Devastation Pt. 03

The rise in tone from a mewling to a screaming was instant as the first ring of studs was applied. Sabirah worked slowly. Loading and reloading the stud-gun. The needle-sharp ends of the studs making that almost sickening little CLICKING sound as each was powered deep into the anal ring flesh. Sabirah looked around Stefani's raised hips, towards her head to see the stretched ribbon of drool reaching from the girl's mouth to the platform under her. She thought it amusing that despite the screaming, howling activity from the mouth of Stefani, the thick ribbon of drool did not break. She allowed herself a little chuckle as she continued to work, almost in unison, almost in a dancing beat, and in perfect time with the sounds of distress coming from the teenager. The first row of suds into the very crown of the ring. The ring pulsating, dilating, trying to suck back against the inflated instrument inside her, but failing, of course.

Sabirah stood up and back, to admire her handy-work before beginning the application of the second ring of studs. It couldn't be denied that the ring of six raised studs added to the 'look' of the ring. Enhanced it even more, even if a little freakishly. The second ring of studs would be a further enhancement. Both rings, like the breast adornments, had a secondary reason for being, in that they added, quite multiplied, the sexual sensitivity of Stefani.

"AAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH!"

Around the base of the raised anal ring, nine studs. Equally spaced. Equally angled. Each equally, soul-destroyingly painful in its application. By the time the last of the nine studs had been powered into the deeply intimate, feminine flesh, the ring was in a continuous state of convulsion. Pushing, pulling, dilating and sucking on the tube as Stefani's mind tried to come to terms with what was happening down there. Of course, the mind never came to terms with it. That was just it. That was the point of the delicate teetering act of keeping her just on the edge of sanity. That was the very essence, the very base reason. That she experienced all of the pain, the emotion, the sexuality of it, and at the same time remained powerless - totally absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Just accept it. She screamed and screamed as those piercings fed the throbs, right back into her clitoris. The pain feeding the throbs, amplifying them. The amplified throbs feeding the need, the hunger, the desperation for her to orgasm. The orgasm always, but ALWAYS, cruelly denied.

It was interesting. A case for close study for Sabirah, as Stefani was released from that particular bondage, in readiness for the next. Sabirah observed from several angles from inside her control room, as Stefani was helped to her feet. The pained expression on her face quite obvious. Distress, yes. But a distant distress. One that drained her pretty, still made-up features. Made her appear gaunt, withdrawn, and yet her enhanced, decorated breasts still hanging out of the uniform tunic. And the latex peeled up over her buttocks and hips and the decorated pierced ring of her anus, protruding from between, and holding her bottom cheeks slightly open. Bizarre and yet delicious as well. And even more bizarre with the tube hanging and waving like a tail from the hole itself. Bizarre yet more with the pout of her enhanced sexual lips, and clitoris, backward, and as yet undecorated. But dripping always dripping.

But of more interest to Sabirah, how the effects of the distended organs and the piercing altered her gate and stance. A slight bow to the long gangly legs. More care in how she placed her extremely heeled feet. Probably subconscious efforts to adapt to the alterations of her most feminine flesh. Quite animalistic in the way she moved her weight from one of the ballet-heels to the other. A closer study of the face. So full of abandonment. How Sabirah wished she could read, exactly, that mind. What, exactly, was going through it. Oh, she was experienced enough to know 'roughly' of the turmoil inside that young head. But as she zoomed in on the eyes, all tear-dripping, and glazed, how she wished she could read EXACTLY what was going through her mind. If she could do that, her sadism would be fed to the extremes. Sabirah allowed Stefani to moved around for a little while, enjoying the view she presented, before moving on to the next stage.

In order to work on the vaginal and clitoral areas of Stefani's sexuality, she needed to be in a gynaecological chair. Knees wide apart, and held thus in stirrups. In the normal world, such a chair exists. Of course it does. In the normal world she wouldn't need to be secured. This wasn't the normal world though. This was Sabirah's world. This was hell on earth. This gynae chair had adaptations and additions. Yes, the knees were wide apart, and high. Very crude. The knees hooked into the stirrups but the ballet-booted ankles pulled down and secured to the floor via stainless-steel wires clipped to rings in the ankles on the boots. Her feet pulled down and secured so rigidly that her back almost arched off the soft leather padding of the chair. But that was its design. It was designed to ensure the victim could not move. But more than that, it was designed so that the pelvic region, and the crotch, and all associated sexuality, was thrust up and unhindered. So that it was readily accessible, and so there was not a continuous need to spread the legs, peel back thighs and all of the rest of the inconveniences an advanced sadist like Sabirah just didn't want to be bothered with.

