Chapter 24: The Collar's Bite
The steel collar felt like a second, colder skin as Eleanor clipped the leash to its O-ring. "The shock function is a mutual guarantee," Eleanor said, leading her down the spiraling steel stairs into the dungeon's humming silence. "I won't trigger a circuit that runs through us both." The polished concrete floor was cold under Sam's bare feet. Eleanor stopped before the low table, opening the leather-bound album to a spread of stark, clinical photos. "My earlier work," she murmured, her finger tracing an image of Sam restrained on the clinic's table, eyes wide and mouth agape. "You look so beautifully empty here." She unhooked the leash, letting it fall. "On the bench. Assume that position again." Sam climbed onto the suspended leather bench, her body obeying the remembered posture of the photo: chest down, ass raised, head turned. Eleanor retrieved a heavy, polished obsidian wand from a shelf. "This doesn't share a circuit," she said, the cold tip tracing Sam's exposed labia. She pushed it inside without preamble, a deep, stretching fullness. "Now, you'll watch yourself." Eleanor held the open album on the floor before Sam's face. The dark stone plunged in and out of her in a relentless rhythm, each thrust mirrored by the helpless image in the photo. "You're just a set of holes for me to fill," Eleanor breathed, her free hand twisting in Sam's hair to keep her gaze locked on the page. Sam’s moans fogged the laminate as the wand hit a spot that made her spine arch. "Come for your portrait," Eleanor commanded, grinding the stone deep. The orgasm ripped through Sam, a silent, convulsive seizure against the unyielding obsidian. Eleanor withdrew the glistening wand and laid it across the small of Sam’s back. "A better paperweight than a bell."
She tugs the leash. The sudden jerk on the steel collar stole Sam’s breath, pulling her off the bench onto her knees on the cold concrete. “Eyes on the book,” Eleanor said, her voice flat, pointing again to the photo of Sam hollowed out and clamped.
Eleanor’s other hand worked the fastening of her trousers, freeing the familiar, smooth silicone of the harness and cock Sam had only glimpsed in a drawer. “You’ll service this now,” she stated, guiding the broad, purple head to Sam’s saliva-slicked lips. “Open your fucking mouth.”
Sam parted her jaws, accepting the invasive pressure as it slid over her tongue, her throat instinctively tightening. Eleanor’s grip on the leash tightened, shortening it so Sam had no room to retreat, only to take the shallow, pounding rhythm Eleanor set. “That’s it, choke on it,” Eleanor breathed, her hips pushing forward, the cock hitting the back of Sam’s throat with each thrust.
Tears blurred the horrific photo as Sam gagged, her own cunt clenching around nothing, aching with a perverse, hollow need. Eleanor fucked her mouth with a relentless, mechanical pace, the leash acting as a brutal throttle. “Use your tongue, you passive slut,” Eleanor grunted, pulling out just enough to smear pre-come across Sam’s face before shoving back in.
Sam’s world narrowed to the stretch of her jaw, the bite of the collar, the salty-bitter taste flooding her tongue. Eleanor’s breathing hitched, her thrusts growing erratic. “Take it all,” she commanded, driving deep one final time, her release pumping hot and bitter down Sam’s constricted throat. Sam swallowed convulsively, the act as submissive as the collar itself.
Eleanor withdrew, wiping the slick shaft on Sam’s hair.
Eleanor unclipped the leash, the silence following the click somehow louder than her commands. "Stand up," she said, her voice stripped of its earlier heat. Sam's knees ached as she rose, the saline in her breasts a heavy, swinging reminder. Eleanor's eyes, clinical and appraising, scanned her from the damp hair to the trembling thighs. "You're still thinking," she observed, a statement of profound disappointment.
She guided Sam backwards until her shoulders met the chilled concrete wall. "This will stop that." Eleanor dropped to her knees, her breath hot on Sam's stomach. Her mouth, ruthless and knowing, found Sam's cunt without ceremony. There was no teasing, only a deep, devouring urgency, her tongue spearing inside with a wet, forceful rhythm.
Sam’s head cracked back against the wall, a guttural sound tearing from her throat. It was too much, a direct assault on her over-sensitized nerves, and her hips jerked in helpless, tiny arcs. "You don't get to be quiet up there," Eleanor mumbled against her, the vibrations blurring into the relentless lick and suck. Her fingers dug into Sam's ass, pulling her harder onto that working mouth.
