Devastation

Part 3 - The Breeding

FOREWORD

There really are no bounds to the cruelty that can be applied by one, or more, women onto another. And it remains a simple fact that only women really KNOW which buttons to press, which nerves to twist in order to maximize the suffering of their gender.

THE STORY SO FAR

The nightmare continues for Petra, as her daughter is delivered to the Clinic by Sabirah's associate, Selena. Totally unbeknownst to Petra, her daughter has been suffering a similar fate BEFORE she does. The timelines are explored with a lot of focus on Stefani's journey. The Suffering was a nightmarish exploration of emotional and physical excesses. The laser alterations now extended to Petra's and Stefani's anal rings making them part of their extended addicted sexualities.

The timelines eventually merge... Petra agreeing that she can never again be released into the 'normal world' and that she must suffer for her illness.' An illness that actually does not exist. Agreeing also that neither she nor Stefani can ever be released and that she too, must suffer terribly. Being faced with their own death certificates and media reports of their funerals seals a nightmare-future for Petra. Alters it from surreal to very real. Any possibility of escape, or release, simply fading to nothing.

The inclusion of Petra's bio giving the reader some empathy with her..... Sympathy even. Thus ensuring a more intensive and disturbing read. We actually get to know Petra. Even admire her. But all to no avail as her journey into Hell continues at breakneck speed.

The eventual bringing together of mother and daughter. Absolutely and totally bondaged in the same despair-dripping subterranean room, and Petra forced to choose intense hyper-orgasms in return for Stefani's suffering of indescribable torture is deeply troubling, and yet compulsive reading. Needing to choose, having to choose the orgasms because her addiction dictates it. And those very choices, time after time, feeding her guilt and downfall even more.

At the end of Part 2, a trusted friend of Dr. Sabirah Najwa is introduced. Victoria offers up a plan that would see Petra's suffering deepen and intensify yet more. If that were possible... But there is something about Victoria... just 'something' deeply unsettling about her. And so here, in The Breeding, the story reaches a conclusion, although not an end.

ONE - Before It All Began 1

It was very early in the day. Just after six a.m. A beautiful autumn morning. Crisp, cold and clear outside with the sun reflecting and refracting off the skyscrapers of Docklands. Petra could see the super-modern buildings from her own seventeenth-floor office-suite in the square mile just off Upper Thames Street and up towards Poultry. She had always marveled at the sight, especially at this time of the morning. It seemed those buildings were made solely of glass. They weren't, of course. She knew that. Her own building, owned by the company she worked for was the same. Floor-to-ceiling glass you could see out of clearly, despite the sunglasses-type filter. And then anyone on the outside could see in, but only just. From the outside, what looked like a single sheet of reflective glass with minimum penetration, from pavement-level right up the entire twenty-one floors, seemingly held together with a web of tubular metalwork that looked too spindly, too thin, to be able to hold together so much glass. Not to mention keep out all the elements of the great British weather. That wasn't the case. There were concrete foundations. Invisible steel beams and a construction that was clever. It just made the building appear the way it was. Very clever. Very clean. Very modern. A totally weatherproofed, air-conditioned environment. An uncluttered vision that belied the technology and know-how that went into holding it all together. A sure example, if ever there was one, that things are not always as they seem.

Petra was more than a yummy mummy. She had risen against all odds. Risen beyond adversity to a place where there was mutual respect. Admiration. Even some fear amongst the City Elite. A woman who had arrived in London as a teenager, nothing more than a girl. She had then been given an opportunity and had grasped that opportunity with both hands. Taken the opportunity, rung its neck and then worked it to her own best advantage. The girl becoming a Woman. It must be said, a pretty, startling, redheaded girl becoming an astute, stunningly attractive Woman of means.

Petra was semi-silhouetted against the huge, east-facing sheet of glass that was her office window. It was angled slightly downwards which meant she could see the pavement seventeen floors below. Glancing just to the left was the iconic 30 St. Mary Axe, otherwise known as the Gherkin, that also, nothing more than a silhouette in the crisp morning light. Little sparkles of sunlight catching the edges of the angled glass plates that made up that particular building. Then across slightly to the right, further away, the skyline was dominated by 1 Canada Square, aka Canary Wharf, in Docklands, currently the UK's tallest building. Also in the same super-modern cluster, the Citigroup building at 8 Canada Square. These buildings seemed somewhat surreal when viewed from inside another soundproofed, weatherproofed building like Petra's. Huge, silent shapes existing in the hustle and bustle of one of the world's most cosmopolitan and cultural cities.

