BDSM Library - The Exposition of Modified Women

The Exposition of Modified Women

Provided By: BDSM Library

Synopsis: The reader visits - through the eyes of a dominant male attendee - an exhibition of erotically restrained and modified females.


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.

















The Exposition of Modified Women, Pt 2 - "Missy"

by Benfan



Mark emerged from the tent in some agitation. He had resisted making use of his own slaves for 48 hours before departing for the exposition - a significant feat of endurance for him - in order to ensure he would be able to take full advantage of the opportunities presented at the event. Now, his encounters with Violet the ponygirl and the voluptuous Persian wonder had set Little Mark to prodding urgently at his host's trousers, clamoring for release. Mark had not bothered to ask if that were possible at the tent, since a 6" red disk had been displayed at the entrance: the symbol indicating that physical contact with the exhibit was prohibited.

Now as he walked out into the lane, he looked left and right for a green disk, the sign that would spell relief. (Yellow disks allowed physical contact not to include penetration, and gold announced that the exhibit was available for purchase.) He considered seeking out one of the quick-relief stations that would be set up here and there around the Expo, but soon spotted a green disk on a booth almost directly across the lane from the tent. He walked towards it as quickly as his cast iron erection allowed, while attempting to compose himself so as to project some dignity despite his urgent need.

The green-disked booth was as different from the colorful tent as could be: a simple boxlike prefabricated structure, without windows. However the fine wood door and elegant brass ringer suggested a tasteful interior. Mark rang the bell, and the door was opened by a pleasant and well dressed middle-aged man.

"Please come in," he said, and Mark obliged. The inside of the booth was nothing like its exterior, paneled in rich woods, carpeted in green, and soothingly lit by brass fixtures like an old money mens' club. There were two brown leather armchairs facing away from the entry with a small wooden table between, and an elegant cabinet to one side. At the rear of the room a door stood slightly ajar. Bright light spilled from within, along with the sound of running water.

"Have you been to the tent across the lane?" the exhibitor asked.

"Yes, it's quite a show," Mark answered, wondering if his arousal was so obvious.

"I have to get over there myself when I get the chance," said his new host. "They must have something really special in there. Several fellows have practically run over here from the tent this evening. Missy's been a busy girl. She's just inside cleaning up after her last visitor." The host nodded to the inner door and Mark heard a scrubbing sound, which after a moment he recognized as the brushing of teeth.

"She should only be a few minutes - will you wait and hear her story in the meantime?" It would have been rude to bolt at that moment, so despite the protestations of Little Mark that there were many green disks up and down the lane Mark agreed, taking a seat in the right-hand chair.

"Care for a drink?" the host asked as he moved toward the bar, and Mark accepted with thanks. "I hope bourbon is all right. My father made his fortune distilling it, and in his honor that's all I stock."

"Bourbon would be fine, a single on the rocks please."

The host removed from the cabinet a bottle that would be recognized in any bar in the world, and poured two measures into a pair of low tumblers. "There you are."

Sitting down in the other chair, the host said directly: "Missy is my stepmother."

A shadow must have crossed Mark's face, for his host laughed and said: "Don't worry, she was my father's fourth wife, and less than a third his age. She's barely half mine."

As if on cue, the door to the washroom opened and a warm-blooded Barbie entered, clad in white lingerie. She did not make eye contact but took a few mincing steps across the room to sit on a delicate upholstered stool that faced a mirror and vanity opposite the bar. Paying no attention to the two men, she began refreshing her makeup.

The girl was perhaps in her early twenties. Light blonde hair fell straight to below her shoulders, with square bangs framing her face. Before she covered them with dark mascara and heavy rouge, her features could be called "cute," with huge blue eyes, an upturned button nose, and round cheeks. Her lips were full and pouty - probably enhanced, Mark thought, but tastefully so. Her large bosom (32Es, Mark guessed, an impressive size on her small frame) strained to break free from the pushup cups of a lacey white bustier that drew her cleavage up nearly to her throat. A garter belt hugged her hourglass waist, and supported white silk stockings with little pink bows on the garters. The knotted strings of a gauzy white panty hugged her flaring hips, and her shoes were 3" platform pumps in white patent, with 7" heels.

"My father was a brilliant and strong-willed man," the host began as they watched the blonde rouge her cheeks. "But he always had a soft spot for the ladies. This one was working for a caterer when she seduced him, at a charity benefit for orphaned kittens, of all places. Twenty or even ten years ago, he would have seen her for the low class gold-digger she was, took what she offered him and discarded her.  But he had softened somewhat in his age.  She somehow convinced him that they had a bond of true love, because after a brief courtship he married her.  He said she brought back to him the joy and innocence of youth, that he thought he'd lost."

"And he did enjoy himself with her.  He was happy to spoil her with gifts and enjoyed the envious looks men gave him when he walked into a room with her on his arm. She seemed eager to please, and I think in those months played the role of May lover to his December patriarch with gusto." Missy showed no reaction as the host spoke, staring ahead into the mirror with wide eyes as she painted her pouting lips a light shade of red.

"Nine months ago, and after 6 months of marriage, my father suffered a serious stroke. He was in a coma for some weeks, and this thing's..." he nodded scowlingly to Missy, "This thing's true nature emerged. The doctors said there was still some hope, but she must have been tired of waiting for her big payoff and tried to use the money my father had lavished on her to bribe one of his doctors to 'let him die with dignity.'"

"Fortunately the doctor came to me, and we confronted Missy. She was too frightened even to make excuses, and I tell you I could have killed her at that moment. But just then word arrived that my father had awakened."

Having completed her makeup, Missy rose from the vanity and the men watched as she minced back to the center of the room. She faced them but stared straight ahead as she stood with feet together, head tilted slightly to one side. Her arms hung at her sides, but the hands bent back with fingers pointed outwards. She was a perfect, living, slutty doll. Mark's host sipped his drink and resumed speaking.

"Unfortunately, my father never fully recovered. He was much weakened and confined to a wheelchair, and never regained his speech. But he remained vital, and his mind was sound as ever. His wife fled to their summer house and when he was strong enough for the truth, I told my father what she had tried to do. Then, I explained to him the plan I had formed to exact revenge for her attempted murder, while holding her to the promises she'd made to be his lover for life."

Missy continued to stand before them, wide-eyed, still, and silent.

"Our attorney drew up the necessary papers and I confronted Missy again at the summer house. I explained that my father wanted to put the whole incident behind him, and that out of love for his wife would neither press charges nor cast her out, on a few conditions. First, she would have to return all the cash gifts he had bestowed on her, rely on a small allowance for support, and sign contracts forfeiting all rights to my father's property. There were other restrictions also."

"She burst into tears and clutched my knees, telling me how sorry she was." The bourbon-heir's tone now turned bitter and mocking. "She kept repeating how she truly loved my gentle father, who'd been so good to her. She'd only hated to see this strong and proud man, who she loved so, reduced to such a pitiful state as he had been after the stroke. She claimed to be ashamed to have lost hope, and that she'd only done what he'd asked her to do if he were ever terminally incapacitated. As though he would trust her, his foolish young wife of a few months, with such a decision - before me, his own son! But she made a good show of it, and someone who did not know my father as I did might have believed her. Now she was so happy he was recovering, when could she see him?  'Soon enough,' I told her, but first she had to sign the papers."

"She did so quickly, signing away any rights to our family's wealth or corporate interests. But, uneducated slut that she is, she trusted me completely and didn't bother to read the documents. Along with her rights to my father's assets, she gave me power of attorney over herself personally, and furthermore committed herself to my care for various mental and emotional disorders. You see, my profession is clinical psychiatry. By her signatures she made available all the resources of my clinic for assistance with her transformation."

Missy remained motionless before the two men, except for blinks of her long black eyelashes that came at precise 8 second intervals.

Mark wondered briefly whether this simple young creature, who sounded like a natural submissive, could really have hatched the conspiracy with which his host charged her. Perhaps she had been truthful about her intentions. But the heir/psychiatrist seemed sure in his judgment. And it was none of Mark's business anyway.

"Missy's reunion with my father was tearful, she begged for his forgiveness and promised undying love and devotion. He seemed moved briefly, but we had determined to put our planned revenge in motion immediately and I passed her a note I'd drafted before her arrival. It offered forgiveness indeed, and asked that she give him time to recover further before seeing him again. It also asked her to undergo certain cosmetic procedures that she had resisted before his crisis."

"She hesitated, but at last agreed. 'Anything for you, my love, I only want to please you,' I recall she said, kissing his forehead. We had surgical consent forms already prepared, and with some visible reluctance she signed them. This was all before I was acquainted with the Society or the considerable resources of its members, you see. Working within the mainstream medical establishment, these consents were somewhat important." Mark nodded and sipped at his excellent bourbon.

"Before she checked into the clinic I used my legal power of attorney over her to make some changes in the ordered procedures. She went under the anaesthetic expecting to endure one short session, during which she would receive slightly larger breast implants, going from C to D as I recall, permanent removal of her pubic hair, and removal of small bags under her eyes. Instead, she spent almost a week under sedation, during which she was tended to by three different surgeons. When she awoke, she called me to the hospital in a panic. She said....well, let's let Missy speak for herself." He turned to the silent, staring female. "Tell us, Missy, what did you say to me when I got to the hospital?"

The slutty doll closed her big, blue eyes for a moment as she called forth the memory, then opened them again, and moved only her lips as she spoke in a high, dreamy voice: "There's been a mistake. This isn't me. They must have mixed me up with another patient, some stripper or a porn star. I look like a freak. And I think they've done something to my insides. Please find out what happened. Please help me. Where is my husband?"

The psychiatrist turned back to Mark. "Instead of enlarging her implants by one cup size, I'd ordered four. The eye lift operation was taken much further, tightening both her upper and lower lids to create the innocent, deer-in-the-headlights look you see now. Her lips were enhanced, both upper and lower." Mark looked at the tiny white panty and noted the pronounced camel toe. "The permanent hair removal was extended to all her body below the neck, and studs were placed in her tongue. Finally, she received an arthroscopic hysterectomy. No more inconvenient periods, no need for birth control, and a nice flat tummy. All done by a surgeon working with remote instruments through a tube inserted in the vagina, so no external scarring and a short recovery period."

"All fine work, really, though she didn't seem to agree. I consoled her and offered a sedative to help her sleep while I got to the bottom of the situation. But the injection I gave was actually a cocktail of stimulant and hallucinogen. I left her room, telling the hospital staff that she was reacting to severe stress and should rest, but within 10 minutes was called back with reports that she'd gone insane. She was standing on the bed, shouting obscene gibberish and smashing equipment. This time I gave her a real sedative, produced her thoroughly legal commitment papers, and while expressing disappointment at her relapse arranged her transfer to the psychiatric clinic where I'm senior partner."

"The first step in her behavior modification program was a simple surgical procedure: I disconnected those parts of her brain where most of the personality and will reside. It's an old procedure I'd read about in the textbooks, once hailed as a promising treatment for schizophrenia. You've probably heard the old term for it: 'lobotomy.' Brain mapping and surgical techniques are much more evolved now. The work was done with needles so there's no detectable scarring, and I could be far more selective about the parts of the brain affected than could the butchers at the 'Cuckoo's Nest.' The results are still permanent, though."

"Next, we set about erasing and reprogramming what remained of her identity, by a combination of electroshock and chemical treatments, and a strict regimen of sleep deprivation and pain-pleasure conditioning that went on for some months. The new person that finally emerged is the one standing before you." The psychiatrist paused to sip his bourbon. Missy blinked.

"'Missy' wasn't her given name, by the way. 'Little Missy' was a pet name my father used with her in private. I thought it would be appropriate for her new identity.  Unfortunately, my father's condition worsened while his wife was under my care. Late in her treatment I brought her to see him, but he was too weak to enjoy her company. He passed four months ago, shortly before her transformation was completed."

"I'm sorry," Mark offered.

The room was deadly quiet for a moment, then the psychiatrist made a visible effort to brighten his face. "Well, you've been very patient listening to me, I'm sure you'd like to see the new Missy in action."

Missy's re-creator set his glass down on the table and picked up a large remote control studded with many buttons. Mark groaned inside, expecting another video presentation. But when his host pressed two buttons in sequence, the blinking mannequin began a writhing, erotic dance. Turning away from the men, she looked over her shoulder while grinding her hips, and reached behind herself to unclasp her bustier.

"Recall my father was wheelchair-bound, and robbed of speech. I trained his wife to respond via a remote control. Here, take a look." He handed the remote to Mark. It had scores of small buttons, all blue except a red one labeled "STOP." A rocker switch that fell naturally under the right thumb was labeled "FASTER <> SLOWER." Other buttons he noted at first glance included LICK, TICKLE, VAG.FUCK, and ASSFUCK, along with many slang words for anatomical parts male and female. Toggles near the bottom bore such labels as FACE/BACK and SMILE/POUT.

Mark looked up to see Missy still grinding, facing them now as her E-cup tits swung free. As she began to untie her string panty, Mark's host called his attention back to the remote. "The buttons on the upper part are arranged with actions on the left, and action modifiers on the right. I just pressed DANCE, and STRIP, see?" Missy dropped her panty at her feet and lowered herself into a grinding squat, ass-cheeks touching her heels. Her bald, swollen pussy was spread open by the position. She shifted her weight to one leg, and her hands slid down a silk stocking toward a shoe buckle.

"I kind of like the shoes," said Mark.

"OK, press STOP."

At a touch of the button Missy froze in place.

"Now try DANCE and POLE."

Mark obliged, and Missy stepped back to press her butt against a brass pole that extended from floor to ceiling behind where she'd been standing. She grasped the pole with both hands above her head and slid slowly down to a squat, again spreading her pink pussy for Mark and his host. She rose again and began twisting around the pole.

"How does it work, actually?" Mark asked, examining the remote from all angles. "Is there some kind of receiver in her brain?"

"No, that kind of technology is still science fiction. Missy has been conditioned to respond to a set of specific voice commands. A memory chip in the remote holds several dozen WAV files, electronic recordings of my voice issuing those commands. When you press the buttons, the remote transmits the appropriate files to a miniature receiver in her ear, which we developed from a commercial product. She hears the commands and responds. I could actually control her by voice alone, without the remote, but somehow that's not as satisfying. And since your tone and cadence are different from mine, she might not respond properly to your voice."

Mark watched the painted slut dance for a while. She was quite limber, with a large repertoire of sexy moves. "Did you have to program each of those motions individually?"

"Oh, no, that's a beauty of the procedures we employed. While her original identity and will have been permanently destroyed, her memory, motor skills, and learning ability remain intact. When I began with her she was already a skilled cocksucker - I suppose my father taught her how he wanted that done. The dancing and many more skills were taught by viewing continuous loops of selected videos during her sleep deprivation and isolation periods. Press FASTER." Mark did, and the pace of her erotic contortions increased.

"Again." She hung upside down now, her limbs flicking quickly as she clasped the pole with her silk-clad legs and spun about it.


Missy flew up and down and around the pole, spinning like a circus acrobat. Her blonde hair whipped about, her arms flailed and her heavy jugs flopped crazily, while her skin began to glow with perspiration. A knocking sound came from the pole as it bucked in its mounts. Mark throttled her back down slightly.

"Try DANCE, then LAP," his host suggested. Again Mark complied, and Missy approached him aggressively, putting her hands on his shoulders as she bent in front of him and swished her blonde hair over his face so fast that it smarted.

"You might want to slow her down a little more," the shrink advised with a smile. Instead Mark pressed STOP, then REST. Missy immediately retreated two steps, knelt back with heels to buttocks and hands clasped behind her, and stared at Mark's feet. Her big chest rose and fell as she breathed heavily after her frenetic dance, but her mouth was closed and she seemed to be in fine condition.

"Her dancing is wonderful, but this is my first green disk of the Expo, and..."

"Of course!" exclaimed his host. "I'm sorry, you've been so patient, thank you for listening. Missy is yours to command. Just be judicious with the DEEPTHROAT command. When I first tried it I didn't realize how effectively I'd erased her self-preservation instinct, and nearly asphyxiated the poor thing." He sat back and crossed his legs, clearly eager to observe the proceedings.

Mark studied the remote for a moment, switched a toggle from WALK to CRAWL, and pressed STROKE then COCK. From her kneeling position Missy crawled between his knees, undid his trousers and gently unfurled his manhood, fully reawakened by her performance on the pole after having softened during the psychiatrist's long medical dissertation. She took the rigid member in her fist and drooled a wad of saliva on it, working the natural lube up and down its length.

Mark pressed STROKE > BALLS. Continuing to stroke her right hand up and down his cock, her wide eyes focused intently on his reddening glans, she reached into his trousers with her left hand and cupped his balls. Gently she rolled them back and forth across her fingers.

FASTER. The speed of both motions increased.

FASTER. Missy was really pumping now, and dropped another load of lubricating drool over Mark's rock-hard cock. The sensation was fantastic, but after a minute or two he sensed a premature buildup of pressure and clicked SLOWER three times. Now the right hand moved softly and lovingly up and down his manhood, while the left barely shifted the weight of his balls back and forth. The pressure eased slightly, and while she continued slowly stroking he examined the remote.