A coil, white-hot and terrifyingly familiar, wound tight in Sam's gut. She tried to clamp her thighs, to push the feeling away, but Eleanor just pressed in harder. "Let it go, you overanalyzing bitch," Eleanor growled, her tongue circling Sam's pierced clit with pinpoint, brutal accuracy. The orgasm detonated, a shocking, full-body convulsion that stripped every coherent thought from Sam's mind, leaving only raw, shuddering sensation in its wake. Eleanor stayed there, drinking her down until Sam whimpered from overstimulation. Then she stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her gaze locked on Sam’s shattered expression. "Better."
Eleanor picked up the obsidian wand from where it lay on the bench, its surface still slick. "Such a durable material," she mused, her thumb rubbing over its cool, smooth head. She pressed it back against Sam’s leaking cunt, not inserting it, just applying relentless pressure. "But everything has a fracture point."
She pushed it inside again, this time with a rougher, more experimental torque. "You feel that?" Eleanor whispered, her other hand gripping Sam's hip bone hard enough to bruise. Sam gasped as Eleanor worked the stone in a harsh, twisting motion, the unnatural angle scraping her raw inside. "I wonder how much stress it can take before it fails."
With a sudden, vicious snap of her wrist, Eleanor angled the wand upward and drove it deep, leveraging it against Sam's pubic bone. A sharp, sickening crack echoed in the concrete room, not from Sam’s body but from the stone itself. A dark fissure splintered across the obsidian’s sleek surface.
Eleanor withdrew the wand, holding it up to the flickering candlelight. The fracture ran its entire length, a web of ruined black glass. "There," she said, her voice holding a strange, satisfied finality. She dropped it onto the concrete floor where it shattered into several jagged, useless pieces.
She stared at the shattered obsidian, her breath ragged. "Everything has a tolerance," Eleanor said, stepping over the black fragments to a sleek cabinet Sam hadn't noticed. Its door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing an interior lined with foam cutouts holding objects of cold, machined metal. "These do not."
She selected a device, its form suggesting a cruel, geometric flower forged from surgical steel. "An speculum," Eleanor explained casually, clicking a lever that made its blades part with a smooth, silent glide. "But not for a doctor." The metal was icily familiar against Sam's inner thighs. "You'll watch this, too." Eleanor positioned a freestanding mirror, its polished surface reflecting Sam’s splayed cunt and Eleanor’s focused hands.
The cold tips pressed, then intruded, a mechanical stretching that was profoundly different from the wand’s blunt force. A ratchet clicked, and the blades opened wider inside her, exposing pink, trembling inner walls to the dungeon’s air and her own horrified gaze. "See how deep you are?" Eleanor whispered, her finger tracing the chilled metal edge where it met vulnerable flesh. Another click, another expansion, and Sam gasped at the full, relentless invasion of cold steel.
"Foundations," Eleanor murmured, recalling her own word from the collar. She picked up a second object from the cabinet: a long, tapered cylinder of polished bronze, its surface covered in intricate, raised spirals. "For the foundation." She pressed the cool, narrow tip against Sam’s other entrance, the one untouched until now. Sam flinched, a strangled sound catching in her collared throat. "Relax," Eleanor said, not unkindly, as she pushed the spiraled metal slowly, inexorably, past the tight ring of muscle.
The feeling of being filled in both channels, one stretched open, one penetrated deep, was an overload of violation that short-circuited thought. Eleanor began to rotate the bronze plug, the raised spirals grinding inside Sam's ass with a delicious, terrible friction. "You’re full," Eleanor observed, her eyes flicking between Sam’s face and the mirror’s brutal reflection. Sam could only watch, mesmerized by the obscene spectacle of her own body holding these brutal, beautiful machines. A helpless, broken noise escaped her as Eleanor twisted the plug again, the motion sending a shockwave through her clamped-open cunt.
The broken noise became a sustained, ragged moan that vibrated against the steel at her throat. “You see how open you are for me?” Eleanor’s voice was a clinical murmur, her gaze fixed on the mirror’s reflection where Sam’s cunt was forced wide by the gleaming steel jaws. She gave the bronze plug another slow, grinding rotation, the spirals etching a fiery path inside Sam’s ass.
Sam’s vision blurred at the edges, her knuckles white where they gripped the bench. The dual fullness was an equation of impossible pressure, a physics of invasion that her mind could no longer parse. “I can see every ripple, every clench,” Eleanor said, her finger tracing the air just above Sam’s exposed, glistening inner walls without touching.
