Nusquam

by Chris Bellows

  Yes, with no sexual proclivities, no masochistic drive... lacking the insatiable urge to submit to the power of a superior, it will be straight to the pump house for Mike Muskrat Mansfield... no member finding joy in tormenting. But not before being defanged... declawed... and degloved.

  At least he’ll keep his balls, Kelly mentally shrugs. Castration, the fate of most of the male subjugants, is deemed counter to obtaining a long day of physically exhausting labor, pulling with vigor to rotate the huge heavy capstans which turn the generators. Electricity is so ironically offered for the visiting members... generated by the sweat of slave labor.

  The pump house, so named because the original apparatus worked the pumps to clear water from the ancient silver mine below, has been converted. No more mules plodding in endless circles. It is now human toil... the final role to be fulfilled by subjugants no longer found desirable for sexual servitude.

  Unfortunately, there are never enough naked shackled bodies. Thus the recruitment of the likes of Muskrat Mike, a miscreant the world will not miss... but for the U.S. Marshals service.

  ‘I’d like to personally deglove him,’ Kelly’s mind distracting. Having read of his crimes, his victims the old, the feeble, those least able to afford dealing with the unctuous and unsavory Mike Muskrat Mansfield, she relishes the overdue comeuppance.

  Federal time is too soft for the likes of Mike Mansfield.

  Jotting down her last measurement, Kelly recalls the forlorn looks of males newly deprived of their overly sensitive penile flesh. Attempting to masturbate, their stroking hands fruitless... realizing for the first time that pleasure is of the past... there comes such a wondrous sense of capitulation... to a woman’s surgical hand... to face a life of sweat, suffering and the pain of the sjambok should a capstan slow.

  “So that’s it?” an incredulous Muskrat inquires, sliding a spare apartment key across a stained bar table.

  “To your new life,” Kelly counters with a toast,` joining the miscreant in a cheap glass of suds.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “I think girls like you not only enjoy the degradation, but the sense of ceding control brings a thrill... does it not?”

  It does, 128 long having acquiesced to the strange paraphilia of masochism. But she cannot reply. She lies supine, tongue swirling, lips glued to the magnificent steamy moist mons of noted movie actress Florence Gale.

  Cabin 7 is equipped to enthrall libertines such as Miss Florence, for she sits on a curiously crafted chair, seat open so that the Nusquam subjugant lying below can perform oral servitude. Though not one to offer the correcting pain of the sjambok, Miss Florence does demand that the hierarchy of Nusquam be respected, 128 finding her wrist bands secured to rings embedded left and right at the base of the chair, her ankle bands clipped to a spreader bar, forcing her to obscenely display her sex as she labors.

  Having ridden her bull stud, squeezing and twisting nipples and pectorals in the height of ecstasy, finally commanding the Cannon to fire, Miss Florence had Shannon impressively ejaculate to her verbal cue. She now mandates that128 cleanse. Thus the oral servant licks... tasting to find that the spendings are not only copious... but understandably deep as well... the hips and thighs thrusting to draw the huge thick phallus well within as Miss Florence offered a climactic shriek and paroxysmal squeeze of both her gripping hands and clenching buttocks.

  There came an interlude of afterglow after which 128 was released from her cage, drawn to the chair and restrained.

  “Shannon, let’s take a walk, shall we? 128 has not before seen the milking parlor, and I have this thing about having my girl let down for me. It’s decadently exciting.”

  With her words, 128’s tongue encounters more thick drooling essence, the flow forcing her to put aside her disgust and ingest.

  “Yes Miss Florence,” an obsequious Shannon agrees, his $6,000 per diem emolument well earned.

  Within moments, 128 senses the hot vaginal passage has been purged of sperm. Miss Florence silently concurs for she abruptly stands. Sight restored, 128 realizes that the bronzed bull stud has been quite proximate, observing her hairless cunny with masculine glee. Strangely she blushes. Well spread, she exhibits all and Miss Florence notes the level of male interest.

  “Sit yourself down, Shannon... while I dress,” she politely invites.

  128 is chagrined when the muscled form also utilizes the special chair, lowering to sit, scrotum and massive testicles draping over her face.

