BOOKS ONE AND TWO
A Vignette (noun) – a brief impressionistic story, scene or description that focuses on one moment or gives an evocative impression of a character, situation or idea.
Disclaimer, Copyright and Codes
Please note that this is a long read (52,000 words) not a ‘short stroke story’. It contains the first two books of a septology (ie. there should eventually be seven books). If you have enjoyed my previous non-consensual stories, hopefully you will enjoy this one. It contains my usual themes of dominance, submission, control and humiliation, spiced with chastity, cuckolding and forced sex of many kinds. As usual, it does not contain underage characters, snuff or gore.
‘Blessed are the Meek’ is the first book and ‘Rooting for the Underdog’ is the second book that immediately follows it. Both are original works of fiction. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality. Any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. Primevia is a fictional location. Copyright is asserted by the author Velvetglove and no commercial use is authorised. I welcome feedback and ideas at velvetfeedback at gmail.com.
‘BLESSED ARE THE MEEK’
The 60 year old man sitting at the large, leather-topped desk was one of the so-called Founding Fathers of Primevia. His was one of the ink signatures on the actual treaty document that had formally ended the Civil War 27 years earlier. His very own pen had crafted the Constitution by which the island nation of Primevia is still governed today.
He had never wanted the top job. He wasn’t a politician. He despised dreary speeches and compromise deals made in cozy, smoke-filled backrooms. He was a military man, through and through. Since he had retired from the Army a decade earlier, he had held the cabinet post of Minister of Security and Justice. The second part of his title always made him chuckle.
The man’s name was Damien Silas.
His large office was a book-lined library on the third floor, with floor to ceiling mahogany shelves, and tall windows overlooking an internal courtyard. His desk was centred in the room, with two hardbacks for guests to sit in front of him, and his own throne-like chair behind. From his desk, through the open sash-window, he could see several naked prisoners in pillories and stocks in the courtyard below, and hear the occasional rhythmic thwacks of cane on flesh, or rotten eggshells splattering against skin.
The Civil War three decades earlier had been fought between the indigenous Prime tribe who won, and the immigrant Minions who lost. Over half a million people had died in the fighting. Eventually, the victorious Primes seized control of the country and imposed harsh reparations on the Minions.
One segment of Damien’s bookcases contained a bank of 12 television screens in two rows of six, one above the other. All ten local Primevian channels were constantly broadcast with the volume muted. On the far right were the BBC and CNN feeds giving him an international perspective.
He smiled at a scene from New York on CNN where some blonde bitch reporter was silently screeching to a cluster of cameras outside the UN building. A red bar of scrolling text along the bottom of the screen announced yet another UN resolution against Primevia. His country topped the blacklists of the United Nations, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and numerous sanctimonious busybodies worldwide.
His eye drifted along the other channels; Prime One, Prime Two, Prime Time Movies, Prime Network, Prime Sports One and Two, Prime Gossip, the Primer Education Channel, Hot Prime porn and, finally, the Minion channel. On the screen adjacent to CNN, a much more beautiful blonde than the American reporter was hosting her daytime show.
While Prime homes received all ten local channels by cable, Minion homes could only access a single channel. Its broadcasting hours were restricted to 06.00 – 10.00 in the morning and 18.00 to 22.00 hrs in the evening. Content was heavily censored, mostly restricted to news propaganda, sport, and bland chat shows. The woman hosting the talk show on the screen now was named Layla Carr, the nearest thing the Minions had to a celebrity.
By linguistic, archaeological and genetic ancestry, the Primes are a subset of the Polynesian peoples. Prime men are mostly dark, swarthy, and big. General Damien Silas stood six feet six in his army boots and weighed 270 lbs.
He had never been good looking, even by Prime standards, but in late middle age he had become terrifyingly ugly. There was something resembling a fat pigeon about his silhouette; he had a stout belly and a barrel chest making his head appear strangely small, with a cadaverous, undertaker’s face, and a black patch over his empty left eye.
He had lost his eye on the same day he lost his wife, the former gouged out by stray shrapnel, the latter ruthlessly raped and killed by Minion soldiers. In the 28 years since, his heart had not softened one bit.
He pressed a button on his desk.
He had a team of three private secretaries who managed his diary, office, correspondence and filing. They comprised two middle aged Prime women and one Prime man, all of whom he treated with reasonable respect, most of the time.
But the young woman who entered his office was a Minion tea-girl. She carried a tray with a fresh pot of hot tea, milk, sugar and a china cup. Her hand shook as she poured and sweetened his tea. The Minions were descended from northern European sailors who had settled on Primevia, mostly Dutch, Scandinavian, German and Celt. This one was freckled, blonde and pretty. At least, as pretty as she could be, given that she was sporting a purple black-eye and a swollen lip. She was dressed in a skimpy maid’s outfit, comprising black high heels, fishnet stockings, mini skirt and a sheer blouse, with a white waist-apron.
He ignored her as she finished pouring and then waited for his sign. Her braless breasts were visible through the transparent silk of her blouse. Darker horizontal welts showed where his crop had bruised her pale skin. The metal outline of her heavy nipple clips distorted the gentle curve of the silk.
He ignored her and she slowly receded from the room, facing him all the way as she backed out. Her file was on his desk. She was 19 years old and wanted to marry some Minion kid her own age. Damien was testing her love for the brat.
One of the most important parts of the Constitution was the section that governed Minions’ sexual and marital relations. Around 1,000 Minion marriage requests came across his desk every week. No Minion could marry without the direct approval of the Minister of Security and Justice. Of course, he could have delegated such a chore, but it was actually his favourite part of the job.
Each file contained a comprehensive life history of each Minion female and male who wished to tie the knot. There were family trees, identity numbers, surveillance reports, website links and, of course, nice glossy photos.
Unlike Primes, Minions of both genders were usually blonde, slender and blue eyed. The men were lithe and handsome while the women were generally extremely attractive. In Damien’s view, nature had obviously bestowed great physical fortune on them to compensate for their mental weakness.
Onscreen, one of the most beautiful Minions of all, Layla Carr, was wrapping up her morning TV show. Generations ago, Layla’s descendants had been Scandinavian sailors who landed on Primevia. Her face was heart-shaped, with bright turquoise eyes and a dazzling white smile. Her Swedish-blonde hair framed her face and cascaded down to her shoulders. Superficially she looked like just about any TV star worldwide, glamorous and smiling. But if the viewer looked deep within her bright blue eyes something wasn’t quite right. Her show ended at 10.00 a.m.
Just twenty minutes later, by 10.20 a.m, the very same Layla Carr was down on her knees, on his office floor, between Damien’s knees. She was his mistress or, more accurately, one of his mistresses. That she was only 26, very beautiful and married, while he was 60, ugly and widowed, was not remotely his concern. She sucked his cock dutifully and her blue eyes stared up at him in apparent devotion.
His right eye squinted down over his protruding, hairy belly at her divine lips pursed around his shaft. Her mouth was soft, warm and wet. At 60, he was more interested in quality over quantity. He glanced back at an open file on his desk. He liked to work this way. Slowly, methodically, mixing business with pleasure.
Layla had been his mistress for 8 months. Their torrid affair was public knowledge. Layla’s father, brother and husband had been arrested for alleged political crimes. They now languished six storeys below Damien’s office in underground cells. It was widely understood by everybody that Layla should want to apologise personally and frequently to the Security Minister for the sins of her relatives.
There were photos of Layla and Damien in the tacky gossip magazines that sold in their millions weekly. To most Minions, having a powerful, political lover only added to Layla’s allure. There were frequent photos of her on the Security Minister’s arm leaving a restaurant or a nightclub, or climbing into the back of his limousine. There was even a recent paparazzi snap of her head bobbing in Damien’s lap as his chauffeur pulled the Mercedes away.
Layla had of course been well used before she was famous and married. But from 19 to 25, as a popular Minion personality, even Prime men hadn’t touched her for six years until she was unlucky enough to catch Damien’s attention. Now he was helping her make up for lost time.
He sat back in his chair and edged his thick hips forward so she could worship his balls. She let go of his erection with a wet plop and lathered her tongue over the craggy folds of his scrotum. A moment later, without being asked she steered her tongue to his flabby asshole. He let the file he’d been reading drop to the floor and smiled up at the view in the ornate, mirrored ceiling.
Her small, delicate hand pumped his huge erection while she licked his hairy bottom. She was left handed and the modest diamond on her wedding finger glinted. It had cost her husband several months pay. He liked her to wear it to emphasise her married status. Her fingers were beautifully elegant with perfectly varnished red nails.
Like the majority of Prime males, Damien was extremely well endowed. His erect penis measured over eight inches in length and was as thick as Layla’s pale wrist. Prominent veins adorned his shaft like river tributaries.
She was one of literally thousands of women who had performed this duty over the past two and a half decades. Almost all of them had been Minions and almost all of those had been unwilling; from 18 year olds to women in their fifties, virgins to married mothers, one-offs to long term conquests. Layla’s was simply one in an ocean of pretty faces he had looked down upon and enjoyed. She was prettier than most but he could remember many even more beautiful.
Naturally he still liked all kinds of sex, but there was something he’d always loved about blowjobs. He liked to stare into a woman’s watering eyes as she worked, peering through the windows into her soul, as he felt her gagging tongue and stretched lips, and overload of spittle. As a rule, the more they loathed him, the more he relished it. It was only when their crushed acceptance became visible in their eyes that he grew bored.
From that point he often released them, back to their families and the ordinary lives they led before they had come to his attention. But sometimes he pushed on, finding disgusting new ways to revive their unspoken rejection and loathing, so he could take pleasure in forcing them deeper into the abyss.
Layla’s thumb massaged his sweet spot as her skilled fingers stretched around his veined shaft. She pumped him rhythmically, varying the tightness of her grip, making it last just as he liked, until he groaned in warning. Her blue eyes darted up at him and silently queried what he desired. His disdainful, one-eyed squint signalled his obvious wish.
His vast stomach was coated in grey hair and his intense orgasm spattered all over it like a scattergun. Her fingers milked every last gobbet, from the first hot jet that spurted up to his chest, to the next few ropes that uncoiled like serpents over his belly, to the final wet dribbles into his bush of darker pubic hair.
When he had started dating Layla, he had fucked her. But now he mostly preferred the lazy delight of being serviced in his office. He had found new fresh pussy worth fucking. Layla was just a convenient masturbation device. He liked seeing the distaste and resentment in her celebrity eyes, the nausea of her curling top lip as she slowly suckled up his curdled bitterness. At 60, his second or third orgasms of the day were sadly less impressive than they used to be, but he could still brew up one fine healthy serving of porridge for a woman’s breakfast.
Her shiny face emerged from his flabby asshole like a diver coming up for air. She was still dressed in the outfit she had been wearing on TV. Her cleavage gave him a view of her ample tits as she hovered over his waist.
“May I?” she asked. Her voice was pleading, polite, cutesy, as if she genuinely feared he wouldn’t allow her to guzzle everything up.
He shrugged a yes at her with his chin.
She began at his chest, running her tongue onto the pearly blob between his man-boobs and sucking the gloop out of his chest hair. She was so gorgeous. He had recently begun sharing her with his friends and associates. Not many. Just a handful. Even his own son. Damien wasn’t possessive. He liked showing Layla off and whoring her out.
She forced an appreciative smile up at him as her tongue lapped the pearly squirts that now glistened in a fan-shape up his belly. Whenever he came in her mouth he made her hold it all on her tongue and then gargle it. But it lasted even longer this way, with her slowly licking him, millimetre by millimetre, sucking each grey strand clean.
After five minutes, she was done. She carefully exhaled hot breath over him to blow dry his hairy skin. His torso was spotless and she smacked her lips gratefully.
“Thank you.” She murmured, flicking her blonde hair back from her eyes.
“It was nothing.” He said, shifting his huge bulk so he could sit upright in his chair again. She leaned over and buttoned up his shirt.
While she did it, he ran his hand up her skirt and casually fingered the thong she was wearing. Her cunt was bald and silky smooth. He eased the gusset aside and pushed a thumb in between her labia. She was bone dry. He reached behind and felt the globes of her perfect butt, then touched the end of the anal plug that was embedded flush in her ass.
She wore it every morning while she did her television show to remind her of him. He liked seeing her on live TV knowing that his gift was deep inside her. She winced as his palm patted the freshly bruised welts on her butt from yesterday’s caning.
Next, she knelt down and pulled up his military green fatigues. He wore them most days in his office. He only dressed in dark wool suits for dull political events. He lifted his hips so she could arrange his pants round him and button them up.
“See you tomorrow.” He said as soon as she’d finished. “Same time.”
“Ooh, thank you.” She cooed. She removed a Unit from her purse and left the coin on his desk as a thank you gift. Damien always insisted his women tip him for his time. And his semen. It emphasised the balance of the relationship. After all, he was the one doing them a favour.
Every employed Minion earned an identical wage regardless of their job. Layla Carr was paid the same as the lowest skivvy. It kept things simple. They were all paid 100 Prime Units a week. Provided they budgeted carefully, it was enough to live on.
Often, he would phone or message Layla later in the day with some demand but he liked to keep things a surprise for her.
The hem of her skirt was rucked up where he’d fiddled with her. She left it as it was. She smiled down at him in thanks and goodbye.
There was that tiny, lingering moment of hesitation but he looked down at his file, ignoring her until he heard her close the door.
For 8 long months, Layla had longed for any titbit of news of her husband, father, brother. But he never gave her any. He had simply informed her once at the start that, one day, he would eventually release them, and her, but he had absolutely no idea when.
It was true. It might be another week, a month, a year, longer? Who knew? Not until he was bored of her. And as long as she did exactly what Damien wanted, her three men would remain alive.
He opened a drawer in his desk and pressed several buttons.
Three of the screens on his wall flickered and the colour TV programmes that were being broadcast instantly dissolved to black and white images.
He peered at them with his single eye. His eyesight was good but two dimensional. Each of the screens showed murky grey cells from deep below his office. On the first screen, a naked, emaciated man in his early fifties was slowly pacing to and fro in his tiny cell, exercising. Three steps one way, turn, three steps back.
On the next screen, a younger man was sitting hunched in his unlit cell. The picture had a greenish tinge caused by the night vision lenses. His back was leaning against the damp wall and he was gloomily hugging his ankles in the dark, his head on his knees. The blob of silver visible between his thighs was a brutal prisoner’s chastity tube locked round his genitals. The metal teeth ensured that male prisoners were not able to relieve the monotony by masturbating. The young Minion was shaven headed and gaunt, but there was still a clear family resemblance with his sister, Layla Carr.
However, it was the action on the final screen that caused Damien to check his gold Rolex and nod approvingly. The screen glowed brighter than the other two. The cell light was switched on. In the cell, a young male prisoner was on his knees. This one’s head was bobbing a tune into the lap of one of the homosexual guards who patrolled the cells. The burly guard had his pants unzipped and he was leaning back against the cell wall, smoking and chatting. A second guard was holding a stun gun, watching and waiting his turn.
The prisoner’s neck muscles were wiry and well trained. He was as heterosexual as the guards were both gay, but nowadays he sucked and swallowed like a pro.
In fact, Damien suspected that by the time her husband was reunited with Layla, he’d be nearly as good at giving head as she was!
Today was the two hundred and fiftieth day since her father, brother and husband had been arrested and held without trial.
The fishing vessel hugged the coast of Primevia until the two swimmers had made it to the shore. They were carrying waterproof backpacks and wearing black wetsuits. Then the vessel turned and chugged out to sea as fast as it could.
The boat had slipped into Primevian waters during nightfall. Although the Primevian Navy patrolled the seas, the island’s 5,000 miles of coastline meant that a small craft had a reasonable chance of slipping in and out undetected.
The whole mission was high risk. The two swimmers were well aware they had a less than fifty-fifty chance of completing their mission. But to both of them, it was worth it. Dreams of Pulitzer prizes and international press awards, not to mention their righteous idealism, meant they had volunteered for this mission willingly.
The Londoner was Sam Hunter and he was 30 years old. His British TV documentaries had already won him numerous accolades. The name of the American from Pennsylvania was Wanda O’Neil and, at just 25, the Duquesne graduate was already a respected undercover journalist.
They removed their wetsuits hurriedly on the rocky beach and hid them, pulling dry clothes out of their backpacks. Both of them were fair haired and attractive, necessary physical attributes if they were going to pass as ethnic Minions. They were here for exactly two weeks to film, interview and document what was going on in Primevia. They both worked for the Anglo-American-Canadian independent documentary film company called ‘Expose’. They were determined to expose the horrific reality of life here to their audience back home.
They synchronised their watches. The vessel would return just once to collect them in precisely 336 hours time. They had no transmitters or phones and only that single scheduled chance to escape. If they were caught in the meantime, both of them knew that they would be lucky to leave Primevia alive.
In fact, if they were caught, they would be lucky to leave Primevia dead.
For Regan Quintana, it was just another day.
Another day in her role as Chief Medical Supervisor at State Clinic ‘West 18’. It was a job she adored. She arrived as usual at 8.30 hrs, in time for her black coffee, a doughnut, and to check the day’s schedule. She smiled as she scanned the names and photographs on her screen.
But for Natalie Meek, it was not just another day at all.
It was her 18th birthday. The day she had been dreading for a very long time. It was the day that all Minion girls like Natasha were terrified of. She set out with her parents at just before nine o’clock for her appointment at the nearest State Clinic. She had no appetite. Her stomach was empty. The previous day she had taken the strong laxative drink prescribed and had spent the intervening hours evacuating her entire system. Only nervous bile rose in her gorge, making her feel queasy.
Clinic West 18 was a large, squat building in a nondescript street. It was concrete, 4-storeys high, with reflective windows that shone like mirrors in the early morning sunshine. The surrounding buildings in the area were mostly small old fashioned shops with cheap apartments above. There was a fishmonger, a vegetable store, a laundrette, and a tacky lingerie and sex products shop with garish pink neon windows.
A line of people had formed outside the clinic entrance. There were family groups, all consisting of a young woman, usually standing with both her parents. Each group had a suitcase by them on the ground as they waited to be called into the registration hall.
Meanwhile, Regan rode the face of her first appointment. She had scheduled the young lady for the 09.00 slot on purpose. Monica was a deliciously pretty 18 yr old Minion, with blue eyes, blonde plaits and a centre parting. She lay on the wooden bench in Regan’s private office, looking up as Regan crouched astride her.
The fishy scent of Regan’s unwashed private parts hung in the room, mingling with the antiseptic odour of medical disinfectant. Regan was a sturdy, 32 yr old mother of one, with plump breasts and a pear-shaped bottom. She had simply flipped up the hem of her white medical coat. Her untrimmed, straggly pubic bush was matted with juices. Regan twiddled the blonde’s plaits as reins and rode her fiercely like a jockey high in the saddle in the home stretch.
The cute Minion licked and slurped to avoid drowning, her wet tiffany blue eyes gazing up obediently at Regan. Monica was 18 yrs and 2 months old. She had to visit Regan for her weekly ‘Assessments’. Only nine weeks ago, Monica had been an innocent virgin. Now, she had already fucked or sucked 71 different men. Regan was her Guidance Counsellor. The fact that Regan was making the effort to give the young Minion girl extra lessons in cunnilingus demonstrated how seriously Regan took her ‘guidance’ duties.
By 09.20, Regan was well and truly clean and satisfied, her boyfriend’s stale residue from last night well and truly mopped away. She had enjoyed a long, hissing climax, her first of a busy day. Then, she straightened her white coat and put her spectacles back on, sitting down at her desk as if Monica had only just walked into the room. Regan studied her monitor, while the weary blonde wiped her mouth and slowly clambered up from the wooden bench.
The screen on the wall displayed all 71 of Monica’s partners to date: names, photos, ages, identity numbers, dates, times, sex acts and scores. Eight new men had been added since their previous appointment. Regan glanced at the random male faces. The acts and scores were variable. Overall the girl was still running a 3.6 average score out of 5. Regan smirked up at her.
“Another modest week.” She commented, unenthusiastically. “You really do need to get that 3.6 GPA up to at least 4.0 by the time you reach your Centrux.”
By law, every Minion girl had to have sex with at least one hundred Prime men by the end of the third month after her 18th birthday. The exact details were up to her Guidance Counsellor. Provided the Counsellor was satisfied, the girl was awarded her Centrux. If not, she was usually condemned to another three months and at least another hundred men. Some girls were still amassing Centrux scores when they were in their twenties.
Scores were awarded by the men, or sometimes women, who fucked, or were sucked by, or otherwise sampled the Minion girl. A top score of 5 signified the girl had gone way above and beyond. A score of zero was a straight fail that didn’t count towards the required 100 partners.
“How was last week?”
Monica blanched. It was quite evident that she was hating gaining her Centrux more than the average Minion. By their second month, many girls had lost any residual pluck or pride. They were indoctrinated in Primevian culture. Some even started showing signs of sexual pleasure as they came to terms with it. You could spot the masochists and submissives too. But Monica seemed to think she was above servicing her elders and betters.
“And you need to get your average age up too. Over forty.” Regan repeated for emphasis. “That’s the average!”
Naturally, most Minion girls preferred younger Primes, boys in their late teens and 20s. They usually looked much better and were obviously easier for a girl of similar age to approach for a fucking. Knowing this, like many Counsellors, Regan insisted her girls get fucked by their quota of older men too.
Regan clicked her mouse and scanned the Request Box. Photographs and stats of every adult Minion were published on the State’s special website. There was a sophisticated search engine. Monica had her own page. There were two facial photos, front on and profile, several nude body shots, and a close up of her bald cunt. Requesters knew exactly what they would be getting.
Her Request Box contained over a hundred unopened, pending requests from Prime men, and a few Prime women. Regan sorted them by location and found 80 located in the capital city. Photos and names filled the screen on the wall.
She sorted the eighty men by age order. That was much better. Lined faces and saggy bodies ran down the screen, oldest at the top. They were typical Prime specimens of a certain age: usually they were 6ft plus tall, dark or olive skinned, grey curly haired or bald, most with beer bellies, tattoos and man-boobs. They were naked and the majority had chosen to send shots that showed off their ability to maintain an erection.
“I’ll pick you some for this week.”
Monica’s cute face paled and she bit her lip.
Her voice and expression still couldn’t quite hide her disgust.
Regan winked lewdly at her and scrolled down her monitor, clicking boxes. She enjoyed this bit. Some of the men were regular Requesters and she recognised them. They were retired and filled their days with young Minion girls. Hey, it was better than just playing golf all day! She ticked the oldest guy aged 72, selected another eight men all in their 60s, and one craggy woman, and hit the print button.
“I want you to service at least 8 out of these 10 applicants this week.”
“Er, Madam. Can I say ... my period is due in a day or two.”
Regan took the printed A4 sheet from her printer and pushed it across to Monica. Menstrual breaks were one of the oldest tricks in the book.
“No matter.” She replied, waving her fingers dismissively. “You can practise your ass and mouth techniques instead. Old men enjoy BJs and anal. And give them some ass-to-mouth as well.” Regan emphasised the word ‘to’. She looked across to see that Monica had registered the instruction.
“Make sure you pleasure that nice old lady too. Yes?” she added.
Monica looked nauseous but nodded.
“Right. I’ll see you a week today. I expect your total to have reached 79 minimum by then.”
Wiping a tear from the corner of her watery blue eyes, Monica left.
Regan grinned at the screen and clicked ‘send all’. Messages would tell the selected Requesters to expect Monica to contact them shortly.
At 09.30, the new work experience ‘nurse’ arrived. Lasha was only just 18. But, like Regan, she was a Prime, one of the ruling elite.
“So, you’re Lasha?”
“Like a lash?” Regan quipped to break the ice, gesturing for the brunette to take a seat.
Lasha was dark-skinned, long limbed, and her breath smelt of tobacco. She had the sturdy upper body of a typical Prime. When she smiled, Regan saw she had a gold front tooth. Lasha was the daughter of a friend of a friend. That’s how things worked on Primevia.
“You enjoy using a whip?”
Lasha shrugged. “Never done it.”
“But that’s what you’re here for? To try it? The experience.”
Lasha’s gold tooth flashed. She was reasonably attractive for a Prime. She was wearing a fur jacket and a tight pair of skinny denim jeans.
“Yeah. This is a job I think I’d like.”
Regan nodded. “Are you interested in medicine?”
Lasha made a face. “Nah.” She pouted. “Is that necessary?”
Regan sighed quietly. Young kids nowadays.
“Not necessarily. You can’t do my entire job without medical training. But you could become a Clinic Assistant. That gives you most of the perks.”
Lasha grinned. “And I’m going to try out as your assistant, right?”
Regan glanced at her screen. Lasha Marner was actually highly connected. It was one of those things; Regan had a good friend who had recently met Lasha’s mother. The two Prime women got talking about work experience and if Regan’s friend knew any suitable internship opportunities.
It had turned out Lasha’s mother was the sister of General Damien Silas himself and Lasha was his niece. And the General might prove a very useful contact to have one day!
“Sure.” Regan replied, reaching over to shake the girl’s hand. “Now, let’s have a look at today’s schedule, shall we?”
The clock circled moved remorselessly towards the hour.
“Doctor Quintana will see you now.” The receptionist announced.
Natalie somehow managed to walk down the short corridor with her mother and father beside her, almost propping her up. Her legs had turned to jelly, yet her feet felt like they were made of stone. Her father carried her suitcase for her and knocked on the door.
Doctor Quintana was sat at a desk behind a screen. She didn’t even look up. She was wearing a white medical coat and spectacles.
Natalie noticed a second woman dressed in a white apron and denim jeans. She was young, dark-skinned, sitting on a stool, arms folded, grinning at her like a cat that got the cream.
Natalie and her parents stood in front of the doctor’s desk.
“So, you’re eighteen today.” Doctor Quintana said, finally looking up. “Happy birthday.”
“Th ... thank you.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“I’m sorry. Madam. Thank you, madam.”
“Get any nice presents?”
Natalie could barely speak, she couldn’t even think straight.
“You,” the doctor said to her father, “what did you get her?”
“Her Prom dress.” He said. “And lingerie.”
“Good. And you?”
“A Snap.” Her mother replied. A Snap was the cheap brand of camera that Minions were allowed to own.
“Excellent. You’ll be taking some snaps with that I can assure you.”
The doctor pushed a clipboard over the desk.
“Sign this.” She said matter-of-factly to Natalie’s parents. “I’m sure you’ve heard the drill. It confirms that your daughter is a virgin. If we find out otherwise, you will both be sentenced to 18 years in prison. Understood?”
“Yes.” Her parents replied in unison.
“And it makes her a ward of the State during her Centrux.”
Natalie watched the pen in her father’s hand shake as he signed. He was 40 yrs old and she knew today must be as hard for him as it was for her.
“Undress down to your underwear.”
Natalie had known this moment would come but she still felt a pit in her stomach. She blushed and lifted her fingertips to the buttons of her blouse.
“And you.” The doctor ordered Natalie’s mother to strip as well.
She was standing in between her parents. They both sucked in sharp intakes of breath. Natalie had inherited her looks from her mother. Even at 38, her mom was still a very attractive woman.
“Hurry up, the pair of you. I have a busy schedule.”
Stifling a sob, Natalie unbuttoned her blouse and she saw her mother start doing the same. Her father stood impotently, digging his fingernails into his palms.
The dark-skinned nurse sitting on a stool in the corner leaned forward. She didn’t look much older than Natalie herself. She was smirking, watching intently.
The doctor picked up the computer mouse and tapped it on the mat.
“So, I see your wife passed her own Centrux qualification.” She said directly to Natalie’s dad.
Her mum had been 11 at the time of the Civil War. By the time she was 18, the Centrux scheme was fully underway. Her mother wore a ‘C’ indelibly tattooed into her forehead and Natalie knew her mum was inked on her pubic mound as well. But the meaning was something the family never discussed.
“Yes ... doctor.” Her dad replied tersely.
Natalie reluctantly edged her blouse off her shoulders and stood in her bra. Then she unzipped her skirt and raised her feet, one by one, to remove her high heels. Her mum did likewise. They were like two obedient tandem dolls.
The doctor typed on her keyboard and clicked the mouse.
“Aha,” she smiled, “look.”
The screen on the wall lit up; dates, words and photos filled it.
Natalie turned her head and stared at the screen, recognising her mum.
The young nurse edged forward on her stool It had castor wheels and she used her heels to propel it so she had a better angle to see the monitor. Her gold tooth glinted as she grinned.
“Here we are. You lost your cherry on 2nd July 1993.” The doctor continued, peering over her spectacles alternately at her mum and the screen. “To this guy. My, he looks an ugly fucker! Do you remember it well?”
Natalie heard her mother’s voice catch as she replied. “Y ... yes, doctor.”
Nails tapped on the keyboard and the screen display changed.
“Mmm, impressive! 172 men in nine months. My, you were a busy strumpet ! Then, here we are, married hubby here only ten months later on 5th May 1994. You were obviously pretty keen to settle down.”
Natalie and her mother both stood in their underwear. She could feel her parents’ burning shame. She had never imagined her mum had been with so many boys. The images were old technology and dated; endless rows of scanned Polaroid photos.
“Phew, you scored a 4.4 GPA. Wow, would you look at these comments? Lots of happy lads. But they’re waaaay too young. That was the fashion back then wasn’t it? To allow kids your own age to have all the fun.”
She fixed her eyes on Natalie’s mother.
“172 boys but at an average age of only 22 yrs old. That’s ridiculous. I can’t see anybody here over 30. Oh yes, here’s one. But hardly any.”
Natalie blinked away a salty tear. She couldn’t bear listening to her mother’s humiliation. And what must it be like for dad too? But she couldn’t help thinking about her own fate as well. What would the next few days be like?
The doctor seemed to be thinking the same thing. She shifted her gaze back to Natalie and winked over her spectacles.
“You’ve got a tough act to follow, to match a 4.4 GPA. But I think we’ll aim for an average age of forty four, twice your mummy’s. Now, let’s take a good look at you, shall we?”
Regan could feel she was leaking onto the plastic of her chair. She rarely wore underwear at work. She liked to spend the day commando under her skirt and white coat. She enjoyed being unwashed too, feeling the trickle of Roman’s overnight load before it was licked out in the morning. And now her new secretions were adding the moisture of fresh sexual desire. She usually only showered once, at the end of each day, before she left the clinic.
She winked at the daughter over her glasses.
A 4.4 GPA would be a tough ask nowadays, especially combined with a high average age. Stats showed that Primes under thirty scored more generously. But guys over forty and especially over fifty were harder to please.
“Now,” she said, “let’s take a good look at you, shall we?”
Her mind was overflowing with ideas. It always did when she started on a new project. She never got bored. This one was Natalie Meek, 18 today, with her attractive mum and dad. Every little detail about them was available on Regan’s screen. Natalie had breasts that jigged up and down as she walked.
“Take off your bra.”
