Chapter 1: The Gaping Exhibition
The violet light of the courtyard sky fell like a weight, thick and heavy. It coated the obsidian tiles, the strange, slick plants in their crystal planters, and the pale, trembling skin of Anya’s bare back as she knelt on the chilled platform. The air hummed, a low, resonant frequency that vibrated in her teeth. It was the sound of Xorgon’s amusement, felt more than heard, a psychic chuckle that skittered down her spine.
“Posture,” the thought-voice bloomed inside her skull, smooth as oiled glass and just as cold. It carried the faint scent of ozone. “Arch the spine. Present the canvas.”
Anya swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet of the private training annex. She obeyed, pushing her shoulders back, raising her hips. The position pulled her sore cheeks apart, exposing the tender, pink furl of her anus to the cool air. A fresh wave of heat rushed to her face. On the screen mounted before her, the image was mercilessly clear: a close-up, high-definition view of her own body, presented for study. She could see the faint, shimmering traces of the previous session’s lubricant, the slight, puffy dilation that was now her constant state.
Xorgon moved into view on the screen, a shadow of shifting, iridescent scales. He was tall and sinewy, his four arms moving with an unsettling, independent grace. One upper hand held a crystal vial that swirled with something silvery and alive. Another lower hand, with its three long, articulated fingers, came to rest just beside her hip, not touching, but the proximity made her flinch.
“The numbing agent,” his telepathy explained, a didactic drip in her mind. “A courtesy. The lesson is on elasticity, not shock. Although,” the psychic voice dipped, tinged with a dark curl of humor, “your shock has its own artistic merit.”
The lubricant was cool as it touched her. Then it was nothing. A sudden, profound absence of feeling that was more alarming than pain. She felt the pressure of his finger, the glide of it, but it was remote, like hearing a story about her own body. On the screen, she watched the silver substance disappear into her, coating the inner ring of muscle.
“Watch,” Xorgon commanded.
The first dilator was not like the toys of Earth. It was biomechanical, a spiraling lattice of what looked like fused, translucent vertebrae. It pulsed with a soft, internal light. He guided it to her without ceremony. There was a pressure, immense and deep, and then a wet, hollow pop that the microphones picked up and amplified in the courtyard’s silence. She felt no pain, just a stretching fullness that registered in her abdomen, a need to breathe she couldn’t quite satisfy.
The screen showed every millimeter. Her entrance stretched, distending to clasp the strange spiraling form. It was obscene. It was fascinating. She hated that she couldn't look away.
“It responds to bio-signatures,” Xorgon murmured in her head. She could see his reflection in the screen, his large, black orb-like eyes fixed on the monitor, on her monitor. “The warmer it gets, the more it expands. Your fear is a furnace, little human.”
As if on cue, the lattice began to move. The segments expanded slowly, rotating infinitesimally against each other, widening the spiral. A low groan escaped her lips. The numbness at the entrance was absolute, but deeper inside, where the device met untrained flesh, a bright, hot ache began to bloom.
“Good,” the thought-voice purred. “Now the secondary reinforcement.”
The second device was a ring, but alive. A loop of gelatinous, tentacle-like filaments, each tipped with a minuscule, glowing node. It coiled into her after the spiral, a cool, slippery intrusion that sought the spaces the first had opened. When the nodes made contact, they adhered, a faint buzzing tingle that made her gasp. It wasn't pain. It was a thousand tiny, staticky kisses deep inside a place that had never felt anything but transit and shame.
“The spanking will now commence,” Xorgon announced, his psychic tone shifting to one of clinical pleasure. “To stimulate the capillary flow. To make the canvas blush.”
One of his lower arms retrieved the device from a floating tray. It was metallic, star-shaped, each point tapering to a dull, rounded nub. He raised it. Anya braced, her hands clenching on the support bars of the platform.
The first impact was a bright, shocking crack that echoed. The numbness at her center did nothing to mute the explosion of sensation across her cheek. It was a pure, clean sting that radiated heat. The screen flashed, showing the instant of impact, the flesh flattening and then recoiling, already pinkening.