  “No coming, Shannon. That’s for me. She only gets seconds.”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  Shannon leans forward, hands lowering, fingers finding the nipples. Such instantly crinkle, the touch knowing, tender, yet controlling.

  “Always liked getting a salad toss... especially from sick little white girls,” Shannon shuffling to present his anus. “So you can taste a little more of me.”

  128, all too familiar with the vernacular, feels the fingers tighten on chaste sensitive nubs. Compliance demanded, she licks, the odor repulsive.

  “Yes, this is a special place, 128. Girls like you need Nusquam. A life of servitude,” the deep resonate voice soothing to counter the sense of disgust. “That feels real good. A well trained tongue. And I’m sure for you it brings both revulsion yet satiates a need... for degradation... just like Miss Florence says. Maybe the Cannon can return the favor. He’ll find your sphincter to be tight... but he’ll enter you... go nice and slow... open you... offer that feeling of capitulation you so much enjoy. I’ll take you deep. You’ll feel the Cannon in your tummy.”

  The words bring a brisance... would 128 submit to that?.. could she submit to that? the Cannon the largest she has seen.

  The thought brings apprehension and fear... but also intrigues. She curses herself... curses her need. She could be forced to submit to anal sodomy... or would it really be forced?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “You’ll feel better. And the lube is for your protection.”

  Florence Gale’s proclamations come as she clips a leash to the steel neck collar of 128. Wrist bands and elbow bands secured closely together behind her back, forcing her to thrust forward her sizable breasts, thigh bands connected with a short hobbling chain, 128 is shamed to have to agree. The sense of ownership and control indeed brings strange comfort.

  But the lube contrasts. Shannon the Cannon was relegated the duty of meticulously coating 128’s gluteal cleft, fingers recreating in penetrating her anus to assure globs of the gelatinous gel were pressed well within. To announce to all that her backside has been prepared for penetration, the slick lubricant was smeared about her buttocks, seeming to welcome sodomy from any passing Nusquam member. Thus, whereas the bondage and controlling leash bring the agreeable sense of power exchange... she giving... the preparation and indecorous gleaming cheeks bring dread... so many sodomy stanchions seeming to beckon.

  “No torn rectums at Nusquam,” Miss Florence reiterates. “On toes please.”

  She tugs. 128 finds she must daintily prance to follow and in lifting high the leash, it’s up on toes as desired, Master and dog departing Cabin 7.

  Shannon follows, and as 128 feels the squishiness of abundant lubrication between her cheeks she must wonder whether he will act on his threat, the sodomy stanchions many.

  “I have a girl who I must milk from time to time. Since I had her rendered to Nusquam, it’s a prerogative I cannot pass up. Cost me a small fortune to arrange her stay here. But revenge has its merits for a woman of my ilk... and I tend to revel in it. Besides the craving for big black cock, there is another of deep secret which the Hollywood tabloids must never uncover... this wrathful need to stifle competition and slake vengeance on those who challenge my career.”

  Miss Florence speaks as she leads, a firm hand communicating her authority with occasional quick tugs. Shannon follows, 128 having no doubt her gleaming buttocks a target of the Cannon.

  It’s a typical hot and sunny day in the tropics and with the nee
d to prance, hobbling chain mandating many short and seemingly dainty steps, 128 feels her pores open. Sweat exudes. Meanwhile she envies the stylish cool and flowing sarong, the beautiful woman enjoying a casual stroll. With an occasional wind the hem flips to reveal Miss Florence wears nothing beneath, the garment practical in terms of quickly and easily engaging in her so termed peccadillo... the need for Shannon and his Cannon... big black cock.

  Tiptoeing past a third sodomy stanchion, 128’s concern begins to dissipate. Miss Florence seems focused... a direct journey to the milking parlor. Within minutes, another unassuming structure is reached, nothing at Nusquam pretentious. In entering 128’s eyes widen, the scene decadently perverse.

  The interior of the simple cinder block building appears to be a laboratory, walls of white, floor tiled, wet and smelling of strong detergent. A Mastiff momentarily distracts in greeting, flaring nostrils immediately examining 128’s cunny for evidence of unauthorized masturbation. His hot breath excites, 128’s labia long neglected.

