Chapter Twenty Four - Whisked to Chessu

Chapter Twenty Four

Tamora spreads the blanket before the prostrate 322, taking the time to tuck one end under his chin. As she works, Midori exits the hut and labors nearby, filling a large cast iron bowl with charcoal.

“You will enjoy my taste, I am sure,” Tamora suggests as she lies to position herself on the blanket before 322's head and face.

But 322 is chagrined to watch as she rolls tummy down then spreads her thighs and shuffles her hips, raising the bottom of her silk blouse with one hand, and entwining her other into 322's hair.

Well bound, immobile, helpless, 322 must lie in horror as his face is pushed into the gluteal cleft, the beautiful rounded globes pressed to his cheeks, his mouth positioned at the rear aperture, the odor of excrement filling his nostrils.

“Yes, special needs. A beast has been serving me there for many years. My mother insisted it was best. Lick 322. Enjoy. For Midori heats her knife and the repulsion of my sphincter will soon seem trivial.”

Has he a choice? Offered respite from kneeling... convinced that the heartless woman would return him to suffering, to forever have him endure unending stress, 322 begins the distasteful task. Analingus!

As Midori works the fire, Tamora proves to be insatiable. She calmly lies absorbing the pleasure, on occasion directing 322's tongue lower to where her juices flow with abundance from her love nest.

“Remember the protocol here in Chessu, 322. All fluid is precious.”

A girlish giggle, then a sigh of delight, 322 obediently shifts his tongue to gather up the drooling evidence of Tamora’s joy, oozing at her feminine slit.

Meanwhile, to his left, 322 feels the glow of heat. Midori has the charcoal fire blazing and she stokes, observing 322's oral ministrations with a knowing smile. There is no task that a naked, well trained, and psychologically dismantled male cannot be made to perform, she has been taught. And they can be made to enjoy the servitude. Centuries of female rule have empowered the most demure of Chessu women.

The embers glow and Midori presses the blade of a sizable carving knife into the fire. Searing hotness, vulnerable flesh, the special marking dust... she has decided on black... some grease to assure proper scarring. She recalls as a little girl watching her mother mark her beast.

‘Will it hurt him, mother?’

‘Of course, Midori. That is important. The beast must remember being marked by a woman of authority. And when we do one digit per night, after six carvings, he will remember quite well. He will always bear the Empress’s number. His ownership never to be denied. He will not only see the markings, he will feel as well. The skin will become keloided. Scar tissue will proliferate about the wound with the skin healing over the coloring dust. When offered motion with his hands, his fingers will touch where I have touched... with a hot blade.’

Midori’s recollections are fond. Such is the way in Chessu, indeed empowering the female gender, but quite young. Mother had her mount the beast as one would ride a horse. At a young age, she was transported about, her bared quim pressing against the warm smooth flesh of the beast. After the markings, she thrilled to lower her hand, and as Mother described, brush her fingers over the ridges of keloided flesh... 132067... a number not to be forgotten. Understanding that a woman could so imperiously alter a beast’s appearance, in childhood Midori understood she too would become so empowered... and she pined for it.

With the thought, did she orgasm during her many rides? At such an age, sexual response is not understood. But she did acclimate... the owning of a virile, arduously worked naked male became second nature... as in having a pet. In those days the beasts worked the fields, ploughing, delivering water, harvesting. With the barren soil and limited water supply, a full day’s work was needed just to assure a day’s food ration.

And then came Rhodium. Outside funds for investment. Deeper wells. Access to more water. Better farming methods. More food. But the culture, centuries of training the subjugated male, extracting maximum physical effort, each and every day, the ‘recycling’ of bodily fluids, draining the naked male of sweat, depleting him of energy, tight bondage, strict chastity... all was too well ingrained. Even the disposition of male infants continued. It was deemed best to instead procure those with a predilection for servitude, those well enough endowed to amuse, and only as needed, rather than to forgo the lucrative ‘adoption’ fees and enslave the males born in Chessu.

Midori’s thoughts return to the task at hand as Tamora’s sighs of pleasure become more vigorous, her hand more firmly pressing the back of 322's head. When she shifts her hips, arching her back to offer more of her steamy moist sex, Midori knows final climax approaches. With the knife ready she draws it from the fire, and steps to the prostrate 322. Calmly, casually she greases his left cheek. Then she begins knowing that the intense pain will cause 322 to spastically lurch, even in exhaustion his muscles contracting as the cerebral cortex reacts to the overwhelming flood of pain signals.

The blade cuts... and burns. The legs violently strain, the tempered stainless steel ankle bands holding with authority. A howl turns to a comical girlish shriek as the blade slices and carves. Tonight it is the digit ‘3'. Tomorrow an ‘8'. Then a ‘4', another ‘3' and ending with ‘2' and ‘2'. All will bring incredible agony. And all will bring the respectful fear... and strangely new found admiration... for the woman with the resolve to so permanently mark.

The grease sizzles to add to the burn. Then Midori sprinkles the delineating black power into the wound. The skin will heal... but with abundant scarring... and with the black dust forever entrapped beneath. Tattoos can be readily removed. Her marks will require the grafting of much skin, a procedure too time consuming, too expensive, too risky to undertake.

No, should 322 ever somehow depart Chessu, he will remain marked as owned by another.

322's extreme breathing brings added delight to the analingus, the rushes of hot air offering tantalizing warmth, and in understanding the cause, the thought of Midori’s extreme cruelty brings another orgasm. In complete satiation, Tamora finally releases her grip on 322's hair.

In stowing the knife, Midori reaches to cup the mass of pink flesh, the stretched scrotum, lying on the desert soil. Her fingers work, finding the cremaster muscles which Dr. Saunders and the bevy of nurses worked for many days to loosen, stretching with the scrotum to allow the testicles to further descend. Knowing that the sling aggravates such, she kneads and massages bringing comfort. No one has ever touched 322 in such a manner, not even himself. He lies in exhaustion and finally surrenders to unconsciousness. Marked by a woman... so young... and with such knowledge of the male anatomy...