Saturday, June 6, 2020

'Bred', Part V

Walking Jasmine

“I have not done this before. I hope I am not hurting you,” Lesley attempting casual conversation
in what to her is a bizarre setting.

Mia has disappeared. Accompanying Lesley and the leashed Jasmine to the steel exit door of the
dorm, the Asian woman bid adieu after suggesting the pair remain walking the beach and with
the island’s limited size they would in time circle back well before dark.

So barefooted, Lesley finds herself strolling the soft white sand, leaving her sandals at the cell
entrance, the leashed Jasmine to her right and half a step behind. Lesley realizes the girl is
heeling like a well trained dog. And as suggested she is most docile... most obedient.

Yet there is no reply. In the silence, Lesley reminds herself time and again... there is no one...
nobody to see her so dominating the hideous, fattened giantess... enormous breasts flopping,
labia fluttering about, bells chiming. The vanilla world is fifteen miles away, almost out of sight,
barely seen over the horizon... stow your concerns.

Quirt in left hand, Lesley becomes devilish. She has complete authority over the girl... use it, she
tells herself. The left arm crosses her front, wrist flicking to apply a most moderate stroke of the
quirt to the front of gelatinous thighs.

She instantly finds a degree shame in her action, but manages to speak firmly.

“Speak, Jasmine, you’ve been given permission,” more shame coming as the paroxysmal
reaction to the pain is felt... the leash momentarily tightening in Lesley’s grip.

“Yes, Ma’am... I mean no Ma’am, you’re not hurting me. You’re very kind and gentle,” the reply
ironic after a mild though stinging stroke.

“This island, Jasmine... what happened here... what is happening here... I find to be
disconcerting. I am told you are here of your own volition. It would comfort me to know that is

“I am. Miss Lamont... Miss Mia... have been very kind to me.”

“Caged, body modified, restrained at all times, impregnated... how can that be?” the exchange
coming as the duo slowly step through soft dry sand.

“It’s fulfilling... for the first time my life having purpose. And... well... I’m not doing... bad
things. I’m a bad girl... was a bad girl.”

Lesley guides toward the water, to the firmer wet sand, Jasmine’s gait awkward due to the bizarre
high heeled boots. With the setting of the sun, the breeze diminishes. Sure enough, her nose
detects feminine arousal. Looking to the stretched labia, her visual inspection no longer inhibited
in modesty, she notes streams of moisture. The girl finds arousal indeed. But due to what
element? As Mia explained, the sensual input is myriad.

The leash hand jostles then tugs to a stop. Becoming emboldened in the seclusion, Lesley turns,
the quirt hand going to the mons. The otherwise threatening thin strand of leather teasingly works
between the thighs to flip about... left labia to right... left to right... left to right. Jasmines sighs in
joy, the perverse touch welcomed. Perhaps more endorphins will loosen the girls tongue.

“You’ve been here a while Jasmine. Nipples... your cunny flesh... it must require time to so

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know Ma’am. Time is meaningless to us. But many babies.”

“How many?” Lesley recalling Mia mentioning that for the most part a girl drops one child per

“I don’t know... don’t recall. But you can count... the marks... I am branded after each. I can’t
see... the neck restraint... on my right buttock... high... the last one at the middle.”

Yes, the brands, Lesley recalls, momentarily stepping back to view the massive hillock and again

Seven... seven parallel markings. Presumably seven years.

“So you’ve been here while my fiance, nephew Tom, spent school breaks here... while in

“Yes Ma’am.”

Lesley finds the reply to be not too upsetting. As both Mia and Tom have suggested... she needs
to acclimate. And she finds that she is doing so. Oddly, in learning more and more, the level of
discomfort begins to dissipate... even finding the notion of branding a girl’s buttocks...
permanent marks... to be logical given the environment of thorough dominion over those to be

How else would a girl’s production be known?

The fertility, the many pregnancies, dropping children as would fruit from a tree, brings gloom to
a woman destined to be barren. Is the girl fortunate? Lesley has not divulged her secret to her
betrothed... her mind reeling with the mention of a woman’s endometrium... the need for both
thickness and resiliency in bearing children.

Hers has been deemed insufficient... a pregnancy resulting in possible internal hemorrhaging and
death. Diagnosed months ago, before Tom proposed marriage, she had not the resolve to divulge
her possible engagement-ending condition. And now?

And now there is envy... Jasmine able to deliver offspring as would a rabbit.

“Did he milk you? Did you let down for him?”

Lesley realizes the questions frighten, Jasmine aware that they are engaged... that such an
intimate undertaking between a man and woman could be... would be... deemed troublesome.
Normally deemed troublesome, she corrects herself... at another place. And little has yet to be
found normal on Shelter Island.