A sharp, sweet ache bloomed deep in her pelvis, unrelated to pain. “Oh, fuck,” Sam gasped, the profanity startled out of her. Eleanor’s eyes snapped to Sam’s face, a predator catching a new scent. “What was that?” she asked, her hand stilling the plug.
“Nothing,” Sam breathed, but her hips gave a minute, involuntary roll, seeking friction against the cold metal holding her open. A slow, knowing smile spread across Eleanor’s lips. “It’s not nothing.” She leaned close, her breath hot in Sam’s ear. “You’re getting off on this, you twisted slut. On being split open and examined.”
She began rotating the plug again, not slowly, but with a firm, steady rhythm. “You love being my specimen.” With her other hand, she tapped a fingernail against one steel blade of the speculum, sending a faint, ringing vibration straight into Sam’s swollen clit. Sam cried out, her body bowing against the restraints.
The sensation was a lightning strike of pure, debased pleasure, arcing from the deep grind in her ass to the exposed, vulnerable heart of her cunt. “Come on, then,” Eleanor urged, her voice low and fierce as she tapped the blade again, a cruel metronome. “Come while I’m watching inside you.”
Orgasm tore through Sam with a silent, seismic violence, a raw convulsion that made the steel blades tremble and her ass clamp viscously around the twisting bronze plug. Eleanor watched it all, unblinking, until Sam was a shuddering, drained weight against the bench. Only then did she click the speculum shut with a final, definitive snick and withdraw the glistening bronze, leaving Sam utterly hollow.
Only then did she click the speculum shut with a final, definitive snick and withdraw the glistening bronze, leaving Sam utterly hollow. The sudden absence was more profound than any fullness, a void that echoed. Eleanor cleaned the instruments in a basin of cool water, the casual clink of metal against porcelain absurdly domestic. She dried them with a soft cloth, her movements meticulous, before returning each to its foam nest. “Look at you,” she said, not glancing up from her task. Sam trembled against the bench, her body a map of cooling sweat and latent tremors, the collar’s weight her only anchor. Eleanor finally turned, leaning back against the cabinet to survey her work. Her eyes, that discerning photographer’s gaze, traced the lines of Sam’s exhaustion, the shimmer on her inner thighs, the way her breath hitched in her throat. She saw the raw, opened-up emptiness, the quiet surrender after the storm. A slow, deep satisfaction warmed her features, erasing the clinical coldness from moments before.
ELEANOR SMILES.
It wasn’t sharp or cruel, but genuine and unsettlingly warm, a curator beholding a finished masterpiece. “There,” she breathed, the word soft in the humming silence. She crossed the room and unfastened the cuff from Sam’s ankle, her touch almost gentle. “You did so well.” Her knuckles brushed Sam’s cheek, a fleeting, shocking tenderness. She unclipped the collar next, the lock releasing with a quiet snick, and set the heavy steel circle aside on the bench. The air on Sam’s neck felt alien, a new vulnerability. Eleanor helped her sit up, a steadying hand on her back, as if guiding a sleepwalker. “Come on,” she said, her voice low. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Eleanor’s hand was under her arm, guiding her toward the shower alcove, her voice almost soothing. The warm water felt like a betrayal as it hit Sam’s skin, washing away the evidence of the speculum and the bronze plug. Eleanor soaped a washcloth, her movements efficient, scrubbing Sam’s stomach, her thighs, between them.
Then Eleanor’s foot nudged Sam’s ankles apart. “Wider,” she said, and Sam complied, bracing her hands against the wet tile. Eleanor slid the soapy cloth roughly over Sam’s ass, cleaning the cleft with brisk, impersonal strokes. “Good.”
But the cloth dropped. Eleanor’s fingers, slick and searching, pressed right back against Sam’s loosened entrance. They pushed inside, not to clean, but to claim. “Still so open,” Eleanor murmured, her voice absorbed by the shower’s spray. She added a second finger, then a third, stretching Sam anew with a slow, twisting corkscrew motion. Sam’s forehead pressed against the cool tile, a low groan torn from her.
Eleanor’s other hand snaked around Sam’s hip, her fingers finding Sam’s clit and rubbing hard, fast circles. “You’re not clean until you come for me here, too,” she breathed into Sam’s ear. The dual assault was relentless—the deep, stretching fuck of her fingers in Sam’s ass and the brutal friction on her clit. “Do it.”
