during the wee hours, and its aftermaths were still lingering in my head as I carried myself out of the barrack. Especially the walk, before all other gaits, seemed to hit a resonance within me. I was positive that this rhythm would turn traumatic for me in time. It both triggered and was reinforced by memories of events past and long-forgotten.
I’d never lived in the best part of my home town, but still the events about a decade ago had been disturbing enough to make it into the national news. Protests against the eviction of a squatted block had turned into a medium-arsed riot, and I, nosy brat that I was, had to take a look. Of course I got caught between the fronts, and fleeing from the mob I suddenly faced a phalanx of policemen. They were blocking the whole street from one side to the other, every single one built like a brick shithouse and in full riot gear. For young me they looked like an army of nightmarish samurai. And if this wasn’t enough to render me stiff with dread, there was that rhythm, the endless beating of their nightsticks against their polycarbonate shields. The nearest rozzer screamed at me, throwing spit against the inside of his visor. But still I was not able to hear him over the omnipresent drumming. Finally he pulled me behind their line, after ascertaining no danger was to be expected from a girl in a Hello Kitty parka.
According to my calculations we were supposed to have pony training during today’s first block of activities, the one that was scheduled till 09:30. And indeed they herded my group to the barn after the big fall-in. As usual our clothes went into the shelves in the tack room, but once we were following sauna dress code again our handlers led us across the indoor dressage area to the back of the barn. A large sliding door opened up to a tiled room that bore the intimidating atmosphere of a heavy duty doctor’s office. Especially the horizontal polished metal bar in the centre gave reason to concerns, sturdy enough and fitted with a sufficient number of anchorage points to hold an unwilling mare fast for treatment. We were being expected by the lady doc, who today was obviously moonshining as a veterinary surgeon. Already in her Hippocraticly white lab coat she was standing next to a medical trolley, on which a tray of some sort was covered with a sterile cloth.
1301 was first. Two of our handlers tended to her. I’d expected them to bend the redhead over the bar forward, just like it was common practice with the corral rail. But the handlers positioned her the other way around, so the horizontal pole was pressing into the small of her back. Zero-One’s ankles were cuffed far apart to the vertical supports, and chrome-shiny shackles pinned her wrists and elbows tightly together behind her back. That made her push out her breasts nicely, just like an armbinder would. She yelped a bit about it, but one of the handlers produced an additional wire rope nonetheless. Soon it was running from 1301’s wrist manacles to an eye in the ground. Some energetic yanks not only took the slack out of the steel cable, but also out of the girl’s body. Under moans and panting her back arched dramatically over the bar, the strain in her pulled-down arms causing her shoulders to shift within their sockets. The pose looked highly stressful, and the way it robbed her front of any protection proclaimed that mean things could be done to her.
Meanwhile the lady doc was readying herself to work on Zero-One. She put on examination gloves, letting the latex snap on purpose. The sound was a must-have addition to my list of auditory rigours. Casually she folded the cloth back from the tray.
From my place in the queue I hadn’t got the best view, yet I could see the neatly arrayed rings made of surgical stainless steel. The collective gasp following the unveiling was expected by Miss Cuntling.
“Yes, those are piercing rings, and there are enough for everyone. They are part of the DACC restraining strategy and therefore a bit thicker than normal – yet not as thick as they could be. So I don’t want to hear any complains about them.”
Zero-One, whose position was forcing her to look at the ceiling, tried to see what Kandrin was talking about. She had taken off her glasses together with her clothes, so she squinted quite noticeably as she rolled her head this way and that. Maybe she was able to catch a glimpse of the tray, but she could not see the lady doc rolling in on her on a high saddle chair. Our make-believe vet worked calmly, yet without fussing about. She wiped the girl’s breast tips with alcohol. The cooling effect caused Zero-One’s nipples to harden. Before her groans about this unwelcomed manipulation had stopped, a pair of forceps held the left one captive.
“Oh shit!” the girl shrieked my very thought.
