Red-Rusted Threads and the Needle Hunting Veins
A throb. A crawling sting.
The instant her eyes opened, she felt it — a cold, alien weight packing her lower belly heavy and full. Na-bi curled in on herself, unable even to groan. She could not bring her legs together. A silver metal rod jutted long from between her thighs. Two days ago, to the sound of hammering, it had been driven straight through her uterus — and it was still buried there.
A threaded steel rod driven through the uterine cavity. Still seated. Still buried.
"Nngh......"
Na-bi stared up at the ceiling. Day five. Today. If she could just endure today. The Hospital Director's promise. Serve for five days, he had said, and he would discharge her. That single scrap of hope was all that held her tattered mind together.
A clack of metal.
The door opened and the Hospital Director came in. His immaculate gown filled her vision, and the silver ball joints at his wrists gleamed. He approached the bedside and flicked the metal rod protruding from between her legs with one finger.
Ting.
"Ghk!"
The tiny vibration traveled the length of the steel and struck the wounded fundus deep inside her uterus. Her body jerked reflexively off the mattress.
"No adhesions. How fortunate."
He took hold of the rod's end. Na-bi instinctively fisted the bedsheet. Was he going to pull it out? Was he finally going to take this hideous skewer away?
But the Hospital Director's hand did not pull. It twisted.
A grinding screech of metal on meat.
"AAAAAGH!!!!!!"
The scream tore out of her. The sharp ridges of the screw-thread cut into the uterine wall and the flesh of her cervix as the rod rotated. Scabs that had spent two days struggling to form were ripped away in sheets. It felt as if a blender had been switched on inside her belly.
"It hurts! It hurts! Don't turn it! Please!"
"We'll need to adjust the position. You've been pierced in the same place for far too long."
He said it mildly, and this time shoved the metal rod deeper in.
A crunch. A wet grind. A dull thud.
"Ghhk!"
The tip of the steel rammed into the ceiling of her uterus. The blunt shock of an organ being crushed drove the air from her lungs. The remnants of insect soup still sitting in her stomach nearly came back up.
"Pull it...... pull it out...... today's the last day......"
She wept and begged. The Hospital Director smiled.
"That's right. Since it's the last day, I'm giving you special attention."
He gripped the metal rod and rocked it forward, back, left, right — as if working a joystick. Her uterus, skewered on the steel, was dragged this way and that. Her cervix tore. The vaginal opening shredded.
A squelch. A wet grind.
Red blood-foam bubbled from the gap between metal and flesh. Stagnant blood, semen, and festering pus mixed and ran out of her.
"Shall we extract it, then."
The Hospital Director planted his feet at the foot of the bed and took the end of the metal rod in both hands, gripping it hard.
"Let go. If the sphincter keeps its hold, the viscera will come out with it."
Na-bi tried desperately to go slack, but terror made her vaginal muscles contract of their own accord. Flesh refused to release steel.
Involuntary muscular lock. The flesh will not surrender the steel.
A tearing scrape. A long, wet slide.
"GAAAAAAAAAAAH——!!!!!!"
The Hospital Director put his weight into the pull. The screw-thread sliced the inner wall as it came out, as if a hook had been set in the organs of her belly and was hauling them into the light.
Pop!
A heavy burst of sound, and the thirty-centimeter steel column tore free. In the same instant a surge of bright arterial blood gushed from between her legs.
A splatter. A gush.
The bedsheet went red in a heartbeat. The mouth of her uterus gaped, punched open, and would not close — it fluttered, useless. Severed vessels inside it vomited blood.
"Hah...... hah......"
Na-bi convulsed, her eyes rolled back. It was out. It was finally out. In the place where that hellish foreignness had been, only a burning rawness and a hollow ache remained.
There was no time to rest.
"The aperture has opened up quite nicely."
The Hospital Director tossed the blood-slick metal rod to the floor.
A ringing clang.
Then he undid the buckle of his trousers. His cock sprang out, swollen to bursting. He looked at the blood-soaked mouth of her vagina and wet his lips.
"Before the wound can close, I'll pack it myself. Hemostasis."
"Ah...... no...... it hurts too much......"
Na-bi shook her head and tried to push herself back, but the Hospital Director caught her by the ankle and dragged her toward him. He seated the head of his cock against the blood-drenched hole.
A wet thrust. A deep plunge.
"HYAAAAAAAGH!! AGHAAAH!!"
The place the steel rod had vacated was filled again — this time by a hot, rigid shaft of flesh. Meat against a wall of wounds burned as if salt had been packed into the cuts. The Hospital Director snapped his hips without a shred of mercy.
A wet slap. Thud. Thud.
The blood served as lubricant. He went in with a smoothness that was obscene, and a cruelty that was absolute. He aimed, deliberately, for the cervix. That raw, shredded, hypersensitive tissue — already ruined by the metal rod — he pounded with the head of his cock, blow after blow.
"It hurts! That spot hurts! It's tearing—!"
"Yes! That face! Cry more!"
He drank in her pain and drove faster. With every piston-stroke a wet grinding came from inside her — squelch, squelch. It was not semen that sprayed. It was blood. Her thighs and his groin were coated in red.
Na-bi thrashed against the agony and seized the headboard. Her nails split. The wood scored and peeled. Day five, morning. If this would just end. If she could just endure this.
A shuddering pulse.
