Unfuckable 1

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.

Henry adjusted the chair and restraints, preferring an angle with a more advantageous view for removing the larger cylinder located over the cunt. The section of the bench that made it long enough to lay on was folded down in favor of the more classic stirrup attachments, the back positioned upright and arms angled with a couple foot presses against a pedal. He placed the corresponding limbs into the knee braces and foot trays and dragged the butt to the edge of the seat. Once the bondage was redone, he pushed the thighs together and elevated the legs to about chest-level.

The cunt did not fill the entirety of the long vessel around it, and thus put up less of a fight. What was released, however, was a sight unlike any other. The grotesquely bloated organ made a mockery of the misogynistic notions of an

outie

, dangling close to four inches in the air as it now did. Henry took measurements of the slave twice a week--Sunday morning after six days of pumping and Monday morning after a 24 hour break. While the latter did not look nearly so impressive as the former, it did reveal a cunt past the point of no return. Even after the rest period, the previously hidden crevice between inner and outer labia stayed a third meaty ring. The clitoris was nowhere to be found, but that was for the best; the Mistress of the slave had no use for it.

Henry could imagine how tight the hole would be, had his wife not decreed otherwise. As he stared now, even those corpulent lips could not hide the obvious and open yawn of an exhausted cunt canal. Stretching it out had been a somewhat difficult task; a vagina was, after all, designed to fit a baby and bounce--mostly--back. But Henry delighted in finding ways to make his wife's devious ideas into reality. Huge insertions that kept the entrance expanded open for long periods of time had been the key to weakening elasticity.

He thrust his hand into the ruined opening, cupping on the upswing and fisting on the downswing. It slid in and out like a hot knife through butter. "Squeeze," he ordered, stopping wrist-deep. Henry could see the slave obey by the tightening of the ass cheeks, but the orifice he was currently impaling barely fluttered.

Henry had been allowed to penetrate this sad excuse of a fuck hole once or twice since the slave had successfully been conditioned to reach orgasm only with a specific phrase spoken by his wife--which she had used exactly zero times since. He had no experience of the

before

with which to compare, but he found the warm wet void pleasant despite its inability to bring him to satisfaction. He wondered what it would feel like when it prolapsed, which was only a matter of time now. Sooner, if his wife authorized the use of the sex machine. She probably would; he could imagine her amusement at the slave's insides being on the outside, glossy red nails batting at that sensitive ruffle like a cat with a toy.

The ass was getting close to that as well, having given up its resiliency long before the cunt. With thighs closed and tailbone tucked, it looked like a vertical squiggly line. As the legs were split open, puffy anal lips clung together until they slowly but surely separated into an expression of slackened surprise. Henry's fist was accommodated just as easily in this hole as the other--a fact that thrilled him. The gape he had cultivated was beyond his wildest dreams, though he doubted he would have gone this far if not otherwise prompted. It

would

be nice if it could still be used for its original purpose--as an ass to fuck so he'd stop annoying his wife with requests for anal--but even if that were possible, it was no longer permitted. The slave was to be used as a masturbatory aid, not an actual sex toy.

The slave did not have a diet that included solid food, and the only way it passed waste was with regular intervention. In fact, Henry was sure that his over-enthusiasm administering enemas had rendered the slave unable to control the bowels, and the reintroduction of normal sustenance would likely create a constant and uncontrollable mess. As he had no interest in a demonstration, he douched the anus until it ran clear. Afterwards, he extracted the end of the catheter from the chunky cunt, attached it to a drainage collection bag, and left to go make himself breakfast. When he got back, the bag would be added to others in the mini fridge to be used for the weekly deep cleaning; just another way he did his part to help the environment.

The slave was given a break from latex and pumping on Sundays. After it's exercises but before it was measured and cleaned, Henry would warm the piss to slightly above body temperature and deliver it through the inflatable butt plug made for just this scenario until the tummy looked a minimum of five months pregnant. Then he would stroke the stomach and compliment the slave on the piss baby. Henry thought the slave looked best with fat sausage nipples waggling back and forth over the horizon of a rotund waistline that did nothing to hide the horror-show pussy. Sometimes, when he got caught up in the moment, he wished that the slave lactated for real.

