Razor Wire Pubic Hair (2 page)

            The woman is staring at me, examining, just learning the details of my structure. 

            "You need a name," she says, licking the metal rings in her upper lip.

            I want to name myself.

            And my words convey a flick of hook-nail slice, an itchy blood line across my cheek, mad at my idea for wanting to name myself or mad that I spoke without her permission, my eyes shuddering downwards.

            "My sister should be arriving soon," says the woman, polishing metal knives on a piece of leather and cloth.  "She is going to decorate you for me, so that your skin isn’t so plain and embarrassing."

            Embarrassing?

            "Blank skin is for the dull.  Being the owner of a plain-fleshed fuck toy would be death to my reputation as a warrior."  Rubbing my naked breast.  "A slave is meant to be a canvas made of skin."

            When her sister arrives, a wave of pin-emotions cricks into my neck, my vagina curling indoors, digits graze threatened, covering shaded cheek skins, peering sharply with awkward eyelashes at me, beyond me.           

            The woman is very tall, long ropes of hair that end in iron hooks or spikes, nails growing out of her skull flesh, and she doesn’t wear much clothing or any armor as my owner woman, just belts and chains randomly wrapped around her, her skin is much darker and sun-weathered than my woman’s.  And the sister has two extra pairs of arms, and tattoos of vaginas covering her body like oversized pores.  She resembles a spider, spiky-dangerous.

            And she also has razor wire pubic hair, and when she smiles a shiver rips up and down my back muscles.

            "That’s him?" she asks, a scratchy whisper, her face coiling up.

            "Yes," says the woman.  "That’s it."

            "He’s scrawny," says the sister, folding her pairs of arms, "and neither penis is anything special."

            "I like it enough, that’s all that matters."

            "But what about when I want to borrow him?"

            "It’s not for you," says the woman.

            The woman, still walking nude, pours a jug of strong battery liquors into three cups.  She creeps one to me and whispers a tickle-tongue to my ear,  "It’s going to be painful."

            I choke down the contents of the cup, a relaxation wave, the sister drinks hers and then puts me on a leash, so tight it hurts to swallow.

            The Sister takes me up some rickety stairs, tiny crabs pinching my toes. A salty liquid sweating out of the ceiling, kissing my face, slipping under my lips to hide. 

            The living room mutates, scrambles my mind and familiarity, drives me into believing it is a vast canyon landscape now.  Yes, the room has become a valley of trees and mountain peaks made from the tables and chairs, tiny spiders and beetles now look like bears and oxen wandering the hills.

            The woman does not follow us, staying below to become part of the canyon.  I see her as a river and waterfall, reattaching metal armor to her body parts to make splashing noises, her eyes folding back into her head and tongue licking her nose, a snake jumping from the river. 

            I find myself in a garden-like room, soil and plants on the ground, spider webs glistening in corners, vines crawling the wall, arching, trembling.

            The Sister throws me hard against the wet-dirt floor, goes to a shelf hidden amongst black roses, the razor wire slicing against her inner highs as she walks, light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, moist with electrical fluid.

            "So what’s your name?" asks the Sister.

            I haven’t been named.

            "Well," says the Sister, "Celsia will probably name you after herself.  She always does that with her pets."

            The Sister takes her tools from the shelf, long thin blades and hooks, plus an assortment of metal rings and studs. 

            "Raise your arms,"the Sister orders.

            I slowly submit. 

            Goatskin cuffs wrap tight around my wrists and I find myself pulled out of the seated position.

            "This won’t be totally pleasant," says the Sister.  "But be thankful.  Most fuck toys rarely get the designs I’m about to give you.  Only Celsia and I hold fuck merchandise to high esteem, especially after I make them beautiful."

            The Sister uses the hook-like instrument, attached to a black fluid container, and approaches to illustrate my surface.

            "Not to mention," the Sister continues, "Celsia happens to be a prominent warrior on this side of the wastelands.  You should feel honored.  She’s fought off seven hordes of rapists so far, that’s four more than any warrior living today."

            I squeeze my eyes shut as she arrives to me, her scent strong enough to make me dizzy, a vagina smell.  It grows stronger, fondles my nose hairs as she fills her tools with electricity and touches it to my stomach.  The tool vibrates slime into me, ripping slowly as she paints, my eyes trickling with awkward soreness.

