by Ed Bemand
By the time he was a teenager he was obviously much more comfortable spending time around the livestock than he was other people. His parents were a little worried that he never showed any interest in being with people, that he never talked about his friends at school or wanted to spend time with anyone socially, but they rationalised to themselves he just happened to love animals a lot, and what could be wrong with that?
His puberty struck with the force that it hits most. He gained inches in height in what seemed like a matter of days. His complexion rapidly went to hell and he was constantly plagued with pubescent pustules that made his already less than handsome features a less than appealing proposition for even his parents to look upon for any length of time. He was an only child so this was his parents first experience of the force of hormones and grumpiness that a teenage boy could be since the days of their own adolescence, a time far enough away that it was hard for them to remember it with any accuracy. Where was he supposed to turn to for the guidance and stabilising influence that can only really come from the freedom of expression that starts in shared experience, when his only friends were livestock and the only people he regularly interacted with outside of school were his parents?
The brunt of the livestock on the farm were cattle. Roger had got in the habit of talking to them at a young age. He didn't think of them as being particularly profound conversationalists but they seemed to be good at listening and he felt like they didn't look at him oddly or judge him harshly, unlike most people that he dealt with.
He found it hard at school. Despite being in quite a rural area, there weren't many other children in the school whose families owned farms. Most of them were the offspring of profoundly middle class people who had decided that they had had enough of living in cities and preferred living some distance outside of them, while still being able to commute in to work when they had to. They were the kind of people that had suspiciously clean four wheel drive vehicles and designer wellingtons that they were concerned about getting muddy. They had plenty of money and believed in only providing the best for their offspring.
Roger's family weren't exactly poor, but they couldn't afford to spend what money they had on frivolous and unnecessary things. Their car was a few years old and perpetually caked in mud. Roger wore wellies most of the time when he was out and about on the farm and he was expressly forbidden by his mother from bringing them into the house. He had spent so much time around the smell of cows that he didn't even notice it any more. The other children in school did and they regularly teased him about it. Was it his fault that his clothes and possessions tended to smell of the things that he spent most of his life surrounded by? He had a range of unpleasant nicknames that the other children had given him. The most commonly used was "cow shit". He was a perpetually grubby youth, with caked dirt under his fingernails. Despite his mother's frequent commands that he wash, he never seemed to get properly clean.
The urges he started feeling were in and of themselves perfectly natural and normal for a boy his age. The methods he started developing to deal with them were less so. He knew he liked breasts and he found it very hard to not stare at those girls in his year that were starting to blossom. They, of course, had no interest in him what so ever. Is it surprising that he found himself looking at the animals that he considered his best friends rather differently than he had when he was younger? Even from an inexperienced and uneducated perspective, it was hard not to draw comparisons between the shapely bumps that were forming on the chests of the girls and the pendulous protuberances that swung beneath the bellies of the cows that he had seen so often being attached to the milking machines. His father welcomed his assistance in the daily task of milking the cattle. Roger found the process oddly erotic, slipping the engorged teat into the milking sleeve, then watching as the pumps sucked the milk out. His father did it all so matter of factly, efficiently dealing with them one after the other. The process looked so much like what Roger imagined sex was he couldn't stop himself from becoming aroused by it.
He had started playing with his cock when he was quite young. He just started doing it without even really thinking about what he was doing. As he got older his idle self manipulations became more focussed towards actual masturbation. Sometimes he would think about the girls he knew, or women he had seen on TV, but increasingly he found himself thinking about the milking sheds, the sound of the pumps as they sucked the milk out of the long teats.
Is it a surprise that inevitable foolish curiosity got the better of him and he endeavoured to experience the sensation more directly, by introducing his own young member into the apparatus? Though he had assisted his father in the task of milking the herd before on many occasions he had never been entrusted with doing so without supervision. The milking sleeve was a tight fit, but he was able to fit himself into it. He knew that the suction was powerful, would it be pleasant or painful? Morbid curiosity and desperation for satisfaction drove him to activate the machinery. The suction on his cock nearly made him cry out. He found it hard to imagine how the cows could stand to be attached to it for half an hour or more each day. His cock had been drained by the powerful pulsations within a couple of minutes, the contents of his scrotum was added to the remnants in the tanks, milky fluids combining together. He felt dazed. It wasn't easy freeing himself from the sleeve. He had to pull on himself much harder than was pleasant to break the suction. His cock was left sore and reddened from the rough treatment. He felt a growing sense of guilt at what he had done as the glow of orgasm dissipated.
It was a couple of months before he found himself tempted to do it again. He was masturbating at least once a day by this point. He didn’t feel like he had any control over it. His hormones were consuming him. Only in the moments afterwards when his libido was briefly sated did he feel like he was able to think clearly. The rest of the time his mind found itself wondering how soon he would be able to wank again.
