Chapter 26: Urethral Training
Sam stared at the hook in Eleanor’s tongue, the blood welling thick and slow. “You look better like this,” she said, her voice flat. She guided Eleanor by the steel ring in her mouth toward the medical chair, its cold leather straps hanging open like invitations. Eleanor climbed in without a sound, her movements clumsy, and Sam secured the cuffs around her ankles and wrists, pulling them taut until her body was splayed, exposed. From the new crate, Sam selected a thick, ribbed sound, its steel glinting under the bulb. She coated it in slick, cold gel. “Since you enjoyed edging so much,” Sam murmured, pressing the bulbous tip against Eleanor’s urethra. She pushed, a slow, relentless twist that made Eleanor’s hips jerk against the restraints, a wet gag choking behind the hook in her tongue. Sam worked the sound deeper, inch by torturous inch, watching Eleanor’s cunt flutter in sympathetic clenches. “You’re taking it all,” Sam whispered, her own breath tight. She picked up the stiff, heavy paddle. Eleanor’s eyes widened above the gag of her own pierced flesh. Sam let the sound settle deep, then swung the paddle in a sharp, cracking arc against Eleanor’s swollen lips. The slap of leather on wet flesh echoed. Eleanor screamed around the hook, the sound metallic and choked. Sam watched the bright red bloom on her cunt, then fucked the sound in and out with a brutal, piston-like rhythm. “Come for me,” Sam demanded, her voice low, and brought the paddle down again, right on Eleanor’s throbbing clit.
The impact was a bright, stunning burst of pain that radiated through Eleanor’s entire nervous system, and her body bowed against the restraints, a silent scream shuddering through her as her cunt convulsed violently around nothing. Sam watched the climax seize her, a brutal, unwilling surrender wrenched from agony, and something in Sam’s own stomach tightened into a hard, hot knot. “Fucking finally,” Sam breathed, but the victory felt hollow, the sight of Eleanor’s wrecked, shaking form blurring before her eyes as a wave of dizzying heat climbed her spine.
She tore at the buckle of her own trousers with fumbling fingers, shoving them down her hips, her cunt suddenly aching and dripping wet. The clinical distance shattered as she mounted Eleanor in the chair, grinding her soaked slit against the bloody, paddle-marked flesh of Eleanor’s thigh, the coarse hair and hot skin a delirious friction. “You did this,” Sam gasped, the words ragged, one hand fisting in Eleanor’s short, dyed-black hair to yank her head back, the other guiding her own cock from the discarded harness, the cool silicone a stark contrast to her burning need.
She shoved it into herself in one brutal stroke, fucking herself with it against Eleanor’s body, the base slamming against her clit with each desperate thrust. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the metallic taste of blood in the air, and the raw, open need on Eleanor’s face. Sam’s climax tore through her without warning, a seismic, shocking eruption that ripped a broken sound from her throat as her cunt clenched rhythmically around the fake cock, her vision whiting out at the edges from the sheer, obliterating force of it.
The violent pulses of her own orgasm left her hollowed out and shaking, slumped against Eleanor’s restrained thigh. Sam withdrew the slick fake cock from herself with a wet pop, her cunt feeling vast and oversensitive. She looked at Eleanor’s face, at the blood crusting around the silver hook through her tongue, and something fractured behind her ribs.
“You’re still here,” Sam whispered, the words ragged. Her fingers, trembling slightly, found the base of the ribbed sound still jutting from Eleanor’s urethra. She gave it a slow, cruel twist, the metallic ridges grinding inside that delicate channel.
Eleanor’s body jackknifed against the straps, a guttural, muffled shriek trapped behind the steel in her mouth. Sam twisted it again, harder, watching the muscles in Eleanor’s abdomen cord tight. “That’s it,” Sam breathed, her other hand slapping down on Eleanor’s reddened, beaten cunt, the impact making the sound shift internally.
She began fucking the sound in and out with fast, shallow strokes, the brutal friction focused on that one unbearable inch. Eleanor’s screams became continuous, a ragged, wet soundtrack around the hook. Sam leaned close, her lips against Eleanor’s ear. “You wanted a masterpiece,” she hissed, and then hammered the sound home deep, grinding it against some profound, inner wall.
SHE SCREAMS LOUDER.
The sound that finally tore free was raw, animal, and vast, shredding through the gag of her own pierced flesh as her body convulsed in a second, devastating climax that had nothing to do with pleasure. It was a sound of pure structural failure. Sam watched it break out of her, feeling the vibration in the metal she held, until the scream dissolved into frantic, choking sobs. Sam stilled the sound, leaving it buried deep, and simply listened to the ruin she’d authored. The echo clung to the concrete walls.
