Chapter 10: Academic Humiliation
The morning light was a lie against Sam’s skin. Eleanor kissed the base of the sleek, black silicone plug before pressing it inside her, the cold invasion a familiar, humbling stretch. “It has a wireless receiver,” Eleanor said, tapping the small remote on her phone screen. “I’ll be watching your class stream. Disobey, and I’ll turn it to max.”
In the lecture hall, the droning calculus of orbital mechanics blurred into static. A buzz, gentle as a insect’s wing, fluttered deep in Sam’s gut. She stiffened, her pen skidding. Her phone glowed: Sit up. Look attentive. The vibration intensified to a persistent, blunt thrum. She inhaled sharply, drawing a glance from the professor.
Now, imagine the tidal forces, he said, as the plug shifted inside her, vibrating in a slow, cruel pattern. A sweat broke on her brow. Recite the Roche limit formula in your head. Eleanor’s text commanded. Sam’s internal voice stammered through the equation as the vibration escalated to a punishing grind against her prostate. Her thighs trembled against the seat.
Back in the muted blue bedroom, Eleanor pushed her onto the bed. “Now, out loud.” The plug buzzed fiercely. “The equations. All of them.” Sam’s voice cracked as she recited Kepler’s laws, the vibrations building to an unbearable peak. Her body arched, a scream of release torn from her as she came, hard and empty, shaking against the crimson sheets.
The convulsions subsided into faint tremors, leaving her hollowed out on the rumpled silk. Eleanor watched from the edge of the bed, phone still in hand, her expression one of clinical appraisal. “A hands-free orgasm from astrophysics,” she mused, her voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “That’s a new page for the book.”
She reached over and deactivated the plug with a tap, the sudden stillness inside Sam more profound than any vibration. “It’s not just about making you come,” Eleanor said, her fingers tracing the line of Sam’s jaw. “It’s about wiring your mind. Connecting your brilliance to my command.” She pulled the plug free with a soft, wet pop, dismissing its role with a careless drop to the floor.
“Look at me, Sam.” Sam’s gaze, blurred and exhausted, met hers. “You belong to the lens, to the album, to the truth it captures.” Eleanor’s thumb brushed Sam’s lower lip. “Your equations, your pleasure, your shame—it’s all data for my art.” A long, silent moment stretched between them, filled only with the ghost of the vibrations in Sam’s bones and the weight of that claim.
SHE SUBMITS. The thought wasn’t a decision but a deep, cellular recognition, a final quieting of a resistance she could no longer locate within herself. Her body went limp, not with exhaustion, but with a surrender so total it felt like peace.
Eleanor’s touch softened, shifting from ownership to a strange, possessive gentleness as she pulled Sam against her. They made love slowly, a deep, grinding rhythm where Eleanor watched the exact moment Sam’s analytical mind finally, completely shut off. Afterward, they spooned in the silent room, Sam’s back to Eleanor’s front, the scent of sex and lavender clinging to their skin.
Eleanor’s lips brushed the shell of Sam’s ear, her whisper a venomous caress. “I want to cut your hair weekly for about twenty weeks until you are bald.” Sam’s breath hitched, the image of her severed blonde lengths falling away striking with a visceral terror. “Saturday, I’m putting you on display, asking members to take a marker and mark where your new piercing will eventually be placed.”
Both suggestions did not let Sam rest fully, the phantom sensation of shears and permanent ink already etching into her psyche. Her brief peace shattered, replaced by a cold, future dread that coiled tight in her stomach. Eleanor’s arm tightened around her waist, a possessive band locking the visions in place.
Eleanor’s arm tightened around her waist, a possessive band locking the visions in place. For the next several evenings, they sat before the laptop, the blue glow painting their faces as endless YouTube haircut videos played—the whisper of shears, the silent fall of long hair to tile floors. “See how free she looks?” Eleanor would murmur, her finger tracing the screen where a woman smiled, her neck now bare and vulnerable. Saturday arrived cloaked in a mundane gray light, and Eleanor laid out Sam’s instructions: the highest black heels, a long trench coat belted tight, and nothing else. “Wrists and ankles,” Eleanor said, tossing her the soft leather restraints, her tone implying this was as routine as choosing a scarf.
