Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

The Doll Factory 9: Submission

by AmyAmy

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© Copyright 2010 - AmyAmy - Used by permission

Storycodes: Machine/f; F/f; D/s; latex; leather; bond; bdsm; susp; outdoors; petgirl; kennel; fantasy; cons/reluct; X

The Doll Factory 9: Submission AmyAmy Machine/f; F/f; D/s; latex; leather; bond; bdsm; susp; outdoors; petgirl; kennel; fantasy; cons/reluct; X continued from part 8

Part 9: Submission

I remember that I’m inside ADAM, slowly being remade. I don’t know why this time it’s taking so long. My previous changes took only a few minutes, and from what Jared was saying these should almost seem like a step backward. I also remember the whiteboard that he secretly allowed me to see that mentioned pushing Eve features back into Lil. Lil must be Lilith, their code for me, but what are Eve’s features?

The strange dreams of Kelly in the Doctor’s house seem intensely real, so detailed, and so often full of the ordinary day-to-day dullness that never appears in dreams. Perhaps it’s just that I have so much time available to dream in here. Inside ADAM my body doesn’t feel constrained or limited, in fact I’m barely aware it exists at all – the sense of arms, legs, head and body simply remains with me, little more than a promise really. I have no evidence they actually exist, though I know they must. I take it on trust, but what is the point if I simply dissolve away and never emerge from this?

After a while the dreams return. There are short interludes on a rugged island somewhere warm. I’m arriving by small boat. The smell of the sea is ever-present. An old monastery rises straight up from the cliffs. I know something is waiting for me inside, something I’ve been seeking all my life.

Inside the monastery they live a life that revolves around sex and rubber, a blend of ascetic abstinence and intense indulgence. I see naked girls, gagged, bound and displayed like ornaments. Black and white clad maids in rubber outfits and outrageous heels tip tap through the halls. There are courtyards where humans are kept like animals and rough tracks around the island where naked, leather-harnessed girls are used like ponies to drag traps and carts. Why would I dream of such a place? There are images and ideas here that I can’t believe have come from inside my head. Is ADAM placing them there? Why would he show me this?

My thoughts drift away from the island and I find myself back at the Doctor’s house. I’ve spent all night on the horse. My crotch is agony; my well paddled bum-cheeks are burning agony; my legs are agony; my arms have cramped up and feel like lead; my head is pounding; my bladder is bursting and my hands and feet feel soapy and waterlogged in puddles of long-standing cold sweat.

Susan is starting my day by photographing me with her big digital camera. It looks to be a very professional camera, but maybe I’m wrong: I’m happy enough with the pictures I get from my phone. The camera has a large flash, which leaves me with a stunned sensation, like a rabbit in the headlights.

“Smile for the camera Kelly,” she says. I do my best but I don’t feel very smiley.

When she’s done she leads me out of the dungeon, down a flight of the main staircase and into a huge windowless bathroom that I imagine sits directly beneath the dungeon room. Everything is glaring bright tiles and harsh lights. I squint or close my eyes: it’s too painful to look at.

She undresses me. There’s no fight or struggle to be found in me. I’m far too weak and exhausted to fight against her even if I had the will, which I doubt I ever had. I just want to pee, lie down, then curl up and sleep. I think the chances of that happening are slim.

The panties and their intruding plugs pop out of me. I feel empty, gaping, as if something is missing. It feels as if my bum hole hasn’t closed up and the wind is blowing up there. There are filthy traces of my shit on the plug. The inside of my rubber suit stinks so bad of sweat and body odor that I can’t smell anything else.

My fingers and feet are pink and raw, the dead skin all rubbed away. It feels like they’re burning when she exposes them to the air. I’m completely naked when she turns on a shower, sets it to hot and lets me stand underneath. I relish the sensation on my aching muscles but my sore bottom relishes it a lot less. From what I can see the damage isn’t half as bad as I thought it was.

“Clean yourself up Kelly,” she says. She’s standing watching, still taking the occasional photograph. There’s no screen on the shower. The entire floor is a drain and the area by the shower sloped enough to ensure the entire room doesn’t flood.

Susan is dressed in rubber today. She wears a cream blouse and a dark shirt with a long slit up the back. She has white rubber stockings and black pumps with a three-inch heel. She isn’t wearing gloves, which I wonder about momentarily. Her hair is, as always, perfect.

