The Starfish Affair

By DX

Karen, Alice's lab assistant, stole not only Alice's grant money and ruined her career, but also helped herself to Alice's Breast Enhancement formula.  But what Karen doesn't know is during a trip to the South American jungle, Alice developed a taste for a rare delicacy!

Mad-Science, erotic horror, wild torture and cruel torment!  This over the top story has it ALL!  

Copyrighted Feb 2000, 10/2023, all rights reserved.  Story may not be duplicated without written consent from the author.

Karen shivered in the cold, damp air. She could see the waves of goose pimples ripple across her melonous breasts, as her nipples swelled to the size of thumbs.

It wasn't the cold that made her shiver.

She didn't try to protest. It would have done her no good even if they had not ripped the tongue from her mouth a week or so ago. They had strapped her to a post, secured her head and body with thick, leather restraints, then rammed a heavy gauge steel ring through her tongue, which was then hooked to a come-a-long.

It surprised her, as it always had, that she was not beyond feeling. The never-ending cycle of pain would always renew and refresh in its delivery of unimaginable trauma. How could her charred, shredded throat still scream with such volume, spiraling upwards as the torment turned up a notch, was beyond her.

Her tongue was stretched slowly as they took their time, clicking the handle of the ratchet with intended affect. Her tendons strained and stretched, pulling her tongue out beyond imagination. She was choking as her neck pulled too far, and her tongue still going further.

It exploded with a fine shower of blood as her tongue finally gave way and ripped from her mouth, leaving a stringy trail of tendons and veins.

The last time they removed her tongue, they had nailed it to a table and let hungry rats nibble it off. The time before that, they nailed it high on a wall, then let her hang from it until her own, pain wrought thrashing caused it to finally tear.

Now, in the cold, cold cellar, she waited her fate. Ahmed busied himself by testing the mechanism that would release the guillotine over and over again, giggling madly each time the blade slammed home.

She felt the Professor's hand on her shoulder push her forward. Karen didn't resist. She couldn’t.

She didn’t really want too.

Karen gazed distantly, unresponsively at the monstrous machine before her. Polished wood and gleaming brass brackets and screws handsomely made up its base like a collector's piece of fine furniture and not a butcher's toy of death. Its blade, locked in its casement above, glimmered like a mirror, its edge wickedly sharp. A heavy spring coiled against it so when the trigger was thrown, it fired down with tremendous force and ensured a crisp, clean cut.

Karen had laid her breasts before its blade before and felt the steel slice through her flesh. They had been her pride and joy; her mammoth, attention grabbing breasts were worshiped, even adored, but they were only quivering mounds of flesh, locked in the guillotine's unyielding embrace. Unable to move away she could only watch the gruesome fate. With a snap, it was over, faster than an instant. Suddenly slicing her open to a quickly flooding torrent of pain. A white-hot iron seared her flesh and kept her from bleeding to death, and adding to her seeming never-ending, nightmare of pain.

They force fed her for months and fattened her up. When they had put enough weight on her, they brutally harvested her arms with a chain saw. Her new grown breasts were put into the breast guillotine and with a snap of the flashing blade, her massive breasts popped of and dropped into the basket.

That had been months ago.  Her breasts had re-grown to a lovely size and shape, but she knew it wouldn't last because they would continue to grow, becoming monstrous and unbearable before they finally cut them off for their Breast Beacon breakfasts. Her arms were already re-grown. 

The re-growth was happening faster.

As Karen stared painfully at the guillotine, its single hole where her neck would rest before her, she was unable to decide if she should be happy or distraught. This was it, the torment would be over. She wondered why they didn't harvest her breasts before the final act? Although they were not their usual over ripe size, they were plenty large enough.

Pushed closer to her fate, to the blade, the final torment, her mind reeled back to the day it all began.

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Copyrighted, 2000, 2019, 2023, all rights reserved.

Sex Object
By DX

A woman transforms herself into the perfect bimbo for the sake of art!

A teaser.
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Copyrighted 10/2001, 2016, 2023 all rights reserved.

