The seventh Rachel’s Shaved Pussy

Over the next few months, my rate of copulation did not diminish. My eighteenth birthday came… and came, and came, because it was another slumber party at mine, to which several of my sexiest friends were invited, and it descended into a massive lesbian orgy. Kirsty and I contrived to make it seem spontaneous, so that nobody thought it would be a good idea to try too hard to repeat, but everybody ended up joining in enthusiastically. My highlight was an astonishing FIVE-way circular daisy-chain of mouths on pussies. Maybe I will tell you more about that some other time.

I enjoyed fucking – every kind of fucking – tremendously, but it has to be said that I found it more and more difficult to find new ways and types, and sometimes I yearned a bit for that freshness.

So, on one of my ‘study sessions’ with Dr McPhail, I was intrigued when he said that it was a special day, and he had something different in mind. He had me take my shoes off, then took my hand and led me to a door to the cupboard under the stairs. I had never seen it opened, so I was surprised to discover stairs leading downward, to a basement. “I didn’t know you have a basement,” I said.

“I don’t use it very often. Come along,” and he led me behind him down the wooden stairs. I was a little worried about the possibility of splinters on my bare feet, especially since he did not turn a light on. By the time I was at the bottom and my feet touched dusty concrete, I was effectively blind, as the hallway light from above did not illuminate enough for my unadapted eyes to make out, and the only illumination down here was occasional strange orange pin-pricks dotted around the place. I turned to look up at the only thing I could see, the lit-up door at the top of the stairs.

Suddenly, I felt something on my wrist, and heard a click. Just as quickly, another on my other wrist. Handcuffs! I felt my arms jerked backwards, dragging me with them, and my bum hit the edge of something. I tipped over and fell roughly onto a surface, my arms now stretched above me. More handcuffs on my ankles, and my legs were pulled apart. All this happened more quickly than I could think, and by the time I thought to struggle, I was bound hand and foot.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Stop.”

But there was no response. Only some movement in the darkness. Then I felt something on my wrist again. The feeling of leather on my skin, and a cuff of some kind wrapped around, a couple of inches wide. I heard the slight tinkling of metal fastenings. Then again on my other wrist, another wide leather cuff pulling tight on my arm… but not too tight. Then I heard the most alarming sound yet, the clanking of metal chains, and my armed were pulled more firmly above my head, giving me very little freedom of movement.

“I want to know what you’re doing,” I said, a slight tremor entering my voice.

A warm voice came from the darkness. “It’s a surprise.”

“Are you going to… hurt me?”

Dr McPhail chuckled. “Oh, no. You’re going to enjoy this, child.” And with that, the handcuffs came free with mechanical clicks. I pulled experimentally, but the leather straps held me faster and more firmly than the cuffs had.

The same treatment followed on my ankles; wide leather straps were fastened in place, and my legs were pulled apart by clanking chains. I was sure it was entirely deliberate that my crotch was now stretched wide to the open air, with the gusset of my panties stretching across it under my short skirt, and my position also had my chest thrusting slightly outward. Finally, the metal handcuffs were removed, the burden of binding me having shifted to the chain-fastened leather cuffs.

Then I heard a metallic sound, followed by an odd sound I didn’t recognize. It took a few moments for me to realize that it was the sound of scissors cutting cloth, and when cold metal touched my hip, it suddenly became clear that he was cutting my skirt off! “No, you can’t do that!” I cried, but he ignored me. The snipping stopped, and a swift yank brought the material out from under me. My frilly knickers touched the wooden surface I was on, and I was skirtless in the dark.

I thought that would be it, but of course, it wasn’t. More snipping, closer to my ears, and the cold blade made contact with my cleavage, raising goosebumps on my breasts. He was cutting right up the middle of the tight little tank-top I had worn that day! The cut reached my collar, and the tight-pulled fabric sprang apart as my little breasts popped outwards. He had also severed the middle link of my frilly bra, so my chest was now completely exposed to the cool air.

I was too shocked to even speak as further snips at my shoulders allowed the whole garments to slide out from under me. He was not just removing my clothes, he was destroying them. Somehow, that made me feel even more naked and vulnerable than mere nakedness. Even if I had been free to move, I had no way to reach the coverings of basic decency. Despite my womanly curves, now on display to the whole of this dark cellar, I felt very much like a frightened, dominated little girl.

Frozen in my panic, I made no noise as the inevitable happened – the move to slide the scissor-blade underneath the gusset of my only remaining clothing, a skimpy pair of white cotton knickers. When the ice-cold blade made contact with my labia, I hissed. Had he taken it straight from a fucking fridge?! I almost snapped at the man, but caught myself when I realized that it was lingering there longer than it should have.