It was a cheap, under-wired white cotton bra. She watched Natalie reach behind her and unclip it, hesitantly pulling it away. Her tits spilled out.
“Pshoosh.” Regan exhaled with an impressed whistle.
Natalie was trailing her right arm limply across her breasts in that pathetic half-hearted way that topless women do to try to preserve modesty. Natalie’s mother was standing to attention, arms down by her sides. They certainly were mother and daughter, same height, same build, same skin colour.
Regan stared at Natalie and motioned with her eyes for the girl to drop her arm.
Her breasts were perfect. They were suspended high on her chest in that way that seems to defy gravity. They were large and full but with no droop at all. In years to come they would inevitably sag but that was after her use by date. For now, every Prime would have the opportunity to enjoy them at their youthful best, handfuls of firm, creamy white innocence with coral pink areolae.
Her stomach had that flat, sinewy tone that only teenagers enjoy. The screen gave her waist measurement at 22 inches. Her figure was a classic, slender hourglass; lovely hips that flared up and inwards to a tiny waist. Regan would confirm Natalie’s 32D – 22 – 34 stats for herself shortly.
Even better was Natalie’s face. The features were perfectly even, like so many Minions were blessed with. She had bright blue eyes, a narrow nose and Cupid’s bow lips. Regan felt a flush of heat as she imagined jogging across that pretty saddle.
“Lose the thong.”
Natalie elegantly raised her feet in turn and pulled her white thong off, reluctantly dropping it next to her bra on the floor.
Regan smiled. “Legs apart.”
Natalie edged her feet sideways.
She was a rare strawberry blonde. The hair on her head was basically yellow but with a subtle hint of red in it, giving it a layered sheen the colour of pale honey. The flyaway strands were straight, parted in the middle, cut to shoulder length.
Down below, her pubic hair was uncut, slightly redder in hue, almost ginger. Minion girls were not required to cut or trim their pubic hair until they reached 18. It made their first public waxing more traumatic. Poking through the triangle of carroty pubes, Regan could make out the drawn curtains of her labia.
Soon it would be time to let sunshine flood the room!
From behind, Natalie’s svelte silhouette was even more evident. She had flawless pale skin, a delicate spine and not even an ounce of puppy fat on her butt. She stood 5’ 3” (160 cm) and seemed to be a fraction taller than her mum.
“Bend over. Feet wide apart.”
Regan grinned up at Natalie’s parents who were looking down at her with hatred in their eyes. The family could never mask it. Lasha smiled too, obviously enjoying every moment of this initial, humiliating inspection.
“Pull your ass cheeks wide open.”
Natalie’s youthful fingers reached round to her pale buttocks. She had a single red acne spot on her inner cheek, a tiny almost invisible blemish. She hesitantly clawed open her cheeks to reveal her cleft and the closed swirl of her anus.
Regan left her there posed like an obscene sculpture and turned back to Natalie’s mother.
Sally Meek was 38, married to Ian. They’d had just one child. They seemed to have lived under the radar. Ian was employed in the accounts office of a mining company. Sally worked as a teaching assistant at an under-11s school.
Sally’s height was given as 5’ 2” and her measurements as 34C – 24 – 34 from her last doctor’s report. She was obviously a little looser round the edges than her daughter but still looked trim and fit for her age. Regan might put her on a crash diet and exercise regime that blasted away a few pounds?
Her face was very similar to her daughter’s, but her hair was lemon yellow without any red in it, and it was cut slightly shorter. A faded red ‘C’ was tattooed into her forehead, just below the parting in her blonde hair.
“Okay, take off your underwear and hurry.”
Regan could see Natalie’s face already peering through the triangle of her spread legs. She was still holding her asshole open.
Doing her best to be defiant and brave, Natalie’s mother stripped her cheap bra and panties off.
Regan smirked. “Legs apart.”
Down below, a matching ‘c’ was revealed on Sally’s hairless mound. A married Minion was given her second tattoo on her wedding day, after her marriage had first been consummated by a Prime male. The pubic ‘c’ stood for cuckold and it reminded the couple that her husband ranked secondary in her priorities.
Sally’s uncovered labia hung more visibly than her daughter’s when she parted her legs.
As far as Regan could tell from the database, Sally Meek had only been fucked by Prime men a few more times since Natalie’s birth. Her boss at the time had used the young mother for a couple of months after her maternity. Some passerby had grabbed Sally in the street one day and recorded his enjoyment of her in the public database. But that was it. Nothing since 1997.
“Now turn around and show us your asshole.”
Regan casually winked at Ian Meek. He was stood there in his burlap suit, hands by his sides, impotently witnessing his two women’s dishonour. Minion men all wore identical grey suits during work hours. The sisal fabric was the same as that used for making the large sacks that transport coffee beans worldwide. It was available in three colours; rat grey, diarrhoea brown and vomit green. Suits were coarse, itchy and cut in unflattering rectangular lines.
Mother and daughter were bent over side by side, legs wide apart, as Sally’s fingers prised apart her buttocks.
“It must be a long time since that ass enjoyed any action.” Regan dryly observed.
The law was clear cut and strictly enforced. Minion couples were only ever allowed vanilla missionary sex with each other. Also, the male had to wear a Curtail and had to cum within 2 minutes. That was the standard protocol and duration of Minion sex. If he hadn’t cum within the allotted 120 seconds, the law forbade continuation or even finishing by hand. It was considered that if a Minion didn’t cum within 2 minutes, he hadn’t needed to cum at all.
Curtail had once been a local manufacturer of tractor tyres. Now, the state-owned Curtail Corporation had the exclusive license to produce condoms for Minions. It was the only brand they were allowed to buy and use. Curtails were sold in packs of one. They required a prescription signed by a Prime doctor and they cost about a quarter of a Minion’s weekly wage of 100 Units.
Furthermore, the pack in which each Curtail was sold contained a numbing spermicidal gel that reduced sensitivity. After two minutes, any sensation was nullified. The polyurethane used to make Curtails was developed from recycled tractor tyres and was three times as thick as a standard condom.
Needless to say, Minions soon learned that anything was better than nothing. Curtails were a valued black market currency. A snatched two minutes of sex between a husband and wife was a marital highlight. A Minion male was usually so sexually frustrated that he spurted within seconds of rolling a Curtail onto his erection. Premature ejaculation was commonplace.
Breeding children was the only time in a male Minion’s life his penis could feel the natural warmth of his wife’s vagina. A couple could only have sex without using a Curtail if they had first obtained a State Permit to conceive a child. Permits were only granted for one or two months duration after which, if a couple hadn’t conceived, the woman was usually inseminated artificially, often with random Minion sperm.
“Yes, Madam.” Sally agreed in a muffled reply.
It was against the law for a Minion woman to climax during sex with her husband. She was expected to lie there motionless for a couple of minutes until he filled the Curtail or withdrew without achieving orgasm. Of course, some women did climax, but they did so silently and at great risk.
24 hour CCTV surveillance in their homes meant Minions could always be watched. Many Minion males were also obliged by their sponsors, or sentenced by the state, to wear chastity devices much of the time anyway.
Oral sex, anal sex, even mutual masturbation, and certainly anything kinky, were strictly reserved for Primes. Regan could take it for granted that Ian Meek would never have enjoyed his wife’s mouth or bottom.
“Did you enjoy anal?”
There was a letter ‘A’ tattooed in red at the bottom of Sally’s spine. It stood out against the paleness of her skin despite its now very faded ink. It showed that, two decades earlier, Sally’s anus had been well used to Prime meat.
“Not really, Madam.”
Regan had never been tempted by anal sex herself. She enjoyed all kinds of kink but the idea of having some hunk of flesh shoved up her backdoor just didn’t do it for her. But it intrigued her nonetheless. She loved interrogating Minion women what it felt like. Their answers were interesting.
“Okay. Stand back up and face me.”
The matching mother daughter combo had flushed faces and tousled hair as they both turned round.
“Go and lie on the couch over there.” Regan said to Natalie.
It was time to inspect the goods.
Regan got up from her chair and walked over to the medical area of the room. She snapped on a pair of surgical rubber gloves. There was an examination bed covered in a white plastic sheet, surrounded by stands for drips, and bright spotlights, the usual hospital machinery.
There were scales for weighing, an exercise bike, and heart monitors. On the wall were glass cabinets full of bottles, potions and shiny steel implements. A large widescreen TV monitor was affixed to the wall.
For the next 20 minutes, Regan carried out a proper medical exam of Natalie. She took blood, saliva and urine samples, she listened to her heart, took her pulse, scrutinized every inch of her flawless young body.
While she did this, Natalie’s two parents and Lasha stood around the couch and watched. Natalie’s ankles were raised up in gynaecological stirrups, holding her knees wide open. Sally Meek was still naked and she was allowed to grip her daughter’s hand throughout the examination.
Meanwhile, Lasha made notes on a clipboard whenever Regan told her.
“She’s in excellent health.” Regan pronounced finally, picking up a small steel probe. There was a tiny camera lens in the tip. “Lasha, would you switch the screen back on, please.”
The work experience nurse pushed a button on the wall.
It was now time for the crucial test; Natalie’s virginity.
Taking up position between the 18 year old’s legs, Regan fingered a dollop of lubricant onto the probe and placed it carefully at the entrance to Natalie’s vagina. Carroty pubes and pink labia filled the TV screen.
Everybody watched as the probe slid into Natalie’s body and, for a moment, the picture went murky, before the view inside her cunt came into focus. It was soon clear that Natalie’s perfect pink channel was untouched and virgin, with a delicate hymen membrane very much still in situ.
“All fine.” Regan smiled, carefully extracting the probe, so as not to cause damage. It was important that Natalie’s hymen be plundered by good Prime cock.
“You must be very proud.”
Natalie’s parents grimaced. They didn’t look proud at all. Relieved maybe, but mostly just angry and sad.
“Yes, doctor.” Sally forced out between clenched teeth.
“Pure, healthy, but strong. Just how we like them.” Regan patted Natalie’s flat abdomen in praise. “Means we can set her a particularly busy schedule.”
Regan unhooked Natalie’s ankles from the stirrups. “Flip over.”
While the 18 yr old climbed onto her front, Regan took a prepared syringe out of the drawer. She held it up to the light and nodded approvingly.
“Relax your bottom.”
She pinched a suitable inch of Natalie’s bum muscle and slid the needle in.
“Three months worth of contraceptive.” She announced, as if everybody wasn’t already aware what she was doing. The continuous release of the injected hormone would enable Natalie to have endless sex without fear of conception.
Next Regan took a long plastic probe and showed it to everybody. It was thin but there were circular ridges every inch or so. It was shiny white and glistened with some kind of sticky goo.
“When did she last void her bowel?” she asked Sally.
“And you gave her the prescribed laxative yesterday after school?”
Regan nodded and placed the tip against the puckered entrance to Natalie’s anus. The first inch of the probe was only as thick as a middle finger before the thicker, concentric ridges started.
She pushed firmly, with a sharp twist, as if she was opening the screw top of a bottle. The first inch slid in. Natalie made a mewling sound.
“Ssh.” Regan admonished.
“Mmmf.” Natalie grunted as the first ridge breached the muscle of her sphincter.
“Silence !” Regan shouted. “Tell your daughter to be quiet.”
“Please, darling.” Sally whispered. “Try not to make any noise.”
Satisfied, Regan steadily inserted the next four ridges until six inches of the probe had been inserted into Natalie’s rectum. Natalie was crying noiselessly. Her pretty blue eyes glistened with wet tears.
“Right. Let’s take a look.”
She pulled the probe out slowly but steadily, enjoying the clenching and unclenching of Natalie’s buttocks as the ridges reappeared. The medley of female whimpers and popping muscle made a nice duet.
The sticky probe was still bright white without any nasty trace of brown. Natalie’s bum was as clean as a whistle, just in case.
“Excellent.” Regan beamed at them all, laying down the probe and snapping off her medical gloves. She stood up and walked back to her chair in the office section of her room.
Her plastic seat was still smeared with her own juices. She grinned to herself without a trace of embarrassment. Under her skirt, she could feel hot sticky excitement between her inner thighs. She sat down on the wetness.
The atmosphere in the room was changing. It was 10.40 a.m. A new phase of the day was about to start.
“Right.” Regan said. “Lasha, would you escort Natalie to the changing rooms please. And don’t forget her suitcase. I need to have a few minutes alone with her parents.”
Still naked, dragging her suitcase, Natalie trudged down the corridor behind the young nurse to a door marked ‘Changing Room’. The nurse seemed almost as lost as she was.
The room was full of rows of metal lockers and changing benches, like where a team would change in a sports stadium. The odour was bitter sweet, a heady cocktail of old socks and fresh toothpaste, of sweat and soap and female perfume.
And another ingredient.
There was a large mirror on a wall.
The nurse rattled a couple of locker doors. The rattling sound echoed.
“Hey, use this one. It’s empty. Number 18. Well that’s appropriate.”
Next to the full length mirror there was a wide entrance to a large shower area. Natalie could see a row of stainless steel toilet pans next to each other only inches apart. There were bidets too, all open plan without any cubicles or partitions. A cluster of shower heads was visible on one wall. The whole changing area resonated with silence and dread.
“Okay. What’ve you got in there?”
Natalie sat on the bench and unzipped her suitcase. Inside was a white sparkly Prom dress, cream high heels, white stockings and lace underwear. The whole outfit had cost her parents a fortune. She also had her makeup bag.
The nurse took the dress out and held it up to herself in front of the mirror.
“Perfect. Now, do you need a pee before you get yourself ready?”
A short distance from the State Clinic ‘West 18’, a young Minion shopkeeper named Joe was arranging the vegetable display outside his store. He ran a neighbourhood stall selling fruit and veg to his clientele. His produce was the best he could get after all the Prime traders had taken their pick of the crop; breadfruit, coconut, taro, cassava, yam, ginger, limes, lemons, garlic, onions, nuts and bananas.
He handled the ripe bananas and thought back to the previous night. Joe and Ulrika, his new wife, had tried making love. They had saved up for several weeks to buy a single Curtail condom. Last night at bedtime, Joe had broken open the black packet and pulled out the rubber ring. It was coated in gel. As he unrolled the condom, his fingertips quickly started tingling.
“Hurry.” Ulrika had whispered, lying on their sofa in readiness.
She helped him unravel the chunky black sleeve onto his erection. The styrene –butadiene rubber was vulcanised to reduce its elasticity and stretch ratio. He got between Ulrika’s knees and lined himself up with the ‘c’ tattoo on her waxed pubic mound. He thrust himself inside her with an urgent groan of need.
He saw her blue eyes flicker towards the old clock on the shelf, checking its second hand. They had two minutes.
“Mmm.” She kissed him, egging him on. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the time.”
Ulrika herself was currently having sex frequently with her Prime sponsor. Joe had witnessed her achieving numerous orgasms with him. She looked Joe reassuringly in the eye. Her eyes said, this is just for you, don’t worry about me.
He began plunging in and out gamely. His wife’s nubile body felt so good underneath his. He bent his head and kissed her breast. He couldn’t really feel her pussy’s warmth through the thick rubber. It was more like masturbating himself into a trash-liner. But it was way better than nothing after weeks of restraint.
“Come on.” She urged.
She was so beautiful. His penis was starting to feel like an arm he’d slept on, muted by pins and needles. It was a race familiar to all Minion men. The agent in the gel was catching him. ‘Cum or numb’ was the brand’s strapline. Within another minute his shaft would be like a gum full of dentist’s anaesthetic.
His rhythm was frenzied; in, out, in, out. He wondered if some state official was watching him right now on CCTV? He vaguely imagined himself, ass going up and down like a yoyo on some policeman’s screen. He was so nearly there. He could feel the sap rising in his balls.
“Ten seconds.” Ulrika murmured in his ear.
He wasn’t going to make it. He bounced up and down frenziedly trying to trigger his point of no return but he could barely feel anything now. The Curtail had done its evil job. They’d have to get another prescription and save up for another condom.
“Stop, darling.” Ulrika said, kindly but firmly, pushing his shoulder up.
He grunted in frustration, throwing himself off her body. His black-sheathed erection flopped out of her like a rotten banana. He pounded his clenched fist against the sofa. The world had to be told what this was like.
Ulrika snuggled close, kissing his neck supportively.
“Don’t worry, darling.” She sighed. “We’ll try again soon.”
Regan popped the steel key into her top pocket.
She had locked Ian Meek in a ‘Dictator 2013’, the latest male chastity tube forged by Castus Steel. It was one hundred percent secure.
“Chastity has come on a long way in 20 years.” Regan observed dryly.
Ian Meek had served his original chastity training in the days of bulky, clumsy devices. They were mostly reinforced plastic and, although reasonably secure, they had allowed the 18 year old penises they caged some pain-free movement.
The Dictator 13 was a different beast altogether. It comprised three solid surgical-grade stainless steel bands that circled the base, shaft and glans of Ian’s penis. The horizontal bands were joined by one vertical steel curved rod. Together they formed a banana-shaped metal cage pointing downwards.
It was a thing of beauty. The steel glistened under her office light. It might have been the shape of a banana but it would have been a very small banana. More like a yellow pickle.
“Yes, doctor.” He agreed, pulling his burlap pants back up.
Ian Meek had obviously led a charmed life. Especially given his wife’s good looks. He hadn’t been locked in chastity since his marriage. But now his situation had been brought to Regan’s attention, she was going to give him some tough training before he was too old. At 40, he would still have enough libido to make the next few months a true physical and mental test.
The Dictator was not just a physical appliance. It was a mental training device as well. Each of the 18 steel surgical grade steel screws used in its construction had a Castus Steel ‘C’ logo on the head. At the other end of the screw was a pointed tip. The sharp inner ends pressed gently against the flaccid base, shaft and crown of the wearer’s penis.
Provided he remained soft and shrivelled at all times, then the tips wouldn’t hurt. He could urinate, wash and live in it. But if Ian Meek’s body or mind even started to misbehave, the discipline tips would prick his sensitive flesh, and ultimately if necessary, dig in and draw blood.
Meanwhile, Sally Meek had also re-dressed into her skirt and blouse. The two parents stood in front of her desk like naughty schoolchildren. Although they were 40 and 38 while Regan was only 32, she held all the power.
They had arrived fearing what would happen to their daughter, but without an inkling of what other surprises Regan had planned for them.
“You two have been having a pretty active sex life, haven’t you?”
Regan had accessed the CCTV inspection reports for the Meek apartment. Several times a year, a ‘big brother’ State observer would monitor each Minion household for an extended period, usually a full week or two. Of course, the Minions themselves would never know when or where they were being watched.
Lenses, recorders, sensors, night cameras, were installed in each room in the modest 2-bed apartments that all Minions lived in. It was a serious crime to tamper with or even to look for the equipment. Film footage, sound recordings, live feeds would all be closely studied and listened to and a report written up.
A ‘green’ report for a home signalled that the parents and any children were living life precisely as laid out by the Government. This meant in particular that teenage children were not touching themselves inappropriately, and Minion parents were having sex, if at all, in the approved perfunctory manner. No apartments had internal doors and Minions were trained to live without any expectations of privacy.
An ‘orange’ report indicated that the inspector was unhappy with some aspect of their behaviour, although laws were not necessarily being broken. If for example a Minion couple seemed to be a bit too physical or affectionate for the inspector’s liking, or somebody seemed to be too aware of the cameras in the bathroom, these transgressions would be noted. An orange report usually resulted in a visit from the police and more frequent CCTV monitoring in future.
A ‘red’ report would result in an immediate raid by the police and firm action would be taken.
The Meeks had received 59 green ratings and only 1 orange in the past decade. Their various inspection reports noted:
“A decent Minion couple who enjoyed modest, occasional and controlled sexual relations”
“Show all the signs of bringing up their teenage daughter in strict observance of Primevian law”.
Ian Meek blushed. “We always stayed within guidelines, doctor.”
Regan smiled wryly. “But you’ve been doing it, once, sometimes even twice, a week for years?”
The married couple exchanged anxious glances. “Sometimes.”
“How did you afford the Curtails?”
He frowned. “We ... I saved on other things.”
“You haven’t imposed a long period of chastity on yourself since you were 18?”
He shook his head. “No doctor.”
“It sounds to me as if you are a sex maniac, Mr. Meek. I think it is time you proved your self-discipline to yourself, and to me, and the State, don’t you?”
He dry-swallowed and looked down at the ground in silence.
“And you.” Regan turned to Sally Meek. “You have been selfishly content to keep that hot body just for your husband for over sixteen years, yes?”
“Well, y ... yes, doctor.”
“And don’t expect me to believe that you haven’t had an orgasm in that whole time? I’ll bet you’ve quietly climaxed with your husband, even if the inspectors didn’t notice your sluttish whimpering. Yes?”
Sally dry-swallowed and stared at the floor like her husband.
Regan sat back in her chair and beamed at them.
“Look at me.” She said. “I think your daughter’s Centrux period would also be a suitable time for both of you to evaluate your own sexual priorities.”
Lasha smiled at Natalie, like an artist stepping back admiringly from a painting on which she had applied the final brushstroke.
Natalie was dressed as a virgin Prom Queen from her coiffed strawberry blonde hair all the way down to her cream high heels. Her face was decorated with a suitable amount of mascara, liner, blush and lipstick. Her armpits had been sprayed with whiff of deodorant and her body exuded a cloud of vanilla perfume.
“You look very nice.” Lasha said. “Very fuckable.”
Natalie looked back at her, her blue eyes narrowed with shock.
Lasha winked. It felt so good. For four years, ever since she was 14, ever since she realised that she was a member of the privileged elite, the niece of Damien Silas no less, she had fantasised about this moment. Yesterday had been Lasha’s own 18th birthday. Today was the start of her new life.
She was just one day older than Natalie. She couldn’t wait to see Natalie sobbing and writhing under the thrusts of numerous guys. She had imagined the scene for so long. In her fantasies, a faceless, blonde Minion girl bucking beneath a dark, strapping lad. And another. And another.
Somewhere, deep down, Lasha wondered what sex would be like. She was pretty sure she preferred girls to boys, but maybe she would only be certain if she experimented with both genders? Who knew? Hey, she had plenty of time.
Meanwhile, Natalie had no time left and no choice. In an hour or so, her long journey would have begun. Cock after cock after cock, with an occasional cunt thrown in for good measure. Lasha secretly hoped she might be allowed to navigate Natalie’s journey.
“Let’s go meet the others.” She said.
Lasha led Natalie down the corridor to another door marked ‘Banqueting Suite.’
She heard voices as they pushed the door open. Two blonde Minions in party outfits were already in the room with their burly male escorts. They all looked across at Lasha and Natalie as they walked in.
“Aha. Here we are! Last but not least.”
One of the male escorts high-fived Lasha.
The room was like a film set. It was large and very plush. The walls were covered in rich, burgundy velvet, with nude oil paintings and gilt mirrors. The wooden floor was highly polished. A pair of glass chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling. It looked French because it was. The fixtures had all been imported after being stripped from a chateau in the Loire.
In the centre of the room there were three chaise longue sofas. The one on the right was covered in antique brown leather like at a gentleman’s club. The one on the left was covered in bubblegum pink velvet like in a little girl’s bedroom.
Bright spotlights on tall stands and high-tech movie cameras on tripods were set up behind all three sofas. The chaise longue in the centre was finished in shiny white PVC like in the waiting room of some internet start up.
Introductions were made. Lasha introduced Natalie proudly. All three Minions were pretty but Natalie was probably the pick of the trio.
“Any of you know each other?”
Natalie and one of the others nodded their heads in recognition. It turned out they were at the same state school together but didn’t share actual classes.
Not until today, anyway.
“This is Joan.” The boy said, patting her bum. “Birthday girl.”
Joan was dressed like Natalie in a Prom dress with puffed sleeves. Hers was lilac and the colour suited her honey coloured tresses.
The other girl was introduced as Alice. She was dressed in a low cut, silken outfit. Lasha had seen photos of similar clothes in books about India. The black, red and gold chiffon was sheer and almost transparent. Alice’s pendulous breasts were displayed and the rest of her young curves were visible through the flimsy silk. Natalie had a prettier face but Alice maybe had the better body.
“Oh, this is going to be great.” Lasha enthused to the two male nurses.
“Now we’re all here it’s time to get started.” One of the guys produced a mug that he’d been holding behind his back.
“Time to draw lots.”
Lasha saw what looked like three plastic straws sticking out of the mug. All were black and solid, actually more like cocktail stirrers than straws.
“You first.” He said to the other male escort, the one responsible for Joan.
The boy circled his finger over the mug teasingly and eventually withdrew a black straw. The other half was bright pink.
“Hahay.” The two boys cheered. “Joan gets the pink sofa.”
“What’s that mean?” Lasha asked.
“It means Joan celebrates her birthday in her pink pussy.”
Everybody looked at Joan and smiled. Then the mood quickly changed. There were two straws left. Lasha glanced at Natalie.
“The other sofas are brown and white.”
“Correct.” The boy holding the mug winked. “One girl celebrates her birthday on the white sofa with her mouth. But the other ...” he indicated the brown leather sofa with his chin “will take all her cocks today in the shitter.”
“Oh, wow.” Lasha jumped up and down with excitement. “What a devious but delicious idea. Losing your virginity in your ass.”
She held out her hand. “Is it my turn?”
“Of course.” He said. “Choose.”
She smiled at Natalie, whose face had turned even paler. “Wish us luck.”
Lasha pulled out a black straw and slowly held up the coloured half in triumph.
The ten men who entered the room had been especially chosen. There were State-run websites and catalogues listing all upcoming 18th birthdays. Prime men and boys and even lesbians trawled them making applications, especially for the prettiest Minions.
But priority was given to applicants who knew the girls. Researchers would often directly approach Prime people who had been involved with her family in some way.
In poor Natalie Meek’s case, that meant that the four eager guys who were going to star in her 18th birthday celebration were all known to her, or her parents, one way or another.
Regan Quintana had arrived to orchestrate the proceedings. The room was now quite crowded. Ian Meek and the other two fathers waited in their burlap suits like waiters holding trays of drinks for the guests; glasses of champagne, beer or sparkling elderflower. There were little bowls of peanuts, condoms, Viagra.
The film crew who had arrived to record the event mingled with Sally Meek and the other two mothers. There was a movie director and several technicians, cameramen and riggers. An interviewer was being filmed asking Sally intimate questions about her daughter for the Extra ‘behind the scenes’ chapter of the DVD.
Natalie was introduced to her father’s manager at the mining company where he worked. The man was a jovial Prime in his fifties, round faced and fat. Her dad had always spoken quite well of him as a boss. He helped himself to a glass of beer from her dad’s tray with a self-conscious shrug, as if this was all too good an opportunity to miss.
She was next introduced to the deputy headmaster at the school where her mother taught. He was dark-skinned, tall and unpleasant looking. In the past, her mum had whispered he sometimes molested the younger Minion teaching assistants.
Then an exceptionally ugly man with a bullet head, jugs ears and a big belly shook Natalie’s hand with a bone crushing grip. His dark forearms were covered in tattoos. He had only just arrived and had been added to the list at the last minute.
Regan called Sally over with the interviewer to join them. The cameraman followed filming everything.
“Do you remember this nice gentleman, Sally?”
Natalie saw her mother’s expression change from confusion to a dawning realisation. Then her cheeks seemed to have all the life sucked out of them.
“Natalie,” Regan confided, “this gentleman was the very first man to fuck your mum back in July, 1993. The very, very first, weren’t you?”
The man grinned. He looked in his fifties. He was missing a front tooth.
Regan stared into Natalie’s eyes.
“So we just tracked him down. For old time’s sake, I thought it would be fun if he joined us today as one of your first lovers too.”
Natalie couldn’t speak. She was overwhelmed. The man’s eyes were undressing her. He was staring at her cleavage. She blinked into the camera’s lights and heard laughter.
“And Sally? What about you. Say hallo to your old friend.”
“H ... hello.” her 38 yr old mother managed to croak a sound out.
“Wonderful.” The young male interviewer said. “You must hate that, yes? The very man who took your virginity now slobbering over your virgin daughter. Mrs Meek, please tell the audience exactly what you’re thinking right now. We’d all love to know.”
Natalie didn’t hear her mum’s reply. Instead she was tugged by her sleeve to greet the only man she recognised of the four. Her PCO teacher. She let out a sob. This was even worse than she could have imagined.
He winked, lifting her hand up to his lips in a mocking kiss.
“Nat, darling. Happy birthday. How lovely you look. I’ve been waiting for this moment for three long years.”
Natalie’s main teacher was a nice old Minion woman who taught them basic academics like domestic chores, typing, filing, waiting tables, that kind of essential stuff. But for three years her class had also been taught by a Prime teacher who schooled them twice a week in what was known as PCO: Politics, Culture and Obedience.
He smiled at her obvious shame and embarrassment. He was only 24 and had been teaching for three years. He was known as a lecher in class and he ogled all the young Minions. Since he met Natalie, he had eyed her growing cleavage, patted her pert bottom and made lewd remarks. But she knew he had recently married his Prime fiancé. She never imagined that he really intended to have sex with a pupil.
At that moment, Regan clapped her hands together.
“Right everybody. Let’s get the party started. Young ladies, please.”
Joan, Alice and Natalie made their way to the middle of the throng. Around them, their escorts, parents, guests and film crew gathered. While Natalie had been introduced to her suitors, the other girls had met theirs.
“Joan, you’re on the pink sofa of course, and Alice on the white. That’s it.” Regan clucked. “And last but not least Natalie, you’re on the brown.”
Two cameramen moved to get a close up of the three birthday girls. Suddenly music started up through the speaker system. It was a brassy instrumental known as The Stripper.
“Right, Alice, you first. Gents, get round the white sofa. Alice is going to do her best to suck you all off. And Joan, please do us a nice striptease and take that dress off.”
Natalie watched in dismay as the men surrounded both girls like sharks scenting blood in the water.
“And Natalie, no standing about watching. Let’s see you strip too.”
Natalie blushed crimson and tried to sway to the big trombone notes. Her mum and dad’s bosses, her own teacher and the ugly old man were all eyeing her intently, licking their lips, sipping their drinks. Her parents and the girl called Lasha were also watching.
She managed to unzip her dress and step slowly out of it, still weaving in time to the music. She stripped down to her lingerie and heels. Reluctantly she undid her bra and waved it embarrassingly around her head before dropping it.
“Hey, nice one.” Lasha laughed. The men all grinned.
“Now the bottom half. But keep the heels on.” Regan instructed.
Natalie swung her hips and tugged her underwear down slowly.
After she had danced naked for them for another minute, she saw Doctor Quintana point to the tanned leather sofa.
“Lie down. There. Face up. Now Sally and Ian. Come forward. That’s it. Here. Now each of you lean in close.”
Natalie sat down and slowly stretched out on the brown leather. She lay her head back and saw her mum and dad’s faces almost touching her own.
“Lovely. All three smile for the camera.”
