Author's note
: Just some fantasies that didn't make sense to include in
The Modified Slave
, although there are obvious recurring themes. I listed this story under BDSM but consent is... very, very dubious. It's not romantic or even necessarily sexy. Includes extreme (female) slavery, body modification (not including piercings or tattoos) and shaming, and degradation/depersonalization, with a pinch of submissive husband and pregnancy fetish. Oh, and just a dash of silly vulgarity, if that bothers you.
Henry Cooper woke to the hazy near-dark of a winter morning. The camel wool comforter kept him cozily insulated from the chilled air, but he couldn't help but miss the familiar heat of his wife's body beside him. She'd left yesterday for a professional conference in a tropical locale where she planned to spend the following weekend enjoying the sun and sand. It was a well deserved break; with four doctors and an office manager, her psychiatric practice had been doing better than ever. It was not her fault that the house felt like less of a home when she was gone.
He sat up, sliding his feet into the neatly arranged slippers waiting on the floor and removing his phone from the charger. He would have liked to send a
good morning
text message for when she got up in a few hours time, but her expectations about communication had been very clear. If she wanted to hear from Henry, she would contact him herself. And, of course, she could watch the security cameras that were mounted in every room except her private boudoir and office--both locked while she was away--whenever the inclination so arose.
It was Tuesday, and Henry rather liked Tuesdays. Per his wife's wishes, he worked remotely for two and a half days a week, from Wednesday morning to Friday afternoon. He would never have imagined giving up his biomedical engineering career when they first met; he would never have imagined quite a lot of things. But he had found a certain satisfaction in keeping the house, and as he checked his notifications, his mind settled at the comforting prospect of routine.
No alerts from the monitoring application he had coded, though his undisturbed night of rest already attested to that. He stood, scrolling through the data on the screen. Average sleep depth with some interruptions, but that was to be expected. Regularity and duration were more important, and both of those metrics were on track. Heart rate and oxygen saturation looked good. All equipment appeared to be in place and functioning as expected. On to more pressing matters.
Henry bypassed the inaccessible ensuite, but instead of making his way to the bathroom located off the kitchen, he followed the hallway that led to what would be described as a gym if they ever resold the house. This room was also locked, but the discrete digital display of the handle woke to his fingerprint and he had been given the four-digit code required for entry. Though the door appeared much the same as any of the others--blackened steel with a rust patina that added an old-world charm to the home's mostly modern sensibility--it was much heavier. It swung inward from a soundproofing strip installed into the casing, demarcating where dark wood flooring turned to pure black rubber.
He flicked on the bright overhead lights; the direction of the window and the privacy screen that obscured its view kept the room dim at almost all hours of the day. A countertop with an inset sink supported by white laminate cabinets and drawers ran the length of one of the walls, large mirror panels mounted seamlessly above it. The perpendicular wall had matching floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. It was
not
a gym, though the black metal and vinyl padded contraptions could be misleading upon first glance--when a nearly-naked body was not trussed to one of them, at least.
The body was face up in a modified gynecological chair that could be mistaken for a very high-tech massage table when laid at a slight incline for the purpose of sleeping, as it was now. The top was cushioned, but the adjustable structure beneath hid all manner of appliances and accessories. Cuffs at the wrists kept them restrained to the arms of the chair, which were flush with the surface in this position. The ankles were similarly confined, slightly overhanging the edge of the table and restrained to hard points at each corner. The figure was secured with additional straps crossing the torso and attached to a variety of tubes leading to nearby apparatuses.
Rounding the chair to head, Henry pressed his index finger into the mouth and received a small suck in return. He knew what the slave looked like beneath the mask--a once-a-week necessity for maintaining hygiene--but it was
that
face that felt like the true disguise. This was the slave: shiny black latex tight over a smooth bald head, matching blindfold obscuring boring brown eyes, and pale pink lips inflated to ridiculous proportions with far more filler than was recommended by reputable cosmetic aestheticians.
