The Twelve Days of Inmass

...A Part of a Juniper Tree...

"This is the last time we're ever going to have sex," she said as she rode him. "Enjoy it. After this, you will worship me my body and perform oral services. I may even peg you, but you will never again be allowed to penetrate my body. Why is that?"

"Because I am your slave, Mistress," he said. His wrists were in the leather manacles fastened to the headboard with short chains, but to ride him she had mummified him from ankle to thigh with bondage tape rather than using the ankle manacles at the bed's other end. He wore a rubber hood that bared only his mouth, and clover clamps on his nipples.

"That's right," she said. She took the chain connecting the clamps in one hand as she bobbed up and down on his erect penis. "That is all you will ever be, now. Just remember that you chose this. You begged for this, and there is no way out now." She yanked hard on the chain, and he twitched and then she felt his penis pulse, squirt and spasm inside her. "Such an eager slave. Such a nasty pain slut. Was your last sex good, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said.

"Then it's time for this to go," she said, rising off his penis and swatting it with one hand. "Not a sex organ any more. You will be milked, but you're not even going to be allowed ruined orgasms from now on. Touching is forbidden. If you can orgasm from having your arse fucked, I'll allow that. Otherwise, you're done as a sexual being. Won't that be nice?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said. She giggled and teased one reddened, flat nipple with a fingertip, then stood and wrapped her kimono around herself.

"I'm going to let you watch this, but you don't get to see my naked body any more." She removed the hood and he blinked at the light. She thought his dazed, post orgasmic expression was very cute, and had to work at maintaining the stern expression she was wearing as she held up the device in her hand. "You know what this is," she said. "Beg me to put it on you."

His eyes widened and he licked his lips. This was it, the last chance he'd ever have to back out. "Please lock your slave's cock away, Mistress. It doesn't deserve a cock. It doesn't deserve to have sex. It isn't a man. Please lock it away."

"Very well, slave," she said, smiling. She slapped his softening penis, and slid the wooden ring down its length, then popped his balls through one at a time and pulled the tight skin of his scrotum through as well. The ring nestled in place, tightly. The juniper wood was inlaid with stainless steel, and she rotated it so that the fitting for the cage was on top.

"Please, Mistress,' he said. She held the stainless steel cage to his mouth.

"Kiss it." He did as he was told. The cage was less fancy than the ring, just a simple set of polished bars and hoops. The most interesting bit was the locking mechanism. No keyhole, just a small rod that pulled out to fasten it closed, which couldn't be reinserted. She looked him in the eye as she stuffed his wilting penis into the cage, and lined up the lock on the cage and the metal loop on the ring. He was trying to get hard again as she snapped the two together, pulled on the rod, and snapped it off, locking the two mechanisms together permanently. It'd take a hacksaw, or one of those little powered saws jewellers use for tight rings to remove it now.

"Nice and comfy? I hope so, because it's never coming off again now." She kissed his caged cock, bit his sore nipples and began to unwrap his legs from the tape. "Now, you can worship my feet for a while, and we'll see what happens when you try to get hard."

...Two Turtle Doves...

The mixture of scratching and vibration from the tattoo gun was almost pleasant when it didn't cross his spine. Mercifully, the design Neal's master had picked for his tramp stamp was more out to the sides than in the centre. Two doves holding a pair of linked Mars symbols in their beaks. It was only the crossed circles and arrows of the Mars symbols that went over his spine.

Neal had always imagined that his first tattoo would be something a little less feminine. He liked the crossed Mars thing, and had always fancied having that on one arm, but had never got around to it, or perhaps had never dared. He'd also sort of hoped that master had invited a tattooist over to put a slave crest on his right buttock or a property stamp on his crotch or penis. Still, he was a swish not a bear, and a tramp stamp wasn't inappropriate. Master liked him girly, and if he was honest with himself, so did Neil.

At least the tattooist seemed to be a fast worker. He was another of the bikerish leatherboys who were part of Master's circle. An older guy, with grey in his beard and hair. Neal was sure that he didn't have a tramp stamp of two turtle doves. There was dragon coiled around one forearm and what Neal thought was an army regimental badge tattooed on the back of the other. Neal had so far resisted the urge to ask how the job was going when the tattooist paused. He hadn't been introduced to the guy, just ordered to strip and lie down, so it probably wasn't his place to talk to the tattooist anyway.

