Her Conquest

She knew something was off about her. But she didn't care.

She came to discover her thaumaturgic gift at a somewhat advanced age, when she was already halfway out of high school. When she had already been embarrassed; humiliated. When she already lost hope in the world.

All that academic promise, washed away in depression. Being used and abused by what, who, she'd so foolhardily thought was the love of her life, only to discover she had been nothing more than an achievement. A trophy. A series of four and five letter pejoratives.

Something inside her broke utterly. And it was the reception of her gift that helped pick up the pieces, to re-affix them...even if they didn't quite fit as they had or should. But she didn't care.

She left her time in high school behind, but her time in high school never left her. She prowled, dating around, looking for cheap thrills to fill a bottomless hole. She purported to be looking for something 'casual', but in reality such designations only went one way.

The outings always happened the same. Meeting for cheap food. He talked and she got to know her date's true self. Then, almost without fail, they would enjoy themselves at her place.

Make no mistake: She enjoyed that. But it was only the good boys who would feel the same way about that night in the long run. Her true interest lied in the men who treated it all like a game.

They never understood why they felt so comfortable doing so, but under her spell it all just slipped. They talked callously, carelessly, about their favorite 'conquest'. And she employed every ounce of her talent into making them relive the glory of that night, with one key difference in perspective.

The physical stimuli. Her masterful utilization of Sapphic instruments. Her incessant usage of the trophy girl's name. All these retrospectively obvious signs notwithstanding, all but the most perceptive failed to even realize what was happening, or had happened, to them as they writhed in bliss. Yet as they experienced their first and final female orgasm, everything froze around them in frigid, sobering clarity.

Cold biting metal took them mid-ecstasy and it was in this swift window that they were embedded within one of her specially-made mounts. This was the precise point she truly appreciated—the moment that even for the briefest window, she felt truly alive.

They would be mounted in her hall; they viewed women as trophies, and now she would inflict the same upon them, albeit more literally. Fitting. Stuck between suspended eroticism and unending despair.

They were nothing more than conquests of hers. Trophies. Humiliation cast and sealed in metal.

She truly loved her collection. She sometimes wondered if they loved her.

But she didn't care.

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Pinup Club pinup that graduated to a commission.

Alternate Angles Also Appended.