A broad, sturdy thick latex strap held Stefani into the chair by being secured across her middle. No special care was taken not to dishevel the uniform. Sabirah quite liked that messed-up look. It certainly emphasized Stefani's distress and discomfort. Even more so, as the exposed, decorated breasts spilled out of the tunic and over the latex of the strap and just overflowed slightly with her semi-seated position. That strap fought against the arch in her back and yet was required in order to keep her from lifting, or even attempting to lift herself, out of the chair. Or release the pressure from the downward pulling and securing of her feet and lower legs. The biggest pressure came with her arms being pulled out from the sides of the chair and then individually being pulled down and secured in the same manner as her feet, to eyes in the floor. This bondage was rigid. Severe and her arms held dead straight and bent down only at the shoulders.

As she used her micro-motored marvels to tighten and finish off all the bondage, Sabirah could tell the great distress that Stefani was under. By the end of it, by the time all wires and straps had snapped and whirred into place, the teenager was a panting, mewling wreck of a girl. Her breasts enhanced and decorated strangely, bizarrely made her look stunning. A glance between her legs, and down between her bottom cheeks, one could also see, totally exposed, totally enhanced and decorated, the extended, distended raised flesh of her anal ring. From the center of that, the tube, with the inflated end still in place. From the as yet undecorated area of her sexuality - her bulbous clitoris, and swollen raised labia that faded into the raised section of her anal ring, juices leaked, and dripped. These juices were relentless in their flow. The throbs never stopping their work on the girl's body and mind. Those throbs, as much a part of Stefani's priority as were the throbs of her mother's, her priority.

The work on Stefani's labia was slightly different. Slightly more complex, and more deliciously obscene and cruel. A similar instrument, or tool, inserted into the vaginal tunnel, the end inflated, and then tugged back against the inside of the sexuality, pulling it out, making it more available to be worked on. This caused somewhat more emotional turmoil in that it pulled back against the G spot. Pressed into it, and so was a constant reminder that was added to all the other 'constants' in Stefani's new world.

"EEEEEEEEGGGGGGGGTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMGGGGGGGG!"

The teenager's squealing, squawking bellow, rising from her mouth, bouncing off the ceiling, around the walls, and finally back down to the floor. So lucid and clear and loud and desperate were the screams that one could practically follow their path around the room's flat surfaces.

Sabirah had to carefully and very precisely peel back each labia. Opening it up. Peeling it back, and folding it over itself so that the very pink, perma-moist inners of the sexuality were exposed. This was a very precise procedure. Absolute micro-accuracy was needed, and special studs needed to be used. Long studs that pierced the fatness of the labia, and then the extra fatness, due to the fold-back, and then the very delicate flesh that each labia was folded back onto, in the folds of flesh to the sides of the altered vaginal area. A row of seven yellow gold studs driven through the fat, sensitive flesh and, in effect, stapled to the flesh under. The vagina, in effect, peeled open and all-but turned inside out, then held open. Held so that the inner flesh, the very red flesh, the very wet flesh, was constantly open. Constantly exposed. A row of seven studs down the length of each labia. The row spanning the whole length of the slit. The hole that was Stefani's sexuality, or that made up part of her sexuality, all open, gaping and yet, still producing the copious amounts of dripping wetness. As the rows took shape, perfectly the whole design began to integrate with that of her anal ring and these organs, seemingly always with a life of their own began to take on the appearance of a work of art. Bizarre art, yes. Dripping art, yes. Art that was 'alive' and pulsating, yes.

"AAAAGHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMGGGHHH!!!"

Inhuman cries, as each stud was applied. Followed by the dab-dabbing of Sabirah's medicated wipes as each spot of blood was blotted and dried in readiness for the next stud to be applied. The work of art eventually taking shape, and with the clitoris, the only undecorated piece of flesh left for Sabirah to spend the final amount of time on.