Sam dressed in the silent bedroom, each click of the heel a portent, the coat’s liner whispering against her bare skin. The car ride was wordless, the city passing in a smear of rain and streetlight, ending at a converted of five people, their conversation dying as she entered. “Right on time,” Eleanor said, guiding Sam to a set of wall-mounted brackets and heavy canvas cuffs. She secured each ankle first, yanking the straps until Sam’s legs were spread wide, then bound her wrists high and tight, stretching her body into a taut, unyielding “X.”
Eleanor gathered Sam’s long blonde ponytail, pulling it through a loop in the wall, forcing her head up and back. “Everyone, this is Sam,” Eleanor announced, her hand sliding inside the coat to cup Sam’s bare breast. “Today, we’re planning her metal. I want you to take the markers and put a dot anywhere you think she should be pierced.” A man with kind eyes and a woman holding a wine glass stepped forward, picking up the permanent sharpies from a table. The first dot, cold and tickling, landed high on the outer shell of Sam’s right ear.
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Eleanor’s hands went to the belt of Sam’s trench coat, pulling it loose with a soft rasp. She peeled the coat open and let it fall from Sam’s shoulders, pooling at her bound feet, leaving her utterly naked under the harsh lights. A low murmur passed through the small crowd at the revelation of her pale, restrained form. “These are permanent markers,” Eleanor announced, plucking a black Sharpie from the table and drawing a firm, dark dot on Sam’s left inner wrist. “I want you all to join me. Put a dot anywhere you think her skin should be permanently pierced.” She turned Sam’s face by the chin toward the group. “Look at this canvas. Her ears alone,” Eleanor said, tracing the shell of Sam’s ear with the marker’s cool tip, leaving a faint blue line, “could accommodate twenty holes easily.” She drew a small, precise ‘x’ at the very apex of Sam’s cartilage. “The marker is the promise. The metal will be the proof.” A woman with close-cropped silver hair stepped forward first, her eyes analytical as she took a red marker. She drew a small, careful circle around Sam’s right nipple, making Sam gasp as the tip grazed the sensitive peak. “That one’s a given,” the woman said casually, handing the marker to the man with kind eyes. He studied Sam’s torso, then leaned in and placed a deliberate green dot in the shallow dip of her navel. “For a ring here,” he said, his breath warm against her stomach. Another participant, a younger man, took a purple marker and drew a bold line down the length of her inner thigh, stopping just short of her sex. “A ladder,” he said to Eleanor, who nodded in approval. The markers touched her skin—cold, tickling, violating—plotting a constellation of future violations across her breasts, her abdomen, the delicate skin of her ankles. Someone dotted a line along her eyebrow, another marked a spot at the corner of her lip. The physical act was clinical, but the intent behind each touch, each planned perforation, carved a deeper shame into her psyche than any touch before. She was becoming a blueprint, her flesh a diagram for their collective will. Eleanor watched, her gaze possessive and proud, as her property was cataloged.
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Eleanor watched, her gaze possessive and proud, as her property was cataloged. She stepped forward, the markers’ scent chemical and sharp in the air. “Let’s get a formal count,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs.
She tilted Sam’s chin up with a firm finger. “Ears,” Eleanor stated, her eyes scanning the dotted pathways along the cartilage. “Seven proposed on the left, eight on the right.” Her thumb brushed Sam’s eyelids, making her flinch. “Eyes are untouched, too precious to mar.” She traced the bridge of Sam’s nose. “Nose, one stud here at the septum.”
Her finger slid to Sam’s lips, pressing down. “Mouth, two at the corners for rings.” She pushed her thumb inside, hooking it under Sam’s tongue. “Underneath the tongue, one single barbell.” She cupped each breast, squeezing the marked areolas. “Breasts, four per nipple, and a line of six between them.” Her hand traveled down, parting Sam’s cunt without ceremony.
“The vaginal area,” Eleanor said, her finger circling Sam’s clit, then tracing her outer lips. “One here, two here, and a Prince Albert for the hood.” She withdrew her wet finger. “The total count is thirty-nine.” She leaned close, her breath hot in Sam’s ear. “Thirty-nine holes to fill, you perfect, empty thing.”
Eleanor released Sam’s chin. “Still not enough.” She began unbuckling the canvas cuffs with brisk, efficient motions. “We’re done here. Let’s go get Thai takeout.” The casual shift left Sam reeling, her skin still buzzing with the phantom pressure of the markers.