ELEANOR RESTRAINS HER. She reached up with her free hand, grabbing the showerhead’s rigid metal pipe, and used it to pull Sam’s upper body back against her own, locking her in place. Sam was pinned between the unyielding pipe and Eleanor’s driving hand, completely immobilized. “Now,” Eleanor commanded, her teeth scraping Sam’s shoulder.
Orgasm detonated, a sharp, stolen shock that left Sam sagging against the pipe, Eleanor’s invading fingers the only thing holding her up. Eleanor held her there, fingers still inside, until the last tremor passed. Then she withdrew, turning Sam around to face the water again. She rinsed her hands casually under the stream. “Now you’re clean.”
Eleanor turned off the water, the sudden silence ringing in Sam’s ears. She wrapped a thick, warm towel around Sam’s shoulders and guided her, wordlessly, to the deep porcelain tub already steaming with fragrant water. “In,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier harshness, a simple command that felt like mercy.
Sam stepped into the near-scalding water, its heat a shocking counterpoint to the dungeon’s chill, and sank down until it lapped at her chin. Eleanor knelt beside the tub, a sea sponge in one hand. She began at Sam’s shoulders, washing away phantom residues with slow, circular motions. The sponge moved over the saline-weighted curves of Sam’s breasts, the water sluicing through the metal rings in her nipples.
Her touch was thorough, methodical, almost reverent as she soaped the plane of Sam’s stomach. “Lift,” Eleanor murmured, and Sam raised a leg so Eleanor could wash the inside of her thigh, the sponge passing over the tender, bruised flesh where the speculum had been. She did the same with the other leg, her fingers gently tracing the faint red marks left by the restraints.
Eleanor’s hand slid between Sam’s legs, the sponge pressing softly against her spent cunt, cleaning the outer lips with a care that felt like a violation in its own right. “There,” Eleanor whispered, more to herself than to Sam, rinsing the area with a cupped hand of clear water. She moved behind Sam, supporting her head with one palm as she washed the black dye from her hair, massaging her scalp until Sam’s eyes fluttered shut against her will.
The water grew cloudy, but Sam felt strangely, impossibly clean. Eleanor pulled the plug and helped her stand, wrapping her in a fresh, dry towel. She patted Sam’s skin, drying the hollow of her throat where the collar had been, the water beading on her fresh tattoo. “All done,” Eleanor said, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable, a mixture of possession and something else, something dangerously close to affection.
“All done,” Eleanor said, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable, a mixture of possession and something else, something dangerously close to affection. She guided Sam to the bedroom, her hand a steady pressure on the small of Sam’s back, and sat her on the edge of the disheveled bed. “Lie down,” Eleanor instructed, her voice lacking its usual imperative edge, and Sam complied, her body sinking into the cool linen as Eleanor stretched out beside her, one arm draped over Sam’s stomach in a mimicry of casual intimacy. The silence stretched, filled only with their breathing, until Sam’s analytical mind, re-engaging with a jolt, parsed the residual ache in her ass and the hollow feeling where the speculum had been. “The obsidian shattered,” Sam stated, her voice raspy from disuse, and she felt Eleanor go very still beside her. “It had a flaw,” Eleanor countered, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on Sam’s hip. “It wasn’t meant to last.” Sam turned her head on the pillow, meeting Eleanor’s gaze in the dim light. “What is?” she asked, and the question hung between them, vast and unnerving. Eleanor’s eyes darkened, and she rolled on top of Sam, pinning her wrists to the mattress, her knees forcing Sam’s thighs apart. “Is this a philosophical debate?” Eleanor breathed, her hips grinding down, the rough seam of her jeans chafing Sam’s bare cunt. “Or are you negotiating, Sam?” Sam swallowed, the steel collar’s ghost-weight heavy on her throat. “I’m not a stone,” she whispered, her hips lifting in a small, defiant arc. “Then tell me what you are,” Eleanor demanded, her mouth crashing down on Sam’s in a hungry, consuming kiss as one hand shoved between them, yanking open her own jeans. “Tell me what you want.” Eleanor’s fingers, calloused and demanding, plunged into Sam’s wetness, scissoring her open with a brutal familiarity. “I want…” Sam gasped, breaking the kiss, her head thrashing side to side as Eleanor’s thumb found her clit. “I want to choose the next thing.” Eleanor’s rhythm stuttered, her eyes searching Sam’s face with an intensity that felt more invasive than the speculum. A slow, sharp smile cut across Eleanor’s features. “You just did.” She shifted, aligning her hips, and sank onto Sam, taking her inside with a deep, groaning roll of her pelvis, sheath to hilt.