Vanishing Point Ch. 01 page 4

With every cycle, one of the women tapped her fingers against Jean's titpins to tell her when they were going to rip her flesh away again – so she could cringe and tremble, and be ready to drink in the pain that washed over her body to drown her in its warm, wet embrace.

The words in her head meshed perfectly with the sensations that engulfed her.

All you ask for is a little bit of pain
It goes a long way
All you wanted was the stinging of her rain
rolling down your face

You didn’t know what love was
You didn’t know what pain does
Let your arms ache
Let your heart break

All you ask for is a little bit of pain

Jean reveled in the sensory assault that she was being subjected to. Every nerve ending in her body was alive and vibrating, and she was awash in the liquid ripples that coursed through her veins. It was like she was watching someone else's body being dismembered and reassembled into something – someone – new. Inside her mind, she was quietly observing what was being done to her; at the same time both fascinated and languidly accepting of what she saw.

She was the reptile, sloughing off her old scales, while the fresh new skin emerged into the light. But this new skin wasn't like the old. There was something new stirring inside her, and it wanted to come out.

The trio of women saved her labia for the last. One of them held Jean's head up so she could drink another cup of tea, before she gently lay her head back down on the table and began to lick her enflamed areolas around her tightly imprisoned nipples. At the same time, the other two pairs of hands were working the wax into Jean's cuntflesh. It was all going to come off at once… one long, breathtaking rip. Jean's entire body was quivering at the prospect of it. Her juices were blended and commingled with the molten wax as the women's hands teased her cunt and clit as they worked and slathered her skin with her cream before applying the creamy-hot wax.

And then – Jean screamed. The wax was ripped away in one, long continuous ribbon of pain. At the same instant, the silver clothespins were pulled up until she thought her nipples would be torn off. At the very last, mind-altering instant, the pins were popped off her nipples and her body spasmed and screamed and… darkness.

When Jean awoke, she was still lying on her back on the table in the Smoothing Room. Her arms and legs were flat on the table now, and all of her bindings were gone. Everything throbbed and ached, each tiny breath she took sending little shockwaves down to her toes. She wiggled her toes, and then moved her fingertips. That was enough – enough for now. She needed to rest.

Molding The Clay – The First Step

"It is time for you to continue on your journey."

Jean opened her eyes and turned her head towards the voice. The Oriental girl stood next to her, with her tiny hand at the base of Jean's throat, feeling her pulse. How long have I been here? "Where…? I don't… Whose journey? Am I…? I feel, I don't know… missing." She sighed as the girl's hand pressed gently against the side of her neck "Yes, yes, of course. I understand."

"Have some tea. It will help you to awaken, and to relax."

Jean sat up shakily, and took the proffered cup and held in both hands as she drank. She felt as if she hadn't had a drink in days, she was that thirsty. She drained the cup and handed it back to the silk-clad beauty. Jean touched the silver dragon on her wrist. "That is so beautiful," she whispered as her fingers grazed the engraved outline of the creature. "Where did you get it?"

"I have always had it," the girl replied, matter-of-factly.

"How do you take it off?" Jean wondered as she studied the intricate design.

The woman lowered her eyes. "I do not know. It has always been on me."

"Oh. I was hoping I might have something like that, someday," Jean mused aloud.

"Jean Bujold cannot wear the silver dragons. But someone created anew from the ashes of the old; she can be imprinted with the sign of the dragon. The dragons become a part of you when you are born."

Jean blinked her eyes and tried to decipher the meaning behind the girl's enigmatic words. It was all too much. "I do want them, the dragons, even if I can't have them."

"Come now, it is time for you to continue your journey. It is time for you to be given to the Artists." The girl helped Jean to her feet and led her out into the hushed silence of the hallway. They traversed the corridor and entered another room.

Here was something that Jean recognized. It was time to be shampooed and have her facial treatment. The woman in the matching red silk chemise Jean had seen earlier when she had been taken into the Smoothing Room was there, waiting for her. She motioned Jean into the salon chair.

Jean settled back into the soft cushions of the chair and eyed herself in the mirror. Her skin was pink and soft and new – and gleaming. They must have oiled her after she had fainted at the end of her treatment.