 Talia stood at the rear of the theater, shrouded in darkness.  The small, round room, ringed with over padded seats, was packed to capacity with all eyes on the brightly lit platform.  It was warm, at the brink of being uncomfortable, and the men, stuffy upper crust and proper, dressed in tails and canes, had already done away with their silk jackets, starched collars and strangling ties.  The women that dotted the crowd could sense the tension in the air.  Their blouses unbuttoned beyond respectability, and the tops of their breasts, gleamed in the dim light.  

 They were unaware of what was happening.

 Talia could taste it.

 The white roving shaft of the spot light appeared and cut the thin mist of cigar smoke.  Carefully, avoiding highlighting the faces in the audience, it scanned the archways.  Talia stepped deeper into the shadows and let it slip past her, somehow knowing its seemingly random pattern.  She didn't follow it, but instead watched the shadowy faces, the white sparkle reflected in their eyes.  She had performed the show a hundred times before, followed its progressing evolution.  Everything was planned, controlled, from the expensive cigar tobacco to the humidity and temperature, all calculated, recorded, and perfectly scientific.

 Everything was planned to entice the neither regions of the mind, a direct hardwired link to subconscious sexuality.

 They were already horny and didn't know it.

 They were here to see a show, performance art.  Little did they know they were to be the show and they were to do the performing.  The previous audiences through persuasion, or extortion, were sworn to secrecy, and would only share scripted hints and clues as to what the show was all about, so each new group with teased curiosity would be completely surprised to find themselves in a broiling, soul cleansing orgy of Bacchanal proportions.  

 Now, they were primed.  All they needed was a spark.

 On cue, Mistress entered the stage.

 The white disk of light crawled slowly up the wall and fixed on the curtained archway.  Royal purple folds parted to the gentle probe of Mistress’ delicate foot, painfully yet elegantly arched en-pointe, the shoe almost non-exist, provided only a spiny heel.  Her leg, longer than law allowed, was ivory in the harsh light.  She stepped forward and emerged fully to the gasp of the audience as the pungent, yet erotic odor of latex filled the room.  The women panted in sympathy at the corseted waist no bigger than a hand's breath resting atop her callipygous hips.  Her breasts dominated her presence, each one as big as a zeppelin, somehow suspended over her tiny frame, threatening to snap her in half.  Her nipples were shroud in heavy gold caps.  Titanium bolts pushed through the caps and pierced her delicate nipples, and then welded shut to insure her nipples were forever locked away. 

 Her neck, shrouded in steel, was stretched like an African Queen, her regal head rising majestically from her shoulder-less body. 

 Mistress had no arms.

 Her bemused smile took in her audience as her enchanting eyes flashed and spilled diamonds down her cheeks and cast her spell on her unsuspecting worshipers, lifting their attention from her body to pay homage to her incredible beauty.  Full sculpted lips, high carved cheeks, a near invisible dimpled chin, cascading scintillating wet tar hair and eyes that captured her audience and held them in their tiny prison.

 Mistress’ skin was flawless, smooth as porcelain and unbeknownst to them, completely made of rubber.

 From the special stage hidden fans gently blew puffs of air and spread her enhanced pheromones across the audience.  The audience was trembling, perspiring, squirming in their seats and she had yet to begin.

 From the darkness, a Romanian violin began to play and Mistress began to dance.  Slowly, stiffly yet fluid, her expression unchanged, and yet her eyes cast spears of fire.

 From the darkness, Talia nodded to Sacha and the young woman activated her video camera.  Its invisible inferred light took away the crowds anonymity and their eyes glowed like demons as their lust took possession of their bodies.

 Suddenly, a man climbed up on stage.  His shirt was stripped away and hung from his belt like a tattered sail.  He paused as he stood before Mistress, his shoulders rolled back, his head jutting forward with his square chin in the lead, his chest obscenely puffed out like a fighting rooster.  Mistress turned and danced for him, her breasts undulating for him, her eyes calling for him. 

 He yelped like a wolf when he grabbed her.  

