Mermaids 2

"She's ridiculous," I said. "An absurd fantasy of a warped, twisted, over-privileged masculine mind."

"Your boss."

"Yes. Him." Henri Duchamp, the zoo's billionaire owner. "What kind of pervert turns a woman into a mermaid fuck-toy and shows her off for the whole world to lust over?"

"You sound almost jealous..."

"Hah!"

The man currently treating me like a fuck-toy was not my husband. No, he was younger, more vigorous, better equipped and better looking. He was everything I wished my husband would be. Mysterious too. Who he worked for exactly I had no idea, but he was paying me enough to keep me happy. For the first time in my life I wasn't constantly worried about the next paycheque.

The sex was great too. "Oh fuck you're big," I whimpered as his cock thrust into me, filling me in a way my husband never could. Perhaps it was the aphrodisiac of the forbidden, the crime of adultery coupled with the risk of unprotected sex, but I couldn't get enough of him. "Again," I said. "Harder." The thought that I might become pregnant by him, something else my husband had so far failed at, both shamed and excited me. Almost of their own volition, my hips thrust up to meet him, and the impact forced a cry from my lips.

With one hand he massaged my breasts and tugged almost painfully at my nipples, until I didn't know whether I was trying to escape him or throw myself at him, not that there was any thought of escaping the pole that impaled me so exquisitely.

The walls, floor and ceilings of the room were virtual, displays, giving the impression we were fucking in the aquarium surrounded by multi-coloured arrays of fish, and occasionally the mermaid with her huge breasts bared to the world. "Would you fuck her?" I asked.

He laughed. "I'd like to fuck those tits, don't know about the rest." He lifted my ankles over his shoulders and began hammering his cock into me, each impact sending a shockwave from my clit to my head. My fingers drifted to that sensitive point, hastening the end that was coming.

Somehow his cock seemed bigger than ever before - although I always thought that. "Do it," I urged. "I want your cum in me." I wouldn't dare say things like that to my husband. Sex at home was brief, quiet and unsatisfying. "Fill my cunt with it!"

He grinned fiercely as he obeyed, thrusting deeper than ever before and unleashing stream after stream of cum from his pulsing cock, tickling my insides. Seconds later I joined him, convulsing ecstatically, my cunt trying to milk every last drop of cream from that delicious fountain.

He rested for a minute, admiring his conquest, before easing his softening member from me. Quickly I slipped back into my latex underwear and into my uniform, a glittery blue dress so short it barely covered my cheeks, and matching high heels.

My illicit lover kissed me hungrily. "I love the thought of you out in public with my cum trapped inside you."

"I love the thought of you thinking about it," I said with an impish smile. I would shower before going home, of course. Not even my husband would be blind to a pussy slick with cum.

"I have a special mission for you."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow.

"There's a vial in Henri's safe. Here's the number for the safe." He passed me a strip of paper. "Henri will be away tonight. Get the vial, bring it to me before you go home."

I nodded. My heart was hammering. So far he'd been paying me only to spy on my boss Henri Duchamp. This was a whole different game. With serious consequences. But how could I say no to this man who gave me such wonderful orgasms, and whose kisses made me feel desired like never before...

"Okay," I whispered, and kissed him again.

*

A woman who is tried in the criminal courts for adultery may be punished in one of three ways. If her husband chooses to forgive the infidelity, she must first attend a rehabilitation centre where she is taught the error of her ways. In other words, she is brainwashed into believing her husband is the only man for her. If the husband does not forgive the infidelity, then by law she is no longer his wife and he is free to marry again. He may then choose to keep her indefinitely as property, with obligations to provide for her, or hand her over to the authorities for a statutory five-year custodial sentence.

Fortunately, adultery seldom leads to a criminal court case. No man likes it to be public knowledge that he cannot keep his woman. But if a woman were to be charged with theft and industrial espionage, and if there were clear proof of an extramarital affair, then of course the charge of adultery would be added to the list of crimes she had committed.

Even if the first two charges were mysteriously dropped before the sentencing.

The most humiliating thing about it had been the number of people who had examined my pussy, treating it like a crime scene, photographing it, taking samples. The photos had even been admitted into evidence, passed around the jury, shown to the judge. My very wet pussy, slick with the cum of a man who wasn't my husband. While I sat there blushing furiously under the heat of their disapproving glares.