The Hospital Director came. Semen splashed into the wounded uterus. Blood and seed mixed into a pink foam that spilled out of her.
"Hhh......"
He withdrew. Na-bi lay limp, gasping as if she had fainted. Her lower belly throbbed. The hemorrhage between her legs would not stop.
The Hospital Director checked his watch. The afternoon was coming on. Half the promised time had already gone.
He wheeled a cart to the prep table in the corner — a blind spot, outside her line of sight. On the tray he laid out fresh pharmaceuticals.
"Five days, was it......"
The Hospital Director turned the ampoules in his fingers and smiled, thin and rancid. Na-bi did not know. She did not know that these drugs were the chains that would hold her on day six, day seven — forever after. There would be no discharge today. Once tonight had passed, she would become a doll with a working mind and a body that could not move, and she would taste hell in earnest.
He hid the drugs deep in the drawer beneath the tray. Then he gathered only what looked ordinary — disinfectant, an IV set — and returned to the bed.
"Na-bi. Time for your treatment."
At his voice, her eyes opened. Treatment. The relief that word carried. Was he really going to end it now?
"You're losing too much blood. Let's disinfect and get some nutrients in you."
The Hospital Director wiped between her splayed legs with gauze. Every time the coarse weave dragged across a wound, her body flinched.
"This will sting."
A wet swipe.
He wadded alcohol-soaked cotton and scrubbed her vaginal opening, her anus, even the mouth of her urethra, thoroughly, without hurry.
"Nngh! It stings! Waaah—!"
The searing of alcohol on raw flesh. He did not stop. He cleaned every crease, every fold, as if wiping down a dish before the food could dry.
"The lower end is unusable for the time being. The swelling is far too severe."
He clicked his tongue and took her by the jaw.
"I'll have to use the upper."
The Hospital Director brought himself hard again. He had only just come, but the smell of blood had swollen that monstrous thing once more, vicious and thick.
"Ah...... my mouth...... my jaw......"
Na-bi hesitated, but he did not wait. He seized a handful of her hair and forced her mouth open.
A deep, wet slide.
"Mmph—!"
He drove it into the back of her throat. The memory of her jaw dislocating yesterday made her open wide on reflex. Her esophagus packed full.
While he used her mouth, his hands prepared the IV set — drip tubing, a butterfly needle. She had eaten almost nothing for days; the dehydration was severe. Her veins had hidden themselves and would not show.
"Hold still. If you move, the vein will rupture."
With one hand he held her by the hair and forced her down to the root; with the other he took her forearm and lined up the needle.
It was a circus trick and a torture at once. Her mouth had to receive that enormous cock, gagging around it — and her arm, with the needle coming in, must not move at all.
"Ghk! Khk! Nngh......"
Her pupils shook. Every time her throat was stabbed her body tried to buck, but the cold kiss of the needle-tip against her arm forced her to hold still. A duet of suffocating pain and the terror of being pierced.
The Hospital Director savored that tension. He dragged the needle-tip lightly across the skin of her forearm.
"Ah-ah. You're moving."
He snapped his hips and struck the back of her throat hard.
Khk!
In the same instant, he drove the needle into her arm.
A sting. A slide.
"Nngh—mmph!"
She swallowed the scream. Her mouth was full of him. The needle missed the vein and burrowed through muscle instead.
"Oh dear. I missed. That's because you moved."
He said it shamelessly, and stirred the needle around inside her flesh. Torture under the pretext of finding a vein. Tears ran and ran from her eyes.
Meanwhile his other hand went down between her legs. The vaginal hole that would not stop bleeding. He pushed his fingers into it.
A squelch. A grinding squelch.
He dug through the wounded inner wall. He probed with his fingertips the path the metal rod had punched.
"Does it hurt? It's torn here, you see."
He pressed down hard on the wound.
"NNNNMMPH!!!!!!"
Her body jerked and shuddered. A cock sealing her throat. A needle seated in her arm. Fingers rooting in the wound below. There was nowhere to run. Perfect restraint. Perfect violation.
The Hospital Director looked down at her face — that face of pure pain — and felt a bright, vicious pleasure. The bloodless pallor. The pupils blown wide with terror. The eyelashes trembling as if they were begging him to let her live.
"Good...... very good......"
He quickened the snap of his hips.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He ruined her mouth, dug through the wound, twisted the needle. Her mind went distant and thin. Day five, afternoon. It's almost over. If she just endured this pain, it would be over. Even as her consciousness blurred, Na-bi clung to that one hope.
But she did not see. She did not see the day-six drugs he had hidden beneath the tray. And she did not see the smile he wore — the rancid, satisfied smile of a predator who had dropped his prey perfectly into the trap.
A pulse. A spurt.
The Hospital Director came in her mouth. Na-bi swallowed. The nauseating taste was familiar now. He pulled the needle, found the vein properly in the other arm, seated it, and taped it down. The drip began to fall. It was not to save her. It was a fuel injection — so she would not die, so she would suffer longer, more vividly.
"Good girl. Just as promised, day five is drawing to a close."
The Hospital Director stroked her hair.
A party. The omen folded into that word was something Na-bi did not yet understand. She only thought that it was over, and tears of relief ran down her face as she blacked out into sleep. From the hole between her legs, and from the ravaged arm, blood dripped to the floor — drip, drip — and gathered there in a small, dark pool.