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Negotiations have never brought Gladiia so much excitement as when she's sitting across from Kal'tsit. This meeting marks the second time she's done so—the first long ago, in which she negotiated the terms of the Abyssal Hunters' stay in Rhodes Island. This meeting is more complicated by far, and yet it only involves the two of them. Gladiia is more than willing to let Kal'tsit do as she pleases, but the doctor is pragmatic and methodical.
To take the words from Kal'tsit's mouth, "You handled the straightjacket remarkably well. Should you be interested in more extreme scenarios, then please don't hesitate to consult me. If it's you, I'll give you my best." The straightjacket, while pleasurable in its own way, had been as much about Gladiia testing Kal'tsit's limits as it was the other way around. Kal'tsit's visible interest and compatibility brought Gladiia back. She would have begged if she'd needed to.
Gladiia watches, fascinated, as green eyes travel line by line down a document. Kal'tsit pauses at each one but doesn't look up, saying a word or phrase out loud as she goes.
"Bondage, including ropes, cuffs, zip ties, etc."
Gladiia nods. "Yes."
"Kissing."
"Yes."
"Oral sex, performing or receiving."
"Yes."
"Penetration."
"Of any kind, yes."
Kal'tsit actually looks up from her page, pen pausing above the checkbox. "Gladiia, just how powerful is your ability to heal?"
The question alone is enough to set her flesh to roiling. "If I don't die within five minutes, it's safe to assume I won't. The Abyssal blood that runs through my veins serves me well. I am not invincible, but can survive and reliably recover from most wounds that would kill a Terran."
"I see. Penetration of your hands and feet, including but not limited to knives, spears, and harpoons."
"Yes."
"Simulated drowning."
"I can't drown."
Kal'tsit's glare is paralyzing, a simple look enough to chill her blood. "You can, Gladiia, I guarantee it. I ask you again, do you feel like you would be interested in simulated drowning?"
The thought that water, her home, could betray her raises alarm bells in Gladiia's head. All her life she's fought the creatures in the water, as a creature in the water. The idea that it could be made foreign, dangerous and unfamiliar, quickens her breathing. Kal'tsit is, if nothing else, capable, and the thought of what she could do when inspired is nearly petrifying. "Yes."
"Dismemberment."
Gladiia pauses, whatever pride she had gained from answering yes to Kal'tsit is stripped away. But that is the thrill of Kal'tsit, pure and simple. Gladiia counts on being made nothing when she's with her, being taught that she's nothing without her. "No."
"Vivisection or medical experimentation."
"Again, no."
"Scenes lasting up to two hours."
"Yes."
"Four."
"Yes," Gladiia answers, and Kal'tsit looks at her again.
"In the interest of saving time: sixteen hours."
Gladiia answers without hesitation. With that the list is complete, her wants, needs, and desires all recorded meticulously so that Kal'tsit can refer to them, plan. Gladiia selects "help" as a safeword, thinking it appropriate because any situation she can think of that will require her to use it will be akin to her asking Kal'tsit for help as a higher power. Even if she must retreat, she'll do so while bowing.
Two weeks pass, and then Kal'tsit pulls her aside after a meeting and they agree on a date. For what exactly, Gladiia isn't sure, having asked for the mystery to be maintained. It's a show of faith she knows will be rewarded, gladly walking into the unknown Kal'tsit has created.
They meet on the bridge in the evening after dinner. Shadows grow long over the horizon as the sun sets, the wasteland sands appearing like the surface of an ocean, grains of sand shimmering and distorting Gladiia's understanding of the topography. Kal'tsit takes her by the hand—the most open public affection she's shown yet—and leads her into the bowels of the landship, deeper and deeper until Gladiia's internal map grows muddled. She can tell north from south, but if Kal'tsit were to abandon her here, escaping the corridors would be an exercise of luck and not skill.
At the end of a hallway stands an iron door, nondescript. Kal'tsit keys the lock, a rare analog model, and the door swings open on oiled hinges, three inches thick. Even the dim lighting of the corridors did little to prepare Gladiia's eyes for the darkness of what lay beyond the threshold; she walks in at Kal'tsit's nod.
Kal'tsit flicks on the overhead light and Gladiia takes in the chamber. The walls and floor are solid metal, old and worn but still in good repair. A cart on wheels rests at the edge of the room, its contents obscured by a blanket. In the center of the room stands a wooden triangular prism of sorts, the upwards-facing edge sanded into a smooth curve. "I've not seen anything quite like this before," Gladiia says, running her hand across the ridge. "What is its purpose?"