In time, when his hormones stabled and puberty settled into adulthood, he was able to think about something other than wanking for more of his time. He had never excelled academically but he was reasonably intelligent. His parents steered him towards study that would be immediately useful to him for his long-term future on the farm, which was at least something that interested him and of course he continued to do his part looking after his family’s land. As the years passed, he increasingly became responsible for the day-to-day running of it. He was still shy around other people, but he knew enough to be polite and it didn’t seem to matter so much.
When he married it was to Amy, a nice, sensible, shy girl, the kind of girl who also loved animals and working outdoors and who wasn’t so fussy as to want to object to the inevitable amount of mud and manure that seemed to cling to his clothes and person, no matter how often he washed. He was able to accept the responsibilities of his family line easily enough. He had always loved his animals. They had always been a major part of his life. Now it was just easier for him to let them define it. He in time became father to several children of his own and if his marriage to Amy was seldom passionate or romantic they certainly shared a quiet, solid kind of love that proved with time to be enough when coupled with their shared duties and the support and companionship they offered each other. Even so, he never did stop finding himself being strangely aroused whenever he was alone in the milking shed.
Seventeen: Michael finds his true love in Isabelle
It can seem tragic, but it must be accepted that there are many for who it is very hard to find love. Even Roger had it fairly easy in the long run. His frustrations in his adolescence were something that he was able to forget about in later life. There are many people who find themselves going their whole lives without ever experiencing a moment of real intimacy with another human being, those for whom sex is something that becomes something alien and scary. Some of them may be alone through choice, preferring the reliability of their own company to the risks inherent upon allowing yourself to need someone else but for many it is
simply the way that things have turned out for them. Maybe they’re just too shy to be able to make the first move. Maybe they tried but it just never worked out for them.
Michael was convinced that he had found his true love in Isabelle. She was his perfect woman in almost every way. When he first saw her he was convinced that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her skin was so soft and smooth, her lips looked warm and inviting, her body was just right, as if the idea that he had held in his mind for so many years had been miraculously realised.
He had long ago resigned himself to spending the rest of his days alone. Women were something that he had just never managed to get anywhere with. It wasn't that he didn't like them. He just wasn't sure where to begin. What had been an embarrassment to him at twenty-five was just a numb fact of life to him at fifty.
He wasn't ugly. He wasn't a bad person. He tried to work hard. He wasn't sure why it was that he had never been close to anyone. He had had friends when he was younger but he seemed to have just lost touch with everyone that he had known somewhere along the line and not found anyone new to replace them with. For years it had just been him. His parents had died a long time ago and he was an only child. He had no family to speak of. Other than those with whom he had to share a few words in the course of his day, or the people he had to talk to in the office, he had no-one to talk to, and they were hardly people he was close to. He had just got used to being alone. He wasn't happy about it, but there didn't seem to be anything that he could do to change it. Sometimes he wanted to just tell people what he was thinking, to share what was on his mind. He wasn’t even sure how he would start if the chance arose. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a conversation that lasted longer than a scant few moments and even they were to fulfil a strict purpose.
That could all change now. He had Isabelle. She was his, what he had always wanted for as long as he could remember. He couldn't believe that after so long he was really this lucky. She was beautiful. Anyone would have had to agree with him. She looked barely older than twenty, suffused with that beautiful, tantalising mix of the girlish and the womanly. Her hair was long, lustrous and dark. Her deep blue eyes sent shivers through him. And she was smiling at him. He tried to resist the urge to stare at her but he couldn’t. His gaze roamed her, taking in the details of her lovely features, her slim figure and the way her clothes hung close to her body, accentuating her subtle curves. He couldn’t hide his open appreciation of her beauty, but she didn’t mind. He knew in that moment that he could tell her anything. Here was the women he had wanted for so long, someone that would understand him and accept him, someone that wouldn't mind that he got shy and nervous, wouldn't blame him for his mediocre job and life. Seeing her was almost enough to make him feel like the Universe could actually like him, rather than it being completely ignorant of his petty existence as he usually felt.
He wanted to take her to the best restaurants and have limousines and private boxes at the opera. She made him wish he could be better. She didn't even seem to mind that he couldn't do all the things that he told her he wanted to. She just smiled the same smile. When they made love he felt more complete than he ever had before. He was nervous about sex and wasn't sure that he knew enough about how to please her. She didn't seem to mind. He could tell her his fears, tell her that he was still a virgin when he met her and she didn’t judge him. It almost made it feel special, like they had each been saving themselves for the other. He was happy to spend hours exploring every minute detail of her body, his love growing the more he studied her. When he fucked her she felt wonderfully soft and yielding, her pussy the perfect home for his cock. When he was done he could collapse, spent and lie in her arms feeling safe and wanted. He was happy to just lie with her for hours. He never had to feel awkward or embarrassed about anything with her.
He wished that he could have found her sooner; wished that he could have even known that there was someone so good for him in his life. Maybe it would have made the years before seem easier if he had known she would be there for him eventually. Maybe it would have made it harder all those nights that he had felt scared and lonely if he had known how different it could be. He didn’t mind the rest of his life so much knowing that she would be there when he got home, all the petty irritations that surrounded and assailed him during the day lost their significance when he didn’t have to spend his evenings alone and fuming over them.