TITRUB > COCK. Missy immediately dropped her face to his groin and took his dick into her mouth. Mark turned to his host. A malfunction?

"Don't worry," said the shrink, reading his mind. "She's just getting you good and wet." Sure enough, after a few sloppy lipstrokes she leaned back and cupped her hands under her round tits. Leaning forward she snatched his dripping cock up between them, then pushed down on her knees and began to ride with her entire body while Little Mark's head popped cheerfully in and out of view, deep in her cleavage.

FASTER. FASTER. Her ride increased to a gallop.

FASTER. Unable to move her entire body any faster, the programmed slut stopped that motion and began using her hands to rub her tits quickly up and down the length of Mark's shaft. She pulled her chin in to drool more saliva into her cleavage, greasing the fleshy piston.

Mark allowed the turbocharged titfuck to continue for some time, while Missy automatically rewetted the area of contact at intervals. Soon he felt the pressure building again. Mark was a skilled and disciplined cocksman when motivated, but there was no reason to hold back here, and he let the girl raise him near the point of release.

When he felt the first quivers in his balls he pressed SUCK > COCK. Missy dropped her tits with a flop and inhaled him. Mark had not slowed her, so she plunged her rewired head up and down along the length of his straining purple dick with almost frightening vigor.  Mark groped for DPTHROT, but he was beginning to loose control - as his body tightened his thumb fell instead on STOP.

Missy froze, her full red lips clamped tightly halfway down his cock, and the first explosive surge of cum puffed out her cheeks and blasted out both nostrils. At that sight Mark threw his head back and let himself go completely. The relief was so great that his vision briefly darkened.

Slowly he came back to life.

"I see you really did need that. Sorry again to keep you waiting."

Mark's balls were still twitching as he raised his head and looked down at the remote-controlled cockslut. She still kneeled in position, her lips grasping his only slightly softened member, with streams of his cum dribbling from her nose to her chin and from there dripping to pool on the floor.

"Sloppy girl, isn't she?" he joked, still mildly euphoric.

Missy's programmer corrected him. "Actually she's quite competent. You failed to set SWALLOW."

Mark squinted at the remote and sure enough there it was, on a toggle beside SPIT. Now he flipped the switch, and without moving the blonde cum-bucket gulped down what semen remained in her mouth.

"It's a bit much to keep track of in the heat of the moment."

The psychiatrist smiled again. "That's why we incorporated a programmable feature into the remote. You can preset desired routines and set the remote down while Missy goes to work. But that's a bit complicated for a first session."

Mark made no argument. He pressed CLEAN > COCK and Missy pulled her mouth off of him with a pop and began sliding her studded pink tongue up and down the sides of his prick, lapping up the wasted sperm. When she was done he pressed REST. She crawled backwards two paces and returned to the submissive kneeling pose. Her tarty makeup was badly smeared, and Mark's thinning jism still coated the bottom half of her face and dripped into her cleavage. As she exhaled a small cum-bubble grew below her nostril, and popped.

"If you like you can order CLEAN > SELF, and she will go powder her nose."

"I think she's beautiful just like that," Mark said as he tucked away his now comfortably chubby dick. "If you're still pouring, let's drink to your remarkable work, and to your father's spirit. Then, maybe you could show me how to program this thing."









The Exhibition of Modified Women, Pt 3 - "Amber"

by Benfan



The exhibitor gladly poured two more bourbons over fresh ice and the men shared a friendly toast.

"I agree Missy makes quite a sight with your addition to her makeup," the psychiatrist said, as he watched Mark's seed ooze down the face of the adorable zombie. "But I prefer to keep the room tidy." He took a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.  "Yes, I need cleanup again in 6-Charlie. No, just the carpet this time. A small area, one cleaner should be fine. OK, thanks."  He closed the phone. "Should just be a few minutes."

"So tell me," Mark asked, looking at Missy's remote. "How do you program an extended routine? You can demonstrate yourself, of course. You've been very hospitable but I don't want to monopolize your little toy!"

"Actually, aside from what was necessary during her training, I don't make use of Missy myself. She was remade to suit my father's tastes, not mine. And, call me old fashioned but I still think of her as my father's wife."

"Well if that's the case," Mark answered, "I'm very impressed with her and wonder if you might consider a trade, or perhaps an outright purchase."

"Thank you, that's a real compliment, but I think I'll keep her. I do enjoy very much watching Missy perform for strangers, which is why I was glad to have the opportunity to bring her to the Expo. She gets plenty of exercise, too: at home she spends several nights a week at the glory holes of the local S&M clubs. I stand at a discrete distance, using the remote, and the patrons all believe she's a consensual submissive. She's become quite popular. For my own needs, I've begun to apply the lessons learned in Missy's transformation to my ex-wife Amber."

"Really? Did you bring her along as well?"

"No, I'm attempting a different and in some ways more ambitious behavior modification program for Amber, and she's at a delicate stage. It might set her training back to leave the clinic at this point. Right now she's resting - uncomfortably - in a sensory deprivation tank, viewing some educational videos and undergoing automated pain/pleasure conditioning. I have some images, though." The shrink set down his bourbon and removed a tablet PC from the bar cabinet, placing it on the top counter.

At that moment there was a chime at the door and Missy's trainer moved to open it. At first it appeared to Mark, as he looked toward the door over one of the high backed leather chairs, that no one was there. But then he heard a thump-thump-thump and in a moment the carpet cleaner scurried past his feet, sniffing and seeking for filth.

Covered in black latex except for eyes, nostrils, mouth and hanging tits, she moved on all fours. To say "hands and knees" would be incorrect, since her limbs had been amputated at elbow and knee. The ends of her truncated appendages were covered by padded rubber caps, which made the thumping sound as she moved purposefully about. A toaster-sized mechanical unit was strapped to the small of her back, with a ribbed hose extending from it and down between her butt cheeks where it disappeared into her rectum. Her mouth was propped open in an "O" and a ring of white bristles protruded from it, extending just past her red lips.

In a moment the efficient cleaner located the small slick of jism, and lowered her mouth to it. An LED lit up on the power unit and the woosh! of a vacuum was heard, as most of the little puddle was sucked down the cleaner's throat. She advanced a few inches and splayed her half-arms, flattening her full bosom over the spill. Pumping her tits up and down on the carpet, she squirted a cleaning solution from her nipples onto the stain. Moving back again, she lowered her face and this time two LEDs lit up, as the vacuum action was joined by the spinning of the mouth-brush. She repeated the squirt-and-suck routine twice before the cleanup was complete. As she scurried toward the door again, Mark noticed that her latex covered tummy hung a bit lower than it had when she'd entered.

Closing the door behind the carpet cleaner, the shrink returned to the small bar and the tablet PC. "Let's have a look at Amber, then....that is, of course, if you're interested?"

"Very much so!"

"Good... We'd been divorced for 4 years before my father's stroke, and she had moved out of the country, but it was easy enough to find her by following my money. She'd set up house down on the Mexican Riviera, which actually worked out well for me since the disappearance of single women doesn't attract as much attention down there as in the States. She'd expatriated as a First Class passenger, but returned home as cargo. After reacquainting myself with her, I began her makeover by sending her to the clinic of a doctor I'd met through the Society."

"How did you become aware of the Society, then?" Mark asked, suspecting the answer.

"Ah. Well, shortly after Missy's surgeries, I was visited by the doctor who had performed most of her cosmetic procedures. He asked if Missy was pleased with the results, then whether I was. He was friendly but his questions were probing. When he said he had some questions about the consent forms, I feared the jig was up - he must realize that Missy had been an unwilling patient and might have come to turn me over to the law, or more likely attempt to blackmail me. My thoughts turned to the gun I keep in my desk, as I kept deflecting his questions. To my surprise when his interview ended he invited me to a party, at a secluded private estate. As a member yourself I think you know the kind of party I'm talking about." Mark nodded, smiling.

"After proving my character in front of many witnesses there, I was invited some weeks later to interview for Society membership. Within a few weeks, even as I was planning Amber's return, I made the acquaintance of several experts who could help me with her transformation. I learned that cosmetic surgeons are well represented among Society members. In exchange for their contributions to my projects current and future, I'm using my own expertise to help them with some of their more incorrigible training problems. A fine arrangement, I think."

"Undoubtedly. So, what did you plan for Amber?"

"Well, my plans changed when I learned what was possible through the Society. The cosmetic procedures sanctioned by the medical establishment only scratch the surface of what's possible with modern surgical techniques. I had originally envisioned an outcome not too different from Missy's, but with the resources now available decided to indulge more outrageous fantasies I'd kept secret for many years, believing I was the only man who entertained them."

He tapped a key on the tablet and the slideshow began. Mark bent slightly to the smallish screen. The first image was of a mature but attractive brunette, strapped naked to an unusual, unpadded hospital gurney that had been turned on end to present her for the picture. Her figure was on the meaty side, but still shapely and firm, especially for one who appeared to be in her mid 40s. Clearly, Amber had kept herself up with diet and exercise. Her hips were wide, and her breasts remarkable: full and heavy but very firm and shapely for a woman of her maturity. Her dark shouder length hair was disheveled but rich and thick. Her brown eyes looked wild, and her mouth was open in loud complaint.

"That's a 'before' shot, I take it?"

"Right. The next one is after the first superficial procedures." He tapped the key, and the next image showed his ex-wife in a similar pose, but now she was bald, both above and below. The eyes and brow were furrowed with pain, the mouth still wide open but plugged now by a red ball gag that was strapped tightly across her cheeks. The previously shapely tits were now larger, angry red, and stood out from her chest like inflated balls.

"Amber was always vain about her big, fine tits. As a young women she wore the tight sweaters, as my wife she loved to dress provocatively and flirt with strangers when we went out on the town. Throughout our marriage she slept in a bra to maintain her shape, and while she liked having me suckle her she often complained about being squeezed or pulled. I think fear of losing her figure was one of the reasons she always refused to have children."

"I decided to take advantage of that vanity to help break her will. This was the first step in the breast modification process, as managed by an experienced Society doctor: injection of a little more than 1000cc of a saline/glycerine solution into each breast, to stretch the skin. The saline is slowly absorbed by the body, but after each set of injections the tissues are a little softer, the skin a little looser. We repeated the procedure several times, eventually working up to 3000cc in each breast." The third image showed a somewhat slimmer Amber, no doubt on dietary restrictions. Now her tits were pink, elongated, and drooped almost to her navel.

"Next she was strapped into a tit stretching harness originally developed by the Farrell clinic. At this time we also began her oral modifications." Image 4 showed the helpless Amber strapped into a tight corset that extended from shoulder to groin. Her stretched tits projected through two round holes located at the proper height for breasts, but were then flattened by a series of tight straps that descended the corset's front, until finally bulging out at navel level. The strangled orbs at the bottom of this ladder of pain glowed red. Her mouth was still wide open, but no gag or strap was evident. The lips looked slightly puffy, and her head slumped.

"The behavior modifications don't show up in these stills as well as the physical ones, but throughout this process I had also been working diligently on her conditioning. While I was very happy with the remote control system developed for Missy and am employing that for Amber as well, I'd decided to forego the lobotomy for my ex-wife. I'm attempting to train her to the remote while leaving enough of her personality intact to be recognizable, and enough awareness for her to understand what's happening to her. Her training has been more of a challenge than Missy's was, but we're making good progress. Of course this conditioning is highly experimental, and with her brain intact I'll never be able to trust Amber as completely as I do Missy. So the extensive oral mods you see are necessary, for safety."

A close up of the patient's face, held up by blunt hooks in the nostrils, revealed the oral changes. A shiny steel ring behind her teeth held Amber's mouth at full gape, and was held in place by steel pins fitted into the sockets where four of her teeth had been. All of her teeth had been pulled, and the lips which had appeared puffy in the previous image were now clearly swollen. The next image showed Amber's torso, with the balls of her stretched tits now strapped down to her hip line.

"Lack of trust also indicated further modifications. The next step I think contributed as much to breaking her spirit as did the tit-stretching." This set of images showed the hairless Amber with even fuller, now comically inflated lips, and red tit-balls the size of honeydew melons framing her bald pussy. Her shoulders were wrapped in bandages, and a pair of pale, bloody arms lay on the floor before her gurney. Her eyes which till now had harbored a mix of pain, fear, and anger now gave way to teary despair.

"Here's the most recent set." The bandages were gone, and faint pink scars marked where Amber's arms once had hung. Beneath heavy lids and dark lashes, her brown eyes looked dead as they peered out over a glossy red donut that projected where her mouth had been. Her lips had been pumped so full that they covered the lower part of her face nearly from nose to chin. Her strapped-down tits were volleyball sized, the erect nipples now pointing down below her hairless pussy.

A close up of her throat showed a coin-sized disk of bright steel mesh, like a small locket but without chain or strap to hold it in place. "Having nearly strangled the passive Missy during a deep-throating session, I tested several solutions to the problem of respiration for the oral slave. That small grille protects a micropore air filter implanted in Amber's larynx, which allows her to breathe while her throat massages my penis for periods of several minutes. The modification renders her mute, as well - though her mouth is not much use in forming words anymore, anyway."

High on the disfigured woman's chest an ornament hung on a chain round her neck: a tiny antique bottle carved from natural amber. "That's a nice touch," Mark observed, "more poetic than a simple name badge or tattoo. What's that inside the bottle? One of those fossilized bugs?"

"That," the ex-husband replied with a satisfied grin, "is Amber's clitoris."










The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 4 - Carry-on Companion

by Benfan


Down the row of exhibits a bit from the private and richly furnished chamber of Missy and Amber's master was a different kind of booth. A simple folding canopy supported plastic walls on three sides, defining a twelve by twelve foot space that was sparsely furnished. A folding chair sat unoccupied in the rear, behind a little table. On one side of the temporary room was a cabinet and sink, near the other a pair of floor mounted brackets supported a horizontal metal bar about six feet off the ground. Despite the spartan furnishings a number of people were listening to the presentation of the casually dressed, heavyset man under the canopy. Noting green and golden disks on one of the canopy supports, Mark moved closer to have a look.

" got so that I hated to travel," the man was saying, "anywhere I didn't know I could find a reliable Society member to share his hospitality. Since my business investigating exotic plant cures involves travelling to remote areas, this wasn't always an option - so I was lucky to come across the exciting new drug that made my new travel companion possible."

He stepped to the cabinet and, opening a door, dragged out a small rolling suitcase. It might have been just small enough to qualify as carry-on baggage, at times when airline security was not at its highest. Extending the telescoping handle he rolled the case - which was apparently fairly heavy - to the center of the room and spun it to face his small audience.

"Now I warn you, gentleman, when she's in her traveling state most of you probably won't find my playmate very attractive. But please, stick around for the entire demonstration before passing judgment. There are some snacks and drinks on the table over there."

Unzipping the front of the small case he revealed a tangle of tanned, twisted human limbs from behind which wide, dark eyes stared out of the shadows. The man reached down and grasped an ankle, so delicate that it seemed lost in his beefy grip, and slowly drew out a frighteningly skinny leg. He repeated the motion for the other, then unfolded a pair of spindly arms leaving the girl's tiny hands laying palms-up on her thighs. The limbs appeared stiff and projected awkwardly, and were so thin that Mark guessed he could close his thumb and forefinger around the widest part of the thigh.

Mark could see that the torso and head of the unmoving figure still inside the small case could barely squeeze into the space allotted them. To fit within the long dimension of the case the girl's spine was flexed severely with the pelvis bent forward, displaying a brazilian-waxed pussy and plugged anus. The dark-haired head was pushed up against a thin pad in the top of the little compartment.

"I need to take my time unpacking her, since the muscles tend to stiffen up." The exhibitor stepped back and spoke while the spidery limbs slowly relaxed and let the floor take their weight.

"Getting a fully functional, adult female down to carry-on size was the main goal of this project, and the main challenge. I thought about amputation as a short cut, but I do prefer complete females. And dwarves, well, I was glad to find a better solution."

"I did some homework and figured that it should be possible to flex the torso of a small-framed woman of 4-foot, 8-inch height to meet the maximum allowable length for carry-on luggage. Finding a suitable subject was no trouble, since my work often brings me into contact with foreign cultures that will still sell you their excess females for a fair price, no questions asked. On my first trip overseas after cooking up this idea I was able to find a perfect subject, courtesy of one of my usual contacts in the Southeast Asian hill country. May is a little thing but she was fully grown when I bought her - her tribe is typically small in stature. And by now she should be ready to come out and play!"

Bending, he reached in and placed one hand under each of the tiny woman's armpits and tipped her forward and out of the case. He lifted the wispy, naked form easily and carried it to the horizontal bar. Each of the delicate wrists bore a small padded cuff which he clipped to the bar, suspending her.

At first her spine remained hunched, with the pelvis projecting forward so that her feet didn't touch the ground. But slowly she was straightened by gravity, the spine and legs relaxing until her toes touched the floor. When they did she adjusted her stance slightly, taking some weight off her wrists. Other than infrequent eyeblinks this was the first sign of life she had displayed.