 His hungry mouth sought hers and her breasts crushed against his chest.  From behind, another man grabbed her, his hands groping handfuls of her breasts for purchase, his mouth clamped like a vampire at the uncovered nape of her neck.  Talia recognized the man's wife.  She had stripped off her bra and crawled up onto the stage.  Her hands reached for her husbands pants.

 Backstage, Talia smiled as she watched Mistress.  Everything was going as it should, and it was going to be a good show.  She glanced at Sacha and nodded with a knowing smile.  It was important for Talia to show Sacha what it all should look like when everything clicked just right. 

 It was Talia's last show. 

 "I am an artist."  Mistress announced the first time Talia met her.  She moved delicately, like a dancer, around the exotic plants of the green room.  She pounced on the squares of falling sunlight like a child playing hopscotch.  Her arms outstretched for balance and her tiny breasts, only the size of bowling balls, jiggled tauntingly.  Her impish nose crinkled and her expansive eyes became glistening slits as she smiled. 

 Talia smiled weakly, a little embarrassed.  Her eyes respectively averted from Mistress' nude form.  "Yes, your husband mentioned that.  I have my references..."

 "He's not my husband." Mistress said quickly.  "He's my benefactor and the financial backer for my latest artistic endeavor.  Although he will sign your paycheck, your job will be to tend to me."  Mistress turned and leapt, spinning quickly.  Her foot suddenly caught and she stumbled ungainly forward, threatening to fall.  Talia quickly reached out to catch her, but Mistress pranced back like a ballerina.  "Ha! Made you look!"  She smiled.  "Come on, you're a nurse, you've seen naked women before."

 "Never at a job interview."  Talia said curtly, a little miffed.

 Mistress's eyes sharpened like a cat's.  "You must have had boring jobs. Would you hand me my robe?" 

 Talia looked at the rubber cape draped over the chair.  She picked it up and held it open so Mistress could turn and slip her arms into the long flowing sleeves.  Mistress turned, leaving the robe open and her breasts exposed, creating a contrast of shiny black and white skin.  "The job of an artist is to solicit an emotion from the audience.  In you, I have so far gotten embarrassment, fear, anger and possibly a little desire."  Mistress pulled the hem of her robe and stretched it tight across her heaving bosom and let her thumb thick nipples poke through.

 Talia blushed scandalously.

 Mistress winked.  "Am I good or what?"  She released her robe.  "I am going where no other artist has gone before.  I want to not only drag a reaction out of someone, I can do that in my sleep, but I want that response to leap out of them.  Control them.  Unfettered, unstoppable and primal."  Mistress sat down and crossed her legs.  "Fear is easy.  I had you leaping to save me from a fall.  But what is the most repressed, raw human emotion?"

 Talia shrugged. "Love?"

 Mistress smiled devilishly.  "Lust!  We all want it, but we steel ourselves from it.  Deny ourselves the one thing we want most.  We have walls and minefields around our libido.  Well, I plan to break those down."

 Talia's eyes were wide with wonder. "How?"

 Mistress smiled; her spell cast.  "Your job will be to care for me.  Feed me, clean me and put me to bed.  You have to care for all of my needs."

 "All?"

 "Except sex.  I plan to be raped several times a day.  In the name of art, of course."

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Copyrighted 2023, all rights reserved.

The Art Collector

If the future, corporations will achieve the right to take ownership of regular people.  Once in their fold, they can submit them to their will.  One corporation submits our hero to become the ultimate in art!

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Wild body mods!  Surgical crafting!  One must suffer for their ART!

From the Gag Order archives, The Art Collector!
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/938333

Blink

By DX

(Teaser:  Full story here:

https://subscribestar.adult/posts/892238 )

Sarah finds herself trapped in an insane asylum in the hands of a sinister doctor who is giving her a drug that will destroy her brain and leave her as a living sex doll! 

Copyrighted 1/2023, 4/2023.  All rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without the author’s written consent.

When she opened her eyes she found herself in the room.

