I pulled the naked girl�s arms up behind her back and wrapped the cord around her wrists and then around her elbows, forcing her shoulders back and making her full breasts thrust outward and upward. She was a little thing despite those tits and I lifted her easily and set her astride the narrow wooden rail that formed the top of the horse-frame, which forced itself up between her pussy lips. She squirmed uncomfortably as I tied more cord to each trim ankle and anchored her to the base of the frame.

Then I hunkered down with a hammer in one hand and a thin, broad-headed stainless steel nail between my teeth. I stretched her labia down the side of the rail an inch or so, then hammered the nail through the thin, pink flesh until the head was right down on the surface of her skin. I went around to the other side and did it again. A thin trickle of blood ran down each side of the rail and dripped off the bottom. The girl sobbed brokenly but she didn�t beg or protest. She was being well paid, . . . though I doubt she knew quite what she was getting into when she agreed to be a "special" model.

I went around to the front of the frame where a wooden shelf was attached, like the handlebars of a badly designed bicycle. I lifted her breasts in my hands and looked into her eyes as I jiggled them, then reached for two more nails. Pinching her left nipple hard enough to make her gasp, I pulled it forward and to her left, pinned it to the shelf with the point of another nail just at the base of the stiff little cone, and drove the steel in with the hammer. Her right nipple was quickly and similarly fastened down to the other end of the shelf.

She was under strain now in her trussed arms and shoulders, at her tied feet, and from her nailed-down nipples and pussy. She wasn�t going anywhere. She had a dazed look and the tears were flowing freely. She moaned softly.

There was only more step. "Put out your tongue," I said.

She gulped and swallowed, then stuck it out, displaying the small silver barbell piercing it. That was the main reason I had hired her instead of one of the other applicants. There was a socket in the center of the narrow shelf to which her tits were nailed, and I had inserted in it a vertical two-foot-long dowel, like a buggy-whip. I pinched her tongue between my fingers, pulled it out a bit more until the girl began to gag, then looped a monofilament line over the top and bottom of the barbell. I ran the other end of it through a hole near the top of the dowel and pulled again before tying it off until the strain was enough to keep the line taut and her tongue extended. She was making uncomfortable noises in her throat now, but I had worked all this out carefully and I knew I wasn�t causing her any permanent damage.

I had printed out a title for the piece with the computer on a thin strip of transparent adhesive and now I stripped off the backing and centered it carefully on her forehead, below her short, curly red hair and above her anguished eyes. I stepped back to examine my work and nodded. The title read "TENSION ON HORSEBACK." The piece was a success, I was sure of it.

The horse-frame had a two-inch rubber caster at each corner and I had no trouble pushing it, and her, across the prep room, through the double doors, and out into the large loft. Several of my regular customers were waiting to see what their favorite artist had devised this time, and there was a gratifying amount of oohing and ahhing as I trundled the girl out onto the public floor.

Well, "public" is a relative word. This was a very private, very discreet, very unpublicized showing, featuring the work of only a handful of very specialized artists, for the delectation of only a few dozen very wealthy connoisieurs. They weren�t even collectors in the usual sense, as these performance pieces obviously couldn�t be taken home. I had often wondered if there might be some way around that restriction, given the right model.

I watched as Sharon, a close friend and one of my greatest competitors, pulled a small, low wheeled platform out from her own preparation room. On it was an extremely attractive and very petite Japanese girl, on her knees, with her shoulders almost flat on the platform and her arms pulled back between her wide-spread knees. Sharon had cuffed each wrist to an ankle and her feet were tied to the sides of the platform, exposing a most interesting and visibly moist upturned cunt. The Japanese girl�s nose had been painted black and long nylon whiskers extended to each side; they appeared to have been actually inserted into the flesh at each side of her nose. A fake doggie-tail grew out of her cocyx and curled up over her back. The girl, who looked about twelve but was certainly in her early twenties, began to appear nervous.

Several of the customers nudged each other and gathered around the wheeled platform. I thought I knew what was about to happen, and I was right. Sharon led out a Great Dane the size of a pony, parading it in front of the Japanese girl, who suddenly seemed ever more unsure of herself. Sharon reached under the muscular body and began squeezing and stroking its penis, while the animal licked its chops and seemed to grin.