The Oriental girl left and closed the door behind her. The silk-clad stylist spun the chair around and tilted Jean's head back to shampoo her long, reddish-blonde hair. "Close your eyes," she ordered. "You will watch yourself being transformed with your eyes closed."

Jean did as she was instructed.

It felt so good to simply… be. And to not have to make any decisions or even, to think.

She sighed as the water cascaded over her hair into the sink, and the clouds of lavender-scented bubbles enveloped her mind. And she only stretched and relaxed more when other hands and lips and tongues touched her, painting her and tasting her and taking a little bit of her for themselves.

There was no need of the bindings now. Jean felt the waves washing over her body, as the ocean dragged her, inch by inch, down into its timeless depths. It mattered not how her fingers and toes would be manicured and painted. Nor what was going to be done with her hair or her face.

The cream felt so nice being painted onto her upturned face. It was like warm, melted honey, soaking into her pores and seeped into her brain. Everything was so good…

Jean's mind idled in the tranquil halfway-house between sleep and awareness. Hands moved over her body, touching her now-wet hair and her fingers and toes and everywhere else. It was as if they were blind, instead of her; and they were learning her shape and mapping her desires with their fingers. Jean knew that she was being manicured and pedicured while the honeycream worked its magic on her face, but it was as if that was only a side-effect of what they were doing to her.

When it was time to strip away the honey glaze from her face, Jean's pulse quickened. The women's hands were stroking the insides of her thighs now in a most unprofessional manner; their fingertips gliding from almost-touching her pussy all the way down to her freshly sucked and painted toes. She wanted to reach out with her own hands to find them – but they wouldn't move. While there were no restraints holding her arms down, she was still powerless to lift them.

Jean tried to form a thought around her inability to move, but even that failed. It all simply felt too good to even attempt to do anything that might lead to it ending.

And I don't want this to end. Not now, not ever.

Jean opened her eyes when the hands grasped hers and gently pulled her to an upright and then a standing position. She saw the dragon-braceleted hands of the women who had performed her waxing on top of hers, urging her upwards. The women smiled softly at Jean. "It is time for you to drink again, pretty one," they said in unison.

"Yes, please," Jean said as she floated to her feet. Her fingernails gleamed with a lustrous red and her toes reflected the same crimson hue from where they seemed to hover above the white marble floor. "I am thirsty again. I am so very thirsty."

Two of the Sirens who had tended to her feet and hands walked Jean back down the corridor to the Cleansing Room, one on each side of her, with an arm wrapped around her waist and a hand cupping a breast. Jean moved where there hands guided her, step by step, while her mind drifted along in neutral. She was nearly inert now - as passive as a lump of clay awaiting the Artist's knife and fingers, to be sculpted into something breathtaking and new and beautiful.

She sighed as she was lowered into the soaking pool, her face slipping beneath the water and her hair swirling around her head like a Medusa's mane. The amplified sound of her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

I'm like a sponge. Drinking it all in - getting heavy and full with the sweet scent and taste that surrounds me…

The women's hands cradled her neck and lifted the oval of her face above the water. They kissed her lips, each in turn, as the other reattached the silver pins to her nipples. They felt so much tighter this time.

Oh god, it hurts so good…

Their hands on her breasts and their lips and tongues on her eyelids and cheeks and their tongues darting in and out of her mouth had Jean's body swimming up from the depths to the bright light of the sun sparking on the water's surface – the surface of an alien sea where she might breathe again, and discover new and wondrous things.

The pair of women stayed with her, stroking her flesh beneath the rippled surface of the water, alternately lowering her head beneath the waves and then lifting it up again to kiss her when she breathed. Their hands cupped and squeezed her tits, and twisted and tilted and twirled the silver pins on her nipples.

Jean lifted her hips up to expose her newly bare cuntflesh in the hope that their hands would touch her there, but her silent entreaties were in vain. She was being teased and goaded and herded towards the orgasm she realized that she needed so desperately now; but she also knew that it was not to be. She was suspended between commitment and completion – an unfinished sculpture whose outline only hinted at the Artist's vision.