The striptease music ended. Around her, Natalie could already hear cheers, jeers, laughter and grunts from the other sofas. The room was mayhem.
Doctor Quintana grinned down.
“Right, young lady. Now, draw your knees right back up to your ears.”
Dying from shame, she looked up at all the faces. Slowly, she lifted her knees up and spread them, feeling the air in her orifices, opening every last shred of her dignity up to their eyes. Her parents each took a grip of one of her ankles.
A bearded engineer squatted down and fingered open Natalie’s anal cleft. She bit her lip and gasped as he inserted a tiny lubricated micro-camera lens into her anus, pushing it all the way in with his index finger.
“There we are.” Regan said. “Lights ... camera ... action.”
Lasha was mesmerised. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined something so wonderfully, powerfully erotic. Her own liquid pussy was throbbing like a bubbling cauldron. She actually longed to touch herself there, right here, right now.
To be paid to do this all day. What a brilliant job that would be.
She felt no pity for Natalie. After all, she was just a Minion. But she was intrigued what it must be like for her right now. Lasha would love to be a naughty little brain cell inside Natalie’s head.
“Having fun?” Regan murmured.
Lasha smiled at the doctor. “Amazing.”
Ian and Sally Meek were holding their daughter’s ankles wide apart, giving everybody an eyeful of Natalie’s virgin cunt and her glistening anal swirl.
Lasha peered at the pink petals of her cunt, like roses glossy with dew. It felt good to know that the hymen inside was still very much intact. That would be another day’s entertainment. She smiled at Natalie’s asshole. An excess of lubricating gel overflowed invitingly.
“We usually do anal sex face up, first time round.” Regan explained. “I much prefer it. The girls can see the guys’ faces as they do them. And they can kiss them too. Plus it gives the spectators a better view, both here and on the movie.”
“Can I touch her while it happens?” Lasha asked.
“You can do whatever you like my dear. After all, you’re here to gain experience.”
Natalie’s teacher was going first. He was early twenties, Lasha guessed, tall, toned and evidently all set. He had removed his pants and shoes, and unbuttoned his shirt but kept it on. Lasha had never been so near an erection before. She stared at its veined length and the engorged purple crown. It reminded her of a moist plum.
Natalie lay like a beached crab on the sofa. Her parents were holding her ankles wide above her head. Lasha knelt down and slid her hand onto Natalie’s left tit.
“Be brave.” She encouraged, with a sarcastic wink.
There was a cameraman on the other side and Lasha could see the images being broadcast on a small monitor. She saw the teacher’s penis nuzzling Natalie’s lubricated anal cleft.
“It’s time.” Regan said, behind her. “To take today’s virginity.”
Natalie groaned as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Her breath gusted out of her and then her pretty face screwed up in pain. Lasha tweaked Natalie’s nipple to try and distract her, or maybe just feel connected with her.
Her teacher’s face grimaced with effort. He wiggled his body side to side as he sunk down until his hips rested fully against Natalie’s upturned buttocks.
“Oh yeah, mmmm.” He exclaimed, settling himself.
“Out, then in again. A few deep thrusts.” Regan requested.
The young man rose up a few inches, paused, then plunged down again. There was a slapping sound as his body smacked against Natalie’s.
Lasha grinned up at Mrs Meek and then at Natalie’s dad. She wondered what it was like for them too. A germ of an idea formed in her mind. This was such fun. Maybe Doctor Regan would allow her to take control of the entire Meek family for a week or two? She was sure she could think up some interesting ideas for them all.
“Kiss him.” Lasha found herself urging Natalie. She squeezed Natalie’s boob hard between her fingers, making her gasp aloud.
“Kiss him, I said.”
Natalie lifted her head up slightly and opened her lips so her teacher could slide his tongue into her mouth. They began making out like lovers.
“You,” Lasha instructed Mrs Meek, “get closer. Kiss them both too.”
With tears running down her cheeks, Sally’s face and lips joined the couple’s. It was beautiful. Mother, daughter and teacher with tongues entwined.
Lasha turned and savoured the entranced faces around them. The cameramen and technicians, the audience: Mr Meek’s perspiring round faced boss, the dark deputy head from Mrs Meek’s school, the old bullet head guy, were all watching animatedly. Doctor Quintana had wandered off to see the action on the pink and white sofas, where Lasha could hear raucous laughter and the slap-slap of fucking from behind the crowd.
By now the young guy in Natalie’s ass had really found his rhythm. He was giving her a serious pounding. His full length was carving her sphincter open like a buzz saw, exploring new depths with each hard thrust. He was obviously building up to his orgasm too.
Lasha had never seen a guy climax before but she’d heard enough about sex to guess what was going on. She saw the bearded engineer studying a tablet screen and signalled to him. He turned it and showed her the screen.
It was ugly, but beautiful, all at once. A thrusting helmet advanced and receded, to and fro, at fast pace. It was the view from the micro-lens inside Natalie’s anus. Lasha could see the flaring slit in the teachers’ penis and really appreciate the snug anal fit that he was enjoying. She realised that these stunning images would be available forever. To share and relive. Lasha would keep a copy to remind her of this wonderful day.
She heard and saw the teacher speed up even faster and then he half-grunted, half-sighed a long, gut-wrenching kiss into Natalie’s mouth; ‘yessssssssssss’.
Jets of white filled the tablet screen and blotted out the view. Lasha knew that Natalie had lost her anal virginity five minutes earlier but she could see the defining moment, the signing of the Constitution so to speak, in thick pearly white ink.
All around there was laughter, congratulatory words, pats on the teacher’s shirted back. A microphone was thrust up into Mr Meek’s face for his comment.
“Hey man, tell the viewers how you feel at this moment?”
Lasha heard a wet popping sound as the sweating teacher uncorked his erection from Natalie’s opened passage.
There was so much to see and hear. Lasha didn’t know where to look next. Natalie’s buttocks were pink from chafing. Her anus pouted and oozed.
She looked like she seriously needed a moment to rest.
But already her second lover, Mr Meek’s plump boss, was waving his erection, getting into pole position.
Gaylord Browning sat in his fold-up director’s chair watching the bank of camera feeds. There were 12 monitors showing him everything from internal body shots, to handheld action and close ups, to the static birds eye camera mounted in the ceiling above all three three sofas.
Gaylord had been in the porn business all his life and he could direct four, even five, such movies a day. Although he was as homosexual as his name, these birthday initiation movies were his favourite type. Lots of throbbing erections, erupting semen, pretty girls in distress, a smorgasbord of guys, and a milling audience of clinic staff, his film crew and, of course, the parents.
He checked the name on his clipboard. The cutie named Joan was on her back on the pink sofa taking her third cock in quick succession. She was lucky. In his opinion, the pink girl usually got it easiest. Once she’d got over the shredding of her hymen and taken the first load in her pussy, it was just a question of how long the guys lasted.
Joan’s gazing blue eyes, gasping-fish mouth and honey blonde locks looked good in close up. She was being taught to hook her ankles together behind her fucker’s back so as to make him feel welcome. She looked a natural. Four cocks a day would be meat and drink to her.
But Gaylord had one little surprise for Joan. After she’d entertained her three invited guests and her male escort, a half dozen hairy members of his crew were going to take their turns atop her as well. Joan would be into double figures on her first day.
Meanwhile Alice was struggling on the white sofa, juggling three erections at once in her lips and hands. She was pumping two impatient cocks in her tired fists while stretching her mouth around another. It was obviously all difficult considering she’d never even touched a penis before today. Remarkably, Alice had somehow managed to extract and gulp down her first load, except for the excess she regurgitated straight back through her nostrils. The thick load had belonged to a nice 18yr old Prime of Alice’s own age who coincidentally shared the same birthday as her. Hey, the sports jock was celebrating his 18th as well!
Alice was topless, having had her pretty red and gold silk top shredded down to her waist. Her big white boobs were already marked with red handprints from the constant mauling they were getting. Amusingly, Alice’s mum was crouching alongside her daughter giving her a running lesson on sucking cock, full of encouragement.
But it was the kid on the brown sofa who always got it toughest. This one was unlucky. Gaylord glanced at his clipboard and a couple of screens. Natalie. Young Nat had a double whammy. The ugliest fuckers today were hers, combined with drawing the short straw when it came to which hole. He studied Nat’s face on the monitor. She was no longer looking so hot. Her mascara, liner, blush and lipstick were smeared with slobber and her pretty features were contorted in what Gaylord called the anal grimace. He’d seen the same expression on enough Minion boys that he’d buggered himself over the years.
Nat’s red-tinged blonde hair tumbled down the back of the sofa and one of her cream high heels had fallen off her foot. The second guy had just shot his bolt in her rectum and he was now clambering clumsily off her. She was still on her back, knees in the air, with her well ploughed asshole on display. The chubby guy had left a trail of his slime at the entrance to her anus.
On special occasions, the multi-striped pink, white and brown sofa was brought out for girls whose parents had a bad track record of sexual discipline. The girls were subjected to a serious 3-hole gangbang with 18 guys as their 18th birthday initiation. Those sessions were fun to shoot. But Gaylord marginally preferred the staggered introduction like this of each hole over several days. Drawing it out did a real number on the girl’s psyche.
One of the roving cameramen got a nice shot of her dad’s boss exchanging glances with Nat’s dad as he stood up. It was little poignant moments like that which separated run of the mill birthday movies from the best ones. Gaylord’s movies were all freely available on the state-run website. His were some of the most popular with the most hits. So Joan, Alice and Natalie would all have their 15 minutes of fame.
Nat’s dad reluctantly shook the hand that his boss held out. Gaylord had seen the same thing numerous times. For some reason, Minion employees seemed to prefer almost anybody to their boss, even if the boss was a perfectly nice guy. It was weird. It made sense to suck up to your boss, didn’t it?
And there was still no rest for Natalie. Next on her list was the old bullet headed guy who’d only been contacted at the last minute. Gaylord didn’t even have the guys’ full name on his credits list yet. He just knew that Regan had found out he’d been the first to fuck the mum’s cunt and so he was now going to be one of the first to drill the daughter’s backdoor. It was important to build family traditions.
Gaylord glanced at the timer.
There was still plenty to do before they broke for lunch.
Wanda and Sam found a cave in the mountainside to recuperate and eat their MRE rations; a main course of beef stew warmed by a flameless ration heater.
Wanda unfolded her map. Primevia was a land of mountains, minerals and monsoons. The island covered 100,000 square miles, much of it primeval forest. Ninety per cent of the entire population lived in its three main conurbations: the capital Prime City was the seat of government and financial power; Ultra, the second city, was the commercial hub to the north, and Sweatshop was the overcrowded industrial port in the south-west. The remaining 2 million population were spread out in small towns, villages or working on plantations.
She and Sam were headed for the capital for a rendezvous with their single contact. Everything Wanda had heard about Primevia had shocked her to the core. There were only 5 million Primes but they had ruthlessly dominated the 15 million Minions. The world had to be told what was going on here. For twenty seven years the country’s borders had been closed. Only a few Primevian government officials had passports and papers to travel. Despite its climate and beauty, no tourist Visas were issued for foreigners to visit Primevia.
She forced herself to eat the beef MRE for energy. The truth was, she wasn’t hungry. This was a mission like no other. She was afraid.
Layla had just got out of her shower when the bleeper sounded.
Minions were not allowed smart technology or even normal cell phones. They made do with cheap plastic gadgets that could transmit and receive a few words.
Usually the words were instructions.
That was it. A name and a time was all her display said.
She sighed. Torquil was the Security Minister’s 30 year old son. He was an army officer. A week ago, his father had begun sharing her with him. She was wet and wrapped in a towel. And it was 11.59.
Layla lived in one of the millions of identical homes the State had built for Minions. They were all 2-room flats in huge, Brutalist design, Soviet style, tenements. There was one front room that contained a sofa bed and kitchen, a second room that was a bedroom, plus a tiny shower room with a toilet.
Her front door opened.
Minions were not allowed locks. The State kept the official crime rate so low that it was claimed locks weren’t necessary although, of course, all Prime houses were protected by good security systems.
Torquil stood there. He was wearing military black, with a wide row of medals on his chest. He was not quite as tall as his father and was obviously much younger, but he had the same blunt features, the same pitiless sneer. Whereas his father emanated resentment, Torquil displayed the arrogance of youthful privilege. Unlike most army officers who had crew cuts, his dark greasy locks were worn in a ponytail, incongruous with his neat uniform.
He looked at her. His BK dangled on its chain from his finger.
She took the key from him and turned it into the steel panel mounted just inside her front door. Every Minion home was monitored by hidden lenses and recording devices. Nobody knew exactly how many there were, or where they were located. Each home was different and it was strictly illegal to search for them or tamper with them.
The Blind Key, or BK as they were known, turned off the surveillance cameras in a Minion home for 30 minutes. Each Prime adult had their own dedicated BK. When the key was turned in the panel, the cameras and recorders ceased working and a log in the CSO recorded the time and whose key had been used.
Torquil wandered into her home as if he owned it and clicked his fingers. He now had half an hour of discreet privacy. The Central Surveillance officers accepted that any Prime would be responsible during a visit. But after half an hour the cameras would automatically recommence broadcasting and they couldn’t be turned off a second time by anybody within the next 24 hours.
Layla touched her breasts, undoing the knot of her towel. It fell to the floor.
His coal black eyes glinted. He had not seen her naked before. The only time she had met him had been at his father’s office a week ago. She had knelt and sucked them both off, one after the other. Like father, like son.
“Nice.” He whistled. It didn’t sound like a genuine compliment, more like something to say to humiliate her. He was leaning his hip against her sofa. Although Layla was a TV star, her home was typical; just cheap pine and plastic furniture, coarse fabrics, plain walls. Her sofa was discoloured and stained.
“Come.” He gestured.
She stepped up to him and let his hands examine her damp nudity. She no longer ever felt truly unsoiled but she was at least clean after her shower. He traced his index finger down her bare neck, throat, shoulder, ribcage, hip and the side of her leg, admiring her silky skin.
“You fuck my dad this morning?”
She shook her head, pursing her lips to indicate what she had done instead.
He sniggered. “Lazy old bugger.”
He stared into her eyes as his hand travelled up the inside of her leg to her labia. Her mound was totally smooth and hairless. She had been lasered but still waxed herself weekly as well. A neat but faded ‘c’ was tattooed in burgundy ink just above her clitoris. He insinuated a bony finger in between her lips.
“So I’ll bet you’re ready for some proper fucking.”
She nodded. “Yes ... Sir.”
His other hand caressed her flat tummy up to her breast and his dark eyes flashed again, indicating his approval of her boobs.
She slowly rotated in front of him and felt his hands on her buttocks. She was sporting eight fresh ridges. Yesterday, Damien said he hadn’t liked the expression she had looked at him with. So he had slashed her eight times with a bamboo cane. She knew there was nothing she could do. The so-called Justice Minister simply hit her whenever he was in the mood.
She flinched as Torquil fingered her bottom. She had removed the anal plug before her shower. She wore it daily from when she got dressed until after her show. It was the third different training plug Damien had given her, each one longer and thicker than the last.
She gritted her teeth while Torquil’s thumbs prised her asshole open.
“Nice and clean.” He said, and then there was a long pause.
However many times Layla had been sodomised, there was no doubt in her mind that vaginal sex was easier. Even oral was better than anal.
He slapped her bottom. “Nah, turn round.”
He had made up his mind.
“Let’s give that cunt of yours a workout. But I need a piss first.”
The open entrance to her shower and toilet was at the end of the room. There was no internal door. Minion families lived without privacy even from each other. A fisheye camera lens in the ceiling above the toilet was all seeing, except when a BK temporarily switched off the surveillance.
“Let’s fuck in your sponsor’s room.” He called out.
She heard the deep gurgle of his bladder emptying in the pan, grateful that he apparently wasn’t a man who insisted on golden showers.
She opened the door to her second room.
When a husband and wife married and were authorised to move into a flat together, every Minion couple lived, cooked and slept in their front room. The second room was reserved as a dedicated ‘guest bedroom’. It was only when a couple eventually had children that they were authorised to convert the second room into a twin room for their kids.
Until then, the room was not a ‘guest bedroom’ in the conventional Western World sense.
It was known as the Sponsor’s room. It was here that young Minion couples were expected to entertain their marital sponsor, if they had one, or random Prime visitors who dropped by, if they didn’t.
Layla’s marriage was currently sponsored by General Silas. His Sponsor’s Emblem hung outside the door to her flat. It was a letter D with an S-shaped lightning flash mounted inside it. She also wore gold nipple rings with the same Emblem and had a pair of identical diamond earrings for special occasions. Thus her home, her body and her head proclaimed her sponsored – and thus protected - status.
Most young Minion wives wore their Sponsor’s Emblem with relief, if not exactly pride. It was generally considered preferable to cater to one known man’s occasional lusts, than to be sponsor-less and vulnerable to casual rape at any time by Prime strangers.
Layla’s Sponsor’s room contained an oversized double bed that virtually filled the room. The bed was covered in a shiny pink quilt. The ceiling and walls were entirely mirrored. Several hooks and manacles were conveniently located by the headboard and in the side walls. A rack of Velcro straps, cotton ropes, crops and sluttish lingerie hung along one wall. Everything was clean, neat and tidy.
It was the duty of every childless couple to keep their Sponsor’s bedroom suitably furnished and always ready. A Minion couple never dared to use it themselves.
On a shelf there were framed photos of Layla in various semi-dressed and naked poses. In some photos her face or body were spattered with sperm. A large new print of her and Damien at a movie premiere took pride of place. But there was even a small family group showing her husband, parents, brother, and others.
Torquil appeared in the doorway. He was holding his penis and grinning. He was still dressed in his black military jacket, his shirt and shiny boots, but nothing else.
Layla sat on the bed and bent her head down. His penis was salty, semi-hard and thickening. Like his father, Torquil was well endowed, even by Prime standards.
He twisted his wrist to look at his watch. It was already five past twelve.
“Get on your back.”
She shuffled up the bed and spread herself out on the pink quilt. But instead of mounting her, Torquil pulled his phone out of his jacket and took a photo of her lying there. He smiled, pressing a couple of keys.
“Just sending an invite.”
She frowned. Damien’s earlier message had only mentioned Torquil. Not anybody else.
He jumped down onto the bed and licked her ear, sniggering.
“What the old man doesn’t know won’t piss him off.” He whispered.
“But ... please ...”
His hands squeezed her breasts and he kneed her legs open roughly. He flicked meaningfully at the lightning flash Emblem rings. Layla’s nipples had been pierced in Damien’s office the afternoon of her husband’s arrest.
“If you tell him, you think he’ll forgive you? I’ll tell him you loved every fucking second of it.”
She was like a helpless butterfly, its wings pinned open. She knew he was right. She couldn’t tell anybody. His penis located her labia and sliced into her. She groaned as he buried himself balls-deep in a single plunge.
It was worse than she feared. Within a few minutes, four more men were standing at the entrance to the bedroom watching. They were all dressed in army black and were obviously Torquil’s officer colleagues.
“Hey guys, strip off. We’ve only got twenty minutes.”
Layla had experienced most things in her life but never a five man gangbang. Suddenly she was surrounded by black jackets, bare legs, hairy erections, sweaty scrotums and ribald laughter. Nevertheless, she handled them, kissed and then sucked each new arrival in rotation.
Torquil increased his pace and thrusts and grunts. She licked his ear and cooed for him to orgasm inside her. For a brief moment her mind flashed back to making love to her husband. He had always filled his two minutes with similar lunges and groans in their short, frantic but sweet sex. She was suffering this now to save him.
Torquil ripped her thoughts back to the present. He rose up above her on his extended arms, like a vampire about to bite its prey, and smiled down in a rictus grin. His ponytail had come undone and his sweaty dark hair hung over his face.
She felt him throb and his hot wetness invading her. He hovered over her face, a strand of spittle hanging down from his lip landed on her cheek. Strangely, she hated his saliva on her face even more than his semen in her vagina.
And then in an instant, Torquil was gone, replaced by another man, thirties, dark, swarthy and primed to unload. It took only seconds. A cheer went up and he added his ingredient to the cocktail. The others began laughing about the clock and how much time they had left. One of them began taking photos with his phone to amuse them all later.
She caught sight of Torquil through the sea of faces. He was watching from the doorway, amused, scratching his balls as he got dressed. There was pride on his face, as if he was pleased he could offer his mates a TV star.
They were muscular, hard bodied, virile officers. They flipped her over and one fucked her in the doggie position while another hammered her mouth like a cunt. The man behind her kept ramming her forwards so she gagged on the thick penis in her throat. She heaved a couple of times but swallowed her own bile and saliva straight back down. She used her free hands to pump the other stiff erections while they waited their turns inside her orifices.
By 12.27, it was all over. She was spent, like a ragdoll on the bed, oozing semen and glowing with sweat. All of them had departed except for Torquil. He was casually examining her possessions and the framed photos.
“Is this your husband?”
She shook her head. “No. My brother.”
“Yes.” She nodded, sucking in air. It was her favourite photo of her husband.
“Good looking guy.”
“Mm.” She agreed.
“You heard any news from him?”
Her voice broke. “No.” She managed to whisper.
He smiled wryly. “Dad can be a shit, can’t he?”
She looked at him, blinking back tears. How could she answer that?
He looked at his watch and tucked her photo inside his jacket.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll keep an eye out for this guy in the dungeons. You should take a nice shower. I’ll see you again soon.”
He disappeared from the doorway and she heard his clicking footsteps recede as he left her invaded home.
Layla curled up in a foetal position on the saturated quilt and began to sob.
She could feel it. Things were never going to get better.
“Yes.” Doctor Quintana had said. “Sure. I’d appreciate the help.”
It turned out that the doctor had responsibility for over 300 Centrux girls at any one time, and a hundred 18 year old boys, plus all her other duties.
So she was more than happy to hand over responsibility for the Meeks.
Thus, on just her first day, Lasha was given total control of the Meek family; Natalie, Sally and Ian.
They lived in one of the crummy flats in a high-rise on 34th Street West, built by forced labour in the immediate post Civil War period. It consisted of a main room with a pullout bed, a couple of battered armchairs, a kitchen area and a pine table. Damp stains marked the walls. It stank of cooking; cabbage and broth. Through an open entrance, there was a bathroom that contained a weak shower and a corner basin. The toilet was one of those hole-in-the-floor types with foot pads to crouch on, without a pedestal seat.
It was grotty but neat and tidy. The Meeks were house proud.
Natalie slept alone in the room that would have once been the Sponsor’s room, had Sally and Ian Meek ever been sponsored. Since Natalie’s birth, it had been a happy child’s room, with matching twin beds for the sibling that never arrived. But from today onwards, the twins had been pushed back together to make a welcoming double for any boys who visited Natalie.
Lasha inspected the flat; furnishings, clothes, books, photos and drawers with personal possessions. She had already obtained her own Blind Key that gave her control of the CCTV monitors. She was wearing it on a necklace with the key to Ian Meek’s chastity padlock.
“Take a shower.” She instructed Natalie. “Do you have any drinks?”
Mrs Meek opened the fridge. “We have one Primacola.”
“That’ll do.” Lasha said, accepting their last can of the expensive fizzy drink. “Make sure you always have at least ten cans of this in stock in future, for whenever I drop by.”
Natalie Meek bowed her head in agreement. Ten cans of Primacola would make a serious dent in her careful weekly budgeting.
Lasha sat down gingerly on the worn chair, staring at the Meek parents. They were nearer to her own parents’ age and she loved having power over them. She took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her jacket and lit up.
“Drop your pants.” She said to Ian Meek, exhaling a spiral of grey smoke.
She watched him undo his scratchy burlap trousers and lower them to his knees. It was the first time she’d seen a real chastity cage. The neat curve of steel looked beautiful, bearing the celebrated ‘c’ logo of the Castus Corporation.
“Doctor Quintana has entrusted you to me.”
“Yes, er Miss.”
She giggled, thrilled. The sound of the shower hissed through the flat as Natalie began scrubbing the scum and semen from her body.
He was still quite nice looking for an old guy of 40. His tummy wasn’t ripped but it was still pretty flat. She couldn’t really see much of his cock through the cage. It sure as hell didn’t look like much, squashed inside the steel rings. She reached up to her neck and felt a kick from touching his key.
“Okay, pull them back up.” She said. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes.” He replied. “Miss.”
“Good. I want you to write a letter to your boss right now and hand it over to him as soon as you get to work tomorrow morning.”
His nostrils flared. “Yes, Miss.” He looked at her with pursed lips.
Lasha pulled a piece of paper from her jacket. It was her cell phone number. “Thank him nicely for the honour he did your family today by buggering Natalie and give him my number. I want him to contact me to arrange a time soon to fuck your daughter’s cunt as well.”
“Please ...” his voice petered out, somehow a simultaneous mix of emotional exhaustion, pent up anger and yet inevitable defeat.
He blushed, croaking “Can you imagine ... what it’s like?”
“Of course not.” She replied. “But that’s what I want to do. To know exactly what it feels like.”
He shrugged helplessly, exasperated, and mumbled something.
“Nothing.” He backtracked, glancing at the floor.
“What?” she repeated, angrily exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“It’s just,” he stammered, “he’s my boss. I’ve worked for him since Natalie was born.”
“Exactly.” Lasha replied, enjoying herself. “So he’s kindly supported your family all that time. It’s time for the Meeks to pay him back. Does he have any kids of his own?”
“Yes.” He replied with a hint of a sigh. “Two sons.” He paused. “Twenty one and nineteen, I think.”
“Excellent. So tell your boss as well that Natalie would love to repay his kindness by doing what she can for his lads too; quickies, fucks, her ass, or of course blowjobs if they prefer. If they already have girlfriends, she can be their slut on the side. Whatever they like. Is that fully understood?”
His head bowed. “Yes.” He murmured. “Miss.”
“And for your rudeness in answering me back just now, neither your boss, nor his two sons, nor any of his or their friends will count towards Natalie’s Centrux total. They will all be un-scored extras throughout the next three months.”
He glanced up at her. The whites of his eyes sparked angrily then fizzled out. She knew that he knew that any further argument would make things much, much worse. She smirked as he turned away dejectedly to fetch his pen and paper.
Lasha turned to Sally Meek who was dressed in a skirt and blouse. She had been listening and her mouth was hanging open in dismay.
“So, I’m told by Doctor Quintana that you and Mr Meek have been having a pretty active sex life, by Minion standards?”
Sally swallowed. A red rash of embarrassment and stress flushed up the side of her mottled neck.
“I don’t know, Miss.”
“And a faithful one too? Nobody but your husband here for years and years?”
Lasha finished her fizzy drink and crushed the empty can in her hand.
“But I’ll bet a part of you has been missing the variety of your own Centrux period?”
Sally bit her quivering lower lip. “Not really, Miss.”
“Really? So you’d like to stay faithful to Mr Meek if possible?”
“Yes. Please, Miss.”
Lasha flicked ash drooping from her ciggie into the empty can and stared at her. Mrs Meek was a MILF, no doubt about it. What Primes called a Minion I’d Like to Fuck. Even at 38, Sally could prove a very popular lady.
But Lasha idly wondered what it would be like to have an older woman kissing her pussy. Maybe it’d be more fun to keep Mrs Meek for herself? A mother daughter three-way? They say mums will do anything to help their kid.
Speaking of which, Natalie reappeared in the entrance to the bathroom, drying her hair. Her naked body was damp and still smudged with red scratches and a couple of bluish bruises from being gripped too tightly.
“Go into your bedroom.” Lasha instructed her.
She turned back to Mrs Meek.
“I want to see you teasing your husband a lot over the next few days. My friends and I will be watching closely on CCTV. I want to see you riding his face at 7 every morning and 11 at night. Make him do a number on that wasted pussy of yours or I’ll find another guy who will. Understood?”
She frowned, confused, then nodded. “Yes, Miss.”
“Hell,” Lasha smirked, getting up, “just relax and enjoy it.”
Natalie was waiting in her bedroom. She had tied the bath towel round her neck to make a kind of halter top dress. The room was mostly taken up by two twin beds pushed together to form a double under a shiny quilt. There was a small window with shelves either side of it. On the pine shelves were family photos and typical teenage bric-a-brac. There was a curtain on a rail in the corner that housed a makeshift wardrobe for Natalie’s clothes.
Lasha shut the door and smiled at her.
“How are you feeling?”
“A bit better.”
“How does that bum feel?”
Natalie shut her eyes. “Sore. But ... okay.”
“Look at me. Come here.”
Lasha felt a stab of envy when she stood opposite Natalie. Although she herself was quite attractive, Lasha knew she was still no match for the Minion’s blue-eyed beauty.
She reached her hand up to touch Natalie’s hair. It was damp and combed back off her face. The wetness made it appear more honey coloured, than strawberry blonde. Even close up, Natalie’s pale skin was flawless. She had tiny freckles either side of her nose and her features were classically even. Her lips were full and inviting.
Without asking, Lasha grabbed behind Natalie’s head and pulled her in for a kiss.
Their lips touched. Natalie didn’t fight, although she recoiled slightly at the smell of tobacco on Lasha’s breath. They stood together and kissed.
Lasha felt her nerves shudder with sexual electricity. She pushed her tongue deep inside Natalie’s mouth, tasting minty warmth. Birthday girl had brushed her teeth to get rid of the saliva of her first boyfriends.
“Mmm ...” Lasha murmured. She slithered her hands up and down Natalie’s nakedness, feeling her slim hourglass figure, thumbing her breasts. Lasha’s own boobs were average sized, with dark areolae and hard nipples.
“Undress me.” She whispered.
They remained kissing while Natalie clumsily unfastened and tugged off Lasha’s fur jacket, top, boots, socks, denim jeans, and underwear, item by item, until both girls were naked. They both tumbled onto the bed.
“Ouch.” Natalie winced as Lasha’s hands roamed her body and fingered her tender anus. She broke away, obviously not into the kissing as Lasha was.
“Please.” She whispered. “This isn’t ... natural.”
Lasha gave a small snort and grinned. “Who cares? I’ve been waiting for this moment all day.”
She slid up the bed, plonking her head on the pillow, arranging her brown body in an inverted Y shape, knees wide open. Her legs were good, straight and slim, but her bum and torso were thicker than Natalie’s. She was a Prime and sadly no amount of dieting would give her the svelte figure of a Minion. A bushy triangle of untrimmed dark hair covered her pubic mound.
“I’ve got a virginity to lose too you know. My puss is virgin, never even been kissed.”
She smiled down at Natalie.
Natalie wiped her lips on the back of her hand and screwed her eyes shut.
Lasha’s voice turned icy.
“Look Natalie, I can make things hard on you and your family. Or I can make things really, really hard. Decide. Which do you want it to be?”
Natalie opened her eyes. A fat tear rolled down her pretty cheek. She nodded and slowly hunkered down between Lasha’s knees.
“Pass me my jacket.” Lasha said.
