“Yes, five rings will be just fine.” He has his fingers at my p***y, opening the labia so he can see what’s inside. Then, he moves to the side of the room, and pulls out a green metal examination table, what, until that moment, struck my eye as an objet d’art, an antique from the 1930’s. Obviously, it is fully functional.
“Here,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. A shot of whiskey tastes awfully good and reasonably settling on my anxious stomach. I’m lightheaded almost seconds later as though I’d just consumed three shots, not just a quick swig. I take another and return the flask to him.
“On the table, Anna.” The order is firm.
I sit for a time with my legs dangling down childlike, while Lockhart pulls on surgical gloves and carefully marks my n*****s for the piercing.
