Saturday, June 3, 2017

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment One

Back with you with a change of genre. Female dominant/female submissive. Forced lactation.

This story is an offshoot of my book 'Nusquam' available from Pink Flamingo.

It stands on its own, but if the setting enthuses, the 'Nusquam' book is available...

http://www.pinkflamingo.com/Nusquam-ebook-PF6250e.htm?categoryId=-1

I have not yet decided how many segments I will post. But the full story will be available on Lulu soon.

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Nusquam, Letting Down

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

My grimace is followed by a low moan, not to be suppressed. My compatriot sitting before me smiles. She likewise sits in nakedness, apparently more acclimated to the slow unending suffering of the yoke.

“Yes, it’s sluggish, subtle torment. But the yoke is adjustable... fiendishly adjustable. And after you’ve sucked enough cock, they’ll shorten the rods.”

I nod, not ready to speak. Neck encircled in smooth stainless steel, rods of matching metal extend from the back of my collar well out over my shoulders where a loop of cable captures right thumb and left. As the woman suggested... number 226 accordingly to the bold numerals emblazoned on her forehead... the rods can be mercifully slid inward, relieving unending stress on my fully extended arms. Her rods comfortably... relatively comfortably... allow her hands and arms to hang below at her shoulders, elbows bent.

“So what brought you to Nusquam, 387? Jilted boyfriend? Jealous husband? Enraged exhusband? I’ve learned it’s expensive here... being indoctrinated. Someone has paid much money to assure you’re well tucked away and in constant torment.”

Having endured weeks of isolation and a barrage of psychological input, I find myself shy and not overly eager to freely speak. Finally offered relative emancipation from my tight plastic encasement, seemingly floating in my own excretions, I remain somewhat traumatized... enduring constant bondage, enduring the permanent tattooing of my forehead, enduring the excruciating branding of my right buttock. I now bear the letter ‘N’ quite prominently.       

Despite my silence, this number 226 proves to be loquacious, continuing her discourse, I suppose attempting to bring comfort.

“For me it was a boyfriend from whom I foolishly attempted to extort some dough for a trip. He quickly dumped me. Then I went nuclear, threatening to expose all his illicit dealings... close to the mob if not being an actual member. Gave him 30 days to come up with a six figure payment in cash... more than the vacation money I originally demanded. Bad move. In the middle of the night some very clever and sneaky folks broke into my apartment. I was drugged and ended up here... wherever here is. The constant heat suggests the tropics.”

As the woman speaks I visually assess. Leashed by her steel neck collar to a formidable ring on the wall above, she is bald and tattooed as am I, and no doubt branded. The naked form is hideous. There are rolls of fat, extensive and sadly drooping. Nipples extending from outsized glands are those of a bovine. Between the thighs lengthy strips of pink flesh drape to rest on the concrete floor, her labia stretched to disproportional limits. Feeding tube, projecting from her right nostril, it is difficult to imagine her as the girl friend... eye candy... of an influential mobster. She’s been gruesomely transformed.   

“You know, they like to send messages... the mafia guys... sort of like warnings... for the next girl who attempts blackmail... threatens to talk to the authorities. You know you’ll be filmed here... video taped... while and when enduring the five ‘P’s.”

Number 226 smiles at my inquisitive look.

“Plumped, pregnant, prepared for penetration... and presented... though some say paraded.”

“Pregnant?” I must inquire, finally finding my voice.  

My blurt brings outright laughter.

“You’ve apparently not been offered a full overview of Nusquam, 387. This is a special building, the breeding chamber, one segment of a large enclave for deviant libertines. You’re going to be impregnated. During your last period, did your handler not write something on your left cheek?”

I nod, indeed something was scribbled where I cannot see.

“Turn to your right.”

Sitting upright, leaning against the wall of the low cinder block building, I twist, exposing my left cheek.

“5/15. You’re to be inseminated on May 15, whenever that is. Presumably in two weeks time you’ll be ovulating. But don’t fret, during the procedure you’ll be masturbated... and other than those of the members, orgasms are rare here. And thereafter you’ll be well cared for as long as you suck cock, bend and spread. Just don’t come to enjoy it too much. When they determined the anal penetration became enjoyable for me, that’s when the bastinado began. Haven’t been able to walk normally since... without my special shoes,” her glance going to the adjacent wall wear there rests odd footwear. “Even modest applications of the sjambok can over time bring permanent irritation to the fibrous tissue of the soles. Do try to avoid it.”

Our interchange ends when a woman of color approaches our ascetic chamber bearing plastic feeding bags brimming with thick white liquid.

“Ah, feeding time. They want quiet so just relax and enjoy, 387. Within weeks you’ll begin to look like me. Many thousands of insalubrious calories... forcibly induced. These handlers... they’re strict. And though good, do not expect mercy. Tormenting white women seems to amuse. All are from Rwanda so you’re going to learn some of the Kinyarwanda language. Words like igikeri and gukuna imishino. And don’t fight or resist. Your days of glamour and beauty are over... just as are mine. You’re going to look just as they want you to look... like an igikeri. Whomever you’ve angered has paid much to assure it.”

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