Cow

By DX

Copyrighted 12/06, 10/2024, all rights reserved.

 

 And that was it.

 My personal files were deleted. My clothes, what I couldn't sell and what I wasn't wearing, was dumped into the Degrader, to be broken down into molecular dust and re-fabricated into something new for someone else's use.

 Much like I was soon to be. I would not be broken down into dust, however. I would be hacked up into steaks for someone's consumption. 

 Waste not, want not.

 I repressed a shudder at the thought .  I took a moment and glanced out the window. The sun was rising, and lit up the white cliffs of Dover as the waves crashed endlessly against its craggy shore. 

 I turned off the window, and the room plunged into darkness like a felling blade.

 A fake view for an apartment that didn't have a view, or a window for that matter.  I could never have afforded a real view and now I couldn't even afford a fake one.

 My couch folded up into the wall as I rose.  This left a clear three meter by four meter space which was my apartment, my life. It was now empty.  Clean and clear, ready for the next guy. 

 I grabbed my jacket and headed out, shrugging the memories like cob webs. I always hated that apartment, never realizing it was my anchor in this world until I was cast adrift. It would be sanitized, reprogrammed and re-issued to someone else within the hour. All traces of my existence, memory, scents, bills, signatures, every bit of my history would be gone. 

 I was less than homeless.

 I was nothing.

 I made my way to the street and ducked under an awning to escape the freezing rain. As I waited for the bus, I watched people brush by, their faces down, lost in their own world. I was one of them just yesterday. A real person. It was time for the mid morning snack and I would be taking orders for a run to the cafeteria. 

 My stomach growled in the memory. 

 In my jacket pocket I found a snack bar, Soy Blue. I put it back for later. I had a long day ahead of me.

 On the bus, I watched the Ad-vid screen with a professional interest.  A woman just won the grand prize lottery, fifteen minutes of pure, filtered sun light.  Terrorists blew something up, the government knocked something down, and a very pretty woman suggested I could look very pretty too with a new face graft.

 Usually I looked at them with a blank, disinterested stare, just to have something else to look at than the blank, grey buildings that passed by. It was stuff I could never afford anyway. Today, a charming young woman was demonstrating the Jessica 3000.  I had seen her advertise things before.  She had a slim body, slinky and svelte.  She caressed the machine like a lover as she talked about its features. Then with her smiling dimples, stretched herself across it, and wriggled like an imp to take her place. With a smile she signals her partner who steps forward and straps her down.  As she is secured, she bids us farewell.  

 “A great end to a great ride!”  She said, but her smile doesn’t completely hide her nervousness.

 She winked, and blew us a kiss, then set her head in the cradle. Her partner secures her, puts a rubber ball in her teeth to stifle her screams, then throws the switch on the Jessica 3000. 

 We don’t see it, but we all know she is eviscerated, cleaned, stuffed and stitched back up in seconds. She's good at controlling her agony, focusing beyond the pain. I imagine for the commercial she was hopped up on stimulants. Nothing to ebb the pain, but she'll stay conscious.

 She regains enough composure and her gag is removed.  She gives a play by play and describes what it feels like as the motorized spit is slowly inserted into her, through her cervix. She gasps as it punches through her diaphragm, then gives some quick cooking techniques and how she would like to be served. She finally shuts up as the spit worms its way through her esophagus; but not without a final plug: "See ya at the barbecue!" She blows another kiss just moments before the spit slowly appears, rising up out of her mouth.

 Fully spitted, she gave a thumbs up as they lifted her off the machine and carried her away to be cooked.

 Now I'm hungry.

 I fish my lunch bar out of my pocket. Soy Blue, now made with 20% more people.  Mmmm.

 When I arrived at the center, I was surprised to see a line that snaked its way out the front door. I'd forgotten it was graduation day and all the women who didn't make the mark were here for processing. They were still, and somber. Most of them would soon be meat. A few might go as cattle or breeders, and a very select few would go to the brothels. I've heard of some going as living dolls and furniture, a horrible existence. 

 It was all a horrible existence: A non-future for young women.

 I joined the end of the line.

 Someone came by and checked my ID-chip to confirm I was in the right place and that I was on time.  Gosh forbid I would be late.

 But I wasn’t.  I was where I was supposed to be, standing tall at the end of the line to be processed.

 The line moved steadily, but turned even longer once inside. As we passed a bin, each girl stripped and dumped her clothes into it, then donned paper slippers. There was no talking now, enforced by a massive brute of a woman wielding a shock stick. Eyes front, keep moving. A woman with a scanner module walked the line, stopping at each girl and reading the chip embedded under the skin on the inside of the wrist. Then with an extractor the chip was removed and the girl was given a new ID which was written in big blue numbers on her right butt cheek. Her final task is to take a digital image of our faces to go with the new file.

 She looked up at me when it was my turn. She checked her scanner. "You're not a student?"

 "No, ma'am." I whispered.

 "No talking." She said, looking at her machine. "Tax deferment." She looked at me. "Couldn't pay your taxes?"

 “I was laid off." I answered.

 "Stop talking." She hissed, then glanced at where the guard was.

 "Stop asking me questions." I mumbled.