  Satisfied there has been no mischief, the hound withdraws allowing 128 to focus. Four female subjugants hang in suspension, naked, tatooed, bands of steels declaring their servitude, bald heads with the branded red letter ‘N’ prominently proclaiming ownership on the right buttock of the girl nearest the entryway.

  Each hangs face down from cables, most of their weight supported by a broad nylon strap at the hips and lower abdomen. Arms and legs folded behind, the wrist and ankle bands are secured high to slim cables to hold in a hog tie. Another cable attached to the back of the neck collar positions the face and head at waist level. A spreader bar, thigh band to thigh band, holds open the feminine portals, the ease of access daunting. A sizable tag dangles from each right ear. There is machinery. There is tubing, including feeding tubes cruelly thrust into the nostrils. 128 quickly understands the purpose of the bondage and equipment, for dangling obscenely, on one girl nearly to the floor, are massive mammary glands and bizarrely elongated nipples. Milking parlor indeed.

  “Good afternoon, Judy,” Miss Florence greets in a stentorian stage voice, leading to the third dangling form. “Or I suppose I should say 98,” her tone turning to mock in referencing the large black numerals on the tattooed forehead.

  The leash hand draws 128 to the woman’s front, allowing close observation. 98 at one time was pretty, 128 concludes. And though there are unsightly rolls of fat about the stomach, thighs and upturned calves, probably shapely as well.

  “Fuck you!” comes a terse response, the words barely discernible in being encumbered by the feeding tube.

  “My, my 98. Such an attitude. You detest my presence but you’re already letting down for me. You’re now trained to react to the sound of my voice... how sweet... how gratifying. You may curse my visit but your glands crave my attention. They’re always seeking a hand milking. From the woman you so much despise.”

  Indeed, 128 looks to see a rivulet of lactate streaming down a right nipple of many inches.

  “The girls are machine milked regularly,” Miss Florence explains. “The process is thorough, consistent and with the constant deluge of prolactin, lactose and other special nutrients, their daily yield grows and grows. But the suctioning can be harsh, teat cups tight on nipples quite sensitive. Thus the yearning for a slow soothing hand milking. It’s much preferred... and much denied. For her, it is only I who offers... much to 98’s chagrin.”

  A hand reaches forth. Thumb and forefinger squeeze the right nipple at the base then slowly draw downward to the tip, bringing forth a burst of beige liquid which splashes to the tile below. With the finger work comes another utterance, the word ‘bitch’. Miss Florence laughs wickedly.

  “Before rendered to Nusquam, Miss Judy Dupont was a talented and aspiring actress... and a very pretty girl with a disarming smile. We found ourselves constantly crossing paths in auditioning for roles. There was one I knew was perfect for me... and to my dismay she landed it. Seems she sucked the producer’s cock, no doubt smiling with charm, and well enough to be deemed a potential starlet. Unfortunately she disappeared from Hollywood before the first shooting. The director assumed she got cold feet and I got a call back. No cock sucking for me. I merely have talent. The role jump started what has become a very lucrative career.

  “The Nusquam fee was well worth the price. A life time of servitude for one of Hollywood’s most promising talents. Monetarily, it was a stretch at the time. Used the entire paycheck from my first film.”

  The left hand pinches the cheek of a well tethered 98, helplessly hanging in obvious fury and frustration.

  “You’ll not be snatching any more roles from me, Judy... unless there’s a part for a fat, tattooed branded girl who can lactate on demand, ha, ha, ha. You going to smile for me? Ha, ha, ha.”“

  One of Nusquam’s many tending white uniformed nurses appears from a small office.

  “Good afternoon Miss Gale. She’s not been milked today, as you requested. Would you like a basin?”

  “Oh yes. 98 so much enjoys providing for me... don’t you? Such a fertile cow.”

  The nurse moves to an opposing wall, gathering from a hook a stainless vessel of surprising size.

  “Shannon, why not offer Miss Judy a taste of the Cannon,” gesturing for her bronzed bull stud to step forth. “She so much enjoys sucking... and she’s been defanged,” Miss Florence points out to 128. “Standard procedure. She remains a little too feisty and biting is always a concern,” an index finger pressing past defenseless lips to thrust into the mouth of the human cow.