The clitoris, was treated much the same as the anal ring. Except it was smaller than that ring. Just a circle of smaller studs around its base. Each stud piercing and invading the space usually kept sacred for the THROBS. Each needle-sharp stud piercing and settling deep inside the epicenter of Stefani's world. As the first of the studs had been applied, her eyes had bulged, and then her lips had stretched into a silent scream in a way that Sabirah hadn't seen before. Like a soul-searching silent scream. Tears squirting up from her eyes. Literally squirting up from her eyes as her 'throb space' was invaded. The pain didn't rob her of the throbs. They simply agitated the throbs. Changed the volume and intensity of the throbs. Mostly increased the volume and intensity. The throbs seeming louder in her mind and more intense inside her hyper-feminine clitoris.

"GGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPHPHHPHPHHHHHHHH!!!"

Sabirah worked slowly. Methodically. Clinically, around the clitoris. Simply gripping it between thumb and forefinger before applying the stud. Dabbing the spot of blood, then moving on to the next.

The final stud... for the very tip of the clitoris. The orgasm-producing tip. The hyper-intensified clitoris-tip was more of a cap, in that it covered the entire clitoris-tip, and even was folded over slightly so that it fitted the circumference of the thick, long clitoris actually like a cap. A made-to-measure, clitoris-cap. The stem was very long. Very tapered and once shot into place would pierce way beyond the throb area. It sank into, through, and way beyond, that THROB center. That hyper-center. When Sabirah applied that stud the screaming, gut-wrenching squeal made even Sabirah wince. Not so much at the deep, harrowing, ungodly pain that her victim was suffering, but due to the damage the scream did to her own eardrums. Still, that was minor compared to the eye-opening joy that the Sadist was experiencing at putting this young girl through a set of paces she could not in her worst nightmares think could ever exist.

'MMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGSSSSSSSHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGKKKKKKKKMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHHHHHH!!!"

The total wall of noise bouncing off every flat surface available and then holding its volume in the center of the room. Sabirah, standing back, watching, wallowing in the young girl's absolute Hell.

Another little piece of this work of art complete. The project, on-going.

SEVEN - Victoria & Petra

To an outsider, someone from the normal world, Petra should have been thanking her lucky stars for being taken from the Clinic by Victoria. Oh, it's true, she had been taken back up into the world. The outside, albeit in a pseudo-twilight sense, since she could not again be mingled into society as such. Neither would she ever move in the circles she once moved since officially she was dead. So, she wasn't really 'free.' She would never be free. Having been broken, and subjugated to sub-level status, her mind was damaged. Irreversibly damaged. Those deep, deep rooms under that clinic dripping with her despair. Filled with her screams. Her's and Stefani's. Screams that defied humanity. Her sexuality extended, expanded, manipulated. Her mind twisted. Fucked around with. And yet her sanity, just about in tact. I say just about because it was indeed a delicate teetering act. As delicate a teetering act actually as the wearing of the tortuous ballet-heels that had become an ever present part of her life now. A finely balanced, expertly applied piece of never-ending sadism. Sabirah gaining the desired results after years and years of research, experience, and practice. Petra didn't stand a chance, she never did. Not even as much chance as that fly in the spider's web. Knowledge of Petra's descent into Hell must surely encourage all to look at those around us in different ways.

Petra was chosen because of her success in the outside world. Because of her rampage through the professional world. The City world. Sabirah could have easily scoured the seedier existences of prostitutes, drug addicts and porn stars for her likely subject. But that would have been too easy. It would have been too easy to 'disappear' a weekend hooker. Or a down-and-out drug addict who had next to nothing to lose anyway. Oh no, Sabirah wanted her 'One' to be very special. Very special indeed. She had to tick all the boxes not just in the looks department. There were other boxes that had to be ticked. She had to be successful. She had to be arrogant. Confident. She had to be content and happy in her life. Happy WITH life. She had to have EVERYTHING to LOSE. With Petra, all the boxes were ticked with 'interest.' Each box ticked with a little extra. Looks more than expected. Success more than expected. Arrogance in abundance. Confidence dripping from her. And then there was the little added extra of Petra's daughter, Stefani. The mirror image. Oh yes, every box ticked deliciously. Sabirah could only apply a little extra with Petra in order to reach the goals that had eluded her for so, so long. She was indeed happy to apply that little extra.

