3 comments/ 8873 views/ 3 favorites Medical Play Ch. 01 By: AnyaWVossand It's cold in the facility. My skin prickles even as I step out of the warm shower fully dressed. The heat steams from my body, my pale skin tightening even as I rub a dry towel over it. Thick PVC pants and boots cover my flesh from the hips down, while a tight band in the same black material binds my breasts to my chest to the point of flattening them. The points of my nipples are just palpable as I caress the binder with my fingertips, enjoying how my disinfected skin squeaks on the sterile rubber. My black hair is short and tamed with gel, preventing the shed of follicles down into my work. The click of my heels on the stainless steel floor makes a pleasing thrum as I walk towards my particular work room, the door emitting light only from the viewing window at eye level. The hallway is kept low-lit, the cold incandescents casting a wan, blueish glow that resembles the feeling of sunlight through glacial ice. As I press in my code into the touch pad, the seal lock on the door hisses open and I pull the portal open. Pale blue light licks over my gleaming attire as I enter the room, my equally blue eyes taking in my subject. She's a beautiful thing, small and evocative of youth. Oh, she is over 18 years old, and of age. They are all of age; were they not, their desperate applications to come here would be rejected. Her body is tanned and fit, her hair blond, long, and puddling in silken waves about her head as she lays back on the examination table. She's forgone the pad and opted for the bare steel. I think I will like this girl. Perhaps I should take a moment to describe this temple in which I carry out my art. These steel-walled hallways are a sepulcher to inhibition and old lives. The shy, the ugly, and the plain come here to shed their burdens and emerge reborn. We can perform miracles here, wonders of science and medicine, things that would truly astound and amaze. Within these walls is a hospital, a surgical ward, a cathedral, a chemical therapy suite, and the numerous, smaller work rooms dedicated to more superficial transformations. After the surgeons, the spiritualists, and the syringe-men, all of them come to one of us. Only the very best come to me. They all want to come to me, but I can pick and choose who will be my next canvas. My preferences do not fall along the lines of type, gender, or age. I only look for potential and vitality. What lies upon my table tonight is precisely that. My black lips pull into a slight smile as I shut the door behind me, and her attempt to feign relaxed indifference fails. I can see her naked chest tense and her eyes flicker open. She knows that I can see through her ploy, and her nervous, brown eyes turn to me, sheened with a reflective layer of anxious tears. Oh, she so desperately wants this from me, and it makes me feel like a deity to provide this kind of worship to the worthy. I let her speak first, waiting until she can no longer stand the silence and says softly "Thank you for seeing me." Such soft deference. Such anticipation. I soak in how she must feel – so close to her final outcome, so healthy within and about to be made not just beautiful but stunning without. Her voice waivers with nerves but not exposure. It isn't so cold in the room that her body will start to shake and shiver while I work. Like as not she is more than warm enough with anticipation and desire. My heels click slowly on the steel flooring as I move to the side of her table. Against her feverish flesh my hands are cool as I strap her right wrist to the table. Her rapid, fluttering pulse thrums beneath my fingertips as I adjust the lay of her arm and secure it comfortably against struggling. The strap is nylon and Velcro, black against her honeyed, delicate limb. Wordlessly I move down along the table to her right ankle and strap it down as well, my blue eyes sliding up along her body to her own eyes. Every time I meet them she shivers and looks away shyly. I take my time with this part, for this is our foreplay. This is how I introduce her to what awaits her, to what she has willingly sacrificed her old self for. She's giving this old visage to me, offering it as a gift and desperate for my approval. Little does she know that my approval of her body has already been given – she is here now in my studio, the focus of my attentions. Her left ankle is secured in the same fashion as her right, her legs forcibly parted for me. Perhaps she is hoping that I'll turn my head to look at her exposed genitals, but I don't. Now is not the time to for that, not at this stage. My fingertips slide up her shin and knee to her thigh, over her hip and then over to her forearm. A caress brings my hands to her left wrist, and I strap that down as carefully as the first. By the