A Sense of Taste

Story by DX
Art by Hæritic

Copyrighted, 5/2024, all Rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without author’s permission.

 The most remarkable thing about Dr. Marcus, was how unremarkable she was.

 As we drove down the winding, topiary lined drive, we were given views of wagons pulled by ponygirls dressed in shiny leather tack.  In the lobby was a giant aquarium filled with mermaids.  As we sat in the study waiting for our meeting with the doctor to begin a woman with massive breasts moved by and milked herself for our coffees.

 Dr. Marcus and her team were the masters of body modification.  They didn’t nip tuck, but performed full body reconstructions to transform a subject to match their wildest fantasy.  Nothing was beyond the doctor.  Amputations?  Easy.  Breast inflation?  Go big or go home.  A vagina where a mouth should be?  You bet, but why stop at just one vagina?  

 It was all daily routine for her.

 She was a handsome woman, her face gently aged.  She had soft blue, mirthful eyes that peeled away what ever they looked at.  While her assistant pranced about on the tips of her toes with longer than the law allowed legs and a waist so narrow I could encircle with both hands, made to appear even smaller by her zeppelin sized tits which she carried as easily as if they were filled with helium, the doctor herself was slim, with the curves of a boy and the poise of a water buffalo.

 “Dr. Webb, Dr. Lee, Dr. North, thank you for coming on such short notice.”  She said, greeting us and shaking our hands.  “I realize my correspondence was vague, and to make matters worse we have a very limited availability to study this phenomena.  The subject in question is on loan, for lack of a better term.  If you will follow me down the hall, I think a demonstration of the phenomena will be more effective as to what’s going on.”

 “Can you give us any indication as to what this phenomena is?”  I asked, following her down the hall.

 She opened a door and ushered us into a room.  “Honestly Dr. Lee, I can’t explain it, but somehow, the blind can see.”

 We stepped into a dimly lit observation room.  It was sterile, save one wall with an expansive window, obviously a two-way mirror, which viewed into a second room.  The room was brightly lit.  The room we viewed was lavishly decorated in a victorian style.  The walls were decorated in beautiful paintings, and the windows were adorned with luxurious drapes with braided pull ropes and tassels.  A couch, with plush cushions, was in the center of the room.  A coffee table made of hand carved ebony was in front of the couch.  There was a great, high backed chair with an ottoman before it to the left of the couch.  To the right of the couch was a floor lamp with glowing torchere.  In the back left corner was a small table with a large porcelain vase from some Chinese dynasty.  

 Our subject of inquiry, and strikingly out of place for the rest of the decor, was in the back right corner.

 The enormity of her breasts was the first thing I focused on.  Her nipples were pierced with half inch thick rings that appeared welded on.  Anything smaller would have looked odd on her titanic breasts.  I imagined that if she tried to reach out and wrap her arms around her breasts, she couldn’t manage to clasp her hands together.  

 It was then I realized she didn’t have arms.  They had been neatly removed at the shoulder.  

 As my mind spiraled at the idea, I continued my survey.  The woman’s head was sealed in a tight leather helmet.  The helmet had no features I could see, save a space for her mouth.  Her lips, thick, puffy, and round like a doughnut, protruded her mask.  Every few seconds, her tongue lashed out and licked her fat lips.

 The mask extended down her neck, highlighting its swan like length.  A thick leather collar was wrapped snuggly about her neck.  A tiny padlock hung from the collar and secured it in place.

 Beneath her mammoth breasts was a leather corset which accentuated her narrow waist and callipygous hips.  She had muscular legs, that ended in leather ballet shoes which kept her feet en-point.

 Apart from her helmet, corset and boots, she was naked.

 She stood unmoving, and waiting, only occasionally licking her lips.

 “Dr. Marcus,”  I began, but she silenced me with a hand.

 “Please, Dr. Lee.  In good time.”  She said with an assuring smile.  “I would like you all to enter the room.  There’s a bit of tape on the floor where I would like you to stand.”  She looked at me.  “Dr. Lee, I would like you to go in first, for reasons which will be made obvious in a moment.”  She then looked to my contemporaries .  “Dr. Webb and Dr. North, organize yourselves as you will.”  She gestured at the room.  “Just walk in, stand on the tape, and wait.  Please do not talk.”