The exhibitor shared some stories of past acquisitions and projects, stalling for time while his current offering unfolded herself. As he had been warned, Mark found her remarkably unattractive. The long dark hair and big, brown eyes were fine, but she appeared emaciated to the point of starvation. Her face was gaunt, and light brown skin hung loosely over sharp bones that poked out everywhere.  Her breasts dangled like loose, empty sacs almost to the bottom of her rib cage.

"I can tell by your faces that most of you share my taste in female figures - May's not very sexy, is she? Well, now, here's the real trick." The bulky exhibitor returned to the suitcase and unzipped an external pocket, drawing from it a small case filled with an assortment of plastic tubes and gadgets. He hung a collapsible bucket from the rod between the hanging girl's wrists, and clipped to its bottom a plastic tube that led to a tapered plug. The plug fit between the girl's plump lips - the only feature she had that looked soft and feminine - which clasped it firmly.

Stepping to the sink the exhibitor filled a small plastic pitcher with water, which he dumped into the suspended bucket. The water drained down the tube and into the girl's mouth, and her hollow cheeks pulsed as she sucked greedily at the prod.

"The drug regimen May's been on was developed by my company, in hopes of creating a new 'miracle weight-loss' drug. Big money in that, you know. Unfortunately it has some serious side effects, in fact so nasty that the R&D boys didn't just discontinue working on it, they destroyed all of their records related to it. Something about a clinical trial gone wrong, I heard. But luckily a colleague at the company who shares my tastes in women - and who has made other contributions to the Society in the past - saved the key formulas and a small supply of the experimental drug itself."

"The drug targets fat cells for dehydration, drawing water out and into the bloodstream where it's eliminated in the usual way. May's been given doses significantly above what was planned for normal weight-loss patients, and all the fat cells in her body have been completely dehydrated. Not just the large pockets of fat under the skin that we usually think of as "body fat," but all her fat cells - including those hidden in her muscles and organs. You saw how easy it was for me to carry her just now - in her dehydrated travel state she only weighs a little over 50 pounds, so the case with her in it comes in under the weight limit for international checked baggage. And all you need to reconstitute her is a good supply of clean drinking water.  This whole kit was designed for travel, and to work in a typical hotel room. This suspension bar is the same height as most hotel closet bars."

The girl slurped the last drop of water from the suspended bucket. Mark looked at her closely while the exhibitor returned to the sink and refilled the bucket - except for a slight distension in her tummy he saw no change, no filling out or easing of her extreme gauntness.

"Oral watering works fine, but takes a couple of hours for full effect. To speed the process we can hit her from both ends - the colon has a lot more surface area than the stomach and is much more efficient at absorbing water." The exhibitor rigged up a second line from the bucket, and reached behind the girl's narrow hips to insert it into her anus.

"May's plugged for travel, for obvious reasons, and the plug has a one-way valve so she's ready for this fitting as soon as she comes out of the case." He twisted a knob on the union of the two lines, and the bucket began draining quickly. In just a few seconds it was ready for refilling again.

The exhibitor refilled the bucket several more times, while providing more details on May's care and maintenance and telling stories of his adventures in the jungle. When a few minutes had gone by and after helping himself to coffee and a cookie at the exhibitor's snack table, Mark saw that the tiny female body was responding to its liberal "watering." Her hips were beginning to fill out and hide the projecting bones, and the dangling breasts had begun to swell. As she plumped she stirred more often, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and flexing her neck as her muscles regained their flexibility. After a few more minutes - it was lucky the exhibitor was a good storyteller - she started to resemble a healthy, attractive girl. And a few minutes after that, she was a petite, exotic beauty.

Her wrists, which at first had rattled loosely within the suspending cuffs, now filled them snugly. May's face, which had been sunken and bony, was now youthful and pretty, though the full lips were unchanged - Mark guessed they had been artificially plumped. The spidery legs had taken on a feminine shape, though still quite slim. The girl's torso was naturally slight - her waist remained less than twenty inches around - but now looked healthy and adequately fed, a huge improvement over the bag of bones that had emerged from the little case twenty or thirty minutes before. Her taut little butt had filled out nicely, while the flaccid, tubular breasts had blossomed into lovely pears that stood firm and proud on her chest, their D-cup volume appearing much larger in proportion to her tiny frame.

Finishing one last tale of lurid tropical exploits, the exhibitor made a gesture of presentation toward his exhibit. The little crowd applauded briefly, offering comments like "Outstanding!" and "Remarkable!"

"Thank you, thank you gentlemen. And when it's time for me to pack up and move on, one prick of a needle and within six hours May's nicely compacted again. I just have to remember to give her the catheter, if I want to avoid a mess." He smiled, holding up a delicate plastic nozzle. "All that water has to go somewhere."

"Now let's get her down so she can show how eager she is to please..." He disconnected the hose from May's butt plug - which he explained must remain in place until she'd been given a chance to void - then uncuffed each wrist in turn. The rehydrated concubine staggered slightly when her arms dropped, and continued to stare blankly ahead as her master drew the oral watering prod from her mouth with a pop.

"Besides the drug treatments, and the lipo fat redistribution we used to grow those tits, May's been learning some English. Knees, May."

After a pause the girl dropped wordlessly to her haunches. The exhibitor stepped close to her with his hands on his hips.

"Give me a hand job, May."

Again she was slow to react, but after a few seconds turned her pretty face to his trouser front and raised her hands to his zipper. Methodically she opened it and slipped her tiny hands inside to unfurl his half-erect manhood. Her wide brown eyes stared, barely blinking, at the reddening glans while she gently stroked up and down his rod.

"She seems a little dazed," the guest next to Mark observed. "Is that a side effect?"

"Yes," the exhibitor replied while the little doll continued her massage. "Apparently taking all the fat cells out of the body's metabolic loop deprives the brain of a steady supply of energy, and leads to minor brain damage. May's vital functions are fine, and she has enough mind left to respond to commands, but she's quite a bit duller than she was when we first started working together. This side effect is irreversible and apparently unavoidable - in fact it's probably why my company dropped the drug from development, though you won't get a straight answer from the R&D guys. Suck me now, May."

The dark-haired pixie spread her full lips, rocked up onto her knees and took him in her mouth. Her hands reached up to grasp the backs of his thighs while she began bobbing slowly back and forth, and a hum rose and fell in her throat.

"Looks like she's got all the brain she needs," the questioner opined, earning some chuckles from the small group.

"Heh, yes I suppose. She's a well-trained fuck, too - tight little thing - but I don't want to bore you with my personal favorite positions." The exhibitor stepped back, drawing his prick out of the girl's mouth. Her wide brown eyes followed him across the room, and a tiny string of drool descended from her half open pout as he zipped up and addressed his potential customers.  "On the other hand, anyone who cares to test her skills is welcome."

Two men stepped forward eagerly, and after poking and probing at her soft parts began negotiating who would be first to sample the girl's wares.  The matter was settled when they realized they could go at the same time. While one unzipped his trousers and slipped his dick into May's accommodating mouth the other lifted her easily by the hips - even when rehydrated the tiny beauty couldn't have weighed ninety pounds - and pressed his cock into her slick pussy from behind.  As they pushed the doll-like figure back and forth between them, her toes high off the ground, the exhibitor looked on with the eye of an experienced salesman deciding who might be a serious customer.  After a moment he turned again to address his audience.

"Well gentlemen, I'm happy to offer this treatment to members of the Society. Those with the appropriate medical skills to administer it can purchase the drug itself. Or, I can work with my contacts in the global market for females to provide treated and fully trained specimens, to your specifications. As you see I used this drug treatment to create a more portable playmate. The prescription can also be used at lower doses for its intended purpose - taking a little extra weight off your girls - as long as you don't mind the accompanying loss of intelligence. And I'm sure you can think of more exotic applications for it, too! My partner and I would be happy to work with you to make those ideas reality - for just a small percentage over cost."

















The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 5 - Smoking Section

by Benfan



For probably the ten thousandth time Yelena sighed ruefully, realizing that she'd gotten exactly what she'd asked for.

A gangly, flat chested and homely girl from a farm outside Minsk, she'd never had much hope that she might catch the eye of some Prince Charming in a white Mercedes who would whisk her away to a life of luxury. She knew that if she wanted to escape the drudgery that seemed to be her destiny, she'd have to make her own way. So one day she'd braided up her lank brown hair and made the long walk into town to see a man who advertised for girls seeking work as domestics in the West. Her parents had warned - and she'd heard rumors herself - that he was a gangster who picked out the better looking girls for consignment to the sex trade. But Yelena expected that her homeliness would protect her. She was sure that if he - or any man - did want to hire her, it would be for cleaning and washing and little more.

Her knees knocked a little as the well dressed, slick haired man welcomed her into his office with a gold-studded grin. She felt uncomfortable when after a few perfunctory questions he looked her up and down searchingly, then asked her to turn around so he could see her from the back. She shivered when he asked her to lift her skirt to the thigh so that he could see her long, slim legs. His eyes were dark and cold, and she believed suddenly that the rumors might be true - that he was looking for prostitutes, not maids. For a moment Yelena hoped that after the humiliating inspection he would say she was unsuitable.

But a young girl's dreams don't die so easily.

"I know I'm not the prettiest girl," she'd said, biting her lip, "but I work hard. I'll never be a movie star but maybe I can clean the house of a rich old lady. Don't you have some job where I can work hard and no one cares about my face?"

To her surprise when the man completed his examination he'd clapped his hands and smiled.

"I have just the job for you. In America!" he'd said. She'd clapped too and even done a little hop, thrilled as she was at her good fortune...

Now, two years later - of which the first several months had been filled with demanding training and a terrifying journey, packed together with dozens of other young women in a dark, nearly airless cargo container, like sardines in a can - Yelena busied herself about the job she'd begged for.

Bent double at the hips, she stared down at concrete pavement directly below her face. A tall, stiff collar that projected well under her chin forced her neck back, so that she always faced straight down toward the floor. Her homely face was hidden by a rubber mask that protected her eyes and lungs from the dust and ash that she was constantly stirring up, inches below her nose.

Yelena's extreme, jacknifed posture was enforced by a cylindrical sheath of stiff black leather that bound her thighs tightly to her torso. Above the sheath her wide, white buttocks were naked to the air, and to the touch of many hands that swatted or groped her as she went blindly about her business.

Blindly, because where the sheath ended at the level of her knees and armpits a wide conical skirt blossomed. Made of translucent white fabric and draped on the outside with tiers of fluffy white taffeta, the skirt hid her calves, arms, and shaved head. The wire hoop that gave the skirt its conical shape scraped along within an inch or two of the ground. The delicate fabric allowed enough light to pass through to illuminate Yelena's work area, but her vision was limited to a three foot wide circle of floor.

Under the fluffy skirt Yelena's arms were covered in long latex mittens, her elbows cuffed and linked to her boot tops by short chains that prevented her from reaching the hem of the skirt while still allowing her enough range of motion to do her duties. The tall, stiff boots featured towering heels that forced her feet nearly into a ballet position. Learning to move about in the extreme heels, while bent completely double and hobbled by the tight leather sheath, had taken up several weeks of the girl's training. But with the frequent encouragement of a stiff crop across her bare bottom she'd mastered it at last, and now fairly glided about with quick tiny steps a few inches long.

Yelena's mittened hands were bound by rubber straps to the tools of her trade: a small hand broom and dustpan. The latter featured a hollow handle that served to hold the dirt and bits of trash she swept up as she glided too and fro across the concrete floor of....wherever it was this time that her handlers had unloaded her and set her to work.


Stepping out of a booth, Mark almost bumped into the upturned bottom of one of the faceless sweepers that kept the exhibition floor tidy. He watched for a moment as it glided surreally down the lane. The naked, disembodied buttocks appeared to erupt magically from a shiny black cylinder that in turn rose out of a ground-hugging cloud of gauze. Whenever the white cloud passed over a cigarette butt or scrap of paper, it would stop and move quickly to center itself over the rubbish. There'd be a brief ruffling of taffeta - caused, Mark imagined, by the busy action of hidden hands - before the apparition glided off again in a slightly different direction. Whenever it encountered the tape line that marked the edge of the lane, or some other obstacle, the upturned, anonymous ass would back up slightly and spin about, then set off again on some random course.

The spectacle reminded Mark of a toy car he'd had as a boy, which would run blindly into walls and furniture only to back up, turn, and motor off again with equal enthusiasm. This programmed object was slightly more sophisticated in that it could also be commanded to change direction by a slap to either butt-cheek. As Mark watched several Expo-goers walking in the lane demonstrated this feature with smacks that varied from a light pat to a full-armed spank, sending the sweeper spinning this way and that. Not because there was any trash waiting wherever they directed it - in fact and thanks to the sweepers' tireless efforts, the lane was close to spotless - but simply because the men, like Mark himself, enjoyed the sight of a creamy round buttock set a-quiver by a firm hand.


Most of the exhibits at the Exposition used sight or sound to draw attention to their displays, but the next booth caught Mark by the nose. As he watched the busy sweeper scuttling zig-zag down the lane, a warm, sweet, exotic scent filled his nostrils, and he turned his head until he could guess from where it came. A few steps down the row of booths he came upon a colorful tent. Hanging curtains concealed whatever was within, but the odor was stronger here. As he touched the heavy fabric Mark noted the style was quite different from the Persian tent he'd visited earlier. This one was decorated with stripes instead of floral patterns, and the colors were deep and earthy, more masculine to Mark's eye than the bold pinks and purples which had surrounded the full-bodied Persian beauty who'd held him spellbound earlier.

Pushing aside the flap that served as the tent's door released a waft of flavorful smoke, confirming this was the source of the scent that had gotten Mark's attention. At first he could see little, as only a hint of the bright overhead lights of the exposition filtered through the thick canvas. Most of the light within came from a trio of tall candle stands, one located along each of the tent walls. Mark could just make out small groups of people inside, some standing and others sitting in small groups on the floor.

Seeing him in the entryway a tall man approached, dark, exotically dressed, and beckoning with a smile.

"Come in, sir, come in. You are most welcome." Curious, Mark obliged. A step forward placed his feet on the huge patterned rug that covered the tent's floor. Reaching behind him the tall exhibitor helped the tent flap to close, darkening the space within once more. As his pupils dilated Mark saw that several of the figures inside had turned to regard him, some still squinting against the intrusion of fluorescent light.

"What can I interest you in, Sir? We have many fine tobaccos and other smokes as well, all for the asking."

"Is it all right if I just look around for a moment?"

"Certainly, sir! My name is Salam. I am at your service, and my tent is yours. I hope you find its poor accoutrements appealing. I will attend to some of my other guests, and if you require a smoke or anything else just speak my name. I will not be far."

"Thank you very much," Mark answered, and the tall man made a little bow and moved off. Despite his host's hospitality Mark hesitated to intrude on one of the small groups, and moved instead to investigate the nearest of the candle stands.

As he approached he saw that it was in the form of a shapely standing woman, wide-hipped and narrow-waisted with full, pear-shaped breasts. The statue was nude except for two small panels of real silk, which veiled its lower face and pubic area. The curvaceous brown figure was collared and braceleted in brass that was darkened by age; more bands of the dark gold metal bound its waist, biceps, and forehead. Each of the bands was adorned with complex engravings and beads of colored glass, which passed for jewels in the dim light. The statue's nipples were represented by ornate golden disks, between which a chain was slung. Chains were slung also between the various bands, and many short segments dangled here and there, suspending a constellation of cut glass beads that caught and reflected the light of the candles that the statue supported. The candles were large, heavy cylinders, three in number: one on a plate secured with brass bands to the top of the figure's head, and two more in its palms which it held upturned at shoulder height, arms bent at the elbow.

Attracted by its bright, shiny eyes, Mark leaned closer to see what the statue itself was made of. Painted wood, he guessed - at life size bronze would have been too heavy. The eyes must be glass, they were so lifelike - they even blinked.

So intent was he on the artistry of whoever had created the figure that it took Mark a moment to understand that it was actually alive. He smiled again, broadly now at himself for having been fooled despite his long experience in the creative restraint of women. Stepping to the side to look behind the candle stand, and brushing aside the long dark tresses that hung behind it, he saw that the many bangles and bands were joined behind the shapely limbs to a framework of sturdy cast iron. What from the front appeared to be heavy antique ornament was in fact a cunning and rigid system of restraints. Looking up and down Mark saw that it extended from rings that encircled each of its prisoner's fingers all the way down to the wide, heavy stand on the floor, with bands at knee, ankle, and even rings around the big toes. The stand held the young woman locked within at tiptoe, presenting her long, sensuously curved legs and delicate feet to best advantage.

Stepping to the front of the figure again, Mark glanced left and right before briefly lifting the upper veil. The restrained girl's lips were parted by a hinged brank that clamped her tongue; metal arms that had been hidden by the veil curved back under her ears and joined the framework behind her head. He let the veil fall again, and saw the dark eyes had widened at his boldness in peeking under the veil. But the brank prevented any hint of an audible alarm.