The echo clung to the concrete walls. Sam’s eyes drifted to the disposable camera, forgotten on the shelf next to a bottle of lube. She picked it up, the plastic cheap and light in her bloody hand. She raised it, the lens framing Eleanor’s destroyed form: the hook through the tongue, the sound protruding, the savage red welts on her cunt. The flash was a bright, silent seizure in the dim room, bleaching everything white for a fractured second.
“Proof,” Sam said, the word tasting like ash. She tossed the camera onto the chair’s seat, where it clattered against Eleanor’s thigh. Her fingers moved to the hook in Eleanor’s tongue, closing around the cold ring. She pulled it straight out with a single, ruthless motion, the curved metal bringing a fresh gush of blood with it. Eleanor choked, coughing crimson onto her own chest.
Sam stared at the bloody instrument, then let it drop to the floor with a final, metallic ping. “You’re smiling,” Sam whispered, because Eleanor was, a cracked, red-toothed grin splitting her battered face. Sam slapped her, an open-handed crack that snapped Eleanor’s head to the side. “Stop it.” She unstrapped the ankle cuff, then the wrist, her movements jerky. Eleanor’s freed hand rose slowly, her fingertips touching her bleeding mouth, then her weeping cunt, as if taking inventory.
“You loved it,” Eleanor slurred through the thick blood, her voice ruined and proud. Sam didn’t answer. She backed away, leaving Eleanor curled in the leather chair, a bloody, smiling ruin in the shadows, the developed photo already existing somewhere in the future, a flat testament to the wound they’d just made together.
The smile on Eleanor’s bloody face was the most unsettling thing Sam had ever seen. “You’re leaking,” Sam stated flatly, watching a fresh trickle of crimson thread from the piercing in her tongue down her chin. Eleanor’s hand, stained with her own fluids, moved shakily from her cunt to her breast, palpating the saline-inflated tissue with a morbid curiosity.
“It’s still in there,” Eleanor slurred, her words thick and wet, referencing the sound Sam had left buried in her urethra. She shifted in the chair, a wince fracturing her grin, and a small, dark patch of blood blossomed on the leather between her thighs. “It feels… full.”
Sam took a step closer, her own body aching with a hollow reverberation. “That’s the infection starting,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier fury, now just clinical observation. Eleanor’s eyes, glassy and over-bright, held Sam’s with a terrifying lucidity. “I know.”
She tried to stand, her legs buckling immediately, and Sam didn’t move to catch her. Eleanor crumpled onto the cold concrete floor with a heavy, boneless thud, the sound in her urethra shifting audibly. “Fuck,” she breathed, laughing a little, the sound bubbling through blood. She looked up at Sam from the ground, her dyed-black scalp pressed to the floor. “Your turn to watch.”
Her breathing shallowed, becoming rapid, uneven pants. The vibrant red of the paddle marks on her cunt seemed to pulse under the harsh light. “Sam,” she whispered, her hand reaching out, fingers trembling inches from Sam’s bare foot. Then her eyes lost focus, rolling back, and the reaching hand went limp, hitting the floor with a final, soft slap.
ELEANOR PASSES OUT.
Sam stood over Eleanor’s crumpled form, the silence now a ringing thing. Her own breath sounded too loud in the sudden quiet, counterpoint to Eleanor’s shallow, wet rasps. The bloody hook lay between them on the floor, a discarded question.
“Hey.” Sam nudged Eleanor’s hip with her bare foot, but there was no response, just the slow seep of fluids onto concrete. A cold, analytical curiosity cut through the fading adrenaline haze. She knelt, the cold floor biting her knees, and pressed two fingers to Eleanor’s throat; the pulse fluttered, a frantic bird trapped under bruising skin.
Her eyes tracked from the pierced tongue to the sound still jutting obscenely from Eleanor’s urethra. Sam gripped the cold, ribbed metal, still slick with lube and a thin sheen of blood. She twisted it experimentally, a quarter-turn, watching Eleanor’s unconscious face for a reaction. A low moan leaked from Eleanor’s swollen lips, but her eyelids didn’t flicker.
Sam twisted it again, harder. Eleanor’s hips gave a minute, jerking spasm, a phantom of the thrashing she’d done while conscious. “Interesting,” Sam whispered to the empty room, her own cunt giving a sympathetic, aching clench. She began to fuck the sound in and out with a slow, rhythmic precision, watching the unconscious body’s responses: the hitch in breathing, the twitch of a thigh, the way Eleanor’s cunt lips grew slick and swollen around the invading steel.
“You’re still fucking getting wet,” Sam muttered, her voice a mix of disgust and fascination. She pulled the sound all the way out, a long, slow drag that made Eleanor sigh. Sam dipped her fingers into Eleanor’s soaked cunt, gathering the thick arousal, and smeared it over the flared head of the largest vaginal dilator from the new crate. She pressed the cold, bulbous silicone against Eleanor’s over-stretched entrance, pushing it inside with relentless, steady pressure until the entire thick length was buried in her slack channel.