 "I'm talking to myself." She said tartly. "They've been a lot of you lately. You held out." She murmured, slightly impressed.

 I had savings. I also did some odd jobs when I could, but as the economy got worse, the jobs got fewer. Most of my former coworkers had already gone to the slaughter house.  I fell back on my savings, before sliding into the red. 

 I still had to pay rent and taxes.  Never ending, rent and taxes.

 In my darkest, bleakest moment, scored a new job, a decent job.  My first check went entirely to put minimum payments on each of my debts.  I had breathing room!  The incessant calls and texts and messages stopped and I finally had a good night’s sleep.

 Precious.

 I worked my ass off.  I made bonuses.  I lived entirely on tasteless soy, wore the same dress every day because I had nothing else.  Zero entertainment, zero frills, zero life, just work, pay, work, pay, work, pay, and I paid and paid and paid.  

 I was going to claw my way out of debt. 

 Then, just as a tiny, faint, happy light appeared on my horizon, some bureaucratic wage slave with a hornet lodged in their asshole, pushed a button to make a very expensive super-computer do some big brain-brain think math and calculated my wage earning potential, and tabulated that even with wage raises, promotions, and sucking my boss’s dick, I would never be able to pay off the accumulating interest on my debt. 

 That was when I got the message to report.

 When my chip was removed I felt truly naked standing there in the buff with only paper slippers on my feet. It was a bit of a comfort when my new number was printed on my butt. I strained to look back at it. My new name was 8659.

 We shuffled forward to another girl with electric clippers. She grabbed a fist full of my hair, bent me over a bin and shaved my head quickly and efficiently. My scalp tingled from the peach fuzz that was left behind.

 Another girl walked by with a box of gags. It had an inner ball that sat deep in my mouth. It's face shield wrapped tightly across my lips, hiding my face in a swath of black rubber. To further hide my identity, a black hood was draped over my head. I could look down and follow a line on the floor. It was important to hide us now, so that begging, pleading and tears would not influence the Magistrate. The woman who would decide our fate.

 She didn’t actually decide anything.  She had a monitor in front of her which told her what to say.  It was based on the needs of society: if they were low on protein, we went to slaughter, low on baby production, to breeding, low on entertainment, the brothels.

 I plodded along, listening to one woman reading out a number, and a second saying where she was going. The first would then instruct the girl to follow a different color line on the floor. Any girl that freaked and didn't do as told was shocked repeatedly and dragged off, being shocked all the way. Her screams made a very chilling deterrent to resistance.

 They called out my number. 

 "Last one your honor." The first said. Rough hands gripped my breasts, hefting their weight. "She's a nice one."

 "Prime cut." The magistrate said quickly. "Meat line. Next!"

 Although it was no surprise, her voice stings and I tremble at the thought, but I can only think of the chirpy girl in the ad selling automatic spitting machines; her smile, and “See y’all at the barbeque!”  I almost shout it out, but I have no voice, that and my mouth is packed full of the gag.  As I bit of self inspiration, I congratulate myself for being prime cut.  I would not be ground up and mixed with soy to make tasteless nutrition bars, but cut up, grilled up, and served with a side of soy potatoes and soy cauliflower.

 See y’all at the barbecue.

 I find the strength to move my feet, but the first woman is still holding my breasts.

 "She the last." The first complained. "Your honor, look at these!" She hefted my boobs again, presenting them, then patted my ass. “Mmmm, this is nice. And look at her picture. I think she'd do well in the brothels."

 The idea used to revolt me; to be a on call whore to munch bush for fat elderly magistrates and politicians, I would rather die. Now faced with death, I'd kill for the chance.

 "She's too old." Magistrate said sharply.   "Meat line.  Prime cut.”

 "She's quite a fine little thing." The first said, still holding my breast.

 "She's twenty-three and too old.  They'd only send her right back here and our quota for whole roasts are full.  She's steaks.  Green line, please."

 The last was directed at me because she was too tired to argue with her subordinate any further and hoped I could do what her lackey couldn’t, follow orders.  I looked to my feet and found the green line and shuffled along it.  I was to be loaded on a truck and driven to a slaughter house where an air hammer would knock me senseless and a laser would slice me into neat cuts before I was dead.

 Despite my best efforts, I sank into despair.

 Then, unexpectedly, my luck had changed.  

 It did not improve, it just changed.

 My knees buckled, but I walked.  I moved along, head down, until I bumped into the girl at the end of the green line. We shuffled forward into the truck, but when I went to step up, a hand stopped me. "We're loaded." The voice said.

 "She's the last." Another said.

 "I'm loaded and I can't risk another fine for over-loading."

 "Well, you'll have to come back."

 "Do you know what time it is? I'm not coming back here for one cow." Again a hand cupped my breast. "Look at these, she should be a milker. Fuck, with these she should be in the brothels."

 "I think she's too old."

 Light flared as someone peeked under my hood to see my face. "Oh, she's not old at all. I'd like that face between my legs."

 "She's too old."

 That line was getting old.