In the car, the scent of green curry and lemongrass filled the space, a bizarre counterpoint to the chemical smell still clinging to Sam’s skin. They ate straight from the containers on the living room floor, silent except for the clink of forks. Eleanor pushed a stray grain of rice from Sam’s lip with her thumb, then leaned in and kissed her, the taste of spice and possession merging.
Her hands were in Sam’s hair, pulling her back onto the deep rug. “You’re so pretty marked up,” Eleanor murmured, her mouth traveling down Sam’s neck to a cluster of dots on her collarbone. She sucked hard on the skin there, leaving a dark bloom that would outlast the ink. “Every one of these will have a silver ring through it.”
She pushed Sam’s thighs apart, her touch devoid of its earlier performative cruelty, replaced by a deep, hungry focus. “I want to feel you,” she whispered, sliding two fingers slowly into Sam’s wet cunt. Sam arched, a low moan escaping her as Eleanor fucked her with a steady, deep rhythm, her palm grinding against Sam’s clit. “Come for me, just like this,” Eleanor breathed, her eyes locked on Sam’s, and Sam obeyed, her climax shuddering through her in warm, pulsing waves.
Afterward, Eleanor traced the line of purple dots on Sam’s inner thigh. “Next weekend, a different club,” she said, her voice lazy and sated. “Maybe one with a real tattoo parlor in the back.” She kissed Sam’s shoulder, a promise. “We’ll get you some proper ink.”
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“We’ll get you some proper ink.”
One week later, the car pulled up to a converted warehouse throbbing with bass and neon. This club was louder, the air thick with sweat and vinyl, the patrons clad in leather and latex instead of the quiet luxury of the last place. Eleanor, in a tight black catsuit, led Sam by a short leash clipped to a new collar.
She didn’t speak, just guided Sam to a cleared space where steel rings were set into the concrete floor. “Ankles here,” Eleanor commanded, her voice cutting through the music as she forced Sam to kneel. She fastened thick leather cuffs, then pulled each leg out and down, securing them to the floor rings, spreading Sam obscenely wide.
From a ceiling hook, Eleanor produced a cold steel spreader bar. She secured Sam’s wrists to each end, then hoisted the bar up sharply, yanking Sam’s arms overhead until her body formed a taut, unyielding ‘Y’. “Perfect presentation,” Eleanor said to the gathering crowd.
“This is Sam,” Eleanor announced, her hand slapping Sam’s exposed cunt to emphasize ownership. “She’s going to be significantly modified soon.” She held up a box of permanent markers and a tray of sterilized, sealed piercing needles. “Tonight, you can mark her. The needles are for those who understand pain is a promise.”
She traced the shell of Sam’s ear. “These ears can each hold more than ten rings.” A man in studded leather took a black marker, drawing a line of dots from Sam’s lobe to the crest of her cartilage. The cold tip dragged over her skin.
Another person, a woman with a shaved head, selected a needle from the tray. She pinched Sam’s eyebrow, the sharp, burning puncture making Sam gasp as the metal slid through the skin. “One,” the woman said, leaving the needle dangling.
Someone else took a red marker, drawing a precise target on her left nipple. A different hand, wearing a rubber glove, used a needle to pierce her right cheek, the pop and subsequent sting bright and shocking. The markers moved down her body—dots charting a path for rings along her sternum, a line for a ladder on her inner labia.
A thick needle, cold and clinical, was pushed slowly through her septum, the crunch of cartilage a sickening sound inside her own head. “Look at that,” Eleanor purred, tilting Sam’s face for the crowd. Tears tracked through the ink on Sam’s cheeks.
Tears tracked through the ink on Sam’s cheeks. The markers kept coming, cold tips drawing proposed chains across her hips, dots for studs down her spine. A fresh needle pierced her right earlobe a second time, the pop and subsequent burn a bright, familiar pain now. Her body was a map of pending violations, each pinch and line a promise of future metal. The music pounded, a relentless bassline to her exhibition.
Two hours bled into a haze of acute sensation and detached observation. The crowd's interest began to wane, their marks covering nearly every inch of her accessible skin. Then, a path cleared through the forest of legs. A bald women , naked and moving on her hands and knees, crawled silently towards Sam's spreadeagle form. SHe did not look at her face; she simply buried her head between her thrall-widened thighs.
