Medical Play 4

Medical Play

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 heartbeat 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.