Leading her pet around behind the girl, Sharon took its muzzle in her hand and thrust it into the girl�s open pussy. The dog sniffed deeply several times, then licked the moistness, which caused the girl to jerk and squeal, and the audience to chuckle. The dog wasted no time, climbing up to wrap its forelegs around the girl�s back and thrusting its suddenly very erect penis deep inside her cunt on the first try. The girl�s head snapped back and she made a choking sound, then began to sob.

I looked around and saw that my own model, poised — balanced — on her wooden horse with her tongue at full stretch, was staring in horror at the Japanese girl. Her eyes swiveled toward me questioningly. "Sharon likes action pieces," I reassured her. "I prefer still-lifes."

Ignoring the Japanese girl�s wailing as the Great Dane continued enthusiastically fucking her, I looked across to where Camille, last year�s Grand Prize winner by vote of the attending audience, had laid herself down on a large, wooden Tau-cross. Camille had a striking figure and a supple body, and I saw that she had shaved her crotch as bare as a baby. Her two young male assistants fastened her wrists in the clamps above her head, then pulled her ankles back over her shoulders and attached them to the ends of the tee-bar. They carefully set the cross upright and slid the vertical post into a metal base. The artist�s legs now formed a wide vee and her pussy gaped invitingly. Camille always involved herself in her own work and I wondered what she had in mind this time.

I found out when her assistants passed around a tray to the onlookers, who began selecting items from it. I took my turn and found myself holding a small dart, made from a wooden kitchen match. One end had been split and a sewing needle inserted, which was then wrapped with thread. The other end of the match possessed small paper fins, likewise inserted into splits in the match and wrapped with thread. Charming. I vaguely remembered manufacturing something like it in junior high.

The assistant gestured toward his employer, whom I now saw had a broad red stripe painted around her throat and a red arrow below it pointing down. The face was out-of-bounds, then.

When my turn came to participate, I saw that Camille had already been peppered with a dozen or more darts, some protruding from her breasts, a few from her stomach and smooth thighs, and a couple from her labia. I took careful aim from four feet away as she watched with a smile and let fly. She twitched and her mouth twisted for a moment when my dart — thrown harder than the others, I expected — stuck itself squarely in the hood of her clitoris. She should have recalled that I sometimes participated in darts competitions at the tavern near my studio-loft.

I went back to check on my own display, where an admirer was stroking the girl�s smooth ass and examining the nails pinning her pussy to the frame. I reached out and lightly strummed the filament between her tongue and the whipstaff and she winced and closed her eyes for a moment. The Japanese girl was moaning brokenly as a large quantity of canine semen oozed down her reddened thighs. The Great Dane seemed well pleased with himself.

Patrick, whose work had mostly been shown out of town, had brought out three girls in cheerleader costume and put them up on wooden barstools in front of a gathering small crowd. All three were definitely young-looking and might really have been cheerleaders, for all I knew. They wore short, pleated skirts, pullovers, and bobby socks with white tennis shoes. Wholesome, fresh-faced, and a bit bewildered. Student actresses, perhaps.

Patrick set his hands on the knees of the first cheerleader. "Take off your sweater," he said quietly. The girl clutched the hem of her top but seemed hesitant. He leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She flushed, took a deep breath, and pulled the top off over her head. No bra, of course. She didn�t seem like a professional and I wondered what hold he had on her. The girl on the next stool was watching in fascination but the third cheerleader had spotted the Japanese girl and the dog and had gone pale. College students, almost certainly.

"I promised you a free gift, didn�t I?" he said. The cheerleader nodded uneasily. With a flourish and a smile, Patrick took from his pocket a long needle set in a plastic handle and a small bottle of alcohol.

He took the girl�s nipple between thumb and forefinger and pinched it until she squeaked with the pain, then dribbled a little alcohol across the stiff little tip. The girl had figured out what was coming and she gritted her teeth but didn�t close her eyes. Setting the point of the needle against the base of her nipple, he pushed steadily, watching as it sank slowly into her flesh, distorting the shape of her nipple. The cheerleader whimpered and trembled. I knew this wasn�t how piercing was done, not in the real world. But as art, it was an interesting process to watch.

After a bit, the tip of the needle appeared on the other side of her skewered nipple. He unhooked the needle from its handle and pulled it the rest of the way through, trailing a long, thin piece of wire from a spool, which he left dangling from her tit.