 "Well, with these udders, she'll pump milk like a champ." She then spoke to me. "You're a milker now. Follow the blue line." She took my arm and turned me around, then pushed me forward. "Follow the green back to where is branches off to blue and follow the blue line."

 I hesitated.  Under what authority would a truck driver, with demerits on their record I might mention, have the ability to over turn a Magistrate’s decision?

 “Go wan!  Git!”  A hand slapped my ass.

 Here’s something really funny: I was mortified.  Who the heck do you think you are, slapping my ass?

 Naked, ordered to be cold cuts, gagged and wearing a hood and how dare someone slap my ass as if I was a piece of meat?  

 Oh, wait.  I was a piece of meat.

 I turned and started walking.

 I found the blue line. There where other colors, and I wondered where they went.  I couldn't tell if anyone cared, but I trembled at the thought of shock sticks if I was found in the wrong line, so I followed the blue line. 

 I would live, sort of.  A Rad Gun would fire a pulse of radiation into my frontal lobe. It would pass harmlessly through skin and bone, but in the center of my brain the beam would focus and my brain would be cooked. I'd be alive, but higher brain functions, thought, creativity, speech, would all be gone. I'd have the I.Q. of a real cow, as if there were any real cows left on the planet.

 I would then be chemically altered to produce milk.  My breasts would swell to the size of zeppelins!  My arms and legs would be harvested, chopped off.  I wouldn't need them.  Not like I'd know or care with my deep fried brain.  I'd know nothing of what was happening.  I would be put in a stall.  Pumps would be attached to my teats and a food tube shoved down my throat.  I would then spend my days being milked.  In time, seven years if I was lucky, my production would dry up and I’d be sent to slaughter.

 I wasn’t quite sure about this new luck of mine.

 I found myself in a room and I waited where the line ended for further instructions. 

 "Where have you been?"  Someone shouted.  "I was told sixteen milkers, not seventeen!  I was only given enough battery charge for sixteen!  And look at the time!  I can't apply for another battery."  A heavy sigh.  "Alright.  We'll have to make do.  I'll just have to red line the battery.  I'll have to re-do all my paper work!  Thanks a lot!"  She grabbed my arm and pulled me along.  "Sit!"

 I felt guilty as I sat there on the bench. 

 The stench of piss and shit was overwhelming and I gagged.  I tried to maintain some decorum as I consoled myself that it would painless, and I would be blissfully unaware of my fate.

 It would all be over in just a few minutes.

 As I peered down, I could see the feet of a woman making her way along the benches, locking leg shackles to some of the women.  The shackles were neo-ceramic, indestructible. They were connected by a short, flexible cable which would allow the cow to hobble along, but running or kicking was impossible.  I flinched as she locked them around my legs.  There was no key. Once locked on, they were on for life.

 This made no sense.  Our legs would be harvested.  Why waste prime meat?

 We shifted nervously when the harsh grinding buzz of the Rad Gun sounded as a girl had her brain burned.  It was common for a girl to loose all bowel control after the radioactive lobotomy, and as the stench refreshed, burning my nostrils, I hoped I wouldn't be one of them. I didn't want to start my first day as a cow covered in my own manure.

 More zaps. I shivered as the gun came down the line, closer.  I wanted them to hurry.  To walk over and stir fry my brain and get it over with and end this miserable day, my miserable existence.  I didn't deserve this indignity!

 I started to cry.  I didn’t want to be ‘that girl’, bawling like a child, but I wasn't the only one.  We all were that girl.

 Thrashing. 

 Arms and legs flailing.  A girl went into seizure as the Rad Gun burned her brain. From beneath my hood I could see her spazing on the floor as piss spewed like a sprinkler. The attendant stepped over the girl, put the gun to her forehead, and pulled the trigger to fry her a second time.

 The girl moaned and fell silent and calm.  She panted as if she'd just run a hundred meter dash.  The attendant only shook her head and cursed and muttered to herself that she used another precious charge.  She then stepped over to the next woman in line.

 I closed my eyes and waited.  Soon.

 The woman beside me slumped and fell against me as if she'd just nodded off on the bus and not had her brain destroyed.  I cradled her, happy for something to hold onto.  I tried not to whimper as the gun rested against my temple. 

 I tried to be brave.

 And the sun exploded in my head.

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The Queen’s Helmet

By DX

Art by Doktork

Copyrighted 9/2024, all rights reserved.

The towering stained glass windows of the throne room depicted a heroic man clad in shabby, broken armor battling a fierce dragon.  As the beast’s claws raked the hero’s breast plate leaving long bloody scars, the hero plunged his sword, dulled and chipped, into the beast’s heart.

Along the walls, other windows depicted the hero’s rise to accept the crown as king.  Then, by his hand, aquifers and dams and canals were built and the farms were irrigated and protected from flood and drought.  Other windows showed farmers and bountiful harvests, schools and cathedrals being built, and a kingdom flourishing.

In the hall, drenched in the multi-colored light from the windows, the administrators, priests, and nobles sat in tall backed chairs.  They spoke casually in hushed tones.  Pages scurried about to light lanterns as the light from the stained glass windows slowly faded to sun set.  Everyone looked up expectedly as Lord Dorland came from the king’s chambers.