If only I'd showered before breaking into my boss's safe! But the opportunity had presented itself, the rota making it my turn to dust and clean Henri's suite, the one with the private water-side spot where the mermaid came to him. Everyone knew what they did - or sort-of. No one knew exactly how they did whatever they definitely did.

Alone there, still glowing in the aftermath of my secret lunchtime fuck, my pussy (and the evidence within) hermetically sealed by thin latex beneath an indecently short dress, I entered the long number into the number pad on the safe, my hands shaking with nervous terror. The door to the safe cracked open and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was actually going to do it. I couldn't wait to see the look on my lover's face. Maybe I wouldn't shower after all - maybe he'd be so pleased with me he'd get down on his knees and return the favour I'd lovingly bestowed on him so many times. "Lick me clean," I'd growl like a horny tigress.

There were only two things in the safe: a thin folder, that I had no interest in, and a small blue box, like a jewellery box but containing not gold but a single vial of an intensely blue liquid. I pocketed it quickly, but even as put my hand on the door, intending to close it, the door to the suite opened behind me. A security guard, on a random patrol, just bad fucking luck. Before I could even think to do something desperate or foolish, he had me on my knees, my wrists cuffed behind me.

The only thing my struggles achieved - and no way was it an accident - was the escape of cum as a rough finger slid between latex and intimate flesh. We recoiled from each other, both equally shocked, if for different reasons, and he burst out laughing as I scowled up at him.

*

"The court finds you guilty, Mrs Arielle Pattison. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I deeply regret my behaviour, and the pain I have caused my husband." Lies, of course. Or mostly. Perhaps I felt a twinge of guilt over betraying the man I had loved long ago, but mostly I was just afraid of the future. Of his judgement of me.

The judge didn't even look at me. I was now beneath his attention. "Is the husband here?"

My husband stood, shaking with what I guessed was stage fright more than anger. He too refused to look at me. He had barely looked at me throughout the brief trial. "I am he."

Of course the judge knew that already, but this was the ritual. "Mr Pattison, do you forgive your wife her infidelity and accept her back into your home?"

"No," he replied, and dizzy with shock I dropped into my chair. Condemned and abandoned. No matter that I had prepared myself for this moment, the reality of it overwhelmed. Not that I had relished the idea of being sent for reprogramming like some faulty sexbot, but in one sharp moment I had lost a marriage of eight years and all hope of freedom.

"Then I hereby declare the marriage void. You may choose to keep her, with the rights and responsibilities set out in the Third Property Act, or leave her to processed by the State."

"I will keep her," he said, and I glanced up at him with the sudden hope that maybe not all was lost. That maybe my only punishment would be to spend the rest of my life cleaning and cooking for him, which wasn't so different. It would suck, but at least it wasn't prison.

Still he avoided looking at me, and indeed departed from the court immediately after adjournment without once meeting my eyes. Court officers marched me to a holding cell and abandoned me there, as if I had exchanged the threat of prison for a life in solitary.

"Fuck," I whispered, tears welling up in me. "Fuck all of you!" I screamed, hammering the too solid door with my fists, and sank to the floor sobbing miserably over my fate, my foolishness, and the cruelty of a world made by men for men. One way or another, we women were all screwed.

*

I was taken, against all expectations, to the zoo. A young man, clearly a lawyer, explained in a bored tone of voice that my ex-husband had sold my deed - his ownership of me - to my ex-boss Henri Duchamp.

He had to explain it all again before I understood that I really was property now, an object that could be bought and sold without my consent. I had, of course, been told all this before, but the idea that my husband of eight years had effectively sold me into slavery without even a word was heartbreaking.

I had even lost many of the rights to my body, the lawyer explained. "As a precaution, you will be required to wear a special uniform. Your duties will be as before, but with room and board provided instead of payment."

Which I understood to mean that I would still be a maid on the general staff, and everyone would know I was the one who spied on and tried to steal from the boss. Great. I nodded.

What I didn't anticipate was the uniform. Or, rather, what went under it. The blue mini dress and heels were as before, but underneath...