Jean was gasping and mewing little words of needing when she was raised up and lifted from the water. The women engulfed her in a cloud of cotton and hugged her dry while her body's desires were left suspended and incomplete. The bumping of the towels against her titpins kept sending little shockwaves of delicious torment radiating to her freshly painted fingertips and toes as she was held and caressed.

Molding the Clay – The Second Step

She was permitted to squat down in the center of the Cleansing Room and empty her bladder into an engraved crystal bowl on the floor while the two women held her hands to steady her over the bowl between her feet. She closed her eyes and squeezed the hands that held her as she released her urine flow and she listened to it jet and splash as it filled the bowl to near-overflowing. The sound was hypnotic and captivating – like that of a far-away waterfall whose muted roar is filtered through the trees and shrubbery that hid it from view. And it felt so good, to do it here, with their hands holding her tight and keeping her close, and safe…

Then it was back to the Artists' Room and another cup of tea. Jean was eased back into the same chair and tilted back again. "You will keep your eyes closed, little one," the Artist whispered in her ear. Not even a single peek. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do. I understand. Please, make me beautiful – I want to become like you." Jean sighed, as the tongue-flutters began again, between her legs this time. The fact that they were no longer addressing her as Jean Bujold escaped her completely.

The women kneeling at her feet began to apply a fresh coat of lacquer to her nails, on both hands and feet, while the Artist behind her began the elaborate process of changing the color of her hair. Jean managed to form a thought, wondering whether she had said anything about having her hair tinted, or what color she had asked for if she had; but it dribbled away into nothingness like a raindrop falling on the parched sand of the desert.

All that mattered now was the pain radiating from her imprisoned nipples and the new sensation of fingers and tongues and - oh god, more pins – on her cunt lips. She kept her eyes closed, the will to open them and look at what they were doing to her stillborn, while her brain counted the metal jaws closing in a line along her most intimate flesh.

One, two… oh god… three, four. Please… no. Oh god, five… yesyesyes, six…

Every synapse in her body was firing, while the Artist's hands massaged the dye into her scalp and whispered sweet, soft words of encouragement into her ear.

"You are leaving us now, little one. Let it go. Gently, into the darkness, now. Slip beneath the surface and let yourself go. We'll be there, on the other side, for you."

A tear ran down Jean's cheek, her mind and her body reveling in the pain-pleasure of what they were doing to her. It was beyond words now. She was sinking beneath the surface, watching the bubbles rise up to mark the trail of her descent and knowing that she was no longer who she used to be. Who she might be was still unknown, but the person she had been was dissolving into the sea of endorphins that drew her down into its depths.

Deeper and deeper, the azure blue turning cobalt and then an inky, near-black…

The hands guided her to her feet again. She wasn't permitted to open her eyes now. That was forbidden – and the mere mention of that prohibition whispered into her ear was enough to weld her eyelids shut. She was ushered down the hallway again, serpent-arms coiled around her waist and more hands cupping her breasts and levering her titpins up and down. The forest of metal biting into her cunt lips was still there, tugging her flesh downwards with the remorseless and ceaseless pull of gravity.

There is so little of me left…

She was in another room now – whether it was one she had been in before or a new one, she had no way of telling.

There was a table – padded on top, in front of her. She was guided up onto its cushioned surface and made to lie down. The hideous pain of having to lie on her tit and cunt pins was averted, when she discovered that the table had cutouts in it for her breasts and her pussy.

The hands descended on her body, coating her with warm, scented oil and massaging it deep into her flesh. She was surrounded by hands – strong, gentle, experienced hands. Hands like hers… like Jean's hands. Jean. The name sounded so familiar, yet distant.

Am I Jean?

The headphones were on her ears again, the same haunting song whispered in her ears as before, repeating over and over again, in a never-ending circle of aural images that spun tighter and tighter around her.

All you ask for is a little bit of pain
It goes a long way
All you wanted was the stinging of her rain
rolling down your face

You didn’t know what love was
You didn’t know what pain does
Let your arms ache
Let your heart break

All you ask for is a little bit of pain

The hands kneaded and worked her muscles and drained the last bit of independence and will from her mind. She was the raw dough that had been mixed and impregnated with the yeast, and that was nearly ready to be risen and transformed into bread.