She began to whine and rattle her chains as the needle pushed its way through the nerve-rich tissue. One handler rammed a rubber bit in her mouth and yanked its straps tight. The lady doc just kept going, not caring in the least about her patient’s anguish or her exclaims of pain being muted by a mean gagging device. She replaced the needle with a captive bead ring. To nobody’s surprise and Zero-One’s dismay the procedure was repeated with the right nipple. As the second ring had been firmly secured within her flesh the redhead slumped back – or something like that, given her strenuous posture. She actually believed that the lady doc was through with her. The woman took a third ring, this one from a different array, and held it up for Miss Cuntling to see. The group leader nodded.
Somehow a septum piercing was more difficult to get right. The wannabe vet used another, more specialised clamp and scolded Zero-One for not holding still. She pierced the septum a bit below the cartilage and inserted the third ring. It was the same diameter as the nipple rings, I reckoned one and a half centimetre. It was a bit thicker, though.
“Nips 2 mm, nose 2.5 mm,” Ten would later clarify with the visual judgement of an experienced body moddee.
I struggled to decide what was more debasing to have forcefully pierced and ringed: one’s nipples or one’s septum? Innuendos to sexual slavery or to livestock control?
They released Zero-One from her shackles. She moved her hands up to palpate the hurting spots on her breasts and face, but didn’t dare actually touching them. The lady doc changed her gloves and tools, and would do so after each inmate. She did use the same gag on everybody. How I hated to be the last. Again and again the details of my upcoming torments were presented before me in 3D. I wasn’t so much in fear of the pain anymore; after the branding orgy and almost daily lashings pain had become relative. What got to me was the intrusive character of the ringing, its allusion to mutilation – that it had in common with the branding.
Zero-Nine, no sooner gag and bonds had been removed, stormed out of the vet room, covering her face with her hands. Apparently she had already decided what modification was more debasing to her.
“1310. Move it.”
The group leader’s bidding was dismissed by Ten with a smug smile.
“Nah, I’m fine, ma’am.”
Miss C. let her little telescopic shock thingy expand and electro-burnt Ten’s kidney area, sending the lanky girl down to one knee. A handler roughly grabbed her upper arm and hauled her over to the steel bar. She wasn’t put in irons, though, as the lady doc wanted to confirm the same suspicion I was entertaining. And indeed, true to her pre-pony lifestyle, the group’s biker broad already had all relevant regions of her body pierced. All that was left for our medical all-rounder to do was put the rings in. Ten met this with impassive demeanour. She had cheated the system. Miss Cuntling could have her pierced somewhere else, just so Ten would bleed like the rest of us. But then again, an additional piercing would hardly have any shock value to the inked girl. With the three rings installed and locked, Ten was ready to take her leave.
Devoid of any warning Kandrin slammed her back against the bar, which vibrated visibly under the impact. It was a cold, calculated move, without the smallest sign of Miss C. having lost her temper.
The two handlers hurried to fetter Ten’s ankles. If she had said “frog”, they would have jumped about the vet room. Kandrin fetched a pair of rings from the tray, the thicker ones. She hunkered down in front of Ten to do some quick reconnaissance, then rose again. Her hands, however, stayed between the girl’s legs. As I said, our primary sense is our vision, and Miss Cuntling was using hers for what was of the most interest to her: Ten’s expression. The rest she did by feeling, scraping an opened ring across an outer labium until finding the pre-pierced spot. I could tell that the ring was too thick for the existing canal by how Ten steadied herself on the bar, clenching it in pain until her knuckles turned white. The thin yet wiry muscles in her arms bulged and stayed that way as Kandrin repeated her search on the other labium. Cupping both genital piercings with one hand, she brought her face even closer to Ten’s. The quintuple-ringed girl remained in her straining state, not fighting just pain now.
“Know what underreins are? You’ll love them.”
Now that had backfired badly on Ten! She had thought herself on home turf, had underestimated Miss Cuntling. Now she was walking out a little bow-legged and a lot wiser. Eleven hesitated to take her place. Kandrin readied her spark stick again.