The girl clutched the seat of the stool and gritted her teeth as he tugged sharply at her other nipple. She knew what to expect this time. When Patrick finished piercing her second nipple, there were tears running down the cheerleader�s downy cheeks. He took the end of the wire from the first nipple and ran it through the second one as well, uncoiling more from the spool. I thought I knew now what he had in mind; glancing around at his audience, I could see they were catching on, too.

The second cheerleader had gone pale as she realized her turn was about to begin, and she shook her head nervously, but Patrick stared into her eyes expectantly and she lowered her gaze, then pulled her sweater over her head. I would have to ask him later what made these girls — obviously not professional models — so pliable.

When the second girl�s first nipple had been slowly pierced (she was gulping her sobs), Patrick reached back over to the first girl, took hold of the loose end of the wire, and casually pulled another three or four feet of it off the spool and through both her nipples, which jerked and bobbed at the strain. The first girl screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip. When he had run the wire through the third and fourth nipples, he turned to the third girl and raised his eyebrows. She looked terrified but did what was expected, pulling off her top to expose another set of extremely nice breasts.

When the third pair of nipples had been skewered, the wire passing through all six of them, Patrick demonstrated why one should never second-guess a true artist. Motioning the three cheerleaders to rise, he handed off each end of the wire to one of the onlookers, clipping it off the spool with a foot or so extra at each end. The three girls shuffled awkwardly into a line. Hands kept rising hesitantly toward the wire linking them together, but they seemed to realize that any attempt to fiddle with it was likely to cause more pain, so they left it alone.

Patrick moved along the short line, stooping to unhook each girl�s skirt and drop it to the floor, together with her satin panties. Their pussies had all been shaved clean and each of them tried at first to cover herself but quickly gave it up. The artist stood before them, tossing the roll of wire casually in one hand, the other hand on his hip as he looked speculatively from each girl to the next. What was there left? Ah.

With his needle and his little bottle of alcohol in hand again, he knelt before the first naked cheerleader and made her spread her feet and push her hips forward. Then he pinched the top of her cleft. She jerked and gasped, then moaned as she realized what he meant to do. It took perhaps thirty seconds to force the needle through the base of the girl�s clit and to follow it with another length of wire unwound from the spool. He left the weight of the spool dangling between her legs and more tears cascading down her face as he moved on to the second girl, who was already weeping in anticipation of the pain.

Within a couple of minutes, Patrick had efficiently threaded the three clits together just as he had the six nipples. Handing the two ends of the lower wire to two other members of the audience, he beckoned the girls to close up, forming a tight circle with their arms about each other�s shoulders. He pushed the girls closer together, backs arched, taking up the slack on the nipple-wire until all six nipples were stretched and pressed together in a circle only six inches in diameter. He twisted the free ends of the wire together, crimping them into a tight knot, then did the same with the clit-wire, forcing the girls to lean their knees together in the center to keep from falling. All three of them were sobbing loudly now, shaking their heads and moaning at their mutual pain. I wondered if any of them would decide to maintain their piercings after the exhibition was over.

I considered whether I shouldn�t have done all of my own work out here in the public area, instead of privately in the preparation room. Last year�s exhibition hadn�t been nearly so theatrical, so avant. I�d have to consider that for next year.

As I strolled around the room, I saw that Sharon had brought out another large dog, a wolfhound or something, to perform with her little Japanese captive. She was stroking the animal�s erection while the girl watched, terror-stricken. Camille looked like a pincushion, with miniature darts sprouting all over her, especially from her pussy and her tits — including one dangling from her upper lip and one in the curve of her right ear, thrown by someone who couldn�t read or didn�t care. "Should have brought my championship dart set," I heard someone saying regretfully. Patrick�s cheerleader piece was being fondled by admirers of his work, one of whom was asking a question about hot wax. But I was wondering where Denise was this year. She was an old friend whose work was always highly original. She often took artistic chances and I had been looking forward to discovering what she had to offer this somewhat jaded crowd.

At that point, I noticed a short, slight, naked figure making its way through the crowd pushing what looked like a small, square butcher-block table on wheels. It was Marvin and he was naked. Marvin wasn�t a model, not really. He was more of an art groupie, a hanger-on who liked to be seen in the company of artists. He had money, a trust fund or something, and he was always willing to buy the beer, so we tolerated him. He was a little strange around the edges. You could often see him eyeing attractive women — not like he wanted them, exactly, but like he wanted to be them.