While Natalie began tonguing her, Lasha fished into her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes and lighter. She lit another ciggie and inhaled deeply.
Lasha still really had no idea if she herself was actually a lezzie or not. She was definitely attracted physically to both boys and girls. She found old men disgusting but hunky guys interested her. Yet females got her juices running most of all, not that she wanted an actual, like ... romantic girlfriend.
She had no intention of reciprocating by licking Natalie’s muff. This was a one way cul-de-sac. She simply wanted to sample having her own pussy licked. She wanted somebody to get her off. Big time.
For five years she had secretly masturbated at night, dreaming of the day she could have legal sex, scheming for the moment she could nail herself a Minion. Her own fingers had been okay, but this was much, much better.
“Mmm, yes, there.” She encouraged, exhaling smoke. She had often dreamed of lying selfishly like this, puffing on a cig, with some faceless tongue in her pussy.
Now the dream had a face. Natalie was presumably doing her best, despite her distaste and lack of experience, slurping and probing. I mean surely a female had to know what another female liked? In the coming weeks, she’d experiment endlessly with Natalie all the ways Lasha might like it.
She flicked her ash onto the bedroom floor and spread her thighs as wide as she could, lifting her buttocks. She wanted to sample something else.
“Kiss my bottom.”
Natalie’s blue eyes glanced up at her from underneath her bush.
Lasha returned her a pretty please pout.
It was thrilling as Natalie’s reluctant tongue traced the short journey from the soaking folds of her pussy to the dark closure that was her asshole.
Mmm, it felt so goooood. Her tongue was warm, wet and tiny. It burrowed as deep as it could, until cheeks and nose and buttocks were all wedged together like a squidgy jigsaw.
Lasha shut her eyes and pictured the thrusting cocks that had rammed Natalie’s ass earlier and wondered how big they must have felt.
She never had any intention of finding out what a cock felt like up there. It would be painful and degrading for sure. Sodomy was for Minion girls to put up with. But analingus like this? Phew, now this was Prime time.
She reached down and dragged Natalie’s head up to her pussy again. The moment soft lips brushed her bloated clit a bolt of sexual electricity surged up her spine. Her orgasm was inevitable now. She could tell it was going to be the biggest, best she’d ever had. She reached up and stubbed her ciggie out against the wall. It was coming.
“Ah, ah, ahmmmmmmmm, yessssssss.” She hissed. “Oh wow, you fucking bitch, yes, fuuuuuuuuck!”
Her knees locked and her toes curled and she heard the sound of a waterfall breaking over rocks, as bright lights literally exploded in her head. It was even more mind blowing than she’d dared hope. Natalie was gasping, pulling away.
Lasha didn’t know whether to shout at her, or sob, or laugh.
She had gushed a crazy amount of liquid all over Natalie’s face. It was like she’d hosed her with a fire hydrant. Her hair, cheeks and the bedcover were all soaking.
Lasha decided to laugh. Natalie was sputtering with shock and indignation.
“Oh wow. That’s never happened before.” She chuckled. “That was fucking a – maze – ing.”
The huge noise she had made when she climaxed had to have been heard throughout the small flat. She curled her finger at Natalie in a beckoning motion.
“Get back down there and lick me clean.”
Eventually, five minutes later, Lasha had dressed again. Her wobbly legs still felt like she’d run a few laps. Natalie remained naked, with bedraggled hair and red-rimmed eyes. All in all, she’d had an interesting few hours.
Lasha opened the bedroom door and walked through.
There was awkward silence. Sally Meek blushed. She was plumping up cushions, tidying. Ian Meek was hunched at the table writing. They both glanced at Lasha and Natalie.
Lasha pushed Natalie ahead of her.
“Well, I’m going to leave you now to enjoy the last few hours of your daughter’s special day together. Tomorrow, she can go to school as usual and tell her friends how she celebrated becoming an adult. But at 4.15 p.m., I want her waiting for me outside the gates to my school. Without fail, yes?”
“Yes.” They all mumbled in unison. “Miss.”
Lasha picked up the half finished letter Ian Meek was writing and smiled at it.
“One more thing. I don’t think Natalie will be home early for supper tomorrow evening.”
Natalie nodded and dropped her eyes.
Lasha smiled at the Meek parents. “I’ll let myself out.”
They reached the outskirts of Prime City at dusk.
They were travelling via the least populous route. In the distant haze, the skyscrapers and tenement blocks shimmered like castle turrets, silhouetted against the pink-tinged sky.
Wanda had already studied satellite photos of Primevia’s capital. The contrast between the Prime residential areas with their comfortable houses, green lawns and blue swimming pools, and the grey concrete blocks stuffed into the cramped Minion ghettos, made any disparity she’d witnessed so far in South Africa, Central America or South East Asia appear egalitarian by comparison.
Primevia enjoys an abundance of oil, gold, copper, diamonds, bauxite, sugar, rice and citrus fruit. Although global trading with Primevia is heavily restricted by UN sanctions and banned by several western governments, it is nevertheless a leading exporter to many African, Asian and even so-called developed nations. Its unlisted corporations in offshore havens like Labuan, Panama, Turks and Caicos, Vanuatu, and in financial centres such as Liechtenstein and Bermuda, trade anonymously with numerous companies around the globe.
The edge of the city was mostly just deserted roads, except for a smattering of fuel stations, warehouses and industrial units. Wanda noticed one large depot with the Castus Corporation logo on its corrugated side and parked trucks outside bearing the same badge. There was another depot for a company called Prime Toys.
She had seen a truck rumbling past in black Curtail Corporation livery with the tagline ‘cum or numb’ emblazoned down its side. She knew that Primevia was a world leader in sex product technology, in particular in chastity products. Websites in the USA and Europe sold steel Castus devices to kinky perverts turned on by the fantasy of forced chastity, while on Primevia many thousands of men had to suffer the dreadful reality.
Vehicles occasionally passed them on the road. Nobody paid her or Sam the slightest bit of attention. They hopefully looked like just an ordinary Minion couple trudging into the city, while most of the cars seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.
They walked purposefully in silence. She glanced at Sam’s handsome profile and then looked again at the darkening sky and ominous buildings. She was briefly reminded of the Philadelphia skyline, the place of her birth. Back there, her family and friends were safe and secure, going about their daily business.
Not for the first time, Wanda asked herself why she wasn’t back home with them?
Panting for breath, Francesca Lowe sidled into her position on the production line at 08.01 hrs. A couple of her colleagues glanced up but nobody spoke. They all kept their heads down and focussed on the rumbling conveyor belt.
Her job was 8-6-7, the usual working hours on Primevia. Each day started at 8.00 a.m. and ended at 6.00 p.m., seven days a week. Only one day a year, National Day, was a bank holiday, to celebrate the signing of the 1986 Constitution.
Francesca worked in a factory that made plastic sex toys. The component parts were machine-produced and then assembled by hand. The marketing slogan was that every toy had ‘only ever been touched by female hands’. She was one of a hundred manual workers in the factory. It wasn’t exactly skilled work but it required coordination, concentration and, above all, limitless stamina.
Aged 36, Francesca had already worked there for 15 long years. Today was the first time in as long as she could remember she’d been late. Everything had conspired against her. One of her two children was sick, she’d missed the early subway train, and the next train had been delayed. Then, running to the factory, the heel on her shoe had broken.
The result was she punched her card exactly 32 seconds late.
None of this would have mattered quite so much but for two recent changes. Firstly, the successful and benevolent man who had founded the Prime Toys empire had recently retired. He had handed over the running of this particular factory to his 22 yr old son Rex. The son was the opposite of the father.
Secondly, Francesca’s husband had lost his job at the local supermarket the day before. For the moment, she was their only breadwinner. There was no benefits system to speak of on Primevia. Without a job, a Minion starved.
She worked as fast and diligently as she could, her fingers a blur as she assembled the bright plastic components. As the hours passed, she slowly became more hopeful. During the ten minute break for lunch, nothing was said about her late arrival. She munched her sandwich in silence and was ready to restart the afternoon shift early.
But at five thirty, a red light buzzed by her work slot.
She was to report to the owner’s office.
Rex kept the woman waiting. She was standing nervously in front of his desk. The only sound was his dad’s ancient clock ticking and the muted rumble of the machinery through the double glazed internal window.
Rex knew who she was. Her name, age, length of service, kids’ names. He even knew her husband had lost his job yesterday and that her 8 yr old was sick. He had also watched clips of recent surveillance CCTV of their flat. But he felt no sympathy. Rex was here to boost productivity by ten per cent. He had wagered his dad he could do it within three months. His dad had always been a stick and carrot kind of guy. But Rex said fuck the carrot, just use a bigger stick.
“You’re fired.” He said, without looking up.
He heard her shocked intake of breath, her hushed wail of agony.
He looked up at her finally. “You were late.”
The bitch wasn’t even that attractive. She had nothing to tempt him with. Fifteen years of hard labour, two kids, 36 years old. Old photos of her on file were okay, but now she was well past her best.
“I’m sorry Sir, it was my first time late ever, Sir, please.” She garbled.
He shook his head. “First time is one time too many.”
She clenched her hands together, fingers locked, begging him.
“Please, Sir, anything. Dock my pay. Punish me any other way you like, Sir.”
He shrugged. Docking pay was frowned on. Basically all Minions earned the same weekly wage, 100 Units, regardless of age, experience, talent or job. It kept things simple and prevented wage inflation or poaching staff.
He knew she was actually one of the better workers. But the bitches all got lazy after many years in the job. You had to make an example of one to encourage the others. As Chairman Mao had said of the Chinese; ‘kill one, frighten ten thousand’. In Rex’s case it was much less drastic; ‘Just sack one and frighten ninety nine’.
She threw herself to the floor beside his desk. “Sir, I mean it, anything.”
Rex studied her. He had already sacked two other women since he took over the factory. He had a waiting list as long as his dick of young Minion bitches who wanted to apply. Why show this one any fucking mercy?
She was wearing the shapeless grey factory dress he provided for all the labourers. There were no pockets in order to prevent items being hidden or stolen. It was box shaped, deeply unfashionable, and so short it barely covered her slightly pudgy thighs.
She obviously sensed she had a chance and repeated “anything.”
“Bend over.” He sighed, pointing to a spot near the sofa.
There was an umbrella stand behind his desk. He selected a long bamboo cane with a crook handle and swished it through the air in a warm up tennis swing.
“How long since you were beaten?” he enquired casually.
“What? Not even during your Centrux training?”
He shook his head. The old days had been soft. Nowadays young Primes like Rex were coming down as hard as you needed to on the fucking Minions. He flipped up the hem of her dress and revealed her bare bottom. She had a faded ‘A’ tattoo at the bottom of her spine telling him that at least the slut had done anal service many years ago.
Her buttocks were pale, with a slight droop where they met the top of her legs. There were shiny traces of cellulite. But they were without blemish and made a fucking nice juicy target. She was clenching her cheeks in anticipation.
“No promises.” He said. “I will probably still sack you. But if you can take a thrashing in total silence, then I will consider allowing you to earn a second chance. Is that what you want?”
There was a sob in her voice already. “Yes Sir.”
He smiled inwardly, amused and excited in equal measure.
Rex raised the cane above his shoulder and lashed it down as hard as he could across her ass. She was only 5’6” and he was all of 6’5”. There was a thrum of displaced air, a crack like a branch snapping, and a suppressed grunt from her. Her braced feet managed to prevent her body being walloped across the room.
Aside from the slight grunt, Francesca Lowe bore the agony in total silence. He watched the purple stripe turn scarlet, rippling out across her buttocks. He waited, as entertained as he always was, enjoying the view. It was time to turn up the heat.
He removed a little plastic bag from his pocket. Inside it were two plugs of ginger root he always kept prepared. They had cured a while, were moist and at maximum potency.
“Touch your toes.”
He kicked her ankles wider apart and shoved one plug of ginger in her dry cunt and inserted the other in her anus. She didn’t move or make a sound, although he could see a mottled red flush of humiliation all the way up her spine.
He waited while the ginger took effect. Her clenched buttocks loosened as the burning began. She shifted her weight slightly from one foot to the other.
“Still.” He barked.
He raised the cane even higher and hit her even harder. Six five and only 22 yrs old, Rex was strong, fit and already a skilled caner. He landed the ace exactly over the first, and her skin split in two places, one on each buttock. Again, the tramlines turned purple, before becoming a glorious sunburnt red, like dawn after a violent storm.
The third stroke produced a tiny agonised groan that she couldn’t suppress. But it wasn’t loud enough to annoy him. He liked it. Her skin came apart and little gobbets of crimson blood flecked her backside. The bright red hue of her skin was turning darker again with bruising.
He let her get her composure back. It was 17.42 hrs. Through the internal window of his office he could see his hundred workers rushing to complete their daily quota.
“More? Or would you prefer to be fired?”
“More. Please, Sir.” She gasped.
He gave her three more in quick succession, backhand, forehand, down the middle, above and below the cuts he’d opened up. Unable to control herself, she howled in pain when the sixth landed, clenching her figged buttocks, hopping from foot to foot. Rivulets of blood seeped down the backs of her pale legs.
“I said silence.” He snapped. “Stand up. Turn around.”
Her face was bright red, streaked with tears, her hair a tousled mess.
She visibly hesitated. “More. Please, Sir.”
He placed the blood spattered cane back in the umbrella stand and selected a shiny leather riding crop.
“Pull your dress over your head and bare your tits.”
She dry-swallowed and lifted the brown shift over her head and dropped it on the floor. She wore no underwear. Her breasts were plump, drooping and white.
He smiled, looking at the clock.
“Let’s go downstairs onto the factory floor.”
Nothing like a bit of public whipping to encourage the other bitches. It would also add an extra dollop of humiliation for this freeloader.
As the buzzer sounded at 18.00 hrs, he summoned all the workers to gather round. Francesca was bent over naked on the factory floor, displaying her raw buttocks. The blood had coagulated in weeping rivulets down her legs.
Rex allowed them all to get a good eyeful. His workforce comprised Minion bitches of all types. From those in their fifties that his father had taken on after the Civil War, to married mothers in their thirties like Francesca, and young cunts barely out of their Centrux period with fresh ‘c’ brands adorning their foreheads. Most of course were fair, from older platinum greys, to honey streaked blondes, to younger flaxen haired girls.
They all wore box-shaped dresses made out of burlap, cut low at the cleavage, and high at the hem. He could see big tits, flat chests, long legs and stubby calves, the full range of feminine attributes, good and bad.
“Stand up and turn round” he ordered Francesca.
Francesca grimaced in shame as she slowly turned. A sea of faces stared at her, from her best friends, to those she recognised but couldn’t name. Their expressions included pity, spite, and a few with casual indifference. But every one of them looked glad she hadn’t been the one who was late that morning.
“Apologise to your colleagues.”
Her mouth was dry. Her eyes were wet. She wiped a tear.
“I’m s ... sorry I was late this m ... morning.” She stammered. The audience was arranged in a wide semi-circle a few metres away from her.
“Lace your fingers behind your head.”
She obeyed, self consciously displaying her breasts to everybody.
“We have a decision to make.” Rex announced. “This shirker wants to keep her job. Raise your hand if you think we should allow her to stay.”
There was motionless silence as they all waited for somebody to take the initiative. Francesca watched as a few hands went up slowly. She implored them with her eyes and gradually a majority raised their arms.
He nodded at the assembled workforce. “Okay. If you can all afford to support slackers, then I can obviously afford to raise your daily production quotas.”
Some hands went down but most of them had known this was a stitch up from the start.
Rex pointed at Jean, the woman who worked in the slot next to Francesca on the conveyor belt. She was a good friend and close neighbour.
Jean stepped forward, avoiding eye contact with Francesca.
“Whip her chest.”
Jean took the leather plaited riding crop from him. It was black, thin, with a square flap of leather at the tip. Jean took position on Francesca’s right, facing her. Rex, the young factory owner, was much taller and he stood behind Jean, watching over her shoulder.
Without any enthusiasm or back lift, Jean raised the crop in her right hand. Her gaze was fixed on Francesca’s body, avoiding her face.
There was a thwack and Francesca felt nauseous as pain ripped through her left breast. She bit her lower lip and dug her fingers into her knuckles to absorb the agony. Her breast bounced and a red line appeared across her nipple.
He shook his head. “Harder. That one doesn’t count.”
Jean glanced into Francesca’s eyes, begging forgiveness. She planted her feet, raised the crop higher and swung.
This blow landed on the meaty underside of Francesca’s breasts. It made a louder splat but actually hurt slightly less. Both her boobs jiggled a moment as she absorbed the pain.
He smiled. “One.”
The way he said one made it clear it was to be the first of many.
She screwed he eyes shut and pictured her two children and husband as the third blow landed. Unable to stop herself, she broke into sobs, letting out a stifled wail.
“Open your eyes.” She heard him say.
Blinking, she obeyed. The watching audience had turned into a blurred canvas of grey and flesh. She blinked down at her burning breasts.
She tried to imagine her family’s faces. She could do this for them. She had to do this for them.
Rex felt his dick hardening in his suit.
He loved a good tit thrashing. He could see his workforce visibly determined to improve their performance. They’d manage their higher daily production quota tomorrow. The bitches would work like dogs to avoid their boobs getting cropped like this.
This one’s large, plump white tits were perfect for a demo. They made a nice slapping sound, rippled like fucking jelly, and turned fifty shades of crimson. By tomorrow her matching top and bottom would resemble a bloody battlefield.
He had picked on Francesca Lowe. She symbolised his fucking dad’s regime. She had been a good conscientious worker for 15 years, married, kids, well treated. That’s why he’d specifically chosen her to make his point to all the others.
It was actually Rex who had had arranged for Francesca’s husband to be sacked from his shelf-stacking job at a supermarket. A quick call to the owner achieved that. Years of service but fired on the spot without a reference.
He had also arranged for her kid to be diagnosed sick. Nothing serious. Just a 24 hour stomach bug of the kind that most mums worry too much about.
He had even managed to arrange for the subway train she was on to be delayed a few minutes. Rex had a mate who worked at the Transport CCTV Control office.
It had still been touch and go whether the reliable Francesca would arrive late today, but the broken heel on her shoe had just been just the bit of luck he needed.
Even then, the bitch was still only 32 seconds late.
The crop was a lightweight model. It was designed to deliver a dreadful sting without breaking flesh. Her tits would throb and bruise for days but there would be no scars. Eventually a small trickle of blood oozed from her right nipple where the areola had split but it didn’t look too bad.
He selected five of Francesca’s colleagues to give her six strokes each. In all, she received 37 strokes because Rex decided seven of them weren’t hard enough to count.
Eventually, he raised his arm.
“That’s enough for today.”
The fifth woman handed him back the crop, curtsied, and rejoined the throng.
He prodded Francesca’s devastated breasts one by one with the tip of the crop, smiling at her. She looked at him through her tears, in a mix of agony, apprehension and relief.
He turned to face his workforce, slowly running his gaze along the line.
“So, ladies. This is another warning. This is what will happen if any of you are late or fail in your duties. You will be fired or disciplined like this. I don’t mind which. There are plenty more Minions than there are good jobs. Is that all clear?”
A murmur rippled along the line. “Yes, Sir.”
He nodded approvingly. “Good. Okay. You may leave.”
Slowly the group disbanded and headed for the exits. He could see from their body language that there would be no lateness for a while.
Finally, he was left alone with Francesca Lowe. She was standing naked, waiting, her fingers still laced behind her head, her face smeared with tears.
He fingered her left breast in his palm, squeezing it like bruised, overripe fruit at a stall.
He mimicked her high pitched, pleading wail from earlier. “Please, Sir, anything.” He chuckled. “Dock my pay. Punish me however you like Sir.”
She looked down at her feet, another humiliated sob wracking her body.
“Do you still want a job?” he asked.
She raised her brimming eyes in hope. “Please, Sir. Yes Sir.”
He let her wait while he pretended to make up his mind. His plan had gone perfectly.
“Be here at 07.45 hrs tomorrow morning with your husband.”
Wanda opened her eyes and glanced at the cheap Swatch propped up outside her sleeping bag. She didn’t usually wear a watch but she and Sam were travelling without their cells, to avoid transmitting their whereabouts.
It was 07.45. They had overslept. The morning sky was overcast.
She felt Sam curled up behind her. Exhausted and cold, they’d slept like spoons together in one sleeping bag, hidden under trees away from an isolated road. She shifted slightly, feeling his warmth, his bristled jaw on her neck.
“Time to get up.” She whispered, half turning her head.
“Mm.” He mumbled into her ear.
She twisted her body until she was facing him.
She and Sam had been dating for six months, and engaged for three of them. In three weeks time, she would be Mrs Hunter. The date was set, guests invited, dress purchased, honeymoon booked. And after they had finally made this documentary about Primevia, they would decide where to live. She didn’t care if she had to relocate to England, or if Sam moved to the US, one way or another, they would spend the rest of their lives together.
She kissed Sam and his lips met hers. But that was all.
One of the many things that Wanda loved about Sam was that he never put any pressure on. He respected her decision. She was a dedicated member of the Silver Ring Thing.
As St Paul said in his First Epistle to the Thessalonians: "God wants you to be holy, so you should keep clear of all sexual sin. Then each of you will control your body and live in holiness and honour."
Wanda had grown up in the Pennsylvania Evangelical Church. Nine years ago, she had taken a vow of sexual abstinence. Now, aged 25, she was still virgin, still celibate, still pure. She would remain so until their wedding night.
She unzipped her side of the sleeping bag. Gusts rustled the leaves on the trees. There was still a morning chill. She was wearing a long T as a nightdress and she pulled it demurely down her body as she climbed out the warm bag. Of course, being celibate didn’t mean she didn’t feel urges, didn’t feel desire for Sam, or hadn’t felt attracted to the couple of other nice churchgoing boys she’d stepped out with before him.
“Right.” He said rousing himself, forcing his eyes open. He blinked at her.
“Wow, you look good Miss Wanda O’Neil, even after a night under a tree in a sleeping bag.”
She smiled at him. He made her tingle all over.
But it was time to get serious. Today was going to be a big day. As she adjusted the Purity ring on her left hand and picked up her wash bag in her right, a fresh gust of wind made her shiver. There were only 310 hours to go until their vessel returned to pick them up.
But what sorts of things were going on in Primevia right now?
And what did the future hold for her and Sam?
‘Rooting for the underdog’
(M/f, Prison, Bondage)
Prime City is a sprawling metropolis. Its silhouette resembles a mid-size American city; a handful of skyscrapers and taller buildings at the centre, that cascade down to a lower rise jungle of grey apartments, glass offices and neon-daubed retail. A haze of tropical heat shimmers above the concrete skyline.
Despite its strict apartheid system, splendid Prime residences with green gardens and blue pools are interspersed with Soviet style blocks that house their Minion domestics, labourers and serfs close at hand. The contrast of wealth and privilege that coexists cheek by jowl with poverty and privation is now taken for granted by Primes and Minions alike. Remarkably, official crime statistics show that Prime City is probably the safest capital city in the world.
Part of the reason for those low crime stats is a huge, rectangular complex in the administrative centre of Prime City. Here sits the Ministry of Security and Justice. Rows of green, blue and red Primevian flags flutter in the gentle breeze. On the boulevards of tall palm trees traffic is restricted to stretch limousines and police vehicles.
From a police helicopter, it is possible to look down and discern that the Ministry’s four architecturally different buildings together form a closed compound, with a walled garden inside.
The ornate North Building houses the so-called Justice Palace, a maze of courtrooms and offices. There is a statue to the fallen heroes of the Civil War facing its entrance.
At ninety degrees to it, the huge East Building is the headquarters of the State Police. It is built of steel and tinted glass that reflects the glare of sunshine like a pair of wraparound Raybans.
Every day, outside the ugly, grey South Administration Block, lines of Minions queue for licences, permits and all manner of paperwork required by the State. It is common for people to have to wait many hours and to be sent to the back of the line for making a single error or crossing out on the complicated forms.
The private office of the Minister of Security and Justice himself is located in the smallest but most prestigious of the four buildings. The stucco fronted West Building houses the great General Damien Silas himself, his senior civil servants, the Prime Bureau of Investigation (PBI), and the Internal Monitoring Service (IMS) plus a couple of even more secret agencies. The rear of the West Building opens onto the walled garden formed by the rear facades of all four ministry buildings.
Inside the garden, there are pillories and sets of stocks and even a gallows. But deeper into the walled garden, there are neat flower beds, mature trees, hedged walkways and a manmade lake. Senior officials can stroll or picnic in the gardens after throwing a few rotten eggs at some wretch in the stocks.
Below ground are huge car parks for the ministerial limousines, saloon cars and police vehicles. Black trucks with tinted windscreens ferry civilians under arrest, or convicted prisoners, to and from the cells. And in the dungeon floors, deep below the car parks, there are literally thousands of cages used for interrogation, as holding cells, and even for long term incarceration.
It is here, several storeys underground that the worst criminals are locked up. Vermin that are a danger to society; terrorists and political opponents, propagandists and subversives.
Most days, Damien Silas would find himself an hour or so to take a personal stroll through his lower West Wing, the section of cells that were exclusively reserved for the use of the Minister of Security and Justice. Only Damien Silas himself could hold people in perpetuity without trial. It was a privilege he made full use of. In Damien’s experience, it wasn’t worth clogging up the legal system with those who were obviously guilty of the worst types of crime.
For example, this woman in cell 37 was a pamphleteer. Worse, she was a Prime. A turncoat who wrote and distributed subversive leaflets. The bitch had been caught handing out sheets encouraging Minions to rebel against the Centrux system. It turned out that the woman, now thirty years old, had been peddling this kind of crap for several years. Well, now she would eat her own bullshit.
Damien leaned his face down and jerked her head back by her curly black hair. He studied her sad brown eyes. You could tell a lot from deep within the eyes. She was immobile and couldn’t speak, unable to move her body or lips. A number of his cells contained the usual equipment required for speedy interrogation; wires and electrics, cables and chains, drips and drugs. The Primevian police were as adept as any force in the world at extracting information rapidly when necessary.
But some other cells were fitted out for a more drawn out, leisurely experience. There was no rush. This woman would suffer here for weeks, months, years, perhaps decades. The cell was a simple concrete box without windows. It had a heavy steel door and a bright, halogen strip light on the ceiling.
She was fixed face down onto a specially-designed, adjustable workbench. It was tilted slightly, so she looked as if she was a pillion rider clutching the back of a motorbike, arms and head thrust forwards, legs bent in a z-shape behind her, ass sticking up. Seven red leather straps secured her head, neck, biceps, waist and ankles to the bench.
Her head was fixed facing straight ahead staring disconsolately at the grey wall. She was totally naked and the red straps contrasted with her olive skin. The bench itself took up most of the small cell. There was only just space for a console table along one wall. The table was covered in neat rows of whips, ropes, dildos, clips, plastic containers and all sorts of nasty kit. There was a plastic slop bucket on the floor set under her waist. Other than that, and the metal stool that Damien pulled up to perch on while he chatted with her, there was nothing else.
The room stank of damp, sweat and the fear of its previous occupants. There was a lingering whiff of urine, excrement and disinfectant in the muggy air. Damien extracted a handkerchief from his pocket. The white cotton was impregnated with lavender and citrus. He wiped it under his fleshy nose.
He had nothing in particular against the 99 per cent of Minions who lived their lives under the Prime yoke, quietly and obediently. The system worked wonderfully well as long as everybody accepted it. There were various versions of the old motto; ‘to tame a man, take his woman’. Others favoured the more transitory, to tame a man, you simply needed to ‘taste’ his woman.
Damien knew that for as long as Minion men allowed their wives, sisters, daughters and girlfriends to be fucked as chattels by their Prime superiors, then Minions would pose no threat to the established order. It was like an early warning alarm. The moment that Primes summoned up any resistance to sexual inequality was like a tripwire signal of possible rebellion. Thus any tiny defiance had to be immediately and ruthlessly exterminated.
Sexual domination has been used for centuries to keep a populace in line. From the Greeks and Romans to the Huns and Goths, from the Conquistadores and Nazis to African tribes and Middle Eastern sheikhs, conquerors have subjugated men by fucking their women. It is the Droit de Seigneur. The founding fathers of Primevia had simply bound that ancient behaviour into his country’s modern Constitution.
But he recognised there were sadly always people who would resist suppression. It was dog eat underdog. His regime could never relax. So Damien’s anger was reserved for the remaining 1 per cent; terrorists who tried to overthrow the system. There were 15 million Minions and only a relatively small number of them tried to oppose the state. They were not organised and had minimal resources but his secret police still regularly exposed individuals, couples or small groups, who sought to foment change.
However, beyond even Minion terrorists, his true hatred was reserved for traitors. Primes were the greatest race in the world; the strongest, luckiest, most blessed people on the planet, living a life others could only fantasise about. He could never understand why any Prime man, or woman, would object to his or her right to use and abuse the inferior race made available to them.
So the tiny number of Primes who supported or even encouraged Minion resistance disgusted him. These self proclaimed liberals thought they knew better. They were as bad as the Americans and British who invaded independent countries trying to impose their way of life on others. Traitors and Yankees. The worst of the worst. How he longed for the day he had an American woman imprisoned down here in a cell. Now that really would be something special.
This particular traitor no longer had a name. Chalked on her cell door were the six digits 163637 that were what she would answer to for the rest of her life. All her prison records would be maintained under that number and any link between 163637 and her former identity would be kept in a secure, top secret database. She was the older daughter of a university lecturer and his wife, who themselves were now under threat of imprisonment or huge fines for harbouring a terrorist.
163637 was 30 yrs old and until her arrest had been deputy editor of Muff Justice, a so-called intellectual magazine aimed at educated Prime women. She was still unmarried. PBI records showed she had lived with several girlfriends since college but had not dated a single man in her entire life. It turned out that 163637 was a fully signed up lesbian.
Damien looked at her. Not even her own mother would describe 163637 as a great beauty but she had an earthy sexual allure. Her face was angular with prominent cheekbones and a firm jaw. In his view she actually looked a typical lesbian, handsome more than pretty. Her lush curly hair was centre-parted and almost black. Her naked sweaty skin glowed a shade of olive.
Her body was gym-toned but a little heavy. Her meaty breasts were pressed against the bench and the overflow of tit was pushed out the side like a chicken burger too large for its bun. The tops of her legs and her lower bum were fleshy. Of course, he knew that excess weight would soon fall off her as she followed the punitive diet and strict exercise regime in the weeks to come. Her wide hips and thighs had been rubbed raw by endless straining against the leather straps. But he kept coming back to her sad brown eyes, looking at him, full of venom and contempt, shame and fear and yes already, undoubtedly, deep regret.
“Good morning.” He said amicably, pulling up his stool.
163637 had been secured to this bench since her arrest three days earlier. Throughout the past 72 hours, she had eaten, drunk, pissed and shat in the same pillion position until her limbs were stiff and her muscles had started to atrophy. Her virgin cunt had been examined, prodded, probed, and measured but she had not been raped. Yet. Her distaste for men provided an unusual opportunity to be relished, not rushed.