Neal wondered if he should ask his Master about getting a navel piercing as well. If he was going to spend the summer wearing crop tops bare his midriff, that might go nicely with his new tattoo. He wondered how he'd look in a pair of hotpants, calf boots and a short top. He'd likely be wearing his collar as well. He felt the buzzing from the needlegun move through his body into his penis, which was already semi erect. He hoped that Master might have arranged a discount scheme for inking him, where he sucked the tattooist off. With the small of his back bandaged, getting sodomised would probably be too much to hope for.

...Three French Hens...

Fifi couldn't believe how passable she looked. The corset she wore under the frilly latex maid's uniform had her waist down to twenty four inches, the heels on her courts made her legs look longer and her feet smaller, the collar of her dress was high enough to hide that her bra was padded and cover her Adam's apple, the nub chastity device she was wearing minimised her penis just as well as a gaff and the two other maids she was working with weren't any shorter than she was. She wondered if somebody who didn't know which was which could pick her out from Tamsin and Caitlin and tell which of the three of them was a cross dresser. The small of her back and her ankles were aching from a long shift doing domestic drudgery in for inch heels, but her balls were aching even harder from the feel of the plug in her anus and the stockings on her shaved legs. She couldn't believe how much this was turning her on. She wanted somebody to bend her over a counter and fuck her ass until she screamed.

Of course, a spanking was much more likely. She got the impression that was sort of expected. Tamsin and Caitlin seemed to be taking part in some sort of brat off, daring their supervisors to spank, whip or cane them. The whole affair was a catered, sit down dinner for some of one of the local big deal's kinkier or more daring associates. The notion that somebody would be middle class enough to think that attending a do where the waitresses were wearing rubber costumes was somehow daring had Fifi regretting that she wouldn't have a chance to wipe her arse on a steak or two, but at least the pay was good, even if the tips were unlikely to go any further than a pinched bottom and snotty comments.

The depressing thing was that Caitlin and Tamsin both thought there'd be actual tops attending, and they might catch a Christian Gray's eye while waiting on the table. Fat chance, but Fifi didn't have the heart to tell them.

...Four Colly Birds...

However much Neal adored Mistress Chyna, he always found Thursday afternoons a little intimidating. That was when the three surviving members of Chyna's old gang who weren't in prison or dead came calling. Shanique was convinced that she could make just as much as a Dominatrix as Chyna did, and Talisha had tried to do so and failed miserably, so they were always unpleasant towards Mistress Chyna's live in slave and cuckold. Magenta, who'd married a DJ, wasn't any nicer, but at least she didn't have an axe to grind.

It had crossed Neal's mind a few times that the whole ex gang thing might be a wind up to scare the middle class white boy. If so, he reflected, it was working. Talisha was running to fat a bit, which meant that her mood had been steadily worsening as these afternoons progressed. Of course, nobody had ever suggested that she put skimmed milk in her coffee or lay off the pastries at these coffee afternoons. Neal wondered if he might reclaim a bit of the masculinity he'd abandoned years ago when he'd bought Chyna an ankle bracelet, kissed her feet and begged her to lock his penis away for good and cuckold him.

This sort of thinking, he reminded himself, was nonsense. He wasn't trapped, and could leave any time he wanted. He just found dealing with Mistress Chyna's friends from the sink estate a bit unsettling as they were the type of women he'd have crossed the road to avoid back before he married one of them.

Neal took a moment to centre himself and gather his nerve, rammed down the plunger on the cafetiere and then put that, the milk jug and sugar bowl and the plate of vanilla slices on the tray. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and started towards the living room.

...Five Gold Rings...

Epiphany felt deliciously exposed as she walked, naked, down the alley to the back door of the tattooist's. Even the gooseflesh on her skin and the gritty, cold tarmac under the soles of her feet felt sensual. She was almost disappointed that she hadn't met somebody while she was out like this. She reached the right door, took a deep breath and knocked, then knelt down with her thighs parted and her hands behind her head. This was becoming a ritual, as she had done this for every tattoo and piercing she'd had since becoming a slave. If anything, it was giving her more of a buzz each time rather than lessening.