She brings out a massage table and sets to work on my aching muscles. I melt like chocolate under her skilful ministrations, hot towels and warm oil. It’s hard to keep awake, but whenever I start to doze she slaps me playfully my sensitive bottom. Her slaps may not be painful but they’re hard enough that the sharp stinging pain soon brings me back to earth.

She gives me a lot of water to drink, but no food. I’m painfully hungry but I know if she meant me to eat she’d have arranged it, asking her for something would only earn further punishment.

Next comes a sizeable and somewhat cool enema. The chill helps wake me up. She makes me take the bag and its stand over to the toilet. She photographs me while I squirm in pain from cramps. Then she takes more pictures as I release the valve and splurt a filthy mess into the toilet bowl. She makes me repeat the enema process two more times with more and warmer water. I feel emptied out, strained, purified and hollow.

I’m naked. She buckles a dog collar around my neck and attaches a leash which she uses to lead me downstairs.

One side of the house is a long gallery with a dark polished wooden floor. Along the side the wall is replaced with floor to ceiling windows and in places glass doors that open onto the garden. These aren’t fancy modern windows though, they’re old. The wooden frames are painted and repainted with layer after layer of white paint. The doors don’t fit exactly and a very noticeable cold draught blows through the gallery.

By the windows there are big pots suitable for small fruit-trees or something similar, but they are empty and somehow seem a little sad and abandoned. The wall opposite the window is hung with pretentiously opulent hangings that try a little too hard to be grand. There are a few pieces of antique furniture, decorated with what I take to be expensive plates or vases in silver or porcelain.

“Sit down Kelly,” says Susan.

She opens one of the ornate little cupboards and pulls out rolls of plastic-wrap.  She begins by bending my hand to touch my shoulder, then wraps it in place, each layer she adds tightening the bondage. She does the same to the other arm. I can wave my elbows helplessly in a chicken dance, but I can’t do much else. Once again I’m completely at her mercy with no significant effort on her part.

She rolls me onto my back and repeats the exercise with my legs, pressing my foot against my bottom and binding my calf to my thigh.

“Can you roll over on to your front?” She says.

I try. It’s not easy. I feel like a roach trapped on its back. Eventually, I get the hang of it.

“Now stand up on your knees and elbows,” she says.

I can do it, but it’s very uncomfortable, especially on the hard wooden floor which is not perfectly clean. Little grains of grit embed themselves painfully into my knees and elbows.

She walks off, leaving me in that position. I daren’t move. I simply wait for her to return. When she comes back she’s carrying an armful of slippery thick black rubber.

She helps me into the suit. The suit is heavy gauge rubber, not thin stretchy stuff like the suit from the yesterday. It doesn’t have much give and I have to fit it rather than it fitting me. It’s been tailored to suit my restricted position, with stumpy arms and legs that end in heavy padded rubber ‘paws’ to protect my knees and elbows.

The black rubber suit doesn’t enclose me completely. There’s an open crotch, like the suit I had on before and significantly, there are holes for my breasts. It hurts when Susan pulls them through the holds in the front, or should I say underside, of the suit. The holes are nowhere near big enough, and quickly trap the blood, making my poor boobs swell and purple. When my breasts swell up and start to turn slightly numb it is far from pleasant.

She zips me into a thick black rubber corset that cinches in my waist when she pulls the back laces tight closed. It’s heavy, flexible rubber that stretches as I breathe but exerts a continual nagging pressure.

The long nosed gas-mask hood she pulls over my head has been modified to contain a sort of mouthpiece that fills up my mouth as a very effective gag while still allowing me to breathe through it. My mouth is full of the taste of rubber. Each breath I take through my nose stinks of rubber. Though it’s cool, almost chilly on the gallery, my head soon begins to sweat under the hood, but of course I’m completely powerless to remove it.

“You look almost ready,” says Susan.

She finishes the ensemble with a pair of panties similar to yesterday, but this time the butt-plug is a size larger and on the outside adorned with a springy little tail. The panties have buckles that connect directly to the suit, securing the plug firmly in place. Even though I’m covered in heavy rubber, I feel strangely exposed and completely ridiculous as she takes more photographs.