The depth and power of the massage increased in step with the intimacy of where and how she was being touched. There was someone beneath the table now, manipulating her tit and cunt pins through the holes in the table now, too. The sensual yin of what was being done to her flesh above the table and the purely sexual yang of what was being done to her from below had Jean quivering, her body confused and not knowing whether to sigh or scream.

Jean shuddered when a ladle of oil was dribbled down the crack of her ass. The hands massaging her ass cheeks spread them wide and then two fingers, from hands belonging to two different people, penetrated her asshole at the same time, using the cascade of warm oil to lubricate and ease the parting of her anal entrance. Her legs were pulled farther apart and soon the fingers were deep inside her, with a third and a fourth digit soon joining their sisters who had preceded them.

And then, oh god… a hand began to flit at the entrance to her cunt. Part of the table was removed and everything between her slick, wet thighs was exposed and laid bare. The hands beneath the table pulled her labia apart, and beckoned the hand to probe deeper into her cunt while the pairs of fingers continued to dance in her ass. The hand squirmed and twisted and rotated back and forth as the oil continued to trickle down her ass and into her fuckholes. The wet, suction-sounds the hands made in her holes were lewd and pornographic. Fuckmusic, the sounds of tight, wet holes being fucked and used.

Jean moaned into the padded covering on the table and she bit her lip, to keep from orgasming. It was getting harder and harder to hold it back. The hand was nearly inside her now. All five fingers were in, and her cunt strained to receive the entire fullness of it. It was going all the way in – she knew that now. There was no stopping it, and her cunt had already surrendered its last resistance. Her mind was in awe of what her body was telling her it wanted. No, it didn't want this hand plunged deep inside her cunt to reach into her and touch her womb. No, it needed it. She wasn't sure if she could continue breathing without this girl's hand deep inside her.

Ohgod, ohgod, yes, please, yes, fuck me. More. Now, now, now. Oh godddd, yes…

She lifted up her ass in the only sign her body was capable of now, to urge it to be finished. For her to be finished – now. She screamed when, in a final surge, the woman's wrist breached the entrance to her cunt and her hand touched Jean's soul. She writhed and screamed and shuddered while the hands pressed down on her neck and back and legs to drive the shuddering spasms inwards, to hammer at her psyche instead of dissipating into the air around her.

Again and again, the hand worked its way in and out of her cunt while the fingers in her ass provided a soprano top-note of pain and sweetness to the deeper, longer waves of painsounds sweeping from her ravaged cunt through her body and out her lips.

Tongues licked at her earlobes and whispered soft words of enticement into her ears. "You belong to us now, little one. There is no going back now. Not ever. When you orgasm, you will wade into the sea and start to swim to us. And the land will dissolve and sink beneath the waves behind you. There will be nothing to return to. There is only forward now. Only what is to be. Nothing else."

She moaned and gasped and nearly fainted at the knowledge that what they said was so true. She was drowning and the land was gone, and there was only one direction for her to swim. Down, down into the depths where the Siren call of what seemed so agonizingly close but which never came into focus.

"Now, little one. The time is now. Come over to us. Join us. Now. Do it now."

The word "now" was all it took. She exploded into a writhing miasma of pain and lust and wetness and froth. The sounds of her agonized vocal chords reverberated from the walls and from the inside of her skull. She screamed until her lungs were drained of air and she was suffocating on her own voice. And then she was gone – the whiteness fading to gray and then black.

Molding The Clay – The Third Step

She was back in the chair – the Artist's chair. This time her legs and arms were bound to the throne she occupied. She was the queen – the lost queen, adrift on a sea of uncertainty, searching the horizon for some hint of land – some place to crawl up onto and rest, after being adrift on the long, rolling swells of timeless, empty space. Her voice failed her, as did her eyes. The silver pins were gone from her labia and breasts, though their imprint and the hurt from where they had been remained.

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Submitted by : Anonymous
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