Page 35 of Frat Row
Each woman in scrubs comes over, grabs our wrists, and leads us back to their assigned station.
The woman who grabbed me has short blonde hair and blue eyes that come off devoid of any emotion, and she whispers, “Lay back on the bed, legs in the stirrups, and lift your gown.”
The men have formed a half circle, talking to each other and eyeing us to ensure we aren’t causing any trouble.
As sneakily as possible, trying not to get caught, I glance at the chart beside her, trying to read anything that is on it. There are bullet points and then an outline of a naked human’s body. This one has small red x’s on both my nipples.
That couldn’t be piercings. What the fuck? I throw my head back on the bed and squeeze my eyes shut in anger.
The nurse jostles me, hands me two pills, and whispers, “Take these. It will help with the pain.” I take them immediately, dry with no water.
She turns on the wax machine next to her, and as it heats up, she organizes the tools, getting them ready.
“Lift your arms over your head and don’t move, or else I’m going to have to cuff them,” she whispers. For once, I don’t resist, and I do exactly what I’m told.
Placing a dollop of hot wax on both of my armpits, she waves her arm in the air above them, willing them to dry for a minute. After both seem dry enough for her, she sets down the paper on top and, with plenty of practice, pulls it as I bite my lip, holding in the yelp of pain from the stinging. Working her way down my body, she waxes my arms, torso, and legs, pausing when she reaches what is between my legs. Double-checking the chart, she places the wax on my bikini line and rips off the paper smoothly. This time, I whisper-shout “AH” loudly.
Zane walks over with a deadly expression and tells me, “Shut your mouth, or I’ll put something in it,” as he grabs his crotch, taunting me with it.
I turn my head away from him as a mix of horror and disgust washes over my face.
My nurse then reaches for the clippers and starts trimming the hair in between my legs. I glance at the chart again, and there is a triangle on my vaginal area.
The buyers must like a little hair in between our legs, or maybe it’s just me.
She begins putting antiseptic on a cloth, and I know what's coming next. I look up at the ceiling with silent tears flowing down my face, knowing I have absolutely no control over my body. They own me. They are going to put holes in my body as they would an animal.
She gets her piercing gun. This is it. She does my right nipple first, and I bite down on my tongue from the sensitivity and pain, and then she quickly does my left nipple. Biting my tongue harder, I taste that familiar coppery taste in my mouth. I look down. Two black barbels.
How unique.
“Okay, great, number 9003 is all set,” she shouts, and then throws off her gloves, standing up and tossing them into a trash can.
One of the men rushes over to me and grabs my arm roughly, practically pulling my arm from my shoulder blade.
“How could you do this?” I barely say above a whisper, making eye contact with the woman. She looks at me with sorrow in her eyes. “Some people are enslaved in different ways,” she whispers back to me and quickly looks away.
I notice the other girls getting piercings. Some of them are getting them in their tongue, clitoris, outer labia where the metal chain connects, their inner labia, and more nipple piercings. All of them, I realize, are for sexual pleasure.
I can barely stand to watch as they squirm and whimper with pain and, above all, turn red with humiliation.
Rio has his rifle in the front of his torso now, eager to display sternness directed at us.
“Form a line when you are finished; it's time for you to meet the good ol’ doctor now.” He chuckles.
After everyone is done, we line up, and they open the door with another code. We shuffle our feet with our heads down to another room, where we are made to wait outside.
“One at a time,” he says, gesturing us in.
Like always, it seems to be a pattern. I’m first again, and I walk into the most sterile room I’ve seen, with lights on the ceiling that you would typically see in a dentist’s office so the doctor can adjust them to their liking.
One of the evilest-looking men I’ve ever seen sits on a stool. He is smirking, and his eyes look like dark pits.
“Get on the table with your legs spread as far as they can go,” he commands, snapping his gloves on.
I hop up on the table and hesitate for a second about putting my legs in another stirrup. What the fuck is this guy going todo to me? While I’m adjusting myself, completely humiliated, he goes and locks the door.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he sneers.
