I shift uncomfortably in the seat. The cracked plastic sticks to my bare bottom, bidding me to stay in place. I don't know how long I've been away, it's not sleep or unconsciousness, but just sort of drifting. Martin had left me after he found his relief. I'd hung there for three full days. I watched the sun rise and set through the cracks under the door. No one had come to see me, no one had brought me food or water. There was nothing to do, nothing but watch the fleshy sack on the grate floor beside me grow and grow. What had started as a lump about the size of a football had grown and grown until it was easily big enough to hold me.
It had hatched like the other duplicate had, only Martin wasn't here to help my duplicate. It had crawled around for a bit, its hair and body drenched and dripping with the same gooey viscera the other duplicate had. Martin had arrived a few minutes after it hatched, this time with a hose to clean it off. He sprayed it down and pulled the tube from my nose and then everything got fuzzy.
Now I'm here. Inside myself, but not myself. I can feel my skin, the gentle hug of a light cotton dress, the smell of grass, the cold steel against my ankle, but I move nothing. I make no choices. A prisoner in my own head, my own skin. I watch and feel and think.
Martin trains us both. She -the other- she's blank and new. Martin trains her in how to please, not that she needs much training. He teaches her commands, like tricks. Position one, On her knees with hands on either thigh, back straight, and eyes up to her master. Position two, she places both hands flat on the floor in front of her, pulling herself forward and facing down at the floor, arching her back slightly. Position 3, she pushes her chest towards the floor and pulls her knees up against her tummy, arching her back to accentuate her hips, and display her asshole.
Once she's in a position, he'll circle her. Slap he'll critique her, push her into the proper place, maybe slap her ass or put a thumb into her mouth. Once he's happy, he'll pull a little gooey black piece of something from a small jar and drop it into her mouth. I seem to - I mean she- seems to like this. She giggles and smiles, moving quickly from position to position, then back to standing. Her ass and tits jiggle as she moves, she flips out of the way without thinking. She's care free.
Once she's mastered the basics, toys become involved. Martin starts small, something like "push this into your pussy three times," and then once she's done that a few times, she gets a treat and the number grows. Five times, ten times, thirty times. She does it all with a smile, pushing the small dildo into herself, pulling it back out, her pussy juices glistening on the small silicone toy and dripping down to the cool steel floor, then without hesitation she pushes it back inside. Once she's confident in a toy, it's quickly replaced, usually by one much larger. Within the first few hours of training, the dildos were over a foot long and thicker than any man I've been with. Even when it causes her discomfort, her smile never fades for longer than a moment.
I receive different training, if you can even call it that. Once the Others finished with her training, she leaves the floor a mess. Pussy juices cover the floor, often toys are left wherever they fall. This is my job. Martin commands, quietly outlining areas that must be cleaned, toys that must be returned, and my body springs to work. No matter my protests inside, my body moves with perfect poise, tuning on a dime, grabbing the cleaning solution and mop bucket.
I clean, scrubbing cement and drying it, working by the clinical light of the dim basement. Once I finish, I put the supplies back where they came from, and return to Martin, he's inspecting the duplicate, who stands with her arms directly out to the sides and legs shoulder width apart, her mouth open and eyes forward.
"Sir, I've completed my cleaning." I feel my lips move, feel the voice I've always known vibrating my throat and my cheeks wiggle as I speak, but I don't choose to speak. Instead I watch. I feel my hands cross behind my back, my bare chest pushing slightly forward as my body speaks. Martin doesn't even look at me, instead he's massaging my duplicate's breast. He pulls it up, lets it drop, and pulls it back up.
"Might need some work," he mutters to himself, probing at the flesh just below and above her breast. He continues to inspect her, but waves a hand at me to motion me away. Without hesitation my body turns, carrying me back towards the small plastic chair I'd been sitting in. My body moves with clinical precision, I can feel every step, my bare feet against the cool cement and steel that lines the floor. My body turns and sits itself, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap.
For a moment I watch myself, watching my duplicate be inspected and treated like meat. The worst part is that she loves it, each poke and prod she grins, she smiles and laps up each gooey black treat Martin drops into her mouth.
Before my body can even really rest, the phone rings.
"Jennifer, would you mind?" Martin motions vague towards the corded phone hanging on the wall. Without hesitation, my body stand and proceeds towards the phone. Each slap of my feet against the cool cement sends a jolt down my spine. My body reaches out to the phone and pulls it off of its base.
"Hello, Martin's Repair Shop" my voice comes out sweet and flat, no hint of anxiety or terror that I feel. I suppose whatever piece of me that controls my body doesn't feel this way. She's calm and collected.