Mark next walked the perimeter of the tent, inspecting the other candle stands. They were like the first: though each of the women bound within was different in face or details of figure, their overall measurements and body types were very similar. They seemed to have been chosen to fit the candle stands, rather than the latter adjusted to accommodate their occupants. Examining the third stand closely Mark guessed that his initial judgement had been correct, and that the patina of age that darkened the brass was authentic. He wondered how old these antiques might be, and how many young women had felt their grip over the many years since unknown masters had crafted them.

Impressed with the quality of Salam's exhibit Mark turned to see what held the attention of the several small groups that huddled here and there in the interior of the dim tent. Nearest him were a pair of gentlemen who stood with a female figure between them. One of the men nodded to Mark as he approached, and offered the brass tipped end of a slim hose. Mark replied with a smile and shake of the head: "No, thank you."

The other end of the hose was connected to a large bottle-like object that the nude female held before her. The bottle was fashioned from many pieces of colored glass, all bound with brass and studded here and there with semiprecious stones. The wide round belly of the bottle rested against the girl's tummy, hiding her privates in shadow while her hands supported it from beneath, as a very pregnant woman might cradle her heavy womb.

The upper part of the bottle tapered to a cone that disappeared into the bottom of the girl's cleavage. Her large breasts were clamped by a sculpted brass device that functioned like a shelf bra, leaving her puffy brown nipples exposed while pushing the twin latte colored mounds upwards and together, trapping the neck of the bottle between them. From her cleavage the bottle's stopper emerged, in the form of a flower fashioned of ancient pewter. At its center was a little bowl, the size of a tablespoon perhaps, where a lump of brown tobacco smoldered.

While Mark watched the man who had offered to share a smoke raised the nozzle to his own lips and took a long drag. Water bubbled within the bottle as the burning weed glowed orange. When the bubbling stopped, streams of fresh smoke rose from the flower-bowl to curl about the beautiful face of she who held the houka in her hands. More than a mere caddy, the girl was virtually part of the elaborate water pipe. Beneath her tiptoed feet another heavy-legged metal stand was visible, and Mark could see that as with the prisoners of the candle stands this beauty was bound to her task by many bands of age-stained metal that encircled every limb.

Her exotic, un-veiled face intrigued him. Between gaudy multi-tiered earrings, under dark lined eyes and painted cheeks, her burgundy lips were drawn into a wide, mysterious smile. The lower lip was pierced in the center and adorned with a golden ring; more gold glinted at the corners of her mouth.

"Do you mind?" Mark asked the men, pointing to her lips. They indicated that they did not, and carefully Mark slipped two fingers between the soft lips, then peeled them back. The glint of gold confirmed his suspicions: the girl's jaws were clamped shut from within by a hidden device, the presence of which was revealed by the golden bands that gripped several of her bright white teeth. Blunt-ended hooks of golden wire curled around her back teeth and out to the corners of her mouth, where they pulled her lips back into their fixed grin.

Withdrawing his fingers Mark marveled at the cunning work, and its effects. The beautiful, bejewelled houka-girl smiled back at him, while fluttering her long dark lashes against the pungent smoke that must have stung her eyes.

Thanking the two smokers, who graciously excused his interruption, Mark moved on to where several figures sat in conversation, sitting crosslegged on plump tasseled cushions. The centerpiece of this little group was another, very different houka-girl. As shapely and attractive as the last, this one knelt back on her heels with knees spread wide and head tipped fully back so that she stared up at the apex of the tent. Her hands were held at shoulder height with elbows bent and fingers spread; between thumb and forefinger she pinched the mouthpieces of two houka-hoses. These snaked up from the front of a wide brass cylinder that projected from the stand on which she knelt and passed up between her lower lips. Her mound had been shaved, affording a clear view of the penetration.

One of the guests who sat beside her, absorbed in conversation with a companion, reached out and took one of the mouthpieces from the houka-girl's grasp. When he raised it to his lips there was a muffled bubbling sound; this time the orange glow appeared in the girl's upturned, wide-open mouth. Taking a step closer Mark could see the bowl of the pipe between her gaping red lips, held there by curved bars that wrapped around her cheeks and disappeared beneath her long, dark hair. The impression created by this installation was very striking: from the front it looked like the smoke was passing right through this beautiful girl, from top to bottom, then out through the hoses.

But Mark was the inquisitive sort. He needed to know how things worked and seldom accepted such impossibilities at face value, no matter how aesthetic. At a magic show he would be the one watching from as far to the side as possible, trying to see behind the curtain and learn the secret of the trick. Now he walked quietly around the chatty little group and behind the kneeling girl, where he saw that at the nape of her neck the curved bars that held the pipe-bowl-gag joined a heavier vertical member that descended behind her back to the floor. This bar formed the trunk of the restraint system, with branches here and there reaching out to the various bracelets and cuffs that enforced the houka-girl's position. It looked sturdy and massive but Mark guessed that this dorsal bar, and the thinner curved bars that held the girl's head back and the pipe bowl in her mouth, were really hollow. Smoke from the bowl departed not down her throat, but out through these tubes and down, drawn eventually between her round butt cheeks and into the wide brass dildo from the rear. The dildo must be the water chamber, Mark thought, recalling the muffled bubbling sound. Most of it was hidden inside her but he wondered how voluminous the metal penetrator must be, in order to fulfill its smoke-cooling function effectively, and how long must have been the training necessary for the girl to accommodate it.

Mark stared down in contemplation for some moments, into the wide, dark eyes of the rigidly fixed houka-girl. She gazed back at him now, her face appearing upside down as he stood behind her and wisps of smoke curled from her gaping mouth. Then Salam appeared again at his elbow.

"Enjoying yourself, sir? Is there anything I can do for you? I see you appreciate our lovely antiques and objects d'art. All of the pieces you see are available for purchase, and our skilled artisans also do custom work in this style if you would like them to create a unique piece just for you. We can supply either all of the components or only the metalwork, as you prefer."

"Thank you," Mark demurred, "they are beautiful and really remarkable in execution. Thank you for allowing me to browse. But I'm afraid I don't have the space..."

"Not all our offerings are so large as these showpieces," Salam interrupted. "Perhaps a more delicate and portable example, like this - you, come here!"

He beckoned to the shadows and Mark saw a figure rise from its knees and advance slowly into the light. It was another pretty young woman of classically feminine form, her light brown skin mostly bare. Her privates were hidden by a wisp of fine silk that hung from a chain about her waist; her naturally full breasts were poorly concealed by a bikini-like garment of translucent silk and fine golden chains, through which her dark, pointed nipples showed clearly. Her bare feet were chain-hobbled, with dark-painted toenails and bells at the ankles that tinkled with every tiny step.

Like the other houka-girls she was braceleted and bangled with many bands of decorated metal, but there was a fluidity in her movement that revealed these were, for the most part, truly ornamental and not disguised restraints. Except for the bracelets at her wrists: these were joined by shiny chains to bands that circled her upper thighs, compelling the girl to keep her hands at her sides.

The most striking element of the girl's ensemble was a ponderous and intricate headpiece, in the shape of a foot high cobra. It was a water pipe, of metal-bound glass like the others, bound above the girl's forehead by a set of bejewelled and delicately engraved bands that passed over and around her raven-tressed head. A small pipe bowl projected from the base of the houka, above her brow. From the snake's head a pair of shiny silver tubes emerged, tracing the fringe of the cobra's hood as they arced downwards. From the base of the water pipe the tubes continued, following two of the headbands to points just above the girl's ringed ears, then curved forward along her cheeks before turning upwards to enter her nostrils. Golden studs through either side of the exotic beauty's nose held the tubes in place.

When she reached them Salam produced a small pouch and, reaching up, placed a lump of tobacco in the pipe bowl above the girl's forehead. Striking a wooden match and holding it above the bowl, he smiled at Mark and motioned to her mouth. "Please."

After a moment of doubt Mark understood, and lowered his face to the houka-girl's. She parted her full red lips as Salam set the flame to the pipe bowl, and putting one hand on a soft, silk-wrapped breast and the other behind her head Mark covered her mouth with his in a tight, open-mouthed kiss.

Deeply he inhaled, tasting the sweet, cool smoke that bubbled through the houka-bottle, down the snaking tubes and through the girl's head. When his lungs were full he held the embrace, exploring for a while inside her mouth with his tongue while the tobacco delivered its brief but powerful rush to his brain.

Finally he withdrew, his hands holding the houka-girl close while he watched wisps of smoke curl out of her still open mouth. Her wide dark eyes, which had shut tight during their smoky kiss, fluttered open now and looked up at him with an expression of demure innocence. After a long moment, and softly, he exhaled the rich smoke back toward her face.
















The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 6 - People-Watching

by Benfan



Leaving Salam's tent Mark found the brief smoke had left him a bit dry in the mouth.  He thought about ducking back under the tent flap to take advantage of its hospitality but just then saw a vendette moving towards him.

Identified in the bustling crowd by a red headband with a bottle icon at her forehead, the auburn-haired vendette tiptoed down the lane in black ballet boots.  A deep tray filled with bottles and cans hung from the wide leather belt that pinched her waist.  The tray was prevented from tipping forward and spilling its contents by a pair of shiny steel chains that linked its front corners to stout rings through the vendette's nipples.

The weight of the ice-filled tray pulled her D-cup tits out and down into pointed cones.  No doubt she would have preferred to use her hands to bear this burden but these were bound behind her back, pulled up high between her shoulder blades by a short chain linked to her rigid black posture collar.  The arm restriction forced the vendette to swivel her hips as she walked, which in turn made the tray swing back and forth and tug at her stretched pink buds.

Mark beckoned and the vendette adjusted her course to meet him.  Looking down into her tray he saw a variety of soft drinks, bottled water, and iced coffee.  Not exactly what he craved.  Groping between her elongated knockers he found one last bottle of beer in the back of the tray.  The vendette flinched slightly as he drew it out, and the frozen metal cap scraped along her angular cleavage.

The bottle was dripping from its icy bath, so Mark wiped it on the wavy auburn tresses that descended behind the female's back and hid her bound hands.  Then he raised it to her lips, where a bottle opener was built into the prod-gag that filled her mouth.  Her red curls bounced as the cap popped free and fell neatly into the hollow gag, and with a pat on her bottom Mark sent the vendette on her way again.  As she departed a small bucket of empty recycleables that hung from her arm-bondage bounced tinnily against her wobbling butt.

Besides the exhibit booths there were plenty of sights to see out in the lanes and alleys of the Expo.  Many attendees brought their modified slaves with them to the show, and were as much interested in parading them about as in exploring the "official" displays.  Mark stood at the edge of the thoroughfare for a while, sipping his drink and just watching people go by.

He saw a casually dressed young man swaggering down the lane, trailed by a fancy blonde bimbo-doll all done up in frilly lingerie.  Hair piled high in a mass of golden curls bedecked with pink ribbons, she tottered unsteadily on pink ballet pumps as she tried to keep up with her master.  Her figure was hourglassed by a tight bodyshaper in antique white satin that extended from just above the knee all the way up her back, drawing her shoulders together and forcing her round boobs forward.  The upper front of the heavily boned garment was cut away and edged in ruffles of taffeta, framing her fair-skinned chest in dreamy gauze.  The twin spheres of her phony spherical tits - F cups at least, Mark judged - were pushed upwards by demi-cups built into the corset, which allowed the tops of her rosy nipples to peek out.

The lower part of the bodyshaper hugged the girl's thighs, partially hobbling her; this lower extension of the reinforced satin sheath was adorned with tiers of fluffy gauze that made her trim figure look bottom-heavy.  Her smooth, white asscheeks poked out through a heart-shaped cutaway in her corset that was edged in taffeta, like the breast-window.  A two inch wide pink collar, edged with stiff white frills, encouraged the blonde to keep her face forward and chin up.

Her bare white arms were unbound, but dangled from her shoulders as though lifeless.  The girl's hands, rendered fingerless by frilly, padded mittens, bounced ungoverned against her flaring hips as she moved unsteadily forward on the towering heels.  Below bright blue eyes and button nose her plump, pink-glossed lips were spread wide by a ring gag held in place by a pink strap across her cheeks.

The gag and the uselessness of her hands left the blushing blonde helpless to control her drool, which trailed downwards from her lower lip in a thick gooey string.  But her master had thoughtfully propped a plastic cup in his lacy doll's cleavage to catch the dribble, and spare her the embarrassment of mussing her fancy lingerie.

The blushing blonde projected a delightful impression of unfettered helplessness, and Mark wondered if the girl's arms had been numbed for her trip to the Expo or if they were permanently paralyzed.

Heading in the opposite direction a goateed, leather-clad male walked beside a unique slave whose figure were remarkable, even for the Expo.  Her legs were encased in stiff black thigh-high boots, with needle-pointed toes and no heels at all.  This impossible footwear forced the female to bend forward at the waist and lean on her arms, which were sheathed in leather sleeves that held her elbows locked straight.  Her big brown eyes looked down past her plug-gag toward the floor, avoiding the stares of the many passersby who gawked at her unnatural proportions.  A brown ponytail sprang from the back of her head and dangled to one side of her neck.  The girl's hands grasped the rim of a large, low-walled tub that rolled on a quartet of swiveling wheels, which bore the weight of her elephantine tits.

From their roots at her chest they flared rapidly outwards, mountains of milk-white flesh that filled the three foot wide tub to overflowing and bulged out against the girl's braced arms.  As the wheels of the cart skittered across uneven spots in the pavement the twin mounds rippled and shimmied.  Her nipples, which if proportional would have been the size of pie plates, were hidden in the bottom of the tub.

Making a guess at their volume Mark figured that each humongous, blue-veined boob must weigh well over a hundred pounds.  Since the rest of the girl's body was normally proportioned, even bordering on petite, that meant that over two thirds of her body weight was tit-meat.  Nevermind the heel-less boots: even in a pair of sturdy hikers and supported by a steel bra it was unlikely she could have stood upright, since to straighten her back would have required a dead lift of perhaps three hundred pounds.  Without the aid of the wheeled tub the unfortunate female would have had to drag her soft burdens along the ground or, more likely, be confined by their sheer mass to her master's bed.

Mark was imagining what she'd look like, on her back with the pale mounds sprawled to either side, when his attention was caught by colorful flags fluttering down the lane.

The flags sprang from the head harness of a walking female billboard.  This bald slave's gloved wrists were linked to rings at the sides of her wide leather collar, her elbows cuffed to a bar behind her shoulders that held her bent arms up and out.  Rings at the front of the elbow cuffs were linked to D-rings pierced vertically through her nipples, stretching her big tits to either side and turning her cleavage into a broad canvas of fair, unblemished skin.  Here was written in bold black letters:

Welcome to the Expo!

and below it, much smaller:

This space for rent.

A J-shaped tube emerged downwards from her bottom, then curved to ascend between her round asscheeks and behind her back until it met a bracket that sprang from the rear of her head harness.  This arrangement pulled her spine into an arch, ensuring that her breast-message was clearly displayed.  Behind the female's back a bulletin board was mounted to the tube.  Mark stepped in front of the ballgagged billboard, stopping her, and motioned for her to pivot on her high-heeled pumps so that he could read the posted messages.

There were notes from one Expo-goer to another, suggesting times and places to meet.  There was a note about a lost oral appliance, which had been custom made and would hopefully be found and returned.  And there was a schedule of Expo events.  Scrolling his eyes across it Mark noted the times of several demonstrations he'd like to catch: one by the binders at the House of Chan, another at the Piercing Pavilion.

At one corner of the schedule his eyes were drawn to the name of a well-known Japanese film star - it was unusual to see females identified by name at the Expo.  The item stated that she would be performing throughout the Expo before a live audience while making her first and - somewhat ominously - last S&M film.  Curious, Mark made a note to make sure he checked that out.

At last he found the item in which he was most interested: the Pony Parade.  At past Expos, which had often been held outdoors, there had usually been a race.  But from what he'd heard space limitations at this venue had necessitated a speed limit for the various girl-powered carts and conveyances.

The parade was a daily event; the first was coming up in a couple of hours. Mark liked to arrive at the paddock early to watch the harnessing and other preparations, so he decided to start moving in that direction.  But first he needed to relieve the growing pressure in his bladder, which was fed by the bourbons and coffee and, most recently, beer in which he'd indulged.

The film production company that had assembled the Expo in this previously abandoned industrial space had brought in portable toilets, but Mark preferred the more unique options he knew would be available in certain of the exhibit booths.  Looking down an alley he spotted the whimsically limned sign of an exhibitor he knew from previous events.  In silver letters formed from leaky pipes and valves it spelled out:

Pipe Dreams.

Finishing his beer Mark looked for a proper place to dispose of the empty bottle.  The vendette was nowhere in sight but the upturned ass of the sweeper was scuttling toward him again.  Another visitor had already made use of her shaved pussy to deposit one empty, but Mark knew she had room for at least one more.  He stopped the sweeper with a touch to her forward-facing tailbone, and licked the rim of his beer bottle for lubrication before pushing its long neck firmly into her tight brown asshole.

Sending the busy and now well-filled cleaner on her random path again with a smack of his hand, Mark turned and headed for the plumber's shop.