“All hail, King Garland!”  Someone shouted.

“All hail, King Garland…”  Echoed throughout the hall.

Dorland nodded, and waved for quiet.  “The king yet lives.”  

“All hail, King Garland.”  The hall murmured.

Dorland nodded, then turned and shuffled back towards the king’s chamber.  As he neared the door, a skeletal hand plucked at his arm.  “How much longer, Lord Dorland?”

Dorland shrugged off the clutching hand.  “Patience, Lord Baylen.”  He whispered.

“We wish the king eternal life,”  Baylen pressed.  “not eternal suffering.”  Baylen’s face darkened.  “Nor is our patience eternal.”

Dorland pulled away and pushed through the door of the king’s chamber.

The aged King, emaciated, grey and slacken, lay still on his bed.  Earlier he had pulled open his nightshirt and exposed the horrible, never healing scars the dragon had left him all those decades ago.  Princess Galen pulled her veil off and covered his scars to keep the flies at bay.

In the King’s right hand was his crown.  On his left was Princess Galen.

Princess Galen was kneeling at his bed side.  Her hand intwined with his.

King Garland’s eyes flashed open.  “Dorland?”

“I’m here, your Majesty.”  Dorland stepped forward, but one of the doctors interceded.

“You must rest, your Majesty.”

The King shook his head almost imperceptibly.  “Dorland, your quill, your parchment.”  The King took a few moments to catch his breath from his exertion.  “Mark the time and date.”  He began, straining to be heard.  “I, King Garland, Dragonslayer, bequeath my crown…”  He paused, then let out a terrible cough as his face contorted with pain.

Quickly, Princess Galen rose up and with a damp towel, wiped the blood from the King’s lips.

He nodded his thanks to her.  The turned his head toward Dorland.  “I give my crown, my kingdom, to Princess Galen.  He shifted the crown, and dragged it towards her.  “Take it, Galen.”  He looked over to her, and despite his tremendous pain, smiled proudly.  “Queen Galen.”

Dorland’s quill scratched feverishly.  

“Your Majesty, please!”  The doctor pressed.  “You must rest.”

The King only looked to his daughter.  “Beware your sister’s treachery.  Even though I’ve sent her off to marry Prince Verius, given the slightest inkling, she will ruin you.”  He coughed again.  “Remember, love your people.  Guide them, nurture them.  Build them roads and schools and they will take care of the rest.”  He paused to catch his breath.  “Show kindness and mercy when you can, but remember justice is a hammer.  Strike true!  Keep Duke Wilhelm close.  Trust no one else.”  He smiled weakly.  “And let me be the first to say to you, your majesty, Queen Galen.”

With a gentle smile on his face, King Garland, Dragonslayer, passed to the next world on a river of his beloved daughter’s tears.

“The King is dead.”  The doctor murmured.  “Long live the Queen.”

Dorland nodded.  “Long live the Queen.”  He shuffled to the door.  “I’ll inform the court.”  He, with the doctors close behind, slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

And Queen Galen openly wept.

Moments later there was a knock on the door, and Dorland peered in.  “Your highness, you’re needed in court.”

Whether or not she took offense to his wrong use of title, she didn’t show it.  She lay the King’s crown on his chest, then placed his hands upon it.  She then washed her face.

Bareheaded, she stood regally, and walked into court.

The lords and nobles were all on one knee, their heads bowed.  Queen Galen stepped to the center dais, and raised her hands.  “Rise gentlemen, and be seated.”

No one moved.

Curious, Queen Galen looked around and noticed a cold shadow on the floor.  She turned towards the throne.

Princess Cassandra sat curled up on the throne, her legs over the arm rest.  “Sister.”  She cooed.

Her eyes filled with daggers, Queen Galen nodded curiously to her sister.  “What of your marriage to Prince Verius?”

Cassandra scoffed.  “Why would I marry a seventh prince when I can have a kingdom?”

Queen Galen drew a sharp breath.  “Guards, remove Princess Cassandra from the court.”

No one moved.

Cassandra turned and slumped on the throne.  “There’s been a change, sister.”

From the back of the hall, a guard ran in.  “Your Majesty!  Duke Wilhelm has been arrested!”

Cassandra clapped her hands.  “Call the headsman!  Bring his block and axe and put it right there!”  She pointed to the middle of the room.  “I want Wilhelm on his knees.  As the crown is placed on my head, I want the axe to fall on his neck!”  She squealed in delight.

“How dare you!”  Queen Galen roared.

Lord Baylen stepped forward and slapped Galen, then cried in pain, clutching his hand.  “Bow down to your Queen!”  He shouted, then turned and held out his hand to the doctor.  “I think I broke it.”  He whimpered.

Queen Galen scanned the men kneeling before the throne.  “His body still warm and you betray him?”

“We’re just following his last command.”  Cassandra answered, then clicked her fingers.  “Dorland?  Read our good King’s last words.”

As Dorland held up his parchment, his squire held up a candle to shed light.  “Hear the final words of King…”

“Speed this up!”  Cassandra said, tiredly.