Sam left it there, a stark, impersonal plug, and picked up the urethral sound again. She aligned the tip once more, pushing it back into that tiny, abused opening alongside the massive dilator, a double filling that made Eleanor’s stomach distend slightly. She fucked that sound in deep too, until both instruments were seated to the hilt in Eleanor’s unconscious body, a clinical tableau of violation. Sam sat back on her heels, studying her work, her hand drifting absently between her own thighs, finding herself slick and throbbing. The experiment was a success. The subject responded.
Sam stared at the twin instruments protruding from Eleanor’s unconscious form, a cold realization settling in her gut. This was no longer an experiment; it was just damage. Her fingers, which had been curiously tracing the rim of the dilated entrance, now closed around the cold, ribbed steel of the urethral sound. She took a sharp, steadying breath, the sterile air biting her lungs.
With a slow, firm pressure, she began to withdraw the metal rod. It slid free with a wet, relinquishing sound, a faint suction releasing as the last inch cleared Eleanor’s swollen urethra. A trickle of clear fluid, followed by a thread of blood, traced a path down her inner thigh onto the concrete floor.
Eleanor’s body gave a shallow tremor, a ghost of the convulsions that had wracked her before, but her eyes remained closed, her breathing a ragged, unsteady rhythm. Sam dropped the sound; it clattered on the floor, rolling to rest against the bloody hook. She looked from the discarded steel to the massive silicone dilator still plugging Eleanor’s cunt, a brutal signpost left in ravaged territory. "Fuck," Sam whispered to the empty, reeking room, the word hanging alone in the silence she had created.
Sam stared at Eleanor's limp form, the twin instruments still protruding from her body like gruesome trophies. "Shit." Her own breath hitched, the adrenal rush finally draining to reveal a cold, clinical fear beneath. She pressed trembling fingers to Eleanor's neck again, finding the pulse thready and too fast against the sweat-slick skin. The air smelled of copper, sex, and the sharp, clean scent of the lubricant now mingling with blood.
"Hey." Sam's voice was rough, shaking Eleanor's shoulder. "Eleanor, wake up." There was no response, just a weak, pained grunt as the movement jostled the dilator. A fresh trickle of blood seeped from the piercing in her tongue, slow and steady. "Fuck, okay, okay," Sam muttered, her mind snapping into a detached, procedural mode. She carefully gripped the thick base of the silicone dilator, its smooth surface now sticky, and began to withdraw it with a slow, steady pull.
Eleanor's unconscious body tensed, a low groan escaping her swollen lips as the bulbous end stretched her sore tissues one last time before popping free with a wet, relinquishing sound. Sam tossed the slick instrument aside; it landed on the concrete with a dull, final thud. She then slid her arms under Eleanor's limp body, one beneath her knees and the other supporting her battered back, and lifted. Eleanor's head lolled against Sam's chest, her breath warm and ragged on Sam's skin.
Sam carried her from the dungeon, her own legs unsteady, navigating the dark hallway toward the main living area. She placed Eleanor gently on the cool, pristine leather of the living room sofa, the contrast between the brutalized woman and the elegant furniture stark and unsettling. "Stay," Sam whispered, as if Eleanor had a choice, and rushed to the kitchen for a clean dish towel and a bowl of warm water. She returned, kneeling between Eleanor's splayed legs, and began the slow, methodical process of cleaning the blood from her thighs, her cunt, her stomach. Each wipe revealed the landscape of bruises, bite marks, and the dark, angry puncture in her tongue. Sam worked in silence, her focus absolute, until the worst of the mess was gone and Eleanor's breathing had deepened into something resembling sleep. Then, gathering her once more, Sam carried her up the stairs to the private apartment, to the shower, and to whatever fragile morning would come after.
The shower’s steam was a damp gauze over the lingering scents of leather and blood. Sam adjusted the water to a lukewarm stream, then maneuvered Eleanor’s limp weight beneath it, supporting her head against the tile as the water sluiced pink and brown down the drain. “Can you stand?” Sam asked, her voice hollow against the spray, and Eleanor’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing a gaze stripped down to its raw, animal core.
“My tongue hurts,” Eleanor mumbled, the words thick and clumsy around the wound, and she spat a glob of dark blood onto the shower floor.
“I know.” Sam’s hands, now clinical, soaped a washcloth and began scrubbing the dried blood from Eleanor’s neck, her breasts, the furious map of bites and bruises. Eleanor hissed as the cloth passed over the saline injection sites, the skin there taut and sore. “You’re a mess,” Sam stated, her fingers pausing at the dark, blossoming contusions on Eleanor’s inner thighs.
“You made the mess.” Eleanor’s hand shot out, shaky but deliberate, and grabbed Sam’s wrist, guiding the rough cloth firmly between her own legs, over her swollen, battered cunt. “Clean it properly.” Sam jerked the cloth back, but not before feeling the heat radiating from the inflamed flesh.