time I've finished securing her to my work surface, the girl's breathing has grown heavier. She can hardly bear it and I have hardly begun with her. My attention moves to her hair as I move to the head of the table. The vitamin treatments, exercise, and proper nutritional regimen are evident in the silken shine that drapes upon the steel like a spill of sunlight. I'm fascinated with her hair, this dry substance that flows like a fluid, dead cells chained together that look so full of life. She holds her breath as my fingers slide through her golden tresses, gathering them up in sections as I plan out the hair style she had selected. The portion that she will be allowed to keep is a strip the width of her temples, running from her forehead to the nape of her neck, and I trace out this area with the light caress of a nail on her scalp. There is a jar with hair clips beneath my table, and I pull out enough to keep her locks parted as I desire. There is also an electric shaver beneath the table, the glistening steel blades clean and ready for use. A plastic guide is selected and clipped onto the shaver, assuring that her hair will be no longer nor shorter than 2 millimeters in length along the sides. My left hand presses to her forehead to hold her still while my right guides the clippers, sheering her hair down to a stubble around her ears and up to the strip that shall remain. Locks of flaxen silk slide from the table to the floor and onto my boots as I begin transforming her into perfection. The length guide is popped off and the clipper blades are ejected into a bin for sharps, ready to be sterilized later after I clean the motor body of the clippers with an alcohol wipe. I place the solid, cylindrical body of the clippers back into its holder and the wipe is disposed of in a small trash can in the corner before I flick a switch and use a small vacuum hose to suck away the severed follicles from the table until not a single hair remains. The same attention is paid to the floor until the steel beneath my boots gleams, unmarred by a single errant strand. The switch is flicked again to turn off the vacuum, the tube is clicked back into place under the table, and I head over to my utility sink to wash off my hands. At this point I pull on white latex gloves, tugging them down to the webbing between my digits and flexing my fingers to get a snug fit. The girl is panting by now, her bare chest rising and falling. "Ma'am, what's going to happen? Please, please I need to..." No. No, that is not allowed. I swallow her words in a kiss, demanding silence as my black lips press to her own soft, peach tiers. At first her words meekly flow into my mouth, sliding over my tongue, but after a moment she settles into warm, wet silence. She is still timid, but not unresponsive, and as I slowly pull away from the kiss I gently tug at her lower lip for a heart beat before letting it snap back against her teeth. Only after a moment does she dare to breathe in once more, that sweet little breath so fragile that it might shatter into a thousand pieces. I have no idea if she is sexually aroused by women, but I don't personally care. In this room I am her sexual preference, or else she would not be here. As I had said – I have my pick of perfection, for they all must apply for my selection. I can feel her body ease, and as I keep my eyes narrowed but open I can see her own close. With her anxiety tempered and her pulse raised, I pull out a tourniquet and wrap it about her right bicep. Her cephalic vein swells and delineates nicely beneath her skin, and for a moment I watch the erotic pulse of her life's blood within her flesh. It's so like the throb of blood through the veins within a man's shaft, and I find myself wanting to slide my tongue along both. Instead I take a small square soaked in iodine and clean the flesh there, staining the spot a beautiful shade of ocher. Beneath the table I take out an IV system and a needle, bending over her slightly as I prepare the injection site to receive its steel. The girl knows what's coming and holds her breath, her eyes staring up at the ceiling in brave avoidance. When the slim shaft of my needle penetrates her flesh and sheaths itself into her vein I notice her back arching slightly away from the table, and I can hear the skin at her shoulder blades and her ass squeak against the metal. I quickly tape off the needle and begin the pump system to provide her with saline and a slight dosage of morphine. The girl's body slowly sinks back down to the table as she groans, the morphine clearly taking effect. That is my cue to move to the other side of the table and begin my work. She has requested tattoos, piercings, and scarification; it's an intense and painful package, and I dial in a slightly elevated dose of morphine for her as I prepare