"Strip," Kal'tsit commands. "You know I don't like answering questions that can just as easily be answered with a little patience."
Chastised, Gladiia removes her clothing piece by piece, folding them and making a pile on the floor. Kal'tsit watches her, seems to indulge in her figure, eyes lingering on her shoulders, stomach, and legs. Gladiia stands naked before her, and Kal'tsit's next command indeed reveals the purpose of the wooden triangular prism. "Get on the wooden horse, one leg on each side. Do so facing away from the door, please."
Once she's straddling the "wooden horse" as Kal'tsit called it, Gladiia immediately understands the purpose. Her feet don't reach the ground, meaning the whole of her weight rests on the edge, the smooth ridge grinding into her cunt. It's not painful, not yet, but depending on the length of the scene, that is liable to change. If she flexes her legs she can hold herself up without the use of her hands, but after some time of doing so her muscles will begin to fail. The wooden horse offers a flat choice between two types of discomfort, simple and uncaring in the most honest way.
"How delicious," Gladiia comments, knowing her commentary is neither useful nor asked for.
"I'm glad you like it, but I hope you don't find me so unimaginative to think that this is the only game I intend on playing with you."
Gladiia decides that she'll start by holding herself away from the edge with her arms. Based on what Kal'tsit has in mind, she might not have the luxury later. "Do you intend to show me how to drown, Lady Kal'tsit?"
"That's not the purpose of this scene," Kal'tsit says, locking the door. She removes the blanket from the cart, revealing a handful of items. The first is a clock, which Kal'tsit places on the wall above the door. It's of peculiar make, and only displays seconds, counting in steady ticks.
The next item is twofold; silver harpoons, each connected to a length of chain. Their sharp tips merge seamlessly into the shaft, the kind with flanges that can extend or retract according to the user's wishes. If those pierce Gladiia, she won't be leaving until she either says her safeword, or Kal'tsit deems the scene over. Anticipation sends a shiver up her spine, dread curling in her gut. Compared to Kal'tsit, the combination of fear and awe the depths of the ocean abyss inspires is miniscule.
Kal'tsit picks up one of the harpoons and walks around to Gladiia's front. "I intend for this scene to be as much of a psychological. . . ordeal as a physical one. Do you have any objections?"
Gladiia can't take her eyes off the harpoon, marveling at the way the spear glistens in the light. "None, Lady Kal'tsit."
"Then I won't waste your time. Much as plunging headlong into icy water is the most efficient path towards acclimation, I intend to throw you into the deep end, as it were. Gladiia? Tell me your safeword."
"Help, Lady Kal'tsit."
"Are you using your safeword, or telling me what it is?"
"I am merely telling you that I have it memorized."
Kal'tsit doesn't respond, glancing down. The ridge of the wooden horse is already wet, and Gladiia hasn't even made contact with it. "Gladiia, present me your right hand."
Gladiia raises her hand, palm up. Phantom pain is already present, mind rushing ahead of reality; Kal'tsit's kiss on her flesh stings like acid.
"I'll admit, this kind of play is new to me. Please don't be shy about offering constructive criticisms." And then the harpoon slides through Gladiia's palm, severing sinew and shoving bone aside to make room for metal girth. Gladiia allows herself to shout at the flash of pain, pulse kicking into immediate high gear accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. Her breathing comes in gasps, and she forgets to hold herself up, full weight pressing on the ridge. If anything, the press against her clit provides the barest distractions from the wracking pain pulsing through her hand.
Kal'tsit silently monitors her until her breathing begins to even, then takes the end of the chain and attaches it to an anchor point in the ceiling. The flanges spring out from the shaft of the harpoon, preventing Gladiia's hand from sliding off. Blood runs down Gladiia's arm, across her armpit and down her ribs. Further still down the outside of her leg, until a thread of crimson connects her palm to her toes, where the river deltas fivefold, dripping down her toes.
The ticking clock marks a full five minutes before Kal'tsit nods, smiling. She examines Gladiia's pierced palm as if she's made a discovery. "Fascinating. Your anatomy never ceases to amaze me, Gladiia. Please interpret that statement in any way that flatters you; I'm speaking as both a scientist and a sexually-aroused individual."