The door opened, revealing an amused looking Mistress Rhiannon. There was no sign of the bag she'd stuffed Epiphany's clothes into. Mistress Rhiannon petted Epiphany's head and looked her in the eyes.

"Come on in," she said. "He's ready to start."

Epiphany followed her Mistress inside. The tattooist was ready for her and jerked a thumb at the couch next to his chair and workbench. Epiphany sat on the edge of it and spread her legs as he painted her labia and clitoris with disinfectant. She had an idea that this was going to hurt a lot worse than her nipples, tongue and septum had.

She wasn't wrong, and almost fainted as the first needle went through her clitoris. Next to that, the feeling of movement as the ring was screwed to its end, pushed through fresh hole in her flesh, then the needle being unscrewed and replaced with a bead to close the ring was hardly anything. As the initial lancing agony faded to a dull throbbing ache, it was replaced by the pain of the first piercing in her right labia. Epiphany felt the blood drain from her face again, and her Mistress' hands on her shoulders behind her.

"You are such a wuss, slavegirl," Mistress Rhiannon whispered into Epiphany's ear. "Bet you wish you'd gone for the tattoos instead of the piercings instead now, don't you?"

Epiphany nodded, and said "Yes, Mistress," but only because it was expected of her. She'd take five short intense bursts of pain that would be over in less than half an hour than the constant, lesser pain from having her labia, clitoris hood, nipples and areolae tattooed any day, and that was why she'd opted to have her nipples pierced for her birthday and five gold rings in her pussy for Christmas. As the tattooist carefully lined up the first piercing in her left labia to be symmetrical with the one he'd just put in her other lip, Epiphany braced herself, and felt her lover and owner's hands tighten on her shoulder in case she did faint this time. She'd never do something like this for somebody she couldn't trust to catch her if she fell.

...Six Geese A-Laying...

Tiffany shifted from shock to a fit of the giggles as she looked at the occupants of the other stalls in Lord Morphail's cellar. She'd known that he was kinky and had both some very extravagant and recherche fantasies and the money to exercise them, but she hadn't realised he was this baroquely kinky. She'd come here and signed a contract for six months because she'd thought that he was a chubby chaser or a feeder, not that he had a thing about human livestock.

Once she finally had her giggling under control, Tiffany took another look at the occupants of the five stalls, and the empty stall that was obviously waiting for her. She couldn't say that she wasn't scared, but she'd committed herself now, and couldn't back out. Besides, she was at least as curious as to how being restrained like that would feel, as she was frightened to find out.

Each stall held a fat girl, two a little slimmer than Tiffany, three not. She wondered if that was a coincidence or if she'd been picked because she fit into a gap in some sort of range and completed a set. The fat girls had feeding tubes down their throats, catheters in their pussies and thicker tubes up their bottoms. They were held upright in what was either very stiff bondage to a frame or minimal cages, depending upon how you approached things. There were padded metal bands around their ankles, thighs, biceps, wrists and throats with metal bars and struts between them. The position they were held in tilted them forwards and emphasised their bellies and boobs. There were cages around their heads, also linked to the rest of their bondage, over soft-looking rubber hoods that covered everything except the mouths that were held open by what looked like ring gags attached to the cages.

"Hucows?" Tiffany asked, hoping she didn't sound as nervous as she felt. The employee of Lord Morphail's who'd brought her down here to install her smiled and shook his head. Rather than a uniform or formal wear he was dressed in a sweater, jeans and a pair of hiking boots. He had a man bag over one shoulder, but Tiffany couldn't imagine anybody who'd be less likely to sport a manbun or a pair of skinny genes than this amiable gent, who could be any age between a lived in thirty and a very youthful sixty. Tiffany felt a lot more comfortable dealing with him than she had with Lord Morphail. She had an idea that she should have made more of an effort to dress up instead of arriving in her nike joggers and hoodie under a bubble jacket and a pair of Uggs.

"Geese," he said. "And don't worry, it's much nicer than it looks."

"So I'm going to be forcefed to give me a fatty liver for foie gras?" Tiffany said. She had no idea who that was supposed to be a turn on for.

"Oh no, you're going to lay eggs," the servant said. "The poop from each goose is collected, compressed into cakes and served to my lord's special guests."