my equipment. The most painful is carried out first with a metal tip cooled with a liquid nitrogen supply. Her skin hisses as it freezes into the pattern she desires, curling vines marking her flanks, hips, and thighs on the left side. I am branding her, watching as her skin hisses as it burns with extreme cold and welts into a turgid pink motif of coiling vines. The girl groans, feeing the pain as something distant and fascinating. I know that she's examining this curious feeling in her mind, and soon enough I can smell her warm and spiced arousal flavoring the air. The pattern is mirrored on her right side, my work methodical and efficient without being rushed. That is why I'm so in demand – I do not rush this experience. My clients come for my pain as much as they come for my art. Minutes pass by as the girl's skin succumbs to my art. Finally the branding is done, and I put away that tool after wiping it down. The next task is the tattoo, which lines the brand in various locations to help bring it out to the distant eye. My needles continue the motif in blacks and grays onto her wrists, each having to be unstrapped for this portion of the work. My client writhes in her bonds as I mark the thin skin over her bones, her fingers shaking in her dulled and blissful suffering. I wipe away the excess ink as it bleeds from her pores, and I tape bandages to her wrists before I strap them down again. The tattoo gun is wiped down and put away, its job completed, before I dispose of my gloves in favor of a fresh pair. Ink and blood has smeared upon the old pair, and I cannot abide a mess. New gloves are pulled on and adjusted for a perfect fit before I take out my piercing kit. Much like the tattoo gun, the needles I use here are all individually packaged and guaranteed to be sterile. I move to stand by her left side, and I wipe her left breast down with iodine once more to prevent infection. She turns her head and looks up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire as she gazes up at me. With her sharper pains now simmering at a dull throb, I can tell that she has enough wherewithal to enjoy these gentler touches. As I lean over her, my lips purse and I gently blow cool air over her glistening breast, making her moan desperately. Pain and morphine both have whittled away her inhibitions, her vocalizations now more immediate and much louder. The cold bite of my needle follows, and the scent of her desire strengthens upon the air as my steel pushes through that hard little pink bud. A silver ring is left in her nipple, glinting upon the wet skin there. Her other breast receives the same treatment and the same kind of silver ring. There is minimal bleeding because of the chill, her nipples tight and bloodless. After a minute or two I tend to the cleanliness of her breasts once more, wiping away the yellow iodine with an alcohol pad. I can smell the ethanol evaporate, and her skin prickles, leaving her gasping as the process chills her around the site of her piercings. I gently turn the rings within her flesh, wanting to make sure that the holes I'd pierced allow for movement, which she will need later. Satisfied with my work, I turn my head towards her groin, my eyes finally sliding their gaze towards the flesh between her legs. This last part of my work requires an adjustment to the table. Her ankles are unfastened, and the bottom third of the table is slid in beneath the rest, such that the soft, perfect rounds of her ass just rest upon the edge. Stirrups are pulled out and unfolded, though these cup her calves and thighs to keep her legs spread. Straps at her thighs, knees, and ankles keep her legs within their frames, and I pull over a stool to take a seat as she and I prepare for this last adornment. The girl's pussy is naturally haired, a soft blond velvet present between her legs. Once more I take out my clippers, affixing a new blade without a plastic guide. I use these to buzz down the peach fuzz to the shortest stubble possible. The vibrations make the girl tense and writhe in her bonds, and again I use a small vacuum hose to suck away every loose follicle. The blade is removed from the clippers and dropped into the box for sharps, the handle is wiped down, and that tool is put away before I unpackage a brand new three-blade safety razor. Cool gel is caressed onto the heated skin of her mons, labia majora, and inner thighs, the latex over my fingertips still feeling every detail. I take up the razor and draw the blade over her skin, taking away the bristle-like hairs and leaving nothing but smoothness behind. I'm very careful and take my time with this process to prevent nicks or irritation. The area is wiped down thoroughly and roughly, making the girl groan and pull at her wrist straps. After another change of gloves, I prepare the last