From a far view, say a helicopter hovering overhead, such a huge expanse of sheet glass would render Petra a solitary small object. Quite tiny. Like an insect even. But, if one were to zoom in closer, the semi-silhouette gave the ideal medium with which to display her overall beauty. At five-feet-ten inches without her much-favored stilettos, she was in fact almost Amazonian in stature. The arch of her feet in patent leather, hand-made court shoes, for any woman, would be severe, uncomfortable even. Especially for a long day at work in which quite a lot of it would be spent on those same feet. But for Petra, she seemed able with ease to carry the arch. Impossibly, fantastically shaped long legs were sheathed in expensive, shimmering, almost-black, nylon, which served quite easily to accentuate the shapely taught calves. The legs in their entirety were an almost endless taper of sublime perfection.

A pinstriped, fitted, jacketed power-suit enhanced Petra even more. The jacket tight and holding her thirty-eight D cups snugly inside. The shimmering, shiny-silk of a red blouse underneath just about, tantalizingly so, giving away the bulge of those breasts. Mature breasts that appeared to roll and wave within their confines. The skirt, very tight to her hips and thighs, and hemmed equally tight just above her knees. This skirt gave the impression that it should create a 'hobble,' such was its tightness around the knees. But it didn't. Somehow, the vision that was Petra seemed to glide with ease on those spiked heels. And yet, at the same time, the shoes, the skirt, the jacket, all worked in unison to enhance that femininity. Enhance the astute, confident manner that Petra always displayed. Create the strut, and shorten the long, purposeful strides that would normally occur with such long, long legs. Most women would be jealous of the way she moved on those heels. The way she always seemed to carry it off. Ah well, Petra brought out jealousies for all sorts of reasons. She always had. Ever since she was a little girl. Even her sisters had been envious of Petra. Just the way it had always been.

Petra paced from side to side of the huge window. Her striking red hair, held in a high, tight ponytail, swung from side to side as she strutted. That flame-redness had been dulled by the smoked glass of her building, but that added to the surreality of the vision that was Petra in this environment. She was talking on an iPhone. Her long, elegant fingers almost caressing it as she held it in front of her, with it on speakerphone. Even through that zoom into the building, it was clear to see her full, smooth lips moving, and animated in what she was saying.

"Look, it's quite simple. If my boss isn't happy, then neither am I. In fact, I would go one further than that. If the boss isn't happy, and I'm not happy, and then someone's head has to roll. That girl has to go. I gave her a chance and she fucked up again. Once again she's fucked up. Now, do you want to fire her, or shall I?"

Petra's tone was one of not being amused. It wasn't a raised voice. But it was firm and confident. Her heels clicked the marble floor and seemed to make her words even more acute. When she used the F word, it seemed to literally pour from her deliciously full, red lips. It was as though she ENJOYED saying that word. Not that she would use it at any given opportunity, but that when she did find it a fitting way of getting her point across, she used it, and accentuated it to the expert best of her feminine ability. When she said 'fuck' or 'fucked,' the word had purpose. It had meaning and it just dripped, casually and yet with venom from her gorgeous mouth. Usually, any listener, or onlooker's eyes, would be attracted to, and fixed to, her lips as she said it. Such was its effect, such was Petra's effect that as soon as the full word had slipped from her sensual mouth their eyes would roll down towards the floor and be accompanied by a flush, or a blush. That always, but always, amused Petra. She would smile inwardly, even occasionally openly, at the reaction, more especially so if the person, or persons in close proximity, she despised, or disliked. Petra could be a Bitch. No doubt about it. Super-Bitch, even.

"Get rid of her and find a replacement. And... oh yes, if the next one doesn't work out, it will be your head on the chopping block. Do I make myself clear?"

She spoke to her PA like she meant it. She did mean it. Her position as PA and Executive Secretary to the CEO meant that she herself needed a PA. In this case a little blonde thing in her late-twenties and taking the same ride up the ladder that Petra herself had taken. Petra wasn't a bitch on a daily, permanent basis. Just when need dictated. Petra was actually likable, very fanciable, even by other women, but especially so by men. Described as 'sex on legs,' amongst other things, she quietly liked that tag. It amused her and didn't offend her in the slightest. There was a slight pause as the girl on the other end of the line spoke to Petra. Then Petra snapped back.

