Chapter 23: The Spa
The spa’s treatment room was a stark, white-tiled space that smelled of chlorine and eucalyptus. Eleanor hooked the clear enema bag to a stainless steel stand, the tube dangling like a venomous tail. “Deep cleansing first,” she said, her voice echoing off the hard surfaces as she guided Sam onto her side on the vinyl-padded table. The nozzle, cold and slick with gel, pressed insistently against Sam’s tight ring of muscle before sliding deep into her rectum with a slow, inexorable push. A cascade of lukewarm saline flooded her colon, a bizarre, cramping fullness that made her gasp and clutch the table’s edge.
“Hold it,” Eleanor commanded, her hand firm on Sam’s hip, watching the clock with a serene smile. After an agonizing interval, she allowed Sam to release the water into a porcelain basin, the process repeated with a second, larger bag until the runoff ran clear. The coffee enema followed, its dark, pungent liquid bringing a jittery, invasive heat that seeped into her very bones. After Sam’s final, trembling evacuation, Eleanor led her to the salon chair, where she methodically cut three inches from Sam’s blonde ponytail, the locks falling soundlessly to the floor. She then worked thick, pungent black dye into Sam’s roots and through the remaining length, the chemical smell stinging their eyes, before applying an identical, inky formula to her own asymmetric bowl cut. Under the laser’s rapid, stinging pulses, the hair below Eleanor’s precise haircut vanished, leaving a landscape of smooth, reddened skin.
Once rinsed and draped in fresh towels, they lay side by side on adjacent tables for their massages, the strong, silent therapist working the tension from their bodies with impersonal skill. The facials were a cool, masking silence. Later, in a dim private suite, Eleanor pushed Sam back onto a deep, padded lounger, her black hair still damp and sticking to her neck. “You’ve been so empty all day,” Eleanor whispered, her fingers parting Sam’s labia, still tender from the clinic’s clamps, to expose her flushed, pierced clit. “Let’s fill you up.” She slid two fingers deep into Sam’s cunt, curling them up to press ruthlessly against the front wall, and began a steady, grinding rhythm with the heel of her hand. Sam’s back arched, a broken moan escaping her as the relentless pressure built, a direct line to the desperate, denied climax from days before. Eleanor’s thumb brushed the heavy ring through Sam’s hood, sending sharp, electric sparks through her nerves. “Come on, slut,” Eleanor breathed, her own breathing ragged, her other hand pinching and twisting Sam’s swollen, saline-filled nipple. “You need it.” The orgasm, when it tore through Sam, was a convulsive, screaming release that ripped through the enforced emptiness, leaving her shuddering and slick. Eleanor watched, her own hand sliding between her legs, working her clit with frantic, practiced circles until she followed with a sharp, guttural cry, her body tightening and then slumping against Sam’s. They lay tangled in the humid silence, the sharp smells of dye and sex and coffee lingering in the air.
The humid air clung to their cooled skin. Sam’s heartbeat slowed, the frantic drumming in her ears replaced by the faint drip of a distant showerhead. A strange, unbidden curiosity uncoiled in her gut, a foreign filament of heat distinct from the forced reactions of the clinic or the spa’s orchestrated relief.
She turned her head on the padded vinyl, her new black hair sticking to her cheek. Eleanor’s eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling steadily. Sam’s gaze traced the sharp line of the laser-smooth skin below Eleanor’s bowl cut, then drifted down to her own hands resting on her stomach. An impulse, reckless and entirely her own, took hold.
She shifted, the lounger creaking softly. Eleanor’s eyes opened, alert and questioning. Without a word, Sam moved down, her mouth finding the smooth, bare skin of Eleanor’s inner thigh, tasting salt and the faint chemical tang of the spa. “What are you doing?” Eleanor whispered, her voice edged not with command, but genuine surprise.
Sam didn’t answer with words. She answered with the slow, deliberate drag of her tongue over Eleanor’s cunt, exploring the swollen folds with a hesitant curiosity that quickly ignited into a hungry focus. She used her tongue not as a submissive tool, but as an inquisitive instrument, learning the textures, the responsive flutters, the taste that was purely Eleanor. A sharp, ragged inhale was her reward.