Marvin delivered his table to the center of the room as the audience began to gather to see what was going to happen next. The top of the table was about cock-high to him as he stood behind it, waiting. There was an odd, almost entranced expression on his face. After letting the suspense grow for a minute or two, Denise swept through a doorway wearing a chef�s apron and toque and nothing else. She was carrying a plastic toy trumpet and had some kind of large, flat holster swinging on a leather strap at her hip. Behind her walked another woman, much younger, also naked but for a nurse�s cap with a big red cross on it. She was carrying a black doctor�s bag.

Denise stepped up to the butcher-block and stared across it at Marvin for a moment, then handed him the toy trumpet with a flourish. He bowed slightly and accepted it, then put it to his lips and blew a discordant, razzy blast. I saw grins among the audience. The nurse waited quietly.

Marvin cleared his throat and made his announcement. "I want to be a girl." There were uncertain glances passed among the watchers.

"Are you sure?" Denise asked loudly.

Marvin took a deep breath. "I�m sure." He took his cock in hand and stroked it a few times, then hoisted it and his balls onto the surface of the table. It was made of wooden blocks glued side by side on end, grain exposed, and his cock looked like a pale sausage lying there. Denise stepped around to the side of the table, flipped open the top of the case at her side, and withdrew a large, very shiny stainless steel butcher�s cleaver.

Marvin slowly raised his penis out of the way, pressing it flat against his stomach, and swallowed loudly. He seemed so calm otherwise, I suspected he had been tranquilized.

"So be it," Denise declared. She gathered up his testicles in her left hand and squeezed them hard. Marvin gasped and shut his eyes. She stretched his balls out away from his body and he unconsciously leaned back away from the table.

Denise raised her cleaver overhead and brought it down with a solid THUNK. She held up a bloody hand to display Marvin�s balls. Some of the audience were pale; this wasn�t play-acting and it wasn�t repairable. But the performance wasn�t yet over. Marvin swayed a little, eyes squeezed shut. Then he took a deep breath and laid his penis in the pool of blood before him on the table. Denise took the head of it in her hand and stretched it forward as well. Another swing of the cleaver, another thud as it sank into the wood, and there was nothing at all at Marvin�s crotch except blood running down his thighs.

While we all stared at the artist�s two — or three — trophies, the nurse stepped up and slapped a red plaster over Marvin�s wounds. He was bent over, clutching the table, but he hadn�t fallen or fainted. In fact, when he straightened up, his sweating face bore a triumphant expression.

The nurse had produced a folding director�s chair from somewhere and Marvin eased himself into it as she checked his pulse and his pupils. If she wasn�t really a nurse, she must have had some medical training, anyway. Denise turned in a circle, letting the onlookers see close-up what she held in the palm of her hand. Some of them were obviously fascinated, others hurriedly backed away.

Marvin sat with his knees apart, a folded white cloth beneath him. There was surprisingly little blood seeping from the red bandage now, which must have been astringent. Denise came to him and bent to speak quietly in his ear. He looked up at her, smiled slightly, and nodded. She patted him on the shoulder. Producing from somewhere a pointed wooden dowel about two feet long, she impaled his severed penis lengthwise, like an obscene erection. She handed it to Marvin, who raised it triumphantly above his head like a conductor�s baton.

Then, looking around to make sure she still had everyone�s attention, Denis tilted her head back and stuffed Marvin�s balls into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then opened her mouth to show that it was empty. There was a moment of lingering shock — and then the applause began. For such a relatively small crowd, it was deafening, and I joined in. This was performance art of the highest caliber, something they would talk about for years. No one could ever outdo Denise�s masterpiece.

She and the nurse each put an arm under Marvin�s shoulders and helped him stand. Then they escorted him out of the room and he managed the journey without stumbling, only gripping their hands for stability and still brandishing his trophy. He walked bowlegged, of course, but he made it mostly under his own steam. Marvin must have gotten what he wanted. And I was sure there was a thick file of legal documents somewhere, protecting everyone involved. Maybe all this had even been his idea.

I walked back to my own display. The girl was in a daze, far past the point of discomfort from the various nailings and piercings. I began rolling the horse-frame back to the prep room, where I would take a few digital photos for my files and then begin prying out the nails. I was already thinking about next year. Maybe I could think up something that would put Denise in the shade. . . .

Copyright 2009 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.