 We glanced at each other.  Shrugging, we formed a little line at the door.  I then entered the room followed by Dr. North, with Dr. Webb as the tail.  We found our clearly marked spots easily.

 We stood there.

 I counted ten-seconds before the woman in the corner moved.  She turned her head towards us, then walked in tiny balanced steps to our right.  The space was available, but with her giant breasts, it became quite narrow.  She paused, then retraced her steps and went to the left.  She then adroitly turned and avoided the great chair and ottoman, and slotted past the coffee table.

 She approached me.  I almost took a step back to avoid colliding with her breasts, but at the last second she turned sharply and stepped over to Dr. North.  There she stopped and turned to face him.

 It was difficult to ascertain her thoughts through her featureless leather helmet, but as she stood in front of Dr. North, occasionally licking her lips, she began to make her intentions clear.

 She kissed her lips at him.

 She then began a slow, rhythmic dance, shifting her shoulders and hips, jiggling her tits.

 Dr. North was fit to be tied and looked to me for direction.  I was intrigued.  Observing the helmet up close, I could see there was no way she could see, yet she navigated the room easily.  I concluded she had memorized the room.  Yet, she walked passed me, the only woman in our little group, and settled on the first male she encountered.  Dr. Marcus insisted I be the first in the room, so again it was all memorization.

 But that was too simple.

 I nodded to Dr. North.  ‘Go on.’

 He waved his hands slightly, unsure.

 I mouthed, ‘Anything.’

 He did the logical thing.  They were right there in front of him.  He reached out and caressed the sides of her giant breasts.  

 Her reaction was instant and obvious as she lit up like a firework.  She stepped closer to him, nodding as far as her collar would allow, and kissed up at him.  He reached up with his hand and she leaned forward and wrapped her heavy lips around his finger and began to suck.

 Slowly, deliberately, her tongue lashed out and drew him into her steaming mouth.

 Trying to remain professional, Dr. North looked to me for guidance, but I didn’t interfere.  Dr. Marcus brought us here for a reason.  There was a phenomena to be observed and I wasn’t sure what it was.  I glanced at the room.  Comfy furniture and a relaxed environment, I had to see this through.

 I pointed to the couch.  ‘Go’.

 He looked at me uncertainly, but the woman was already half turned to the couch and almost trying to drag him there, what she wanted was obvious.

 Slowly, like a condemned prisoner, Dr. North allowed himself to be lured to the couch.  There, he sat, and she beside him.  She leaned over and with her lips and tongue tried to undo his pants.  After a frustrating minute, Dr. North reached down and undid his pants.

 She quickly brought her mouth around his penis and drew it in.

 From our position, there wasn’t much to see, just her head bobbing slightly, and Dr. North’s walls of professionalism crumbling into rapture.

 I nodded to Dr. Webb, and we headed out of the room to give them a little privacy.

 We watched from the observation window.

 “How much can she see through that helmet?”  I asked quickly.

 Dr. Marcus shook her head.  “The helmet is irrelevant.”  She said like a professor to a wayward student.  “At her request, her eyes were donated.  They’re gone, replaced by silicone implants to maintain structure in her eye sockets.  A young woman in the Dominican Republic can now see.”

 I gaped, and glanced to the window and watched Dr. North reclined with his eyes closed.  “She’s memorized the room.”  I said, stating the obvious.

 “She’s never been in that room before.  She was let in the room moments before you came in.”  Dr. Marcus countered.

 I blinked, astounded.  “Pheromones…”  I randomly stated, glancing at Dr. Webb for support.  He was preoccupied watching the woman nodding her head ever so slightly in Dr. North’s lap.

 Dr. Marcus watched them through the window with a medical detachment.  “There are two holes where her nostrils are.  Two tubes run down past her sinuses, one to her lungs for breathing, the other down to her stomach for her hydration and nutrition.  Her sinuses are filled with an expanding resin.  She has no olfactory senses.”

