Three Clits

Her clit bore the scars of her secret fetish. The next town over, her dom Sir had introduced her to it.

Alice had cut in her teen years, desperate to feel something after years of feeling nothing.

Sir gave her life worth. Through devotion, she had a purpose. And he knew the right ways to make her hurt to feel his love for her.

He had to go on a work trip to Asia for a couple of weeks, and in a moment of weakness she cut herself out of loneliness.

“Pet,” he said as she was tied and gagged to the bed, “What gives you the right to cut my property?”

Of course, Alice couldn’t answer him. And her eyes went wide when he took out the hobby knife and took a place between her thighs.

He used the hyper sharp knife to trace her labia. “If someone’s gonna cut, I’m gonna cut, pet.”

The knife traced a circle just under the hood of her clit.

And the excitement, the sting, and her master’s voice gave her the strongest orgasm she had ever had.

During their aftercare, they talked through what had happened. They decided to add blade play to their repertoire. It turned her on so much.

And Alice promised to never cut herself again.

Another trip to Asia took her dom Sir out of town for almost a month, and she was starting to feel desperate.

Phone calls were nice, but he gave her permission to touch, and permission to cum once while he was gone, “if she must.”

In a moment of weakness, her fingers tried to elicit an orgasm. Struggled to do so.

And thought back of that first night. How the orgasm has came so easily.

She found his hobby knife. So sharp, she bent over and used it to trace as he had traced.

Her dom Sir, however, had the steady hand of a well trained machinist.

Alice’s was not. Where Sir’s hand had left hardly any scarring, and was careful to do so in the folds where it would not be noticeable, Alice’s cuts were more striking.

She remembered his tracing around the hood of her clit. So she figured just the tip of the blade. She was so close. Almost there.

Her cell phone rang accusingly, and she jerked with a start.

And the bleeding started.

Alice looked down and saw her severed clit and hood on the mattress, her blood spreading around her.

She called an ambulance, which was there soon, but the damage was too great, and they could not reattach it successfully.

Her dom Sir visited her in the hospital, losing out on a business deal to rush home to check on her. He saw her, and she could not meet his gaze, having disobeyed him.

And Alice would never cum again.

\-=-=-

Her clit bore the scars of her secret fetish. Back in college, her girlfriend Laura had introduced her to it.

Beatrice had been gifted the clit pump by her college girlfriend. And she used it more nights than she didn’t. Even after she broke up with Laura.

It fit snug against her pudendum, and her clit would slide along the glass walls as she pumped, until it filled about half the tube.

Laura had taught her to pump for a little while, then release it. And, engorged in blood it was so sensitive.

Almost an addiction, anytime Laura needed a relatively quick cum, she’d grab her pump. She was guaranteed to cum within fifteen minutes.

Without it could take half an hour or longer, if it ever did come.

Decadences grow, and a chance encounter with a Reddit post taught her about clit banding. Taking a small rubber band or piece of twine and putting it on her pump. Then, after pumping her clit, she’d roll the band onto her clit, tethering it.

The blood would stay engorged there. Swollen. It would stay enlarged as long as she kept it on.

But, playing with blood supplies is dangerous. Her clit would become numb, cold. The skin would darken the longer she left the band on.

And, after enough time had passed, she’d take the band off.

Anyone who had fallen asleep on their arm before is familiar with the “needles and pins” feeling. But, focused on the clitoris, they provide wave after wave of orgasmic stimulation.

And, Beatrice found, the longer she left the band on, the longer the pin feelings would stay. And the more orgasms she would have.

Saturday, Beatrice got her tools out. Pumped her clit and slid a black rubber band over it. Then sat on the sofa and turned on some music. Poured herself a glass of wine. Enjoyed the fire she had on.

One glass became two. Two became three. And soon Beatrice was drifting off.

And her clit, starved of blood, went from pink to maroon to brown to black as the night went on.

Beatrice woke up in the morning, desperate to pee. She went to the bathroom, let loose a torrent of urine, then went to wipe and found her bound clit.

She looked at it. A blackened nubbin, as black as the band she slid on the night before.

The old Viagra commercials warned about an erection lasting four or more hours for just such an occasion. Blood captured in the tissue for this long damaged it beyond repair. Surgery was the only option to prevent her from getting blood poisoning.

And Beatrice would never cum again.

\-=-=-

Her clit bore the scars of her secret fetish. Back in med school, Roger had introduced her to it.

She was contemplating a belly button piercing, but was afraid of the pain.

Roger, her boyfriend at the time, was lying beside her after a lovemaking session when he saw her playing with the skin at the top of your belly button.

“Claire,” he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just pondering a piercing. But I wonder if it will hurt.” She'd always had a fear of pain.

“Nonsense,” Roger said, and went to his backpack. He pulled out a collection of needles of different gauges.”I can show you how it’ll feel, work my way there.”
“Isn’t it dangerous,” Claire asked.

“Not at all, as long as you sterilize things everything is fine.” He took a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, cleaned the web between his thumb and forefinger, cleaned a needle, and plunged it through.

It was clear he’d done this before. And his eyes closed. Almost as if he enjoyed it.

Roger cleaned your navel with the alcohol, grabbed his smallest gauge needle, and cleaned it as well.

And, when it penetrated, there was pain. A little bit. But also excitement.

“It’s the endorphins,” Roger said, “they’re nature’s painkillers. A little euphoria for the ride as well.”

Claire toyed with the needle in her, pulling it back and forth through the skin like a little violin.

Claire graduated to needles in her nipples. Needles in her labia. Even needles in her clit hood.

But the first time the needle had plunged through her clitoris, Claire instantly came.

It was so powerful, the combinations of endorphins from the orgasm as well as the injury site. And she was instantly hooked.

She’d tried from different angles. Different gauges. And each time a new experience. A different flavor of orgasm.

Sunday she lay in bed. The needle was a bit smaller than the ones she’d been using – she’d noticed a different feeling when she used a smaller gauge, and really enjoyed it lately.

And, like the last few times, she’d go completely through her clit, in one side and out the other. It was a double blast, feeling it enter and then exit her skin.

But when the needle entered her, all of a sudden it was like a power outage. Her clit went numb.

She withdrew the needle, and used her fingers to touch her clit, move it. She even pinched it. But it was as if she was touching a pencil eraser. She felt nothing.

The doctors confirmed later. Nerve damage. The needle had hit the dorsal nerve, severing it.

It just lay there under its hood, like a car in a garage that’d never run again.

And Claire would never cum again.