piercing, pinching the tissue at the top of her slit to present her clitoris. With her flesh in my right hand, I take out a small prepackaged shot cup of Listerine and take it into my mouth, swishing it around my teeth and tongue and behind my lips until all bacteria have died. I spit it out into a garbage pail near my feet, toss the cup, and then I dip my head down between her lifted, parted, bound legs. I can taste and smell nothing but mint, my breath feeling cool chilled between my lips. That first contact feels like a kiss as my lips press to her own, the caress gentle and slow as I savor how smooth and warm she is. The flesh against my kiss quivers and flushes hotly, and I slowly shift my seat just a little closer as my eyes slowly close. My tongue slides slowly along each of her petals at first, tasting and admiring each one to tease. I continue to alternate from right to left and back again until she curls her toes and mewls pathetically, begging me with her tone to go further. Her reward is immediate as I slide my tongue between her smooth petals, parting them, tasting her, and encouraging her towards greater and greater arousal. I pinch her mons harder, dragging my tongue with torturous lassitude over her stiffening pearl. I can feel it grow erect and I suck on it, my cheeks hollowing with the effort even as the girl wails with both desire and discomfort. I gently, slowly slide my teeth over her wanting flesh, and as she begins to mumble and beg for release I know that it's time. I wipe down her genitals with rubbing alcohol, and then I unpackage and take up my last needle. This one is a slightly thinner gauge than the others, the tip surgically fine given that the target will be slick. I pinch her clitoral hood firmly to hold her in place and quickly press the needle upwards through her clitoris. As I expect, my client screams and arches her back, straining against her bonds. Even with the elevated dose of narcotic her orgasm is powerful, her pussy shuddering, clenching, and drooling hot, thick nectar onto the steel table. It continues as I pull the piercing through it and fasten the ring closed. There is a slight amount of blood, and so I press gauze to the piercing and apply pressure. The bottom part of the wad is soaked with her flushing nectar, the sensation molten against my glove and the cool fingers beneath it. After a few minutes I pull the gauze away, waiting until her orgasm has subsided and she's lying quietly on the table. The bleeding was merely a drop or two, and I'm content to let her coagulate on her own now. The IV system is switched off and the needle removed, the sharp dropped in with the others for cleaning. The disposable bags of saline and the tiny vial of morphine (already run out moments before) are disposed of in the garbage pail. I take this moment of her blissful fog to visually scour my artwork. It's perfect, as always, and her flesh has received it admirably. Once she heals and the swelling lessens, the designs she'd selected will stand out beautifully as she moves. My client is unstrapped, the last third of the table pulled back out to let her legs rest comfortably. I remove my gloves and admire my work once more; it's beautiful, as always. I can tell that the morphine is metabolizing out of the girl's system as she begins to rouse herself, sitting up with a wince, her cheeks still burning hot. To give her a better vantage point for her work, I step away and press a button. Steel panels on either side of the table slide into narrow recesses on the wall to reveal large panes of silvered glass. My client admires herself, touching at her hair, her brands, her piercings, and her tattoos. The attendant nurses will explain to her how to care for her healing art; I am no longer needed. I'm nearly at the door as I hear a small voice at the table. "Ma'am..." the girl says shyly, her tone inflected almost as if she's asking my permission to speak. It's only because of her proper perception of our dynamic that I turn and look at her. She swallows, and I can see how her thighs and calves rub slowly together with careful and nervous desire. "What's...what's your number?" Nibbling on her lower lip, the doe-eyed perfect girl on my table murmurs "I'd...I'd really like to see you some time." My blue eyes narrow, but as they do my smile slowly widens. I pull on a fresh pair of gloves and affix a new needle to the tattoo gun, popping a new ink cartridge into the base. "Where shall I put it?" Her smile couldn't be brighter. Medical Play Ch. 02 This is a continuation of Medical Play 1. All characters involved, like last time, are over 18 years old. ***** In the end, my phone number took the form of dots, laced about her wrist like a delicate bracelet. To the casual onlooker the design would be random and understated. But to my beautiful, blond