“Please don’t be tiresome…”
“Ma’am, I’m already pierced,” she tried to banter before the gag went in, but did not make the mistake to provoke the group leader with an attitude. Turned out Eleven used to wear a barbell in her left nip, who would have thought?
“Nice start, but not sufficient.”
Under Kandrin’s vigilant eyes the lady doc pierced her way through the rest of the group. Sixteen’s tits looked even more fake than usual as she was stretched over the bar. She screeched even before the needle touched her for the first time. Maybe she was afraid her boobs would pop.
With her nose ring also in place, Sixteen made room for me. One of the handlers followed her out, not being needed here anymore. Now that I knew where they were about to put the rings in me, some of my original anxiety had ebbed away. I was actually eager to get it over with. The ringing would hurt and humiliate, just as it was supposed to, but it couldn’t be worse than the branding. At least I was telling me this over and over again as I saw the tray up close. Would Miss Cuntling let me off that easily? At any time that psycho could make up an excuse to use even thicker rings or freakishly large diameters. She could place the septum ring so high the cartilage had to be punched through. Fitting grommets. Have the lady doc use glowing needles. Soldering the rings shut, thus rendering them irremovable whilst tormenting me with the transmitted heat.
My elbows met behind my back, wrists and ankles were shackled as well. Then the wire rope was hooked in to break me on an invisible wheel rack. I knew that many lasses would bend over backwards for a cool piercing, but we were taking it a bit too literally here. It was beyond me how some of the other girls had managed to scream – I was barely able to breath with my forcefully flattened lungs. My spine was about to snap, so were my shoulders. Already the cuffs’ metal edges had been pulled deep into the base of my hands. My head was free, but moving it triggered an almost nauseatic sensation. Not too eager to puke over my own face, I kept still and cast my gaze heavenwards. With my being the last patient, Kandrin could grant me her full attention. She and the lady doc came closer, scrutinising my helpless form. Involuntarily I opened my mouth for the bit.
“A full set for this one.”
“All at once?” the pseudo-vet enquired.
“All of them, and all at once.”
“But Mr Kendrick―”
“Is not here today. Proceed.”
To say that I found this little chit-chat quite alarming would be an understatement. My anxiety powered back up to the point of my being able to hear my heart pounding. What was a full set? Had Ten received a full set?! Having rings pulled through my labia was a nightmarish thought. I tested the ankle restraints; they would hold my legs wide apart, no matter what. Then I decided to close my mouth. That wouldn’t hinder anybody to upgrade my pussy, but at least I would look less silly. Too late though – the remaining handler put the rubber bit between my teeth. Then Kandrin touched me softly. I hated that so much, and not only because I felt sexually used, and rightly so. Whenever she whipped me or tortured me otherwise, a part of my mind automatically imagined a role reversal, where I would do the very same things to her (and then some, but that was usually added later by another, more sadistic part of my mind). However, by caressing me she bereft me of this retribution reflex.
She stroked my nipples into hardness, officially for a better placing of the needle. That didn’t explain why I had to be felt up by her, since the alcohol would see to it anyway. And indeed, the cooling effect gave my nubs another shot of stiffness. The last step of preparation. As the needle pressed against the side of my left nipple I held my breath and ground my teeth into the rubber. As it pushed through, I made gulping sounds around the bit. It really hurt. About 25% more than I’d imagined, and I’d already adopted a high-pain scenario due to my sensitive breasts. The most appalling aspect was the sliding sensation when the needle travelled through my flesh, no matter in what direction. More of it was dealt out as the ring went in. It felt very strange, very invasive, and from now on this feeling would be my permanent companion. The ominous metallic sound the ring was closed with told me that it could not be opened as easily as a standard CBR.