“Yes, Ma’am... it’s... well... it has to be done.”

“That machine... the tubing... the cylinders... the tank... near the entrance... it’s used for milking...
milking you?”

Jasmine awkwardly nods, neck restraint holding fast her head, careful to not strain her nostril

“So Tom used that... on you?” Lesley already made aware of the reply.

“Well yes... at first... but he was... well... very kind... and when he...”

Jasmine becomes tight lipped, concern growing, renewed awareness of the relationship apparent.

“The machine... at first... then...” Lesley encouraging completion of the thought.

“Well it can be harsh... it suckles and suckles and suckles... endlessly. And there’s no... guess
you’d say compassion... no exchange of... intimacy. You don’t realize how good... it feels... to
give up for someone... nurture... pretend you’re nurturing... in response to their touch.”

Lesley is both appalled and saddened. Many nights of lovemaking coming to mind... lover Tom
so wondrous... his foreplay exquisite... his nuzzling of her breasts sublime... the massage of her
mammary glands so knowing... so accomplished... so thorough. She never told him of the mild
orgasms she experienced... even before the torrid coupling left first base.

And now comes to the forefront what apparently are many years of training... summer after
summer of milking a girl!

A pensive Lesley turns, cruelly snapping the leash to bring unwarranted pain and a muffled
howl... tempted to also lash buttocks appearing to welcome punishing strokes.

There’s so much... so many questions... so much concern... entangling her need to eventually
disclose... the inability to safely bear children.

The walk continues in silence, leashed naked beast, firm hand leading. Breaking her thoughts, on
occasion Lesley peers back, the jiggling breasts, tingling bells, wet labia flipping about. Yes,
Lesley’s concerns transform, outside world no longer given credence. Instead there comes
jealousy... realizing the past intimacy between fiancé Tom and the grotesque yet enviously
fecund woman at the end of her leash.

But should not that console? Lesley asks herself. It is not she branded, anally impaled, forced to
strut about bald, hairless with intimate pink flesh altered at another woman’s behest.

Still there follow thoughts of revenge... but against whom? The interaction bringing distress
occurred before the two had met... likely before Tom even attained the age of majority.
Yet, keeping a secret. There should be rebuke. But is she not also keeping a secret?

Circling of the island nearly completed, Lesley finds herself much more emboldened. There is a
sense of pride... of empowerment. She is in charge... in charge of a woman fiancé Tom touched.
Such a contrivance... assuaging the ache of a woman’s lactating breasts.

Perhaps she will whip the girl to whimsically send her message of annoyance. In not expecting
child, Mia has hinted that harshness may be meted.

Dorm building in sight, veering from the wet to the softer dry sand, the procession slows, the
high boots bringing caution, to tumble with hands and wrists bound perilous.

“Miss Lesley... if I have disturbed... perhaps it is best I try to otherwise please. I will lick... in
contrition... seeking your forgiveness. The fifth sense,” Jasmine so humble in reminding.

Yes, to have her taste me... that amazing tongue, the girl’s head so eager to slip under Mia’s short
and loose skirt.

Perhaps it is a first step... concerning revenge. And perhaps she will indeed learn to use the
milking machine... have it suckle and suckle and suckle... the elongated strips of nipple flesh
turning to untouchable rawness.

Is it she that is now aroused... the anger dissipating?

Saturday, May 30, 2020

'Bred', Part IV

With Jasmine

Mia unlocks the cell door. A languishing Jasmine stirs, once again her plumped body slowly struggling to dismount the low stool and crawl forth. Mia beckons in holding up the oddly shaped boots. Jasmine knows she is to be walked.

“She’s a little sluggish after a nice long milking. She expressed nicely for me,” Mia explaining the lassitude. “Depletes much energy... letting down in abundance. But she’ll perk up for you.”

Out the cell door, Jasmine moves to Mia, the prodigious tongue protruding to lick her hands. Mia smiles, giving a signal and Jasmine knows to further bend her right knee, calve rising to present her curled foot. As Mia slips the boot in place, Lesley notes the shape perfectly aligns, the curvature of the interior arch matching that of the foot.

“Custom made from molds. Quite expensive... but will last almost a lifetime,” Mia explains in tying in place.

Booted right foot returned to the concrete, as the left foot lifts, Lesley inquires.

“What happened... to her feet?”

“Gloria Lamont had me engage in an ancient Chinese custom. As added security, to assure the girls could not wander off, we performed foot binding... reshaping the foot by binding such that the toes are pressed to the heel. Over time... along with a little help from some taps with a wooden stick, the feet reshape.... such that only with special footwear can a girl stand and walk”

Lesley is horrified! It dawns that with hands locked into the thumbless mittens, the boots cannot be donned without assistance... apparently most times withheld.

