The Farm

By DX

Copyrighted, 3/2025, all rights reserved.

 “Emma is demonstrating our new, Cowgirl line!”  

 Candice called out like a circus ringmaster and reeled in the meandering crowd.  “Take a look, folks!  Emma is happiest when she has a crowd to watch her get milked!”

 Emma smiled gently, and placed her teats, the size of her thumbs, into milking nozzles.  As the nozzles began to suck, Emma felt the thrilling, erotic sensation flow though her.  She masked her emotions with sheer will, and only smiled pleasantly at her audience.  She gave her head a shake to get her wild, red hair out of her face, as she cast her emerald eyes to the approaching gaggle of people.  She shrugged her shoulders back to help her back with the strain of her heavy, milk laden teats. 

 “First her nose ring,”  Candice went on.  “which not only insures obedience, just give a little tug and she'll follow you anywhere, but also insures her unobstructed breathing; which comes in handy when she uses that nanite enhanced mouth and tongue to keep the farm hands happy.  An O-chip at the back of her tongue keeps her coming for more!”

 Emma longed for a farm hand, or suitable cock, and her eyes searched the growing crowd for one.  As her teats were being suckled, her hormones raged, and only the smooth feel of a delicate skin against the back of her tongue could bring her the wild pleasure she needed to orgasm.  It was maddening!  

 She could only smile as the audience stepped closer for a good look.  There were no farm hands, or suitable cocks.

 “The collar around her neck insures her only sounds are gentle mooing.”  Candace explained.  “For her primary feature, her breast shield, nanites have surgically separated her nipples into four, then stimulated the breast tissue growth giving her four breasts.  The naturally occurring sugars in her produced milk can be adjusted to give each breast a different flavor: Regular, chocolate, strawberry and banana. These can be customized to your cow.  Other options include the above, plus: whole, 2%, heavy cream, and Beer.”  Candace brandished a sloshing mug of foaming beer and took a long pull.  “Mmmm!  You won't believe it until you try it!”  She exclaimed with her beer mustache. 

 Emma smiled, and nodded to the crowd, while she clenched her teeth and prayed that once, just this once, the milking machine would let her come, and not insistently tease her.

 “Of course, Emma's package is finished off with a Chasti-Permalock Vaginal Shield, so none of her pent up energies are wasted!”

 Emma couldn’t help but wonder if that were true; that an orgasm wasted a hucow’s energy.  It sounded silly, implausible, but they showed her the science, the research.  Every thing indicated that a chaste cow produced a higher yield and better quality milk.

 “Its our most productive Chasti product to date!”  Candace wrapped up her presentation.  “Order yours now and become the Cowgirl of your dreams!”

 The machine shut off and Emma pulled her teats from the nozzles.  She pulled up her bra and shifted it in place.  It was tight, and she looked lovingly down at her nanite enhanced breasts.

 They were getting bigger.  Much, much bigger.  With her arms outstretched, she could barely reach her hands around to touch her finger tips together.  Soon, she wouldn’t be able to do that.  Soon, she would be unable to reach her own teats and would need a farmhand to do it.

 Preferably a farmhand with a suitable cock.

 Assuming there was a farmhand with a suitable cock left in the world.  With a population of 1,331 to 1, female/male ratio, finding a male, with a suitable cock, (suitable; meaning still worked and wasn’t in permalock chastity) was like finding a unicorn. 

 Still smiling, Emma meandered into the crowd and took pictures with the potential customers, while Candace signed people up for orders.  

 Home hucow milk production was all the rage.

 When they announced the fair was closing for the day, Emma packed up as Candace took a couple final orders.  With a huge smile on her face, Candace took Emma’s leash and led her to their trailer.

 “We have exceeded quota, kid!”  Candace exclaimed stepping inside.  She smiled brightly as Emma closed the door behind her.  “And that is thanks to you!”

 Emma mooed.  Then mooed again, looking at Candace’s data-pad.

 Her face flashed with confusion.  “Oh, you want to see the numbers?”

 Emma shook her head.  She mooed, and looked at the pad.

 “Oh, you want to talk?”

 Emma nodded.

 Candace laughed.  “Well, why didn’t you saw so?”  She accessed the bio-lock on the pad and handed it to her.