I was carefully measured and fitted for a corset, plain blue silk to match the zoo's uniform but reinforced with steel. It both contained my breasts and lewdly exaggerated their size, as if I were some freak of plastic surgery beneath the armoured shell. Worse, though, was the strap running between my thighs that shielded my pussy and even my anus from my own touch.

Thus they imprisoned me more cruelly than I could have believed possible. Not only was I an object to be bought and sold, I was a sex object, grotesquely proportioned and locked in a chastity device. Not a single person I met could disguise their fascination and contempt for me.

And then there was the food... Not that I had much appetite with the corset constricting my waist, but I was permitted only a bland yoghurt that left me starved for taste. I would lie awake at night dreaming of the chance to eat real food again.

The only good thing about the diet was I didn't need to pass solids, which would have been difficult if not impossible to do in the corset. I was required to keep it on at all times, even when doing a pee. There was a mesh that allowed urine to escape, but nothing to enter. No matter how I contorted my limbs or squeezed my fingers, I could not penetrate the shield to touch myself.

And I wanted to so badly. During the day it wasn't so bad, but at night with nothing to distract me, my body's need to be touched and my inability to do so was a torment. The memory of my spy-lover, his cock filling the void that could bo longer be filled, would make my nipples harden uselessly and my clit throb with an unanswerable demand. It was enough to make me cry with frustration.

Thus it was in a state of demented need that I was brought at last, after weeks of lonely misery, to Henri Duchamp, my owner.

*

Henri was dressed in a bathrobe that he hadn't bothered to fasten completely. Despite my quiet determination to deny him the last access to my body, the one thing I still had legal rights over - just because he owned my body didn't mean he didn't need my consent to use me sexually - it was difficult not to keep peeking through the gap at the cock nestled within.

It was neither limp nor hard, but certainly swollen with potential. The thought of wrapping my taste-starved lips about it and bringing it to attention... Damn. The thought, once lodged in mind, stayed there, and I squirmed in response to my own body's aching need.

"Chastity suits you, Arielle," he said, "but I wonder if you'd prefer a different fate. One, maybe, with a chance of freedom."

I looked into his eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. All I could see in his expression was a lifetime of entitlement and ruthless confidence. He was indeed the sort of man who could turn women into mermaids or trap them forever in chastity. He was also, despite his age, and perhaps because of that cold strength, or perhaps just because I was off-the-charts horny, annoyingly attractive.

I glanced down at his cock, catching myself in the act of licking my lips. "What are you suggesting?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"I will give your breasts their freedom, in exchange for their use."

Their use? A bizarre way of saying he wanted to fuck my tits. My husband - my ex-husband - had often 'used' them that way. It wasn't such a bad deal, was it? It wasn't fucking... and maybe I wouldn't spend my nights trying desperately to feel them through an armoured corset.

How could I say no?

"Okay," I said hesitantly.

*

The corsetiere was waiting for me, ready to take my measurements once again. The sight that met my eyes as she peeled away the misproportioned shell with its grotesquely oversized breasts provoked a cry of horror from me.

That my waist had been shaped to a girlish slenderness was some benefit gained from being so tightly constrained, but during their weeks of cruel concealment, my real breasts had swollen from their petite origins to an enormity that matched their recent encasement. My nipples too had grown, into thick engorged tips, so sensitive after long neglect that the probing touch of my disbelieving fingers was electric.

Spontaneously I burst into tears and wept throughout the fitting, until I was sent away, once again firmly secured within a corset, this one tighter still. This one was white with aquatic designs in silver, and sat below my impossible breasts, but it was as cruel a chastity device as the other.

And yet, my misery at being mutated, at being physically violated in this way, was more than matched by the joy of once again having access to my own breasts. Unfamiliar they might be, but also firm and perfectly shaped, and undeniably a real and intimate part of me. In the privacy of my room, I couldn't keep my hands off them, drowning myself in the flood of welcome sensation, to the point almost of orgasm.

I could feel the possibility of it. I hadn't climaxed in weeks, not since that fateful day, but by sucking on my swollen nipples, licking one, biting the other, I drove myself to that precipice of pleasure, and at last over, my body convulsing in ecstasy.

