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Save point: Of Keselts Piercings

Somewhere In The Pacific

Keselt wakes from sleep in a balmy day on the ocean, running from nowhere to nowhere, from the heat of the sun biting at the piercing rings punched through the widely stretched mouth of her cunt. It feels delicious to have the warm light between her spread thighs - I'm being fucked by sunlight, she contemplates - but it seems the sun is playing rough today. Sethura skin is highly radiation resistant, but there's no pleasing way to harden the inside of the pussy.

There are seven rings in total on each side of her cunt, three within and four without, linked to one another. The heavy outer loops in turn connect to four pairings of hexagonal, water-glittering diamond studs, the ends connected to one another through double ended silver hooks that penetrate deeply into the flesh of her thighs, the incisions scarified to avoid what would otherwise be profound discomfort. The net effect is that, thighs closed, it's a little interesting; when she opens them to be fucked, the rings multiply the effect and pull her pussy unspeakably wide.

The rings are carefully designed to catch a males flared fuck-spines on the way out, making it an interestingly painful pull and increasing the amount of passion shown.

She has also, at home, expensive extras that clip onto the diamonds for better show; silver bands with cabochon and deeply purple curved stones for about her waist and midriff. A bunch of young sethuress sluts living down the street from their city apartment (young professional whores of independent means; interesting to the professional in her, more interesting when passing time at their shared apartment, pleasantly drunk on deeply-colored wine as they shared her with their fingers deep inside her) advised her at length as to the best pussy modifications; so she went and got them all, one at a time.

The result is a complex yet artistically pleasing form, all the way down to the heavy silver teardrop that tugs at the very lowest lip of her firm and elegant vulva. Of course the sethura do not cry, so they call it an amber-drop, which sounds pleasingly obscene. Only Keselt appreciates the uniquely human perspective one might take to the shape which unsettles her.

The sluts, who were following her progress by regular viewings of her artistically splayed cunt during their 'consultancy meetings', congratulated her on her design, and suggested that she might want to show it off on the strip-dancing stage at the local full-service bar where they provided the service. That was before she left, but she often thinks about taking them up on it - later, once the current project is over. It's always fun to think about indecent things one might perhaps be persuaded to do later - but not right now. She could put some scholarly spice to her sex and get to know the slut-girls from the inside, as one of them. It could be the definitive work on the fuck-trade.

She lets herself imagine crouching down low on the tips of her claws and spreading her thighs, to let a rapt sethura from the audience tongue her utterly vulnerable cunt, as she swings her breasts jauntily for the crowd, then holds them up, stretching and squeezing them out, pinching and twisting her nipples as much for herself as for them. Holding his horns and shoving his muzzle deeper into her cunt.

Experimentally (because she's starting to get very pregnant, and her belly is enormously round, and her breasts stick out all over the place) she twists about and tries to get a decent view of her distended cunt. It'll be a while before Sethkill is fucking that again, she concludes. In fact, all the piercings will probably have to come out soon, before they get in the way of the laying process. If they were to scratch the heavy membrane of the laying sheath, it could in theory go all the way to becoming a messy and horribly complicated live birth, out here somewhere between islands, and she'd much prefer the easier option of birthing her son or daughter neatly in a safe place, then having two or three days to rest up while the hatching finalizes, air and nutrients absorbed osmotically through and from the embryonic shell until it thins and breaks apart, and the child awakens.

She tries to remember what she's seen on weave feeds about the birthing process, but keeps flashing back to a porn movie she once saw featuring a laying, in which the sethuress had a surprising multiple climax and sprayed all over the place, just as her cunt lips were pulled out a good hands-length from her body and stretched so thin as to be almost transparent by the expulsion of the embryonic shell. After which she just lay there, gasping and gaping. How much of it was real and how much was acting, Keselt is unable to decide, but she's seen far more extreme things done live to other sethuresses, both with toys and by their male companions of the day. She's sure that with lots of advanced sexual experience, she'll be alright. It's the unimaginative sethuress who'll get taken by surprise during the laying; one who, having never practiced the required degree of personal flexibility, is needlessly shocked and distressed by it.

Which reminds her - all her connections are still offline. The most sophisticated functioning device she has is an interactive map and cultural database. Forget calling for medical help, she'll be lucky if she can record the event for posterity. Sethkill may or may not be disappointed by the results, but she's sure his innate sexual curiosity would eventually make him want to watch her give lay to the child he'd gotten on her. For that matter, she'd like to watch it with him. Just for curiosities sake. He could sympathize with how widely she was being stretched and rub her pussy better afterward.

The recorder on the mapping tool can be used as a virtual mirror, with slight adjustments, and so in the best tradition of a horny young sethuress taking a good close look, Keselt gets an angle on her vaginal metalware and concludes that it has got to go. All the main pieces can in theory be removed by hand, but when she took them in and out the first couple of times, she could still put her head between her knees. That, clearly, is not going to happen today.

As she works at the more stubborn pieces, she finds herself with the opportunity to look them over closely, one at a time, all over again. Opening the dark copper skin, like a portal to her flesh, she can't help but think that there is just something so very sexy about the forced penetration of metal into her stretched-out cleft. It's as though she's breaking into a warded steel safe to free her newly grown inner life, an elaborate puzzle-box of many interlocking rings, claws out for more dextrous manoeuvrings.

Her ornament is made of real gems and real silver, from the time before such things could just be printed out to match the outfit, a parting gift from the dragon Windfugue to praise her favours. In modern days, crystal is easily grown to order. Indeed, Sethkill builds arrays out of it on a daily basis, when he isn't otherwise occupied. But for these, she had to go to a fully traditional jeweler, insisting that she wanted precisely these stones mounted in exactly this metal, claiming they were part of a heritage piece, inherited most obscurely.