Dorland cleared his throat.  “Ah, yes.”  He looked to his document, reading quickly.  “Herby bequeath my crown to Princess Cassandra…”

“Liar!”  Queen Galen screamed.

“Quiet!”  Cassandra roared, then looked to Dorland.  “Read the good part.”

Dorland looked sheepishly, and mumbled.  “Queen, I mean, Princess Galen is to be sent to the brothels, which are to be reopened in according to the old customs.  Queen… uh, Princess Galen will serve her kingdom as a cum swallowing slut for the rest of her days.  Her arms shall be removed, her sex sewn shut, and her identity locked away in the Queen’s Helmet!”

Cassandra clapped her hands and two pages wheeled out a cart.  On the cart was a helmet, polished to a mirror shine.  The helmet was perfectly sculpted to fit the wearer skin tight, and would cover from the crown of the skull and drape over the shoulders.  It was smooth and featureless, save two lucite shielded eye ports and a gaping hole for a mouth.

Cassandra fanned her hands at it to show it off.  “Crotainum alloy, virtually indestructible.  The locks are on the inside”  She pointed.  “So once it is on, it is on for life.”  She giggled.  “And would you look at that?  It’s just your size!”  She chirped in delight as she pointed to a small valve at the throat.  “You’ll breathe through here, so you’ll be able to service the nobles without interruption, and of course, make you silent.”  She snorked a laugh as she pointed to the eye shields.  “You’ll be able to see somewhat, but on the outside, it fits seamlessly, and looks opaque.  So no one will be able to tell you from one service slut to another, but you will know who’s cock you are sucking.”

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Copyrighted, 9/2024, all rights reserved.  Story or art may not be reproduced without previous written permission.

Art used with permission from Doktork:

M’Lady, the Dark Mystress

By DX

Copyrighted, 6/2024, all rights reserved.

M’Lady

Dark Mystress

 Dear, Slave;

 I have carefully considered your application and you will be pleased to hear I have accepted you for a newly created permanent position.  The panties stained with your ejaculate you mailed to me as a token of your affection has moved me to accept you into my harem of house slaves.  Before this, I was certain I had no need of you and I thought I had been quite clear when I insisted you seek your pathetic kink elsewhere, but your disgusting response has shown me your determination to serve me, and has inspired me to create a new permanent position exclusively for you in my household.

 Since this is a permanent position you’ll no longer be in need of possessions.  You are to liquidate them immediately.  You’ll have three days from receipt of this letter to sell everything save one pair of trousers, a button up shirt, and a pair of shoes.  Anything not sold within that time you will abandon.

 You will communicate to what friends or family you may have that you are traveling to Asia to become a monk and it is unlikely you will ever see them again.  It is not as if anyone would miss you, and I am certain their lives will be much improved without you in it.  

 This is a permanent position, so I can assure you, you won’t see them again.

 On the third day you will walk out of your residence for the last time.  What money you have from selling your things you will put it in the first charity bucket you stumble across on your way to your first step in serving me.  Enclosed is a card with an address a few miles from you.  You will walk there.  When you arrive you will have nothing but the clothes I instructed you to have, and your License and Passport.  There you will be picked up by car and taken to a place where you will be assisted in properly preparing your tribute to me.

 As a Dark Mystress, I demand and deserve a true tribute.  From you, my slave who enjoys sending his sperm through the mail, I demand your penis.  Not figuratively, literally.  You will be taken to the lair of an associate who will restrain you in his operating theatre.  Strapped down on his operating table so you can’t move a muscle, he will surgically remove your penis and place it in a jar of formaldehyde.  He will then seal the jar for you. 

 Your testicles will remain intact as I have plans for them.

 He will then reroute your urethra, and sever the nerves to your prostate, rendering you incontinent.  He will install a permanent catheter. 

 Once your tribute has been prepared, my associate will want payment for his services.  Since you have no money, you will have to trade with him.  He has an odd collection, to my understanding.  I myself have a diverse collection of penises, so to each his own.  His, however, you may find even more macabre.  

 He collects teeth.

 He will rip out your teeth, one at a time, until he has them all.

 There will be no pain relief, or drugs.  Knowing you will suffer pleases me, and pleasing me is your world now.  Difficult as it may be, while your teeth are being extracted, take heart and comfort knowing your screams provide me with a modicum of entertainment.  You, as a slave, or so you claim to be, will be happy to submit to this pain since it entertains me.

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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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A Fantasy to Life

By DX.

Copyrighted 12/2000/2020 all rights reserved.

Dr Marcus held her hands up, trying to shield her eyes from the bright camera lights. "Take it easy on the lighting, I just woke up!"

The reporter shoved the microphone back into the elder woman's face. "So you deny that you’re running a slave farm, Dr Marcus? Performing illegal surgical procedures on your innocent and unsuspecting victims?"

Dr Marcus tried to peer thought the brilliant lights to see. "Slave farm? Did you see any guards? A lock on the gate? You got in here easy enough with your ambush crew!" She tried to see which one of them was the light man. "Can we be civil adults for a moment and stop blinding the poor old doctor?" The light man re-directed his bright strobe and the doctor nodded her thanks. "I have nothing to hide. I'll answer any of your questions. I take my tea at this time. Sit." She motioned to the couch as she came from around her desk to relax in the easy chair.