“Okay Jasmine, to the wall, I want you upright... slowly... practice keeping your balance until I finish readying you for a nice evening walk. And you have permission to speak to Miss Lesley.”

The readying goes deftly. As Jasmine places her covered hands on the wall, using for balance as she rights herself at the waist then props up on right boot than left, Lesley realizes for the first time the plumped, naked and hairless girl is not only of great girth but tall. As she stands, boots essentially placing her on her toes, her bald head rises well above that of Lesley. At five foot nine, Lesley approximates Jasmine’s natural height at six foot... possibly more. The restrictive neck collar, forcing Jasmine to maintain perfect posture, head and face up, augments the presentation. Jasmine is a giantess... a captured beast.

Steadying herself, finding her legs, Jasmine knows to carefully slip her hands from the wall, support no longer needed, arms lowering. Mia guides her wrists back behind her, gently but firmly pressing to bend at the elbow, then pushes upwards using a short strap of leather to connect together the mittens and secure the hands to the back of the steel neck collar.

Next comes the anal hook. Lesley finds herself blushing as the shaft is introduced to the gluteal cleft and the smooth hemispherical tip finds its way past an evidently tight sphincter with a quick but convincing push. Next, another short strap of leather connects the loop at the top end to the bent elbows.

Testing, satisfied that Jasmine is well trussed, Mia next grasps the leash and hands it to Lesley. Jasmine knows to turn and face her master, smiling demurely as Mia reaches for the small bells.

“It is important... for the psyche... that a girl always feel under control... owned,” Mia lectures, hands working quickly to hook a high pitched chime to each nipple ring, then stooping, flicking about the ungainly strips of labial flesh to attach a pair to the labia rings as well. “With every step Jasmine will feel the anal insertion, hear the bells, and feel such grazing her nicely stretched pink parts.”

Lesley notes the look on Jasmine’s face... it is a pleasant look... one of agreeable surrender. Then Mia pauses in her explanation, hands right and left going to the enormous breasts, fingers flicking the nipples to bring forth sonorous chiming. Lesley then notes the pink has turned to crimson, announcing to all that the glands have recently been suckled... and suckled. Indeed the girl grimaces though Mia’s touch is slight.

“So, understand the sensual input. She will see your guiding leash hand, feel the anal penetration, hear the many bells... and with a few steps smell the fragrance of her own arousal. Other than the day Jasmine arrived on Shelter Island, she has not been vaginally cleansed. No douching... we like a girl to smell natural. With her response to your controlling hand... that will become evident as her cunny becomes wetter and wetter and she brings herself into a nice sexual froth.”

With the proximity, for the first time Lesley notes indeed that within the confines of the cinder block structure, the air is filling with the scent of feminine arousal.

“And you may ask about the fifth sense... taste. Well... that is very limited... being fed from a gastric tube. But what she is permitted to taste... it’s... well... guess that’s best discussed at another time. Perhaps afterwards. When you return just remove the tethers then slip off the boots. She’ll crawl into her cage for you. I’ll be back later to cuff and bind her for the night.”

There comes a pause, Lesley speechless in once again being overwhelmed.

“It’s your task to clip in place the leash, Lesley. It’s symbolic... and it’s best to establish your governance quickly. Never ever let it go free. If you need to rest, make sure it is well tied off. She must always feel captive... sense the surrender and capitulation. Though keep in mind that in being deeply set into the cartilage of the septum the nostril ring will not tear away but the agony of a strong tug can be excruciating. So she will be most obedient for you. But if direction is not followed use this,” Mia stepping away and returning with a short whip. “It’s a quirt. Since Jasmine is not expecting... use it freely."

Sunday, May 24, 2020

'Bred' Published (I think)

I have published (attempted to) the referenced story on Lulu.

25,000 words $4.32. 

Well, at least the story is listed in my completed 'Projects'. However, as all things are going recently with Lulu and their disastrous upgrade, I cannot find the story for sale.

So, I have no link to post, and if and when the story is offered I will so inform.

Meanwhile I will post another segment or two here on the blog.

But this makeover/upgrade is painful. Had to resubmit tax form W-9, which Lulu has had on file for some 12 years. And to make a simple cover (as you readers are aware, I don't spend time alluring with photos but with words) I had to type up a page on the word processor, print out and then scan in as a jpeg file.   

The story is quite quirky and as I try to differentiate in my story lines... this one is indeed different.

So enjoy... if you can find it.


Think I found a link... try...

Saturday, May 23, 2020

'Bred', Part III

Late Afternoon With Mia

The trio sit. Iced tea with lemon refreshes. Lesley finds the climate warm yet tolerable. The breezes of the tradewinds bring steady cool when sitting under the shade of a thatched roof and tall palms. 

“How long have you been here, Mia?” Lesley politely commencing conversation.