He didn’t mind that he had to do everything for her. Some part of him had always wanted to end up like this, with a beautiful woman relying on him, so dependent that she would never be able to even think about leaving him for someone else, someone better than him. Washing her or dressing her made him feel needed. He would happily do anything that she wanted. He loved her, and that was what love meant, wasn’t it?
He really wished that they could do all those things that he had missed out on doing through the years he had been alone. All the places he could have gone with someone like her, all the pleasures that they could have shared. He loved Isabelle, he really did, but he still wished that she was just that bit more than she was, that that soft skin that felt so good when he touched it wasn't made of latex, that her beautiful blue eyes weren't made of glass. That the heat he felt on her wasn't just his own radiating back at him. That she could walk and smile on her own. That she could talk. That she was real. No... she was real. It was just... if only she was more real. As a doll she was wonderful, but how much better could she have been if she was a real girl? He knew that he just wasn't that lucky. He loved Isabelle. He didn't blame her for what she was. He was just glad that he had her.
Was it bad that Michael found the love of his life in an inanimate construct with latex skin wrapped around a skeleton made of metal rods and joints, that he projected all his pent up passions onto an object that was a mere mannequin, a simulacra of womanhood? Unfortunate maybe, sad even, but not bad. Better that he had something. At least he wasn't alone. Isabelle may not be able to breathe or talk or move, but she would always be there for him. She would always be as she was for him. At least he didn’t have to feel alone any more. As he aged and decayed she would remain the same, his perfectly idealised representation of womanhood, the inanimate manifestation of the companion and life-mate that he had always longed for but never been able to find until he had been driven to pay someone to build her for him.
Eighteen: When Svetlana tried to settle down with one man
Yuri had laughed dirtily at Svetlana when she had re-entered the room. She thought that Grigoriov looked angry for a moment but he was trying to hide it. Was it her that he was angry at or Yuri? It wasn't like she had wanted their encounter to happen or even that she had had any choice in it.
She was surprised when at the end of the night, when all the other guests had left, Grigoriov didn't want her to stay. She had resigned herself to being expected to let him fuck her some hours ago. She was just glad that he didn't seem to want it to happen in public like all the other men did. The rest of the girls had ended up practically naked and all had been expected to service at least one man over the evening. Grigoriov hadn't seemed inclined to join in with that part of the entertainment. He had kissed her hand and said goodnight to her rather formally. There was an awkward moment. It was broken by the same man who had brought her here leading her outside to the waiting car. Despite the lateness of the hour Bochakov was still in his office when she was dropped off there. He greeted her warmly.
"Mr. Grigoriov has asked me to pass on his compliments for your company this evening. This certainly helps speed up your application process."
She nodded and tried to smile but she was feeling too tired to be sincere. He suggested that she go into the backroom and change back into her own clothes. She washed off the remnants of her makeup. Her own clothes felt rough and uncomfortable after the smoothness of the dress.
She was in a bit of a daze for the rest of her shift in the factory the following day. She hadn't had much sleep and was finding it ha
rd to stay awake. Her knife slipped on a particularly slimy fish and she cut her hand quite badly. She tried to stop the bleeding by tying a rag around her hand but it wasn't working. When her supervisor saw what she had done he shouted at her but told her to stop working. She went back to the bunkhouse. The cut looked deep when she washed it under the cold tap. She bandaged it as best she could but it continued to throb and she could see blood was still seeping through the fabric. She curled up in her bunk and slept for a few hours.
She was woken up by Bochakov's man. Still feeling rather dazed, she let him lead her out to his truck. She passed the drive dozing and holding her injured hand tightly.
"I understand you had a bit of an accident at work today."
"Yes." She held up her hand, still swathed in bandages torn from her clothes.
"Fortunately, Ivana has some skill in these matters."
She entered the room holding a first aid kit. She pulled a chair over so that it faced Svetlana. She delicately unwrapped the make-shift bandages, looking unimpressed by their none-too-clean state. She muttered something rude under her breath when she saw the wound. She cleaned the wound with alcohol that stung painfully. Svetlana tried not to flinch but it was impossible. Ivana looked more sympathetic than Svetlana had ever seen her and proceeded to carefully dress the wound.
"You will heal fine. At least the cut was clean."
"Thank you."
Ivana nodded to her, smiled slightly, then gathered together the first aid kit and left the room.
"Is better now." Bochakov spoke.
"Yes, thank you."
"Good. I think the men will prefer you when you are not bleeding on them."
She agreed with him and he stared at her in silence for a few minutes.
"You know little Svetlana, I have been wondering if perhaps it would be more appropriate for us to look again at the nature of your work. I think we would both agree that there are tasks to which you would be far better suited than the gutting of fish. No?"