“Fuck,” Eleanor breathed, her hand tangling in Sam’s new dark hair, not guiding, just gripping. Sam ventured deeper, her tongue pushing inside, fucking Eleanor with a slow, probing rhythm that mimicked what had been done to her. The power of it was intoxicating, a silent reclamation. She felt Eleanor’s thighs begin to tremble, a quiet, helpless vibration against her cheeks.
Eleanor’s grip tightened in Sam’s hair, a silent, urgent demand. “Don’t you stop,” she hissed, her hips lifting off the vinyl to meet Sam’s mouth. Sam obeyed, her tongue licking a rough, fast circle around Eleanor’s clit, the rhythm shifting from exploration to a focused, ruthless attack.
She pushed two fingers back inside Eleanor’s cunt, curling them up hard, and felt the internal muscles clench in a spastic, wet grip. “Right there, you fucking witch, right there,” Eleanor chanted, her voice cracking. Sam drove her fingers deeper, fucking her with short, punishing strokes while her tongue never ceased its frantic motion.
Eleanor’s body bowed, a strangled sound caught in her throat before it ruptured into a raw, screaming climax that shook through her into Sam’s mouth and hand. She pulsed around Sam’s fingers, a hot, rhythmic flood. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing mixing with the hum of the spa’s ventilation.
Eleanor’s hand fell away from Sam’s hair, limply trailing down her cheek. “Well,” she finally exhaled, her voice hoarse and strangely soft. She looked down at Sam, whose lips were glistening. “That was a surprise.” A slow, unreadable smile touched her mouth. “We’re a mess.”
She stood on slightly unsteady legs and offered a hand. “Come on.” She led Sam, sticky and spent, from the private suite down a short, cool hallway to a spacious, slate-tiled shower room. Steam was already beginning to fog the glass enclosure as Eleanor turned the dial, releasing a torrent of hot water.
They stepped under the stream together, the water sluicing the sweat and fluids from their skin. Eleanor reached for a bar of unscented soap, working it into a lather between her palms before beginning to wash Sam’s back, her touch now methodical and clean. Her thumbs smoothed over the fresh, still-tender tattoo on Sam’s hip. “It’s healing well,” she noted, almost to herself.
She turned Sam gently to face her, soaping her collarbones, the heavy curve of her saline-filled breasts, avoiding the sensitive nipples. The water plastered Eleanor’s asymmetric black cut to her skull, and Sam, with a tentative boldness, lifted her own hands to reciprocate, spreading lather over Eleanor’s sharp shoulders and the smooth, laser-bared skin below her jawline. They washed each other in a silent, steam-filled ritual, the violence and surprise of minutes before dissolving down the drain.
The hot water traced the paths of soap suds down Eleanor’s abdomen. Sam watched them disappear into the dark triangle of hair, her own boldness from moments before simmering beneath her skin. Without a word, she dropped to her knees on the wet tile, the spray hitting her back.
She pressed her face into Eleanor’s pubic bone, inhaling the clean, soapy scent mixed with her own earlier work. “Again?” Eleanor asked, her voice a low thrum above the shower’s hiss. Sam answered by dragging her tongue through Eleanor’s folds, seeking the familiar, musky flavor beneath the clean soap.
Her tongue probed deeper, pushing inside, and Eleanor’s hand flattened against the shower wall for balance. “Christ, Sam,” she muttered, her hips giving a shallow thrust. Sam’s fingers dug into Eleanor’s thighs, holding her open as she lapped hungrily at her clit, the stiff little nub twitching under her tongue.
She felt drunk on it, on the control, on the ragged sound of Eleanor’s breathing. “You fucking like that, don’t you?” Eleanor gasped, her fingers twisting in Sam’s wet, black hair. Sam moaned in response, the vibration making Eleanor jerk, her cunt clenching around nothing.