"Ewww," Tiffany said. Her fit of the giggles was now a distant memory. "I hope none of that goes in my own feed?"

"Of course not." The servant sounded a little indignant. "What you're tube fed will be calorie rich, high in protein and blended to produce firm, solid eggs. Eating shit will just have you spraying a slurry out that's useless to us."

"Those aren't enema tubes up their bums, then?"

"No, they just hold the sphincters open and let the eggs drop under their own steam."

"I see." Tiffany looked at the goose in the stall next to the empty one she'd be occupying. The plastic bag fastened to one of her thighbands was almost full. She still felt nervous, but now she was a little excited as well. The idea that people would be eating her shit was definitely an arousing one, and the notion that it'd be tops doing that just made it even better.

"Why don't you get undressed and I'll get you into a battery once I've checked on all the others?" He paused to pat the goose on the far end's thigh. "Wanda here will be leaving in a few days as the time she signed up for is over, so the sooner we can get you started the better."

"Okay," Tiffany said. "Is there somewhere to put my clothes?" The servant took a clear plastic storage hamper off a shelf, took a printed label out of his pocket and slid that into a slot in the hamper's lid then did a sort of semi bow that struck Tiffany as a bit sneery and then turned his attention back to Wanda.

Tiffany stripped off quickly and put her clothes in the hamper. She didn't see any others, so she imagined there was a store room down here. She watched as the gooseherd changed Wanda's colostomy bag (was it a colostomy bag if it used a catheter not a hole punched through the body into the bladder? Tiffany wasn't sure), checked monitors hooked up to some electrodes on her body, wiped her thigh with an alcohol swab, pricked it with a lancet and used some sort of blood monitor to test it for something or other, checked the hopper at the back of the stall her anal tube went into, then fished a tablet out of his bag and started checking some information on that. Tiffany wondered why the electrodes weren't networked so he could check them on that rather than having to look at a physical readout on a separate bit of gear. Medical stuff, she supposed.

The gooseherd swiped something on his tablet, and Wanda started wriggling. Tiffany found she was giggling again. He swiped his tablet again, then Wanda stopped, then he looked at Tiffany.

"We don't take the geese out for exercise," he said, "so the electrodes stimulate their muscles at regular intervals. More to stop atrophy than for exercise of course, but even so. Wanda seems to be gaining weight quicker this time round, so it's as well to make sure they're working. You will gain weight as a goose, of course, but not as much as Wanda has, hopefully. We may not be able to use her again."

"This isn't the first time she's been a goose, then?" Tiffany said.

"Oh no. Three months every year for five years, now. This might be her last stint if she keeps piling on the pounds like this, though."

Wanda was definitely the fattest of the geese. Tiffany would have bet that both of the two heaviest and maybe the other one who was fatter than her were obese rather than merely overweight. Wanda's belly was big enough to hang down and hide where the catheter emerged from her, and her thighs weren't that much thinner than Tiffany's waist, which wasn't exactly trim.

"Some of the geese we get here," the gooseherd said, "are obviously feedees and more interested in the weight gain than anything else. Wanda, has made piggy girl films, stuffing herself from a trough while her feeder fucks her from behind. If you like I could include them in your video feed once you're hooded."

"Video feed?" Tiffany said.

"There's VR goggles and headphones inside the hoods," the gooseherd said. "You thought you'd just be blind and death for three months as well as immobile? You'd go nuts. No, there's a server loaded with media down here, and a Raspberry Pi in each hood to stop you going stir crazy."

"I would be interested to see Wanda's films, then," Tiffany said. "Thank you." If she was honest, she felt a little jealous of Wanda, huge belly, thunder thighs and all. It must be nice to have a feeder who could afford to pump you full enough of food to get that fat. She was just here because the money for a calender quarter as a goose was twice what she'd make on minimum wage.

"De nada," the gooseherd said. "Now, just let me get the others checked, and then I'll hook you up and get you into your stall.

Tiffany flapped her arms like wings and honked before it occurred to her that he'd have heard that one at least a dozen times if they'd been doing this for five years. She wasn't surprised that he didn't laugh. He finished checking her peers, then came back and started Tiffany's transformation into a goose.