“I was thinking of putting this photo sequence up on the internet as part of your punishment for that thing with the belt, but you’re such an exhibitionist I decided that it would hardly be any punishment at all for you,” she says. “I think I’ll hang on to them for now, maybe they’ll come in useful for something later.”

She yanks me leash and pulls me close.

“Come on puppy, let’s go walkies,” she says.

She stands up and heads for one of the doors out into the garden. I struggle to hobble along after her on my knees and elbows. We’re not even at the door yet and I’m already beat. The mask and the corset make me short of breath before I begin and just holding my body up is exhausting.

I can’t believe she’s going to take me outside. The garden has pretty good cover, but there are so many ways that somebody could see me. I almost get up the courage to try and stop her dragging me out through the door. In the end I’m more afraid of her than being seen, but only just.

She gets the door open and yanks on the leash pulling me outside. She takes me on a tour of the garden, dragging me along at the limit of my ability to move. After a minute I can barely keep myself from falling, let alone ‘walk’. She lets me stop by a tree.

“Come on now puppy, time to do your business. You are toilet trained like a good puppy aren’t you? If you pee inside I’m going to be very angry,” she says tapping her foot impatiently.

She wants me to pee outside? My bladder has filled up fast after drinking all that water but it feels so wrong to do this in her garden, on demand. I remember how it was impossible before when I was strapped into the plugged panties. I try anyway. When I let loose the spray of urine I don’t know how she’ll react. There seems to be some sort of channel built into the pants that allows me to pee freely. It also helps direct the flow away and backwards a little, but not sufficiently. Quite a lot of it goes down my ‘legs’ but there’s nothing I can do about it.

“There’s a good girl,” she says, and then she yanks the leash and practically drags me back inside.

Back in the gallery she pulls the door closed, and I take stock of the fact that a simple closed door can easily contain me, bound as I am. She unclips the leash.

“How long do you think I should keep you like this? Just today? How about a week? A month perhaps? Longer? I wonder how long it would take before you start to think it’s normal and become afraid of going back to acting like a person?” She makes a big play-act of pondering. “I think once you’ve learned to be a good puppy then I’ll consider a new game for you.”

What the hell happened to our, “just try it for a day or two” deal? It just clicked with me that I’m in already in this for keeps whether I like it or not, and she might just decide to keep me bound up like a dog for a year if it seems amusing to her.

I crawl forward to her foot and rub my head against it making little whimpering noises. I do my best to convey with every movement. “Please Mistress, don’t keep me as a dog.”

“Aww,” she says. “Does puppy want something? I know, I forgot your feed this morning, it must be that.”

She goes into the house closing the door behind her as she does so, keeping me here. There’s nothing for me to do so I lie down and try to get some rest. I’m sweating like crazy inside this suit after the workout of waddling around the garden. I almost fall asleep but after a few minutes the sweat turns to cold.

When she comes back she has two silver metal dog bowls with her. She puts them down in front of me. One has water in it. The other has something less pleasant looking, in fact, it looks a lot like dog food. She can’t seriously expect me to eat that? Of course, there had to be a reason she’d avoided giving me anything to eat up until now. I’m incredibly hungry. If she wants me to eat this stuff all she has to do is wait until I give in, which I’m pretty sure will happen in a day or two no matter how hard I try.

She pulls the hood off my head so I can eat. The stink of offal from the bowl of meat removes any doubt about it really being dog food.

“There you are puppy: din-dins,” she smiles, scratching me behind the ear.

I’m not sure what to do. Should I drink the water first and try and do without the food, or should I eat first and save the water to try and take the taste away. I screw up my courage and go for the latter course. It might be worth it, there’s always the chance that once I’m totally debased she’ll relent and move on to some inflicting some new indignity on me.

I hadn’t considered the practical difficulty of eating from a dog bowl while trying to balance on my elbows. After a couple of false starts I successfully manage to land some of the vile smelling stuff into my mouth. The texture is repellent but the taste is much less intense than I expected though it tastes pretty much like it smells. I swallow it down as fast as I can, bolting back mouthful after mouthful of something horrible in jelly. It gets all over my face and my chin. Bits of it get up my nose, and I know from experience that the rank dog food stink will be with me for the duration.

I gulp back the water which quickly becomes contaminated with pieces of floating food that have come off my face as I drink. The entire experience is gut-twistingly foul. Susan just sits there and smiles through it. Apparently, my debasement is giving her tremendous delight.