“Many years. I would take a guess at ten. With the weather so consistent... sunny and warm, sunny and warm, sunny and warm... the years slip by... no freezing winters... no blazing summers to mark the seasons.”

“So you’re not native to the area... having been through cold winters?” Lesley digging.

“I am not. From San Francisco... and spent a few years in Boston. Snow, rain, ice... I don’t miss it.”

“Boston. I went to school in Boston... Northeastern. You?”

“Ah... Harvard,” Mia humbly divulges, not seeming to boast. “Graduate school... and some post graduate work.”

The lofty academic credentials bring a moment of silence, Mia’s extensive educational background not expected.

“Aunt Gloria was fortunate in engaging her,” Tom stepping into the breach. “Not many with her resume willing to work in such... isolation.”

Graduate school, post graduate work, some ten years on the island, the information places Mia in an age range of late thirties to early forties, Lesley calculates. Many years of life remaining... and in Lesley’s mind stuck nowhere... an idyllic nowhere, yes... but the deep blue of the ocean horizon and thick verdant tropical vegetation must wear at some point.

“So no boredom? As beautiful as it is, there must not be much to do here.”

“The girls... I’m sure you’re well aware in visiting the dorm... were many. Much care needed. At any given time eight or nine gestating... a scheduled delivery once per month... and there were the inseminations, and of course the fertilizations... my... ah specialty.”

A wide mouthed Lesley looks to fiancé Tom, another shocking disclosure.

“Inseminations?” voice wavering.

“Yes, Mia’s specialty,” Tom again breaking a pause of silence. “Aunt Gloria had money, yes. But keeping the facility here going... you can imagine the expense of bringing in food and supplies... would have been a financial burden without the breeding program. It was... lucrative.”

Stunned again, Lesley sits back in her chair, not able to conjure another word. In the distance she hears the steady hum of the island’s electric generator, Tom having explained the source of power when she inquired about the many canisters of propane. The boat was laden. If Tom spied an open spot, he took on board another canister.

Finally she finds words.    

“So impregnating women can be lucrative?”

Tom and Mia exchange glances. Yes, Tom spent much time here she concludes, able to communicate with the woman wordlessly.

“Let’s say you have a man... and a woman... married... and they very much want to have a child... children. But there are complications... possible danger... in bringing a child to term. Well... Mia... given the right facility... can make that happen.”

“The right facility... and the right amount of money?” Lesley cynically adds.


“How much?” Lesley’s cynicism swelling.

Tom looks to Mia. She takes a sip of tea, seeming to be reaching within for resolve.

“The last half dozen... $100,000 each. But there were... guess you’d say... pro bono inseminations.”


“Yes. When it was deemed convenient. The island is technically under the governance of Moriana... a small chain of Pacific islands which comprise a sovereign nation. So, there were occasions when we’d breed a child for a ranking government official... and in return Tom’s Aunt Gloria... and the island... received little unwanted attention.”

“Breed... as in cattle?”

“Gloria’s term. Used so often here... it just slips out,” a sheepish Mia explains.

Lesley becomes unexpectedly pensive, Tom expecting somewhat of a rage in learning more of Aunt Gloria and the island’s praxes.

“So the girls... kept naked and caged...”

“There’s... term it a certain environment... certain psychological underpinnings to be instilled... in keeping a girl consistently pregnant. It can be mentally burdensome as you... as a woman... can imagine. Aunt Gloria developed a regimen to best deal with that,” Mia now gushing with background information.


“Once per year.”

“For how long? How many?” Lesley gasps in both fright and concern.

“Depends on the girl... and her uterus... the endometrium. We’ve had a girl drop up to ten... other’s a half dozen.”

Drop like cattle! The beings in the so term dormitory are talked about like cattle!

Though again shocked, words of reproval don’t come. With the mention of the word ‘endometrium’, Lesley lapses into guilty silence. Though she is learning of the secrets of Shelter Island... she has some of her own.

“It’s time for Jasmine to let down for me,” Mia interrupting her thoughts. “You should join me. Tom enjoyed milking a girl during his summers,” Mia deciding to deflect Lesley’s apparent scorn by implicating the girl’s fiancé in what she considers aberrant undertakings. “And he disliked using the machine.”

Mia smiles sardonically and shifts about to rise from her chaise lounge chair. In so doing, Lesley notes her short pleated skirt flips up. The lithe woman is without undergarments, briefly flashing her mons.

Assured relative coolness? Or other reasons? Lesley’s concerns expand, expressing such more forthrightly with Mia’s departure.

“So no machine, Tom?” the words uttered with disgust. “This is all rather overwhelming. The activities here are criminal... were criminal... but the Jasmine girl... woman... remains caged.”