It was familiar.  She’d seen it before.  It was four walls in a soft, peach pallor.  The walls were plasticy, rubberized, and padded, covered in a tear resistant, quick clean material.  She had slammed her head many times against them and it was no worse than a pillow fight.  She had cried on them until snot ran like tears and they didn’t stain.

Four walls.

Each time she opened her eyes, each time she blinked, she found herself in the room and the horror became real again.

She opened her eyes and found herself in her little prison.

Snorting, she struggled to sit up.  She was in her straight jacket.  It was a heavy, nylon fabric.  Pound for pound it was tougher than steel, but soft as a baby’s blanket, and because of its high tech fabric she could remain in it for days, weeks, or even months without worry of percolating bacteria or body odor.

They could leave her in it forever if they wished.

As she shifted left, then right, scooting on her bottom so she could sit up and lean against the padded wall, a nugget of memory flared in her head.  The feature of the straight jacket when used on the insane promoted feelings of comfort and protection.  Many patients found it soothing to have their arms tightly hugging themselves.

She wasn’t so sure she felt any comfort at all.

With a grunt she got herself sitting upright.  She could see her feet and legs were in the single sock.  It was the same material as her jacket and it made her legs, from knee to toes, one single useless appendage.  The reason for it was to keep her from kicking and injuring the staff.  She could, with great effort, get up to a standing position and hop around, but that never ended well.  She would inevitably fall, most likely on her face, and would spend the next twenty minutes or so trying to roll over.

With her feet and arms taken care of, she finished her survey by trying to call out and confirmed her mouth was indeed packed full with a silicone mouth guard and a mad complex of straps to hold it firmly in place.

She leaned her head back and celebrated they had not blindfolded her. 

The darkness was maddening. 

They were keeping her in restraints more often and for longer periods.  Although she had no way of telling time in her little cell, it felt like more.  Each time she blacked out, each time she blinked, time flittered away.  She could blink and it would be weeks later by her reckon.

At least, that’s what Nurse Ratchet would say.

She was certain the woman’s name wasn’t Nurse Ratchet.  It was doctor… something or other.  She was a large, curvy woman with alarmingly huge breasts, a stilled explosion of giant, blonde hair, and intense, sapphire eyes.

Nurse Ratchet was the villain in the story.

Sitting on the floor of her cell, her head against the wall, she risked closing her eyes for just second.

“How is Sarah today?”

She opened her eyes, startled as the name flashed in her memory.  Her name was indeed Sarah.  She couldn’t remember anything about Sarah, not even what she looked like, but she was certain her name was Sarah.

Nurse Ratchet peered into Sarah’s eyes, almost as if she could see into the girl’s brain.  “You are still with us, aren’t you?”  She nodded slowly to herself.  “I believe you are.”  Nurse Ratchet pulled a syringe from her lab coat pocket.  “I’m impressed.  Most people would be permanently catatonic by now.”  Ratchet held up the syringe and tapped it to move the air bubbles.  “This works better for us anyway.  There is a new State official coming.  He’s going to want to see one of your,” she paused as she thought of a diplomatic term.  “episodes, before he signs the remand paperwork.”  She held up the syringe.  “Now that we’ve installed the permanent shunt in your neck, this is much, much easier.”

Sarah didn’t know of any permanent shunt.

Nurse Ratchet fiddled with something on Sarah’s neck, then pushed the plunger home.

Sarah blinked.

Opening her eyes she found herself lying on her face on the opposite side of the room.  She was alone.  Ratchet was gone.  Sarah had an image, almost burned to the back of her eye of an older man, with hard, unhappy eyes and a sharply trimmed grey mustache.

The man had worn a dark suit.  On the lapel was a silver eagle with wings outstretched.  The eagle carried a banner in its claws.  The banner was red, white, and blue.  The memory tugged at the corner of Sarah’s mind like laundry on the line in a windstorm.  She hated the man, hated everything.  She hated so much!  Unable to move her arms and legs she could only will her anger at anything.  Her body bucked and tossed as if she was trying to break a wild stallion.  There were others in the room.  They were trying to keep the old man away to protect him from Sarah’s fury.