She gives my face a cursory wipe with a damp cloth and pulls my mask back on.

“You can stay in here until night time, but then you’ll have to go out: I don’t normally let dogs in the house at all,” she says.

She goes off to do something, leaving me trapped in the room. Despite the uncomfortable and awkward bondage I eventually fall asleep. Apparently, long-term sleep deprivation isn’t part of her plan after all.

I wake up when Susan pulls my hood off again. It’s nearly dark. She’s sitting on the floor next to me, naked apart from a white toweling bath-robe and a towel wrapped around her head. She smells of fruity bath products and fresh clean skin. She opens the robe and spreads her legs. To my surprise she has a bottle of raspberry sauce with her, the sort that people put on ice-creams. She squirts it all over her pierced and ringed sex.

“Come and get it puppy, licky, licky,” she says laughing. I know exactly what to do.

The sticky sauce helps to get the taste and stink of the dog-food out of my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever been so powerfully motivated to do a good job of oral sex. I am determined to absolutely anything to score enough points with her so that she’ll give up this horrible dog bondage game. I really, really want to get out of it before she gets bored and starts bringing in Alsatians to mount me or something equally nasty to raise the stakes. Even without such threats I’m desperate. My breasts are really sore from being bound this way and I’m worried that I’ll permanently lose sensation in them, or worse, get gangrene and die or something.

Susan gasps her relief as she orgasms from my eager sucking, licking and nibbling.

“What a licky puppy you are,” she says. “Time to get you ready for bed.”

She leaves me alone for a few more minutes and returns with new toys that I know I am certain not to enjoy.

She pushes a rubber covered ring-gag into my mouth and tighten up the strap. It locks pretty well behind my teeth and I don’t think I can push it out. She pulls a rubber hood with a kind of attached muzzle on the front over my head. It has fake sticky-up ears attached to it.

She clips the lead back on and takes me outside and around the corner of the house. There’s a garage with a car-port around this side. There’s an old-model black Porsche Boxster parked here; a little too much for a receptionist’s salary? There’s also a large kennel with a chain which she connects to my collar, removing the leash.

“You’ve got water in your bowl and your bed’s in the kennel,” she says. She adds, “Goodnight,” as she walks off leaving me chained outside in the darkening evening.

I spend a while staring longingly at the warm yellow lights of the house. Sometimes I see shadows move inside. Eventually, I crawl inside the kennel. There are blankets in a large basket and I manage to curl up in a way that makes sleep possible.

I wake up feeling freezing cold. It’s very dark and I can hear animals moving about outside – something big – I hope it’s just a possum. I try to squirm under the blankets to get warm but I can’t get back to sleep.

The next day she doesn’t even bother unchaining me from the kennel. She brings food in a bowl for breakfast. It’s left-over ‘human food’: brown-rice and tuna risotto. The only concession she makes is to remove the ring-gag. She puts the doggie hood back on. I guess I could scream for help if I thought there were any passersby, but I know exactly who would come running if I started making a noise. I’m afraid enough of what she might do to shut me up that I keep quiet apart from ‘in character’ dog noises, which seem to please her.

When she feeds me again in the afternoon it’s filthy dog-food again. It’s all I can do to keep it down after I swallow it.

I’m left to fend for myself, drinking from the bowl, which she refills from time to time and peeing in the bushes. I have about twenty-foot of chain and I can waddle about to inspect the area. I do it just to try and get the blood moving in my limbs, which I think might drop off if this goes on another day. I’m wracked with terrible cramps. My breasts have gone from numb to pins and needles to burning with pain. I do everything I can to get the blood moving in them too, even though it’s agony.

I spend another night outside, quietly weeping, full of self-pity. What have I got myself into? There’s no sexual excitement in this, I’m just a toy for her amusement. I’m pretty sure that much more of this sort of treatment is going to do me serious harm, or at least I’ll come down with some sort of infection.

The next morning she comes with the lead and takes me back into the house. She strips my clothes off and takes me up to the bathroom where the massage and enema routine is repeated. After the enema she takes me downstairs into a big living room that also serves as a sort of gym. There are various exercise machines and a big television. As if to cap off the cliché, the big television is showing rubber-lesbian-porn, though the sound is down.