Damien grinned, drinking in her expression. Her jaws were held open by an o ring gag that was fastened round her head. Her mouth and upturned nose were distorted by the steel ring that pulled her lips back in a snarl.
“Uugh.” She answered.
A puddle of drool had collected under her. Foamy saliva speckled her chin like an overflowing washing machine. Her teeth were white and had been expensively cared for. Her x-rays and records showed no fillings or decay. One of her lower front teeth had been chipped as she fought against the steel when the gag was first inserted. But it was no matter. Soon enough, the new dentist in her life would remove every single tooth. The cocksucker would live her future life without dental records, only gums.
Damien slowly walked round to the foot of the tilted bench. She was secured so that her spine was curved in an uncomfortable ‘u’ shape. Her thighs were splayed in a wide ‘v’. From the side she looked like a pillion rider, but from the back, with her hips and buttocks raised, she was presenting her female attributes in all their glory. The red leather straps round her elevated waist and knees were buckled tight.
He studied her ass and cunt under the halogen light. There were about twenty slugs and snails grazing on her naked body, mostly on her back, but some in her anal cleft and sucking around her labia. They leached slowly about her flesh, using their tentacles to detect and scent any moisture. Without protective shells, slugs’ own bodies are prone to desiccation. They were feasting on her sweat and fear, leaving their thick mucus in slimy trails over her body.
If her eyes could talk, Damien knew she would simultaneously be telling him that she hated him, but also that she was truly sorry, and that she would never speak a bad word about the State or its Constitution again, what's more that she thought slugs were disgusting, and she truly repented what she had done.
If her asshole could talk, it would be saying that the chilli paste inserted deep inside it a few hours earlier was very painful and the welts and bruises on her inflamed buttocks would admit they’d been taught a real lesson. The rim of her anus had turned a bright shade of red. It looked as if anything going in, or coming out, would be most uncomfortable.
Unlike Minions who were expected to maintain their cunts hairless, many Prime women wore their lush pubic hair untrimmed. Thus 163637 had arrived with a full black pelt. But two male guards who were experts with steel tweezers had extracted her rug, hair by hair, over several hours, until she was plucked and pimpled as bald as a supermarket turkey.
Of course, all of these little skirmishes to date were harmless; simply mind fucks to probe her defences and weaknesses. The heavy artillery would be wheeled in after the initial rapes. Then he would let her sing for real, let her scream and shout and apologize and beg.
He had enjoyed mulling over her ceremony. She was a terrorist busybody who opposed the Centrux system. And yet how could she know? She had never even fucked one man herself! Well, maybe 163637 would achieve her own Centrux in one single sweaty session? A hundred men would gangbang her cunt, asshole and mouth without a break.
But it was important to get the first cock right. He knew the actual first penetration was always the most memorable. Who should it be? A Minion? Some Minion beggar from the streets? A Prime? Some spectacularly ugly fucker? A hugely endowed freak? Which type of dick would sear itself on her lesbian memory forever?
Damien smiled inwardly. No. He had a better idea.
Her first dick would not be human at all.
(Continued from Ch. 21)
‘Beware of the Dogs’
Sam jumped back in surprise at the sudden explosion of loud barking. Wanda screamed. Two sets of gnashing canine teeth and four wild eyes were snarling at them through the wire mesh. The padlocked gates rattled and rocked as the two guards dogs jumped up, snapping and yowling.
“Noooooooo.” Wanda bawled, hugging him.
“It’s okay.” Sam gasped, pulling her to his chest. “They’re behind the gates. They can’t hurt us.”
Their hearts thumped against each other. He tugged her back, away from the mesh. They had walked past a warehouse gate and not even seen the warning sign until it was too late. It said ‘Beware of the Dogs’ in big letters accompanied by a silhouette image of a large Alsation.
“They won’t hurt us.” He reassured her. “Sssh.”
Her brimming eyes looked up at him in shock. She was sobbing, shivering with fear. She turned and stared at the dogs still barking madly on their hind legs.
“It’s just ... I hate dogs.”
He pulled her tighter, stroking her back.
“Well that’s alright then.” He said, forcing a smile. “We’ll have cats instead.”
She didn’t laugh. She looked dubious.
“I’ll protect you.” He reassured her.
A fresh gust of wind made him shiver. He glanced at the dogs, the gates and the warehouse behind. It looked eerily deserted. The kind of place where bad things happen. His watch said 07.03.
“I know you will.” She whispered into his chest. “That’s why I love you.”
(f/m, face-sitting, continued from Ch. 15)
Sally Meek sat astride her husband’s face, gliding her body to and fro.
It was 07.03 and she doing her best to climax quickly. Lasha had instructed her to do this every morning and night and Sally feared the girl would be checking via a hidden camera.
It was just that she was so out of practise. It had been so long since she’d had an orgasm. She had spent years being faithful to Ian, having rushed and rare marital sex together, focused on helping her husband achieve his release in the Curtail. She hadn’t thought about her own pleasure and, besides, she wasn’t meant to orgasm with him anyway.
Years spent bringing up Natalie, going to work 8-6-7, tending her family, doing housework, and supporting her husband had vanquished any intimate needs she might have felt. She vaguely remembered when she was eighteen or nineteen, the confused response of her body to some of the sex she had to endure. There was one man in particular, a married man in his thirties, who had made her orgasm several times. Most of the young Primes during her Centrux weren’t interested in Sally’s reaction at all. But this man had been different, a skilled lover who invited her to his office several times. Sally had fleetingly hoped he might sponsor her.
A fleeting blush of guilt made her open her eyes and look down at Ian. She was facing his head, her back towards his feet. His eyes were closed and she was riding his nose and lips, his tongue sliding in and out of her. She could feel something slowly building. She shifted her hips to make better contact.
Ian’s forehead scrunched in a grimace. She guessed he was hurting inside the steel cage. It was strange that his penis should be responding even at a time like this. After so many years, it felt weirdly good to be focused on herself for once. Lasha had said she wanted her to tease Ian a lot. Just relax and enjoy it, she’d instructed. Well, Sally would do her best to obey.
It was 07.06. She was starting to feel it now. A tingling at the base of her spine, heat in her loins. She pressed a little harder, rode a little faster, breathing a little louder. She dug her nails into her palms so as not to make a noise and disturb Natalie. It was happening now. After so long, so many years, she was going to cuuuummm.
A Minion bathroom is always a hub of cramped activity in the morning.
Even with only three of them vying for the shower, corner basin and squat toilet at once, the Meek family bumped into each other as they washed, brushed and abluted. Their kitchen, living area and bathroom were open plan and breakfast and toilet smells mingled in the muggy atmosphere.
Each flush was expensive. Minion homes were billed punitively for wasted water. As a result, it was customary only to flush toilets after the family had all used it. Each household had its own routine. In this flat on 34th Street West, Ian Meek normally went first, followed by Natalie, with Sally going last.
Sally Meek stood and watched her daughter crouching over the toilet.
Natalie was wearing nothing but her pink towelling dressing gown. It was parted and Sally could see everything as her daughter’s bottom hunkered inches over the narrow porcelain hole. The evidence of Ian’s visit a few minutes earlier still lay steaming beneath her.
“Okay?” Sally asked, concerned.
She had tended Natalie’s deflowered anus with a special ointment the night before. Remarkably little physical damage appeared to have been done; just some redness round the rim. Any long term hurt would be psychological.
“Uhuh.” Natalie mumbled a sound that implied she was doing alright.
Sally began brushing her own teeth, looking in the mirror. Ian was shaving next to her. Neither of them had mentioned the huge orgasm that Sally had enjoyed earlier. It had been a surprise to both of them.
“Mum?” Natalie asked, grimacing, cheeks red, as she strained.
“Mm?” Sally answered with her toothbrush in her mouth.
“Does, er, anal sex get any easier after the first few times?”
Sally angrily spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the corner basin. Then she composed herself, aware that a camera and microphone might well be watching or listening at this moment, invading their privacy. She glanced at Ian’s reflection in the mirror, knowing they had never discussed her anal past.
“Yes, darling. It does a little. Be brave.”
A grunt and fresh burst of odour indicated that Natalie’s straining had produced a result. Sally glanced down between her daughter’s spread knees.
“Hurry. You’ll need to wipe and wash yourself well. If you don’t keep yourself spotless, there can be hell to pay.”
“Dad.” Natalie said, reaching for the tissue. Ian Meek had finished shaving and was rushing to leave for work.
“Please don’t worry about me, dad. I can take it.”
Ian Meek stopped, smiled at his daughter, and wiped his moist eye.
“I know you can, love. We all can. This family will survive.”
(M/mf, continued from Ch. 20)
Rex kept the Lowes waiting for well over two hours.
He had a lie-in until nine and then enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. He employed an Assistant Manager who kept the production line moving whenever Rex was absent.
At nine forty five he finally summoned Francesca and Hans Lowe. They had of course arrived twenty minutes early for the 07.45 appointment.
Francesca was wearing her burlap factory dress. She had dark rings under her eyes and looked as dejected as would any woman who had been thoroughly thrashed the day before.
Her husband Hans was dressed in a matching burlap suit. He shifted nervously from foot to foot. It was the first time he had met his wife’s new boss.
“So,” Rex said, tilting back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, “did you sleep well?”
They exchanged glances. “Not really Sir.”
He chuckled, addressing Hans. “Did your wife tell you I had to punish her yesterday?”
“And you agree she deserved it?”
He looked queasy. “Yes Sir.”
Rex smiled, enjoying the 15 year age gap between them. It was one thing controlling women but middle aged men made for a more amusing game.
“Good. I’m glad we agree. Show me your wife’s bruises.”
Hans hesitated, reddened, then turned and lifted Francesca’s shapeless dress over her head. Her breasts were covered in reddish welts and purple-yellow bruises. There was a sticking plaster over her right nipple.
Rex wordlessly rotated his finger to indicate for her to turn around.
Her ass was sensational. It looked like she was wearing hooped shorts. Scarlet and orange and bluish tramlines decorated almost every inch of her buttocks and the fleshy tops of her legs. He would give her a few days recovery and then thrash them again with a thorny stem of a rosebush.
“Excellent.” He beamed. “Now, I have a proposal for you both.”
They both gulped audibly. Hope and fear visible on their faces.
“No jobs or two jobs.”
Their expressions frowned in confusion.
“Either you are fired,” he said to Francesca, “or you both work for me.”
For a moment they gawped at him, then they exchanged cautiously optimistic glances. Hans had lost his job the day before and Francesca’s was hanging on a knife edge. They had mouths to feed.
Finally Rex delivered his punch line. “But on one salary.”
Naturally, they still accepted his offer. They had no choice. She would continue to earn her wage of 100 Units but Hans would come and work in the warehouse for free. He would do the heavy lifting from eight until six, seven days a week.
To seal the deal, Hans had to pull down his pants and touch his toes. Rex gave him twelve fierce strokes of the cane as a warning against laziness.
“Th ... thank you, S ... sir.” Hans hissed, sucking up the pain.
By 10.00 hrs, Francesca Lowe was back in her place on the production line and Hans Lowe was awkwardly shifting heavy boxes of sex toys next door.
Rex turned on his computer and began increasing the production quotas.
He was fucking well going to win his bet against his dad.
Ian Meek tapped on the door of his boss’s office.
“Sir,” he said, “could I have a word please?”
There was a visibly sheepish moment between the two men. Until the previous day, their relationship had been quite close for a Prime and Minion, almost one of mutual respect, although obviously one of them was clearly superior and the other his junior.
But that rapport had been shattered when Ian’s plump, round faced boss had turned up to sodomise his daughter.
“I have a letter for you Sir.”
His boss’s brow puckered a moment then he broke into a furtive grin.
He thumbed open the letter and read the contents, his smile widening.
Following Lasha’s instruction, in the letter Ian had politely thanked him in writing for buggering Natalie. He had included Lasha’s number and invited his boss to phone her to arrange a time to sample his Natalie’s other holes too, at his convenience. The letter had gone on to request that his boss’s two adult sons fuck his daughter as well. Or if the boys didn’t consider the cunt pretty enough for them to fuck, perhaps her ass or maybe blowjobs instead?
“This is a very unexpected letter. You’re a good man, Meek.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I thought you might be resentful. You know, after yesterday.”
“No Sir. On the contrary.” The words were hard for him to say, but Ian managed to smile and not grit his teeth. “You have been a great boss and support to my family for years. It’s the least we could do in return.”
“I suppose it is.” His boss chuckled, reading the PS at the bottom of the letter. It advised him that Ian would be wearing a Dictator 2013 chastity device until further notice. “Tell me, who’s this Lasha girl exactly?”
“She’s Natalie’s counsellor. In fact, she’s our entire family’s counsellor. We’re her first job.”
“Excellent. And she’s put you in chastity I see. I hope that doesn’t affect your concentration at work?”
“It won’t sir. I promise.”
“Good. Lasha sounds a delightful girl. I’ll give her a call.”
“Thank you Sir.”
His face burning, Ian turned to go.
“By the way, while you’re in chastity, Meek, who’s going to attend to that wife of yours?”
Ian stared, slack-jawed. His boss hadn’t ever talked about Sally in that way before.
Neither man spoke.
“S ... Sally’s fine.” Ian finally stammered.
“Really? I wonder. Oh well, chop chop Meek, get to work.”
(MM/f, stand-up fucking)
Sally Meek was walking into the school where she taught, when she heard a hiss.
Lasha was waving at her from a nearby alleyway.
Sally’s stomach churned. She walked over to the quiet backstreet.
Lasha was wearing a short denim skirt and a tight white T-shirt. The words Prime Evil were stretched in pink sequins across her chest. She pointed to two strapping lads standing a few feet behind her. They were muscled, olive-skinned, tattooed, grinning.
“What do you reckon?” she asked them.
The boys pouted. “Old.”
“Yeah, but she’s a piece.”
They shrugged. “Not bad.”
“You want to?”
The twins frowned. One glanced at his watch. “Here? Now?”
Lasha pointed to a doorway. The place looked disused. Faded paint was peeling off the door and broken windows were boarded up. “There.”
They stared at Sally, licking their lips. “Serious?”
Lasha giggled. “Deadly.”
Lasha studied Manu fucking Sally Meek. It was brilliant to watch. Better than any biology lesson. His skin contrasted beautifully with hers; dark and inked versus pale and smooth. His tattoos were ebony swirls down his arms, torso and legs. Sally had stripped off her top and thong and was wearing her bra and skirt. She was standing bent over, skirt flipped up, hands braced on her knees, while he noisily did her from behind; shove, smack, withdraw, shove, smack, withdraw.
Maku, his brother was kissing Sally’s mouth, waiting his turn patiently. He was half grinning at Lasha, half making out with Sally. He had extracted her large creamy breasts from her bra cups and was rolling her fat nipples in his teenage palms.
The threesome was the perfect match. Both boys were 19, half Sally’s age. Add them together and at 38, they equalled her vintage. Lasha pulled a camera out of her jacket and recorded a nice long movie clip for her Meek collection.
Sally turned her head and screwed her face up in dismay. Her forehead glistened with sweat and she grimaced at each vigorous thrust.
Manu grinned at the camera, grunted and started to orgasm.
“Say hi to Ian.” Lasha said.
Sally’s mouth hung open. She wheezed. “H ... hi ....”
Lasha filmed Manu’s radiant erection as he withdrew. It was glistening, drooling white drops, swinging like a branch in the breeze. His twin quickly took his place. There was a wet squelch as Maku’s dick replaced his brother’s.
The room stank of urine and garbage. Dust particles danced in the sunlight that filtered through the boarded up windows. There were moth eaten blankets, rags and old newspapers on the floor.
“What do you reckon?” Lasha asked.
Manu towelled himself down with Sally’s top. “Better than I expected.”
She winked at Sally who couldn’t help hearing. Lasha ostentatiously held out her hand.
Manu grabbed his jeans from the dirty wooden floor and fished a couple of Unit coins out of the pocket. He handed them to Lasha.
“Here’s for both of us.”
She grinned. “Any time.”
Manu wiped his cock on Sally’s crumpled top then pulled on his jeans, jerking his chin at the camera. “You going to show that to her old man?”
Lasha smirked, watching Sally bracing herself. Maku was driving the 38 yr old woman into the wall with his heavy lunges.
A couple of minutes later, Manu and Maku had left the building, leaving the two women alone. Sally was still kneeling on the dirty floor, looking up at Lasha who was watching the playback on her camera screen.
“Do you want me to show this to your husband and daughter?”
“N ... no. Please don’t.”
Lasha giggled. “I was watching you at seven this morning. Riding your husband’s face. Looked like you were having a good time to me.”
Sally blushed in shame. Her gaze dropped to the floor.
“Look at me!”
A crack filled the air. Lasha slapped Sally across her upturned cheek. A red handprint flared along her jaw.
“Don’t ever turn your eyes away from me!”
“I ... I’m sorry.” Sally stammered.
Lasha smirked and turned around. She was wearing just flip-flops, a denim skirt and her usual tight T. Nothing else.
“Lift up my skirt.”
Her ass was bare. Sally raised up her hemline and revealed two brown buttocks. They were firm, muscular and large. Hairs were visible between her thighs. Unlike Sally’s carefully waxed orifices, Lasha wore her pussy covered in a bush of unkempt pubic hair.
Her face still stinging from the slap, Sally didn’t dare hesitate. She lifted Lasha’s buttocks with her thumbs and lowered her lips. A muggy scent of sexual excitement and tangy copper assaulted her nostrils as she slowly pressed her tongue into the dark passage.
“Like daughter, like mother.” Lasha exhaled happily.
It took a moment, but Sally worked out what the comment meant. Now both she and Natalie had performed this same humiliating duty. She blanked her mind. She had no choice. She curled her tongue into a point, trying to ignore the shame and sweat and hairs tickling her nose.
Sally eased the cheeks open wider and pressed her face fully into Lasha’s cleft.
Without warning, she felt a hiss of warm, fetid air.
She backed away in disgust, wiping her lips, spitting. A distinctive odour of bad eggs enveloped her.
Lasha was giggling like the schoolgirl she was. She turned round with an expression of delight on her face. Her gold tooth flashed.
“You know, I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”
“Pah.” Sally continued to cough up air, feeling sick.
Suddenly Lasha’s face hardened. A strange, quizzical look came into her brown eyes. She put her hands on her hips in indignation.
“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty more where that came from.”
Jed sat on his doorstep juggling a tennis ball with his feet. He was 19 yrs old and a keen soccer player for his college.
His family lived in a big home on June Street, one of the prime residential addresses in the capital. It was a leafy boulevard with large detached houses facing each other, on either side of the street. Mothers pushed their kids in buggies and well dressed Prime businessmen occasionally passed by on their way to work.
He was thinking about nothing much in the warm sunshine when he spotted the hot blonde walking head down along his street. She was alone, avoiding eye contact, obviously a Minion. He checked her out and liked what he saw.
He got up as she passed and jogged behind her. She was wearing a yellow dress that highlighted her curves in the sunlight. He pinched her ass nice and hard.
“Hey.” He said. “Stop.”
She didn’t whirl round. She just froze, rubbing her bottom.
“Are you lost?” he said, walking round her and blocking her path.
She shook her head. “I’m going for an interview.”
“Cool. What for?”
“A nanny. Looking after two children. In Freedom Square.”
He smiled at her. She was gorgeous. She had a ‘c’ tattoo on her forehead so he knew she was at least 18 and had done her service. The pretty yellow cotton clung to her perky tits beautifully.
“What’s your name?”
“How old are you Inga?”
She shielded her blue eyes from the sun with her hand to look at him.
She nodded. “I’m engaged and getting married soon.”
He grinned and reached out to feel her tits. The street was empty. His parents were out. He’d been for a run and had some spare time.
“You have a sponsor?”
She blinked and her lip trembled. “No.”
If a Minion woman had a Prime sponsor, she was relatively safe. She would usually wear his unique earrings or another piece of jewellery or a tattoo. Other Primes would then respect the mark of temporary or permanent ownership.
But without a Prime sponsor, any Minion adult female was fair game. Jed undid a couple of buttons on her soft cotton dress and revealed her cleavage in a white bra.
“Come in.” He said, gesturing at his house with his chin. “I was just about to jerk myself off.”
“M ... my interview.”
He laughed, patting her bum. “Well, you’d better be quick then.”
Inside the house, he kissed her. Her breath was minty. She slowly softened her lips, realising she had no choice. Jed loved it. You just saw a girl in the street and helped yourself. He slipped her dress off her shoulders.
“Tell me about your boyfriend.”
“He’s ...” she paused, searching for words, “my childhood sweetheart.”
He pushed her towards the first doorway down the hall. It was a large reception room where his parents entertained. There was a grand piano. In a glass vase, stood fresh yellow tulips that matched Inga’s dress. A round table was laid up expensively with six places; cut glasses, silver cutlery, candlesticks.
He guided her to a large sofa under the front window. The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty five past ten.
“You’ve got your centrux I see.”
She exhaled. “Yes.”
“How many different guys?”
“One hundred and ninety three.”
“Phew.” He said, impressed.
He pushed her down and finished opening the front of her dress. She was wearing a frilly white bra and thong set.
“Unzip me.” Jed said. He was hard as a rock. He hadn’t shot his load for a couple of days which was unusual. She drew him out of his jeans with her small hands.
“How did your sweetheart enjoy it while you fucked all those guys?”
He tugged her thong down to reveal the matching ‘c’ tattoo on her hairless mound. Her body smelt of vanilla soap.
She made a face. “What do you think?”
Her reply was insolent but Jed didn’t care. He tugged her face up to his erection.
“And you still haven’t had any kind of sex with him yet?”
She shook her head. “No.” Then she took Jed in her warm mouth.
He groaned, pushing his own jeans off while she sucked him. He was sweaty and stank a bit after his run. She didn’t object.
“Lie back.” He said, yanking her cute thong until it tore.
She might have fucked 193 guys so far but her pussy was still warm, with the tight grip of a velvet glove. Jed angled himself between her thighs and eased her knees up and wide with his hands. She grunted as he slid balls deep inside her.
“How long since anybody fucked you?”
“Five months.” She murmured. “Please, my interview.”
He laughed into her ear, licking her lobe.
“Five fucking months. Oh shit, what a waste. Well don’t worry, Inga, this won’t take long. I’m ready to blow my wad.”
He drove in and out a few times, deep and hard, doing his best to make it last more than thirty seconds.
He filled her with five, six, whatever, thick, creamy jets. He was glad he hadn’t wasted them in a tissue.
He lay with his full weight atop her until he got his breath back. Then he slowly levered himself up and knelt between her ankles.
“Phew. That,” he waved his right palm at her, “was better than this.”
Her pretty bald cunt was flared open like a dewy pink rose where he had smash and grabbed. A white slug of cum smeared her pouting labia.
“Hey.” He chuckled, getting up. He went to the laid dining table and grabbed a silver soup spoon. It was highly polished and deep. “You like cum?”
He handed her the spoon. “Sit up. Push it all out into this.”
A look of impatient nausea flitted across her eyes but her face itself smiled politely and took the spoon. Her young abdomen was flat and hard. She squeezed her muscles to expel the gobs of semen.
“Man, now that’s what I call a load.”
Her face turned red from the effort. The spoon glistened, full to the brim with what looked like raw egg white.
She tilted her head slightly and held the spoon to her lips. Then, after a pause for courage, she tipped the glutinous contents into her mouth and licked the spoon clean, turning it over in her mouth to get every last smear.
He grinned proudly as she chugged it all down.
Suddenly, the clock chimed ten thirty.
The whole thing had only taken him five minutes. Quicker than jerking off.
He watched her get dressed. He pocketed her shredded thong as a souvenir. She’d drip all through her interview. She straightened her bra and buttoned her dress back up. Her body now smelt of vanilla with musky notes of recent sex.
“Write your ID number here.” He said, giving her a pad and pencil.
Her fingers shook as she wrote down her 12 digit identifier. With it, Jed would be able to look up everything, her name, where she lived, her family and boyfriend, even watch her on CCTV and enjoy her past Centrux movies.
“May I go now?” she asked.
He kissed her on the lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. “I think we might do that again some time, Inga.”
He gestured dismissively towards his front door for her to see herself out.
“Hey, and good luck in your interview.”
(M/f, Prison, disgusting food)
Damien watched the bearded guard carefully remove the lid from the plastic container. A writhing orgy of fat earthworms slithered around inside, under and over each other. The prison bred and cultivated huge stocks of wildlife, from stinging nettles and dangerous plants, invertebrates and insects, to rats and donkeys, police dogs and horses.
163637 didn’t like earthworms. She wasn’t unusual. They were an acquired taste. Her brown eyes pleaded desperately with the guard. He picked up a wriggling worm. It was off-white, brown-stained with red markings, about three times as long as his little finger and almost as fat.
Her mouth was held wide open by the o ring gag. Her eyes moved from side to side saying no thank you, she wasn’t hungry. He held the squirming worm up to her eyes so she could get a good look at her living sushi.
“If I have to fetch the tongue depressor,” he growled a warning at her, “then you’ll eat another double portion instead.”
Her mad eyes clouded, as she tried to think, and then a vague signal of obedience flitted across her face. The previous day she had earned a whole second container full of worms. A repeat of that dessert was clearly something she wanted to avoid. Her stretched lips slackened.
The guard held the worm over her lower lip and let it recoil. Neither it, nor she, wanted what happened next. He popped the worm onto her tongue and then placed the palm of his gloved hand over her mouth.
Damien had seen many people eat many disgusting things. He loved their expressions as nausea and gagging, disgust and a desperate need to vomit, grappled with extreme humiliation at their inability to prevent what was happening.
She couldn’t swallow. The o-gag in place meant she could not move the necessary muscles. Her mouth and throat acted merely as a funnel. The worm tickled her tonsils as it slithered down her gullet, making her eyes bug in horror. A trickle of snot bubbled from her nostrils.
“Excellent.” Damien said. His words were directed at the guard, but his real purpose of speaking was to inform the prisoner. “You will keep her on this diet for another two days.”
“Yes Sir.” The guard replied, removing his glove from her mouth carefully, checking that the first worm had disappeared.
He picked up a second worm, even longer and dirtier than the first.
“Stick out your tongue as far as you can.”
Her eyes fought a brief internal battle as she stared at them, then at the coiled worm, and back at them. Slowly she managed to force the tip of her tongue through the gag.
The guard dangled the worm onto her protruding tongue so that it slid down to the back of her throat then released it. Her brown eyes watered and a fat teardrop oozed out of the side of one eyelid. The guard kept his glove poised but it wasn’t necessary as the worm wriggled down her gullet.
“You’ll have to do more than this to try to worm your way back into our affections.” Damien said to her, chuckling at his corny joke. “But at least it’s a start.”
The guard put the container down and carefully selected a white slug from the woman’s back. It was white, disgustingly slimy with prominent feelers wiggling on its head.
“Time for some protein.”
Her eyes widened and she managed to gurgle what sounded a very rude objection through the gag. The veins on her forehead stood out. The guard gripped her nostrils and tilted her head just enough to pop the gastropod mollusc into her mouth, sealing it with his gloved hand. Her pupils dilated madly and she blinked tears. Fresh beads of sweat appeared across her shoulder blades and down her spine.
The feeding time would continue for half an hour or more. Damien nodded his approval at the guard.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He said, as the guard picked up the container of worms again.
(M/f, ugly, age, forced female masturbation)
Frank stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.
Hey, not bad for 72 years old!
He was bald apart from a few silver wisps of hair on the top of his head. He ran his hand through his flowing grey beard. He looked a bit like Santa Claus without the red Christmas hat. His thick spectacles distorted his eyes as he peered into the mirror. White hairs sprouted from his nostrils.
He opened his mouth and picked a bit of breakfast out of his teeth with his fingernail. He was still wearing just flip flops and his old dressing gown. He rarely got dressed nowadays unless he was going out. He parted his robe and sniffed each sour armpit in turn. There was no time for him to bathe now. His visitor was due in a few minutes. So he simply splashed a blob of cologne under each arm.
Frank had been born in 1941, when Primevia was a very different place. It was then a backward island where tattooed natives and the descendants of immigrants rubbed along, before the island’s mineral riches were discovered and ethnic tension built up. At the time of the Civil War, Frank was already in his mid-forties.
So when he looked back his sex life divided into three periods; the innocent era when Primes and Minions lived together in relative harmony; then his married life before the Civil War, and afterwards, until his dear wife was taken from him by cancer in her fifties.
And, finally, the past 18 years he’d spent as a widower.
At 72, he was four times the age of the cute Minion babes who visited him. He had become a specialist in Centrux girls. He saw them in the mornings before he started drinking beer. At his age, alcohol and sex no longer mixed. Nowadays, he needed three things to get him nice and hard; a nice little expresso, a nice little pill, and a nice little body.
And the next nice little body was due to arrive any minute.
The coffee was working its magic. He sat down on the toilet and picked up a porn mag. He kept a stack ready on the floor. They were glossy, harmless rags. Porn was plentiful and cheap in Primevia. Actresses and models were two a penny: lots of pretty Minions in various poses, removing lingerie, tits out, lips open, assholes spread, having sex. He loved the Readers Wives sections where wives posed fucking their boyfriends while their husbands watched. But his favourite was lesbian action; two blonde cunts in a 69. He felt the first stirrings of anticipation stiffen his tired old prostate.
He grunted and started noisily disposing of last night’s curry. Goat always played havoc with his guts. The doorbell rang. She’d arrived a couple of minutes early. He grunted again. There was no rush. She could wait. He sat there and continued flicking through the mag while he emptied his bowel. After a while, the doorbell chimed again. With a sigh, he cast the porn aside and wiped his ass.
He tied his robe and flushed the toilet. He was standing at the basin about to turn the tap when the impatient bitch rang a third time. He grumbled and didn’t bother to wash his hands. Hey, it was the cunt’s own fault. He padded through his house to the front door.
Of course, when he saw her, he forgave her. This one was a real cutie pie. She was small, sassy and blonde, every bit as good as her photos had promised. Her tiffany blues widened just a bit when she set eyes on him.
She nodded shyly. “Yes ... sir.”
He grinned lecherously and shook her hand. Then he beckoned her in. A few years ago, he used to feel disappointed when their eyes betrayed them. He’d bathe, comb his beard, brush his teeth, shave, put on nice clothes, try to spruce up. But nowadays he’d given up caring.
She followed him uncertainly into his snug. He dropped down heavily in his favourite chair. He had a 56 inch waist and weighed 250 lbs.
He stared at her. She was standing uneasily in the centre of the room. She averted her eyes and her hands fidgeted nervously in front of her pleated skirt. He let his gaze roam up and down her willowy body.
“So,” he started, “Monica why did you choose me?”
She reddened. “I ... my Guidance Counsellor did.”