He was greatly disturbed by his desire for the slave to be with child. Henry's wife had decided they were not going to have kids, and while her two cats left something to be desired when it came to raising and nurturing, the thought of siring offspring with this...

creature

sickened him. And he would never,

ever

wish the things he wanted to do to the pregnant slave upon his pregnant wife. And yet, he pictured the sight of a head crowing from between those turgid cunt flaps. Imagined the baby shooting straight out of the baggy hole like a newborn giraffe. Wondered how much milking it would take until the tits were saggy and wrecked, nipples pointing downwards instead of straight out and dragging against the belly when it was inevitably bred once again.

His wife had laughed when he confessed these thoughts to her. "The slave is livestock, dearest husband. You shouldn't think of it as a person." This, he realized, was true. It wasn't like the slave could rejoin society. The slave was no longer human, the slave was the slave. If the slave was ever

not

the slave, it would likely be because it had become the thing--an object kept in a box instead of a cage. Better to postpone that particular development. Executing too quickly on too many ideas was not sustainable in the long run. There would be a certain point in the future when they would exhaust their creativity, and then what?

No one in their right mind would consent to such a disgusting and permanent transformation, and the slave was neither in its right mind nor consenting. It had consented to some things at some point, obviously. But the brainwashing combined with the utter destruction of identity and independence put this solidly in the gray area.

Dark

gray. Minimizing the legal risks and ramifications required ensuring that the slave lasted a very, very long time. Insemination could wait until it was in its 30s. As for some of his wife's ideas, well... he wasn't even sure it was possible to find doctors willing to break the Hippocratic Oath to such an extent.

He sighed, banishing his worries before they could ruin his good mood. All the slave needed was the corset, and then it would be ready to start the day. After being cinched, Henry picked it up and took it to the exercise bike in the corner. Arms under the thighs, he lined up the cunt before pushing it down on the dildo that was mounted to the seat. He positioned the feet and locked the ankles to the pedals. Next, the wrists were secured together behind the slave and then to the back of the collar. Nipple clamps attached to the handlebars kept the slave bent forward at the hips.

"Thirty minutes at 50 RPMs," he said as he entered the parameters on the touch screen and then left once more. He had chores to attend to; the electric shocks delivered via dildo and clamps would ensure compliance without supervision. Or it wouldn't, and the slave would continue cycling until it did. This slow pace was meant to prevent muscle atrophy and other side effects of a largely sedentary life, while keeping sweat--and the need to take off the latex--to a minimum. Sundays were for cardio, followed by neuromuscular electrical stimulation and weight training. The gym contained a phototherapy unit and a whole host of other equipment meant to keep the slave in reasonable physical health with as little personal autonomy as possible.

Henry returned around 45 minutes later, showered and dressed but with only two items on his daily checklist complete and none on the weekly. Tuesdays were cleaning days, as his wife had a standing girls' night out and typically did not return until 9 PM. Though she had exacting standards for the cleanliness of their home, she did not like to watch him labor to meet them. Being home at the same time meant spending time together, not catching up on chores. Dinnertime was one of the things he missed most while she was away.

The bike was off, and the slave was just beginning to tremble from the abdominal strain caused by the forced posture. He undid the bondage, picked up the slave, and deposited it on the floor. The slave did not walk; it crawled. As this was impractical when dealing with furniture, it was often moved from place to place like a very tiny dog. It knelt in child's pose, indicating a minute was needed before it rose onto hands and knees. He allowed it.

When it was ready, Henry attached thin spreader bars between the wrists and ankles in order to limit freedom of movement while outside of the gym. Clipping a leash to the collar, he led the slave to the open concept kitchen, where it had a little bed. With the lead attached to a hard point in the wall, he could keep an eye on the slave while he worked. He grabbed a hot water bottle from where he'd left it to stay warm in the microwave and placed it back inside a fluffy stuffed animal to give to the slave. It liked to cuddle the small friend against its lips, tits, and occasionally crotch, which were the only parts of the body available for direct contact. Indeed, the slave now experienced most of the world through these three locations.