 “What?”  I whispered.

 Dr. Marcus nodded.  “The nerves to her eardrums have been severed.  She can’t hear.”

 “Why did you forbid us to talk?”  I countered.

 She gave a half shrug.  “Eliminating variables.”

 I watched Dr. North for a moment as I thought.  I checked my watch.

 “She’ll make it last.”  Dr. Marcus answered my unasked question.  “Stimulation will promote ejaculate production.  As you know, men store very little ejaculate in their epididymus.  Most is produced during the stimulation process.  She wants a big load, so she is going to take her time.” 

 I checked my watch again, then glanced at the doctor.  “Sight, hearing and smell are gone… touch?”

 The doctor nodded.  “What you see as skin, is actually Nanotex, a nanite produced quasi-latex fabric that is permanently bonded to her skin.  The leather you see is just textured Nanotex to look like leather.  She can feel pressure, but has zero tactile recognition.”

 I watched her working on Dr. North for a few minutes, wondering if he was going to survive the experience.  “She navigates through her sense of taste?”

 Dr. Marcus nodded.  “That’s the guess.”

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Copyrighted, 5/2024, all Rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without author’s permission.

Princess Irony

By DX

Copyrighted 10/2001, 2/2024, all rights reserved.

Irony.

Princess Natalia knew all about irony.  It was all she thought about. 

Irony. 

As she lay in bed and stared at the silk canopy above her, the word filled her thoughts. She had commanded conquering armies, held the life and death of a nation at her whim, yet now couldn't even get out of bed without assistance.

Irony. 

A small word that meant so much.

The Princess's royal maids drifted soundlessly into the room like specters and silently roused the handmaidens.  The bed warming handmaidens uncurled themselves from around the Princess, backfilling thick warm quilts around her Highness to keep the heat, then softly, like ghosts, clambered out of bed.  They quickly dressed in the near dark while the royal maids prepared the room.

They performed their duties as if the Princess Natalia was still sleeping soundly, even though they knew she was wide awake.

With everything in place, the head royal maid opened the heavy curtains and filled the room with pure, white light.  It was then the royal maids began the delicate routine of helping the Princess out of the gigantic royal bed, while the handmaidens waited patiently on their knees beside the bed. 

Natalia watched the near blank faces of the royal maids move around her.  The royal maids held no hint of smugness, no snide impudence.  They performed their duties mechanically, and expertly.  Natalia could only imagine what they were thinking.  She had ordered their mouths surgically removed a few years ago.  She had forgotten what slight they had committed, doing it mostly on a whim.  It probably wasn’t because one spoke out of turn, they knew the punishment for that would be quite severe, and more likely one of them had looked a little too longingly at the Princesses’ royal cupcake before it was thrown into the trash.  ‘How dare they dream of eating from Our royal plate!  You will take your soupy gruel through a rubber hose from now on!’

And the royal surgeon saw to it.  Just as she had taken away their sex organs, leaving them smooth androgynous.  One of them had bigger breasts than her Highness, so she had them removed.  She did both maids because she treated them as a matched set…but then they looked too much like boys, so she had fake breasts, round and obvious, implanted in their place. 

Mocking them.

Now, as they eased her to a sitting position, she wondered who was mocking whom now

Irony.

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The Unbroken

By DX

Copyrighted 1997/2020/2023

They say I'm Unbroken.

Some of the girls look up to me, like a hero, or leader or something grand. Others look at me as if I'm making it worse for them. I'm not doing anything. I'm as broken as they are. We all shuffle into the showers on our own, quickly, quietly. No guards, no monitors. There are cameras, but I heard that most of them are broken anyway. We are unsupervised and still we obey.

See? We are all broken.

The warm water brings out the welts on my breasts, angry and red. I turn my back to the other girls, thinking I can hide them, but I realize that it only shows off my history of whip marks that criss-cross my back. I fumble with the tiny bar of soap, more like a block of unscented lye, and wash down my legs that are stripped like a flesh colored Zebra. A thousand punishments, for a thousand crimes. None of them I committed.