The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 7 - Pipe Dreams

by Benfan

[Note - some graphic watersports toward the end of this chapter.  Skip the last few paragraphs if reluctant pee-play is not to your....taste.  ;) BF]



Mark had recognized the "Pipe Dreams" sign immediately as announcing the exhibit of a fellow named Gordon, a well-known Society character and its most experienced and respected plumber.  As a personal friend Mark knew that Gordon came to the Expo not to hawk his wares, but simply to show off his talent and imagination, and join in the celebration of erotic modification.  Of course he could afford the luxury of forsaking salesmanship, since his reputation was already established and his creations highly sought by wealthy men and potentates from Tokyo to Tripoli.

The Pipe Dreams exhibit was larger than average, the booth assembled of solid partitions with a floor of black-and-white patterned vinyl that simulated ceramic tile.  Front and center in this space was a famous example of Gordon's skill and creativity: his prize-winning Mermaid Shower.

The mermaid was a spectacular, suntanned blonde fixed in an upright position, her eyes gazing down from two feet above the visitors entering the booth.  She was a tall girl, but her height was exaggerated by a stylized pedestal of verdegris copper that encased her legs from the hip down.  With a surface that mimicked scales and studded here and there with beads that caught the light like glimmering drops of water, the heavy pedestal concealed the blonde beauty's feet as it transformed her lower limbs into a single fishy tail.  At its base the tapered column curved forward into a pair of broad, vaned flukes, which spread across the floor and curled up at the edges forming a non-slip shower pan.

From waist up the mermaid was naked, her full, natural-looking breasts on proud display.  Her arms were extended out and forward, the hands appearing to support a large chrome ring from which a transparent plastic curtain hung.   But Mark had enjoed the pleasure of examining this installation closely during a visit to Gordon's home a few years ago, when a statuesque redhead had been cast as the water-nymph; he knew that the circular curtain rod was actually carried by a stainless steel armature hidden behind the mermaid's back.  The cuffs that joined the girl's wrists and elbows to the bright ring functioned not as supports for the shower curtain, but as restraints.  From the same inspection he knew that the shower head that projected between the blonde's red lips was not fed by a pipe run somehow through her body, but from up behind her back and through the chrome-plated "straps" across her cheeks that held the fixture in place.

The upper edge of the green copper pedestal/tail was curved, rising high at the sides to capture the blonde's flaring hips but dipping low in the middle, below her belly button.  There, below the girl's rippling tanned abs, her pubic bulge was hidden by a shiny silver plate in the shape of a scallop shell.  From the base of this escutcheon a chrome handle projected, which could be turned right or left to point toward the letters "H" or "C" stamped into the polished metal.  This was obviously the control valve for the shower, but the device included one feature that was hidden from all but the mermaid herself: a pair of cylindrical steel chambers filled with hard plastic balls, through which the flowing water circulated when the shower was in use.  These cylinders rose vertically inches behind the scallop-shell, penetrating deep inside the mermaid's pussy and ass.  When water flowed through them the balls knocked and rattled against the inside of the cylinders, creating a powerful vibration.

Mark recalled the long, steamy showers he'd enjoyed during that visit to Gordon's, how by the time he'd gotten himself well lathered the redhead had moaned and squirmed in her bonds while her pale tummy flushed pink from the heat.

To one side of the Mermaid Shower Mark saw a handful of men standing in line, and could guess what they were waiting for.  Taking his place he looked past those who'd queued up before him, into a little three-sided booth at the very back of the exhibit space.  There he saw Gordon himself tending to one of his installations.  The plumber was short and lean, dressed like the tradesman he was in well-worn blue jeans and a green cotton shirt.  His close-cropped hair was mostly white now, but his arms were still hard and wiry, his eyes and voice bright as ever.

"Come on now, honey, your time's up," he was saying.  "Time to let somebody else have their turn."  He bent over, helping a naked girl disentangle herself from one of his complicated installations.  Gordon was unusual among Society members in that he generally worked with consensual submissives, though this particular subject looked like she might be regretting her agreement to model for him.

She rose from her low seat with face contorted in an open-mouthed grimace, eyes blinking behind a pair of swimmer's goggles.  Dripping wet from her tanned cleavage to the streaked blonde hair that was pulled back severely from her face, the girl emitted a high-pitched whine interrupted by shallow coughs and gasps.  She raised one hand weakly to allow Gordon to help her up; the other cradled her swollen belly.  The petite blonde looked about four months pregnant - though Mark knew the real cause of her bloating was likely quite different.  As she staggered away from her station Gordon aided her with gloved hands, while trying to keep her soaked body from touching his clothes.  A pair of foot-long tubes dangled between her legs.

"Sorry gentlemen," Gordon called out to the guests standing in line, "but this little one's taken all she can and I've got to do a shift change.  It won't be long - her replacement will be ready to go in about ten minutes."

The plumber turned again to the sputtering, shivering girl, who tried to lean on him for support while he supported her at arms length.

"There, there; that's all for now.  Let's get you drained and cleaned up and then you get to rest 'til next shift."  Gordon picked up a black plastic bin filled with wet, unidentifiable gadgets, and together they disappeared behind a partition.

The wiry old plumber must have left the girl to attend her own needs, or else had an assistant behind the scenes, because very shortly he emerged again leading a different girl by the hand.  This one was fair and shiny-clean, with a trim, graceful figure and a face of angular beauty framed by wavy dark hair down to her shoulders.  As Gordon led her by the hand she smiled out at the men watching her entrance with pride in her eyes, as though she were the star of the event and pleased to show off her flawless nude form.

"This is Alexis," Gordon said to the little crowd.  "She's a new girl and very excited to be making her first trip to the Expo.  I hope you fellows are ready to give her a proper welcome!  Here we go, honey, let's not waste any time getting you rigged up.  All these men are waiting on you."

His hands were bare now and he carried another plastic bin, like the first but white in color and likewise filled with an assortment of items.  In a moment he'd clamped around his volunteer's graceful neck the two halves of a high posture collar, made of white latex reinforced with rigid plastic and featuring an unusual raised flange that circled it about halfway up.  Then he fitted under the willowy beauty's firm, C-cup tits a sling of white latex, like a swooping, parabolic shelf bra.  Alexis squealed theatrically as the plumber suddenly tightened the "bra's" straps behind her shoulders, drawing her twin mounds together high on her chest.  A raised rim of shiny latex curved continuously now from the girl's collarbones down and under her raised breasts.  A thin black hose dangled from the underside of the strange bra, below her breastbone.

Mark was tapping his foot now, but Gordon was working quickly and he decided he could wait to see the rest of the installation.

"Turn around now, dear.  Hands on your knees."  Alexis turned as ordered and in a moment her clean-shaven pussy peeked out between her pale asscheeks.  From the bin Gordon produced a plastic nozzle as thick as his finger, which he connected to a short ribbed hose before coating with lubricating jelly.  Without a pause the plumber slipped the straight nozzle quickly up the lean brunette's bottom and gave its base a quick twist.  From his familiarity with Gordon's work Mark new the twist had caused the inner end of the nozzle to expand, securing it in place.  Alexis cooed at the penetration and ahhed with the dilation, hamming it up for her audience.

"That's a good girl.  Now the tricky one."  With practiced speed Gordon lubed a smaller, almost needle-sized nozzle.  His stubby fingers spread his exhibit's pink nether lips and located the urethra, and with a slower, more gentle motion slipped the tiny tube into it.  Despite his care this brought a squeak of real discomfort from Alexis' lips, which the plumber ignored while he squeezed a bulb at the nozzle's base that secured it in place.

"OK, honey, turn around and take your seat."  The tubes swung between Alexis' legs as she pivoted to face the men again, her smile dimmed just a little.  Holding her hand Gordon guided her to squat over a strange white contraption: a low, sculpted lump of white porcelain or fiberglass with a curved chrome bar rising behind it.  As the lean brunette lowered her body the plumber guided the tubes that dangled from her into a slot in the "seat," until at last her crotch rested upon it, her knees touched the faux-tile floor and she sat back with heels nearly touching her bottom.  A gentle push on her tailbone reminded the girl to slide forward a few inches, where a wide bulge at the saddle's front forced her thighs well apart.

Quickly the plumber passed two inch wide straps of thick white latex over the tops of the girl's thighs, which pressed into her flesh as they fixed her in place on the ground-level perch.  Then he knelt and reached under the seat from the back, fitting the girl's waste tubes to connections hidden within the saddle.  Next he joined the black hose that dangled from her "bra" to a fitting on top of the white bulge atop the saddle, between her thighs.  Satisfied with these connections, he pushed gently on Alexis' forehead and she leaned back against the curved chrome support behind her.

When Gordon took Alexis' hand again she looked up at him quickly, with a look of nervous doubt in her eye.  But he did not seem to notice and she allowed him to draw her white arm behind her, where a steel cuff on her wrist was snapped to a link on her seat, just above her heel.  After securing the other wrist in the same fashion Gordon turned again to the white box of gadgets.  Her smile gone now, the restrained brunette avoided eye contact with Gordon's guests and stared into space high above them.

The next item the old plumber drew from the bin was a strangely curved, roundish shape in white plastic, like a warped donut.  The central hole was just barely large enough to fit over Alexis' head, and flattened her nose for a moment as the wiry tradesman slipped it down to encircle her neck.  The inner rim was mated to the flange around her posture collar, by several screw-down connections that Gordon was careful to tighten for a proper seal.  The white form was vaguely bowl-shaped, the rim rising high behind the girl's pretty face but dipping lower where it passed her ears, until finally turning downwards into a spout that pointed toward her cleavage.  At first Mark thought of it as a futuristic Elizabethan collar, but then a better image sprang to mind: the collared and cowled Alexis looked quite like a giant plastic lily, her head a dark-topped stamen surrounded by gracefully cupped white petals.

When Gordon held a pair of rubber wedges in front of Alexis' face she looked into his eyes again, and her expression made clear that she was having second thoughts about all this.  But the plumber had guests waiting - he didn't waste any time reassuring the girl but simply raised his brows and touched the first rubber wedge to her lips.

Rolling her eyes back to the ceiling the brunette reluctantly gaped, and Gordon quickly fitted the two wedges between her molars.  Regardless of her doubts, Alexis' jaws were propped wide apart.  Her chin and the back of her head pressed firmly now into the padded top of her posture collar, so that her face was fixed in position looking up and forward from the center of the white plastic bowl.  Reaching behind her the plumber adjusted the chrome support so that it pressed up between her shoulders, taking up the slack in her arm bondage and forcing her spine into a slight arch.  The fair-skinned girl's breaths came more quickly now, and shallow.

"A little precaution against any nasty infections..."  The plumber fitted a pair of rubber-rimmed swimmer's goggles, like those the previous occupant of this exhibit had worn, over his volunteer's brown eyes.  Then, reaching one last time into the bin, he drew out two small items.  The first was a small plastic basket, which he placed deep in Alexis' gaping mouth so that it rested upon the jaw-wedges.  The next was a little round cake, waxy-white, which he set in the basket.  At its taste the helpless girl made a little gakk.

"There now, hon, I know it isn't candy.  But if we let these gentlemen shoot straight down your throat you'll gag every time.  And the salts will balance some of the acid you'll be getting."

Finally Gordon arranged his model's dark, wavy hair about the warped bowl, straightened and turned to face his guests - some of whom were now visibly fidgety.

"She's all yours, gentlemen.  Sorry for the wait, but I expect by now you're ready to give Alexis a proper welcome to the Expo!  I'm sure you all have good aim but don't worry if you're a little off - anything that goes down the drain-line under Alexis' tits gets pumped back up from below, so as long as you hit her between the shoulders nothing's wasted.  And hi Mark, good to see you again.  Make sure to come back and see me after you're done visiting with Alexis here."

The man at the head of the line stepped forward quickly and bent his elbows, blocking Mark's view of the kneeling brunette.  In a moment a faint splattering sound was heard, followed by a cough and guggle...

While waiting his turn Mark gazed about the other exhibits that graced Gordon's black and white checkerboard floor.  Behind the Mermaid Shower stood a luxurious footed bath tub - the feet belonging to an unmatched pair of naked beauties who decorated either end.  They faced each other over the length of the tub, torsos clamped to its round ends by wide shiny bands and legs bent with knees pressed under the vessel's rim.

One of the girls - a fair, slim blonde - was fixed at the lower drain-end of the tub with her waist at the height of its rim.  Her upper body was bound by a band under her armpits to the plumbing fixtures that rose above the tub. Looking carefully, Mark could see that the cross-handled knobs that opened the tub's filler valves also turned screw clamps that would squeeze her pink nipples whenever the water flowed.  In her mouth she held a strapless chrome plug-gag, like a shiny baby's pacifier.  From the ring at its back a lightweight chain descended into the tub - to operate the stopper, Mark guessed.

The girl facing her was tanned and voluptuous, with a rich crop of rusty brown hair that cascaded behind her almost to the floor.  Her body was set lower against the more inclined sitting-end of the tub, with the rim pressing up under her melon-sized tits and her big butt inches above the floor.  The mouth of this Rubenesque beauty was not plugged, but made comically huge by a cage-like insert that held her jaw at full gape and pushed her cheeks out into blushing bubbles.  Inside the cage and between her stretched lips a bar of soap rested.  Chrome caddies alongside the tub held a collection of brushes and folded towels.

"Yo, check this out!"  While Mark watched some other visitors took interest in the tub, a trio of young black men dressed in sharp modern suits and dripping in the gold chains and ornament that were popular with the hip-hop crowd.  After an animated discussion the men decided that one of them should try it on for size.

"OK, ladies!  Make some room for Master K!"  The lean guest slipped off his silk jacket and Italian loafers but retained the rest of his clothes as he stepped quickly into the dry tub, sat down and reclined.  With his toes by the drain below the blonde's perky cupcake tits, his head rested perfectly between the thick-bodied beauty's big, round jugs.  He twisted his neck left and right, pressing his fuzzy head deeper into her cleavage while rubbing his cheeks against her soft, creamy pillows.

"Yeah, boys...Fuck the jacuzzi, I got to get one of these for the crib.  But ladies!  What are your hands for?"

The girls' arms were indeed unrestrained but till now had lain still, passively grasping the tub's rim.  At the bather's words they sprang into action, the blonde reaching down to raise one of his feet and massage it, while her brown-haired partner rubbed his temples with her thumbs.

"Yeah, momma, now that's fine service.  And I guess if we had some water you might do some washin' too?"  The gagged blonde facing him nodded, as much as the stopper-chain allowed.

"And for a handsome man like Master K, that massage might have a happy endin'?"  Another nod, as the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile around the chrome pacifier.

"But what if a playa just wanted to kick it and soak for a while?"  The more curvaceous of his attendants stopped her massage and reached down to a rack on the far side of the tub.  She drew from it a magazine, and extending her arms held it open at a reading distance before the eyes that peaked out from between her big nipples.

"What," the bather laughed to his friends while the blonde continued rubbing his foot. "No Shakespeare?"

A few yards behind the tub a less lighthearted scene played out.  A silent female sat by the wall there, ignored and fully encapsulated in black latex.  She sat as though in a chair, with back straight, knees wide-spread and a long rectangular sink resting across her lap.  Only her black-wrapped toes touched the floor, as her feet pointed down in line with her shins.  The nature of her seat was hidden behind the sink - all that could be seen of it was a chrome tube three inches in diameter that descended vertically below her bottom to the floor and supported most of her weight.  A shiny spray nozzle was suspended above the sink on a flexible chrome line that arched over her head.  There were racks to her right and left, which each held several dishes.

Mark watched as the rubber-gloved female lifted a plate from the left-hand rack.  Lowering it into the soapy water she carried on her thighs she scrubbed the plate thoroughly, then rinsed it off with the dangling nozzle before placing it in the opposite rack.  The woman had no choice but to attend her work closely, as her heavy posture collar rose high in back forcing her gaze down into the sink.

The features of the scullery slave's shiny black mask were vague and generic, obscuring any hint of her identity.  The only openings in the dark helmet were a small chrome-rimmed circle over her mouth, and a pair of metal-edged slits below where her eyes should be.  Mark guessed she could see no more than a few inches, if at all, outside the rim of the rectangular sink.

As soon as she'd finished washing all the dishes to the left, the faceless figure reached to the rack on her right and began scrubbing the same plates all over again.  None of them were dirty.

On the wall nearest Mark a different kind of sink-girl was mounted.  This one was less hardworking and more ornamental, designed as a personal lavatory.  Its female component was a naked and slightly-built blonde, with a pair of silicone bubbles in size DD stuck high on her chest.  She stood upright against the wall, her midsection constricted into a narrow cylinder by a tight clamping band of chromed steel.  A fitting at the back of the waistband fixed her rigidly a few inches in front of the wall; a small white porcelain sink was hung at the front of the tummy-crushing band.  A large chrome plug-gag was held deep in her mouth by a pair of shiny metal straps across her cheeks.  On the front of the gag, between her cherry lips, was a big silver button.