Susan directs me to an exercise bike and tells me to do my best. I start pedaling as fast as I can without hesitation.

“How do you like being property Kelly?” She says.

“I’m sorry Mistress, but it is mainly quite uncomfortable and lonely,” I say.

“It wouldn’t be fair if I only showed you the fun side of it, now would it?” She says.

“Of course you are right Mistress,” I say.

“Would you like me to return you to the kennel after this Kelly?” She asks. What a horrible question. I can feel the trap closing in on me. The choices are the misery I know or something unknown. At least the unknown will be new, but I dread the bit where it turns out to be some kind of trick test that I’ve failed.

“Please, I would rather not return to the kennel Mistress, but I’m happy to do it if it’s the only way I can stay with you,” I say, always nervous of that trick test. I know how I’m supposed to talk to her, the Doctor taught me that much.

“You’re afraid I’ll send you away if you don’t want to go back?” She asks.

“Yes Mistress,” I say.

“I remember lying awake in that kennel, listening to the sounds of the night animals. Sometimes in winter it would be bitterly cold. When it’s like that you can’t sleep for most of the night, you have to exercise to keep warm. I literally thought I would freeze my tits off. This time of year it’s easy,” she says.

I keep my mouth shut and work as hard as I can at pedaling the bike. I don’t know when I’ll next get a chance to move my legs normally.

“Mistress Alex told me that in the spider cult they can dress in tight rubber day-in, day-out because the rubber is like a living skin. They can endure crippling restraints and bondage without any physical problems because they drink the nectar of the Goddess. They have so much nectar they can afford to drink it,” she says.

I have no idea what she’s on about.

“It sounds seductive. I begged my Mistress to let me go to them, but she wouldn’t let me. Eventually, I understood why, but she still has a tiny amount of the nectar that she took when she ran away. She gave me five injections of it seven years ago when I first became hers. It turned me into a true sex-slave, helpless in the face of unquenchable sexual arousal. I’ve barely aged since then but after seven years the effect has faded significantly,” she says.

Something about this clicks in my head. My mind flies back to Neogen and the failed immortality drug. I desperately want to ask her how they are connected. If the Doctor injected me with this nectar, not Neogen, then maybe I have a life ahead of me. Or maybe they’re the same thing?

“Mistress Alex said she gave you one very low-dose injection. There’s enough left for a full set of doses a little higher than she gave me. You would really appreciate your helplessness. It would probably add twenty years to your life and you’d almost never get sick, and even without me you would be a total slave to your own desires. You would have no hope of a normal life for at least a decade,” she says.

“Do you want me to inject you with the nectar Kelly? Remember though that if you choose to become mine I will probably inject you anyway,” she says.

How afraid am I of the injections? At least I know that something was put in me that made me crazy for sex and probably helped propel me down this path. Using more of it would be insanity wouldn’t it?

“Mistress, before I answer, may I know the connection between the nectar and the Neogen treatment?”

She gently puts a hand on my leg, stopping me pedaling, and helps me off the bike. My legs are a little wobbly and it still hurts to move my arms. I rub around the edges of my breasts, which are gradually recovering thanks to Susan’s massage oils and ointments.

“I think the company tried to make a synthetic copy of the nectar when Mistress Alex first came to them. She was eager to have a source of it, but the duplicate was a failure. I know she had something else that she took from the cult that she was absolutely convinced could be used to replicate the nectar properly, but the company are still working on understanding how to use it. I imagine one day they might manage to make a copy of the nectar without the fatal flaw,” she says.

“Mistress, is there anything else you know about this, anything at all? Even something minor that Mistress Alex might have alluded to in passing, for example about this other thing?” I ask desperately.

“I wish I could tell you more but that’s all I know, well, almost all… Mistress Alex used Neogen on me in a secret test of her own when she thought it would solve all her problems. Fortunately, it seemed that my previous exposure to the nectar made me immune to it. If I remember anything else I will let you know, but Mistress Alex was particularly clear in her few comments about the cult and the company – I don’t think I have anything confused.”

“Mistress, why don’t we join the spider cult instead of getting nectar second-hand? I know how to contact them.”