  “And now your smile disarms even more, Judy,” Miss Florence peeling back the lips to exhibit the edentulous pink of 98’s mouth.

  Miss Florence mockingly taps the girl’s nose, highlighting her helplessness.

  “Before we return to California I’ll leave behind a sample of Shannon’s seed. You’re probably due to be inseminated again in a few weeks. Have to keep these tits ready to let down for me,” Miss Florence withdrawing her hand as Shannon steps forth to offer his mammoth uncircumsized organ.

  “I have her impregnated regularly. Keeps her humble,” a gloating Miss Florence announces. “How many has it been now, 98? Three... four? It will be many more by the time you’re relegated to the pump house. Only then will you begin to shed all these rolls of fat,” the left hand reaching to cruelly grasp and tug at a thick layer of flesh.

  Ah the look of Schadenfreude, 128 notes. Miss Florence indeed enjoys her vengeance.

  “Sucking cock and being milked. It’s the perfect role for you. And you don’t have to act. Such a sense of gratification it must offer you...”

  The steel basin is placed on the floor. The nurse steps to a set of wall switches. With a press of her finger the cables clipped to 98’s ankle bands slowly rise. With another press the cable securing her neck collar lowers, placing the prostrate plumped form almost upside down, the huge breasts and elongated nipples dangling more prominently.

  128 becomes intrigued as Miss Florence hands the nurse her leash and moves to stand behind, the mammary glands now leaking profusely in anticipation of a hand milking. She positions a nearby stool and sits. Shannon grasps the bald head at the ears. The Cannon stiffens and thrusts forth past perfectly positioned lips. Miss Florence begins to deftly milk the cow-like udders, lactate spewing notably and pinging the basin below.

  She has before milked... and despite the many occasions her glee diminishes not.

  “Oh you so much enjoy producing for me Judy. And I like draining you. You hate me but find the need to give overwhelms. It’s all you have left in life... it’s now your only role.”

  Right, left, right, left, the fingers squeeze then drawn, squeeze then draw, slowly, tenderly, methodically. The spurts splash the basin with vigor. It steadily fills, the flow rate impressive. 98 moans. Despite the vehemence her reaction to the ecstasy of offering her essence cannot to be suppressed. The hate is apparent, but her need... to be emptied, the gentle draws and squeezes so welcomed... counters her
loathing. She has been conquered... and her breasts capitulate despite the desire to battle.

  “You see how nicely this calms them, 128? No more nasty words. The feisty aspiring actress Judy Dupont just dangles in her bonds, her energy depleting. I’m slowly draining her. She succumbs, a nice slow hand milking rare and very much appreciated.”

  Indeed, 128 notes looks of envy on the remaining herd of human cows. She also notes there hang unused cables supporting empty broad straps of nylon. She shudders, the restraints seeming to beckon.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  128 sits thighs parted, impaled, wrists held high. Did she sleep?

  Miss Florence Gale, having returned to Hollywood after a long weekend of riding both Shannon the Cannon and the cunnilingus chair, has released 128 from her temporary term of servitude. Thus during the day she is assigned again to the stables, grooming steed 88, spanking his balls, assuring that he is well exercised, his penis prepared to stand and amuse Miss Penny Osborne on her next visit. Nights, she is communally bound to be bathed, fed and bedded.

  128 hears the chamber of bound subjugants begin to stir. There comes the growing illumination of sunrise, another day at Nusquam to begin.

  Bladder filled, 128 knows she must withhold and wait her turn, a tending nurse to eventually grant permission, offering a collection vessel between her forcibly parted thighs and the humiliating assistance of a hand, splaying her labia to assure the morning deed is neatly performed.

  Though being bedded communally for many months, 128 still cannot acclimate herself to sleeping sitting upright. Eventually her head slumps and there come brief naps.

  Augmenting the slow and constant aggravation is the anal insertion. Just when her sphincter adapts, 128 finds her chair accommodating the next largest size. She began the nightly anal stretching with a modest black cylinder of rubber designated as a ‘No. 1’. Last night she found herself spreading and lowering to impale herself on a sizable ‘No. 6’.