The reporter sat on the edge of the couch, her microphone still in the doctor's face. "My sources say you are performing unorthodox surgical procedures on women, grossly altering their bodies into freaks of nature and selling them to overseas black markets. What's your response to that

The doctor seemingly ignored the reporter as she looked up. "Ah, Carol my assistant with the tea. Please, help your self to some tea and cookies."

Carol walked majestically, balanced on sky scraping ballet boots that flowed into her longer than the law allowed legs capped with a perfectly shaped mammoth derriere. Her hips sashayed as she walked, accented by her tightly corseted, tiny, tiny waist. The reporter sympathetically gasped, unable to believe that the girl could breathe with such a small waist. Stacked atop her wasp-sized waist were her killer breasts that must have been over-inflated with helium to prevent the girl from simply toppling over. She had a long, swan neck, delicate and regal, adorned with a wide band pearl choker. Her face was a beautiful doll, perfect in shape. Her almond shaped eyes of green, expansive and expressive, sparked with delight as her full, puffy bow lips of crimson hinted an amused smile as she leaned over and set the tray on the table, insuring the cameraman had a very clear view of her canyonous cleavage.

The reporter pointed. "That is what I'm talking about! That's not human!"

Carol smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "Oh, I am very human, Miss. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name when you stormed past me."

"Brenda Winters." She said curtly and turned back to Dr. Marcus. "Is she the result of one of your sick experiments?"

The doctor sat back in her chair with her cup of tea, nibbling a cookie. "Miss Winters, allow me to introduce Dr Carol Chambers, one of this nation's leading neurologists. She is currently conducting advanced research in mapping the parts of the brain using nanotechnology."

Carol gave a curtsy then turned to the crew. "Please, do try the cookies, I baked them myself." While they helped themselves, Carol faced Brenda. "I was a mousy, short, flat as an ironing board geek before I asked Dr Marcus to make certain improvements on me. I set the dimensions, she did the rest."

Brenda gasped. "You set the dimensions?"

Carol stood to her full height, flexing her arms to make her breasts swell. "66-18-38. I wanted even more extreme numbers, but the doctor suggested I start slow. My immediate goal reach 70-15-38." She closed her eyes and let out a moan. "Mmmm. That would be so hot!" Her eyes flashed as she thought. "If it were possible, I would have even more extreme numbers. My spine has already been re-enforced to handle the extra weight of my breasts and the heavy boned corset keeps me from simply folding in half. My neck has been gradually lengthened to this sensual length. This pearl choker is actually a specially disguised neck brace and is the only thing that keeps my head erect."

Brenda blinked in amazement. "Why would you want that?"

Carol was surprised the reporter didn't know. "To be beautiful, of course." 

Brenda shot a harsh glance at the doctor. "Whose definition I wonder…”

Carol tsked. "Mine of course. When I look in the mirror, I marvel at the object of desire I have become both inside and out. My vagina has been re-modeled into the ultimate pleasure machine. My anus modified to stretch to accommodate objects as big as ten inches in diameter. The nerves in my clitoris now ring both vaginal and anal openings so that I receive pleasure from both. My lips are redesigned to form the perfect suction, and my jaw reworked so I can perform fellatio for days on end without tiring. I even have hidden pads in my knees so I can kneel for extended periods. The nerves in my mouth are enhanced so that I receive pleasure from giving oral sex. Even my tongue has been lengthened to allow me to please the ladies as well." She gave a sly wink and smiled at the crew that stared wide-eyed at her. "Perhaps I can give a demonstration of my talents, you know, as background research for your article. Any volunteers?"

"Down boys." Brenda hissed at them, then looked at Carol. "And where does this stop?"

"I am almost the image of my dreams. For my ultimate goal I hope to have a breast size of 100 and a waist of 14." She shivered. "Oh, the idea drives me wild. Most of my spine will have to be fused. I will be unable to sit. I will only be able to stand or lie flat and I will need assistance to go from one position to the other. My crowning event will be removing my arms."

Brenda almost choked. "Remove your arms?"

Carol nodded. "The suggestion of helplessness. I think that's the ideal bimbo form. A goose like neck leading into smooth shoulders sloping into exaggerated breasts, a breath of a waist and a firm, spankable bottom with long, shapely legs. " She looked at the cameraman, sound man and lighting man sitting on the couch. "Don't you guys think that would be beyond hot?" Carol gave a dubious look. "After my arms are removed, my mouth will be reworked so I will be unable to speak. My teeth will be removed and my gums fattened spongy soft. My vocal cords will be only to create a vibrating enhancement for the love canal that will be my throat. I won't be able to muster a frown, only a pleasurable, a perfect China doll face and smile. My pheromone production will be enhanced so that any male or female within a few yards of me will be unable to resist but take me and have their way with me. I will be helpless to do anything but comply." Carol eyed the crew. "You all want me now, don't you?"

When they silently nodded, Brenda glared at them. "Remember, you’re professionals." She growled, then turned to Dr Marcus. "So instead of sending her to a psychiatrist for extensive therapy, you made her into your personal love doll." She accused.