“Mistress Alex calls it the spider cult because once they have you in their web they fill you up with their poison, wrap you up and store you away in their larder waiting for the day when you become useful. Escape becomes almost impossible and life ends frozen in that moment. If you ever emerge from the cocoon it’s not even as somebody else, it’s as something  else,” she says. She puts a strong emphasis on the word ‘something’, and the thought certainly alarms me.

“I’m looking forward to living a new life, making my own decisions, perhaps looking after my own slave, finally being free. I don’t want to join them and spend decades gradually turning insane. Besides, I’m not sure they would want me,” she says.

“I understand Mistress. I think I want a chance to live too. I’ve been thinking about it, out in the kennel, and since I came back in: I’m ready to become yours, properly yours, for you to keep as long as you will have me,” I say.

“You need to be sure. You need to ask clearly and fully understand what you are asking for. When you give me all your power you can’t ask for it back. In theory I could even give or sell you to someone else, but I probably won’t do that,” she says. I think she puts the weight on the ‘probably’ to scare me, but I know enough now not to take that for granted. Then she adds, “This is something you should ask for on your knees, begging. You need to feel it in your whole being.”

Awkwardly, I kneel down before her, my head bowed.

“Please Mistress, make me your property. I want to give my freedom, my rights, my choices and decisions to you. I don’t care if there is pleasure, or pain, or punishment, joy or misery – I want you to decide which of those things I shall have and in what way. I want to obey you as much as I can, the best that I can. I understand that once you accept me I can’t go back, that I no longer have an option to leave and that if I ever disobey I won’t be surprised when you make me obey by whatever means suits you,” I say.

I hold up my hands towards her as if offering her something.

“I accept your request,” she says. “You are mine now, to do with as I please.”

We go to the dungeon and Susan gives me a strange full-body cat-suit to put on, complete with built in gloves and feet. The outside is electric pink spandex, but the inside is lined with a soft porous material. It zips up in the back to meet the low neckline. As usual, there is an open crotch. There are also two small openings about an inch and a half across for my nipples. It’s a tight suit and offers a comfortable supporting feeling of pressure all over my body.

Once the suit is on she wraps me in a soft leather jacket. It’s closely tailored and zips up the back. The arms end in padded mittens that hold my hands out flat and end in d-rings. My thumb and fingers fit into little pockets inside the mittens to keep them in place. The moment I slip my hands into the mittens I feel a thrill down below as I give up any hope of extricating myself from her clutches.

She connects and then tightens some straps on the back of the jacket. With the close tailoring there’s no way I could shrug it off, even without the substantial crotch belt fastened up. For now I feel that belt hanging down, slapping against the back of my thighs.

She takes my arms and wraps them around my body, clipping them to straps that she then tensions, making me hug myself very closely. I feel very helpless and the sexual excitement is starting to rise up my body, travelling up my spine and into my head, making me feel dizzy and breathless with frustrated desire. My sex is brazenly exposed and I’m sure she can see how wet it is – she must at least be able to smell it.

“You need to stay calm now Kelly, don’t panic. This is a very strict bondage hood and you need to get used to it. It will make you very tractable,” says Mistress Susan. Her words serve to make me more nervous than I was and raise my sexual tension another notch. I haven’t had an orgasm in days – not a single one since I got here, and none for days before that. That information suddenly starts to prey upon my mind, becoming the foremost thing in it.

She pushes a rubbery sort of ‘bit’ between my teeth. A rubber mouth-guard settles into place between my lips and teeth, sealing my mouth and forming a very effective gag. A solid tube passes through the guard and sits between my teeth, keeping my mouth partly open. I can breathe through the tube easily. It intrudes in far enough to make it impossible for me to block it with my tongue and serves to fill my mouth very thoroughly – there is no possibility of speech.

Attached to the guard and tube is the rest of the hood. Mistress Susan wraps it around my head, settling it carefully into place. There are no eye-holes. Instead the area over my eyes is padded to ensure complete and utter darkness. There are no nose holes either. The rigid, rubber coated tube is to be my only source of air. Despite my Mistresses advice I begin to panic, but it’s to no avail. She simply pulls the hood closed around my head and laces it tightly closed.

I can feel her struggling to pull another hood over my head. It can’t be easy to fit. For a few moments my air is cut off and I experience real fear. When I can suck in another gasp of rubber tainted air I feel enormous relief. Trapped in the dark as I now am, the slightest thing takes on tremendous importance.