He nodded. At least she was telling the truth. Frank knew Regan Quintana, Monica’s Guidance Counsellor. Regan sent him all her best girls when she felt they were ready for a serious test. So he’d already researched everything about Monica. She was 18 yrs and 2 months, and she was three quarters of the way through her Centrux. But as usual Regan wanted to up her average age. It was a policy Frank thoroughly approved of.
“What do you want?”
“Please, sir. I am doing my Centrux training. I would be honoured if you would be one of my hundred.”
“Oh you would, would you? Honoured? You bet your fucking whore’s pussy you would. You think guys like me don’t have loads of choice?”
“I’m s ... sorry, sir.” She stammered. “I’m sure you do.”
He waggled a finger impatiently at her. “Turn round.”
She swallowed and then turned her back on him. He studied her rear view.
“Okay, face me and undress yourself while we talk.”
She was wearing a Minion schoolgirl outfit; pleated skirt, tights, buckle shoes, tight white shirt. She removed her jacket and began unbuttoning her shirt.
“What are your best skills?”
Her acting was poor. She replied in a monotone, any trace of enthusiasm was obviously fake.
“I can do everything, sir. Er ... I’m best at fucking I’m told but I give okay head. My anal score is low and I’ve been told to request sodomy, Sir. My bottom is totally clean. My mum gave me an enema earlier. I’m afraid I’m on my menstrual period at the moment, Sir.”
He chuckled, admiring her youthful cleavage. Frank was a tit man. He’d seen every kind of 18 yr old boob and this kid certainly had a fine pert rack. She had removed her shoes, skirt and tights, and was down to her underwear.
“Do you enjoy dancing, Monica?”
“Um, not really, sir. A bit.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
She reddened. “No, sir. Not really.”
He raised an eyebrow sternly.
“Oh, sorry sir. Yes I do, right now I do, sir. You.”
He smiled indulgently.
“Then dance for your boyfriend.”
She gawped at him, then awkwardly began to gyrate in the silence. He frowned and she started to speed up, swaying her hips, tossing her blonde hair, pouting her lips. He sat back and laughed.
“Now let me see those tits bounce.”
She accelerated, bouncing from foot to foot, her breasts jumping inside her bra. He let her perform like a demented cheerleader for several minutes until her body was pink and her face shone.
“Enough.” He waved for her to stop. “See those?”
Her head turned to follow his gaze. She gasped, out of breath.
On his snug wall was an impressive display of sex toys. They came in all colours, shapes and sizes, each one individually mounted to the wall in a steel clip. They ranged from small bullet dildos and vibes, to anal plugs and probes, numerous standard rabbits, all the way up to enormous oversized vibrators, plastic fists, glass bottles and Primacola cans. A veritable smorgasbord of plastic meat.
Frank’s collection included antique Arab godemiches that he had obtained in Asia, and a few Dutch and American imports, but most were local products. Primevia was indisputably the world’s leading manufacturer of sex toys.
“Yes, sir.” She replied, staring goggle-eyed at the silicones, inflatables, strap-ons, acrylics, reds, blues, purples, pinks, psychedelics and blacks.
Frank pointed. “Fetch that one down.”
It was a huge Rabbit-style vibrator made by a specialist company just outside Prime City. Unlike most vibrators that are designed solely to give pleasure, this one was devised for a dual purpose.
Monica blushed and reached up with a trembling hand. The silicone was chocolate brown merging to a dark purplish end. It was as long as her forearm but thicker. She lifted it out of its supporting clip and held it with both hands away from her body.
Frank laughed at her. Heck, it was only a sex toy. It wasn’t a fucking knife.
“You ever see anything so darned pretty?”
She shook her head, blue eyes flitting from it, back to him.
It was a multispeed vibrator with a rotating pearl collar and a smaller clit stimulator sticking out the side. The handle with the sliding controls was 2 inches long. Then there were 11 inches of insertable penis.
“I’ll bet you haven’t seen a real dick that size yet, huh?”
“N ... no.”
“Strip the rest of your kit off.”
He watched her carefully lay down the vibe to reluctantly unhook her bra. She slowly removed her lingerie and stood naked in front of him. Fuck but she was cute. Her pussy was waxed totally bald and a blue string protruded from the closed lips of her cunt.
“Lie down on the floor there. No, there.”
He pointed to an exact spot just a few feet from where he was sat. He would get a nice perspective. Close up but not so near he couldn’t enjoy the whole of her body at the same time.
Watching a female masturbate is a true pleasure, especially if she has literally met you a few moments earlier. It should be, by its very nature, a very private act. But when the female doesn’t even want to masturbate in the first place, and you are a total stranger, it shreds her privacy and beautifully invades her mind. Some women are literally incapable of performing in such a way.
But Frank’s age and Monica’s youth multiplied the 18 year old’s indignity a hundredfold. He was a perverted stranger old enough to be her great grandfather. Stripping naked for him had been bad enough, but now he was asking her to open her soul.
He perched his bulk forward in his chair and licked his perspiring lower lip.
She spread herself on the carpet. Her neck muscles were taut as she raised her head to look up at him for instruction. He threw two pink plastic cushions at her.
“Put one under your hips and use the other for your head.”
He watched her adjust herself until her knees were raised with her legs akimbo.
“Okay, now pick up Bugs Bunny again and lick the end nice and slow.”
She paused, obviously fighting with herself. She’d come expecting to be told to suck his cock. Somehow, this was worse. She lifted the vibrator to her mouth and hesitantly lapped the purple end with her tongue, spreading saliva onto it.
“Bugs is a big boy but you don’t need both hands all the time. Give those tits of yours a feel.”
She blushed and moved her left hand to her breasts, squeezing them, while she continued to smear spit on the purple silicone.
“Good. Now reach down and pull that tampon out.”
She let out a sob of shame as her fingers toyed with the blue string. Slowly, she tugged the blood red clot from her hairless vagina. It swayed hypnotically as she held the string in her fingers not knowing what to do with it.
“See that ashtray.”
She stopped licking the vibrator so she could look. There was a used glass ashtray on the floor next to a dirty coffee mug. Ash and two half smoked cigar butts filled it. But there was just room for her sanitary product.
“Put it in there for now.”
She carefully dropped the tampon and glanced back at him for approval.
Frank belched loudly. He’d eaten eggs, bacon and beans for breakfast and they tended to repeat on him.
“Now, lets take a look. Finger your flaps open.”
While her right hand held the vibrator to her face, her left reached down and parted her pink labia.
“Raise your hips. Knees wider.”
Frank leant his head down and peered between her thighs. He’d watched some of Monica’s Centrux footage online. The first action had been two months ago. Since then, her pussy had been used hard, not that it looked the worse for it. Frank could imagine this one would put in a serious shift before she was allowed to marry some Minion dork. Heck, he might even sponsor her himself.
“Now, let’s see you get that all inside you.”
She stretched out her left arm to prop herself up and her right hand to steer the vibrator to the lips of her young pussy. For a moment her blue eyes sought out Frank’s, as if she was hoping he might suddenly break into laughter and tell her this whole thing was a prank after all.
“Listen out.” He said. “I’m going to conduct your show.”
He felt his dick stirring underneath his robe.
“Ahhh.” She flinched as the bulbous crown began its long journey up her channel. The first inch did no more than nuzzle her labia but then she had to get its widening parabola through her narrow entrance.
Vaginas are marvellous things. Young pussy is the most pliable of all. Tight as a gnat’s rectum and yet able to give birth to a baby. Stretched to accommodate something huge one day but shrunk back nice and taut again the next.
Monica was making funny noises; hyperventilating and whimpering as she inched the abnormally thick vibrator into her body with only her own saliva as lubricant. Her knees were flexed as wide as she could get them, her pretty toes extended, her eyes clenched tight.
“Take your time.” He comforted her. “But the longer it takes, the lower your grade score will be.”
She gasped, opening her eyes to try to plead with him through the pain. Her eyes were glazed with tears, her face scarlet, and her pretty lips curled in a snarl of hurt. Seven of the eleven thick inches were now wedged inside her.
“Turn it on.”
Her fingers fumbled blindly for the slider controls and the vibrator started to hum. The pearl collar chuntered into life and her eyes blinked wide in surprise.
“Good girl. Now get a couple more inches inside you.”
She wailed as she tortured herself, somehow pushing more of the brown silicone shaft into her reluctant orifice. Frank had a great view of her splayed pinkness as it was stretched wider than it had ever opened before.
The humming noise got louder and the clit stimulator kicked into life, making Monica shriek. Her back arched. The tendons in her legs and feet tightened.
“Okay. All the way now.”
Eleven inches was the exact distance from Frank’s wrist to his elbow; 28 centimetres. It was like reaching up into Monika’s guts and punching her heart.
“Aaaghhhhh ...” she spluttered in synch with the vibrator.
“Open your eyes.”
She managed to force her eyelids apart, seeking him out, but her eyeballs rolled into the back of her head. Spittle oozed from her lips down her chin.
Frank studied her with a connoisseur’s eye. He had seen literally hundreds of Minion bitches doing this to themselves. He breathed in deeply, sniffing the subtle odour. Gradually her saliva was being replaced by sexual response. Only slowly, and maybe only reluctantly, but every pussy has a built in self protection mechanism. She was lubing up to accommodate the beast.
She couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, obviously couldn’t think straight. The cocktail of emotions and endorphins had taken over. She had hit her stride and was pumping the vibrator in and out to the max, like a piston of a steam engine.
The brown silicone and her pink inner labia were glistening. He could see her hand making sure the clit stimulator kept tickling her G spot. Her tits were rocking and rolling. Her nipples had stiffened into glace cherries. He let her work herself up, through the painful and the shameful foothills, towards the summit.
Frank grinned. He didn’t need to check the cameras. He knew the exact spot she was performing on would provide great footage.
“How’s that feel, little whore? Good? You Minion sluts are all the same. Take that thing out and show it to me.”
She didn’t hear him at first, then her eyes squinted at him, trying to focus. Slowly, she extended her arm, pulling the vibrator all the way out of her body. It was smeared with wet juice and little flecks of blood. Her labia hung open revealing her yawning cunt. He could detect her conflicting emotions.
“Smile at me.”
She blinked and then forced a smile. It wasn’t the prettiest she’d ever look but it was enough. She had perfect white cocksucker’s teeth, like a bitch from a toothpaste advert.
“Say, my name is Monica white and I’m a slut. And smile.”
“M ... my name is Monica White and ... I’m a slut.”
“Now slide that baby all the way back in.”
She winced once but her cunt greedily swallowed all eleven inches this time.
“Make yourself cum, bitch.”
In the dim recesses of her brain, she could hear his instruction.
But it still took her another four minutes of self harming before she at last managed to reach the peak, before the pleasure outweighed the pain, and she climaxed with a huge, lung busting scream that burst out of her perfect, arched body.
He gave her thirty seconds to recover.
She knelt at his feet. Her hair was damp. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead. Her blue eyes looked up at him in a post-orgasmic haze.
“Open my robe.”
Her trembling fingers revealed his mountainous gut. Even he recoiled at the blast of his own sweaty odour she released from under his robe. He decided he really should take a bath after she’d gone. He smiled at her nauseous expression when she saw his wispy white pubes and pendulous balls. He sat back and let his arthritic knees sag wide so she could appreciate the clammy view.
“You brush your teeth before you came?”
She nodded, glancing at him in that cocked-head way again, hoping it was a prank.
“Then you can kiss them.” He announced magnanimously.
She gagged, and unintentionally released a little hiccup. Then, reluctantly, she lowered her face and he felt her warm tongue nuzzle his inner thigh. His belly spoiled his view but he could still see her damp turquoise eyes and enjoy the emotions within them.
“Look at me.”
Their eyes locked as she licked the sweaty fold between his scrotum and leg. He grinned at her. The disgust was beautifully etched on her face. Frank kept a catalogue of photos like this on his hard drive. He liked to mail shots to a girl’s family and friends and, eventually, to her Minion husband when she married. He didn’t like to think they would forget him.
“Kiss my ass.”
For a moment, she seemed to think he was just using the phrase as slang to convey what he thought of her. But then she realised he meant it literally.
Her eyes pleaded helplessly. Then, slowly, her tongue slithered under his balls.
He reached out and smeared her perspiring face. Her forehead was pink and creased with effort. His unwashed hand thumbed her earlobe and trailed down the length of her blonde plait. Frank adored having his ass rimmed.
He sat back, sighed, and began teasing his own cock. Nowadays, he often found it easier to do it himself than teach some inexperienced youngster how to bring off a worn out old dick like his. Besides, he didn’t want to distract her from her tunnelling duties.
He leisurely jacked himself all the way to the edge and then tugged her right hand to his shaft.
“Finish me in your mouth.”
She hurriedly removed her face from his ass and jerked him clumsily a couple of times before lowering her lips to his helmet. Fortunately the feel of her warm mouth was enough to tip him over the edge. He gripped each of her blonde plaits like reins.
He grunted and deposited several stringy jets into her mouth. He heard her gulp it down and then cough. Then he felt her tongue lapping the dregs. She wasn’t a bad kid after all. What grade point did he reckon he’d send her home with?
A zero or 1 would be unkind. She’d be thrilled with a 5 but he never gave them out on principle. He didn’t feel she’d done enough for a 4, so that left a 2 or a 3. Then he thought back to all the things she’d done that niggled him like ringing the doorbell too impatiently, and looking shocked when she arrived and saw him, and nauseated when she tongued his asshole. He knew Regan would be pissed if she returned with a 2. So he made his decision. Monica sobbed. He scored her a 1.
(M/f, Prison, Piss drinking)
Damien stroked the face of 163637.
It was late morning. He’d drunk a black coffee and returned to the cells for a pre-lunch stroll.
The spider gag had been removed. Her lip was split and bleeding. Her face was bruised and two of her teeth had been chipped by the steel. Snot and blood had dried on her chin. Flecks of vomit and half of a dead slug spattered the cell floor underneath her.
He gently traced the outline from her cheekbone up to her centre parting.
“Answer me politely or we will put the gag back in, okay?”
She nodded, balling her tongue, unable to speak properly. “Uh-huh.”
He smiled. He was holding Severus by his leash although the dog was so impeccably trained no lead was necessary. Severus was a huge black Newfoundland weighing in at 220 lbs and measuring over 6 feet from his nose to its tail. His droopy lips and heavy jowls were slick with drool. His nostrils twitched at the scent of the woman’s diarrhoea-stained bottom.
Damien coiled Severus’s leash round the adjustable workbench so she could stare at the dog. He was just one of many breeds stocked in the prison kennels.
“Ple ... pleath ... no ... muh...”
“Ssh.” Damien shushed her. “Let me do the talking.”
He gently picked at a scab of dried blood by the side of her lip.
“Begging is no use.” He told her. “Saying sorry is no use. You have to prove how sorry you are. You will have to pass a lot of tests.” He paused. “Yes?”
Her miserable brown eyes looked up at him. “Yeth.”
He chuckled. “I’ve got a first little test for you. That’s why they took the gag out. Do you want to know what it is?”
She frowned and then shook her head slowly side to side.
He laughed. “No?” He was wearing military fatigues. She was staring at his groin. “Oh, I see. You think I want that? No my dear. I have many lovely heterosexual women who I’d prefer to do that for me, rather than a dyke like you.”
He let his insult register. A line of fresh red blood trickled down her chin. He smiled down at the slobbering animal.
“No. I need a piss. I came down here for one. And you are going to drink it all. The only question is whether you refuse and we have to put the ring gag back in your mouth first. Or if you pass your first simple test and hold your mouth wide open for it all. You have five seconds to decide.”
He reached down and leisurely started unbuttoning his fly.
Her eyes were full of tears. He noticed she had surprisingly beautiful eyelashes, glossy and dark. She let out a pathetic wail.
“Decide now. Or the gag goes back in and it may never come back out.”
She shook her head again, but seemingly less to say no, than to clear her thoughts.
“I ca ...”
“Oh, one moment. Before you decide. Do your parents have five million Units to pay the fine for harbouring a terrorist?”
Five million Units was way beyond the wealth of any normal citizen.
“No?” he continued. “Oh dear. Well then unless you pass this test your nearest and dearest will be joining you down here later today.”
She was beaten and she knew it. Slowly, painfully, she forced open her jaws.
Damien tugged his penis out through his fly. He was standing only inches from her face. He let her get a good look at his helmet and piss slit.
“Here’s the deal.” He said, his tone hardening. “I’m going to aim at your lips. All you have to do is keep your mouth wide open. If you close it at all, two things will happen. Firstly, you’ll be gagged again and forced to drink so much piss that you’ll beg to act as my urinal in future. Secondly, your mother will be acting as my toilet alongside you. Is that clear?”
He could see in her terrified, nausea-filled eyes she was totally clear.
He sighed happily, relaxing. He hadn’t pissed at all yet this morning. His overnight brew was going to be potent. He pointed his dick at her face.
The flow hit her forehead and sprayed outwards. She shut her eyes but kept her jaws wide. He lowered his aim and directed his stream straight into her mouth. It was golden green. He had eaten asparagus last night. The strong fetid stench billowed upwards. Beautiful. She was doing her best. His flow bubbled steadily up into her palate and gums. Her throat finally gulped and she spilt a load down her chin but maintained her lips wide open.
Ten, twenty seconds. It was relentless. His bladder was slowly emptying. She swallowed, guzzled, hissed at the hot bitter taste, and retched. Damien winked down at the dog who was watching placidly. Sadly his bladder no longer stored as much as it was able to when he was younger. Thirty seconds.
His flow faded to a few final dribbles. He shook his dick dry.
She had taken around a pint and managed to get most of it down her throat. The rest had flooded her nostrils and chin. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
“Look at me.”
She blinked, forced them open. Fat tears bubbled down her cheeks. Suddenly she belched loudly, as the acrid urine repeated on her.
He grinned, tucking his dick back into his fly. “That will often happen.” He told her. “Piss is a bastard to keep down when you’re learning.”
She slowly got her eyesight back, peering at him. She looked about to vomit.
“Good girl.” He gently chucked her wet chin. “You’ve made a start. It’s going to be a long slow journey, a steep climb, but eventually you may get there.”
Her eyes were glazed with confusion, nausea.
“Wh ...?” she croaked.
“Your journey to prove you’re sorry.” He explained. “Somebody once said that every long journey starts with one small step. And what you just did was your first tiny stumble towards redemption.”
Bemused she seemed to have thought what she’d managed was some big deal.
Damien laughed, looking at the dog that was still watching placidly.
“It will be harder tomorrow, Severus. She’ll know what’s coming. The second time’s the worst. After that, they gradually get used to piss. But the second time requires real willpower. Do you think she can manage it? I hope she can, for everybody’s sake.”
He unhooked the dog’s leash from the workbench.
“Come on, Severus, let’s go take a walk in the garden and you can cock your leg up against a tree.”
Ian Meek stood with Tony near the back of the line to use the male washroom. He’d known Tony since school. They had grown up in the same Minion neighbourhood. Like Ian, Tony was married with a daughter, but he also had a son. However, his kids were only 17 and 15. He had it all to come.
They shuffled forwards. The only times they were allowed to stop work for a bathroom visit were during specified mid-morning and mid-afternoon breaks. Guys used the facilities in pairs.
“How was yesterday?” Tony murmured under his breath.
Ian looked at him. He shook his head. “Worse than you could ever imagine.”
Both men spoke quietly. There were other muffled conversations going on. Talking was allowed provided nobody argued, joked or laughed.
“How’s Natalie?” Tony asked. She was his goddaughter. He’d known her since she was born.
Ian paused. It felt strangely okay to tell someone. Like he needed to talk. He shrugged.
“It’s difficult to say. She’s still a virgin.”
Tony’s eyes widened. “Wow. That’s good.”
Ian shook his head. “No. They fucked her anally instead.”
“Oh. I see. They?”
“Four of them. Specially chosen. Including our boss.”
Tony grimaced. He looked around to check if anybody was listening and scanned the wall for new recording devices. “The boss?” he whispered.
Ian nodded. “It gets worse.”
They reached the head of the queue. Two guys exited the washroom and Tony and Ian entered. It was a single tiled room with a solitary pedestal toilet and a single urinal, plus two basins and a mirror, all open-plan. There were no windows and the stinking room was stifling. A digital clock on the wall showed the time. It was 11.27.
Ian gestured for Tony to use the urinal and pressed the clock’s timer. As well as the time, the clock showed the seconds elapsed for each visit. Each pair only had a maximum of 90 seconds to complete their ablutions.
“You need to dump?” Ian queried.
Ian shook his head, lowering his burlap pants by way of explanation. He had to pee sitting down on the pan. A CCTV camera filmed and recorded everything so they had to be careful what they said and did.
“Shoot.” Tony whistled under his breath, when he saw Ian’s Dictator device. “They locked you up?”
Ian pressed the steel downwards and began to relieve his bladder. “They’ve been watching me and Sally. Said we’ve been having sex too often.”
Tony shook his penis dry and buttoned himself up.
“That’s up to them, isn’t it?”
“And Sally?” Tony asked. “What’d they say about her?”
Ian reached out for a tissue and padded the steel dry. He didn’t want to mention anything about Lasha making him lick his wife twice a day.
“Nothing fortunately. Obviously she won’t be having any sex until they let me out of this. But I guess things could be worse for her.”
Both men straightened their clothes and washed their hands.
“Give Nat my love.” Tony murmured as he dried his hands.
“I will.” Ian replied, glancing at the timer.
They exited the washroom to make way for the final two guys.
(F/mmmmf, male masturbation, denial, body modification)
It was 11.30 a.m., Primevian Standard Time. Dr Regan Quintana was sat patiently at her desk, tapping her keyboard finishing off a few important emails.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the line up of five naked men. Each of them had his gaze fixed the young Minion writhing on the floor in front of them. Although she was only 19, she was an expert. She was skilfully massaging her breasts and labia in the most sensuous way she could. This was her job. After completing her Centrux and leaving school a year ago, Regan had fast-tracked the girl’s career as a Sperm Bait Technician.
The men were performing a synchronised jerk off. Unfortunately for them with plenty of “jerk” but no chance of an “off”. The room was silent except for the tock-tock of a modified antique metronome, beating out a tempo. The pace changed randomly every minute or so fluctuating between a very slow adagio and a moderate andante.
Pushing her keyboard to one side Regan yawned loudly and then beamed as she watched the men struggling to keep time with the metronome.
Not bad she thought to herself; ninety minutes and not a single ejaculation.
The men were working ‘wrong-handed’; four right handers using their lefts, and the sole left hander employing his right. They were stroking their erect shafts, up, down, up, down, fingers catching the underside of the glans on every 10th stroke just as prescribed. It was a difficult technique to master but they had put in many hours of training. Their free hands were cupping their buttocks.
Regan ran several of these ‘Self Control Classes’ for Minions each week. Some were just for 18 year olds, embarking on their wearisome lives. Others were men in their 20s and 30s sentenced by the State to a refresher course. Classes for the over 40s were often performed in public and many prisoners had to perform this frustrating task daily.
She glanced up and studied them. The one on the end furthest from her was standing solely on his left leg as an additional ordeal and humiliation. The kid was 18 yrs and 7 months and he was still struggling to learn sufficient willpower. He was flaxen haired, muscled and impossibly handsome. She watched him wobble as his fist tweaked in rhythm with the hypnotic tock-tock. Ninety minutes of relentless masturbating was obviously still a severe test.
This boy would never marry. He was too perfect to waste on a Minion. He had already been contracted to a well known and powerful Prime matriarch and was being trained in preparation for his duties. Well known on the party circuit, the plump widow and her hideous twin daughters had a voracious appetite for cunnilingus, performed by gorgeous and frustrated young men.
Regan knew the woman and her daughters slightly. They reminded her of those characters from Disney’s cartoon Cinderella, always bitching and making impossible demands. A conveyor belt of handsome Minion boys had started in service at their mansion, only to be spat out the other end months later, physically destroyed and sometimes castrated.
At this stage the boy did not know his fate. He didn’t need to. He just needed to learn the required skills; iron self control, immense stamina and a very long, very flexible, very unfussy tongue. Regan was one of the best in the business at training young Minion men.
Meanwhile, in the centre of the five was Fred, a 23 yr old husband of a Miltrux. A year ago, Fred had been caught in flagrante by CCTV observers having sex with his own wife Connie, despite an explicit conjugal relations ban by their sponsor.
Naturally, the Prime businessman had taken on the couple purely because of the quality of Connie. It had soon become clear to him that Fred had a poor attitude, about sharing his wife in general, and about remaining totally abstinent in particular. From day one the Prime had made Fred’s life a living hell.
Personally, Regan advocated allowing a Minion husband to have curtailed sex with his wife once or twice a month. It was good for prostate health and good for ethnic harmony. But the law was perfectly clear. A Prime sponsor was entirely within his rights to demand exclusive access. A Minion should be honoured to share his wife with a sponsor, even if he doesn’t get much of a look in initially. In fact, he should be flattered that their sponsor finds his wife sufficiently attractive to want to keep her body for himself for a while.
A Minion woman’s best sexual years, broadly speaking from 18 to 35, should be dedicated to servicing Primes. After that, assuming she has been well used in her twenties, and after childbirth and the inevitable passage of time, she can balance things out a little for her husband later in life. Tired, wrinkled bodies and declining libidos - the worst sexual years - were well suited to maintaining a happy Minion marriage.
Of course, a woman like Sally Meek might require ‘one last hurrah’ of hearty sexual use in her late thirties, particularly if she hasn’t had sufficient mileage put on her clock in her youth. Regan idly wondered how her protégé Lasha was getting on with the Meeks, while she smiled at Fred rubbing his meat.
She studied Fred’s masturbatory technique. His hairless scrotum appeared lopsided between his legs. He now had only a single testicle. One had been removed to reduce his testosterone count. Thus his virility was in last chance saloon. If he lost control and climaxed, he would lose his second ball.
Naturally, Fred’s sponsor had disowned his charges when their betrayal was discovered. He immediately lost interest in them and moved onto a new young couple. But his parting gift to Fred and Connie was to insist the police prosecute them both to the full extent of the law. A two year sentence was passed. Again, Regan was one of the very best at administering a sentence like theirs. It was a job she relished.
“Step forward, number three.”
Still awkwardly masturbating, Fred advanced three paces until his feet rested firmly between the inner thighs of the pretty Sperm Bait Technician.
“Turn.” Regan called out to the four other men.
The other males turned 90 degrees so that they were facing each other: first and second stood only a foot apart, as did fourth and fifth.
“And on the beat, swap.”
In perfect time, the two pairs switched hands so that they were now masturbating their wank-partners. The handsome, flaxen haired boy started jerking off the shorter bespectacled Minion opposite him, and vice versa.
Regan smiled approvingly and left them to it. She glanced at her watch.
“Stop.” She said to Fred, who instantly released his twitching dick. “Come here.”
Fred stepped over the Minion bait and walked towards Regan’s desk. He stood at ease; feet slightly apart, arms behind his back, staring straight ahead. He was 5’ 10” and his eyes were an intense blue. He was wiry-slim and he had chiselled cheekbones. But he looked older than he had when she first met him a year earlier.
His body was now totally hairless from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. There were obscene tattoos on his forehead, down his forearms and into his bald pubic mound. His nipples, penis and scrotum had all been pierced with heavy gauge steel rings.
His pierced dick bobbed in front of him, dripping translucent pre-cum. The steel ring in his glans could be padlocked to the ring in the fleshy base of his ball. Tests had revealed that Fred had much higher than average testosterone levels. He needed to cum more than the average Minion. So the removal of one ball had actually been a kindness!
At that precise moment, there was a knock on the door, only just louder than the beating metronome.
A young woman pushed open the door. She was wearing a white medical gown without any fastening cord. It fell open as she walked, revealing her nakedness. She had come straight from the Clinic’s tattoo department down the corridor.
“Ah.” Regan smiled, as the Barbie doll stood to attention, feet apart, in front of her desk. Connie was 5’ 2” and skinny, with a tiny waist. She sported mammoth fake breasts. Her head and groin were shaved completely bald like her husband’s. Similarly, her nipples, labia and the septum of her nose were all pierced with the same heavy gauge rings as his. She and Fred made a freakish couple.
Connie was only 22 yrs old. She slid the gown off her shoulders and onto the floor without being asked.
“Connie, my dear. So pleased you could join us. Show Freddy your latest tattoo.”
Connie brought her face closer to her husband’s and pushed her upper lip forward with her teeth.
Fred’s eyes widened as he saw his wife’s latest adornment.
Regan surveyed the young couple. They had remained living together for the first year of their sentence but always under 24/7 supervision. A live-in monitor ran their lives under Regan’s guidance. While Fred now worked as a janitor and lived in total abstinence, he came home every evening to a young wife who had spent her day clocking up yet more sexual miles.
“Kneel and suck it.”
Fred’s face grimaced in befuddled lust as his wife’s tattooed lips teased effortlessly back and forth over his pierced glans. Her cheeks ballooned like a trumpeter’s as she skilfully gave him her Grade A fellatio.
“No ejaculation Freddy.” Regan chuckled. “This is just practise for Connie.”
Very few Minion men ever felt female lips around their penises. Fellatio was a Prime activity.
She left them to it for a few minutes. Connie ministered to him with long, slurping kisses. She could have finished her husband at any time but had become expert in the exact amount of pressure required to keep a man on the brink.
Meanwhile, the four other men were still conducting each other obediently to the random metronome. Regan clicked her fingers and the Sperm Bait girl crawled across the tiled floor. She knelt behind the gorgeous 18 year old. His muscled back was shining with sweat as he mutually masturbated the bespectacled kid opposite him.
Regan watched the Minion girl thumb open his beautifully toned buttocks and slurp her tongue inside. It was another sensual overload for him to cope with. In a month or so, if he passed the final few tests, he’d be ready for his onerous duties.
She switched her eyes back to Fred. Connie’s pale body was painted with tattoos like graffiti on an abandoned subway station. The ink was totally indelible and the slogans would remain with her until her ransacked body had shrivelled into old age. The largest slogan was a warning to all. In turquoise letters, rimmed in black, were the words:
I BETRAYED MY SPONSOR
The livid words ran from her bicep, across the front of her shoulders and throat, to her other bicep. But there were numerous others in orange and red, green and yellow, upper and lower case, each rimmed in black or white. Words, sentences and numbers spelt the message out; ‘I suck cock’, ‘Fuck me’, ‘Minion bitch 4 Primes’, ‘I’ve done 1,000+ men’, ‘Fill my ass’, ‘Swallower’, ‘I love to rim’, ‘Latrine’, etc.
They criss-crossed her pale feet, entwined her legs, hips, spine, shoulder blades, stomach, neck, head and, of course, covered her breasts and thighs. A glossy black P ending with an arrow pointed down between her legs.
A large letter M was tattooed over her forehead, with the base of the M above her eyes and nose, and the upper points of the M finished where her hairline should have begun. The letter signified her Miltrux; a thousand men.