I stop looking at myself. It isn't pleasant. I look at Mary across from me. I can see the wires that stitch her cunt closed. First, they inserted a spiked egg, then scored the inner lips raw so they would heal together forever. They also did something to her uterus so that she does not menstruate. I look at it as one less thing to worry about. It’s been two weeks now. They did it to her to be mean, to speed up her breaking process.

It worked. She cannot masturbate, or receive any sexual pleasure, and urination is a mess. She can't even stand up straight. The spiked egg gives her a low boiling pain she will never be free of. And if that were not enough, the egg is hollow, with a bell inside. You can hear it when she is jostled, a low clanking, humiliating sound. 

I know how she feels. I know too well. 

They did the same thing to me. 

I hear it when I walk, clunking around in my lower belly. It is a constant reminder of my place as a slave. I feel it always. A painful reminder that will never go away. I cannot touch myself, because there is nothing to touch. Everything fun has been removed. I just have a constant itch of horniness that can never be scratched.

It’s quite maddening, really. Especially at rest time when I’m in my cage, and Donna, my cage mate, lays beside me. I feel her warmth, her body against mine, and all I want is to take her and kiss her and lick her nether as she licks mine.

I guess it is for the best. Things like coitus is forbidden anyway, so having my sex surgically removed is one less temptation gone.

As I shower, I notice poor Alice. They put her in the Iron Maiden Form. It isn't Iron actually, but a surgical steel bra and corset that instead of lifting, supporting and gently shaping, it’s crushing and flatting her breasts and pinching off her waist. With every breath it feels like showers of shrapnel exploding into her chest from the brutal spikes in each cup that molds her breasts into an inhuman shape. She tries to bathe, but she can't bend to reach her legs and Mary has to do it for her. I can see she's cried all of her tears. She accepts her torment. 

I know how she feels. I had to wear it for a month. They took it off when there was a buyer for me. He or she wanted me for their pet cowgirl. I had thought my 36C breasts were impressive, but they injected me with a genetic treatment program that caused my breasts to grow to a 54G! And Lactating! They had to put wires in my spine to prevent the weight from twisting it out of shape.

I must be milked twice a day. When I am to be punished, they tie my hands and let me go unmilked for several days. The pain! Feeling as if my breasts are to explode each waking minute is maddening. They have also welded steel rings around the base of my breasts that cause my breasts to swell like two balloons.  The breast collars are to increase my suffering. They like it when I suffer.  It also makes a perfect perchance when they hang me by my tits for my whippings. They seem to enjoy watching me swinging, my hands free, slick with sweat trying to hold myself up and block the lashes that come from all sides.

But, they say I am Unbroken.

Alice also wears a posture collar. It is a telescoping neck brace with a ratcheting control knob. This thing slowly and permanently stretches her neck for that beautiful swan look. They had another girl who wore one and they stretched her neck to a giraffe length of seven inches from shoulder to jaw line. To punish her, they removed the collar and her atrophied neck muscles could not hold up the weight of her head and it lobbed over, choking her. She finally had to beg them to put it back on her.

A sound snaps me out of my daydreaming. A plastic bottle skitters across the floor. It’s shampoo! My heart flutters for a brief second as I look up and see Brome Hilda walking away from the showers. I can only see the back of her head, yet I know she is enjoying the chaos that is about to erupt.

The girls have already pounced on it and are fighting over it. Anger, frustration and pain make them lash out violently at each other and I have to act quickly or all hell will break loose. I muscle my way through and grab it, barking at them to be still. They obey as good little slaves do. "Hold out your hands!" I order in a harsh whisper. I dole out shares for each and let them run back to their corners and rub the golden liquid into the flaxen, hay stacks they call hair. It’s not some deep rooted vanity, but a vain attempt at feeling human again by curing the split ends of our abused hair.

I keep the bottle, and with the last drops left, turn to help Mica. She is a tall, muscular girl with suntanned golden skin from hours outside running around in circles by the trainer. She stands like a goddess! 