I feel my Mistress doing something with the hood, and then the sound of pumping, something being inflated. There is a growing pressure on my head and face. In a few more moments, it feels as if my head is being squeezed hard all over. I make some weak cries of complaint that emerge as tiny whimpers from the tube. I feel my Mistress stroke my nipples.

“When you’re finished in here you’ll have to go back in your belt for your own protection. It will have to be complete chastity this time, covers for your breasts too and a solid ball-gag-trainer strapped on your head at all times,” she explains.

I’m still standing upright on my own two wobbly legs. I could walk away, but I daren’t move a muscle because I have no idea what I might bang into.

I hear the sound of chains, my Mistress clips something onto my head. Chains clatter again and I can feel that my hood, my entire head, is now being tugged upwards. It’s now impossible for me to go anywhere, even if I try. At least I can’t fall over.

After a while I notice it’s gone very quiet. Mistress Susan has left me alone to stew in my own unfulfilled need to cum. I rub my legs together, trying to squeeze my sex and get some relief. It only serves to make matters worse.

Suddenly, without warning I feel someone – Mistress Susan – grab my legs and spread them. She slips my feet into shoes, no, they’re boots, boots with an insane slope to them. I’m forced to straighten out my foot and stand on the tips of my toes. The insides of the boots are padded to offer support, but it’s still difficult. As my Mistress laces up the boots I suspect that over time it will become very painful to wear them. The more she laces the more it becomes apparent that they stretch up past my knees, coming only an inch or two short of my crotch. They are stiff leather and I can barely bend my legs.

She locks something between my ankles. If seems to connect them rigidly and yet keep them apart. It must be some kind of spreader bar. While I daren’t even try to raise a foot I suspect that the bar is chained to the floor at its center.

I can hear my Mistress Susan speaking but she sounds muffled and far-away through the tightly laced hood and the inflatable bubble over the top of it.

“Now you’re nice and secure I’m going to give you your injections,” she says. She runs her finger over my clitoris. “One will go here.” She slides her fingers inside me. I’m so wet and slippery she can get three in without even trying.

“This will help me administer the second one straight into your g-spot,” she says as I feel the cold metal of a speculum pressed against my lips. In my highly aroused state she has no trouble sliding it the rest of the way in. She squeezes it open until she hears the faint whimpering issuing from my breathing tube, then she slacks it off, just a little – I think then she locks it open at that position.

“The next two will go here and here,” she says, her fingers now rubbing my exposed nipples. “Oh,” she moans. Even my Mistress is melting with desire. “Oh, your nipples will be so hungry, so sensitive that a feather touch will make you pant and moan and beg like a bitch in heat, and a hard twist will drop you to your knees screaming,” she says. She feels the need to demonstrate the twist, and a flash of pain flares through my chest. I don’t need to but I scream as loud as I can because I know nobody can hear it. It just sounds like a little wheeze from my breathing tube.

“One more will go here, don’t worry, the needle will go through the soft leather easily,” she says poking her finger between my arms into my solar plexus.

She presses a fingernail hard against the patch of sweat-beaded exposed skin on the back of my neck. I jump with sexually charged alarm.

“The final one will go here. This is the one that will melt your mind and turn every nerve in your body into a burning wire of insatiable need – so much need that you will become the embodiment of slut – an inexhaustible narcissistic nymphomaniac rabid for any kind of sexual encounter. I’ll need to keep you in very strict bondage for the first year or so just to stop you hurting yourself in desperation, and to keep you from trying to suck and fuck everyone and everything at the slightest opportunity,” she says.

I hear her laughing to herself.

“Of course, it does start to fade eventually, but it’s still burns like a bitch inside me seven years later and I didn’t have as much as you’re going to get. You better grab tight hold of your sanity with both hands because it’s going to be a wild ride. Mistress Alex said that nectar-by-injection is reserved as a punishment inside the cult, because of the intense and unusual long lasting effect, but it would be a waste to use the tiny amount we have left in any other way.”

Then I feel the tip of the needle against my clit. I scream and scream “no”, but the noise is barely audible and my Mistress ignores it. I feel a rush of ice-cold liquid fire into my body. At the fire takes hold all I can think about is my clit: I desperately have to touch my clit, just the barest touch will make me cum, and I so need to cum.