Dr Marcus scoffed as she munched another cookie. "She's an adult, quite capable of deciding what she wants to do with her life and her body. It’s people like you that enforce the stereotypical expectations of what her female role should be. You want her to be strong and dominant. But she clearly doesn't want that." Dr Marcus took a sip of her tea. "Besides, she has a PHD in psychology. Who would I send her to?  Herself?"

"And most importantly," Carol interjected. "I'm happy! Every time I look in a mirror I am overwhelmed by my appearance. Thrilled!"

Brenda only glared in disbelief. "Aren't all these operations painful?"

Carol smiled warmly. "What isn't? Diet, exercise, denial." Carol's gaze lowered. "Tell the truth, when you get home the first thing you do is kick off those shoes and take off that bra. Carol nodded slightly. "Everything we do hurts. I'm in pain right now, but at least it’s pain that I want. I look in the mirror, or watch the expressions of those around me, staring openly, unable to turn away, and I'm on cloud nine. We use Nanites, tiny machines the size of a molecule, to assist with the surgeries. It cuts healing time in half. The nanites can attach themselves to glands to control the chemicals in the body to allow natural modifications as well."

Brenda turned hotly at Dr. Marcus, sneering. "Obviously she's not right in the head. How can you call yourself a responsible doctor?"

Dr Marcus sighed. "Look, why don't you and your crew take a stroll around the grounds. Every door will be opened for you. No secrets. Carol will be your guide. Spend some time with her and you'll see she's a normal, well adjusted woman."

"Overly adjusted. Brenda mumbled.

The doctor glanced at her watch, ignoring the reporter. "I'm due in surgery at ten and I want to prepare. Why don't you come to the observation deck and you can watch one of my... As you would say, creations."

Brenda Winters stood up, tugging on the lapels of her pants suit. "I'll do just that."

Dr. Marcus dipped a cookie into her tea, then nibbled it. "And take some of these cookies with you, I'll devour the whole plate if you leave me alone with them."

Winters' camera crew filled their pockets as they headed out. Their first stop was the outer office where a very pregnant woman groaned painfully as she slowly arched her back, her hand on the small of her spine.

“Margaret," Carol scolded. "you shouldn't strain yourself."

Margaret looked up from her filing, a smile crossing her face. "Oh, no bother." She was a startling beauty with enhanced features. Even in her final stages of pregnancy, she was a very desirable woman. With her incredibly sized breasts, long swan like neck and long legs that ended in tiny, tiny feet (which were bare), it was obvious that she was a product of Dr. Marcus.

Brenda waved her crew over. "Get a shot of this." She ordered as she put her mic in the girl's face. "Tell me, Margaret is it? Tell me, when are you due?"

Margaret's face crossed with confusion, then she smiled understanding. "Oh, I'm not pregnant!"

The reporter blinked with disbelief. "Oh, I'm sorry, I uh..."

“It's okay." Margaret said. "I know I look pregnant. I had Dr. Marcus perform the surgeries to do it." She massaged her swollen belly. "My 'baby' is nothing more than fifteen pounds of saline packs. I've been taking hormonal steroid boosters which has caused breast growth and lactation. That and facial and body sexual enhancements." She smiled sheepishly. "I hope it pleases my husband."

Brenda smelled a story. "And who is your husband? Is he forcing you to undergo these obviously painful and permanent changes to your body?"

Margaret looked alarmed. "Oh, no! It’s nothing like that. I haven't found a husband yet."

Brenda's face lost all expression. "You mean you’re doing this in hopes of finding a man with a pregnant woman fetish?"

Margaret smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "Uh huh. I just hope Dr. Marcus finds someone soon. I'm fully recovered from the operations and I can't wait to have someone to please."

"Actually, Margaret..." Carol interrupted. "I didn't want to spoil things until everything was finalized, but we've found a match for you. An oil baron in Texas. We've just finished the background checks and the interviews. He's the real deal and can't wait to meet you."

Margaret's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Really! Oh, Carol, I'm so happy!"

Carol fished a photograph from a folder on her desk. "Here's what he looks like."

"Oh, I don't care what he looks like." She said, glancing at the picture. "But he is good looking."

Carol nodded. "And hornier than a desert toad in heat." She said in a Texan accent. "Your flight is tomorrow afternoon for your first chaperoned date." Carol handed the girl the folder. “It's all in here.  If you guys hit it off, we can scheduled more dates and see where this goes."

Margaret face was streaming with tears. "This is so wonderful. How can I ever thank you and Dr. Marcus?"

Carol hugged the teary girl and gave her a light pat on her belly. "You just did. Now get your stuff together and tonight we'll have a celebration dinner." She pulled away. "I'm going to be showing these people around so hold my calls, okay?" When Margaret nodded, Carol turned to the reporter and her crew. “Let's step outside."

As they stepped out into the warm spring air, Brenda noticed a jogger coming up the trail. At second glance, Brenda realized it was a girl, obviously one of Dr. Marcus' creations, with another girl riding on her back.

"Ah, Clarice and her pony-girl, Wildfire." Carol said. "Good Morning!"