"If it pleases you, Lady Kal'tsit," Gladiia says, voice even, "you may do as you wish with me. I am yours to mold and shape to your desire."
"Then raise your other hand, Gladiia, and allow me."
Her hand rises, more slowly than she'd intended, until her palm rests vulnerable in front of Kal'tsit. She kisses the palm, and again a flicker of pain precurses the raging torrent of it. Kal'tsit's expression turns to steel and she brings the harpoon down, piercing through. She screams, her voice arching high and resonating with the walls, hand trembling and aloft. Blood pools in her palm and runs off the side, splattering on the ground. The harpoon sent a wracking spasm through her once, setting off the fire in her right hand once more, and now the twin points dully ache, her body attempting to mend even as Kal'tsit strings her up. The line of blood this time runs down the back of her arm, travelling across her shoulder blade and down to her rear before tracing the back of her leg to her heel. No sound exists save for her labored breathing and the ticking clock, second by second bleeding away with her.
"How do you fare, Gladiia?" comes Kal'tsit's voice in her ear. Gladiia jerks at the closeness; for all the time they've spent together, Kal'tsit has never once whispered to her this directly. She's behind her, must have moved while Gladiia was sitting with her pain.
Her voice shudders, the harpoon chains rattling as if they're part of her. "I am now as I was before, and always will be. You awe me, and becoming part of your design is what I desire more than anything."
"I am glad to hear that," Kal'tsit says, her voice accompanied by the shuffle of fabric. "I'm going to blindfold you—if I merely turn out the lights, your night vision will be able to compensate. Please enjoy this feast of sensation I've created for you, Gladiia."
A blindfold slips over Gladiia's eyes, blocking out the majority of visible light, and then Kal'tsit flips the switch, extinguishing the light.
The game pieces are in place, and now it's Gladiia's turn to watch them move. The blackness is intangible, steady dripping from the lazy ooze of blood down her body sounds wet against the floor. Her legs haven't started shaking yet, but her arms are burning, not just from the harpoons spearing her palms. Resting them brings yet more pain—she has to keep them flexed so that the flanges don't dig further into her.
Gladiia attempts to still herself, steady her breathing. She counts the seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. . .
. . . Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.
She repeats this again. And again. At the forty-second mark of her fifth repetition, her legs begin to shake. They have good traction pressed against the wood, but if she angles her body incorrectly and besmirches them with blood, she won't be able to hold her cunt away from the ridge as well.
As attuned as she is to her world of pain and the ticking clock, the sound of the door unlocking is like a gunshot. Opens it does, a lance of light streaking across the floor. Gladiia shies away at the brightness, only to find that when she opens her eyes again, the light is gone. She holds her breath, listening over the sound of her heartbeat.
She couldn't have imagined it. There has to be somebody in the room with her. Or perhaps Kal'tsit had simply stayed quiet, choosing now to leave? Gladiia can't remember if she ever closed the door in the first place. No of course, she had to have, how else would the room have gotten so dark?
Gladiia's voice is tight. "Lady Kal'tsit?"
No answer.
"Lady Kal'tsit?"
Nothing.
Her leg slips and her weight presses onto the ridge, a flash of pain travelling up her arm from her left side. Despite it all, the press against her cunt feels good, a sickeningly sweet sensation amid the horror the rest of her body is experiencing. She pulls herself away, legs again flexing against the wooden horse.
Gladiia's breathing is rushed and uneven, undisciplined, and she forces it to calm, timing breaths to the ticks of the clock, the dripping blood. She weighs what she knows: Kal'tsit is careful and has been planning this for some time, and if Gladiia may be so bold, Kal'tsit enjoys these displays as much as she herself does. Then again, Kal'tsit also seems to respect her enough to know she can handle nearly anything, and so far none of Gladiia's limits have been pushed. The agony of the harpoons is well within the realm of what she's consented to.
The thought of being abandoned for an indeterminate amount of time—for the first time in her life, Gladiia wonders if this is what it feels like to drown. Accompanying the thought is the disturbing realization that she might like it.
The clock and her dripping blood have synced up, or perhaps the roar in her ears is preventing her from distinguishing one from the other.
One. Two. Three. Four. . . Five. . .
. . . Sixteen. . . Seventeen. . . Seventeen. . . Eighteen. . .
. . . Twenty-one. . . Twenty. . . Two. . . Two. . . Three. . . Four. . . Five. . . Six. . .
Wait no, I skipped nineteen and double-counted twenty. . . Two, which means. . .