Once a conventionally pretty woman, Connie was now simply a fetishist’s delight. Her sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, tiny waist, Barbie doll figure, hairless scalp, rings and tattoos, spelled her role almost as clearly as the 5 new letters that were inked above her upper lip.
Regan looked into Fred’s eyes as he ground his teeth in determination. His wife was taking him all the way to her throat and then slowly releasing until almost his entire slippery, veined shaft became visible again.
The blowjob ceased as obediently and instantly as it had begun.
Connie rose to attention again. By now, a glossy sheen of fluid dribbling down her inner thighs exposed the fact that the tattooists had utilised her body. Whilst inking her face, they had fucked her cunt. Whereas, Fred’s penis swayed like a branch in the breeze, its tip agonisingly red, cleaned of all evidence of pre-cum.
Under Connie’s septum piercing, above her pouting upper lip, her moniker was tattooed in scarlet letters.
c u n n y
Regan smiled across her desk at the young couple. They would soon have completed another week of their sentence. They were almost half way through. Only one more year to go!
(FMMM+/f, oral Centrux, blowjobs, bukkake)
For her 15th birthday, Lasha’s parents had built her a games room in their basement.
For three years, the room had simply been a hub of teenage gossip, furtive smoking and guitar jamming. There were some slouchy sofas, a table tennis table and a decent music system. It was soundproofed and accessed from the front hall by a stone staircase.
But tonight the games room was full of pumping music and partying kids. Over thirty five of Lasha’s school crowd were drinking beer and shouting in each other’s ears. A few were dancing half heartedly, others were smoking cigarettes.
The Minion called Natalie was dancing topless for them in the middle of the throng. She had stripped off her top and was wearing just her skirt and high heels, with tears running down her cheeks.
Prime boys and girls were pushing her from one to the other, mauling her bare tits, fondling her ass and jigging opposite her. This was a wild party and Natalie was the unpaid entertainment.
Lasha signalled for Natalie to lose her skirt too and soon she was dancing naked in only her heels. Every guest knew she’d been sodomised yesterday but otherwise her lovely body was still virgin.
The booze flowed and the music became ear-splitting as Lasha supervised the action. It was time to move onto the second act of the romantic comedy that was Natalie’s lost innocence.
“Hey guys, turn the sounds down.”
There were eighteen Prime boys in Lasha’s class. The majority were over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and tats on their arms. Most were only 18 years old and some had never been blown before.
Everybody gathered round in a close circle to watch the action. Several boys dropped their pants to coos and cheers from the girls. The boys blushed but were mostly too excited to worry. They began stroking their growing erections.
Lasha selected her favourite with a wink and curled finger.
Natalie was waiting naked on her knees, wiping her eyes.
Lasha’s favorite boy took a couple of paces forward and directed his erection at Natalie’s mouth. She looked sickened but parted her lips in a wide o.
The boy smiled at his audience and pushed his impressively veined dick into Natalie’s mouth. Her cheeks puffed and her throat gagged.
The thirty or so watching youngsters cheered as her oral virginity was taken. There were whoops, high-fives, grins and giggles while the waiting boys caressed their erections impatiently.
“Wow, look at that!”
The girls were fascinated. Prime women generally looked down on fellatio. Of course, some performed it behind bedroom doors but culturally no decent lady admitted to doing so. It had become socially accepted as something that Prime men went and got from Minions instead.
Natalie retched, making everybody laugh.
“We haven’t got all night.”
The boy withdrew this erection and began masturbating himself. His clenched fist bumped against Natalie’s pretty nose. He began to grunt like a pig.
“Here we come.”
The girls squealed as his dick spat a spaghetti bowl’s worth of white coils all over her forehead, hair, lips and tongue. It was beautiful. Phone cameras clicked and flashed. He groaned and milked the final remnants into her mouth.
“Fuck me that’s revolting.” a brunette girl muttered.
“Don’t worry. You won’t ever have to do it.”
“She looks like a fucking piece of modern art.”
“Hurry up, man.” The next boy in line called out.
Soon Natalie was sucking another dick with her fingers handling two more. Her inexperience was obvious but she held her lips open and jerked her wrists. It became a Bukkake session. After a few seconds of sucking, the boys pulled out of her gaping mouth and spewed their huge loads all over her face.
Lasha had never laughed so much in her life.
“Sorry. We’re closed.”
Joe was pulling the shutter down on his store, stacking the fruit and veg away until the morning. He always worked long days and couldn’t wait to see Ulrika, his wife, and spend a little time with her. He felt bad about the previous night.
“Come back at eight in the morning.” He called out to them.
They were a Minion couple he’d never seen before. Strange, because he knew most of the people in his neighbourhood.
A man and a woman, mid-late twenties. They were hovering at the entrance.
“Can I help?” he asked.
The man looked at him. He looked somehow different.
“Er ... the world has to be told?” He murmured, half question, half statement.
Instinctively Joe put his finger to his lips. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked meaningfully at them and at the ceiling and corners of the store. The walls have ears and eyes was his message. TWHTBT.
They nodded, understanding. The woman was pretty but, like the man, different. Her haircut was like he’d seen on imported US movies. Her eyes shone brighter than most Minion women.
He looked at his beaten up old watch extravagantly.
“Er, okay. I’ve got two minutes after all.” He said, beckoning them into the shop. There was a space behind the furthest glass cabinet that he was 99 per cent certain was a safe spot. He had checked every inch for wiring, hoping this moment might arrive one day. TWHTBT: the world has to be told.
They huddled together while he pretended to open a box of bananas.
“My name is Joe.” He whispered. His accent was pure BBC world service radio.
“Sam.” The man replied, shaking his hand.
Joe looked at her close up. He gulped. She smiled back at him. She was even prettier than he’d thought at first glance.
What the hell had a woman like her dared to come to Primevia for?
“Smile!” a camera flashed.
“Gulp that down.”
Natalie gagged as various female fingers massaged the facemask of semen from her chin and cheeks onto her tongue. It was bitter, cloying, relentless.
“Drink it all, baby.”
“Don’t waste a drop.”
It became a frantic cycle; as soon as she had blinked stinging gloop from her eyelashes, another meaty hand was siphoning a fresh helping onto her face. Some boys preferred to get themselves to the point of orgasm and then they’d push their sweaty penises between her lips in time to spew chewy mouthfuls of their hot sourness into her palate. Several times she heaved up a mix of semen, mucus and bile into her mouth and gulped it back down again, making her eyes water.
She counted way more orgasms than there were boys. Most of them managed two, three ejaculations or more.
“Grrrrmmm ... oh yeah, chew on that baby girl.”
“Man, this is even more fun than pussy.”
“It’s amazing.” An interested Prime girl observed. She couldn’t take her eyes away. “I’d never thought about it. But their mouths can be used literally endlessly can’t they?” She giggled. “I think my mom should get one for my dad!”
“And there’s so much goo for them to swallow. I never realised you boys produced so much on like your third orgasm.”
The girls all stood around talking, laughing, pointing, shrieking how grossed out they were by the sheer quantity of semen and its glutinous texture. They would dab their fingers on Natalie’s face and scoop up a dollop, giggling, then threaten to wipe some on their neighbour’s clothes, like kids at play.
The last guests didn’t leave until just before eleven p.m. Most of them had school the next day. The silence in the games room was deafening after they had gone and the music was switched off. The room stank of spilled beer and a tobacco haze.
“Hey, you did good.” Lasha congratulated Natalie.
Lasha would be the talk of her school. She’d get all the credit for giving a great party.
Natalie mumbled, searching for her top on the floor.
“You did good I said.”
“Th ... thank you, Miss.” Natalie forced herself to say.
“How was it? Does it taste as bad as it looks?”
Natalie looked at her and slowly nodded.
Lasha giggled. “You’ll get used to it. In fact, you’re going to become an expert in the taste.”
Natalie was terrified of how late it was. Her home on 34th Street West was at least a mile away. There was a curfew. She had no money. Her parents would be beside themselves with worry.
Lasha lit a cigarette and switched on the computer while Natalie dressed.
Natalie caught her breath. On the computer screen were two people. The images were low quality, amateur style, but perfectly clear enough for her to recognize the location and characters.
Her mother was squatting astride her father’s mouth. The camera angle showed her mother’s face and body full on, almost filling the screen.
But the top of her father’s head and his nose were also visible, at the bottom of the screen. Her mother was naked. Her breasts swayed on the screen as she slowly lowered herself onto his lips.
Lasha pointed at the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. It said exactly 23.00.
“Bang on time.” She said to Natalie. “I told them 7 and 11, twice a day.”
The two girls watched the screen in awed silence as Sally Meek started riding her husband’s face. Her knees were bent, taking her own weight, sliding her labia and along his lips and tongue. Slowly, she started building a rhythm, to and fro.
“Look at her!”
Natalie stared at her mother’s expression. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her mouth open in a slightly crooked smile. She was into it.
“I’ve been told Minions often forget that we can watch them all the time.” Lasha chuckled, exhaling tobacco smoke, pressing a key. A red record light appeared on the screen.
Natalie watched a few seconds longer then tore her eyes away.
Lasha was settled into the sofa, smoking.
“See yourself out. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” She said. “I’ve got an evening class. I’ll pop by your place around nine.”
Natalie hurried to the staircase, already dreading the next day.
(MMM/f, Prison, Piss)
The sign hung around her neck said, simply, ‘Toilet’.
163637 was in a bad way. The atmosphere in the cell was similar to a public restroom. Her body was still strapped in the same pillion position. There were bed sores where her naked skin had rubbed against the workbench. Her hair was matted and greasy. A couple of slugs nestled in the small of her back. Mosquitoes buzzed around her diarrhoea streaked bottom. The guards changed her waste bucket twice a day but nobody wiped her clean. A big black dung beetle was exploring the unwashed labia of her still virgin vagina. Gekko lizards stared down from the safety of the cell walls.
Damien and two other men stood in front of her face.
She meekly held her jaws open as wide as she could for them and waited.
The first man was smoking a cigarette. He was the same bearded guard who fed her worms. He smelt strongly of stale garlic and tobacco. He balanced his cigarette on his lower lip and unzipped his fly.
Without ceremony, he urinated in her mouth, smoking and staring down at her. He nonchalantly flicked his ash in her hair as he emptied his bladder.
Damien and the second guard waited, studying her carefully, their gaze focused on her face. Her eyes watered and her nostrils flared. Golden urine slowly backed up and dribbled down her chin but she swallowed most of it.
Then the second guard steeped forward. He was the man who changed her waste bucket twice a day. He was weasel faced and short for a Prime but he had an impossibly large penis. He held it right in 163637’s wet face, touching her lower lip. He farted loudly as he began to piss. The three men laughed.
“Hey, only give her one test at a time for now.” Damien joked.
She was very pale, almost green. There quickly comes a point with urine that even the most determined can’t swallow any more. The gag reflex is too strong. The impulse to vomit overcomes any other brain function.
But remarkably 163637 kept gulping, kept forcing her jaws to stay open, as the piss flowed relentlessly down her throat and into her pharynx and esophagus. She somehow took two bladders full without throwing everything up.
The second guard shook himself off and zipped up.
Damien stepped forward. He had decided to go last on purpose. He knew she hated him the most.
“Ask me nicely.”
Her eyes rolled in her head. Her face and hair were soaking. Yellow droplets hung from her chin. Her lips were parted and trembling. She looked up at Damien, frowning, trying to focus.
“Pleh ...” she gasped, open-mouthed, “pith uh muh.”
He smiled, but sighed inwardly. It was always slightly sad when they folded so quickly. On the other hand, piss was an easy test. Some of the really nasty ones in future might rekindle more fire?
He unbuttoned his fly slowly, letting her anticipate her dessert.
He slapped her cheek with his semi-hard cock and waited while she stretched her jaws wide apart. Then he aimed for her tonsils.
His bladder was not as full as it had been the first time. His piss was frothy and much easier than the asparagus-laden brew he’d given her earlier. All in all, he was being kind.
She got most of it down. She gulped every time it backfilled her mouth. But at the end she retched and spewed a mouthful of yellow bile out of her nose and mouth. Her lips closed momentarily and his piss splashed everywhere, a drop landing on his boot.
“Fuck.” Damien shouted in anger.
She opened her jaws wide and began swallowing madly to appease him.
He shook the drips out and decided she’d done enough overall.
“Okay.” He said, as she tentatively closed her mouth and worked her stiff jaws. He smiled at the guards and retrieved two photos from his briefcase.
The bearded guard had some tape. He fixed the photos one by one onto the concrete wall directly in 163637’s eyesight, a few feet from her. They were large 10 x8 prints.
The first showed a naked woman being fucked. She was on a low bench and a man was thrusting between her thighs. But behind them, arranged in three rows of 33, one above the other, like a large football squad photograph, were hundreds of naked men. Actually, it looked hundreds, but there were in fact a mere 99 of them.
The team photo had been taken the previous week. The woman was a Minion criminal. She had already been fucked by the ninety nine men and was on her hundredth, about to start a second round for those who wanted an encore.
Of course, for a Minion woman, a Centrux gang rape was one thing. She would already have been fucked by many men in her youth. Her cunt and pride would cope with the battering. But for a Prime woman, a virgin lesbian at that, such a fate would be unimaginable.
But the second snapshot showed another naked woman on a similar bench. This one was face down, ass up. The photo had also been taken recently. A different Minion woman was trying to save her husband’s ass from the gallows. She had been mounted and was being fucked by a very large Great Dane in front of a rapt audience of onlookers.
Side by side, the two photos seemed to present some kind of choice.
The lesser of evils.
“Have a nice long think.” Damien said, guiding her head from side to side with a handful of her drenched hair. “One or the other.” He added. “Or both.”
Of course, life was not all bad for Minions.
Five guys simultaneously jumped up off the sofa, arms in the air. It was the 79th minute and Sweatshop Town had scored again to make it 2-1. The match was against their biggest rivals. Prime United was the country’s richest club. Meanwhile, Sweatshop was a penniless team from the island’s poorest region. All of its players were amateur Minions.
The match was being simultaneously broadcast on Prime Sports One and the Minion Channel. The five Minion guys were huddled round the small TV watching the game. There were now only ten minutes plus stoppage time to go and they led 2-1.
Suddenly the broadcast was interrupted. A Minion presenter appeared on screen and apologised, but the Channel had been instructed to cut the scheduled coverage of the match to show a re-run of a dull documentary about a famous Prime bureaucrat who had recently retired. It was compulsory viewing.
The five Minions sank into the sofa deflated. It was typical. Sports broadcasts were often cut, or movies unfinished, replaced by propaganda or simply nothing at all. Transmission of the Minion channel ended at 10.00 p.m. anyway and movies were frequently scheduled to end at ten fifteen, purposefully so that the climax of the film wouldn’t be shown.
Undoubtedly Prime Sports One would still be showing the big match to completion but Prime channels weren’t available outside of Prime homes.
Tim got up and turned down the volume of the documentary. He clenched his fist.
“Well, we’re winning, and that’s the main thing.”
Tim was an optimist and a cut in the channel’s soccer coverage wasn’t going to spoil his birthday party. His darling wife Mary and his four best mates were all going to celebrate. Mary had prepared some good nibbles. They had cans of Primacola and even a half bottle of Primevian wine for a toast. And besides, Tim had an announcement to make.
“Okay guys, shush please.” He said.
Five faces looked at him. Mary didn’t even know the best bit yet. His gang, Al, Bert, Chip and Doug waited expectantly. They were all still single but they knew how much he and Mary wanted this.
“First, thanks for coming.”
It was Tim’s 22nd birthday. Everybody raised their drinks to him.
“But secondly,” he paused, “Jefferson has said yes!”
There was a silence, followed by a mini-explosion of happy noise, cheers, laughter, back-slapping. Mary jumped up, hugged and kissed him.
Tim had known his buddy Jefferson since both boys were only seven years old. At that age, Primes and Minions were often schooled together, played mixed sports, even socialised at kid’s parties. Jefferson’s parents were rich and liberal. They were known for treating their Minion staff firmly but fairly.
Tim was academically gifted while Jefferson was average at best. Tim would help Jefferson with his spelling and arithmetic, teaching him sums and percentages. Tim was fair-haired and lightly built and pretty useless at rugby, while Jefferson was dark, chubby and played in the scrum. They complemented each other like Ying and Yang.
In their teens, they attended different schools and drifted apart. Tim made new friends and Jefferson socialised with Primes. But when Tim developed a design sketch, aged 19, for a new industrial citrus squeezing machine, it was to Jefferson’s parents that Tim took the idea.
Minions were not allowed to start companies or own shares. They could only be employees. Jefferson’s parents liked Tim’s invention and thus Jefferson was set up by his family as the young Owner and President of Citranova. Tim was given a job as his friend’s right hand man.
And Tim did all the actual work.
When Tim met Mary, a pretty waitress, it was inevitable that Jefferson should become their sponsor. There were forty guests at the Tim and Mary’s wedding; both sets of Minion families, neighbours, friends. The venue was a local neighbourhood hall. The service was followed by a reception with sandwiches and tea. The cost of the wedding, the hire fee of the hall, all the registration documents, had required months of careful saving by Tim’s and Mary’s families. Jefferson was invited as their guest of honour.
Mary had obtained her Centrux but afterwards had managed to avoid the majority of unwanted attentions for a year. She was 18 when she met Tim and 19 when they married. Jefferson agreed to consummate their marriage simply as a favour. This kindness would allow the married Minion couple finally to have sex themselves and move into a flat together.
Unfortunately, Jefferson liked what he saw at the wedding a bit too much! He had no girlfriend of his own at that time and Mary was a pretty cute Minion. He fucked her cunt, ass and mouth and enjoyed himself immensely.
After the wedding, rather than letting the consummation stay as one-off gesture to his old friend and colleague, Jefferson decided to become Mary and Tim’s long term sponsor.
He soon made Mary to quit her job as a waitress to become his P.A. at Citranova. She spent most of her day taking dictation behind closed doors, while poor distracted Tim had to do the actual management and motivation of the workforce from dawn to dusk, seven days a week.
After only a month of Tim and Mary’s marriage, Jefferson took a trip to Castus Steel where he acquired a chastity cage for his friend to wear. The idea was to help Tim stay focused solely on his job.
In the thirty long months that had passed since, Tim had worked his nuts off to impress Jefferson. Citranova’s sales and profits grew by 20 per cent per annum, three more new products had been brought to market, and Tim even trained up a couple of talented deputies. It was just as well he ‘worked’ his nuts off because Jefferson didn’t allow him to get them off more than once a month any other way!
Of course, Mary became depressed. She accepted it was her duty to suck and fuck her sponsor in his office but she loved Tim passionately. She found their barren sex life hard to bear. Tim also grew tetchy from his own frustration and jealousy. Above all, both of them were desperate to start a family.
Of course, the couple naturally used a Curtail on the rare occasions that Jefferson unlocked Tim. But Mary was still regularly injected with contraceptive as well, because Jefferson enjoyed fucking her bareback. There were almost no laws restricting what a Prime could do to a Minion with one exception.
There was one paramount decree. No pregnancy. No mixed children. Primes could only mate with Primes. Minions could only be impregnated with Minion sperm.
For any Prime sponsor to authorise his Minion mistress to stop taking contraceptive merely so she could conceive a brat with her husband required immense self sacrifice! It meant the sponsor himself had to resort to using a condom instead, albeit a more pleasurable brand than a Curtail. Or, to be safer still, he had to cease using her pussy altogether and only use her mouth or ass. Naturally, most sponsors waited until they were bored of the Minion woman in question instead of forgoing their basic sponsorship fucking rights.
Then, a few months ago, Jefferson’s financial success finally attracted a Prime girlfriend to him. Gradually he started spending more time out of the office, relieving Mary from her more onerous duties. At last, when Tim again raised with his boss the question of him and Mary being allowed to start a family, Jefferson had finally relented. He sponsored a State permit for Tim and Mary to have their first child and authorised the Clinic to cease giving her contraceptive injections.
At last, she was at the right time in her cycle for her to conceive.
“And thirdly,” Tim announced to his friends, “Jefferson is popping round here tonight!”
Jefferson arrived fifteen minutes later with a small package. He walked in unannounced, also brandishing a half bottle of Prime wine and his key ring.
“Here we are.” He said, beaming.
Mary ran up and kissed her boss. Tim shook his hand, took the bottle gratefully and introduced Al and Bert, Chip and Doug. Minions were allowed to drink alcohol. However, they were only able to purchase one particular local wine that was acidic and expensive. But Primevia also produced several delicious and good value merlots and sauvignon blancs in the temperate north that only Primes were able to purchase.
“Wow.” Tim said, checking the label.
“Happy birthday.” Jefferson said, cuddling Mary around her waist.
They made small talk and bantered about the soccer result. Apparently, Jefferson told them, in the end the referee had awarded Prime United a disputed penalty and the result finished 2-2. Tim opened the half bottle and gave Jefferson his usual glass, then he topped up his mates with the remains. Jefferson handed him the package wrapped in a brown paper bag.
Mary watched her husband open it. Inside there were four Curtail condoms in their individual black wrappers.
“Hey!” Tim exclaimed. “Thanks boss.” Curtails were rationed and expensive. It was a generous present. In spite of the hundreds of thousands of Units that Jefferson had already earned in dividends from Citranova, Tim was still only paid the standard Minion wage of 100 Units.
“I see you brought Tim’s key round.” Mary whispered in his ear.
Jefferson shrugged magnanimously. “Sure. It’s time you guys had a kid.”
She looked up at him and smiled gratefully.
But Jefferson wasn’t smiling.
(M/fmmmmm, fucking, humiliation)
Twenty minutes later, Jefferson sat smirking at Tim.
The sounds from the bedroom were getting louder. Al, Bert, Chip and Doug had now been in there with Mary for quarter of an hour. All four young Minion guys were single. They had all done their chastity training at 18 and since then had only occasionally been allowed to masturbate. None of them had a girlfriend. So, the chance to lose their virginity was just too good an opportunity for them to miss.
Jefferson had switched off the apartment’s surveillance cameras with his Blind Key, so the authorities couldn’t see what was happening. Besides, he was a Prime. He had ordered them to them to take Mary next door and fuck her.
“Why?” Tim whispered, eyes red, digging his nails into his palms.
“Oh, what does it matter?” Jefferson sighed, irritated at his friend’s attitude. “Minion spunk is Minion spunk.”
Not only were the four 21 year old lads losing their virginity, they were doing it bareback. And not only were they doing it bareback, they were doing it with the fertile wife of their best mate. They had been embarrassed at first, exchanging guilty looks, but then their pent up youthful lust had taken over.
“You can’t mean that?”
“Sure I can. Look, you want Mary to get pregnant. And so do I. As soon as she is, I can use her pussy again. This way everybody wins.”
“But I want our child to be mine!”
“And it still might be.” Jefferson teased. “If you shut the fuck up, then you can add your juice to the mix. Your tadpoles might win the race. Hey, starting last might prove an advantage!” He chuckled.
At that moment, they both heard more male grunts through the thin walls and bedroom door. Bed springs creaked steadily. Like most Minion flats, there was no soundproofing. Mary’s high pitched gasp indicated she might actually be getting into it too.
Jefferson raised an amused eyebrow. “Look mate. I’m not a complete bastard.” He waggled his key ring. “If you’re feeling horny, just say so, and I’ll let you fuck your missus. But if you’d rather stay locked up another month instead?” He opened his palms in a querying take-it-or-leave-it gesture.
Tim looked at him, grinding his teeth sullenly.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Al stumbled out. His young face was flushed and he was buttoning up his burlap jeans.
“Make your mind up, Tim.” Jefferson said, starting to sound impatient. “Hey, Al. What do you think of Tim’s missus, huh?”
Two minutes later, Al, Bert, Chip and Doug had all exited the flat. Their guilt was palpable. Now that their balls had been drained the realisation had hit them. Their friendships with Tim and Mary could never be the same. Especially for the one with the fastest swimming sperm?
“Come on, mate, let’s see how she is.”
Jefferson and Tim joined Mary in the bedroom. There was an uncomfortable silence. Mary was lying on her side, staring at the far wall, naked except for her stockings.
“Turn round, babe.” Jefferson said. “Let’s see you.”
Slowly she twisted on the bed and looked at him resentfully, avoiding Tim’s eyes. She opened her knees wide. The length of her nice legs was accentuated in her black stockings. It was a sight Jefferson had already enjoyed many times. Her cunt was red, puffy and oozing semen. Some was messily overflowing down her ass crack.
Jefferson nodded approvingly. Four loads beat one. “Impressive.” He turned to Tim. “Isn’t it? So, you want to add one more to the pot, or not?”
Tim gulped audibly. His eyes darted from Jefferson, to between Mary’s legs, and back. He was dressed in his burlap pants and a coarse shirt. The turmoil in his mind was obvious.
“Yes.” He hissed under his breath.
“Yes please, boss.”
Jefferson nodded patronizingly and held up his key ring. “Okay.”
In seconds, Tim had undressed, unlocked his cock, and was scooting between his wife’s legs. He was short, lean, muscled. It often took long-caged penises a while to be able to get erect, but he was already stiff. Mary put her arms round him and welcomed him to her with a sobbing kiss. He thrust into her sodden, loose vagina in one movement.
“You’ve only got two minutes.” Jefferson warned, sitting down beside them on the bed. He reached out and slapped Tim’s ass. There was a squelching sound as Tim began picking up pace. Jefferson waited until they were going at it frantically, the bed springs screeching.
“Hold on.” He said, spanking Tim again. “Pull out.”
Tim’s body froze then, with a stifled groan of frustration, he withdrew.
“Stay like that, in the plank position.”
Tim took his weight on his elbows and toes, hovering inches above Mary. His body was straight as a board, his gleaming penis pointing at her naked stomach. Valuable seconds ticked by. Ten, twenty, thirty.
Jefferson let them sweat a while. He couldn’t decide. It annoyed him having to watch Tim fuck Mary. After all, he sponsored them, he employed them, he fed the fuckers.
“Aw fuck it.” He sighed finally. “Go on. Forty five seconds left.”
He watched Tim sink gratefully back down with a groan. This time he let them finish. Mary gasped but managed to control herself. She stared at the ceiling in apparent boredom. Tim’s buttocks tightened and his body tensed as he shot sperm towards his wife’s unprotected womb for the first time.
Jefferson smiled, twiddling his key ring. It was time for him to leave. The surveillance cameras would be switching back on in moments. He immediately interrupted Tim’s post orgasmic comedown and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, off her.”
Tim grunted in frustration and staggered off Mary. He’d barely finished his orgasm. His jutting erection was slick and dripping pearly white blobs from the tip.
“What do you say?”
Tim’s eyes looked up, trying to focus and recover. “Thank you, boss.”
“Well let’s hope that worked.” Jefferson replied. “Because if it didn’t, we’ll send Mary to the clinic next month and she can be artificially inseminated instead.”
Tim’s flushed face crumpled. “But? Just one chance?”
Jefferson winked. “No. Five chances!”
Mary was lying there listening, her elbow hooked covering her crying eyes.
“Look at your wife. Look at her filthy pussy. Get down there and clean up all the excess. I hate Minion spunk.”
Jefferson watched his friend hunker down, buttocks in the air. He was reminded of a time when they were both only eight or nine years old. They’d spotted something in a bush. Tim had crawled ass-first into the undergrowth and found a discarded Minion dress. It was shredded and dirty and still damp with semen stains. They’d both played with the soiled rag.
Mary’s damp blue eyes evaded him. She was lying unmoved while her husband’s tongue slurped and caressed her pussy. She hadn’t cum. Minion women were forbidden to climax with their husbands. Many Minions didn’t experience pleasure with anyone at all. But Mary was an exception; she was one of those women whose sexual urges outweighed her loathing. She often reached orgasms with Jefferson and he encouraged her to enjoy them.
“Let me see.”
Tim rolled his head aside. Mary’s bald pussy was visibly clean, from her pink gash all the way down to her anal cleft. Almost good as new.
Jefferson smiled at Tim wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
“Okay. I’ll see you both at the office bright and early in the morning.”
At the bedroom doorway, Jefferson turned and smirked.
“Hey, Tim. One in five chance? That’s twenty per cent, right?”
(Continued from Ch. 14)
Damien and Torquil sat nursing snifters of brandy in the book-lined library. They were relaxing in comfortable armchairs, smoking cigars, enjoying a father and son moment.
“Do you have any plans for Layla?” Torquil asked nonchalantly.
Damien shrugged, his cadaverous face wreathed in grey smoke.
Torquil sipped his brandy. “Just asking. I was looking at the photos in her bedroom. Her husband. What are you doing with him?”
“Not much. Teaching him to suck cock.”
Torquil chuckled, placing his snifter down. “Wouldn’t want to waste his time in prison entirely, right?”
“No. He and Layla would make quite a double act now.”
“I’d enjoy that.”
Damien raised his right eyebrow at his son. His left eye was covered in a black patch. Each man sat in silence a while, thinking his own thoughts. Outside, a tropical shower lashed down, making the window panes rattle.
“You want them?” Damien asked.
Torquil paused before speaking.
“Look, it’s up to you, father. Only if you’ve finished with her. But I know that when you start to share them, usually you’re bored. It’s time to move on. Meanwhile, I’m just getting started with her. She’s so hot, I could fuck her for hours.”
“And her husband?”
“Leverage. She’ll do anything to save him, I can tell. And I like a motivated woman. Don’t worry, he won’t leave the cells for a while. I’m thinking more, like you know, she can pay him prison visits, accompanied by me.”
“Her TV career?”
“Well, I think it’s time the fucking Minions found themselves a new chat show celebrity. She’s got better things to do with her mouth than make small talk all day. I’m thinking she should maybe start a new screen career?”
Damien laughed at his son.
“Hah. Good idea. But not boring vanilla. Good hardcore.”
“Of course. There’ll be decent money in a Minion celebrity reduced to the nasty stuff. You can have thirty percent of whatever I make out of her.”
Father and son smiled at each other. The older man paused.
“Okay. Done. Fifty, fifty. And you can have all of them.”
“Done. That’s Layla and her husband. What else is there? Her father and a brother, right?”
“Yes. Plenty of leverage!”
Torquil sat back, exhaling satisfied rings of tobacco smoke.
Damien shrugged. “Yes. Living alone. I have banned Layla from communicating with her. But I wasn’t interested in her.”
“Yes, if you like your game well hung.”
Damien pointed to a laptop in the corner. “You want to look her up?”
Torquil waved a hand to indicate not now.
“Later. But I’d like a warrant for her arrest as well.”
“No problem. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”
It really was that simple.
At 06.58 hrs Sally Meek nudged her husband Ian in the ribs.
“It’s time.” She whispered. “Shh. It’s nearly seven.”
He rubbed his eyes and nodded, while she climbed up his body.
