The Fifty Per Cent Club

The Fifty Percent Club 06

Thank you for looking at my story. I'm particularly grateful to those who have stayed with it from the beginning: they may be glad to know that this is the penultimate instalment.

Although this is part of a series, I hope that new readers will find it enjoyable on its own. I also hope that regular readers will keep an eye open for the revised second section, which eliminates the discontinuity between it and the third. At the time of writing it is still languishing the "pending" department.

Ratings and comments are always very welcome.

Chapter Nineteen - The Clinic

By just before ten o'clock on Friday morning, Cockgirl and I were both on my sofa, ready for collection. Both of us were naked, and I was in my usual restraints with my arms behind my back, as I had been told to step through my wrist chain. Cockgirl was in a kneeling hogtie, as had been specified by the anonymous sender of instructions. I was kissing her fervently, not knowing when, if ever, I would meet her again. She did not seem to be holding her whipping against me, although the marks were still clearly visible.

At precisely ten o'clock, four males in dark clothes came into the house, obviously knowing the combinations of the locks. They carried us out through the garage, which was more private than the front drive, and took us away in two separate vans. To this day I don't know the location of the clinic; apparently the Club has access to several, none of which are open to the general public.

I was semi-conscious or unconscious for the rest of Friday and all day on Saturday; dimly aware of people fussing over me but feeling almost nothing. Then, as I began to regain the feeling in various parts of my body, my mouth felt full, and that was no surprise. I had guessed that they would fit me with a ring on my tongue, like Cockgirl's.

I was on soft food for three days, but local painkillers had been combined with accelerated healing agents to ensure that I was hardly aware of the wound, even though the new presence felt massive at first. The same applied to the hole that had been made between my nostrils, that was also like Cockgirl's but filled with a plastic plug for the time being. I had also been pierced towards the bottoms of my outer labia, with thick, heavy metal rings hanging between my legs and clinking when I walked. Other rings were attached to those, so I had three links on each side, about four inches long in total, and they had no locking mechanisms that I could detect.

There would be no more short skirts for me when- or if- I was out in public. I was forbidden to have vaginal sex for three days while the wounds healed. Instead was serviced anally several times that weekend, always on specially-designed stands and benches that prevented any impacts on my new piercings, and I was always blindfolded. The same was true when I was tit-fucked. I gathered that the intermammary intercourse was done mainly to stimulate the tissues in my breasts, for I was given injections, both to make them grow larger and to start them lactating.

To none of these procedures was I asked to consent, and it was only afterwards that I knew everything that had been done to my body. I was pleased that my nipples had not been ringed, and not unhappy at the prospect of being milked, but I had always thought my breasts big enough already. If I had been a topless model I would have already been in the "busty babes" category, and had never cherished the ambition to move into "heavy hangers," still less "humongous hooters." But mine, obviously, was no longer to reason why.

Everything changed after lunch on Sunday. In the morning I was weighed, measured and given so many injections that I felt like an old dartboard. Some were administered with a kind of pistol, which, when triggered, gave me a hearty thump. Tracking devices, previously glued to my thigh, were now implanted in my fatty tissues.

I knew all that because the two pretty nurse-slaves chattered incessantly to one another, but almost never to me. My wrists were, at this point, locked in front of my body but directly to my collar, so I was fed my lunch, which was a more pleasant-tasting gruel than that which sustained Cockgirl. Then I was blindfolded, strapped to something that felt like a vaulting horse, and buggered by an unknown and silent male. I knew that he was a slave because I could feel his wrist cuffs when he rested his hands on my back.

Then I was led, half-supported by the nurses, down several corridors to reach a plush and comfortable office, where I was put in an armchair and my sight was restored. I was left with a middle-aged man who seemed to be a doctor; handsome but short and with a bushy beard. He had quite a lot to say, especially in comparison with the other people I had encountered in the clinic.