SHE TASTES MORE. She sucks harder, her tongue a relentless, wet pressure, and slides two fingers back into Eleanor’s soaked hole, fucking her in a rough, steady rhythm. Eleanor’s cries echo off the tiles, sharp and unfiltered. “Yes, right there, you filthy fucking girl,” she chokes out, her body tightening, coiling.
Sam tastes the sharp, intimate proof of Eleanor’s climax as it floods her mouth, and she drinks it down, relentless, until Eleanor sags against the wall, spent and trembling.
The water beat down on them, washing the taste from Sam’s tongue as Eleanor’s trembling eased. “Get up,” Eleanor said, her voice soft but threaded with a new, curious respect. She helped Sam to her feet, her hands lingering on Sam’s slippery shoulders before turning off the spray.
They toweled off in a silence that felt different, charged not with dominance but with a mutual, ragged awareness. “Your clothes,” Eleanor stated, pointing to a neat stack on a bench—Sam’s own practical jeans, a simple t-shirt, her worn backpack beside them. Sam dressed slowly, the denim stiff against her fresh tattoo, the cotton soft on her tender nipples.
Eleanor watched, already dressed in her own sleek black trousers and silk blouse, a curator observing her artwork re-entering the world. “Your thesis committee meets tomorrow, doesn’t it?” Sam nodded, surprised Eleanor remembered. “Then you should go,” Eleanor said, walking to the spa’s door and holding it open. “You have work to do.”
The afternoon sun was a shocking glare after the spa’s dim interior. Sam walked to the bus stop, each step a reminder of the weight in her breasts and the subtle, bruised ache betweenlm her legs. She found a seat by a window, the familiar city streets passing by in a blur of mundane normalcy.
SHE RETURNS TO WORK.
The university library’s hushed atmosphere enveloped her, the smell of old paper and floor polish a stark contrast to chlorine and sex. She booted her laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating equations describing galactic rotational velocities. Her body was a secret archive of recent violations, but here, her mind could still parse the clean, violent beauty of physics. She took a deep breath, the phantom scent of Eleanor’s skin on her tongue, and began to type.
She typed late into the night, the equations on her screen a stable refuge from the memory of Eleanor’s taste. Her thesis committee meeting the next afternoon was a blur of polite nods and murmured approvals, her modified body hidden beneath a loose sweatshirt and jeans. “Your analysis on gravitational lensing in NGC 4414 is particularly compelling, Ms. Jones,” her advisor said, closing her folder.
That evening, Eleanor laid the outfit on the bed: a stark white blouse, sheer and tight, and a short, black skirt. “No underwear,” Eleanor stated, fastening Sam’s nipple ring so the barbell tugged obscenely at the swollen flesh beneath the thin fabric. The four-inch heels made her unsteady, a feeling Eleanor corrected with a sharp slap to her ass as she adjusted the high, severe ponytail.
Eleanor wore an identical ensemble, the crisp fabric contrasting with the dark, asymmetrical slash of her hair. As they walked to the car, a soft, metallic ching sounded with each of Eleanor’s steps, the hidden bell between her legs announcing her presence. The restaurant was all dark wood and low light, and Sam was intensely aware of the cool air on her bare cunt as she sat, of her hardened nipples pressing against the blouse.
They ate seared scallops and drank cold white wine, Sam’s leg jiggling nervously under the table. “You’re doing wonderfully,” Eleanor said over dessert, her foot subtly sliding up Sam’s inner thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. Her toes pressed against Sam’s exposed labia, a hidden, shocking invasion that made Sam gasp softly into her tiramisu.
Back at the house, Eleanor didn’t lead her to the bedroom but pushed her against the cool foyer wall. “I could hear that little bell all through dinner,” Sam breathed, her own daring surprising her. Eleanor’s mouth crashed onto hers, a hungry, wine-tasting kiss as her hand shoved the short skirt up and her fingers plunged into Sam’s wetness.
