An Inquisitive Federal Agent
East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII
Chapter 10 – The Slaver’s Women (or Whatta Lifestyle)
Across town, in an upscale cosmetic surgery clinic, Doctor Joan Miller was still working on her latest project. “Actually,” she muttered to herself as she pulled yet another suture tight on the abused pussy widespread before her, “it’s a pain in the ass; I’ve been up all night working to save her life and put her back together again. I’m supposed to be keeping in shape for my next stint out in New Mexico.” She was angry for several reasons. Obviously, she was angry at the brutal damage that had been done to her unnamed subject. Her slaver friend had explained that he’d rescued her from two murderous thugs hired by the poor idiot’s own boyfriend, a married man with two daughters. Joan was happy that she’d seen with her own eyes the digital pictures of the now dead murderers. She paused in her mental tirade against stupid men to straighten out the swollen pussy lips to see if they’d been sewn up straight. “Don’t want scars down here,” she mumbled aloud as she visualized the next time that a big, fat cock thundered its way up the poor woman’s vagina. “Scars rip too easily,” she told herself, “they don’t stretch well at all.” Joan had repaired internal tears as well as bringing the shredded labia to the closest semblance of normal that she could, it has taken hours of painstaking surgery.

Gloria Waters was now the anonymous patient of a well-respected and married cosmetic surgeon. Certainly, Gloria was in talented medical hands; but there was some question as to what effect the doctor’s post-surgery recovery process might have on the patient. What few knew was that Doctor Miller was also a volunteer doctor at a local B&D club and that her very twisted psyche made her a dominate, a submissive, a Ponygirl Mistress, and even a Ponygirl herself. She was happily married to a rancher out west and she spent part of each month as respected cosmetic surgeon, part of the month as wife and dominate in charge of the slaves on her husband’s ranch, and part of the month as a helpless sextoy and a working Ponygirl on that same ranch. Doctor Joan Miller was a very complex, and beautiful woman. Gloria Waters would waken to find that her doctor owned her body and soul until she was fully healed from all her rounds of surgery, at least six to eight weeks away. Then she would begin service as a full-time slave to the man she tried to cheat out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Joan carefully disinfected the ripped-open breast meat on the unconscious woman’s right tit. It was very clear that it would take additional surgery to repair the areola and nipple to any semblance of normal. “What kind of nerve damage you have here is a question we will have to wait on for an answer,” she said softly, speaking to herself, mostly to remain calm at the damage to the woman’s body. Doctor Miller glanced up at the repairs she’d already made on the woman’s cheeks and tongue. There would be visible scars on the face to deal with latter on as well. She sighed and returned to work with scalpel and needle. “Whatta fucking mess! “

Finished with the first round of immediate repairs on the woman, Joan stripped off her surgical gloves and stretched. The move brought her swollen mounds forward and she couldn’t help but think of the two men who’d so modified her breasts. “When I begged Robert, the slaver, to let me ‘vacation’ at a Ponygirl training facility, I had no idea what I was in for. The new breasts he gave me are nice though.” Joan squeezed her breasts and thought of the difference it made when Robert (Robert Morgan – the name by which Joan knew Aaron Clarke) decided on his own to change them from a B to a full C cup. She squeezed them again and felt a twinge of passion that jetted from her swollen teats to her pussy. Joan moaned and hurried out of the operating room, it would take hours for her patient to begin to shake off the effects of the anesthesia, and she desperately needed to milk her boobs; besides, it was almost time for her mandatory 5:30 AM milking. She rubbed her tummy with one hand and held her bouncing boobs with her other, Joan was several months pregnant and she’d been lactating for five months, ever since she’d ‘allowed’ herself to be placed on a special hormonal diet by Joseph Loftus, her lean and domineering rancher husband.

Joan had returned from her ‘vacation’ trip out west newly married, weeks pregnant, and already with swelling hooters. Her formerly beautiful but pampered body had been sculpted into a precision running machine during her strenuous Ponygirl training. Several months after she returned to Miami, she’d traveled to the Saudi Peninsula for the adventure of a lifetime; a Ponygirl race impossible to finish. It was the grueling ‘Ocean of Fire’ [read E.C.S.O. – 11: A Race to End All Races], a thirty-five day race across more than a thousand miles of inhospitable burning desert, a certain path to death or slavery. Somehow, she and her new husband had not only survived the impossible race, they won it and returned to the states with money and slaves.

Her cramped run toward a well-secured, locked room at the back of the clinic was graceless and reminded her of how the changes in her body had already made her into an unlikely Ponygirl. It was almost 5:30 in the morning, and she didn’t dare be late. She locked the door behind her and desperately began to strip off her clothes. Her milk-swollen torpedoes were making her desperate; they were anything but the size B and then size C cup she’d had in her life before conversion to a Ponygirl. The hormones had puffed them up into obscenely heavy, meaty Double Ds at the least. The pressure made her glad she’d made it to her ‘milking room’. Joan barely took the time to lock the door behind her as she hurried toward her ‘milking station’.

Joseph Loftus, her fiancé at the time, found out before the start of the Ocean of Fire race that Joan had placed contraceptive slivers in his new Ponygirls, thwarting his plan to breed them and to make milk mares out of them. Ultimately, he realized that she had been correct in what she did; but nonetheless, he had to either punish Joan or take steps to ensure that she would follow even the orders she found distasteful. The ‘milking station’ was the result.

Completely designed and built from scratch to capture, milk, and inoculate lactating Ponymares, the frame was a piece of art that could best be described in common terms as a hyper-modified bicycle frame linked to a computer workstation and high-speed internet access. Three times a day, Joan straddled her milking station and kicked one bare foot into a self-locking stirrup. Then she grabbed a tiny set of handlebars and raised her crotch high up over a floppy six-inch long dildo. Desperate to get relief from the pressure in her breasts, Joan slammed her drooling cunt down a little too hard on the cock and grunted when her pubic area struck the tiny saddle extending an inch from the base of the cock on the sides and three inches forward and aft of the rubbery dildo. A click heralded the locking of Joan’s other foot in a stirrup.