“Not criminal in Moriana. And I’m arranging for Jasmine’s... departure.”

“To where? What’s she going to do?”

“It is problematic. Aunt Gloria sent them... the girls no longer able to breed... to the main island then arranged for a flight out. That’s all I know. I’ll be going through her files, trying to learn more. But you should be with Mia more... learn more about...”

“The depravity.”

“Well... then walk Jasmine. Let her explain some things.”

“On a leash...” Lesley cynically suggests.

“Always,” Tom shrugs. “It’s island protocol.”

“Couldn’t help noticing Mia’s garb... the lack of it,” Lesley’s tone accusatory.

Tom snickers. “I don’t think there’s a problem there. I have you. And trust me, she finds no attraction in me. Think about all this. There’s not been much penis here over the years... only the guys coming on monthly visits with the supply boat... and she has been very happy without.”

Lesley calms herself to nod in understanding, recalling Jasmine’s attempt to get under Mia’s short skirt at feeding time. The decline was notably subtle... the rebuke less than sharp. 

Iced tea consumed, Lesley places down her glass. She needs to tell Tom something... desperately. But when? Each time the tranquility of the island inures calm conversation, more concerns arise involving caged girls, an eccentric aunt, the level of fiancé Tom’s participation, and the mysterious Mia... advanced study at Harvard resulting in an extended sabbatical in the middle of nowhere.

“There’s no offspring here,” Lesley tacitly utilizing a breeding term, “why is Jasmine being milked?” deciding on bluntness.   

“Two reasons. The lactate is in demand thus more cash flow. The numerous biological mothers aren’t expressing. And well... Aunt Gloria’s program... ah... once a girl is put on a schedule... you know... regularly letting down... it’s sort of... needed.”

Lesley recall’s Mia’s mention of ‘pharmaceuticals’... in the feeding bag.

“So she can’t go without?”

“They ache... the glands,” Tom glumly explains.

“So during summer break, you helped the girls... with the aching,” Lesley more taunting than inquiring.

Tom nods agreement... “it was instructional... for a guy in college.”

Lesley decides to end the inquisition. Within, she senses a degree of comfort, learning that fiancé Tom has secrets. It will make hers easy for him to accept.

To be With Jasmine

Dinner, Lesley decides not to engage in further cross examination... of neither Mia nor fiance Tom. Mia prepares simply, light fare, not much heated or cooked to be desirous in the heat. The conversation strays away from the island, Aunt Gloria and the curious activities. In the silence of consuming, Lesley gives much thought to what she has learned and discovered... but also ruminates on the many things unknown.

Why would the girls... at times up to a dozen... tolerate such treatment of their own volition?

Both Tom and Mia have encouraged her to walk Jasmine... even permitting the girl to speak... an otherwise apparent verboten activity. Should she? 

The degradation comes to mind... her self image in guiding a being at the end of a length of leather. But then she realizes... it is only she that will ever see... she and the naked, hairless and plumped Jasmine. There will be no retribution in abetting the apparent wickedness of the island’s culture.

Arrested by the Morian authorities? It’s a relative impossibility.

In finishing, Lesley helps clear the table. Cleaning dishes with Mia, the subject matter returns.

“It is a nice evening for a walk,” Lesley casually commenting.

“Yes, the sun is so much less intense. And one must be aware... there is peril in exposing delicate pink flesh to ultra violet rays.”

Mia smiles. With her reference to the abundance of stretched nipple and labial flesh apparent, she looks directly into Lesley’s eyes, reading her mind.

“You’ll feel empowered, Lesley. You’re not of our ilk... of that I am aware. But do indulge. No one makes judgements here on Shelter Island. And whereas you’re naturally coming to quick conclusions, overall things are for the best... doing what we do here... what we’ve done here. There are those who have needs... needs that require attention... very exacting and firm attention. And there are those like Gloria Lamont who graciously offer it. That and fulfilling the needs of couples wanting children.”

Dishes cleaned and stowed. Mia silently steps out of the kitchen... to the front door... walking toward the low concrete structure of the dorm. She does not need to look back. She knows Lesley follows. 

Saturday, May 16, 2020

'Bred, Part II

With Tom

“Aunt Gloria had... eccentricities,” fiancé Tom soberly tries to explain.

“That’s because she was rich. With a surfeit of cash and living on her own island in the middle of the ocean. Anyone else would be termed insane... crazy... it’s lunacy Tom,” Lesley retorts. “You never told me of this,” her tone somewhat heated.

“You must agree... it’s difficult to explain,” Tom avoiding eye contact by continuing to unpack in the sizable guest bedroom. “I know you’re not comfortable here... not right now. But the weather is ideal... the beaches spotless... the water warm. So I thought you’d enjoy a little vacation while I... ah... deal with a few things. We’ll sell the place. Exotic private islands have a certain cache with the super rich.”