little Pet, they would be her lifeline to me. It's been two months since she'd earned her place in my work studio, receiving the changes she'd desired. Tattoos, branding, and three piercings, the last having made her cum strongly when I'd placed it through her clit. When we meet at my apartment now, invariably I seek it out with my fingertips, gently caressing the little metal ring, moving it, turning it. Admiring my work in flesh that now belongs to me. I know that she had a name before, but I won't tell it to you. That's information for me to keep, to allow her to live this other, new life. With her mohawk of flaxen hair and her gorgeous body arrayed in a raised motif design of flowers and vines, she is free to be who she likes. And who she likes to be, right at this very moment in time in my living room, is mine. "Pet" I purr with cool affection. My black latex from work has been replaced by an equally black silk robe that has slithered open to reveal my pale body beneath. I, too, am marked perfectly. Straight, severe, slender black bars slide up my spine from the cleft of my backside to the nape of my neck, with horizontal bars reaching out over my shoulders and down my arms to my wrists. Rings of black cup my biceps, while bands of black curl about my ankles and calves. To some eyes, the design begs for one last ring about my throat, a permanent collar of ink. But the lack of it is loud and bold, my pale, slender throat daringly free. Quite unlike my Pet's. Her lovely neck bears the weight of a slender leather collar, secured with a silver padlock to which only I have the key. That item I wear on a silver chain about my neck, the key itself resting between the modest mounds of my breasts. My crisply-cut black hair is freshly washed, and hangs with more ease about my scalp than it does at work, but even so I know I have the same severity of a raven, my locks all guided behind me to feather their edges at the back of my head. My ice-blue eyes narrow with delight as she approaches my chair, her body only clad in a white robe that she hasn't bothered to belt closed. Having been addressed, she approaches and kneels on the floor between my parted legs, the white carpeting providing cushion enough for her knees. With a gentle caress, I touch along her cheek, feeling how hot her skin is there. The touch slides towards her nape, sliding over the edges of her collar, until I come to the neckline of her robe. With a slow nudge I guide the light fabric to start sliding down, baring her shoulders and the rest of her body, freeing her and giving her the permission she desires to creep forward and greet me properly. As she gets to work, I lean back in my chair, my head resting back easily on a cushion. Slowly my eyes close, and my back curls, lifting my shoulders away from the padded structure of the wingback. Tension and delight ripples up from my shoulders and along my neck to my face, my lips tensing as my eyes close. My Pet is very good; I can only imagine she's had experience with this sort of thing before I'd invited her to be my plaything. Slowly my hands gravitate from the armrests inward, my fingers sliding through the blond brush of her dense mohawk. The chair squeaks a little as I move my hips, my fingers a firm cage about the back of her skull to keep her snugly in place as I grind myself against her mouth. Typically I'm quiet as I do this, but rarely am I still. Every movement of my hips flows upwards, arching my back and sinking it down, my chest tensing and emerging from the demure folds of my silken robe until the hard, tight, pink nipples capping my breasts are free to chill in the air. The feathered tips of my hair crush against the pillow behind my head as I grow closer and closer, until at last my legs tense, my feet curling until just my toes are tensely pushing against the floor by her folded legs. I can feel her hum with delight as I climax, the hot, tingling touch of her fingertips against my tensed calf a welcome feeling. Slowly I release my hold on her head to let her come up for air, though she only takes a moment to breathe before reverently and lightly cleaning up the mess she's just caused. Each slip of her tongue makes me catch my breath, my smile easing more and more as my body relaxes. She can feel me settling into my delight all around her, and soon enough her head lifts so that she can look up at me for feedback. Of course she knows she's done well, but as I said - she's good. She assumes nothing. With a chuckle I cup her cheek, guiding her to crawl up slowly between my legs until her chest is resting against mine. A soft kiss is pressed to her forehead, and her cheek rounds into a smile within my palm. "Go to the table, Pet." She practically trembles with excitement, and I lean back to let her hop to her feet and hurry into