"You are the lovely Analia, and I've heard a lot about you," he began. "You have a great future ahead of you as a pleasure slave, but while your breast mature and your milk begins to flow, we've decided to use you to make certain measurements. They will not be painful and you will not be harmed. I don't know whether anyone has explained this to you clearly, but the term "pleasure slave" is an over-arching one under which there can be a number of sub-categories. You will also be a bondage slave, as well as an indoor hucow and a recreational ponygirl. Is that all clear to you so far?'

It had been over a week since anyone had asked me a question, so it took me a moment to grasp that I was supposed to answer. "I suppose so, master," I replied. "In general terms they're self-explanatory, but I don't know in detail what they mean."

"You don't have to. You should call me 'doctor' and refer to me as 'Doctor Charles'." We're only talking about bondage slavery here and now. The orthodoxy is that slaves are kept helpless for long periods, their muscles atrophy and their joints become less supple. That means, for instance, that if your wrists were locked behind your back for twenty-four hours, you would then have to spend at least one on something like a rowing machine, with a definite target. Failure to meet it would mean a whipping, and another attempt.

"We are going to try to quantify the phenomenon, with a view to minimizing the time wasted on machines. Before you leave here, very precise measurements will be taken of your muscle mass, strength and stamina. Then you will be kept in bondage for a week, with a slave to attend to your needs, and the measurements will be repeated. There might be a further week if the results are inconclusive. For you it will be at least a week of pampering, so you should enjoy it. Any questions?"

He ended so abruptly that I was lost for words. He had left the room before I could think of anything to ask. Then the nurses came in, and the next day and a half was very unusual, though not unpleasant. To begin with I was spread out in an "X", quite tight but not stretched, and all the muscles of my limbs were examined with a hand-held scanner. Little pads were stuck to my skin to stimulate my muscles with electric shocks, and the effects were duly recorded.

Then it got more interesting, as they tested the way my muscles reacted to sexual stimulation. At first it was very mild, just stroking and kneading my breasts and tweaking my nipples. One of the nurses touched and even kissed my lips, but was careful not to push inside my mouth. Then one of them started to work on my clitoris, fingering mainly are area around it before touching the bud itself. She was very careful not to touch me further down, where the piercings in my labia were still tender.

Both the slave-nurses were very skilful and extremely empathic, so they could sense my orgasms approaching, and when I had reached my peak. They could shepherd me through the calm periods before I began to rise towards the next climax. It might be a truism to say that they played me like a musical instrument, but that was what they did.

When I was chained down in the "X" position on a bed or a mattress, users always left a little slack, so that my joints were not damaged when they put their weight on me. They usually played safe, so when I fought the chains during my orgasms I could pull on them, producing the "snapping" sound that often seemed to give them an extra thrill. This time, however, the table on which I was bound had only thin padding, and the nurses had left me no slack. That made a huge difference.

When I came, there was no way for me to "use up" the sensations, which therefore surged through my body like big waves in a small pond. My muscles strained and my sinews stretched, and my body arched as it rose from the table. They carried on, however, through one orgasm after another, until the readings on their instruments told them that I was exhausted. Although it was my arms and shoulders in which they were most interested, they took readings from my calf and thigh muscles as well.

I was kept sexually satisfied during that short but crowded period, for the nurses were very expert with their fingers, lips and tongues and I could imagine them servicing patients in much more delicate condition than me. I lost count of the number of injections, some of them in my breasts, and some administered with the pistol-like devices that still shocked me with their power.

My breasts, I gathered from what the nurses said to one another, had been singled out for a special and experimental treatment. Most female sex-slaves were given treatments that both stimulated tissue growth in their breasts to make them bustier, and caused some of the existing bulk to be converted into milk-producing glands. It was usually a very gradual process that could take months to complete. Recently, a whole new family of growth-stimulants had been discovered, along with faster ways of producing and using stem-cell cultures. If my treatment went according to plan I would be the "finished article" in no more than a fortnight.