            When I open my eyes, I see what radiates her strong scent.  The sister’s vagina tattoos that cover her body are not tattoos at all, but real cunts, all over her.  Not just in her crotch.  On her arms and legs, her thighs, many on her back and torso, one between her breasts as if the breasts were its buttocks, some on her shoulders, her neck, a small one behind an ear, and one on her forehead so that you can fuck her brains out.  As if the Sister was created and not born naturally, fuck merchandise that walks around a free spirit.  

            And they are breathing, dripping onto my skin as she cuts me, and I breathe in her smell bottomless, closing my eyes again, the cutting of my flesh quivering my thin remains of muscle, fists aclench, twitchy eyes.

            The Sister finishes the stomach tattoo -- a pattern of hands layered on hands layered on hands -- and moves on to tattoo inky beetles on my breasts and a penis. 

            This penis is very tender from its last encounter with the splintery table and the ink gun pierces right into the soft spots, cutting up to the head until the penis extends, hardens to give her a more suitable canvas to work with.  I begin jerks as the needle hits nerves, muddle-whispers shower out of my lips, Sister’s lips curling a smile.  She grips my member and braces it against her thigh, just next to an unnatural vagina.

            And sensing its presence, a wet tunnel, as if steam was rising from it, droplets of moisture condensing against the head, the needle spasm-cuts designs into me, teeth engine-grinding.

            The Sister’s thigh moves upward, dripping the back end of my head just slightly to saturate it, and her juices soothe my wounds.

            Staring out over her brown-freckled shoulder to watch the vines creeping the wall, twitching its nerves.  The Sister flexes her leg muscles rapidly so that her thigh can fuck my bleeding cock, and another vagina snatches up my second cock like snake’s prey, rubbing against a clitoris, greasing the penis slicker, and the tattoo wounds begin to sting as her motions quicken.  And the needle cuts me closer to her hole, attempting to pierce through to her insides, and it strikes my penis head.  A muscle spasm in the limbs, tightening ass, tears cutting my eyes. 

            The Sister finishes and smiles fangs at me, hanging dirty, and she bends down to lick the trail of blood running from the tattoo.

            My owner woman, Celsia, stomps a spider in the entrance and her stomping makes the Sister jump back, wiping my blood innocently from her lips.

            "Is it done?" Celsia asks.

            "Not yet," answers the Sister.

            "You’ll have to finish another time then.  I’m going to take it to the underground."

            "Already?" asks the Sister.

            "I want to show it off," Celsia responds.

            The woman, Celsia, leashes me with a veined and fleshy rope. It squeezes around my neck and makes sweat dribble.  My clothing consisting of barbed wire and belts pissed on, gently around my shoulders and waist, with a chainmail loin cloth.

            The woman wears a new metal suit, made to expose her white breasts in an upheaving manner, her nipples clamped with steel and linked together with thin chains.  She has horns curved and slick, penis-shaped and have certainly been used during enthusiastic masturbation.

            Celsia decided to pierce metal cylinders through the flesh on my neck and behind an ear, making parts shine for her, so that we would match for the evening.

            The Sister peering down into the landscape of living room from the staircase, watching us through the spiny decorations.

            Celsia opens the carpeting and leads me down underneath her home.  There is a wet tunnel down there, smooth and warm, we walk deep into it, feet squishing in muscular puddles.  Lights are fluttering us, snake-like machines with large heads swim through the moist atmosphere of the tunnel, brightening our path with their hypnotic motions.

            The walls of the tunnel twitch as we step through, a tight passage, my wire strap scraping against its soft walls, sometimes cutting blood.  And Celsia’s palm smoothing it, caressing its tender bulges as she walks.

            "Your name is Celsia 2," she tells me.

            Celsia 2?

            "I’m naming you after myself."

            The space between us and the walls becomes thinner, thinner, until we have to shove ourselves through sideways, probing through the agile meat.  But our spiky attire is ticklish, and the walls flex together, crushing us against the warm walls, so firmly we begin to slide, force-slipping through the greasy passage like food swallowed down a long throat, deep down inside of the earth.

            We pop out into an open arena of women and their sex merchandise.  There are so many of high decoration, similar to Celsia, dark and leathered and metal-ridden, all with razor wire instead of pubic hair.  They have sex toys leashed to flesh-ropes, some with more than one pet.  They are all engaged in some sort of violent orgy, ticks and crab-men crawling surfaces. Wet and fleshy emotions leaking out of them, creeping all the way over to me. 