my private workroom. I take a moment to listen, sliding my thighs slowly together as the soft pat of her bare feet sounds upon the rubber mattering of the studio floor. There's a click - she's turned the lighting on - and the rustle of fabric. She's undressed. With a little smile I can hear the work table creek and jostle as she climbs onto it, the slight squeak of her skin sticking to the brushed steel surface seducing my smile to grow and curl. I know it must be cold on her heated flesh. I know she must be biting her lip and trying to be stoic about it. My sweet little thing. I know, too, that she's listening as well. She'll hear the creak of my chair as I finally, lazily lift myself from it. My step is always quiet on the carpet, and I can well imagine how she holds her breath to quiet her pulse, desperate to still the internal sounds of her body so she can hear mine approach. As I walk down the hallway towards my studio, I switch off the lights one by one along the way. Click. Click. Click. She'll see the light dim and hear those little clues I offer her, and as I expect, she's practically wriggling on the table by the time I arrive, desperate to be well-behaved and even more desperate to get started. "Do you know what day it is today?" I ask casually, my bare feet pressing with familiar steps over the waterproof, tough rubber flooring. While I attend to my supplies, I can hear her almost whimpering with restrained and hopeful glee. "Yes, Mistress" she breathes. "And what day is that?" Her shoulders hunch up and roll as she grins, her hands ringing each other. "Red and Yellow day, Mistress." I turn my head and smile over my shoulder, letting her know that she's correct. My Pet grins and shivers, her thighs pressing together. Clearly she's already aroused. In the sterile environment of my workspace, her own scent is easy to pick up. With all of my items laid out on the steel rolling cart, I shrug out of my robe and hang it up on the hook by the door. I don't bother covering my nudity aside from pulling on a pair of powdered latex gloves for safety. Though I know her medical charts show she's entirely free of disease, it's always good practice to be cautious. My Pet happily gets herself properly into position on the table, laying fully on her back with her head on the small, leather-bound cushion. When I pull out the stirrups, she scoots her hips down to the edge of the table and pulls the cushion along with her, easing herself into place gently. Just like our first encounter, I strap her into the stirrup supports to let her relax while keeping her in place, the cylindrical frames beneath her legs comfortably supporting each leg. As I work I admire how her muscles tense, test their restraints, then soften. "Have you been drinking water today?" I ask casually, strapping her right thigh into place. She nods. "Yes, Mistress." "Do you have to urinate?" "Very badly, Mistress." I only chuckle. Of course she does, the sweet thing. She's had a two liter bottle full of water and hasn't been allowed to piss once today. Just to check, though of course I know I don't have to, I gently caress over her lower abdomen, putting just a little, delicious pressure right over her bladder. She whines and curls her toes, the muscles of her hips and groin tensing to keep control. Mercifully I pull my hand away and caress her damp, ready slit, playing gently with the piercing I gave her to give her something else to think about. "You'll have relief so soon, Pet. Would you like that?" Her toes curl again, but this time it's from arousal and delight as I touch her. "Yes, Mistress." As I touch her, I locate her meatus. On men it's quite easy to find; that precious little slit at the top of their dick through which all their fluids flow stands out like a beacon. On a woman, finding the urethral opening can be a little more difficult. Luckily, my Pet's meatus is visible when I spread her delicate petals with my left hand. With an antiseptic wipe I clean her folds, not wishing to give her a urinary tract infection from our play. That would be a poor reward for her good behavior. The wipe feels cool to her, making her shiver and bite her lip, and with half-lidded eyes she watches me lubricate the tip of the Foley catheter I intend to use. Once more the fingers of my left hand part her labia, and the tip of the catheter is guided into her meatus with my right hand. My Pet does her best to lie still, but with such a full bladder and the alien feeling of being penetrated in this fashion, I can't blame her for making a few soft noises. Muscles twitch at her hips, and I pause as she almost begins to shift them. Already her clitoris is starting to flush and grow erect, that little pierced pearl peaking out from within its hood. "Pet, be still" I caution, and she nods, holding her breath and