Chapter Twenty - The Auction Block

I was mildly disappointed that I was not allowed to watch the auctioning of Cockgirl and others, which I knew would be streamed on private internet sites. I had to be content with a 'highlights' version on Monday morning, while I was face-down on a massage table being both manipulated and subjected to another barrage of injections. Some of the latter went deep in my back passage, so at times I struggled to concentrate on the screen.

Cockgirl had been displayed, like the half-dozen others who were for sale, spread between two vertical posts. Each slave- four female, two male and the solitary shemale- was in a separate cell which was locked when there were no viewers present. Visitors were allowed in one at a time, although partners or groups from syndicates could go together. They were allowed to examine the lots from every angle, to poke into mouths and other orifices, to squeeze breasts and stroke cocks, but not to attempt any penetrative sex.

As Cockgirl was an unusual lot, there was more leeway than usual. Virtually all her viewers kissed her, often while tracing my whipmarks with their fingernails. I was pleased to see that they were still clearly visible. Most pushed fingers deep into her bottom, and spent some time getting the feel of her breasts. A few were clearly affected by their artificial look, and they were probably not inclined to bid.

There was always a supervisor present, and he watched the kissing particularly closely. On a couple of occasions he was not convinced that Cockgirl had given of her best, and a few lashes followed, often intersecting with my marks. The programme only featured a few of the viewers, for most preferred not to be seen on TV. Those who were willing were probably hoping to generate offers of business, and so were, in a sense, putting on performances.

The auction hall was a theatre, and the lighting had been adjusted to ensure that the audience was virtually invisible from the stage, and the cameras never showed the bidders. All the slaves were displayed in light, gleaming chains, with their wrists behind their backs and their ankles hobbled. A long, light chain ran from their collars, through their wrist cuffs to their ankles.

It must have been a nerve-racking time for them, posing for an unseen audience and expected to display themselves to best advantage. The auction block rotated slowly, and they tried to undulate their bodies, swing their breasts and push out their bottoms as they turned. If the auctioneer was dissatisfied with their efforts he would encourage them with a stroke or two of his whip.

The bidding seemed quite slow, but that was probably because, with very valuable merchandise, the reserve prices were high and the potential buyers in the dozens rather than hundreds. If the theatre was packed it was mainly with spectators. I was interested to see how the males displayed themselves. They, and Cockgirl, were all presented erect, and tended to push their hips forward, emphasising their manhood without making it too obvious that they were doing so. Cockgirl looked nervous to me, but she had the presence of mind to push her bottom towards the buyers as if asking to be sodomized. She had clearly been lashed much more than any of the other lots.

Although I did not understand the currency units involved, I had the impression that all the lots went for good prices, with Cockgirl being the most expensive. Her buyer was never shown, but there was coverage of the slaves being prepared for transport. Some bidders, confident that they would not be leaving empty-handed, had brought their own restraints, but if not, a blacksmith was available to put their purchases in irons for the journey to their new homes.

The programme ended with a shot of a plain white van driving away, and I was then released from the table and fed my lunchtime gruel. Then, with my ankles hobbled and my wrists behind my back, I was led down the corridors to visit Doctor Charles. This time I was much more conscious of my labial rings, as the painkillers had worn off. They did not hurt, but the thought that they would always be there- that I would never be able to remove them- made me come close to hyperventilating. Somehow, the feeling of them swaying below my vulva and stretching my pussy lips seemed intimately connected to the presence in my mouth.

The feelings aroused by my consciousness of being at the mercy of people who could alter my body at will made me very unsteady, but I was soon put more at my ease by the doctor, who seemed in a convivial mood. He immediately distracted me from my feelings about myself.

"I expect you're curious to know what happened to Cockgirl," he began. "She fetched a very high price, bought by a syndicate based about a hundred miles from here. The 50% Club sometimes does exchanges with them, so there's a good chance that you'll see her again. They have a reputation for whipping their slaves a lot, so the marks that you left probably spurred their buyer on to make sure that he won her. They have a dozen members, so she'll be very well used."