The girl's elbows were bound tight to her pipe-stemmed waist, while her forearms were held level and pointed straight out to either side of her body.  Her right hand held a white cup, the left a can of shaving gel.  Her forearms were draped with neatly folded white towels, each bearing a "G" monogram and hanging down to her middle thigh.  Clipped to the pink nipples that poked out from her round tits were a pair of little chrome cylinders, finger-wide, a couple of inches long, and oriented vertically.  In the right cylinder a toothbrush hung; the left held a razor.  Topping off this attractive installation was a round mirror eight inches in diameter, mounted in a swiveling chrome bracket that the pretty blonde wore like a crown above her brow.

A pair of small silver lines curled up past the girl's belt to feed a faucet that pointed down into the sink, but Mark couldn't see how the flow was activated.  He tipped his head and looked underneath the sink, where the chrome trap curled back and upwards, disappearing between the blonde's thighs before descending again toward the floor.  But he still couldn't find the faucet's controlling valves.

One of the men who'd waited near the front of the queue approached the lavatory to wash his hands.  When he stepped in front of it the water began to flow automatically, as Mark caught a glimpse of motion below: the girl had pushed down on a pair of pedals, to which her bare little feet were clamped by a pair of wide chrome bands across the insteps.  Now that he knew where to look, Mark saw the familiar letters "H" and "C" again, stamped into the pedal-straps.

Having rinsed his hands the man reached up to the girl's face, and the chrome plug-gag.  His finger pressed firmly on the button at the center of the gag, pushing the girl's head back a fraction as a blob of thick white goo drooled from her lower lip into his cupped palm.  After lathering his hands well with the liquid soap he held them under the faucet, and water flowed again as the girl's toes pressed the pedals.

"Hotter," he commanded, and she pushed down harder with her right foot.  Not hard enough, apparently, as the man placed the leather sole of his shoe atop the girl's red-painted toenails, bearing down on her foot until steam rose from the sink and her blue eyes watered.  When he was satisifed with his hygiene the man lifted his foot, and the girl began breathing again while he dried his hands on one of Gordon's towels.

At last the visitor in front of Mark in queue moved aside, and he lowered his zipper as he stepped forward to stand between Alexis' spread knees.  The face that looked up at him was quite different from the confident, beautiful woman who had entered on Gordon's arm not a quarter of an hour before, basking in his guests' attention.  The dark hair was wet and matted here and there, the pale brow deeply furrowed and lips curled back from her wide-propped teeth in a grimace.  Behind the plastic-bubble goggles Alexis' eyes blinked up at Mark's face, their expression now more pleading than proud.

He let fly with the product of his kidneys, but the pressure that had built during his wait threw off his aim.  The tip of Mark's stream struck the girl's upper lip, and a bit of the bitter liquid splashed up her nose.  She started, as far as her strict restraints allowed, then snorted and sputtered as he lowered his aim and found his target.

His heavy stream spattered against the salty cake between her propped jaws, rapidly filling Alexis' mouth.  She tried to swallow as Gordon had trained her, but the splash up her nose had broken her focus and she began to gag and sputter.  Recalling the plumber's comments Mark moved his stream to the side, painting the girl's cheekbone and ear while he gave her a chance to collect herself.  He watched as his yellow pee soaked her wavy black hair, then curled forward along the rimmed white cowl toward the spout.  Soon a steady trickle was falling from the spout into her cleavage, where it was collected by the latex shelf bra and disappeared down the black drain hose.  A moment later Mark could faintly hear an electric pump switching on.

He allowed the girl one good breath before directing his stream into her mouth once more.  She had mastered her gag reflex again, and her throat pulsed as she swallowed repeatedly.  But Mark's long-restrained flow was copious, and he could see his urine beginning to back up around Alexis' pink tongue.  Not wanting to cause any messy retching he moved his aim-point upwards now, avoiding the nasal area and playing back and forth across the brunette's goggles.  Again, after a short delay, the yellow trickle fell between her breasts and the pump clicked to life.

At last the pressure in his bladder eased, and Mark's stream went slack.  Without squeezing it off he took a little step closer to the gasping piss-girl to make sure his last drops fell into her tiered collection areas.  Alexis' dripping face relaxed slightly as the stream of pee broke, then flinched again when a final squirt struck her on the forehead.  After a pause Mark shook his last drops into her white cleavage, then tucked his prick away again.

As he turned to wash up at the nearby blonde lavatory Gordon approached the urinal installation.  The crew-cut plumber picked up a watering can, such as an indoor gardener might use, from a stand next to it and looked down at his disenthused volunteer.

"Time for a flush, I think, dear."  He tipped the little can over Alexis' face and played its delicate spray over her and about the cowl for a moment, washing away the yellow drops that clung here and there.  The liquid in the can was bluish, and in a moment an artificially fresh scent rose from the bowl.  The cleansing flush flowed down the spout, and Alexis whimpered softly while the hidden pump hummed.






The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 8 - The Speed Demon

by Benfan




Out of darkness a deep red glow appeared, growing slowly brighter and lightening in hue until it finally exploded into the blazing orange and golden yellows of a spectacular desert sunrise.  Below the natural light show dark ranks of rugged mountains receded into the distance; at their feet a featureless white plain reflected a hint of the dazzling colors above.

"Ooooh, it's pretty!"


A rectangular shape appeared on the plain, like a dark brick with edges of silver that caught and reflected the fiery sunrise.  It was moving, gliding surreally across the white field at a speed that the lack of landmarks made difficult to judge.

"Are they spacemen?  I don't like spacemen, they're ugly."

"I said hush, Candy.  If you can't keep quiet you can't watch the movie."

Mark was sitting in a black tent that served as a theater, at one end of the Expo livestock paddock.  In his eagerness he had arrived a bit early for the pony parade, when most of the ponies and their handlers were either resting or just beginning their preparations behind closed tent flaps and stall doors.  To fill the time before things got more interesting he'd ducked into the little tent-theater, where a short film was being presented that documented one Society member's recent efforts to set a new world standard for female-powered speed.

The voices behind Mark were those of an Expo attendee and his bimbo, who'd entered the tent just before the lights had gone down.  They'd joined an audience of a dozen or so who filled the little temporary theater about halfway to capacity.  The man was middleaged, well-groomed and sharply dressed; the companion he pulled along by the hand was a busty blonde dream - or maybe, depending on one's taste, a nightmare - in pink.  Her tight long-sleeved minidress, with its hem just below her butt and a plunging neckline that stretched over boobs the size and shape of volleyballs...bloated collagen lips...long, painted fingernails...the high platform heels that made the bimbo look as tall as her not-diminutive escort: all were the same eye-stinging shade of hottest pink.  Even her towering mass of bleached-blonde curls was streaked with pink highlights.  The only other color she wore was white, in the form of big cheap plastic hoops that rattled around her wrists and dangled from her ears like Christmas ornaments.  A wide belt of white vinyl hung loose about her hourglass waist, and white ruffled socks blossomed at her ankles.

The image on the screen at the front of the theater swept closer to the dark rectangle that slid across the dry lakebed, captured evidently by a helicopter camera.  Swooping around and above the gliding apparition revealed its true form: what was rectangular in side-view appeared from above like a pointed teardrop, with sharp vertical edges front and rear.  The entire craft was of bright aluminum.  From the side at close range the bottoms of four large wheels could be seen protruding below the vehicle's sheer sides.

"Where are the ponies?  I thought there would be ponies."

"OK, Candy, I warned you.  I guess I have to give you something to keep you quiet.  Down here now..."

"Again daddy?  Oh, goody!  You're so good to...Gluk.......sssslurrrp."

Mark sighed in relief that the bimbo's squeaky, high-pitched voice had been silenced.  Now the only noise in the theater was a low, steady mechanical sound, like the spinning of a great, well-greased wheel somewhere behind the curtains or maybe outside in the paddock.

The image of the weird vehicle faded to black, and the familiar face of the famous tycoon, adventurer, and ponygirl aficionado Pritchard Brandon appeared on the screen.  He stood in an expansive shop filled with power tools and large metal frames.

"Hello!" the flaxen-haired mogul began brightly, while the image zoomed in slowly.  "Thanks for taking a moment away from the Expo to join me.  I hope to meet each of you personally out in the paddock, but unfortunately the venue for this year's show is too small for me to bring along the XX4, the amazing vehicle you've just seen and which now holds all recognized records for feminine speed and endurance.  So instead, with the help of some talented people I've put together this little film, so that you can all share a bit of the excitement my team and I experienced as this project developed, and eventually succeeded beyond our most optimistic projections.  But let's start at the beginning..."  He turned as the camera angle shifted.

"You may have heard that I made a little money in airlines, but my favorite mode of transportation uses a different sort of power.  From my earliest years I've fancied the notion of women in harness, and as fortune has smiled upon me I've been able to indulge my special interest in more and more elaborate fashion.  At the start, like most pony-fanciers, I began with consensual playmates and the enjoyment of our little games was mutual..."

The image of Brandon faded out, to be replaced by video of women in pony harness.  The footage had been processed to run at faster than normal speed, and a bit jerkily, affecting a nostalgic style that recalled old newsreels.  The first clips featured a brown haired girl, prettier-than-average and with a soft looking body, who wore a few simple leather straps over her clothes.  Her costumes were most often blue jeans and T-shirts, though in one scene she wore shorts and a bikini top, in which she seemed a bit shy.  Under the playful, teasing whip of a very young Pritchard Brandon she was shown marching across a grassy field, high-stepping in a circle, or drawing her playmate down a paved path in a little red wagon hitched to her belt.

The next girl featured was a lean blonde, who appeared more often in revealing costumes. sometimes made of leather.  Her harnesses were more elaborate, as well as restricting: unlike the earlier model the blonde often performed with hands bound and sometimes with a black bit across her teeth.  She felt young Brandon's whip more often, too.  The clips showed him pressing her to throw her weight into her harness and drag him along, in a modified garden cart now, at ever-greater speeds.

"First ponies, like the first of anything wonderful, always bring back fond memories.  But while these girls will always have a special place in my heart, I soon found our little games tiresome.  In play as in work I demand performance, from myself and anyone on my team.  I don't see much of a point in doing something unless my goal is to be the best, whether it means my companies offering the best service and return on investment, or my ponies' performance at show or on the track."

The third pony in the video was a tall and athletic brunette.  The small leather triangles that concealed her C-cup breasts and pubic area were integreated into her carefully fitted harness, which was reinforced at the joints with shiny studs and plates.  Her bit was of bright silver, and she wore blinders to keep her attention focused on the course before her.  The strong-legged female drew a proper pony-cart, attached by two long, slender bars to either side of her wide belt.  Brandon rode in the cart's single seat, between a pair of tall, skinny bicycle wheels.  The screen showed a few clips of the two on parade at the casual meets that were often held out in the countryside, where the girl stepped proudly in her high-heeled boots while Brandon flashed his winning smile and waved to the crowd.

Then there were clips of them racing, where the pony-driver's teeth showed instead between lips drawn thin in an expression that revealed his inner intensity and competitive drive.  He laid into the brunette's toned bottom with sharp cracks of his whip, as she strained forward and crossed the finish lines always well ahead of her nearest pursuers.  This sequence ended with the scene of a trophy presentation, where Brandon stood on a table excitedly pumping his first-place cup above his head.  His pretty pony - still in harness and bit with arms bound tight behind her - stood beside the table with eyes downcast, wet and exhausted.

"As my interest in the sport grew more serious, and I strived for ever greater speed and greater margins of victory, it became difficult to find ponies who matched my enthusiasm.  Several times I encountered women who possessed all the natural qualities to be fine racers, and who at the outset expressed interest in forming a team.  But after I'd invested a week or a month in training they would too often make up apologies, or come up lame with mysterious leg injuries that caused no swelling, or in one or two cases simply disappear."

"I chafed at the time I was wasting with these faint-hearted volunteers when there were races and glory to be won, and decided to explore a different course.  I'd become aware through some of my fellow pony-fanciers of our Society, and with their sponsorship was duly tested and initiated.  Through our network of mutual friends I gained access to a large supply of fit young women well-suited to the rigorous course of training I was developing - and the terms of their service allowed me to invest the necessary time and effort in full-time training without the worry that they might run off just before a major race."

The video ran at normal speed now, as the documentary approached the present.  The audience watched a more mature Pritchard Brandon engaged in training a variety of well-built women. who toiled mostly naked under his busy whip.  These ran the feminine spectrum from blonde to brunette, and blushing white to darkest African brown.  But they were always strictly bound, often leashed or hobbled, and sometimes blindfolded or masked and helmeted.  When their faces were exposed these women did not always radiate beauty.  Some at least looked to have been chosen with no eye for their faces, but only for their powerful quads and glutes.

Mark wondered what the women behind the masks looked like, while he watched as on the screen Brandon encouraged one of his amazons to get up and complete a traditional strength-building exercise.  She'd collapsed while dragging a sled weighted with a stack of hay bales across the soft earth of Brandon's paddock, and his whip could not convince her to rise again.  Finally from a belt holster he produced an electric cattle prod, which produced the desired response.

"Of course I was just a beginner again, as the Society counts among its membership many skilled and dedicated ponymasters, some of whom have inherited the hobby through past generations.  My first races under Society rules were far more competitive than the old country-club matches, where I'd enjoyed success to the point of boredom.  I'm sure my experience was quite like moving from the junior leagues in other sports up to the elites."

The screen now displayed exciting footage of a dusty break-neck contest, far different from the genteel processions shown in the earlier clips.  Four ponies and their drivers vied for position on a narrow dirt oval, whips flickering, bare breasts bouncing, and feathered headpieces pushed back by the wind of their speed.  Brandon could be spotted under his helmet and goggles by the shoulder-length yellow locks that fluttered behind him in the breeze.  He drove a great black pony that glistened in the sunlight, with hair in a hundred skinny braids that trailed behind her shoulders, legs carved from trunks of ebony and an ass like twin chiseled boulders of obsidian.

In accordance with Society rules the ponies all wore hoof-boots, their toes perched on hard rubber "hooves" shod with steel and their heels high off the ground.  Their arms were bound behind them, and they ran naked except for harness and bridle.  Beyond what was required by rule, the details of their tack varied.  Brandon's black beauty had her arms bound forearm-to-forearm across her back, above a flowing tail of sable, and sported a pair of tall white feathers above her ears.  Her unfettered breasts, firm chocolate handfuls, bobbed violently as she strained forward in her harness, swinging her shoulders so that her whole body worked with her stride.  Two of the more buxom racers had wide straps cinched around the bases of their tits, so that their boobs looked like mushrooms sprouting from their chests.  This was the only form of breast support that the ancient rules allowed.

"But by this time I had met with some success in business, as well as at the pony track, and I possessed the resources as well as dedication to make my stable one of the foremost on the Society roll.  I managed a victory in my first season, and by my third year on the tour captured the Society championship for single carts.  Mr. Parker, from Texas, bested me the following year but after that my stable carried me to two championships consecutively."

After several laps around the dry track the four ponies had become covered in dust.  The billowing clouds of powder adhered to skin soaked with sweat that was rung from their bodies by the afternoon sun, so that all exposed flesh, black or white, was slowly turning to yellowish brown.

Brandon had been in first place for a lap when a towering blonde daughter of viking gods pulled alongside him on the backstretch, blue feathers fluttering from her brow.  Brandon spotted the challenge and rose to half-standing in the footwell of his little cart, shifting its balance forward to give his pony better traction.  He cracked the reins and lashed his long whip against the tight-muscled buttocks that churned before him.  His dark charger obeyed, digging into the packed dirt with her steel-cleated hooves and pulling out in front once more.

As they approached the turn the blonde's driver tried the inside, but Brandon steered to his left, shutting him out.  Around the turn and past the post, where a white flag fluttered: one lap to go.  Going into the far turn the tall blonde's driver tried the outside again, and Brandon forced him wide.

The crowd was on its feet, bellowing with one voice as the ponies flew down the backstretch, legs pumping and tits bouncing, spitting froth past their bits while their hooves pounded against the earth!

Suddenly a third entrant made a late charge, a red-feathered brunette of shorter stature than the leaders but with thighs as big around as her belted waist.  Along the rail she darted, bound boobs bobbing as she drew a white cart in which her driver stood at full height and swung his whip against her broad bottom with all his strength.  Focused on the outside challenge Brandon was late to recognize this new threat, not spying the speeding red feathers until the leaders approached the final turn.

Dropping to one knee in his footwell he pulled back on the left rein, turning his pony's black-maned head.  His lean steed cut hard into the turn, right in front of the onrushing brunette.  Red-feathers was blinkered and only saw Brandon's cart at the last moment, as his spinning wheel passed almost beneath her chin.  Startled, she pulled up suddenly and turned into the rail, bouncing her hip off the low barrier...somehow she kept her hooves under her but the white cart tipped up on one wheel and pitched her standing driver headlong into the dirt.

Approaching the turn from the outside the blue-feathered Norse thoroughbred was running nearly blind.  Her gray eyes caked with dust, she almost trampled the fallen man.  Spotting the prone figure through the clouds of dust her own driver pulled her reins sharply back and to the right.  At the last moment the harnessed valkyrie turned back outside, avoiding disaster, but the sudden strong pull on her bit brought her blonde head up and broke her stride.