She hadn’t told him anything about the day before yet. Sex with the two Prime boys had been her first extramarital experience since her early twenties. After years of curtailed, two minute sessions with Ian, the shock of rough, unrestricted, bareback sex had awoken something within her.
She knelt astride his head and looked down into his sleepy eyes, then swivelled her hips so she was facing his feet. If Lasha was watching or recording this, Sally would give her a little show. She settled down across Ian’s forehead and chin, encircling his nose with her anus.
“Mwah.” His mumble was muted by her bottom.
She licked her finger and slid it down to her pussy, surprised to find it slick with morning moisture. She stroked her clit and then ran her scented fingertip down to his inner thighs, to his balls. She could feel how taut and blue they were. She would have loved to unlock him but Lasha had the only key.
“Uugh.” He groaned, shifting uncomfortably. His poor penis started to swell slightly inside its steel cage, making the inner spikes dig into his flesh.
She smiled wickedly for the camera, hoping Lasha was maybe watching them, but feeling a shameful stab of selfish pleasure even if she wasn’t. She shifted her position until her pussy was rhythmically mashing Ian’s nose and mouth.
“Yes.” She hissed encouragingly. “Yessss.”
She teased his balls as he sought her wetness with his tongue. His scrotum was smooth and packed tight like a bread roll. She felt his hot breath complain to her pussy as the steel restrained his shaft. Weirdly, a thought flitted through her head.
Would Lasha be there again today? With the same boys? Other boys? Her husband’s tongue found her clitoris. She looked down at his neck, his throat working between her thighs.
She didn’t intend to tell him about the boys. What the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve for. She couldn’t bear to think of hurting him any more than he was already traumatised about Natalie.
She had never gained much pleasure from sex with Ian. That wasn’t his fault. It was the law. Until yesterday, she had almost forgotten what an orgasm was like.
“Yes.” She repeated. “Hurry. It’s seven oh five.”
Sally dug her nails into her palms and came as quietly as she could, a staccato riff of short breaths and muted squeaks. She turned around and slid down his body sexily, giving him a big kiss on his fishy lips.
“Mmm. Thanks.” She murmured in his ear. “That was great.”
Ian wiped his lips and smiled awkwardly, glancing down at his cage. His eyes were full of love for his wife and yet deep sexual frustration.
“I’m glad at least one of us enjoyed it.”
Sally put her fingers to her lips. All Minion walls have ears.
“I’m sure that Lasha knows what is best for us.” She replied loudly.
“Indeed she does.” Lasha said aloud to herself, watching and listening on her laptop. She had access to the feeds from all eight hidden lenses in the Meek’s flat; living room, kitchen, bathroom and Natalie’s room.
None of them could whisper or look sad, pick their nose or fart, without Lasha knowing about it. She knew what they ate for breakfast, when they went to bed and how they wiped their asses.
She switched to Natalie’s room and smiled. The 18 year old was awake, listening at her bedroom door, having obviously heard her mother’s breathing and squeaking in climax.
Lasha had some interesting combos planned. She had jotted down every nasty idea that sprang into her mind: she’d seen Sally riding Ian’s face but next she’d like to watch Natalie face sitting her dad too; and it would be great to see mother and daughter writhing in a sloppy 69; she wondered how Ian would feel having his asshole rimmed by his daughter; how Sally would cope licking a dozen fresh loads from her daughter’s well fucked pussy; and of course some good unhealthy family toilet action in their bathroom. She loved the fact she could just make anything she wanted happen.
She idly watched Natalie kissing her parents good morning and the Meek family getting up for another busy day. Sally put on the coffee, Natalie laid the table, Ian settled over the squat toilet, each rushing to get out of the flat on time.
Lasha smirked at them all. Today Natalie would lose her final cherry.
But first, Sally was due a nice surprise.
Sally kissed Natalie and Ian good bye. She had a few extra minutes to tidy up the bathroom and kitchen. She flushed the toilet, washed their three gruel bowls and stacked them by the sink.
Suddenly she froze. She felt a shadow looming behind her.
As ever, her front door had been unlocked. Minion homes had no security. Primes were simply allowed to walk in.
She instantly recognised his silhouette and scent. His dark forearms were covered in tattoos. He was wearing a dirty string vest and stank of body odour. He had a powerful presence; a bald, bullet head, jug ears and a beer belly.
“No.” She whispered.
He grinned. “Oh, yes Sally. It’s me.”
She had remembered his name. It was Alex. He was the man who had taken her virginity. The same man who had reappeared at her daughter’s initiation two days ago and sodomised Natalie. Now, he was back. In her home.
“Please.” She whispered.
He stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. She was dressed for work in a matching grey burlap skirt and jacket, with a white polyester blouse.
“Don’t worry. Lasha sent me.”
Sally groaned. She stood while he stroked her jaw, running his finger down her neck, to her blouse. The single word Lasha left her no hope.
“I’ve missed you.” He said. His fingers judged her breasts through the flimsy polyester fabric. “What’s it been? Nearly twenty years. Meanwhile, you found yourself a nice husband, and had a cute, tight-assed daughter.”
Alex sat down on the sofa and made himself at home. He glanced round at the walls, furniture and possessions, then back at Sally.
She stared at him, unable to speak, still suffering from shock.
“Here’s how it’s going to be, my love. You and I are going to have an affair. Nothing nasty or violent. We’re going to make beautiful love and have a hot, passionate, secret affair. You see, don’t worry. Ian needn’t know a thing. In fact, he mustn’t find out. It will be our little secret. Is that understood?”
Sally blinked. She was strangely relieved. But she couldn’t see why he would care if Ian knew?
“I ...” her throat was too dry to speak.
Alex laughed, patting the cushion next to him. “Come here.”
“I have to leave for work. I’ll be late.”
He winked. “I know. You can leave in a minute. But don’t worry. Lasha’s going to cover your back. Her uncle is the Security Minister. She’s got a note from him telling your school head that your attendance is going to be kind of patchy for a while. Give us time during the day to enjoy each other’s company.”
Sally felt sick. She perched down next to him.
He sat back, putting his hands behind his head. His string vest stretched over his belly. The knees of his jeans were stained with dried mud and paint.
“Kiss me.” He said.
She grimaced, unable to do it. “Please.”
He shook his head sadly and stood up. He walked to the mantelpiece, picked up a family photo and dropped it onto the floor. It was a picture of Sally and Ian with Natalie, taken when she was about ten. The glass shattered.
“Please.” She squealed. “Don’t. Let me kiss you.”
He lifted up a porcelain candlestick, one of the most precious things the Meeks owned. He held it out in front of him between his index finger and thumb.
“What is more important to you, Sally? Your family? Or your cunt?”
He nodded, staring at the candlestick like it was a piece of shit.
“So make sure that I get your cunt. And your mouth and ass. Yes?”
“Yes.” She whispered, beaten.
He placed the candlestick back on the mantelpiece.
“Get to work.” He said. “And await my call.”
The magnificent dog was named Stud.
He was a six year old German Shepherd. Highly intelligent, he had been trained to respond to numerous commands.
The prison guard laid out his bowl of chow. It was normal dog food but laced with garlic and spices, just like Stud liked it. The dog associated garlic with a good time!
He was big for his breed, weighing 100 lbs and over 26 inches in height at his shoulder blade. His coat was tan coloured except for his black face and black saddle markings over his back. His 42 teeth chomped the dog food savagely.
The handler watched his favourite dog eat. He admired the sleek coat, muscled body and large erect ears. Stud was as handsome as any film star, even if his female co-stars didn’t always see things that way at first.
“Come on, Stud.” He patted the dog’s noble head. “Time to go get some exercise.”
(F/mff, Centrux virginity, humiliation)
The Meeks ate their supper in awkward silence. Natalie didn’t feel like speaking. When they had finished, her mum cleared the plates. It was nearly nine o’clock. A feeling of dread pervaded the apartment’s humid atmosphere.
They heard the clip clop of high heels a few seconds before Lasha appeared in their doorway, wearing a boob tube and a denim mini skirt. A small handbag hung from a strap over her left shoulder.
“I haven’t got long.” She said breezily. “Get me a Primacola.”
Natalie’s mum rose and fetched one of the new stock of soft drinks.
“Let’s all three go through to the bedroom.” Lasha instructed, shaking the can and ripping it open, so that a spurt of fluid sprayed out. She leered suggestively at Natalie.
“All three of you get undressed and hurry.”
“Please.” Her dad pleaded. “Give her one night off.”
Lasha tilted her head to one side and looked at Ian. “I said, get undressed and hurry!”
Realising that arguing would only make things worse, Natalie removed her school blouse and the pleated skirt she’d been wearing. Her dad tugged off his shirt and burlap pants. Her mum took off her apron and clothes.
All three of them stood embarrassed at the end of her bed. Her dad was locked in his new steel chastity thingy but otherwise all three of them were totally naked.
“Get up.” Lasha said to her, pointing onto the bed. “How’s the taste of cum in your mouth? Still there?”
Natalie climbed up. “No.” She whispered. “It’s gone.”
“So! I don’t know what all the fuss was about. And your asshole?”
She swallowed. Her bottom was still sore when she used the toilet but she didn’t think Lasha would care about that.
“Exactly. No need for any fuss about that either. Your mouth and ass will be getting a lot more use. But tonight it’s your pussy’s turn. Come here.”
Lasha fished into her top and produced a chain from her cleavage. She was wearing a lime green, boob tube that showed off her bare tummy and pierced navel. It clung tight to her breasts. She was looking at Ian.
Her dad fingered his bare chest. “Me?”
“Yes you. Who the fuck do you think I meant? Here!”
Her dad stepped round her mum in the confined space and stood in front of Lasha who was dangling the key between her fingers. She smirked at him and then at Natalie.
“It’s time for you to prepare your daughter for the cock that’s going to take her virginity. Stand still.”
Lasha reached down and carefully unlocked the padlock to his Dictator 2013. Then she slipped the steel tube off Ian’s shrunken penis and dropped it into her handbag.
“Shift along.” She said to Natalie.
Natalie edged across her bed so she was only lying one side of it. Her head rested on a pillow. Her knees were slightly parted.
“Kneel between your daughter’s legs and hurry. I’m late.”
“Oh my ...” her dad, gasped. “Please.”
The air split with a resounding crack as Lasha smacked her dad across the cheek. He grunted and put his hand up to his face. Her mum squealed.
“I’m getting fucking annoyed with your attitude. I can assure you that I can be a lot nastier than I am being. Now, for the last time, do you want us to do things the easy way, or the hard way?”
Natalie screwed her eyes shut. She just wanted dad to obey her and stop making things worse. Pleeease, she whispered to herself.
“I’m s ... sorry.” He stammered. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Then get the fuck between her knees!”
Natalie kept her eyes shut. She felt the mattress tilt as her dad climbed onto it and his skin touched her leg. Her mouth was dry and she could hardly breathe.
“Open your eyes.”
She looked up at Lasha watching impatiently. The girl looked taller in her high heels, short skirt and clinging top.
“And open your fucking legs too. As wide as you can.”
Natalie tensed her buttocks and parted her knees. Warm air flooded her inner thighs as she exhibited herself.
“Okay, old man. Hunker down and give your daughter’s flaps some tongue action.”
Lasha sat down on the bed next to Natalie. She fished a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her handbag.
“Come here, mummy.”
Natalie saw the look of shock sweep her mother’s face as she was summoned to join the action.
Lasha’s intention was clear. Both parents were going to perform oral sex on the two 18 year olds. All four of them next to each other on the bed!
Natalie wanted to shut her eyes but she couldn’t look away. Her father’s head hovered over her waist and then she felt his breath on her thighs, moments before his lips touched her. Everybody was watching. Lasha. Her mum.
“Unnnhh.” She gasped, as his hot tongue slithered inside her.
Lasha smiled and exhaled a series of smoke rings. She reached over and squeezed Natalie’s breast, thumbing her nipple. Simultaneously, she shifted so that Sally was able to tug off her high heels and thong.
Natalie looked at her and blushed. She couldn’t reply. Instead, she watched her mum squat down between Lasha’s dark legs. Tobacco smoke filled the muggy air. There was silence except for the quiet squish of saliva.
Eventually Lasha spoke. She lifted her leg and nudged Sally with a heel.
“Use your hand to diddle your husband’s dick.”
Natalie watched her mum’s right arm reach out underneath her dad. Warmth snorted into her body as he caught his breath. His tongue brushed across what Natalie knew was her clitoris, making her hiss.
“Sss.” She swallowed the sound, but Lasha had noticed and was leering at her, smoking, fiddling with keys on her cell phone.
“I think it’s time, don’t you?”
Natalie frowned, feeling queasy. She wondered how many boys Lasha had planned? She dreaded hearing the sound of noisy feet and male voices.
She watched her poor blonde mum trying to do two things at once, arm jiggling below her dad, while her mouth was truffling under Lasha’s denim skirt.
It would be a lie to pretend that Natalie was feeling nothing.
“Okay.” Lasha enthused. “Push up on your heels and raise your ass.”
Natalie cringed. But she tightened her tummy muscles and lifted her hips.
Lasha grinned at her. “Okay dad. Let’s see you lick your kid’s asshole now.”
For a moment, all three of them froze, as yet another humiliation was piled onto the Meek family. But they knew better than to disobey or even hesitate.
Her father’s head slipped lower and she felt his tongue between her buttocks.
Lasha giggled and threw her own thighs wider. “That looks goooooood. I’ll have me some of that tongue-in-the-shithole treatment too.”
Sally Meek’s forehead was perspiring. Her blue eyes blinked in shame. Her right arm was tired stroking her husband. She hunkered lower so she could rim Lasha’s bottom, remembering the previous time outside school.
“Right. Sit up and show us your dick.”
Natalie felt her father’s tongue slip out of her bottom. He pushed up onto his knees. She could see that his penis was hard. Her mum was still gripping it.
“I think you can let go now Sally.” Lasha chuckled. “It’s standing up all on its own. Now, here’s a warning. If you don’t carry out my next instruction immediately, I will report you all to the police. Understood?”
Natalie’s dad nodded. So did her mum. And finally Natalie did.
“Get in the plank position on top of her.”
There was a moment of silence, but everybody immediately realised what was happening. Ian Meek’s throat made a noise as he dry-swallowed. He leaned forward and put his weight on his elbows either side of Natalie. His body was parallel with hers, brushing not touching. His eyes were directly above her. She could see tears in them.
Lasha turned on her side, head propped on her elbow, to watch.
“Good.” She said. “Now mummy, reach in and place daddy’s dickhead just inside the entrance to your daughter’s pussy. I mean it. Just inside. We don’t want to rip through that hymen quite yet.”
Sally’s face crumpled. She was crying too. Natalie felt her mum’s soft fingers fumbling against her hip as they reached between her and her dad. Then fingertips nuzzled her labia. She was wet from her dad’s saliva. She winced as his blunt hardness pressed against her, then wedged its way in.
“Aaaghh.” She exhaled, biting her lower lip.
“Careful.” Lasha chided. “Just inside, I said. Right at the little entrance.”
Natalie looked into her father’s eyes, trying to reassure him. He was taking all his weight on his elbows and toes, holding his body stiff like a plank, his penis nestled in the folds of her labia.
Lasha smiled, satisfied. “Now, Sally. Let’s see how strong he is shall we? Let’s see if you can make me have a lovely cum before your husband collapses.”
Natalie shifted her gaze to the right and glanced at her mum settling back down between Lasha’s thighs. How long had this torment been going on so far? Only a few minutes? Maybe ten? Her mum’s head began bobbing briskly.
Lasha winked at Natalie. “Hold my hand.”
She moved her right hand and linked with Lasha’s sweaty fingers.
“Mmm.” Lasha moaned. “So gooood. Your mum knows how to lick pussy. She’s going to have to give you some lessons. Hot damn this is fun, isn’t it?”
Natalie turned her face again to look at her dad. Beads of salty sweat had sprung up onto his skin and a teardrop splashed onto Natalie’s forehead. His body was starting to wobble.
Lasha was watching, smiling contentedly, as Sally’s mouth worked on her.
“I think it’s actually nice of me. You and your dad will always have this moment. Him being your first. Look how gentle he’s being. You’ll soon find out how rough boys can be when they fuck. But at least this time is tender.”
Natalie frowned, amazed. Maybe she really did believe that? Maybe a Prime girl like Lasha actually thought disgusting things like that?
Lasha’s grip tightened on Natalie’s hand. She was getting more excited. Her mouth hung open in a little o and her eyes had closed.
Ian was struggling, his expression grimacing. Natalie felt her dad’s body brushing against her knees and hips. His penis nudged deeper inside her.
“You need to h ... hurry up.” Lasha’s voice gasped at Sally. She had opened her eyes and was smirking down between her legs.
Half a minute later, Lasha jettisoned Natalie’s hand. She reached up and clawed the pillow, her breath coming in short staccato whistles.
“Yes ... oh fuck yes ... oh ... mmmmmmmm ... oh that’s good, don’t stop .... aaaaaaaaahhh !”
By the time, Lasha had recovered from her climax, Ian Meek’s willpower had given out. His plank had collapsed. He was gasping for air. Only his tented hips held out. His softening erection remained only just inside Natalie’s body.
Lasha grinned down at Sally. “I think your poor husband’s exhausted. He’ll need a bit of help for this next bit. Kneel up on the bed alongside him.”
The mattress shifted as her mum moved and Lasha turned sideways again to watch them all. Sally waited beside Ian’s hips.
“Now. I want you to push down as hard as you can on your husband’s butt. That way you can both take Nat’s virginity together. Drive his dick deep into her one nice, smooth thrust.”
Natalie knew there was nothing her parents could do. She braced herself.
“Nggggh.” She grunted, biting her lower lip again. Air whooshed out of her lungs. Her father’s hips slammed into hers. She felt like she’d been punched between her legs. She tasted the metallic saltiness of her own blood on her tongue.
Her father’s eyes were looking down at her. She tried to focus. He mouthed the word ‘sorry’. Her mum had twisted her face away, wiping her eye.
“We’re in!” Lasha exclaimed triumphantly. “Now, give her some nice rhythmic fucking. In and out, in, out, that’s it, harder.” The room resounded with the sound of several slaps on Ian’s buttocks.
Natalie was lightheaded. She couldn’t feel properly. She was just aware of her father’s weight going up and down on her, his hardness carving her open, slice by slice. It didn’t seem to hurt as much as she’d feared. The pain would come later. Mental as much as physical.
(F/mff, forced incest, multi-POV)
Lasha was euphoric. Lightheaded, almost drunk on her power.
She had enjoyed her own orgasm but in a way this was better. Watching Ian hammering up and down like some exhausted woodpecker. His butt muscles were clenched and he was sweating like a pig. Sally had turned her face away and was wiping her eyes, cuckqueaned by her own daughter.
“Watch them.” Lasha nudged Sally. “Don’t miss it.”
Sally was revolted. She stared back at Lasha. How could the young witch be so cruel? Even from terrible stories she’d heard about other Prime girls, this one was in a league of her own? Sally felt queasy. How could she ever make love to her husband again? What would this do to their family?
“Now stick your finger in your husband’s ass.” Lasha snapped, piling on the humiliation. Sally’s throat muscles went haywire as bile filled her mouth. Somehow, she managed not to vomit and gulped it back down.
Like an automaton, she reached out her right hand and slid her index finger between her husband’s bottom cheeks as they rose and fell.
Ian was melting with sweat and guilt. He felt Sally’s finger in his bottom and that ratcheted up his lust another notch. He had shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at Natalie. How could he be so sordid? He had taken his own daughter’s virginity and yet, here he was, actually wanting to cum. He was so used to the numbing frustration of a Curtail. But he could feel the tightness in his balls, the swell of his prostate, the delicious moment of no return.
“That’s enough!” Lasha snapped, her cold voice cutting the warm air.
Ian couldn’t bring himself to stop. He was so near. He kept rolling his hips across his daughter’s, sinking into her glorious heat.
“Enough!” Lasha repeated, laughing. “Drag him off, the horny toad!”
Ian felt his wife’s fingernails on his hips, tugging him. Then Natalie reached up and pushed his chest away. Appalled with himself, he managed to jerk his penis out and knelt up. His erection bobbed helplessly between his legs, slick with fluid.
“My oh my.” Lasha giggled at him. “Just look at that.”
Three pairs of eyes were gawping at him. He blushed, wiping beads of sweat from his face. He reached down and tried to cover his erection with his hand.
“Do you have ice?” Lasha enquired.
Natalie nodded. “In the fridge.”
Ian got out of the way so his daughter could get off the bed.
Lasha looked at Sally who was still staring at Ian in shock.
“Suck your husband’s cock clean but don’t you dare make him cum.”
Sally’s lips were pursed. Her eyes looked at him and then down at his erection with revulsion. Nevertheless, she lowered her head and took him in her mouth.
Lasha studied them both. The evening had worked even better than she’d dared hope.
Today had been a yummy hors d’oeuvres. But even better, tomorrow’s main course was still to come.
Natalie returned carrying a bowl of ice cubes. There was a red smear of virginal blood visible on her inner thigh. Lasha winked lasciviously as both of them watched Sally licking Ian’s shaft clean.
“That’s enough. Now both of you use that ice to calm daddy’s naughty cock down.”
Sally and Natalie picked up a cube each. Sally held the tip of Ian’s erection and applied ice to his balls while Natalie hesitantly chilled her father’s veined shaft.
Lasha smirked as Ian gasped at the cold. She fished into her handbag and pulled out the steel Dictator device.
After a couple of minutes, Ian’s cock was nicely shrivelled again. His teeth were chattering and water dripped down his scrotum onto the bed.
“Lock this back onto him.” Lasha handed Sally the steel tube.
Lasha was pleased to see a hint of enthusiasm as Sally took it from her. It was part of her plan to get Sally on the team as far as Ian’s chastity went. His balls hung blue and tight beneath the steel as she snapped the lock closed.
“Excellent. I should remind you both that I will be checking in at 11 o’clock tonight to make sure that Sally gets her usual bedtime cunnilingus.”
Lasha smiled at both parents’ embarrassment in front of Natalie.
“Yes, Miss.” Sally murmured. Ian agreed, with a mute nod.
“Right.” Lasha announced, adjusting her clothes and collecting up her cigarettes, cell phone and handbag. “I must be off.”
She stood, pointedly staring at her high heels.
Natalie got the message. She knelt down and brushed the dust off Lasha’s feet. Lasha twiddled the toes of each foot in turn. Her toe nails were varnished crimson with ten letters; from P on her right little toe to E and B on her big toes across to H on her left little toe. Two words: Prime Bitch.
Natalie’s head froze but she didn’t look up. Slowly, she lowered her lips to Lasha’s feet and kissed first right, then left.
“Now my heels.”
Lasha smirked at Ian and Sally while their daughter slipped her high heels on. Remarkably it was only twenty five past nine. She would be home by ten. It was amazing what fun you could pack into half an hour!
“Well, I’ll be off. Sleep tight. Tomorrow is another day!”
Lasha left the naked family alone. She wondered what they would say after she’d left? How would they handle the embarrassment? She was proud of herself.
She wondered if there could be a more shameful way to lose your virginity?
It was an interesting question.
(No real people or animals were harmed in the creation of this scene: M/f, K-9)
The answer to that question was a modest ceremony.
There would be many crowded, more raucous events in the future, but tonight there was just Damien, with two guards.
The poor woman was sobbing. Damien stroked her face comfortingly, running his finger across her cheekbones and along her jaw. Dusty sweat layered her forehead. Her dank, curly black hair hung over her face.
“Ssh.” Damien soothed. “Stud’s a skilled lover. He knows it’s your first time. He won’t be gentle but at least he’ll make it good for you.”
The dog handler had an atomiser spray and he was wafting a bouquet of canine mist between 163637’s thighs. The scent had recently been taken from a bitch in heat. The woman’s dirty ass had been given a quick wipe.
Even highly trained Stud could barely contain his excitement. His bushy tail thumped and he let rip a single loud bark.
Damien laughed at the eager dog and then at her. He had witnessed many dog fuckings but this was going to be a first even for him; a virgin, lesbian, Prime.
The woman’s exhausted body was straining with renewed desperation against the leather straps. Her hips and thighs had been chafed raw by endless struggling. She had lost a few pounds since her arrival and her olive skin was now visibly slacker and paler on a diet of slugs and snails, as her muscles atrophied. Her cunt and ass were presented in a raised ^, defenceless against what was about to happen.
The smiling dog had brown almond shaped, alert eyes. He knew exactly what was going on. His large teeth were sharp and white. A sliver of garlicky drool hung from his panting mouth. His breath was hot and spicy.
Damien nodded at the guards. It was time.
“Nooooooo.” She begged again, trying but unable to move.
He pulled up a stool. Some people preferred to sit at the business end and watch the penetration close up, but Damien liked to study their eyes.
“Please.” She gasped. “I h ... h ... have information.”
He laughed. “So do I, my dear. You’re about to get fucked by a dog.”
“Nooo. P ... please. I’m serious. Listen to me.”
The handler guided Stud behind the prisoner. The dog’s face snuffled between her thighs and his long tongue tasted heat from the bitch.
She screamed, bug-eyed, veins in her forehead popping.
“There are foreigners here!”
“Yes. A German.” Damien chuckled. “A German shepherd.”
“Nooo. Here. In Prime City. An American and a Briton.” She gabbled. “Journalists. I swear.”
Damien frowned at her. He nodded at the handler who tugged Stud’s leash. Reluctantly but obediently, the strong dog allowed himself to be pulled a few feet backwards.
“Repeat what you just said.”
She gasped, eyes mad with relief. “I heard about it last week. Two journalists are coming here to film a secret documentary for foreign television. A man and a woman. I was contacted about being secretly interviewed by them.”
Damien glanced at the second guard. All three men were listening attentively now.
“What else do you know?”
She blinked, thinking. “N ... nothing else. But surely you can find them. Yes, yes, yes.” She hissed, remembering. “They look like Minions.”
Damien stared at her. He knew when people were telling the truth. She didn’t know anything else. But she had told him enough.
“Find them! I want patrols all night. Find them by dawn..”
The second guard rushed out of the cell.
Damien stroked her chin encouragingly. “Good girl. Better late than never. But why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He winked at Stud’s handler.
“No.” She gasped. “Please. I would have done. I’m s ... sorry.”
She bawled as the dog’s tongue slithered back between her thighs.
He grinned. “Tell you what. When we find the foreigners, you can have a nice rest.”
The moustachioed handler smiled back as he helped Stud up on his hind legs. The dog’s wet, red-pink erection glistened against his furry underbelly.
She begged again, an endless torrent of apologies, cries and pleading.
Damien watched her expression shift to horrified shock as she felt the dog’s paws mounting her back and the tickle of its fur on her skin. The guard was checking out the view on a tablet screen. Stud’s panting breath filled the air around her ears.
“Welcome to womanhood.”
She found one final piercing shriek as Stud’s penis slid smoothly between her virgin labia. Her eyes widened in disbelief and she stared directly at Damien.
“Not so bad, is it?” he consoled her.
The handler released Stud’s leash and allowed him to strut his stuff. The dog was a magnificent sight, ears pricked, jaws wide, hips thrusting frenziedly. What Stud lacked in duration he compensated for with enthusiasm.
Damien slapped her face.
“Turn your head and kiss him.”
Her dazed eyes rolled into the top of her head. Suddenly her mouth was drooling as much as the dog’s. She twisted her face sideways.
Damien could smell garlic. The sound of beast and woman fucking rhythmically filled the cell. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigars and a lighter.
“Kiss him I said.”
She puckered her lips as the dog gurgled excitedly on her neck and then, suddenly disgusted by her own submission, she jerked her face away.
Damien laughed. He loved to see a bit of fight. He sucked the tip of his cigar suggestively to moisten it, wedged it in his mouth and lit the tip. After a moment he exhaled a cloud of grey smoke into her face.
She coughed, cringing at Stud’s energetic hammering. Her body was strapped immobile on the bench and all the dog’s oomph seemed to be channelled directly up her spine to exit via her mouth.
“Aah ... ngh ... aah ... ngh ... aah ... nnggh.”
Her animalistic grunts and sobs reverberated and her eyes briefly found Damien again through the tobacco haze.
“Excellent, my dear. I can see that Stud is falling in love with you.”
Suddenly her eyes blanked as if a light bulb had been switched off in her head. She was looking but no longer seeing. A kind of madness seized her.
Brutus watched. The chances are that 163637 would never be quite the same again. He’d seen it happen to many prisoners. You could never tell when the insanity would hit them. Fortunately there were drugs that could treat them so they remained as aware as possible of what was happening.
The best bit was yet to come. Being penetrated by a dog was one thing but taking its fluids was the coup de grace. By now, Stud was fully excited and he had slowed to a stop, ready to ejaculate. He had a splendid thick knot. He was ready to tie one onto her and release his load. Damien exhaled and smiled conspiratorially at the handler who was checking the camera lenses.
While he watched the show, Damien’s thoughts turned to the interesting piece of information the woman had imparted in that last ditch, futile attempt to save her cunt. A secret documentary about Primevia? Two foreign journalists who look like Minions? A man and a woman? How delicious that might turn out to be?
Stud was ready to turn and rest his weight on his forelegs again. His handler helped him rotate to face the opposite direction to 163637. Dogs like to rest on all fours while their excitement abates. It would make a fine poster for the wall of her cell. Woman and dog in T formation. Stud was grinning and spurting his clear prostate fluid inside her. Damien knew it was much higher in volume than his canine semen.
When she realised what was happening, 163637 uttered a heartrending, almost primal scream.
Little did she know, it was only the beginning.
END OF BOOK TWO
Coming September 2013
Primevil Vignettes Book Three:
Other selected free stories by Velvetglove: ‘Best Enjoyed Cold’ (2012 version, a rape & revenge thriller), ‘Five Words’ (F/m, a romantic Fem-dom novel), ‘Slut-2-Fuck’ (FM/mf, financial exploitation), ‘After the Pestilence’ (long n/c novel), ‘Beyond the Pestilence’ (its unfinished sequel), ‘The Ballad of Lara and Gemma’ (F/f, a Pestilence spin-off), ‘Hard Labor’ (unfinished n/c story), ‘A Demonstration of Power’ (unfinished n/c story), ‘Stranger the Fiction’ (M/mf, autobiographical, first person), ‘Priceless’ (M/mf, a novella), ‘Credit Crunch’ (M/mf, a short story, blackmail), ‘A Special Relationship’ (M/f, a cuckquean short story), ‘A Special Weekend’ (M/f, a sequel), ‘Son of a Gun’ (M/f, historical, some n/c), ‘Loaning Lucy’ (F/f, a lesbian fem-dom story), ‘Short n Sweet’ (MF/mf, unfinished), ‘Used Goods’ (short story trilogy, M/f, nc), ‘Soiled Goods’ (M/f, nc), ‘Damaged Goods’ (M/fm, nc).