Then I feel the point of the needle scratching up inside me somewhere. I can’t really feel the injection itself, but I feel the result. I feel the cold fire of the gaping hunger that leaves me longing to be filled with an intensity I’ve never felt before. The palpable, physical emptiness inside me that I long to fill is terrifying.

The injections to my nipples serve to remind me how badly they also need attention. A lick, a nibble, a nip, a stroke, even a harsh twist, the snap of a whip or the nagging bite of a clamp would be a comfort.

The injection is through the back of my neck into my spine is a lot like my Mistress described it. Every nerve in my body is chilled by that cold fire that soaks through me, devouring everything. After that I think it’s over. I expect to be left to stew in the lust that has coiled itself around me like a snake, biting and biting, filling me with its venom, replacing my mind with its own reptilian hunger.

“It looks like there’s a little left. I think your boobs can use it, it’s supposed to promote growth,” she says as she spears deep into each breast.

If it promotes growth in breasts, what is it going to do to my clit, or my nipples? My mind flicks back to Mistress Susan’s clit, which is rather large and, of course, pierced. I had assumed that the piercing had stretched it out that way, now I’m not so sure – and she’s given me more than she had. A part of me rages against the fact that she’s turning me into some sort of sex doll but another part thrills to it.

“There, it’s used up. There isn’t any more – Pandora’s box is empty. I considered using some of it myself but it’s better for both of us this way,” she says.

She pushes a plug into my behind, it’s the biggest one yet, and at the moment of the widest stretch I once again let my screams flow freely, reveling in their insignificance, and then the pain is gone, leaving only the hunger and the longing and the need in its place. Now the plug is in place it feels good, but I’m still not properly filled.

Patiently, she inserts a massive dildo into my sex. It’s so wet and hungry it’s not hard for her to do. Then she pulls the broad strap on the jacket up between my legs and cinches the substantial thing in place. When I’m settled she pulls it in another notch. The plugs are really good and secure inside me. I feel filled up but still not satisfied.

“These aren’t feeble little battery powered vibrators,” she says. “These are strong, both mains powered and they can run and run and run.” Then she shows me what she means when she turns them on. The powerful stimulation is immediately almost overwhelming.

There’s a clink of chains and I can feel her touching one of my shoulders, then the other. A few moments later some of the crushing weight comes off my toes as I’m pulled up by my shoulders.

“I’ll be keeping you here like this for the first few days, so make yourself comfortable. With that inner suit on and the way the nectar alters you, there won’t be any physical risk to you, in fact, it’s safer this way. After a few days of continual orgasms the complete frenzy should abate a little,” she explains.

I don’t hear the next thing she says properly because I’m busy cumming. It’s like my cunt is connected directly to my tits by a triangle of fire. Yes, I call them cunt and tits, even though I’m just doing it in my head for myself and not because the Doctor made me say it. I call them that because I know now that’s what they are now: they’re the parts of a slut that control her when her Mistress isn’t making sure she behaves herself. I let the filthy words roll around my mind; slut, cunt, tits, ass, fuck, cum, fuck, fuck, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me – I scream into my gag as I cum again. “Please,” I whisper silently, “please, somebody fuck me.”

After that the dream starts to feel like an endless loop, like a broken CD player stuck on repeat. I find myself trapped in it for what seems like days, wishing I could simply wake up from its repetitive message. Yes, I remember that I’m inside ADAM, and now I have a sense that I understand some of what he’s shown me. What I just don’t understand is how he knows what he does or why he chose to create and show me such a bizarrely detailed scenario, only to fall into such a strange abyss at the end. I’m aware that I’m inside him, waiting to emerge, why make me endure this soul destroying dream? Why?

I hang suspended in the darkness. The hood muffles sound so that most of the time all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart and the rushing of my blood. There’s nothing to smell and the only taste is bitter rubber forcing open my mouth. I wriggle and thrash against the leather straightjacket but it never loosens or gives, or provides any other hint that it will ever release me. I’m balanced on my toes, though thankfully they take almost none of the weight. I have a little leeway to flex and twist my legs, but the rigid spreader bar and the tough leather boots don’t allow much freedom. All these things are inconsequential compared to the throbbing in my cunt and ass. I only cum once every ten minutes or so now – it’s much better than it was. I pray to wake up, to emerge, to leave this dream behind.

Time passes…




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