I managed to suffer through my second nipple piercing with a bit more dignity, supressing most sounds of misery. My blood was pulsing in my temples, and the muscles in my neck were straining to support my head. The lady doc used a different kind of forceps to steady my septum. Then the needle came again, and with it the sickening feeling of tissue giving way. Automatically my eyes teared up. I kept my eyes open, hoping for the extra liquid to vaporise. Kandrin shouldn’t think I was crying. Most likely she knew about the underlying knee-jerk reaction, but would taunt me nonetheless. A bit of blood ran up my nose, and I had to sneeze. Quite funny with one’s mouth gagged and diaphragm about to tear.
Miss Cuntling removed the bit, and for a split-second I actually assumed she was concerned about my ability to breathe. That notion quickly changed as she grabbed my hair and pulled by head even further back. A moment later I had a dental gag in my mouth. It was a Whitehead, very similar to the Jennings model the lady doc had used on me over at the main building on the day of my arrival. The difference lied mostly in the utilisation of two side ratchets instead of one. The similarity lied in the ability to make my jaw joints creak in agony. Kandrin spread the gag’s frames until the ratchets had clicked eight times each. I gargled in distress. My body was covered in cold sweat. Forceps took my tongue captive and pulled it as far out as it would go. Its piercing was relatively painless, but at that point I was already traumatised by the repeated violation of my very flesh. The lady doc repositioned the forceps, gripping a part nearer to the tip.
How many more?!
Again the needle skewered me. Again a piece of surgical steel was placed where it did not belong in. Now I was sporting two barbells through my tongue, one behind the other with a distance between them of maybe two centimetres. I couldn’t be sure about that, though, for the muscle felt already swollen.
“Need a break?”
I needed to get out of here! Not that this was going to happen any time soon. Miss Cuntling’s question implied there was still more to come. I heard her adjusting the doctor’s saddle seat to a comfortable working height. To find the most elusive part of the female anatomy. To run a needle through it. To ring it in accordance with the DACC restraining strategy.
“Here, clitty, clitty…!” she teased.
She exposed and wiped my clitoris, doing the latter for far longer and far more firmly than necessary. I was crying for real now. Kandrin had taken me to the realm of my innermost fears. Cutting or piercing any part of the genitals without explicit informed consent of the receiving person is sexual mutilation. Full stop. There are no exceptions, grey areas or interpretations. Not to mention it’s medically unethical to injure or remove living, healthy tissue. Tissue defining one’s sexuality. Tissue essential for reproduction. Tissue that serves a protective purpose (and is erogenous itself), shielding the parts beneath from harm and preventing desensitisation on both males and females. Ten’s tattoos and piercings qualified as – for the lack of a better term – “desecration” of healthy flesh. But getting those had been her decision, and hers alone. Her modifications had not been borne from some dangerous superstition she’d been subjected to when she’d been a child or otherwise helpless.
Helpless like me.
Kandrin tightened the forceps and reached for a fresh needle. This one she would do personally. She positioned the needle, letting me feel it. Letting me wait for it.
“How long do you reckon she will be out of commission after this?”
“No exercises for the first forty-eight hours of the healing process,” the lady doc advised. “And after that the use of a split crotch strap.”
“What a dilemma, huh, Seventeen? Being bored for the next two days, or enjoying them together with the other fillies in that gorgeous autumn?” She ground the needle tip into my clitoris, breaking the skin.
“Ah’unng!” I gagged out in despair.
She pretended to consider my choice.
“Very well. We leave that one…” she flicked my clit, “… for a special occasion.”
I nearly wet myself in relief as Kandrin took the needle away and opened the forceps. The doctor removed the torturous contraption from my mouth whilst the handler freed me from my shackles. I was weak in the knees and had to brace myself on the bar. My body felt alien to me with all the new hardware installed. I risked steadying myself with only one hand, guiding the other one between my legs. When I brought it up again there was a single drop of blood on my finger tip.
“You may join the others, Seventeen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered with no substance in my voice.
As I shakily crossed the vet room, the weight and movement of my rings were forcing me to accept a new reality. Something was taken away from me. The image of a body that was whole, that was mine.
I wondered whether a clitoral piercing would have been a good anchorage point for underreins.