Now she was one of the Unbroken ones! Unbridled, unconquerable, a fighter to the last. But she fought too much. They surgically removed both her arms at the shoulders. She is a pony girl now, hauling a heavy cart up and down a hill to remind her of her place. Submissive, broken, docile. The other girls resent her for being a fallen hero. But I still look up to her, help her. It makes me feel special to touch one who walked so high. I am honored to serve her, as any slave would be.

She kneels before me, like a knight would kneel to a rescued maiden. I lather her hair and massage her scalp. I know in a few days they will remove all her hair by electrolysis, and leave only a thin stripe for a mane. I fool myself that she will have a beautiful, silken blond mane when she goes to her buyer.

I rinse her, then wash down the rest of her. She gives me a quick kiss on the lips as a thank you. I can see the tiny, healing scars on her throat where they operated on her so she cannot talk. Ponies don't talk. They also severed some nerves in her face so she can't even mouth words. She can only stamp her feet to communicate. She stands on her tip toes making her taller than she is. The fet locks she is locked in day in and day out has permanently shaped and twisted her feet to form crude horse hooves.

Resistance is futile. 

I learned that soon after they brought me here. They showed me The Pit where they kept Veronica and I soon learned about her legend. She was Unbreakable! They finally put her in a hole in the deepest level of the dungeon. Each day they lower a basket. It is to be filled with dirt and in exchange, they lower her down some food. She is down there, although it is so deep and dark, you can’t see her.  She is still digging her pit deeper each day in exchange for food. I imagine one day she will tunnel her way to freedom. Or dig her own grave.

My attention is drawn back to the present. Vanna is fooling around. She is prancing about like a model, flinging her hair back over her shoulders and she doesn't see the door behind her open. It’s like slow motion as I realize it is Brome Hilda returning to see the effect of her evil joke and Vanna is throwing her wet hair backwards, a trailing banner of water following in its wake. All of us freeze where we stand, our mouths agape. Vanna looks perplexed, unable to figure out why we are not laughing and turns to see.

Brome Hilda was incredulous! Her face twisted with fury as she blinked the water from her eyes, and wiped it from her face. Vanna is trembling and unable to run. If she ran that would mean more punishment. She only cowers before her mistress, her trembling voice squeaking, unable to even plead for mercy.

Brome Hilda is feared by us all. 

She would kill you, but never quickly. She enjoys breaking bones and letting them heal all wrong, gloating that her victim will forever endure pain. She crushes, she grinds, she wrenches and wretches. She never shows mercy.

Brome Hilda's riding crop lands with stinging rage. Startled, Vanna slips and falls onto the unyielding tile. Brome Hilda continues her rain of whipping blows at the slipping, crawling Vanna, vainly trying to get away. Brome Hilda pauses her fury as she curses the crop in her hand for not doing enough damage. In the corner of her eye she spots the tools the plumber carelessly left against the wall.

She picks up the wrench, heavy and cold, her face a mask of twisted hate, and raises it over her head.

Brome Hilda is going to kill her.

The blow powered through Vanna's defense of waving arms and crashes directly against her breast, mashing it against her ribs. Vanna howls and thrashes about on the floor as Brome Hilda pounds into her thigh. The leg spasms from pain and Brome Hilda's face alights with glee. She is going to make this last.

I watch the wrench lift again, I watch Brome Hilda's face change from joy to confusion, her arm balking in the air. My hand is upheld, blocking her view from her target. "Mercy!" I cry. I'm on one knee, bent over Vanna's twitching body, trying to get a grip on the girl's arm. I have a second to act, a second to escape.

I take too long.

I move my hand out of the way of the falling wrench and take the blow for Vanna on the meaty part of my shoulder. I feel the metal clash with bone and jagged shards of ice shoot violently through my arm. I look up and see the blood splatter on Brome Hilda's face, her flaming eyes now fixed on me. I drag Vanna to her scrambling knees and pull her out of the way as the next blow whistles through the air, a clean miss. The two of us are stumbling and tripping.  I lead her through the streaming showers praying that Brome Hilda does not follow us in fear of getting her uniform wet. I pretend not to hear her threats and orders as I duck through the access door, left unlocked by the plumber, and charge through it. It leads to the hallway and we quickly run to the cells. Like good slaves we go to our cages, shivering from cold and fear, and wait.