“You fucking loved knowing it was there,” Eleanor growled, her fingers curling inside Sam, scissoring her open. Sam could only moan, her head knocking back against the wall as Eleanor dropped to her knees, her breath hot on Sam’s thigh. She yanked Sam forward, her mouth devouring Sam’s cunt with a ruthless, sucking intensity, her tongue lapping and piercing.
The weighted bell between Eleanor’s own legs swung and chimed softly against the marble floor with every movement of her head.
The sound was a maddening counterpoint to the wet, sucking noise of Eleanor’s mouth. Sam’s fingers clawed at the wall, her hips bucking uncontrollably into that relentless tongue. “Please,” Sam gasped, a word stripped of all meaning beyond raw need.
Eleanor pulled back, her chin glistening, and looked up with dark, hungry eyes. “Please what?” she breathed, her thumb resuming its rough circles on Sam’s clit. The bell swayed, a faint ching in the heated quiet.
“I don’t know,” Sam whimpered, her head rolling back against the wall. Her whole world had narrowed to that single, tortured point of contact. Eleanor’s grin was a sharp, white thing in the dim hall light.
“I think you do.” She lowered her head again, but this time her mouth moved lower, past Sam’s dripping cunt, to the delicate, weighted silver orb that hung from its own piercing. Eleanor’s hot breath washed over Sam’s inner thighs. Then she took the cool metal sphere entirely into her mouth, her tongue cradling it.
SHE BITES THE BELL.
A sharp, resonant ping vibrated through Sam’s pelvis, a shocking, metallic chime that echoed in the bone. The sensation was not pain, but a profound, deep transmission that made Sam cry out, her knees buckling. Eleanor bit down once more, harder, sending another violent tremor through Sam’s core that unraveled her completely.
Sam’s orgasm crashed over her in a silent, seizing wave, her cunt clenching around nothing as she shook against the wall. Eleanor released the bell with a soft, wet pop and stood, catching Sam as she sagged. “There it is,” Eleanor murmured into her neck, holding her upright.
“There it is,” Eleanor murmured into her neck, holding her upright. Her voice was thick with satisfaction, but it faltered when she pulled back and saw the thin trickle of blood from her own lip. The sharp edge of the fractured silver bell had cut her. Sam, still pulsing from the aftershocks, stared at the tiny crimson bead forming on Eleanor’s mouth. “It’s cracked,” Eleanor said, her tone shifting from sated to something calculating as she probed the broken metal with her tongue, tasting her own blood mixed with Sam’s wetness. She reached down between Sam’s thighs, her fingers finding the cold, jagged edge of the bell where it hung from its piercing. A hard, sharp twist, and the broken orb came free in her palm. Eleanor held it up to the foyer light, examining the fracture. “A flaw in the casting,” she concluded, dismissing the object’s symbolic weight with a clinical shrug. She dropped the broken bell onto the marble floor where it landed with a final, dull clink, not a chime. “The weight was the point, not the sound.” Her thumb, slick and warm, pressed against Sam’s now-bare piercing, massaging the sore, empty hole. “We’ll get a steel one next time,” she said, her eyes locking onto Sam’s, a fresh plan already forming behind them. “Heavier.” She wiped her bloodied lip with the back of her hand, smearing it. “Clean this up,” she commanded, turning toward the stairs, the order hanging in the air between them. Sam stood trembling against the wall, the ghost of the bell’s vibration still echoing in her bones, and watched Eleanor ascend, the silence now absolute and more unnerving than any chime had ever been.
Sam stood trembling against the wall, the ghost of the bell’s vibration still echoing in her bones, and watched Eleanor ascend, the silence now absolute and more unnerving than any chime had ever been. She heard drawers open and close upstairs, a purposeful, searching sound. Eleanor descended moments later, a long, slender black box in her hand.
“This should have been first,” Eleanor said, her voice casual as she clicked the box open on the hallway table. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a collar of polished stainless steel, its edges rounded but substantial. “The foundation, not an ornament.”
She lifted it from the box; it caught the low light with a cold gleam. “Come here,” Eleanor said, not looking up as she thumbed a release catch on the hinge. Sam obeyed, her bare feet cool on the marble, stopping within arm’s reach. Eleanor’s hands were steady as she placed the cold metal band around Sam’s throat.