An experiment that was quickly repeated.

*

I told myself to be strict with him, to do it quickly and get it over with, to not even pretend to find pleasure in it. That I was only doing it because circumstances demanded it - which was both true and not. Much of the anger I felt towards Henri, for the cruel chastity, and for the unacceptable body modification, and for the mere fact of owning me, was muted by time and weariness, and a misplaced gratitude after a night of welcome self-pleasure. Perverse though it was to have such ridiculous breasts, they were mine again. Their freedom was worth a sacrifice.

I told myself I would not enjoy it, but failed to anticipate the intoxicating aroma of his genitals, or the thrill of a hard cock pressed between my enlarged breasts, or the brushing of his belly against my swollen, sensitive tips. My reluctance dissipated in a surge of arousal, and I had to fight the temptation to take him between my lips and savour the taste of it.

My breasts were so large they engulfed him, so different from the experience with my husband. I knelt before my owner pressing my huge breasts together, watching the tip of his cock emerge and withdraw as he fucked me, obscene and yet somehow wonderful.

Despite telling myself repeatedly that I wasn't enjoying this use of me, I was. It wasn't just a performance, it was a genuine hunger to bring him to a climax, to feel his cock pulsing between my pillowy breasts, to see his cum spurting extravagantly from that eager eye that wept such salty tears of lubricating precum.

Without warning he did, and a jet of creamy cum splashed up against my neck. Like a venomous serpent it thrashed wildly as it spat, making trails of cum across the slopes of my breasts and filling the channel between.

Without thinking, I took him in my mouth and moaned with pleasure at the taste of him. Mentally I kicked myself, but the task having begun I gave myself to it, sucking his hard member and licking up every trace of his cum.

Until he pulled away and I sighed mournfully, partly from loss, partly from the proof of my wanton nature. The mirror across the room showed the truth. A horny slut clad in silk and steel, kneeling before her master, her huge breasts glazed with cum.

"For you," Henri said, handing me a lollipop. A red one. Strawberry.

"Thank you, sir," I said, little suspecting that it would stain my lips a bright, permanent red.

*

These new breasts of mine were a burden, and not just because of the weight. It had been bad enough to have people staring at what they thought were (and what I thought weren't) huge breasts, but now I knew they were. Huge, unnatural breasts.

Breasts that Henri Duchamp used daily - or at least on the days he stayed at the zoo. And it wasn't just my breasts that were increasingly familiar with his cock. My mouth learned its contours well, as I sucked on his cum-soaked shaft. Sometimes I even managed to make him climax a second time, his cock dancing joyfully between my scarlet lips while my hands massaged my breasts and played with my swollen nipples.

After, in the privacy of my room, the taste of him still on my skin, I would suck on those sensitive tips like a babe in search of milk, driving myself slowly but surely to a much needed climax. The sight of me kneeling by my bed, head bowed almost as if in prayer, must have been a comical one.

This was my life for weeks. Zoo maid and horny slut, body and mind crazed with the need for sex as I dusted and cleaned rooms. I felt as much an exhibit as the animals, the way staff and public stared at me. I wondered if this was how the mermaid felt, constantly on display, everyone knowing she was Henri's sex toy. At least, I thought, at least I'm not her. At least I'm still human.

I was also more than a little jealous. I was imprisoned in a cruel chastity device while she was getting fucked regularly. I was beginning to wonder whether I would ever see my pussy again. My climaxes, as good as they were, never quite answered the almost constant, aching need to be filled and fucked by a hard cock.

"Will I ever be free again?" I dared to ask one day. I was on my knees looking up beseechingly into his eyes. What I really wanted to ask was, "Don't you want to fuck me? Not just my breasts and my mouth, but properly?"

Henri regarded me for a minute. "If you wish to find freedom, you must first surrender those few rights you still possess, and consent to be used as I will. Do so, and I promise you will be free after five years' service."

As he spoke, his cock hardened once again. His cum was still oozing across my breasts from his earlier eruption, but clearly the thought of me signing away my last legal protections excited him significantly. If all he wanted was to fuck me whenever and however he liked, I was more than ready for that, but what else might he do to me? Was the possibility of freedom really worth the risk?