“You’re not left short of funds, are you Tom, paying down the estate debts?”

Tom laughs, shaking his head.

“There are no debts. Only a fat brokerage account and this island home. Just thought you’d not want to be married at a...”

“Man who owns naked women?”

“Inherited, Lesley. And there’s now only one... and she’s not owned.”

“She’s locked in a cell... crawling about... fed from a tube!”

“It’s best for her. She’s here of her own volition... in a way.”

Lesley pauses, letting herself cool down. The serendipity of the situation again repeats in her mind. Rich! Instant wealth... potential instant wealth should the engagement ultimately lead to marriage. Don’t blow it, she tells herself.

Tom uses the moment of reflection to bring reason.

“Look, you’ve met Jasmine... for a moment or two. I’ll have Mia instruct her to talk. You can walk her... she likes that.”

“On a leash? Naked?” Lesley gasps.

The expression of annoyance with her questions is of course feigned. Mia has already so suggested.

“It’s... sort of... ingrained is the best way to describe it. And there is no one who will see. You can barely see the next island on the horizon. Just be gentle...”

“You’re too familiar with the bizarre state of affairs here, Tom. You spent summer school breaks here, yet you never mentioned anything. I can only imagine what a hormone suffused teenaged boy would be doing on a island of naked women.”

Tom has difficulty cloaking his chagrined smile.

“It was... enlightening,” he meekly admits. “But it can also bring exhilaration, Lesley... to a degree... having a being so dependent... in such need... of nurturing... of being cared for,” Tom waxing, his voice calming. 

Lesley is speechless. Tom pushes closed a dresser drawer and steps to give his prospective bride a hug.

“And Jasmine will remain having needs. And I am again in power... now to decide what do to with her.”

Lesley returns the embrace, Tom’s words bringing thought.

What is one to do about a naked apparently uneducated, hideously fattened woman of indeterminate age who finds little compunction about being held in a cage?

“Got some tea ready,” Mia calls out from a well shaded open aired porch.

Tom inwardly sighs in relief. Contention over for now.

“So over a nice cool drink you can explain that machine... the one in the cell block... with all the tubes. Were those suction cups, Tom?”

Sunday, May 10, 2020

Finding my stories on Lulu

It has just come to my attention that Lulu's horrid 'upgrade', uncompleted at this writing, has given rise to multiple '404 errors' in referencing my stuff on this blog.

Each time I published a story, I announced such here with a link to where the story could be reviewed and purchased on Lulu. Many years of links... most now giving rise to 404 errors, including the link to "The Chris Bellows Store' (Lulu's concoction) on the main page of this blog (been removed to minimize confusion).

If there remains a 'store', I cannot seem to obtain a replacement link for it at this writing. And to go back and correct 10 plus years of postings with new links is burdensome.

So, if you're a new reader and wish to find some stories, you will unfortunately need to ignore the links embedded in the announcement postings and go to Lulu. Search for 'Chris Bellows' and my stories will appear... as of today. One can only guess what will happen if they install more 'improvements'.

As an aside, further irritation stems from the lack of disclosure concerning book sales. That Lulu function has been down since April 25. Am I selling any stories? Hopefully Lulu knows.

Saturday, May 9, 2020

'Bred'... New Story... Part I

New story. Female Dominant, female submissive, a little change in genres





Copright 2020

by Chris Bellows

An Introduction to Shelter Island

Forewarned, Lesley Hammond is still aghast.

What has she stepped into?

“Can you speak?”

Her question posed to the creature-like form is not without reason. He... she... it?.. is beastly... appearing dehumanized. In response the form shifts from sitting upright on a very low stool... feet well parted, legs spread, back to the concrete wall... and silently crawls to the bars of the limited sized cell. With Lesley’s hands gripping the vertical steel strips, face closely pressed forth to better assess the bizarre sight, she is stunned to immobility as the form rights itself to kneel, sitting upright as would a dog. There is an urge to step back.

Is there danger? Can the form somehow bring harm?

No, the silence continues as an incredibly prodigious tongue thrusts forth and begins humbly licking her curled fingers. The gesture is a pitiful plea... an effort to spontaneously form a bond... show devotion.  

Lesley is mindful of youthful trips to the local animal shelter, caged puppies seeking adoption.

It is female, Lesley concludes, just as her betrothed indicated in his forewarning.

The beast is nude. More than nude it is hairless... bald. The only covering appears to be mittens of coarse canvas completely enshrouding hands likewise pressed forth to the bars. A strap encircling the wrists secures in place, a tiny lock at each buckle. And the neck is encased in a mass of shiny stainless steel. It’s a high collar shaped as a prosthetic device, though more rigid, and a vertical protrusion juts forth from the area of the Adam’s apple to press upwards at the chin. Lesley quickly realizes the smooth tongue shaped flap of metal, though not abrading the skin, greatly enhances the immobility of the woman’s head, for sure restricting her downward gaze.