“You don’t get to give orders.” Sam’s voice was low, a warning, as she dropped the cloth and pushed Eleanor back against the tile, the water cascading over them both. She kissed her, a hard, biting press of lips, and when Eleanor moaned, Sam’s tongue pushed past the cut, tasting copper and salt. Eleanor’s hands tangled in Sam’s wet hair, pulling her closer, a hungry, punishing urgency in her grip. Sam’s knee slid between Eleanor’s thighs, applying pressure against her sore cunt, and Eleanor ground down on it with a ragged gasp, her hips moving in a desperate, broken rhythm. “Please,” Eleanor breathed into Sam’s mouth, the word a shattered thing.
Sam spun her around, facing her into the tile, and pressed her body flush against Eleanor’s back. One hand slid around her hip, fingers parting her sore lips, finding her clit swollen and throbbing. Sam rubbed it in rough, tight circles, her other hand bracing against the wall. “Is this what you want?” Sam growled into her ear, feeling Eleanor’s body tense, her cunt clenching around nothing. “You want to come from this ruined, beaten thing?” Eleanor could only nod, her forehead pressed to the cool tile, her breath fogging it in rapid bursts as Sam’s fingers worked her with a brutal, focused intensity. Eleanor came with a silent, shuddering violence, her body slumping, held up only by Sam’s frame and the wall.
Sam held her there until the water ran clear, then colder. “Done,” Sam said, but Eleanor’s hand clamped over Sam’s wrist, keeping those skilled fingers pressed against her throbbing clit.
“Bullshit.” Eleanor’s voice was shredded gravel. She guided Sam’s fingers back inside her, past the swollen entrance, into the hot, bruised ache. “You don’t get to stop. Feel what you did.”
Sam felt it—the tender, overstretched walls, the rawness—and curled her fingers sharply. Eleanor gasped, her hips bucking. “It’s just meat now,” Sam muttered, but she began to fuck her with them anyway, a slow, grinding reclamation. “Your perfect, ruined meat.”
Eleanor’s head fell back against Sam’s shoulder. “Harder.” Sam obliged, pumping faster, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tiles. “I want to feel it tomorrow.” Sam added a third finger, the stretch making Eleanor cry out, a sound that was pure agony and perfect assent. “I want to fucking walk funny.”
Sam bit her shoulder, drawing a fresh bruise as her fingers pounded into that slick, damaged heat. “You’re a goddamn mess.” Eleanor came again, a weaker, shuddering wave that squeezed Sam’s fingers like a pulse. They slid out, glistening. Sam looked at them, then at the woman sagging against her. The water was going cold. The quiet was worse.
The quiet was worse, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and Eleanor’s ragged breathing against the tile. Sam shut off the water, the sudden silence a physical weight, and wrapped a towel around Eleanor’s shaking shoulders. She guided her, steps faltering, onto the bathmat, where Eleanor slumped, water and residual blood beading on her skin.
“Look at me.” Sam’s voice was devoid of its earlier command, stripped raw. Eleanor lifted her head, her gaze focusing on Sam’s face with an effort that seemed immense. Sam knelt, her fingers tilting Eleanor’s chin up to the light, examining the pierced tongue. “This needs to clot.” She pressed a clean folded hand towel against the wound. “Bite down.”
Eleanor obeyed, her teeth sinking into the fabric, her eyes never leaving Sam’s. Sam’s other hand traced the fresh bruises around Eleanor’s throat, then lower, over the mottled, sensitive skin of her saline-inflated breasts. “These will hurt for days.” Her thumb circled a dark bite mark, and Eleanor flinched, a sharp inhale through her nose. “Good.”
Sam pulled the towel from Eleanor’s mouth; the bleeding had slowed to a ooze. “Can you walk?” Eleanor’s laugh was a wet, broken sound. “Try and stop me.” She pushed herself up, using Sam’s shoulder for balance, her legs trembling violently. They moved like that, a stumbling four-legged creature, from the steam of the bathroom into the stark chill of the bedroom.
Eleanor fell onto the unmade bed, the sheets still smelling of their earlier violence. Sam stood over her, water dripping from her own body onto the floor. “You’re a fucking disaster.” Eleanor spread her legs on the rumpled linen, exposing the swollen, vivid evidence between her thighs. “And you’re the architect.” She reached for Sam’s wrist again, her grip surprisingly strong. “Finish the blueprint.”
Sam let herself be pulled down. Her mouth found Eleanor’s cunt, not with tenderness, but with a furious, consuming hunger, her tongue lashing the torn, puffy flesh. Eleanor arched off the bed, a raw shout tearing from her, as Sam devoured her, tasting blood and salt and the stark, undeniable truth of her own ruin.