"Good."

She pressed the touch-sensitive button on the iPhone to hang up the call and then sat behind her minimal desk. Swinging her chair round as though in thought. Looking out across a city that in a few hours would be in full swing. She crossed her impossibly long legs, the rasp of nylon on nylon filling the still, quiet air of the empty office suite. In those few hours, the place would be busy busy busy. She tilted back the chair, and just, ever so casually, fingered the hem of the tight skirt that had ridden up a little, exposing something more of her nylon-encased thighs.

In the silence, the dead silence, another look crossed Petra's face. Just in an instant, and just for a split-micro-second, she looked like a little girl. It wasn't just that she looked younger in that instant. It was that she looked troubled. Vulnerable even. A look of uncertainty came across her well-made-up face, a face that normally looked super-confident. Happy even. Content. This was one of those solitary moments. Just in the blink of an eye, some of the color drained away from her cheeks. This in turn made the contrast of her deep red lips an even more striking one. The thing was that, even after that split-second had passed by, her face didn't return to normal. There was a deep thoughtfulness, as well as a retention of some of the 'trouble.' She took a big, heaving sigh, during which her not-inconsiderable chest expanded, then deflated inside her jacket. Getting off the deep leather executive swivel chair, she took off the jacket, hung it over the back of the chair. Brushed down her blouse. Her breasts rippled and rolled under the blouse. Delicious breasts. Full, heavy, fleshy. Picking up her bag, she left the office and headed down a corridor to the ultramodern rest rooms, high-heels clicking with purpose.

Ultramodern super-duper glass palaces were springing up all round the City, buildings that cost almost as much during the design stage as they did in their construction. And then there were the executive rest rooms in Petra's building. 'Petra's building,' in the loosest sense, of course. It belonged to the company she worked for, although she could pass for its owner any day. She practically ran the finance division herself and just ensured that her boss was kept informed on a daily basis, and even on weekends when necessary.

The restrooms were spacious, and where the rest of the building was very clean, straight lines, cut glass and mirror-like aluminium, the restrooms deliberately returned to an air of homely opulence. Tall rooms that echoed the sounds of numerous pairs of stilettos attached to power-dressed women during the day. But at night were eerily quiet, and yet even the slightest sound would bounce and ricochet off the marble floors and around the mirrored wall even up along the intricately designed ceilings. There were curves in these restrooms. Still clean lines. Lines that flowed from the huge hand basins and seemed to blend in with the wall-size mirrors behind them, making the seams all but invisible. Even the mirrored walls were etched with intricate, swirly designs that separated the row of hand basins into their own individual compartments. They created that 'homey' feel. Whereas the office suites and visitor areas were unmistakably corporate in their design and identity.

Along the opposite wall to the wash basins down its whole length were the cubicles. Wider than usual cubicles, and each furnished with its own padded chair, clothes hangers, as well as the toilet itself, more room equalling to more luxury. Each cubicle individually air-conditioned. Each cubicle walled floor-to-ceiling. In effect, each cubicle, a room of its own.

At this time of the day the raspy heavy breathing of Petra could be clearly heard coming from one of the cubicles. The door wasn't closed completely and so the sound poured out and into the main section of the restroom. It was a raspy, throaty sound that was broken every so often with another sound, just the barest hint of a whimper. It could have been mistaken for a sob. But it wasn't a sob. The raspiness of the breathing, the slight gurgle in the throat, and then the whimper were too regular, too distinct, too controlled for it to be sounds of any form of distress.

Petra was sitting on the toilet seat. That is, sitting in the draped sense of the word. She was draped in an obscene fashion. Yes, that is an appropriate description -- obscene. The hinged seat-cover itself was down, and bared Petra's complete weight. She wasn't relieving herself in the toilet sense; she was leaning back against the wall. Her skirt had been hiked up and was being held high by the roll of her hips. She had raised her knees high, pulled them back and opened them wide. Knowing she had sublimely long, shapely legs was one thing; seeing them in the flesh, as it were, brought the fact home like a freight train. The silky, sheer nylon that sheathed them seemed to sparkle and shimmy in the even lighting. The delicate lace tops of the self-supporting stockings clung to her very upper-thighs, denting the pale flesh slightly. She hated garter belts. They always spoilt the lines of skirts and that just was not acceptable. Her legs were so wide apart that she had wedged each of her knees and lower-legs high on the side walls of the cubicle as an aid to keep them spread. She wasn't quite on her back. Just at a forty-five degree angle and being held up by the back wall behind the toilet itself. Her stiletto'd feet dangled, both foot-arches held perfectly, tippy-toes pointing down towards the floor. It was as though she were trying her very best to be appealing to the eye of an invisible voyeur.