            "You can interact with the other fuck toys," Celsia tells me, unleashing me.  "But you are not allowed to speak," pushing me into the center of the arena.

            She decides not to play, only a watcher standing with other watchers, three women with silver-painted skin.

            Four fuck toys surround me, squatting low to the ground and blinking fiercely as if to communicate.  All different sexually, some with two vaginas, some with arm-sized cocks, some with six breasts, some with multiple-mouths.  None of them claiming one gender or the other, but most of them similar to men, dripping with masculinity.  Especially one particular sex toy in front of me, whose muscles could break my head in orgasm, but this sex toy has only a vagina and not one penis, nor any breasts.  It acts as the leader, shifting from side to side with gorilla limbs.  And the others mock him/her, shifting from side to side, long cocks dangle-swinging in their shifts, and I’m confused about what they want, scared of what they want.

            They want to watch us screw each other, the leader whispers to me.

            My confused expression does not disperse. 

            The glowing snake-lights are whipping behind us, scattering us with shadows, in and out, curling the warm air around us, investigating.

            The fuck toys are sweating and hardening, all of them much larger than myself, tight muscles, only the strong ones are kept as pets while the weak -- other than myself -- are recycled into meals.  These vagina-bearing men, one even bearded, working their bodies all day in the arena to please their female domineers.  Approaching me like wolves, on all fours, their eyes not leaving mine.  I try to step away, but my muscles are weak from mating with Celsia. 

            They catch me without difficulty, swiping me off the slick-meat ground, cheering from the crowd of women -- half-absorbed in conversation, half-absorbed in the orgy.

            The others tie my hands to a post in the center of the arena.  My ankles cuffed together around the other side.

            "Celsia 2, are you making friends?" Celsia yells from across the flesh field.

            I open my mouth to reply, but one fuck toy shoves four fingers inside, holding down my tongue.

            It/he says, Don’t answer.  She just wants an excuse to whip you in front of her friends.

            Removing the fingers, It’s her job to whip me.

            You’re speaking as if you don’t want freedom.

            I was offered freedom, but decided against it.

            The others cock their heads.

            Celsia yells, "It’s time for the hoota beast!"

            Then the other fuck toys clear my front, gathering behind me, squeezing my shoulders.

            Don’t worry, they say.  It’s not that dangerous.

            The women begin to chant: "Hoota beast, hoota beast, hoota beast!"

            Coming from the shadows: A tall woman, thin with limbs twice the size of mine, like a stick woman, approaching sharp-clawed with a leashed animal behind her.

            "Hoota beast, hoota beast, hoota beast, hoota beast!"

            The leashed animal is half the size of a female, a blubbery ball of skin, dripping as it moves, the strong ones behind me, hands jittering on my shoulders, bracing me for its arrival.  Multiple gopping eyes, six on each side, front and center a large slit, sliming, lick-noises, bubbling.

            "Hoota beast, hoota beast, hoota beast, hoota beast!"

            It is a giant vagina with legs, spiky hair on its top and around the sides.

            The stick woman ghoul-smiling, her eyes sparkling wet with the light-snakes whipping behind her ears, teeth showing excitement, gesturing her pet closer to me. 

            The hoota beast’s lips swell upon arrival, obedient to the stick woman, walking up to me to do a job it knows too well, warmth against my upper thighs, breath coming out of the slit.

            Celsia’s watching with a curled lip, digging a hooknail into her belly button, squeezing.

            And the hoota beast encases my lower region, its moisture cloying me, so close to one of my members.

            The strongmen cluttering behind, tin-rustling noises, slipping away my protection, my cloth, the shell of skull on my forehead, the extra skin from my genitals.  Pulling tightly on the  barbed wire straps to dig into the scuff, my chest stinging, emotions of orange-frustration filling up my virginous head.

            The stings ride my nerves down to the penis, rising it involuntarily into the great canal of the hoota beast, vagina beast, encompassing it, swallowing me whole.  Inside, it is like a mouth with extra thick saliva and six fat tongues massaging in fuck-like waves.

            Celsia has a proud smirk on her face, watching the creature screw me, center stage of the arena, her friends with amused smirks at me as well, proud of Celsia for purchasing me, all of them with razor wire pubic hair, clapping metal gloves for my shivering performance.  Cheering for the scared and weak little fuck toy, getting its first hoota beast love, so cute to them.

            And the orange-frustration emotions rise higher and higher inside of me, ready to pop, as I see Celsia digging a shiny finger deep between her thighs.