The old man was unafraid.  He knelt beside her, his strong hands on her shoulders, and peered deep into Sarah’s eyes.

She saw the eagle on his lapel.

Like a gentle wave rolling up a beach on a summer’s day, Sarah knew calm.

She blinked and he was gone, and she was lying face down on the floor.

Sarah tugged at her restraints.  The jacket was properly fit and embraced her like her own skin.  As she pulled against it, nothing gave.  She heaved with all of her might and it yielded nothing.  She then tried to wriggle her legs, but the single boot was just an extension of the jacket.  She was going nowhere.  

The door opened and the orderlies stormed in.  They grabbed her and picked her up slammed her against the wall and held her there.  When they realized she wasn’t fighting, they relented and eased her to the floor.

“That will be all, gentlemen.”  Nurse Ratchet’s voice poured like cough syrup.  She stood there, her blue eyes simmering.  In the small room the two orderlies somehow managed to squeeze past her with touching her.

They closed and locked the door behind them.

As Ratchet knelt, she tried to adjust her expression from annoyed irritation to friendly and comforting.  She failed.

“Your performance was good.”  Ratchet said.  “I thought he would sign the remand order right there and then, but at the last minute,”  She shrugged.  “he decided to follow State protocol.  That will put us back months!”  Ratchet regarded Sarah carefully.  “Why?”  She leaned closer, her sharp blue eyes watching.  “What did he see?”

Nurse Ratchet dismissed it with a tilt of her head.  “No matter.  It only means you get to stay here a little longer.  It’s a delicate balance, you see.  If you are completely catatonic then they will put you in a nursing home where you spend your days facing a wall, but if you can demonstrate that explosive anger then they will put you in my custody.  You can come to my private sanitarium and stay with my other patients.”  Ratchet smiled dreamily.  “You would like that.  It is sunny with lots of green gardens.  You can spend time with the other girls.  I like to sit them out in their wheelchairs keeping each other company.  I dress them in pretty clothes… like dolls.”

Sarah sat motionless as Ratchet took out her syringe.

“This is my own creation.”  Ratchet said, admiring the chemical sloshing around the tiny glass chamber.  “It slowly builds up in the system to rot your brain.  It’s like a chemical lobotomy.  The brain eventually deteriorates and leaves you a permanent, pretty doll for me to play with.  It’s the timing that’s tricky.  As your brain melts, it triggers violent episodes.  Care facilities won’t take violent patients.  My facility, which is of course much more expensive, takes troubling cases like yours.  See, I know in a few short weeks the anger will fade and you will be just a pretty doll to add to my collection.”

Sarah mumbled into her gag.

Ratchet looked at her curiously.  “Why am I doing this?  Are we to go over this again?”  She conceded.  “Ah, the drugs are devouring your memory.  Soon you’ll remember nothing.  Soon you will care for nothing.  Soon your view of the world will be like looking down a long, dark tunnel.  In the meanwhile, I will give you the short version.  Your biological father, a man you have never met, was incredibly wealthy.  When he died, instead of leaving all of his money to his other daughter, your half sister, he left it to you.  I imagine he did this because your half sister is a horrible person.  To get her hands on the money, your dear sister wants you institutionalized.  Once you’ve been remanded to State custody for life, your sister will inherit the money and I will be paid several million dollars.  If I do this right, I will have the extra bonus of adding you to my doll collection.  I dress my dolls up in such pretty clothes!  Men pay handsomely to call upon my dolls.  They play with my dolls.  You will have such a wonderful time as my doll, you’ll see.  The men will love playing with you.  Your brain will be toast by then, and you’ll have just the fleeting thought of the games you’ll play.  You’ll know just a little of what is happening, but helpless to do anything about it, just like a real doll.”

Sarah shifted away, trying to avoid the approaching syringe.

“Still fighting,”  Ratchet whispered.  “but this will cure that.  This will take away a little more of that defiant brain of yours.”

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