There was a distant look in her eyes. Not dissimilar to one of abandon as she stroked down between her legs. Her tiny silk thong had been pulled to one side leaving her fleshy, meaty labia exposed. She was masturbating crudely. Dragging her long manicured fingernails up the length of her slit, bottom to top. Just parting the labia and dipping in a little. Her fingernails were painted and glossed the same color as her lips, as always. This deep red contrasted quite starkly with the slight reddening of the labia. The fingernails trawling through the increasing collection of juices which then over-spilled the scoop of the nail and back into the valley of vaginal flesh. The tiny crotch of the thong, red silk to match the blouse, was clearly saturated and stained with her produce.

It was clear to see that she was producing copious amounts of juice. As she stroked herself, up then down, the trickles of juices were plain to see. Running down the slit and collecting in a slippery pool between her bottom cheeks on the toilet cover. She expertly stroked with one finger and with another finger of the same hand she rubbed and pressed the hood of her clitoris, which was just nestled out of sight, at first. The more she rubbed her clitoris, the more into view it came. Like a little hard nub, a button that was coated, almost dripping with glistening juices. She teased the clitoris out and circled its periphery, as she stroked longer and deeper with her other finger. Any onlooker would conclude that Petra was capable of acrobatics with those long, slender fingers. Every so often, the little whimper, the little mewling sound, came to the fore, just as she held her breath. Like she was deliberately holding her breath to magnify the tiny spasms of pleasure she was giving herself.

Petra's other hand was wrapped under one cheek of her fleshy bottom. She had used this hand to pull one cheek apart from the other, exposing the rosebud of her rear hole. With the forefinger of that hand, she was rimming the very edge of her bum hole. Round and round. Round and round. Very gently, very delicately. Just rimming her bum hole. Tickling it with her deep-red nail. In doing this, she was enhancing the little spasms to her vaginal area. Or more to the point, enhancing the little bursts of pleasure to her clitoral area.

Quite obviously, this kind of activity was one that Petra indulged in on a regular basis. She was very experienced at it. Her positioning, and the practiced way she used the finger of both hands in unison, was almost an art form. Her red, pure silk blouse was dishevelled and partly open. Three or four buttons were undone and hanging out of one side and one of her thirty-eight Ds was hanging out in its entirety. The other was still covered in silk. Teasingly so. But what Petra was doing as she masturbated was that, every so often, she would bring the hand up from her bottom and use the same finger that had been rimming her bum hole to circle and rub across the tip of her exposed nipple. The nipple was stiff. Thick. Rubbery. Hard. And it was this action that was causing her to whimper. It was that very action, as she brought her hand up, and fingered the nipple, that made that sob-like sound emit from between her deep-red lips. Not a sob at all, but a cry of lust. Pure lust.

"mmmmm mmmmmm mmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmm nnnnnnggggggg"

For that invisible voyeur who might have been lucky enough to witness such a sight, there would have been a conflict of interest. Does he, or she, watch what is going on between Petra's fabulously long, disgustingly spread legs, or, does he or she watch, and study, the look of increasing abandon that is playing around her face? It's true to say that, at times, people are not as attractive as at other times. For instance, when people get angry, or 'lose it' for whatever reason, they lose their attractiveness. If ever there was a time when such an attractive, amazonian beauty as Petra should lose her attractiveness, it was here and now. But this wasn't the case. The vision was quite obscene. Disgustingly so. And yet, she lost none of her beauty. It could be said that she radiated it even more. Her already full, sensuous lips had slightly swollen and become even more pouted with the lust she was feeding herself. Every so often the tip of her wet tongue would slide out into one corner or the other of her delicious mouth. The sparkle in her eyes was intensified. Her huge eyes, wider, almost maddeningly staring into the space directly in front of her. The space occupied by that nonexistent voyeur. It was almost embarrassing for a voyeur to be intruding on the very intimate, private time of an impossibly stunning, mature woman in the throws of pleasuring herself.