focusing on settling down. Only when she settles fully do I complete the insertion, injecting the sterile saline into the input valve to inflate the small balloon that locks the catheter temporarily in place within her bladder. With a gentle pull back that makes her whimper in discomfort, I make sure that the balloon has inflated properly, and that the catheter won't fall out. The urinary collection bag was prudently attached before hand, and without being able to help herself, my Pet's bladder begins to push. The catheter bypasses the sphincters that allow her continence and control, and the golden flow of her urine crawls quickly down the tube, slowly weighing down the bag. "Mistress..." she hisses, eyes closed, toes curling with relief. I only chuckle, taping down the tubing to her right thigh to keep it out of the way but still visible. With that in place, I discard the remnants of the sterile kit I'd used, discard my old gloves, pull on new ones, and wipe down the steel tray. The next kit that's loaded onto it is more severe-looking in nature, though essentially it does the same thing, save with blood. My pretty Pet is quite familiar with this set up, if only because she's been to a medical facility before that takes blood samples. With dreamy eyes she watches as tie off a latex strap about her bicep to encourage her veins to rise, and her fingers gently curl and flex as I rub the area around the inner crux of her left elbow with an iodine swab. I use two just to be sure, watching as the mustard-colored fluid is swirled outwards from the intended puncture site by my blue-gloved fingers. With each pass I can feel the soft, supple cord of her median cubital vein plumping up beneath my touch, until at last it presents itself to be easily pierced. "How do you feel, Pet?" I ask, checking in. "Relived, Mistress. There's so much..." Her voice fades away in wonder as she looks down at her urine bag. Already it's nearly full, so while I let the iodine dry on her arm I carefully switch out the full bag for an empty one. Of course, I cinch off the filled, clear packet and hang it up to display it. Some people like to admire it, as she does, to the point that she lifts her right hand to caress her fingers down the dry plastic, heated by her own urine to near body-temperature. Many people are caught off guard by how hot their own bodily fluids are. It's a thing I always find amusing. Yet another change of gloves, and I'm back at her left arm. The iodine has dried, and I unpackage a fresh 17 gauge needle and attach it to the collection tubing. I also assure that the clamp is in place on the tube itself between the needle and the blood collection bag, to control the flow with great care. With that all in place, I use my left thumb to keep her vein in place as I insert the needle. It never gets old. Watching the viciously large, sharp tip of the needle press, dimple, then bite through her skin arouses me. The sight of that steel thorn sliding beneath her skin is almost obscene, and given how the lights seem to grow just a touch brighter, I can tell that my own pupils are dilating. Her flesh is soft and submits easily, and even though I'm carefully watching to make sure the needle itself sits appropriately within the sheathe of its vein, I can hear my Pet gasp and moan softly. To be penetrated like this, it has a certain sense of delicious clinical perversion, something far more insidious than just being bitten by human teeth. Though of course she enjoys when I do that too. Thick, dark fluid sluggishly flows down the tubing to the clamp and no further, and I'm careful to tape off the needle in the proper orientation before I uncrimp the tube, finally allowing the flow full access to the bag. She watches as yet another fluid flows out of her, the deep, almost wine-colored red of her blood a beautiful counterpart to the amber yellow of the urine being collected on the other side. She's admiring the products of her own beautiful body even as I pull the thick, rubber, restraining straps over her arms and chest to bind her down to the stainless steel table. Only when she's secured do I untie the latex tourniquet strap from her bicep and dispose of it. With her thighs so tightly secured to the stirrup frames, I guide her lower limbs apart. The apparatus beneath the table ratchets slowly with a series of clicks, allowing me to move her legs out and keeping them firmly spread and locked in that position. A little more tape and another alcohol wipe ensures that her slit is clean around the catheter site, and that the tubing running from it is solidly taped down to her mons, thigh, and hip. I don't want to hurt her. I just want to fuck her. Unlike our first meeting at my place of work, I don't have to deny myself anything. My pretty little Pet is so willing and so ready for me