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Review This Story || Author: Benfan

The Exposition of Modified Women

Part 1



This story is a pure fantasy, intended for adults only. Please do not repost anywhere minors might have access. Be warned this story focuses on themes of bondage, sexual slavery, and nonconsensual body modification. If such fantasies are not to your taste please read no further.

Note to readers: Rather than a story in the usual sense this piece is more a collection of vignettes. The reader sees through the eyes of dominant gentleman as he tours an exhibition put on by a secret society dedicated to the enslavement and erotic modification of women. I conceived it as a means to get into type some of the many ideas I've had on this theme, which I realized I didn't have time to develop into full-fledged, stand-alone tales. The overall piece has minimal plot, but I've tried to give some depth to the important characters of the individual vignettes and provide some background into how they arrived at their current situations.

I hope you enjoy your visit to the Exposition of Modified Women, and invite your comments.




Welcome to the Exposition

by Benfan




Mark's head buzzed with anticipation as he walked down the dim stairway beneath the huge old warehouse. It had been 5 years since the previous Society exposition. Great care had to be taken to maintain security, and also it took a few years for many of the participating artists and clinicians to complete some of their more complicated projects.

At the bottom of the stairway he came to a heavy steel door with a small mirrored window set in it. There was no handle on the door, or buzzer to push. A guard inside had detected his approach via sensors on the stairway and was already scrutinizing him through the bulletproof one-way glass.

"Show your invitation," an electronically altered voice demanded. Mark pulled the small card from his pocket and held it before the glass. The card looked unremarkable, and nothing on it mentioned the name of the Society, or the nature of its exhibition, or Mark's own identity.  But the guard behind the door recognized it and a bolt slid, allowing Mark to enter a small foyer between the outer door and a similar inner portal.

The outer door closed immediately and latched shut, locking Mark in the small, dim, windowless room with the burly, well dressed guard. This gatekeeper now scrutinized Mark's invitation closely, then slid it through a reader mounted to the wall. Tiny lights flashed and the guard invited Mark to place his thumb on a sensor on the device. It beeped, and another bolt clicked. The guard gestured to the inner door.

"You may enter, sir. Welcome...."

Passing through the second portal Mark found himself on a steel walkway halfway up the wall of a cavernous basement. The dark and abandoned outer appearance of the warehouse was deceiving, for here it was bright and bustling with activity. Looking down he saw the many booths and displays of various exhibitors, arranged along a grid laid out in the huge space. A stranger would have wondered how the whole thing could be arranged, but as a supporter of the Society Mark knew the Expo had been set up by a company that built movie sets on location. They'd been told a film was being shot down here, and would return after the event to clean up again. It was an expensive affair, but as a rule members of the Society were people of means, and Mark expected his $5,000US "invitation" would prove a bargain.

As his eyes scanned the scene before him, Mark spotted the largest displays near the rear. They would have to be the Benson gallery, and of course the Farrell Clinic's pavilion. In a back corner next to Benson's the open space of the livestock paddock was unmistakable, bustling with activity. But among the lanes and avenues of smaller booths his eye was drawn to a large, colorful tent - an exhibitor he couldn't recall seeing before. By the number of people gathered before it, whatever was inside seemed to be a popular attraction. Mark found the stairs down from the walkway and decided to make the tent his first stop. At the bottom of the steps, Mark turned to cross an open area about 15' wide between the factory wall and a low fence of horizontal planks that surrounded the exhibit booths.

Suddenly, there was a loud "Ho-ahhh!" and a Squeak! Squeak! of rubber on concrete. Mark started and turned, to be confronted by one of the most physically imposing female specimens he'd ever seen.

The powerfully-built blonde pony leaned slightly forward with back arched, to balance the weight of the rider on her back, but even in that posture she matched Mark's 6-foot height. An explosive exhalation from the startled creature's capacious lungs escaped her gaping mouth and spattered Mark with droplets of spittle.