It fit snugly, just below her adam’s apple, a constant, solid pressure. The click of the locking mechanism was a definitive, final sound. Eleanor used a small, hexagonal key to turn a discrete screw, ratcheting the fit infinitesimally tighter until it was perfectly, inescapably secure.
“There,” Eleanor breathed, her fingers tracing the sealed seam under Sam’s jaw. She tilted Sam’s chin up with a single finger. “Now you’re home.” The weight of it was profound, a gravitational anchor rooting her to the spot. Eleanor’s eyes scanned her face, reading the shock, the submission, the flicker of something else deep within.
She leaned in, her blood-scented breath hot on Sam’s lips. “You wear my weight now, in your tits, on your skin, around your throat.” Her hand slid down Sam’s front, over the sheer blouse, cupping the heavy, saline-filled breast. “It’s all mine.”
Her other hand pushed the short skirt up again, fingers finding Sam’s wet, pierced cunt with practiced ease. “And this,” Eleanor growled, pushing two fingers deep inside her, “is my favorite hole.” She fucked her with rough, short strokes, the metal of the collar pressing into Sam’s throat with each thrust.
Sam gasped, her hands flying up to grasp Eleanor’s wrists, not to pull away but to hold on. “Say it,” Eleanor demanded, her rhythm relentless. “Who do you belong to?” The words scraped out of Sam’s tightened throat, raw and true. “You.”
The word hung between them, a raw admission vibrating against the cool steel now permanently encircling her throat. Eleanor’s answering smile was a thin, satisfied curve as she withdrew her slick fingers with a soft pop. “Good girl,” she murmured, wiping her hand on Sam’s thigh before tracing the locked seam of the collar.
Its unyielding pressure was a constant reminder, a new axis around which her world now rotated. Eleanor guided her by it, a firm hand on the metal, leading her not to the bedroom but to the living room’s low, wide sofa. “On your knees,” Eleanor instructed, her voice casual, as she unbuckled her own trousers.
Sam knelt on the plush rug, the position making the saline weight in her breasts pull forward unnaturally. Eleanor pushed her trousers and underwear down just past her hips, then settled back onto the sofa’s edge, her thighs framing Sam’s face. The musky scent of her own arousal filled Sam’s nostrils. “Clean me up,” Eleanor said, her hand settling on the back of Sam’s head, not forcing, but promising.
Sam leaned in, her tongue finding Eleanor’s folds still wet from her own touch. She licked slowly, deliberately, tasting the sharp tang of herself mixed with Eleanor’s distinctive flavor. The steel collar pressed into her jawbone with each movement. “Use your mouth properly,” Eleanor chided, her fingers tightening in Sam’s hair, guiding her rhythm. “Don’t just lick, suck.” Sam obeyed, taking Eleanor’s clit into her mouth, applying a soft, pulsing pressure that made Eleanor’s breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that, you greedy cunt,” Eleanor sighed, her hips pushing forward.
Sam lost herself in the mechanics, the taste, the choked sounds from above, the heavy pull of her own augmented body. She was a instrument being played. Eleanor’s gasps became sharper, her thighs tensing around Sam’s head. “I’m close, don’t you fucking stop,” she commanded, her voice straining. Sam redoubled her efforts, her tongue flicking rapidly as she slid two fingers back inside Eleanor’s tightening heat.
Eleanor came with a sharp cry, her body bowing as she ground herself against Sam’s mouth, her hand fisted painfully in Sam’s dark hair. Sam drank down the pulsing release, her own body aching with a hollow, ignored need. As Eleanor’s spasms subsided, she pushed Sam’s head back, breaking the contact. “Look at you,” Eleanor panted, her eyes glazed but intensely focused on Sam’s wet, flushed face. “My good, collared girl.” She leaned forward, her thumb swiping through the mess on Sam’s chin, and smeared it across the polished steel. “Now it’s sealed.”
STEEL COLLAR LOCKED.