And I am supposed to be Unbroken?

A minute later, the rest of the girls shuffle in, lead by a monitor, a senior slave. They are all dripping, some with soap still in their hair. Obviously, shower time was cut short by my theatrics. I get dirty looks, but no more. Donna, my cage mate sits beside me for warmth and comfort. I cling to her, and rest my head against her bosom. A cowgirl like me, her breasts dwarf mine. We wait together for the repercussions to occur, but it doesn't happen. 

As the pins and needles of feeling come back to the fingers of my wounded arm, Kiko, the food monitor, shuffles in with dinner. We all get on our knees and wait. She moves slowly, her face occasionally twisting with pain. It was Brome Hilda, testing a new toy, that made her that way. It was a cage, but instead of welds at each bar, there were hinges. Brome Hilda wrapped the girl in its steel embrace and locked it closed. Then the mistress bent the tiny, oriental girl, cage and all, at the knee and waist, her hands behind her back. Slowly Brome Hilda lowered Kiko so that her chin almost rested on her knees. The weight of the iron bars held her motionless. We all watched with morbid curiosity as Brome Hilda took in the spectacle of the helpless girl wrapped in iron.  Brome Hilda then sat on her.

The scream was unreal.

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Bimbo!  Bimbo like me.

By DX

Shiloh is driven to make herself the ultimate sex doll.  Can she stop herself from becoming a cock sucking bimbo?

Copyrighted 6/2016, 9/2023 All rights reserved

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 Shiloh paused, and peered out the window to admire the beautiful girl standing there.  She had cascading golden hair that framed her perfect, sculpted face.  She had wide, summer sky blue eyes perched atop blushing cob apple cheeks.  Her tiny chin was nearly obscured by her soft, puffy, pointing lips, glistening like strawberry candies.  She had a long, regal neck that towered above her massive breasts that shifted beneath her tight sweater like two, water filled beach balls.

 A flash of jealousy tinged Shiloh face as she marveled at the woman’s bosom.  She cupped her own mounds, so big her arms couldn’t fully embrace them, just as the woman standing out side her window did, obviously sizing up Shiloh.

 She waved to the woman at the same moment the woman waved at her.

 Shiloh blushed, as did the woman in the mirror, embarrassed she was being so silly at her own reflection.  She checked her tight dress, sliding her hand down her curvy backside.  As she did, she noticed her hand.  It looked seemingly odd to her it was there.  She then remembered she had an appointment to have the Doctor remove her arms next week.  Arms were superfluous and distracting.  She didn’t need them or want them.

 But she did need feet, she thought, and she bent at the waist to see her shoes, but her breasts blocked the view.  She was sure she was wearing her high, ballerina toe shoes since the room felt much shorter.

 Taking her time going down the stairs, her massive breasts sliding about, she felt she was forgetting something.  Something important.

 Then she remembered when she saw him standing in the foyer.  He came everyday and let her suck his cock until his hot liquid shot across her tongue and down her throat.

 It was all she wanted.  It was all she ever wanted.  At least, it was all she could remember.  She had hazy dreams of when she was an Executive Vice President, when she had an MBA.  Images of affording a beautiful house, a sleek expensive car and a fat, well-funded stock portfolio, flittered just out of vision.  She could see a face she didn’t remember, her face, before her eyebrows were tatooed on, before she had her teeth extracted and her gums injected with silicone.  She could remember speaking and being articulate because her lips weren’t packed with implants making them squishy doughnuts.

 She watched him lay back on the couch and the fire between her legs began to build.  She had the Doctor remove her vagina and clitoris, leaving only a tiny pee hole.  It only gave men the option of fucking her ass, but she couldn’t risk not getting that savory cum in her mouth.  The operation to remove her sex was only cosmetic, so she was horny, outrageously so, but it was nothing compared to the driving hunger of sucking his cock.

 A hunger greater than her impassioned hatred for him.


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Copyrighted 6/2016, 9/2023 All rights reserved