"I say, old boy," said her rider, who now wrestled to control his spooked mount. He sat upon a small saddle strapped to her lower back by a wide belt that pinched her waist, his legs projecting out and forward to keep clear of her high-stepping knees. His hands grasped a curved handlebar, like that of a bicycle, that projected from either side of a short hollow cylinder strapped end-first into her mouth. Within the cylinder the pony's red tongue wagged. Now the rider used the handlebars to wrench the big, blonde head to the left, to stop his mount's sudden and undesired pirouette to the right.  The creature's full, pink-tipped breasts bounced between the straps of her black harness as she danced jerkily, out of control.

Finally she settled, stamped her feet twice and stood, her broad chest heaving. From cheek to shapely legs (if young oaks can be shapely), every inch of skin not covered by harness or boot shone with the sweat of her exertions.

"You must take more care crossing the track," the rider scolded. He was a neat middle-aged gentleman, moustached and tweed-jacketed. By his accent he'd just flown in from across the Pond. "Blinkered as she is, Violet might have trampled you, and all of us come to grief."

"Sorry," Mark muttered as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. Looking again at the pony's tack he grasped the meaning of "blinkered:" what he'd taken at first glance for a blindfold was really a very low leather visor, that allowed her to see nothing but the ground a step or two before her. Mark's glance fell to her feet, looking for the tall heels that he expected whenever he stood eye-to-eye with a female. But her shiny leather boots were quite practical: rubber-soled, with round toes and a proper arch. This was no show-pony, but a high-performance riding model. Fully erect and unshod, she would have stood a few inches over 6 feet.

The crisis now passed, Violet's rider could not suppress a grin at the obvious impression his mount had made on Mark. "Right, then," he said, and twisted the grip of his handlebar. The pony bucked slightly as a Snap!Snap!Snap! was heard, and began to accelerate down the track.  Beneath the saddle Mark glimpsed little blue-white sparks emitted by the electric "whip" that now caressed her muscular buttocks. As she worked up to speed and settled into a pace to match the whip's rate, the sparking stopped, and Mark understood how such a large creature had managed to surprise him.

At stride she moved silently, her wide hips swinging to absorb the motion of her legs while her upper body and rider glided along quietly. The hip motion was much more pronounced than in a typical female, since Violet did not have any arms to swing. Mark resolved to get a better look at the pony and her tack at the paddock, and thought he might suggest to her master that she be belled, for safety.


After the pony and rider disappeared around the corner of the "track" which ran around the Expo, Mark turned, passed through an opening in the low inner barrier and at last entered the Exposition proper. The booths were arranged along lanes and alleys along which Society members strolled, some in groups talking and gesturing and others alone. Mark made his way past the booths of several exhibitors he recognized; he noted the location of some that he would return to, and others whose creations were not to his taste.

Shortly he came upon the colorful, exotic tent he had seen from the elevated walkway. It stood out from the more conventional booths and clearly he was not the only visitor intrigued by it: a small crowd blocked entry to the opening at its front. Strange Eastern music played within, beckoning, but Mark was unable to get a good view over the crowd so he moved to a podium standing next to the door that was draped in fabric to match the tent. A touch-screen monitor stood on the podium, and currently displayed the phrase "Begin Introduction" in several languages. He touched "English."

A mildly-accented voice spoke from the machine: "Welcome, and thank you for joining in a moment of history: the inaugural display in the West of ancient Persian body-shaping arts! The heavenly creature within represents the culmination of centuries spent perfecting the female form. Carefully chosen from a family long known for the fine figures of its women..."

The speaker was a touch bombastic, but Mark learned from the recording and accompanying images that "the Persian Art of body-shaping" was based on a binding technique that reminded him of what Chan was doing in China. Girls were chosen for their genetic potential, and as soon as they'd reached their full height sewn into tight-fitting "bindings" of heavy silk that was specially woven to be nearly inelastic. The soft but extremely strong silk could be left in place for long periods, and the girl's skin washed and kept healthy with bindings in place by a routine of soaking and sponging. As her body developed, and if she gained weight, the tight bindings prevented the deposit of fat in certain areas and redirected it elsewhere.

