'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

true.”

“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

modify.”

“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

year.

“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

count.

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

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

college?”

“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

bred.

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

ring.

“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?