Her tongue was flat and warm and methodical, licking a slow, broad stripe up her soaked cleft. Sam jerked against her restraints, a shocked gasp escaping her bruised lips. SHe held her firmly by the hips, her mouth latching onto her clit with blunt, persistent suction. “Subject is displaying heightened vasocongestion,” Eleanor stated, her voice cool and analytical as she peered down. “Labia majora are deeply engorged, exhibiting a pronounced violet hue.” Her tongue delved inside her, fucking her with it, before circling back to her swollen clit. “The clitoris itself is fully erect, approximately two centimeters in protrusion.” Sam’s hips began to stutter, a traitorous rhythm she couldn’t suppress. “Orgasm is imminent,” Eleanor cataloged, just as the sensation crested into a raw, convulsing peak that ripped through Sam’s core. Her back arched wildly against the leather cuffs. “Note the uncontrolled muscular spasms and the subsequent ejaculate,” Eleanor said, as Sam’s cunt pulsed around the invading tongue, dripping onto the concrete sHe kept lapping, drinking her in, even as she shuddered through the overstimulation. “Mark the results as successful: total physical compliance achieved.” The women finally pulled back, her chin glistening, and resumed her silent, crawled retreat. Eleanor leaned close, her lips brushing Sam’s ear. “
Eleanor leaned close, her lips brushing Sam’s ear. “Let’s take inventory of the damage, pet.” Her finger, cold from holding her drink, traced the dotted constellations on Sam’s trembling skin. “Starting with the ears.” She turned Sam’s head roughly. “Eleven marks on the left shell, plus an idustrial piercing. 13 on the right. We’ll do them all in stainless steel, tiny rings that’ll catch the light when you turn your head.”
She moved to Sam’s nose large septum puercing1 small ring in nostrils
She pinched Sam’s right eyebrow where the needle still dangled. “One here, a simple barbell.” Her touch slid down to Sam’s breasts, cupping their heavy weight. “Four rings per nipple, that’s eight pieces of metal just for these pretty tits.” We should includes nipple shields. She squeezed a nipple hard, making Sam gasp. “And a chain or bells connecting them, so you’ll feel the pull with every step.”
Her thumb smeared the tear tracks on Sam’s cheeks. “One stud in each cheek, right through the muscle.” She pressed the spots, imagining the metal. “It’ll hurt when you smile.”
Eleanor’s index finger pushed past Sam’s slack lips, hooking under her tongue. “we need to cut the German to make the tongue longer . A single barbell here, in the middle of the tongue and a ring at the tip. You’ll feel it against your teeth always.”
She withdrew her Her hand descended, parting Sam’s slick folds without ceremony. “For here, one captive bead right on your clit.” She rubbed the spot, a cruel promise. “Five rings in each labia major 2rings in labia minor the rings on these outer lips, so I have something to tug on.” The cliteris hood removed. She pinched the skin, hard. More then “at least Thirty-nine holes in total, my perfect canvas.”
Her inventory complete, Eleanor’s thumb pressed against the throbbing spot where Sam’s clit strained beneath its hood. “Is there… a time frame for all this?” Sam whispered, the words cracking in her dry throat. “And what are my rights to say no?”
Eleanor laughed, a short, sharp sound that held no warmth. “Your rights?” She leaned in, her breath hot. “Your only right is to spread your legs wider.” She grabbed a marker from the floor, uncapping it with her teeth. “The piercings start next month, after the photographic series is done.” She drew a slow, dark circle around Sam’s navel.
“We have another meeting next week to plan your tattoos,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if scheduling a dentist appointment. “And then we always need to talk about your haircuts.” The marker moved to Sam’s scalp, tracing a precise, cold line from her temple back over her crown. “This all comes off, inch by inch, session by session.”
Before Sam could process the verdict, Eleanor’s free hand parted her labia. “But first, a down payment.” The blunt, inked tip of the marker replaced her fingers, pressing insistently against Sam’s tight, forbidden hole. Sam cried out, a sharp protest strangled in her chest as Eleanor pushed, the marker’s thickness a brutal, dry invasion that burned and stretched her.
“Shhh,” Eleanor cooed, twisting the marker slowly, grinding it deeper into Sam’s rectum, the plastic shaft slick now with lube from her cunt. “This is just the outline.” She began to fuck Sam with it, a ruthless, shallow rhythm that scratched and filled. “The real metal will feel so much colder.”