"After binding the girl is placed on a special diet that encourages the flowering of her female figure. Like most young women selected for this treatment, the beauty within was quite proud to be chosen for transformation into a creature at the apex of femininity. However even she required some special encouragement as her dietary requirements evolved."

The screen displayed the same girl again, but now more mature, and fleshier. She was strapped face-up to an ornate wooden table, with a small, crank-operated. funnel-topped machine mounted above her face that appeared to be forcing food into her mouth. Apparently her special diet was required of her, rather than by her.

"Of course, while her body develops the girl is also schooled in all the arts of the harem..."

The voice continued but Mark was distracted by a bustle of activity as several visitors left the crowded tent, the music having stopped. Some spoke glowingly of what they'd seen, while a tall, thin, spectacled member who Mark recognized as a famous cosmetic surgeon scowled: "Bah! They take years to accomplish what I could do in an afternoon, with time for nine holes of golf."  But there was a hint of envy in his voice.

Moving past the remaining visitors Mark finally caught a glimpse of this "creature at the apex of femininity," and he was more impressed than the surgeon had been. She knelt docilely upon rose and purple silks on the floor of the tent, the colors coordinated with the silk bands that constricted her body, and the gauzy, gold-fringed veil that concealed her face from cheek to throat. Her spine was straight but head tipped slightly down, in the classic posture of an Oriental slavegirl.

Her hands rested on her thighs....or so Mark assumed, because he could not see her hands. They and most of her forearms were hidden behind her massive breasts. Their swelling began at her collarbones and flowed naturally to where their heavy bottoms brushed the tops of her thighs. Like giant pears her breasts rested lightly together, creating a Grand Canyon of cleavage, and the outer sides of the mammaries projected well beyond her frame. There was no sign of a belly, or "love handles" - her torso was completely hidden by the stupendous glands.  The girl's nipples were hidden by engraved golden disks 6" across, from which large and sturdy gold rings dangled inches above her knees.

Finally able to move his gaze from that most remarkable bosom, Mark noted some of the silk bindings. There were tight bands about 2" wide at the upper arm just below the shoulder, and above and below the elbow. The flesh between was luxuriously plump but firm-looking, as were the thighs he could see receding beneath the breasts. Wider bands pressed deeply into her flesh just above the knees.

A tall bearded man in flowing robes spoke in Persian, and the music began again. With a tinkling of jewelry the girl raised dark almond eyes to meet her admirers', and gracefully stretched her braceleted arms behind her. She shifted her weight and put one bare foot forward. Now Mark could see the bindings below the knee, and a complex weave of silk about the lower calf. The firm fair flesh between the bands was like an erotic caricature of a curvaceous female leg. The carefully dressed bindings at knee and ankle, elbow and wrist supported the ample flesh of her limbs and prevented any sagging. The girl shifted her weight onto the forward leg, and slowly rose. With a fluid arm movement and swaying of hips, she turned her back to the spectators and began a slow, sinuous dance....

From the rear, behind dark tresses that sprang from a gilt-edged cap and cascaded to her waist, the girl's elaborately stitched and heavily reinforced silk corset was finally revealed. Though strained almost to bursting, the corset restricted the waist of this ultravoluptuous beauty to no more than 24".  Artfully wound wrappings joined the bottom of the corset to 3" wide bands around the tops of her thighs, in such a way that they supported, shaped, and presented the full twin moons of her drum-tight ass. When she spun gracefully to face him again, Mark saw that the pelvic wrappings and upper-thigh strictures also ensured fresh air and easy access for her nether regions (now modestly draped with airy silk), which on unbound girls of similar weight might have been lost in rolls of flesh.

How long her show went on, Mark could not be sure. He was hypnotized by the graceful dance, the swaying and wobbling of her absurd, wonderful curves.

"Now, that is a Big Beautiful Woman," he wondered aloud, eliciting laughter of agreement from his fellow spectators.















Review This Story || Author: Benfan
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