Dangling... ponderously bobbing about... are massive breasts. Yet more noteworthy are nipples... lengthy... the udders of a bovine seeming in danger of brushing the gruff cell flooring of concrete, pebbles and island coral. At the juncture of nipple and mammary gland there are rings, tight, somewhat restrictive. Such are not decorative, instead appearing mechanical, as would an automobile part. No words coming forth, Lesley’s initial reaction of modesty for the woman, not wanting to appear to be staring, fades, openly apprizing as she would an animal at the zoo.

She steps back. The massive appendage of wet pink retracts, mouth closing. There comes a look of disappointment on a face one could consider handsome, the features even and symmetrical. The nose is unpretentious but ‘U’ shaped metal protrudes from the nostrils. It is not for show, Lesley realizes, appearing almost industrial. And at the right nostril there also protrudes the open end of a latex tube. The hideous facial appointments aside, Lesley concludes that given hair... cranial and about the eyebrows... and sans the abundance of fat... there is a possible prettiness.

Returning to all fours, the form shuffles to turn about, presenting buttocks plumped to enormity. The knees part in an apparent ingrained ritual, thighs separating to present her sex as the arms fold and the woman’s head and shoulders lower, encumbered chin resting on the concrete. Indeed the nipples graze the floor.

Lesley’s benumbed reaction returns, further assessing. Thick folds of outer labia parted in giving way, long bright pink strips of inner labia drape halfway down the thighs. Anomalous in length, Lesley quickly concludes such have been stretched. With the form no longer making eye contact, the need to show modesty completely dissipates. Lesley gawks... in amazement... in curiosity... in amusement?

Of the latter, she convinces herself ‘no’.      

Yet... are those similar rings? At the portal of the woman’s vagina, encircling each swaying strip of labial flesh... identical to those adorning the nipples?

And there are brands... on the right cheek. Parallel lines of keloided flesh mark the woman... permanently... seven one and a half inch horizontal scars indecorously adorn from the top of the hillock halfway to the thigh below.

Lesley manages to peer away from the woman’s glistening, cave-like entrance, the feet adding to her shock.

Such are curled, the arches almost semicircular, the toes bent seeming to be attempting to greet the heel of the foot. Thus the crawling... the inability to stand... the shape obviating normal function.

“She wants to be masturbated,” the voice jolts Lesley just as she is becoming comfortable in glaring.

She instantly steps back from the cell bars, sensing a degree of guilt in so long visually inspecting.

“I’m Mia. I must assume you’re with Tom... the island being so small.”

Lesley turns to greet an Asian woman, dressed for the tropical heat in a loose white cotton blouse and short pleated skirt of colorful light blue. The Mia woman is middle aged, her English without accent. She appears jovial, not fazed by the depraved scene of a naked woman crawling about in a cell of steel and concrete.   

“Ah... yes... Lesley... Lesley Hammond. Tom is... ah... my fiancé.”

“Well congratulations... and welcome to Shelter Island. I see you’ve met Jasmine. Sorry I did not greet you at the dock. With limited communication the exact time of your arrival was not known.”

Lesley nods, not knowing what to say as Mia steps to the bars. Hanging from her left hand the Mia woman holds a plastic bag similar to that used in medical care for intravenous infusions.  

“It’s not yet Saturday, Jasmine. You’ll be masturbated tomorrow,” Mia lectures.

An apparently dejected Jasmine again moves, head and shoulders up, crawling to return to the far cell wall where she turns about to resume sitting upright on the stool. Lesley is further amazed to see the woman work to part her legs, gelatinous thighs spreading to the extreme to fully display her shaven pubes and the mass of labial flesh, pink strips dangling just about to the floor, rings glinting in the sun lit cell block. She now notes that on the rough concrete well to the right and left lie padded cuffs secured to the walls by heavy chains.

“It’s mandatory... here on Shelter Island... a surrogate is to always display her cunny... fully. Some would say obscenely... those not of a certain... ah... propensity,” Mia plainly explains. “She did not talk, did she? It’s forbidden without permission.”

Lesley finds relief in learning the woman has not been physically robbed of speech.

“Ah, no, I was just... well Tom suggested that I take a stroll... to ah... acclimate... while he’s unloading the boat. He warned... ah... told me I’d... ah... encounter...”

“A naked woman in a cage. Yes, Tom is very much aware. He spent much time here years ago... his aunt raising him here, having him stay when not in boarding school. So he’s... I’d use the term attuned to his aunt’s... shall we say proclivities. But the older he got... the more he was exposed to the... guess I’d term it the vanilla world... the more sheepish he became about the island... the goings on.”