The compulsory examination against stolen and historic goods made her nervous for several moments, but the original article, a sort of broad collar designed to rest across the shoulders and breasts, was heavy on interesting layered metals and low on design. Sethkill had described it as 'advanced corsetry bondage for a riding jackal' the first time she'd modeled it for him. Windfugue had apparently kept it in an alcove for around four hundred years or so in case he woke up and needed a snack, which succinctly described his opinion of its artistic merit. The only reason she'd even picked it, in fact, was the beautiful deeply purple color of the curved stones, which she had a sneaking suspicion were in fact uniquely defaced natural diamonds.

Either it predated modern records or had deliberately been left out of them, and so it passed. Presenting the plans for what it was to be made into would have been a little embarrassing, were it not for the fact that it was obviously a massive improvement on the original. She'd spent ages determining the exact measurements with the help of a precision measuring device, and then run the results through several iterations of rapid prototyping to create a full size model in surgical steel, the implant-grade type that would grow a velvety protein layer on the outside when pushed up against bare flesh. It only made sense to test it out first.

Having the actual piercings done had been both fascinating and very painful. The occasional self-perforation or two for purposes of decoration was a common enough practice, and the sethuress who wasn't willing to push another pair of earrings through whilst crouching over the sorbance pit with her friends, wipe the blood off her ears and then take a quick leak whilst the opportunity presented itself, was well behind the curve. This, however, was definitely professional-grade piercing and would need to be treated as such. Plenty of shops and clubs and backstreet parlours provided such a service, but what gave her pause was the degree of public intimacy, of spreading her legs to a stranger in an open room and baring labia and luscious lower lips, to be plied with heavy piercing needles to the pleasure of the crowd. Letting others watch was, after all, part of the attraction, and the main reason why the work was always done out the front, behind nothing but window glass and the shop name embossed across it.

Then she asked herself just what she'd been doing lately, and realised that she really didn't care who saw. She liked watching, and she'd enjoyed being watched. To be ashamed would be nothing but a backward step. So she found the shop that had the tastiest-looking talented male sethura doing the artwork, stripped off as she walked in through the door to an appreciative audience, and, finding her clothes in hand, slung them into an empty corner chair.

Having the thin steel tooth of the piercing needle slide through her flesh felt like a unique kind of sexual violation, delicious because it was voluntary, and although it didn't hurt anywhere near as much as she would have thought, it did still hurt. Sure she had handy access to a quick shot of liquid courage if she wanted it, or some locally numbing anaesthetic gel, but where would be the daring in that? She'd always made a point of taking her minor slashes in the swordspear duels, it would be unfair to go in drugged, and the same surely had to apply here. So her liquid courage was used to soak a disposable cloth instead and give her a thorough cleaning, perhaps extended unnecessarily for the entertainment of the witnesses, and then the spike was driven through with the tips of a fanged tool that resembled the final predatory evolution of pliers.

Having that many insertions done took quite a while, but still much less time than you'd think. At last she was gasping slightly, feeling the unaccustomed weight of metal clinking between her legs and reaching its accommodation with bruised flesh. The guy doing the work congratulated her on her lack of flinching, said it looked good and was well done, and sent her the compulsory link to a simple text file of advisories, guarantees and receipts. Apparently she was supposed to rinse with salt water, or add a little cleaner to her bath, and leave everything in a couple of days before she could safely take it out without requiring a repeat performance. Well duh.

As it was she couldn't really be bothered, so she simply slapped on an absorbent pad and spent the day at a weave cafe, ordering red-leaf tea and blue-sugared energy drinks from the counter, and watching the monitoring taps on the students using the neural-clip headsets, until she felt up to walking home with no undue discomfort. The prototype version only stayed in for about three days, until she seamlessly replaced it with the real thing, which matched almost perfectly.

Back in the here-and-now, she finally manages to get the last bit out, nearly fumbles it into the ocean but then rescues it and puts it with everything else in one of the pockets of the waterproof travelling pouch she keeps at her side. The more replaceable silver link connectors, now that she thinks about it, might be good for fishing lures or perhaps hooks, if she was to unbend them and patiently scrape the end to a point at the next island along.

Once again, she wonders just how long it will take her to reach the detection perimeter around Lioshan, and whether she'll make it in time, or the little one will be born without benefit of any advanced medicine at all somewhere on an alien sea. It certainly will make for quite a story to tell, if that happens. She's getting simply huge, although you can't really tell from the back, and sudden cravings for a wide range of foods that don't actually exist out here are no fun at all. It'll be lean and healthy child, that's for certain, which reminds her once again just how remarkable it is that she doesn't even know yet whether it'll be male or female.

There isn't a single sethuress she knows who hasn't been well aware of this important detail well in advance. Most of them have chosen what they want and added a bunch of extra traits from any friends willing to be part-father or part-mother by now, and here she is, essentially hitting yes to the default settings over and over without even being prompted otherwise. She'll just have to hope that nature actually is a bitch, and will sympathise, one bitch to another.

She's had plenty of time to think about names, and has decided on Setris if it's a girl (the female diminutive would suit quite well in continuing the family tradition) or Avrayel if it's a boy (not for any particular reason, she just likes it, with its connotations of clear skies). She imagines telling little Setris or Avrayel, who is getting quite heavy, the story about how their mother sailed across the ocean with them safely inside, and smiles as she adjusts the sail. The tack has been almost right all day, and she may well reach Lioshan yet.