Crack. The other side. Her body jerked.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
A rhythm started. The blows fell, methodical and hard, painting her skin with a rising, fierce warmth. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the screen, but she could still see it—the jiggle of her ass with each strike, the deepening rose color, the way her stretched, glittering hole quivered with every impact. The ache inside, from the expanding devices, began to pulse in time with the spanks.
“Please,” she whispered, a broken sound.
The spanking stopped. The sudden silence was a shock. Xorgon’s hand, not the one with the spanker, came down and pinched a welt right at the crest of her cheek. It was a sharp, focused agony that made her scream—a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the hum of the courtyard.
“The word is ‘thank you,’” his voice slithered into her. “Gratitude is the primer for the paint.”
She was sobbing now, the tears hot on her cheeks. “Th-thank you, Master Xorgon.”
“Again. With conviction.”
She drew a hitching breath. “Thank you, Master Xorgon.”
He moved then, a blur of violet and charcoal. The cold snap of leather, the creak of a fastening. The thong was not fabric. It was a thin, brutal strap of something that felt like living leather, lined with minute, metallic teeth on the inner edge. He fitted it with surgical precision, pressing it into the burning, tender valley of her cheeks. The teeth found her sore, stretched entrance and settled against it, a circle of relentless, pointed pressure on her most violated point. He fastened the clasp at her hip with a definitive click.
The sensation was catastrophic. The full, aching stretch inside, the blazing heat of her beaten skin, and now this constant, biting dig at the very center of it all. She mewled, dropping her forehead to the cool platform.
“Up,” he commanded.
A leash clicked onto a ring at the back of the thong. He gave it a gentle, inescapable tug. She stumbled to her feet, her legs wobbly. Walking sent fresh shockwaves through her. Each step made the teeth press and shift. Each movement made the devices inside her stir and throb.
He led her out of the annex into the main courtyard. The violet light was brighter here. Other figures moved in the gloom—tall, spindly, multi-limbed, their features shifting in the strange radiance. The humming air was now full of clicks, whistles, and soft, glottal chatter.
Xorgon stopped. An alien with slender, frond-like fingers approached. Its face was a cluster of dark, glassy lenses. It reached out a hand. Anya froze.
The frond-like fingers traced the air above the welts on her cheek, not touching, but she felt the warmth of them. Then they descended, lower, toward the tight leather strap and the gaping, glittering hole it barely contained. A single, cool fingertip probed, pressing against her stretched rim beside the biting teeth of the thong.
She cried out, a shudder wracking her frame.
“She vocalizes well,” a new, clicking voice sounded directly in her mind. It was not Xorgon’s. It felt dusty and dry.
“She is learning,” Xorgon’s response vibrated, rich with pride. “Her elasticity is progressing. The gratitude rituals are taking root.”
The probing finger retreated. The alien clicked approvingly and moved on. Another took its place, this one with a snout that sniffed audibly near the small of her back. She stood, trembling, as a slow procession of curious beings examined Master Xorgon’s work. Their touches were clinical, detached, punctuated by psychic murmurs of appraisal. Remarkable capillary response. The dilation is uniform. The subject’s bio-readings show fascinating stress patterns.
Each touch, each comment, was a fresh humiliation that burned hotter than the spanking. The screen was gone, but she saw herself through their countless eyes: a piece of living art, a study in endurance.
Xorgon’s upper hand pinched the nape of her neck, his fingers chilling against her sweat-damp skin. “Your mantra, Anya. For our audience.”
Her voice was a ragged thread. “Thank you, Master Xorgon.”
The pinch tightened, becoming a vise of pain. “Louder. Let your gratitude be genuine.”
She sucked in the strange, ozonated air and forced the words out, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “Thank you, Master Xorgon!”
He released her neck. The psychic chuckle returned, washing over her, through her. “Acceptable.” He gave the leash another small tug, turning her back toward the annex. “The preliminary session is complete. The devices will remain for integration. We will begin depth training after you rest.”
He led her away, her every step a symphony of discomfort. The crowd’s attention dissipated, returning to their own obscure pursuits. As they passed back into the darker entryway, Xorgon’s final thought slipped into her, quiet and intimate as a blade.
“Tomorrow, we replace the numbness with fire. I want to hear every nuance of your breaking point.”
The heavy door sealed behind them with a soft, final hiss.