Knowing that it is all to come to an end, Lesley politely refrains from blurting ‘you mean the depravity’.
“I understand you’ll be spending some time here... while Tom tends to his aunt’s estate. So if you’d like to further acclimate yourself, I’ll give Jasmine permission to speak. Perhaps you will take her for a walk. I’ll show you how to strap on her shoes,” Mia turning her head down and away from the cell entrance.

Lesley follows her gaze, spotting on the floor opposite the cell entrance a curious set of boots. Such are of leather, calve high, with ungainly high heels of solid triangular shaped wood. Hanging on the wall above is a length of leather, looped at one end, a clasp on the other. Beside that, are shorter lengths of leather, more clasps and clamps, small bells and a metal device... a bar, with a circle of metal at one end, the other bent almost in a “U’ with a shiny hemisphere of smooth stainless steel.

“An anal hook,” the Mia woman simply offers. “Jasmine wouldn’t be walked anywhere without it.”

With that, there comes a glowing knowing smile and Mia’s free hand goes to a pouch at her right hip. There comes into view a set of keys, the hand slipping into a lock embedded in the cell door.

“Feeding time,” Mia announces, her voice turning to a songsing.

Lesley notes the bag filled with a white liquid. As Mia steps into the cell the contents prove to be thick, sluggish, barely moving about within the bag as Mia raises over the Jasmine woman’s head, attaches to a wall hook then leans to gruffly hook a tube at the bottom to the tube emanating from Jasmine’s right nostril.

“Yum, yum,” Mia somewhat mocks as a valve is opened and the thick sludge of white slowly oozes down to presumably directly enter the stomach.

With Mia’s nearness, Lesley notes that once again the huge lengthy tongue extends, the bald encumbered head attempting to lean forth, the hem of Mia’s short pleated skirt pushed upwards by a mitten covered hand in an effort to lick. Mia abruptly pushes the gruff canvas away.

“Not now,” the rebuke whispered, words not intended for Lesley to hear.

“High fat, laced with a generous concoction of pharmaceuticals to keep our girl letting down for us,” Mia vaguely explains more loudly. “She yields well. A favorite of Tom’s Aunt Gloria.”

Mia steps from the cell and locks, looking up into the face of the taller Lesley Hammond. Noting her combined look of shock and disapproval, she smiles.

“It’s Shelter Island, Lesley. Things are different here. You may find some conditions harsh... in your mind. But I assure you, all the girls were well taken care of over the years. And besides... it’s all coming to an end. Jasmine is the last. As Gloria Lamont aged she began culling her herd... ah... the girls she cared for,” Mia apparently regretting her choice of words. “Jasmine dropped her last little one. It’s your fiancé’s task, as executor, to decide what to do with her.”

Mentioning the executory role of her future husband Tom Lamont, the purpose for visiting the isolated island, brings warmth to an otherwise emotionally wrought Lesley Hammond. In dating Tom for the past two years, she had no idea that he was a prospective heir to millions. In learning of the loss of his aunt, a relative not before mentioned, she expressed her condolences. But her contrived sympathy quickly passed when she learned of the degree of wealth.

Yes, what she stepped into initially brought glee. And now?     

“Come. Back to the house. We’ll have tea. And then it will be time for Jasmine to be mil... ah... well... have more attention.”

Returning to the entrance of the low cinder block building, Lesley steps past cell after cell, for the first time counting. There are twelve... all identical... all empty but for the plumped nakedness of Jasmine. Pausing, Lesley notes upon exit that the door is of formidable solid steel, able to be well secured.

“The girls... well... in their condition... guess you could say the security made them feel better. A sense of ownership... that someone cared enough for them that they need not worry... not about a thing,” Mia addressing Lesley’s quizzical look... that on an isolated island some fifteen miles from civilization... normal civilization... anything need be kept under lock and key. 

One foot out the door, next to a high wooden stool Lesley spies an intricate machine, propped in a corner. It is on wheels... an elaborate collection of tubes each ending in long clear cylinders, a motor, a plastic collection tank.

“You can learn to operate that,” Mia’s tone that of a teasing challenge. “Most times Tom preferred not to use it... but he can show you,” the provocative words coming as they step from the door and Mia pushes closed to leave the foreboding chamber unlocked.

“No security?”

“At night. The darkness brought apprehension when the girls were...” Mia’s hands going to her hips to demonstrably graze upwards over an imaginatively a swollen belly.

“Is Jasmine?” Lesley inquires, replicating the gesture of implied pregnancy.

“No...” Mia slyly replies stepping toward the modest sized but otherwise ornate island home of the late Gloria Lamont. “Not now... not yet,” she adds with a snicker.