His tone of voice suggested that I should be relieved- even proud- that my efforts had helped to secure a good home for Cockgirl. I had no knowledge of the ways in which syndicates worked or treated their sex-slaves. If she was going to be whipped regularly for the next twenty or thirty years, presumably she was also going to be well fed, housed and cared for, and kept in tight and secure bondage. Perhaps that was the best to which she could aspire. Doctor Charles obviously thought so, but he was turning his attention to me.

My attention was also on him. Unlike the slave-nurses who wore flimsy latex uniforms that left little to the imagination, he was properly dressed in a shirt and long trousers, with a white coat over the top. I thought he must be warm, as I was comfortable naked, and I wished he would disrobe and find some way to ravish me that would not damage my new piercings. I made sure that I was sitting with my knees well apart and my ankles crossed, opening my vulva to his gaze. He certainly looked at the bait, but he didn't take it. Instead he told me what was going to happen to me during the next few days. It was long speech, and I had to make an effort to concentrate, still being just a little woozy from various medications.

"Later this afternoon, Analia, your wrists and hands will be bound behind your back. We will be using a modern self-annealing tape that, when cured, will encase your hands in something resembling rubber, although it is flesh-coloured and can be dyed to match any skin. Your wrists will also be bound to your waist, using the same substance. It is almost impregnable, so it can't be cut with, for instance, a Stanley knife or a hacksaw, and a drill would clog up immediately. It's one of the substances that responds to a chemical code, and every batch has its own release agent. We will be keeping that here when you are sent home.

"Although you'll be a free woman in your own home, you won't be able to manage with your hands fixed behind your back. You will be much more helpless than you would be in simple wrist cuffs. You will, therefore, have a full-time nurse-assistant who'll see to all your needs and watch over your physical condition. It will be one of our nurse-slaves, and because you are a free woman, you may express a preference.

"You should bear in mind that your nurse will be in a difficult position. She will need to keep you safe and secure, and some of the manual treatment that must be applied to your breasts is not very pleasant. If the results are sub-optimal she will be very severely punished, possibly to the extent of being transferred to a non-clinical role such as compost and sewage treatment.

"On the other hand, she will be there to serve you, to meet your needs and to keep you happy. If you report to us that she has not done so, she will also be punished, at least to the extent of being whipped, and probably being put on bedpan duties for a month or two. We hope that you will help her to find a middle path and to do her duty without displeasing you."

"I like to make friends, doctor," I replied. "If she acts in good faith, I will act with goodwill. If I may choose, doctor, I would like to nominate the black nurse who, I think, is called Thirteen, if that is a name, doctor."

"Our nurses don't have names. Of course you can have her. I'm sure it's a good choice. As we're coming to a conclusion now, let me say that I'm not going to shag you this time, but I'll test you before you're finally discharged from our care. That'll probably be in about a fortnight, and I'll be looking forward to it."

"So am I, doctor. I hope that when that time comes, you'll allow me to call you 'master'."

Chapter Twenty-One - Homeward Bound

After my meeting with Doctor Charles, the nurses set about binding my wrists, overseen by a male technician who was an expert in the use of the material which was very like flesh-coloured insulating tape. My wrists were crossed behind my back and the tape was carefully wound around them many times, both horizontally and vertically. With the technician watching carefully, the nurses made sure that it was a very snug fit, but not stretched, or in any way compressing my blood vessels. When they were satisfied, the man "painted" the tape with liquid from a tin, and in a surprisingly short time the layers merged to form thick, impenetrable and unbreakable bands.

The tape was left to cure for half an hour while we all had tea, and I watched Thirteen carefully for any signs that she was aware of her new role. There were none. The second stage was to tape my wrists against my waist at the small of my back, winding it right around my body several times. It was a revelation when it was cured, for it bonded to my skin so flawlessly that, running a finger over it, an observer would have detected nothing by touch except a slight thickening. I understood then that it was had also bonded to the skin of my wrists, so even a tool that could cut it would not make it possible to free me without doing serious damage.