By the time she worked back up to speed the fourth pony - an impressively built but underachieving redhead who'd trailed the field throughout - had slipped by to claim second place for her green-feathered stable.  Behind the tall Scandinavian the game, stocky, red-feathered brunette hobbled at last across the line, lame on her left side and with her white cart empty.

All behind Pritchard Brandon, who had stood in his cart and pumped his fist in victory as he rolled past the checkered flag, oblivious to the chaos behind him.  While he threw aside his helmet and waved to the crowd a white-harnessed pony drew a wheeled litter across the track behind him, toward the scene of the crash.


[ be continued]


Now seems like a good time to restate that this story is complete fantasy, and that while real-sounding names have been used to lend authenticity, characters depicted here are fictional and no resemblance to actual persons is intended.



The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 9 - The Speed Demon (continued)

by Benfan




The image of Brandon victorious faded to black, and he appeared again in his more charming mode.

"Having achieved my goals on the track, I soon began to yearn for new challenges.  With all respect for the traditions of the Society Cup, I wanted to run my girls free from rules and restrictions and explore the true limits of female speed.  And so I retired from sanctioned racing, but I did not disband my stable.  Instead I began to experiment with new technology and training techniques to harness my ponies' power most efficiently."

The film now cut quickly through several clips that featured an assortment of strange vehicles into which members of Brandon's pony troop were strapped.  Some of the machines were shown indoors, bolted to a machine that measured the power output from their wheels.  Others tooled around a small paved outdoor track.  Most of the conveyances were pedal driven, though their configurations varied wildly.

First came a sequence of single-girl machines like recumbent cycles, with two, three, and four wheels.  There was also a strange contraption that carried one girl in a hands-and-knees position, where she alternately curled and extended her body like an inchworm as she pushed a set of pedals and handles that captured her motion and translated it via a complex chain drive to her cart's four wheels.

Then there were two-girl machines.  The first positioned a pair of pedalers upright in tandem, one behind the other like a common bicycle-built-for-two equipped with straps at seat and pedal.  Then came a series of double-recumbents, in which two ex-ponygirls sat either side by side or back-to-back.  One unique tricycle harnessed two females one above the other, like lovers in the missionary position, with their four feet driving a single large cog.

The females powering the experimental machines were apparently subjects of investigation, as well.  Many of the pony-pedalers were wired with small adhesive pads stuck to their torsos and legs.  A variety of masks, hoses, and gas cylinders showed that Brandon was testing various breath control and supplementation schemes.  And as the sequence progressed, one or two of the females appeared to lose their arms.  To save weight, Mark supposed.

"These experiments went on for over a year.  My team of doctors and engineers became the world's leading experts on the extraction of mechanical power from the female body.  Some details of this knowledge, we'll keep to ourselves," the blonde billionaire said with a smile.  "But we did find that when it comes to speed and FPUs - that's our development team's shorthand for Female Power Units - more is better...  As long as all the units powering a vehicle are carefully balanced and coordinated, which becomes impractical beyond a certain point.  We projected that the ideal number of FPUs for our planned vehicle would be four."

The odd contraptions faded away and Brandon's image returned to the screen.  "All well and good.  But a successful design would have to solve several problems.  Chief among them: how to harness four females so that they're able to produce maximum power, while minimizing drag and weight?  How to keep them all working together in close coordination?  And where to find a set of four females of exceptional physical ability, all matched closely and trained to work in harmony?"

"To see how we solved these problems, and to understand how the XX4's drive system works, it's best to see it in action.  As I said at the beginning of our programme, I was unable to bring the entire vehicle to the Expo for you to see.  But, I have at least been able to bring one of the pistons from its record-setting engine."

Brandon's face turned to his left on the screen, to face the black curtains at the side of the little theater-tent as they were drawn open on cue by a Brandon Industries employee.  Behind the curtains was the source of the low whirring noise that had continued, barely audible, since Mark had first entered the tent.  It came from the three-foot flywheel of a steel machine bolted to the floor, driven by a U-shaped crankshaft.  Suspended above the turning crank, her feet strapped together to the bend in the "U," was a most unusual female specimen.

"I introduce you to Karissa Myles, formerly of the champion rowing team from Wemberly College.  Miss Myles is a record holder in the single sculls, and was once expected to bring home Olympic glory.  Since the age of twelve she is undefeated on the water - and now quite likely to remain so.  But if she will never row again, she has earned a title even rarer than Olympic gold: she is one of the four fastest women in the world!"

The "piston" formerly known as Karissa Myles - six feet, one and a half inches from heel to crown - was suspended above the crankshaft of the spinning machine in a frame of shiny aluminum.  Two A-frames rose to the height of her shoulders, where they were joined to her unusual gray harness by a pair of shiny brackets.  Lighter frame members continued up and over her head, and from the uppermost corners a pair of black rubber straps stretched down to snap links at the sides of her head harness, above her ears.  The torso and head harnesses were high-tech affairs, crafted from flat pieces of flexible plastic padded with a thin layer of white foam.

"You may remember the tragic story of the Wemberly team, which was at the top of the news briefly almost three years ago.  Their van suffered a freak accident, careening into a river after blowing out two tires."  While he spoke footage from a news broadcast played soundlessly on the screen, showing a smashed white van laying wheels-up in a raging brown torrent.  Along the steep, muddy bank rescue workers frowned in their weather gear, while a pair of black body bags were carried up toward an ambulance.

"Officially, the bodies of only two victims were recovered: the fifty-four year old coach, and the 95-pound coxswain.  After a lengthy search the rest of the team was assumed to have been swept away and out to sea.  But in fact, and by fortunate coincidence, one of my private security teams had been nearby when the accident occurred and managed to rescue all eight of the champion rowers."

The somber news clip concluded by displaying the faces of eight smiling young women, the missing victims revealed in portraits that might have been taken from a school yearbook.  By her blonde hair and high round cheekbones the wholesome, heartland-bred girl pictured at upper left could be identified as the "Female Power Unit" that now toiled on the wheel in Brandon's tent.

But the golden hair had been shorn to a mere inch in length, poking out here and there through gaps in the plastic harness that enclosed most of her head.  The bright blue eyes were darkened, and sunk deep in a pale face.  And the shy smile was a distant memory.  The former student-athlete's mouth was filled with a strapless gag, from which projected a strange mushroom-shaped object with a flat chrome front and a dark screen around its sides - an air filter.  A shiny butterfly valve in the center of the chrome housing flapped open when the girl exhaled, always on the downstroke when her legs drove the big wheel, and closed again when she bent her knees on the return. 

"Three of the eight were too short to match well with the others.  These I either assigned to other projects, or traded to other Society ponymasters for training as cart racers.  A fourth proved to be untrainable, and is no longer with us.  The four remaining would compose our record-setting team.  As soon as we verified their suitability through a few weeks of traditional pony training, they were turned over to the team surgeon who performed the physical modifications that our experiments had shown would produce the most effiicient propulsion for the XX4."

The piston/girl was armless.  The plastic straps above and below her shoulders embraced the smooth round stumps that projected where her upper limbs had been neatly amputated just below the shoulder joint.  Her torso and legs were dotted with adhesive pads that trailed delicate wires, which were all neatly bundled and run to a black box at the base of the suspension frame.  Small green LEDs glowed steadily on the side of the device.

"Looking at Miss Myles here today, you see an abbreviated version of the XX4's engine."  The projection screen showed images of the vehicle with its shell removed and inner works exposed, revealing four similarly modified female forms all working in machine-like sequence.  "In the complete vehicle the four FPUs are mounted shoulder-to-shoulder along the long axis, above a lightweight aluminum crankshaft.  This arrangement allows for a narrow vehicle, to best slice through the wind.  The crankshaft transmits the power generated by our four pistons through an adapted motorcycle transmission to the XX4's two rear wheels."

"Watch as Miss Myles goes through a stroke, and you can see the advantages of positioning her as we have.  Being secured to the frame at her shoulders, instead of being placed in a seat, allows her to apply the muscles of her back and abdomen to swing her legs forward and back.  While the downward leg-thrust is still the most powerful segment of the cycle we get much more total power per revolution than in, for example, a recumbent bicycle design, where the muscles above the hips are not able to contribute very much.  The superiority of this arrangement was one of the discoveries we made during our year of experimentation."

The plastic body harness was flexible through the midsection, allowing the girl to bend her torso to and fro as her feet went round in their little circle.  This not only allowed her tummy and back muscles to work, but also freed her hips to align with the up-and-down strokes of her legs, increasing their power.  Mark watched as the crankshaft rotated, and the female piston's prominent abdominals alternately tightened and relaxed while her torso curled forward and back.  It appeared that Brandon's arrangement did indeed utilize every possible muscle to its utmost.

But Mark also noticed how the girl's prolonged training in this one, strictly limited motion had reshaped her body from that of a typical well-balanced athlete.  Where they were visible above and below her padded plastic belt, her rippling stomach muscles looked like a body builder's; her quads and calves were huge and sharply defined.  But Brandon had focused her exercise monomaniacally on the muscle groups necessary for her new role as a piston in his engine.  Meanwhile the muscles along the sides of the girl's torso, hips, and thighs had atrophied with disuse, so that her figure was oddly narrowed.  Adding to this effect was her almost complete lack of body fat: even her modest breasts hung flaccid on her chest.

In her specialized role, the remodeled Karissa Myles certainly appeared to be very powerful.  But for all its strength her new body appeared not so much athletic as vaguely...non-human.

"Once we'd acquired a well-matched set of suitable females and designed an appropriate arrangement for them, the main problem we faced was getting them all to work together in close synchronization.  It helped that the girls had been trained to work in concert and at a precise pace.  But in a rowing shell they all pulled together; in the XX4 the FPUs would work in sequence.  We knew all along that the key would be computer control, but getting the details right required more experimentation."

The screen now showed images of a brown-haired rower, armless and clad only in a pair of hi-rise latex panties, strapped into the padded seat of a type of exercise machine.  Her feet were raised in a pair of pedals, and wires dangled from points all over her legs and abdomen.  While lights flashed on a machine in the background, her legs pumped jerkily against the pedals.  Her movements were spasmodic and uneven; she looked as though she were in the grip of a seizure rather than exercising.  Like all the clips this one was soundless, but the pinched face, gaping mouth, and straining muscles along her throat suggested that this had been a noisy session.

"First we tried direct control of their key muscle groups, by means of electrodes implanted under the skin.  But we found that the nervous system of a trained athlete is much more efficient and subtle in controlling its own movements than any artificial system we could devise.  So we redesigned the computer system in the XX4, which we call the governor, to guide the FPUs' efforts rather than control them directly.  We removed the implanted electrodes and replaced them with the adhesive pads you see decorating Miss Myles.  Each FPU is wired with about four dozen of these electrodes, which have two functions: the white pads monitor the exertion of individual muscles, while the red ones administer mild to moderate shocks as necessary to correct errors in form or timing."

A scene similar to the previous one played on the screen, though there had been changes to the electronic equipment and wiring.  A mouth-filling air cleaner had appeared in the girl's mouth.  Her motions on the machine were much smoother now, as she pressed the heavy iron weights up and down in a steady rhythm.

"The other key input for the governor comes from pressure sensors located in the FPU's foot pedals.  These sense the amount of force she's applying at each point in her stroke, information that the system uses to determine where, when, and how powerfully to encourage her efforts.  In its final version the XX4's drive governor is a highly flexible and efficient control system that we feel can extract nearly every ounce of power that our FPUs are able to produce.  Elite competitive athletes, like Miss Myles here, are often headstrong and can be difficult subjects for traditional pony training,  But the electronic governor quickly proved irresistible.  Within a few weeks, the early portion of which was devoted to fine tuning the system, the four FPUs were developing good individual form while beginning to work well in sequence."

The screen showed all four harnessed piston-girls together - each varying slightly in features and coloration, but closely matched in stature and unnatural physique - and suspended in a row above a turning crankshaft.  Their legs pumped in sequence as they drove a flywheel connected to a device that measured their output of power.  On the control panel gauges jumped and lights flashed red and green.

"After eighteen months of rigorous training on the final version of the XX4, the FPUs were able to maintain proper form at very high levels of stress, while we could control their pace with a precision of 1/4 of a revolution per minute.  It was time to take the XX4 out of the training hangar and into the field.  For our speed trials I chose the dry lakebed of Takungaya, in East Africa.  The hard flat terrain was ideal for our purposes, and the remote location promised fewer security headaches than more familiar sites such as Bonneville...."

"Unnhhh ....aah.....Oh, that's a good girl, Candy.  You're daddy's good girl."

"Gulp......hee hee!"   The happy couple seated behind Mark interrupted again, the male voice lowered out of consideration for the rest of the audience but the pink bimbo as loud and grating as ever.  "Thank you daddy...thhhppp... Can we fuck now?"

"No, I'm still watching the movie.  Stay down there, put it back in your mouth.  No sucking, just hold it in those big, pretty lips daddy bought you....Yes, that's it, that's a good girl.  Now be patient and we'll go see the ponies soon."  With his bimbo pacified, the man raised his voice slightly in general apology: "Sorry, gentlemen."

While this exchange had gone on the theater's screen had been displaying images of Brandon's team unloading their equipment from a trio of cargo planes at the site of their record attempt.  A time lapse sequence showed a village of white tents springing up in seconds, and the assembly of the XX4.  The crankshaft, piston-frames, and running gear were carried in a lightweight chassis of bright aluminum beams.  An inclined plastic seat and some control equipment were hung at one end, between two of the man-high, delicately thin spoked wheels.  After the four naked, harnessed pistons were mounted, a fairing of aluminized mylar stretched over a gossamer frame of black tubes was lowered over the whole contraption.  The featureless silver teardrop from the film's opening moments had returned.

As the commotion behind Mark died down, Brandon's voice could be heard again.  "With its narrow wheelbase and large side profile the XX4 is very sensitive to crosswinds, so we made our runs at dawn when the desert air was quietest."

The images on the screen now shifted quickly, between views obtained from several cameras both inside and outside the experimental vehicle.  Mark was surprised to see that once the sky brightened, the silver mylar skin appeared transparent from within.  The impression from inside the craft was of an open, skeletal structure gliding windlessly across the barren landscape, which was dimmed as though viewed through sunglasses.  This property of the mylar, Mark realized, made a clear windshield for the driver unnecessary.

Mark lost track of Brandon's narration for a while, as he marvelled at the images of the former ponymaster's machine in operation.  In a view looking back from behind the driver's head the interior of the cramped vehicle seethed with activity as legs pumped, the crankshaft turned  and wheels spun while wires and hoses bounced in time with the motion of the four hard-working pistons.

By her blonde buzz cut Karissa Myles could be identified in the position immediately behind the driver.  The FPUs crowded shoulder-to-shoulder behind her were darker haired, but their similarly trained bodies were virtually indistinguishable from one another.  Their faces, mostly hidden by plastic straps and blackened goggles over their eyes, were all in a row facing to the driver's right.  The FPUs' heads barely moved with their efforts, being held securely in position by the heavy elastic straps that stretched from above their ears to the uppermost frame member an inch above their crowns.  At full extension their toes were scant inches from the ground that slipped past the transparent floor of the XX4, and when their legs bent on the upward stroke their knees and heels almost brushed the tissue-thin skin of the narrow craft.  Fastened to the frames here and there were black boxes upon which LEDs glowed green or flashed red, and small gas bottles from which thin plastic tubes ran to fittings on the FPUs' air cleaners.  Other tubes led directly up their noses.

The external views of the sleek silver craft gliding across the eerie terrain contrasted starkly with the furious activity inside its cramped interior.  It took several shifts back and forth between the cameras for a viewer to accept that they presented simultaneous views of the same vehicle.

"Finally..." the word brought Mark's attention back to Brandon's narration.  "We worked out these inevitable teething problems and were ready for the event that we'd been working toward for three years: the official speed trial, timed by representatives of the Society Records Committee..."

The XX4 sat motionless under a colorful dawn sky.  Through the vehicle's transparent skin a camera looked over the driver's shoulder and out at the surreal vista.  In the far distance the flat white lakebed met the descending ranks of craggy dark peaks; in the foreground the driver's hands could be seen anxiously gripping the narrow handlebars that steered his ship.  The thin black tube that defined the craft's leading edge appeared as a vertical bar dividing the distant horizon.

"Tire pressure.....check.....guidance.....check.....governor.....check.....FPU vitals..... check, starting O2 ...."  The words passed between the XX4 and its support team via radio.  The raspy electronicized voice of the driver could be recognized as that of Pritchard Brandon.  While he worked through the checklist with his support team his gloved hands could be seen touching buttons on two small panels that hung before him.  The one on the right included a small LCD screen that displayed four animated blips, a graphic representation of the four hearts that beat in harness a few feet behind his head.