Clarice reigned her pony and saluted with her crop. "Ma'am." 

Brenda put out her microphone. "I'm doing a story and I'd like to ask some questions." She turned to the pony. 

Wildfire was a very tall, muscular girl.  Her smooth skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. She was bald, save for a brilliant mane of red hair. Her face was outlined in a complicated halter and bit system. Her head was forced erect by a stiff, wide collar that was bolted to a steel strap which ran down her spine that was bolted to the steel corset that nipped her waist to almost nothing. 

Her shoulders were beautifully rounded, faint healing scars where her arms had been surgically removed. Her breasts had been squeezed through heavy metal bands, eight inches long and three inches in diameter. Heavy metal rods pierced the base of the bands, though her breasts, and bolted securely to the other side to prevent the bands from ever being removed. Her stretched out breasts were fat heavy dough balls that rested on the flat of her stomach. Her nipples were pierced with heavy, gold rings welded closed. From those rings, stirrups hung. 

From the back of the corset, a saddle protruded allowing a rider to rest between her shoulder blades, the weight distributed along the length of her spine. Although the saddle was removable, there were no catches or buckles for the corset. It was permanently welded to the girl's body.

At the base of her spine, a plume a red hair erupted. The girl could swish it about. Her ankles were arched and the balls of her feet ended in hooves, surgically grafted to her feet. Her eyes flashed green with anger. 

Brenda looked at the rider accusingly. "She doesn't look very happy. Is it because you've forced these cruel operations on her?" 

Clarice snorted in disgust, obviously insulted. "She isn't happy because you've interrupted her favorite past time. Her morning run. I didn't force anything on her. She's always wanted to be a pony-girl. I bought her all sorts of costumes and wagons for her to pull, but when she found out about Dr Marcus' little Spa here, she was an unbearable slave. I finally had to give in. She wrote down all the alterations she wanted and the good doctor made them. Now if you look down you'll notice that her corset melds into a panty between her legs. Well, it drives against her sex so she gets a sexual thrill when she runs." Clarice sawed the reigns as Wildfire started stamping her feet, wanting to run again. "Easy girl." Clarice cooed." She looked at Brenda. "You wonder who is the mistress and who is the slave sometimes. What she needs is a good stallion on the grounds for her to play with. Her pussy has been moved back to allow easier penetration while standing up and I don't think she can wait to try it out." Clarice shot a glance at the sound man who was staring intently.

Brenda tried another angle. "And why remove her arms?"

Clarice set her lips, bothered by Brenda's accusatory tone. "Pony-girls don't have arms." She said as a matter of fact, trying to maintain an air of civility. "Human's have hands to manipulate their environment, Pony-girls must depend on their owners for their care." 

Brenda looked at the bit gag, drawn deeply into the girls mouth. "Can she talk?"

Wildfire let out a whinny, and stamped her feet again.

"Other than horse sounds, no. Her mouth has be restructured so she can no longer make human sounds. But the sound she's making is horse talk for: 'Lets ride!'" Clarice saluted with her riding crop and with a click of her tongue, they were off again.

Brenda watched as Wildfire took off at a fast canter, carrying her rider effortlessly. "Where did Clarice find that amazon?"

Carol continued her walk. "You're getting it backwards. It’s Wildfire that sought out Clarice. You see, Dr Clarice Witherspoon is an endocrinologist, and used nanites to stimulate the glands that produce growth in the body. Wildfire is her test subject."

Brenda shook her head disbelievingly. "So Wildfire subjected herself to untested medical experiments to fulfill her fantasy to be a pony-girl?"

Carol beamed. "Precisely!" 

She turned to the rear of the building where a large pool was. "Here we have Samantha, our mermaid." The cameraman aimed his camera into the blue waters trying to focus on the grey streak slipping effortlessly though the water. Samantha turned suddenly, cresting the water and skimmed by them. Her facial features were smoothed, leaving her head an almost anonymous oval shape devoid of hair or any real features save her full, strong lips which smiled at her visitors. She had a most entrancing, exotic look. Her arms melded into her sides, virtually vanishing into her tiny waist, her legs melded into one, powerful limb tipped with a broad fin which powered her through the water. She let out a cheery squeal of rapid clicks and dove into the depths again. 

Carol faced the group. "If any of you fell like a little swim, Samantha would insure you the best of times." She winked. "She loves a good frolic in the surf. Apart from her obvious external modifications, she has had all of her teeth removed and her mouth reworked to the perfected sucking machine. She also has a slit in her underside that when stimulated opens up to form the perfect pussy. It suctions you in and her muscles do all the work. All you have to do is lie back and enjoy it. Unlike mythical mermaids that lure sailors to drown, ours can provide a mouth to mouth airway, drawing air from her blow hole in the back of her neck which crests the waters surface. It's a most erogenous experience, submerged in calm waters, her pussy working you. Not only can she digest fish, swallowing them whole, but she can also process human sperm both orally and vaginally! To her, it's a treat, like candy." Carol nodded at their stunned and lusting faces. "Perhaps when the tour is over one of you would like to give her a little treat? Hmm?" She turned. "This way to the barn. I think you'll get a kick out of this."

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