Dried blood cracks on her ribs as she shifts, gasping as the wedge drives painfully into her clit. Her legs have failed, the pain in her muscles nearly as painful as her hands, and her cunt and pubic bones bear her weight. The pain and pleasure intermingle into one another until they're greater, the sensation akin to something simple and overwhelming. Gladiia begins trembling; she loses control of her breathing yet again.
My safeword, she thinks. No. It's not time yet.
The simple admission that the time may eventually approach makes her head spin. Any one part of this system designed specifically to off-balance her would be bearable on its own, but the subtle ways the parts combine and interlink is a force Gladiia isn't sure she can reckon with forever.
The clock stops.
Gladiia's breathing stops along with it, the pain in her hands and cunt replaced with cold fear. She strains to hear the sound of the second hand. Her breaths echo on the walls and phantom clicks sound like gunshots in her mind. The stillness is suffocation, and she can feel death lurking behind her, blade at her throat.
Gladiia's legs fail her, feet slipping in her blood, the wedge a focal point of pain in an empty world. Goosebumps cross her chin and hair; is she upside-down? Her head lolls to the side, the sound of shifting fabric deafening.
"L-Lady Kal'tsit. Lady Kal'tsit."
She's not sure why the name is coming to her lips, but she repeats it over and over like a mantra, a source of comfort against the abyss that claws at her psyche and body, threatening to take over.
A small voice in the subconscious speaks with a whisper. Is it time? Time to give in?
"No!" Gladiia shouts, the fury in her limbs reigniting her wrists. Pain returns, the absence of sensation giving way to sweet agony; the coldness leaves her and she's alive, burning bright and defiant. "Lady Kal'tsit, I can keep this up! I—I can. . ."
She slides herself forward and backwards on the wooden horse, slick. In this moment of heat the pleasure marginally outpaces the pain, Gladiia ruts on it gratefully, moans building in her throat.
"Lady Kal'tsit, please, I need you—"
"I am here, Gladiia."
She shakes at the way the words reverberate through her, a spark of life, lightning striking the water.
"Lift for me. You may come on my hand, Gladiia."
Gladiia finds the vestiges of her strength and lifts, and Kal'tsit's fingers pinch the bud of her clit, two pressing at her entrance and sliding in with no resistance. Gladiia comes, screaming as her body ceases to be, three focal points of pure sensation eclipsing her mortal figure. Then she slackens, the harpoons no longer aching, her body spent. She slumps on the wooden horse, legs dangling uselessly.
When she comes back to her body, she's unsure if it's been seconds or minutes. The blindfold is pulled from her face and she sees Kal'tsit in the darkness.
"Lady. . . Kal'tsit."
"You did very well," Kal'tsit says, cupping her cheek. "How do you feel?" She begins removing the harpoon chains from the ceiling while Gladiia thinks about her answer. Without the traction of Gladiia's hand preventing the closure, Kal'tsit retracts the harpoon's flanges and pulls the spears from Gladiia's palms. She shivers as they come free, and Kal'tsit deposits them on the ground.
"I cannot thank you enough," Gladiia simply says. The animal part of her has made tears come to her eyes. They gather in her lashes, threatening to fall. "May I weep? Not from regret, mind you, I'm just. . . grateful to the point of losing my words."
"You may."
"Thank you," she says, her voice wracked with sobs.
Loath as she is to lean on her, Gladiia has no choice but to be lifted from the wooden horse and into a wheelchair, her legs too spent to hold her weight. Kal'tsit covers her with a blanket and walks them out of the room. The lights of the corridor are sun-bright, forcing Gladiia to close her eyes.
In the elevator, Gladiia leans her head back to look up to her. "Thank you for allowing me to climax on your hand, Lady Kal'tsit. You are most kind to me."
A knowing smile crosses Kal'tsit's face, and then she cocks her head. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, Gladiia. Are you certain you didn't merely imagine my fingers inside you? Come now, don't make that face. Let's get you back to your quarters—I'll bathe you and share your bed tonight."
Later, once they've taken a bath and Kal'tsit has bandaged her hands, Gladiia asks, "How long did I last?" The idea that she has to measure her time like a point of pride is humiliating, but she simply must know.
Kal'tsit doesn't shift from where she's cuddled on Gladiia's chest. "You were in that room for seven hours."
"And you?"
"That does not concern you, my Gladiia, but rest assured I would never abandon you."