The Dark

By DX

Copyrighted, 6/2003, all rights reserved.

Story may not be reproduced electronically or otherwise without author's written consent.

A man wakes and discovers he's locked in a bondage chair, in a vault, with no light or sound. Everyday he is milked for his seed by his tormentor and angel.  He doesn't know why. Worse, she demands he do better, or face a more horrible, unknown fate.
Can he escape? Erotic horror!
bodymod, male hucow, penectomy, milking, bondage, torture!

"In the dark I had no concept of the passage of time. It was maddening. Strapped in the chair unable to move a muscle, I could only wait until she came, my torturer. 

“Most men wouldn't think of it as torture. Most men would enjoy having this ravaging beauty with soft, delicate hands and gentle enchanting voice to visit them. For me, it only added to my feeling of helplessness. My despair.

"I was a normal guy, living a normal life, when they came to my apartment, took me down with stun-guns and chloroform and carted me off to the dark. I was scrubbed raw with antiseptic, pasted with electric pads and sensors, sealed in a thick, latex cat-suit and strapped into the chair. It was more of a frame than chair, really. Straps around my ankles, below and above my knees, thighs, across my stomach, my chest, my wrists, forearms, biceps, neck and forehead. If that weren't enough, there were straps over my shoulders attached to the strap across my chest. My head was sealed in a latex helmet, my breathing channeled through long rubber hoses snaking off behind my head somewhere. My view of the world, such as it was, was through two tiny goggles. My mouth was packed with a fat, spongy ball with a tube that on a timed schedule force fed me a disgusting soup that kept me hydrated and nutritioned.

"Only my manhood was exposed. It hung in the empty space where the chair seat should be. My legs were secured wide apart leaving me completely exposed. My wastes were only liquid and simply went down the drain set up just for that. I would sometimes pee just so I could have its tinkling sound to entertain me.

"My muscles twitched to the electric pad's eclectic rhythm that kept my limbs from atrophy. Their pain was random so I never became accustomed to it, and although the current was slight, when there is no other sensory input, its tiny pin pricks soon grew from a mere annoyance, to excruciating.

"Only darkness, pain and discomfort. 

“It became my horrible existence. I desperately willed myself to die. 

“I could not. I could only sit, and wait.

"For her.

"Once a day, perhaps ten times a day, I don't know, she came. Light filled my tiny chamber as she swung open the heavy steel door. I was in a tiny room, just big enough for my chair; grey, concrete walls and floor with a steel vaulted door— as if I could escape the chair.

“When my eyes adjusted to the light and I could see, she would be there, smiling, her eyes filled with stars, her cheeks adorned with dimples. Her lips, soft, sweet succulent lips, cooing and purring for me, so happy to see me. She always wore blood red glistening lipstick, to match her blood red glistening latex body suit and her amazingly tight, breath stealing corset. She walked easily on her arch breaking high heeled leather ballet shoes.

"Her hair, like black wet tar, was pulled back tightly against her head and spewed from the top of her head in a long single braid that almost touched the ground. Her long lashes slowly fanned her sapphire eyes; sharp, wintery eyes that could cut through flesh, down to the bone with only a glance.

"'How are we?' She would ask. Her voice like cough syrup, sweet, a little fruity, and a lingering bite that bubbled within you. She would fuss over me as she checked my hoses and tubes, leaning her breasts so close, I could imagine her perfume. Her glacier eyes peering deep into mine, making sure she had my complete attention. It was then she brought in her milking stool and set it before me. She would settle herself before me, and with a ruler and calipers, carefully measure my cock and balls, noting it carefully in her little diary.

"Once this was done, she'd look up, her eyes peering devilishly from behind her fan of lashes as she poured the lubricant into her rubber gloved hands.

"Soft as a whisper, so slight, so gentle and sensation deprived as I was, it was like a lighting strike. She would shush my grunts, and moan sensually, as if she could feel my wonderful passion as she worked me in her hands. I could feel my soul draining into her touch, building to her oh so delectable, feathery strokes. Just the tips of her fingers, tantalizing, tempting, teasing, taking forever to do the job. Letting the wave grow.

"Eternity passes and I am frothing, my eyes threatening to fall back into my head, shivering, shuddering, thrashing into my unyielding fetters before she smiles and lets the tsunami hit. 'Oooo! What a good boy!' She says as she catches my fluids in a beaker, teasing every last drop. She holds it up and checks its level, color, texture, then after she notes it in her log, corks the bottle and puts it into her little carrier. There are others, I guess, somewhere. She never mentions them, or anyone, for that matter. As if she and I are the last people on Earth. Assuming I am still on Earth. But I know that I am not her only client, her only prisoner.

"I can only watch helplessly as she packs up her stuff, blows me a kiss, then leaves, closing the heavy door behind her, throwing me back into darkness. After she throws the many locks, properly securing my prison, there is only silence.

"And waiting until she returns.

"How much time passes, how many times we have done this, I don't know. Months, years? But after uncountable sessions, she looks up to me with disappointed eyes. 'You're going to have to do better.' She blows me a kiss and leaves me in the dark. Do better? What that means, I have no idea. On subsequent visits, she smiles sadly, looking at my offering in her beaker. 'You have to let yourself go, let the medicine work.' Something in the soup they pump into me I guess. 'If you don't pick up, you'll be...' She seems truly frightened, glancing around, whispering as if someone will hear. 'You'll be re-assigned.'"

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Copyrighted 6/2003, 12/2023, all rights reserved.

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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Copyrighted, 11/2023 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without permission.
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