So, by the time Victoria's input into the plan had been put into action, Petra was little more than a shell of her former self. Everything had been taken from her. Everything. She didn't even control her own sexuality. Or her own mind. Her days, and nights, consisted of nothing more than her constantly suffering in some way or other. Whether it was in physical, absolute bondage and torture, or whether it was in some other form of torture, such as a relentless mental and psychological distress that diminished her mind and ability to function on an ever-decreasing scale. Or enforced multi-orgasms. Addictive yes, but clouding the sanity that remained at the same time. There was what was being done to her. And what was being done to Stefani. The effects on Petra, profound and disturbing. For Dr. Sabirah Najwa, very gratifying.

Victoria's plan had been a masterstroke. Let Petra think it was all over... and then take her right back in. The crushing despair several-fold worse than that she had experienced so far. Sabirah liked that thought. Clenched her thighs at that thought.

And so, yes, that little chink of light existed. The one where Victoria's almost hypnotic voice dripped into Petra's psyche, and cajoled and coaxed her. Made her feel that there was hope for her. And for Stefani. Of course she was going to be taken from the Clinic. Of course her mind would recover to a certain extent. And of bigger priority to Petra, of course her sexuality would be encouraged and developed to sublime levels. Hyper-Orgasms galore! Victoria didn't lie. All Petra had to do was be a good, good girl. All she had to do was provide pleasures to others. All she had to do was be Victoria's good girl, and then she would never have to go back to that Hell Clinic ever again. So yes, she should have been grateful for that, at least. It's like an abused animal, really. The dog beaten on a daily basis is so grateful for even the smallest act of kindness towards it. Petra, grateful on a sickening level, for being taken out of that hellhole. Kindness, yes, but in microscopic amounts, in comparison to the volumes of hell she had been subjected to thus far. Disguised kindness. False kindness. Part of Sabirah's plan. Part of Victoria's plan. A pawn in a game.

It is true, the colossal global downturn in the economy, a fact of life. Boom, then bust. These very much the bust years. And yet, the march for equality in women's pay, conditions, status, and recognition marches on. The equilibrium farther reaching than the boardroom alone. Successful women demanding facility and function to match that of their male colleagues. The up swing of Ladies Only Private Clubs a move against the tide of economic uncertainty. The wives of the super-powerful and super-wealthy bankers and CEOs paying thousands upon thousands of pounds per-year membership to these private clubs whilst their spouses very often go on to have nervous breakdowns, heart attacks, or lose their marbles completely, as well as their jobs. Their downfall even more so, had they known, in some cases, what their better halves were up to during their Ladies Only nights away from home. More importantly though, the self made women, able to cope with pressure better than their male counterparts, able to multi-task with ease, and enjoying their success going on to form these little niche clubs, associations and institutes. Making them Ladies Only ventures so that they can indulge in the feminine equivalent of the obscene excesses that had always been confined to the, high-ceilinged, wood-panelled side-rooms of exclusive 'male only' private members clubs.

One such Ladies Only venture you would not see advertised in The Tattler, or Vogue, or Cosmopolitan. Nor would it be spotlighted or promoted in any public way. The Pink Velvet Bud Society. A select, closed group of wealthy and powerful ladies from the upper reaches of society. Founded by a lesbian city trader, now retired to organize full-time the activities of the Society. Five-figure annual membership fee and a closed circle so tight that its members may indulge in any activity, no matter how questionable, without fear of exposure or threat. Complete and utter secrecy and discretion the like of which, only women are capable of creating and maintaining. Each member only recorded and known under a pseudonym, or nickname. All records, financial and where-else required to be kept, secured and secreted in an off-shore facility. Each member guaranteed to have attained only the highest status in London's elite. The term VIP doesn't begin to cover PVBS membership list. Celebrity. Royalty. "Ladies" in the grandest form. And yet something much looser, in the moral sense.