"OK, Mr. Brandon, you're go for the timed run.  Good luck!......Thanks! OK, throttle up ..."  Brandon's right hand twisted the grip of his handlebar.  The view forward from the driver's seat shrank into a corner of the screen, most of which was taken over by the interior view looking\back down the row of FPUs.

Red LEDs flashed throughout the engine compartment and with slight bucks in their harnesses the four pistons pressed on their pedals.  The blonde in the lead position started with a slow downstroke, while those behind her began by raising their feet or swinging them forward or back.  As their pace built over several revolutions Mark saw that the pistons fired in a 1-3-2-4 sequence, with their crank angles varied by ninety degrees so that one was always pressing downwards in the most powerful segment of her cycle.  Just as the last piston in line was reaching full extension and swinging her feet backwards, the leader was beginning another downward stroke.

"10km per hour...Tracking straight, running smooth..... Great, looking good at our end, you are 3.9km to mark 1..."

Brandon called out the building speed in 10-kilometer-per-hour increments while his support team chattered back with technical jargon and distance-to-goal.  In the theater the audience could see when the driver shifted gears, as the pace of pumping knees and thrusting hips behind him built gradually from slow to frenetic then dropped suddenly, only to immediately begin building again.  All the while the machine's big skinny wheels spun faster and faster, until the smooth lakebed below was blurred by speed.

A second small image appeared at another corner of the screen, showing an external view of the silver apparition sliding across the desolate landscape.

"50kph.....3.2 to mark, on schedule, on the ball..."

Wires and hoses flopped inside the XX4 as the spindly-framed craft shuddered when Brandon upshifted again, and his pistons' pace dropped from 80 rpm to 40 before slowly building again.

"70 -  FPU rates coming up..."   On his monitor the four blips wiggled excitedly; behind him in the engine room a sheen of perspiration had appeared on the pumping legs and flexing torsos.

"Still well within the green.  Acceleration on schedule..................80kph....2.4km to mark..............90......2.1 to mark 1 and on the ball - we're keeping an eye on Number Two, sir, she's coming up a little fast...."

Except for brief red flashes during the gear shifts the dozens of LEDs in the FPU compartment had glowed almost solid green since shortly after the run had started.  Now several of the tiny lamps began to flicker.  On the driver's monitor the number next to the second dancing blip had increased to 144.  Brandon shifted gears one more time.  In the external view the flat lakebed blurred into a seamless white carpet beneath the shining craft; a slight shimmer of wind played across its delicate skin.

"I see it, it's OK, she's always the jumpy one....coming up on a round number, gentlemen - there it is, 100, running smooth and tracking straight.....100 kilometers per hour at 1.4km to mark, square on the ball.....Call out 1.0 to mark....Yes, sir.......106 - I seem to recall that's an important number?.....Yes, congratulations Mr. Brandon, the XX4 now holds the unofficial record for female-powered speed....Unofficial, eh? Give me two more minutes and...Excuse me sir, you're 1.0 to mark 1....Right, going to afterburners..."

Brandon's voice had risen with his excitement.  Now his left hand reached up and punched a button.  Behind him an LED flashed on the regulator of a small gas bottle.

"Sir, the surgeon is advising against the boost for this run, says Number Two is running hot....Thank him for his advice, John, we're going to make every run as though it were our last..."

Seconds after Brandon opened the remote valve, all four heart rates on his monitor jumped.  The second number on his screen rose to 172 and glowed yellow.  Behind him a few of the LEDs nearest the second churning FPU began to flash red, while green lamps flickered up and down the line.

"Wow, what a kick in the pants, the girls really love that stuff -110kph.....0.9 to mark.............120...0.7 and on the ball..............................130....0.4 on the ball.............................140 .....0.1, and - you're on the clock!"

The black line across the desert that marked where the official time began to run was barely visible as it flashed beneath the speeding XX4.  In the silver machine's engine room the four pistons strained furiously against their pedals, flinging drops of sweat against the transparent walls of their craft as each pair of knees rose and fell almost one and a half times per second.  Red LEDs flickered up and down the line now, as the electronic governor administered its targeted shocks liberally in an attempt to keep the FPUs in proper form at this unsustainable level of exertion.  The numbers on the little monitor read 175, 195, 180, 184, all yellow with the second figure flashing into the red.

"145!.....0.6 to mark 2, Number Two is in the red at 201, sir.....I see it, dammit, come on, come on!  150kph!..... Copy your one-fifty, and - you're through the timed run at an average of 144 kilometers per hour.  A new record by almost 40, Mr. Brandon!"

A second black line had flashed below the XX4's spinning wheels.  But Brandon's right hand did not relax its grip on the throttle.

"I say again, sir, you're through the timed portion at 144."

"She's still accelerating, John, they have more..."

The engine room of the XX4 was a blur of writhing forms and flashing lights, mostly red now, all seen through a lens that had begun to fog from the steam that rose from the four churning bodies.  In the external view the silver skin of the craft began to ripple with vibrations.

"Sir, FPUs Three and Four are in the red at 200 and 198, Number Two is at 212 and her output is dropping - the surgeon advises in the strongest terms to shut down now."

There was a pause in the audio while the XX4 continued to hurtle forward.  Then Brandon reached up and began flicking switches.

"Copy that, boost off, throttle down, clutch open." Amidst flashes of red light the wild exertions behind him slowed quickly to an idling pace of 30 revolutions per minute, while the XX4 continued to roll along under its own momentum.  For a moment Brandon's voice carried a note of dissatisfaction, but he brightened quickly.  "Did you say 144 officially?  I had a flash here of 153 but I think that was after we were completely through the timed run.  We need a longer run-up before we hit the timer, John.  We have to do this again tomorrow with a 5km run-up, maybe 6."

"Very good sir.  The surgeon wants you to keep flowing O2 and roll in as soon as possible, he's concerned that Number Two is still irregular."  On Brandon's monitor all the numbers had dropped back into the yellow except for the second figure, which flashed red as it jumped from 203 to 120 to 180.

"OK, coming home."   Brandon turned has handlebars gently to the right, and the XX4 coasted through a slow, sweeping turn back to the base camp.  Then the trio of images faded out, replaced by images of Brandon being helped out of his cramped cockpit and congratulated under a blue desert sky.  Behind him crewmembers rushed about tending to his machine, and its engine.  Brandon's narration resumed while the celebrations continued on the screen.

"In the XX4's first officially timed run we bettered the previous female speed record, set by an American cyclist, by nearly forty percent.  And we proved we can go even faster.  But unfortunately this was to be the only officially timed run we made during this visit to Lake Takungaya.  Our team surgeon advised that the FPUs needed a minimum of 72 hours to recover from their efforts before making another attempt.  While they rested the weather changed, the breeze picking up to speeds that made our afternoons in the desert more comfortable, but might have proved fatal in the light and narrow XX4 at over 150 km/h.  We waited several more days for the weather to change again but at last other commitments forced us to break camp for the season."

"But we continue to tune our machine, and train its pistons, and will return next year to apply what we've learned and push our mark even higher.  I think the next news you hear of the XX4 may be that it has achieved an official speed of 161 km/h over a measured kilometer, which for our American friends means one hundred miles per hour."

The triumphant scenes from Africa faded out to be replaced by Brandon again in the cavernous shop, surrounded by what could now be recognized as components of the XX4.

"Thank you for joining me! I hope you enjoyed our little presentation.  If you see me out in the paddock or about the Expo booths, please say hello.  Now, please exit via the side curtains, where you can get a closer look at Miss Myles and those bits and pieces of the XX4 that we were able to bring along.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the Expo!"  At last the image of the famous entrepreneur faded to black, and a few white-lettered credits flickered across the screen before the house lights brightened.

With a murmur and scattered claps the audience rose and moved toward the harnessed FPU, and the wheel she turned.  Slowly they filed past on their way out of the tent, gawking at the heavily modified woman and the carefully engineered apparatus of which she was a component.  Now and then a face would glance down at photos and other relics of the African adventure, of which Brandon had made a little display.  Mark hung back near his seat, waiting for the crowd to thin out so he could get an unrushed look at the live portion of the exhibit.

"Oh, that poor girl," Candy the bimbo said with apparent empathy as her escort towed her past the FPU.  "They haven't made her pretty and she doesn't look happy at all.  I wonder when she gets to fuck?  That always makes me happy."

"I don't know that she does, Candy," the slut's companion replied.  "That's not her job."

"No fucking?  But, that'd be awful!  You'd never give me a job like that, would you daddy?"

"Hmmmm, you're a tall, fit girl - you'd probably make a fine FPU..."

"No, daddy!" Candy squealed, her overfilled tits bobbing as she stopped short and raised a hand to her puffy lips in fright.  "Please don't tease me!"

"Well, as long as you're a good girl we won't talk about it anymore.  Just remember, you're a very lucky girl.  Some girls don't have it nearly as good."

"Oh, I know, daddy, I know....and I'll be good, you'll see."  Smiling again, the FPU already forgotten, Candy slipped her hand down her man's trouser front as he guided her out of the tent with a hand on her bottom.

When the last of the audience had filed out Mark stepped forward to examine the FPU at close range.  The Brandon Industries employee who'd first appeared opening the curtain was making some checks and adjustments of her harness and wiring.  He was a slim, crew-cut man in his twenties, dressed in khaki trousers and a white polo shirt that bore the "BI" logo.  While he worked the FPU continued her steady, powerful stroke, and the flywheel went on spinning.

"Brandon makes it sound like it's all fun and glory," Mark opened, "but there must be some real headaches with taking care of a female in this condition."

"Oh, it's not too bad," the man replied in an easy drawl.  "At first you had to watch their feet, with some of them.  A kick from one of these gals could break your leg!  But we don't get much trouble anymore, they're pretty well tamed."

"What about hygiene?  Any special concerns?"

"Well, they're not exactly low maintenance, but Mr. Brandon and his people have come up with some things that make a groom's life easier.  The FPUs have all been plumbed so there aren't usually any messes to clean up - we just drain and purge 'em on a regular schedule."  Looking down Mark noted a white plastic fitting that protruded just below the FPU's rhythmically flexing butt cheeks.  "Monthlies are no problem, because the FPUs have all been spayed."

"We had kind of a funny problem in that area with one of the other units - Number Three I think it was."  The groom grinned as he recalled the story, warming to Mark as he recognized the sincere interest this visitor showed in his duties.  "It seemed like she was gettin' off on her crotch strap.  At high revs she would get all gooey down there, and sometimes on long runs her breathin' would get out of rhythm and her power output drop way off.  It's somethin' I'd seen before in cart ponies but we were a little surprised to run into it on the XX4.  She was a good worker otherwise, though, so when the Doc came to take their babymakers Mr. Brandon said just get rid of all that stuff.  Lips, clits, tunnels - Doc just trimmed all that out.  Then before he sealed 'em up he stuck plastic props up inside there, these white bottle-shaped things, to fill in some of the empty space.  Ran their pee out through their butts so we only have one fitting to worry about for their daily purge."

"Doc took care of all the FPUs that way, not just Number Three.  Mr. Brandon is always keen on preventin' problems before they pop up, and we shaved about twenty pounds off the total weight of the XX4.  The honchos in the rules committee said they didn't need those bits anyway - as long as the FPUs have the two X genes they count as females for the record.  I'd show you where this one's pussy used to be if that crotch strap wasn't carryin' half her weight - she's smooth as a doll down there, just a white scar about six inches long."

Mark raised his eyebrows and nodded at Brandon's ingenuity.

"Once their bottoms are fixed and plumbed," the groom continued, "the mouth is really the biggest worry.  I've seen bad tooth problems and worse in pony-mouths, and even before it gets to that point they can get to smellin' awful.  Mr. Brandon solved all that with a new gag setup."  He reached up and with a twist popped off the FPU's air cleaner, giving Mark a view of the mouth-stopper underneath.  It was tan plastic, most of its diameter taken up by a round hole through which air rushed alternately in and out.

"He fixed the biggest cause of trouble by havin' all their teeth pulled.  Then before their gums closed Doc planted a couple of stainless steel pins in the tooth sockets, that hold the lower jaw at just the right distance from the upper.  You don't want to give a pony - or an FPU - too big of a gag, you know.  If you push the lower jaw down too far you pinch the windpipe.  The pins are in for good, but this plastic mouthpiece you see gets popped out once a month for cleanin'.  If you could see the whole thing it'd be two parts: there's this big curved flange that fits behind the lips and then a tube that slides back between the jaw pins and on top of the tongue.  After her monthly cleanin' the mouthpiece goes back in, and we inject some expandin' foam that fills her mouth up real good around it so we get a good seal, and there's no room for microbes or whatever to grow.  See, you can see some of it pokin' out here..."  The groom peeled back the FPU's lip to reveal some of the orange-yellow stuff, like soft foam-rubber, that puffed out her cheeks.  "The foam has some kind of antiseptic mixed into it, Doc says.  Whatever, it does a great job with the germs - we haven't had any problems with infections or even odors since we started using it.  Can't speak for the taste, though."

"It's important to have a good seal?"  As a true pony buff, Mark was relishing the detailed information.

"Oh, yeah, we have to have a good seal so we can control her breathin'.  If you take a look you can see her nose is plugged, too." Mark bent close, putting his head above the FPU's pumping knees.  Looking up he saw a pair of rubber stoppers in her nostrils, from which dissimilar steel fittings projected.  "Mr. Brandon figured out with his experiments that proper breathin' is a big deal if you want to get top power out of an FPU.  The valve on the air cleaner is run by the computer and only lets her inhale durin' the right part of her stroke, when she's pickin' up her feet.  Of course we had to plug up her nose if the valve over her mouth was gonna do any good.  While we were there we figured we'd do the pluggin' with somethin' useful."

"That fittin' to the left is her feedin' tube, and the other one to the right we call the nazo port.  They come in real handy.  I've had ponies refuse food sometimes in trainin', but with these FPUs it's never been a problem.  At feedin' time we measure out their rations of calories and protein, and just pump it right in.  They get five meals a day, to get the calories they need without buildin' up fat.  The nazo port we use for squirtin' in supplements, and medicines, when we have to."

Mark nodded again, as he wondered to himself what "supplement" had been squirted up the FPUs' noses during their record-setting speed trial.  "How do you keep them when they're not working or training?  Do you leave them in those harnesses all the time?"

"No, not 24/7, but they can hang in the frames for a long while.  When we were at Takungaya we kept 'em in harness for almost a week at one stretch, waitin' for the weather to break though it never did.  When the shell is off the XX4 we can rotate the FPUs a bit so their weight is carried at different spots, and they don't get clots.  Number One here is goin' to stay in harness for the whole five days of the Expo, until we get back to Mr. Brandon's.  At the stable when they're not trainin' they go into their bunks, we call 'em.  Padded boxes - I guess they look sorta like coffins - but they're plumbed for air.  The bunks are big enough for them to bend a little and roll over, but not thrash so much that they can hurt themselves.  But you know, I could yap about our gals all day but I have a couple of things to tend to before the next show..."

"Sure, don't let me keep you.  She's really something, and you obviously keep her in fine condition.  Thanks for your time!"  Reattaching the air cleaner the groom thanked Mark in return and went off to work with the projector.

Mark moved his eyes slowly up the figure of the FPU now, taking one last look at the details of her harness and altered body.  The rubbery black straps around her feet pressed deeply into her heel and instep, embedded over the course of uncounted hours spent driving Brandon's machines.  Between the dozens of adhesive electrodes that governed her movement the FPU's lower body and legs were marked with tiny white scars, souvenirs of Brandon's experiments with electronic control of her muscles.  Looking at the padded crotch strap and waist belt Mark wondered if the empty plastic bottle that had replaced her female organs still caused her pain, as it pressed back and forth inside her when her tightly muscled abdomen curled forward and back with each turn of the crank.  As he considered the shapeless, dangling sacs that might once have been C-cup tits, Mark noted small scars at the front of the FPU's armpits.  Her breasts, he realized, had been liposuctioned, their soft filling pumped out to save another pound or two of weight.

Finally his gaze rose past the chrome air cleaner that hid the mouth stuffed with bitter antiseptic foam, and above the plugged nose that would never again smell a fresh breeze off the sea.  At last he looked into the dark-rimmed eyes of Female Power Unit # 1.

Her rhythm on the machine had not wavered while the groom had poked and probed her, turning the heavy flywheel at a steady 30 rpm while the two had discussed the cruelties that had been inflicted upon her as though she were senseless, or inanimate.  Now, with the groom absent, the former Karissa Myles - college student, champion athlete and Olympic hopeful - stared back at Mark with eyes that spoke what her mouth never would.  She reached out to him with a piteous expression that combined pleading with abject despair.

Mark had seen that look before: desperate slaves sometimes confused the intense interest he displayed in their situations with concern, or even pity.  He had seen that expression often enough in the eyes of ungagged females to know what words went with it.

"Please," said the eyes of the Fastest Woman in the World.  " Please kill me."

Mark answered with a smile, and an encouraging pat on her rock-hard buttock as he stepped past her and out of the tent.  The paddock was bustling now with preparations for the pony parade, and he wanted to see how some of the participants were harnessed before the procession began.

In the tent behind him the big wheel spun on.




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