 Emma typed.  “It time.”  The pad spoke her text to voice with a British accent.  “Tape, please.”

 Candace’s face drained.  “Are you sure?”

 Emma nodded as she typed.  “Tape.  You measure.”

 Candace hissed angrily and took the data-pad from Emma.  She held it up and tapped the screen, first of Emma’s front, then Emma’s profile.  Her face lost all emotion as she looked at the results.  “Yeah, you’re right.  You’ve made quota too, in a way.  Your contract was until you grew to a pre-determined volume size, and you have met that size.  Hucow stage 2.”  She looked up determinedly.  “Listen, we’re a good team here.  I can talk to the guys upstairs and get an extension…” 

 Emma shook her head, and looked at the data-pad.  Reluctantly, Candace handed it to her.  “It’s happening.”  Emma typed.  “I can feel it.  I can feel my mind slow, become hucow.  I would like to go to the farm now.”

 Candace wrestled with her thoughts.  “You have that right, but would you be happy as a hucow?  I mean, a real hucow?”

 Emma brightened.  “Yes!  It all I want.  It will soon happen and I am excited.”  She looked at her partner affectionately.  “Time now.  I feel the nanites are in my arms.  They will soon be gone.  Hucows don’t need arms.  Soon, real hucow.  Soon happy.”

 Candace conceded.  “Yeah, well you deserved it.  You’ve been an excellent partner.”  She sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside her.  When Emma sat, Candace took the data-pad and tapped on its screen.  “Well, let’s see where you are going.”  She brought up the address.  “Blah, kinda dark.  One of those industrial places.”

 Emma shrugged.

 Candace sighed sadly.  “Emma, you’ve become more than my co-worker.  You’ve become my friend.  I just want you to be happy.”

 Emma hugged her, as Candace’s face swept with tears.  

 Candace wiped her face with the back of her hand.  “Right!  Let’s do this properly.”  She announced, determinedly.  “I’ll contact the factory and…”  Her eyes focused on the web page’s publicity photos.  “Oh, oh.”  Candace murmured, pointing to the screen.  “Look at that set up!  Their milking machines only handle hucows with two teats.  Not four.”  Her fingers flashed on the pad.  “I’ll send them a text and ask if they can handle you.”

 Long seconds passed before a response came.

 Candace looked at Emma, her face slack.  “I’m sorry, Emma.  Our tech is so new…”  She brightened.  “I’ll search on line.  There has to be someone…  someone not so dismal.”  Her fingers flashed, and her head knocked back as she looked at a response.  “Novelty cow?”  Her fingers pounded against the board.  “You are not a novelty cow!  Argh!  They’re looking at only your milk production and not counting your other flavors.”  She tried accessing a real-person.  Failing that, she paused to think.  She looked back at Emma.  “We’ll get this sorted.”  She said reassuringly.

 “Moo.”  Emma said, smiling.

 As Candace tapped on the screen, a response popped up.  ‘Did you try Farmer Brown?’

 “Will try, thanks.”  Candace messaged back, and brought up Farmer Brown’s info.  There was a picture of a man with a graying beard spread across his chest like a bib.

 Emma peered in close, and Candace shooed her back.  “Settle down, you.  It’s just a logo.  I seriously doubt it’s a man running the farm.”

 “Moo.”  Emma said, excitedly.

 “The chances of him having a working penis is a billion to one, literally.”  Candace frowned as she fanned through the farm’s images.

 Emma and Candace watched a video tour.  Farmer Brown smiled and waved, his face a little embarrassed.  The narrator was a woman, who talked about the advantages of organic farming and free-ranged hucows.  She panned the camera and showed hucows walking through a shady glenn.  Their udders were magnificent!  Giant breasts tens of thousands of CC’s in size.  As the narrator made her way through the field, the hucows slowly approached her, mooing happily for attention.  Within moments, the narrator was holding the camera above her head and panned down, showing a beautiful, raven haired woman being surrounded by tit flesh and giggling hucows.  “Come to Farmer Brown’s farm!”

 The video ended.

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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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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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The B-Gill 2000!
Guillotine.
Breast.
Bacon.

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