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

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

Enjoy.

CB

*****

Bred

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.