Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Three

“How do you feel, 387? Tummy full?”

The African woman returns, hands lowering, fingers working to disconnect my feed bag.

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you Ma’am,” I find myself humbly replying, the many weeks of sensory deprivation obliterating all resistance and latent disrespect.

“Remember to sit feet parted, 387. We have spreader bars for disobedient girls. You won't enjoy that. You’re to show yourself, open at all times. Now let’s get you prepared for presentation. Time for your benefactor to inspect and enjoy.”

As a free hand moves to disconnect my leash from the oversized ring of metal on the wall above, I note the other holds a sjambok... a simple implement of correction and encouragement. Made of cheap plastic, the end tapered for whippiness, I quickly learned to avoid its sting, the walk from the indoctrination building to the breeding chamber short but painful.

The handlers enjoy offering quick correcting taps. I also quickly learned to prance on my toes for them. The bouncing breasts both humiliate and bring amusement.

A strong hand tugs and I struggle to rise, my motion awkward with arms and hands useless and legs cramped. For my efforts, deemed untimely, the sjambok taps my left cheek. I lurch, the pain limited but unexpected.

“Come my igikeri. We have some special treatment for you.”

“My hands... my arms... it’s too tight... the rods... can they be loosened,” my voice quavering with my meek plea.

“Ah... of course they can. But for now it is best that you understand that mercy here at Nusquam is earned. And for now, with your arms so positioned, it presents nicely the breasts... for examination.”

With her words the handler slips the sjambok into her leash hand and demonstrates, palpating right mammary gland than left. And I must agree, with the pectoral muscles stretched, the breast flesh is soft and vulnerable to touch. They hang... my tits... invitingly.

Her fingers bring my nipples to crinkle. I blush. The handler has often fondled the breasts of  Nusquam subjugants, causing my prideful glands to rise and point.

“Your titties, we’ll have them producing for us. We know how to handle lactating girls. You’ll soon be letting down and dropping babies for us... just like 226. She’s quite fecund. Number six is baking in the oven for us.”

My handler turns and tugs. I rise to my toes and prance, my thoughts diverting to the fattened form of 226, the oversized belly not entirely resulting from the massive infusion of thick white sludge. She’s expecting... child number six... yet contrasting her gruesome physique, the face remains young. She looks not 30 years of age!

 My handler leads. An occasional firm tug establishes her control, sends her message of dominion. She looks back, smiling as my ample breasts jiggle libidinously in response.

Yes, I am well endowed there, proud of my glands, used judiciously to entice and attract men of culture and substance... i.e. money. My husband... exhusband... was entranced, marveling at the firm roundness... marveling all the way to the alter.

And now they serve to entertain.

Into a large room my handler leads. It appears to be a combination of medical facility and television studio, cameras mounted high in each corner. Yet there are mirrors... floor to ceiling on each of the four walls. I cannot help glancing at myself... limbs encircled with finely crafted steel bands at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles, neck collar, forehead tattooed with the large numerals 387. There shows my brand... the letter ‘N’, the crimson keloided flesh prominently announcing my state of servitude.  

I am weighed. My 146 pounds recorded on a chart, the steel restraints adding some fifteen pounds to a body I have pridefully worked to keep shapely.

I am led to a table. Knee high, I am directed to mount and kneel. Stanchions accommodate my yoke. Cables with snaphooks bind me... unnecessarily with my yoke secured. Still my handler assures I am positioned with knees widely parted, the cables attached to my ankle and thigh bands forcing me to luridly display all a woman has been trained to modestly veil.

To assure the sense of thorough bondage, cables emanating from the table below are also hooked to my neck collar, elbow bands and wrist bands. The leash is removed and I find myself restrained absolutely motionless. The sense of helplessness and vulnerability cannot be described. And with arms already stretched to the limit by the adjustable rods, the added stress brings an irrepressible groan of anguish and frustration.

My handler smiles. Hands reach to my breasts, fingers gently tweaking my nipples. She enjoys. I am shamed to find her touch is welcomed.

“Suck some cock, 387, and the rods will be shortened,” aware of the source of my suffering. “One centimeter for each satiated penis. We have lots of big black cock for you. Your file suggests you like that.”

During indoctrination, the deluge of psychological blather, references to my dalliances with Dr. Grayson Hubbard were constant, my exhusband... for some reason referred to as my benefactor here at Nusquam... apparently detailing the many secret rendevous which led to divorce... the detective agency quite meticulous in documenting our many afternoon trysts. 

“And these will soon be put to work. You’ll express for us nicely 387. I don’t doubt it,” the words of my handler I am sure intended as a compliment.

My temperature is taken, anally as one must expect at Nusquam. Heart rate checked, blood pressure taken. All recorded along with my weight. Distantly comforting to know my medical condition is well monitored.

I am strangely disappointed when she steps away. Long held in chastity, her fingers have excited, despite the gender of the source. Yes, I feel myself moisten. And in realizing my bound nakedness is subject to recording, the cameras many, I blush. Yet there is arousal.

“Some gukuna imishino,” my handler proclaims, returning with a jar of oddly colored ointment.

Stepping behind me, fingers work, lubricating my vulva with the strange ointment. It warms. There is unwanted thrill. Then such press inward, finding the pink of my inner labia.

“A very old salve... from Africa... Rwanda. You’ll feel some tingling. It forces your labia to swell for me. Then I can work you... stretch your lips. In time you’ll have nice long strips of pink flesh... make your benefactor happy.”

As the fingers work, firmly pinching and pulling, it comes to mind that in time I will have the genitalia of 226. I envision her lips, resting languorously on the concrete floor of our detention room. I shudder in concern, my entire body fighting the many binding cables.

“Please no,” breaking my silence.

“Oh but yes. And not to worry, you’ll have matching nipples. All to please your benefactor.”

‘Damn you Roger Pearson’, I think but do not dare say aloud with all the recording devices.