that I almost feel impatient pulling out my own harness. This piece is made of thick latex and hugs my hips when I pull it up. Set into the crotch lining is a dildo which I have no problems slipping inside myself, and on the outside there's a second dildo, for her. I take the tube of lubricant from the tray and dribble it onto the phallus jutting out from my hips, lathering it on with my gloved hand to ensure it's entirely coated. She flushes hotly as I come near, the chilly gel rubbing against her heated flesh as I gently tease her with the head. "What do we say, Pet?" "Please, Mistress..." "Please, Mistress... what?" My darling is a little shy voicing what she wants and needs, so torturing her just a little by forcing her to say it will only help her in the end. "Mistress... please fuck me. Please, I need it." "Good girl" I breathe, finally guiding the slender head into her hot gates. They part around the white, shining silicone, and I can feel the top of the toy nudge along the semi-soft tubing of the catheter only a few layers of flesh away. Slowly I sheathe myself within her, until our hips meet. "Does that feel good, Pet?" I breathe. Her back is tense, almost ready to arch from the table as she nods. "Oh yes, Mistress." "Shall I be gentle today, Pet?" I growl suggestively, and she shakes her head vehemently to say 'no'. Today I chose a toy that was modest in size because of the tube already within her urethra, but of course, size isn't always everything. My fingers seek out a small rubber bump at the base of my harness, and once I press it with a little click, the strong vibrator thrums to life in each toy, both the one inside her and the one inside me. My own body shivers and I close my eyes, and I let my hips do as they will. The wet slap of lubricated latex on slippery skin fills the workspace, along with the sound of her heavy breathing and the creek of the table's restraints. The toy, itself a white silicon mimic of a human cock, plunges into her, the tubing flowing out of her meatus jostled only a little even as I rut her without mercy. Within me, every firm thrust grinds my own clitoris against a raised, semi-rigid strip of gelatinous bumps within the crotch of the harness. The ecstasy of it is intoxicating, and I use her to stimulate myself, my hands pressing to the table until they finally grab her hips possessively. My fingers grip her so firmly that her flesh wells up a little between each tense digit. Through the powder-blue latex of my gloves I can feel the raised floral motif of her scarification. I'd set that design into her flesh. The art is mine. She is mine. Even if we drift apart, my mark on her will always be there. I've claimed her inexorably, and that thought finally drives me over the edge all over again. With one last, deep, hard thrust our hips crush together, and I can feel my own pussy shudder around the shape within it, tensing and milking at it every once in a while. With tingling fingers I slowly reach down to the base of the harness and click off the vibrator. When I open my eyes the details of the room are hazy, but I do notice that the collection bag with her blood is starting to reach capacity. My beautiful Pet is flushed hotly red, her lips full, back slowly easing down from an arch as her breathing relaxes from a hot, quick pant. With the harness still on and the shining toy still bobbing before me with every step, I replace my filthy gloves with fresh ones and clamp off the flow of blood in the tube. The tape is carefully pulled off, and a cotton ball is pressed down over the puncture site even as I pull the needle back out of it. A heavy duty bandaid is taped down over the little wad of cotton, applying pressure to halt the bleeding as I deal with the bag and the sharp. "Mistress..." she calls out softly as I work at the sink, cleaning off my tools and washing off my toys. "Yes, Pet?" I call back, noting how my own voice is more mellow than it usually is. "After I have my orange juice, may we order some Chinese?" I'm not quite sure why, but the question makes me smile at its sweetness. With everything else put away, I finally, gently deflate the balloon of her catheter and withdraw the tubing, wiping up between her legs to keep her clean and neat. At last I unstrap her from the table, and I help her walk back out to the living room, where she had pleasured me in my chair. I set her on the sofa and wrap her in a blanket, kissing her on the forehead and telling her what a good Pet she's been and that she needs to now relax. A short trip to the kitchen later, and I'm back with a bottle of orange juice and a menu from a Chinese take out we both like. I settle down next to her, with my arm around her shoulder, and I let her cuddle into me as we decide what we shall have for dinner. My Pet has earned it, I would say.