He removed the noise-cancelling headphones, hearing his wife's hypnotic degradation through the wireless receivers as he set them by the docked MP3 player and turned off the recording. The slave was suitably brainwashed two years into its indefinite servitude, but the soundtrack seemed to help set a state of mind that made hours of doing nothing easier to tolerate. He disconnected the nasogastric tube from the feeding pump--which had shut itself off once the formula bag was empty--and tucked it into a little pocket on the cheek of the mask that kept it mostly invisible. The IV hydration drip was detached from the saline lock in the right hand and taped to the skin before the cuff was unlocked and loosened enough to allow Henry to cover the disconcertingly human hand with the a more appropriate latex mitten. Reconfiguring all the other accoutrement for daytime use would be dealt with after his bathroom break.
Henry inserted a ring gag attachment and buckled it tight. He would much prefer slipping his soft dick into the mouth that looked more like an asshole than the slave asshole did these days, tip sliding over the gummy guards slotted over the teeth with a few well-placed bumpers, and pissing against the uvula and down the throat. Unfortunately, his member was not allowed into any slave orifices in such a way without his wife's physical presence or express permission. Still, California was in a drought and using the slave as a urinal saved more water than even their low-flow toilets. The funnel it was.
After lowering the chair for irrigation purposes, Henry slotted the drainage tube into the mouth. He slipped his cock from his boxers, holding the white plastic funnel below his groin and watching the dark orange color of the day's first piss circle the drain. Ah... relief. For him, anyway. The catheter inserted into the slave was capped to prevent drainage, and while this deposit would not strain the bladder that had been trained to hold a larger-than-average capacity, it would cause discomfort sooner rather than later.
The motion of the throat as the slave swallowed was barely detectible, given the thick collar that joined the mask to the latex ensemble below. The thinner under layer covered the entire upper body with the exception of holes for the breasts. It was cut with raglan seams, which a thicker long-sleeved bolero had been adhered to with glue. Over the chest was an open-cup bra, the construction of which provided additional lift and shape to the admittedly meager endowments it was designed for. The shirt continued over the stomach and waist, the lighter weight fabric cutting a less pleasing figure than the corset that obscured it for most of the day, before curving to frame the buttocks and pubic mound and tapering into suspenders. The four straps were fastened to latex leggings, which were padded at the knee and bonded to matching socks. Wrist and ankle cuffs covered seams that betrayed where concessions had been made to maximize versatility and functionality.
When he was finished, Henry placed the gag, tube, and funnel into a nearby plastic bin and raised the bench once more. Suction cups were next. The digital pumping unit was flipped off and hoses disconnected from valves on three acrylic cylinders. He unscrewed the articulated arms keeping the cups over each nipple upright--an effort to minimize stretch marks in the surrounding area--and moved them out of the way. Pulling the tab that released the air did nothing, as the barrels were so stuffed there was simply no air to release. Unconcerned, he pressed against where plastic lip met smooth skin, breaking the seal and grasping each container in his hands. He pulled--
hard
--against the tumescent teats that kept them trapped, until, after a satisfying
pop
and a splatter of liquid, they were added to the plastic bin.
This substance was a clear-ish discharge that the nipples had begun to produce in rather copious amounts after around a year of continuous and recurring pumping. The slave could, in a sense, be milked, and the shape and size of the disfigured nipples invited just that. The inch and a half wide areolas were distended to almost two and a quarter inches long--according to the measurements he had taken the previous day--and topped by thick nipples. They bobbled buoyantly on the chest, looking, for all intents and purposes, like condoms filled with water.
Henry poured a generous amount of cold-pressed almond oil enriched with vitamins A and E into his hand and began working each dick nipple, massaging around the base and jerking off the shaft with increasing force and pressure. Before the slave had become the slave, it had reacted to nipple stimulation with vigorous enthusiasm. With the increased surface area and blood flow, the skin was likely even more sensitive now than it was then. However, the slave had been disabused of any overly emotional or performative outbursts, and only the quickening of the chest and punctuated puffs of breath indicated its happiness. The milk ducts dribbled with the strange secretion, and he continued his ministrations until they had been drained dry.
