Deep in the pits a cry was heard. Fausta, the hermit-pontiff, watched from the perch above. Her latest subject was due for a daily observation; the pontiff had low hopes, but an observation was still to be made.
In the pit - one of nine - was a gaelic woman, well built, with muscled thighs and a delightful pertness to her small breasts. She was of the northern clans - of those who intermixed with the elfines gaelic and the tribes of the germans. She thus had a certain exotic feel to her features, a uniqueness in the pigmentation of her nipples and her vulva, an interesting curve in her waist and a fiery-red mane of hair. A delight. When she first arrived, she was proud, and moved with barely concealed power. She did not answer when spoken to, though Roman she understood. She looked like someone who would endure the leash a thousand times over.
But Fausta did not own a whip. She despised the article. A magos had no need for physical cruelty.
The creature in the pit had very little left in the ways of gaelic pride. She was writhing on the cobbled ground, hands locked on her member, masturbating not with abandon, but in agony. She was overproducing. She had to breed. It was too much for her mind.
Overproduction did not quite describe it. The cobbles of the pit could not be seen under the thick layer of semen mixed with dust. The walls were splattered liberally. Even the edge of the pit was rife with ropes of the stuff, each as thick as a thumb. To clean the pits was a herculean task, and one that had to be done regularly. The musk was so powerful it would dim the mind and take complete control - if not for the wards. Fausta knew with certainty that if the wards were not maintained, she would found herself leaping into the pit long ago - in a heat much, much more powerful than reason. She saw it happen with the occasional slave girl in the stocks. It was an entertaining watch.
While she reminecented, the gaelic woman noticed Fausta standing on the perch, and mustered strength to rise to her feet. She screamed something in her muffled bar-bar, swinging her hips - and with it, her member. Begging. For more release. For a girl to breed. For a doll to bloat with semen. Anything.
Fausta was discontent. This one still retained speech - as much as she needed to beg for a warm and moist hole. But beyond that her mental faculties were degraded. She was barely articulate. More animal than human.
But her form... she grew stronger, quicker, capable of wrestling and raping even the most aggressive doll. And the member... it was gigantic, easily a cubit and a finger, darkened, with a small head of an angry, crimson colour. It's width was too large to encircle with one hand. It had skin in excess and veins visibly pulsing. She couldn't maintain an erection, at first: she'd lose consciousness too quickly, but as the transformations went along, the erection stopped being a problem. It never went away. That became the new problem.
And the production. She would leak all the time, throbbing, even when she regained slight lucidity to eat and sleep. When she would erupt in climax, she floods. Fausta wondered at the mechanism of this copious production many a time. She experimented. She would leave salts of Eros in the pit and provide the woman with a doll or a fresh slave girl. The rut would take hours: until the gaelic woman would lose all feeling, until she would exhaust herself to near death. For hours, she will breed, and breed, and breed. Her victims - by this point "partner" was a word poorly chosen - would be inhumanly distended, womb filled to such an extent that all mobility would be lost. And yet they lived. Something made them survive that priapean ordeal, gave them the sturdiness and the elasticity to partake in the rut.
And quite often, they did so with great success.
The dolls couldn't get pregnant, of course. But the slave girls could. While the gaelic woman was out cold, recuperating from her suicidal lust, the dolls would remove the distended female figure from the pen. Never were they conscious in the process, having lost any semblance of mental capacity long ago.
They would be taken to the study, then, where Fausta would observe them - for months, if need be. Once they regained the capability to walk - usually after a nundina has passed - they would get to enjoy a very simple and pleasurable existence for quite a while, while the elfine pontiff would observe the changes of their bodies.
Draining the excess semen took a long time. It was too thick, similar to cream. The amount was inhumane. Any natural being - a human, an elfine, a ludex - would not produce in a lifetime the amount this gaelic woman produced in the span of an active hour. And then was the fertility.
The slave girls - Fausta prefered italian market stock, brought from Egypt, Asia Minor and Greece - would have little time to recover for their distorting ordeal, because it would soon begin anew, bur from another source. Their pregnancies - which never failed to take root, ignoring all cycles - would progress naturally; yet the amount of offspring was the surprising aspect. Such was the potency of the seed that in the three cases studied Fausta first misattributed the rapid distention of midriff to an accelerated pregnancy; it would take her merely a month to correct that mistake. They bore children in the multiples. One, a widely-built slave from upper Italy, bore a full ten.
She assisted with the births - which were much less complicated than the physical state of the body entailed - and observed. Most were boys and girls. Some were, as their father, of both sexes. The boys and girls Fausta sold to slave orphanages in the City. Those of both sexes she sent away to friends in Gaul to be risen there. The Pontiffs shouldn't know what she was practicing. They would not agree with it.
The gaelic woman was thus a success from the standpoint of her body. The latest serum was perfect. It made a woman into a hermaphrodite of no peer; into a breeding monster, capable of breaking any woman and own her like a child owns a toy. Not one of her many preceding serums gave a result so magnificent.
The body was perfect. But still there was the question of a mind...
