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“You do understand what we’re doing here, don’t you, Stacy?” he said, cupping her breast in one hand as her body shook slightly from the motor working away behind her. “I mean–breaking you, certainly, that much is obvious. Breaking you systematically, down into a collection of screaming nerve bundles and drooling holes. But beyond that?”

Stacy lolled her head back and tried to focus her eyes on him, panting through the ring. The double pump shifted its angle slightly, and a little whine escaped her throat, her aching back stiffening a little as the rods found a new place they hadn’t pummeled as thoroughly yet.

“We’re making you a part of something more.” He laced his fingers through her cotton-candy-fine hair and helped her meet his gaze, grip tight and sure. “We’re making your body understand that it’s a machine too. An uncomplicated machine, beautiful in its elegant simplicity. A machine that serves.”

A few days ago she would have glared at him; a week ago she would have fought like a wild animal. Now, after enough time trapped, helpless, fucked and used by the tireless device, she could barely manage to keep herself from sobbing–for mercy or for more, she wasn’t sure anymore.

“Machines have controls, Stacy.” He released her breast, just long enough to slap it sharply with one hand, then again, then again. She jerked reflexively with each blow, but in truth she could barely distinguish pleasure from pain, and he knew it. “Machines can be turned on. Or turned off.” His hand found her throat and squeezed just a little. “Machines do what they’re built to do. And we will build you back up again… starting very soon.”

He let go of her throat, and she sagged, shuddering. He toyed with her hair again, undoing the snaps on his fly and freeing his cock. “Would you like me to show you what the next piece of your construction is, what’s-left-of-Stacy?”

As he began to fuck her open mouth, all she could think through her own moaning was that she finally felt complete.

Gallery

yourbadgrrl:

Is this how you imagine me, Sir? Stripped, then bound tightly to the horse, every hole vulnerable to your abuse, your caress. Dripping and aching for your touch, subject to your whim, your need, your demons…

There are a dozen identical benches in the long, dim corridor, all currently occupied with a taut, arched girlslave. It’s almost always full, here; this is the holding pen, where acquisitions who have had basic testing and conditioning are placed for a few weeks, between the dark cattle-cages below and the bright, sterile niche-training units above.

If it sounds a bit like a purgatory, it is one. The days there certainly blend together into an endless blur, with feedings, cleanings and lubrication staggered to keep any of them from guessing how much time has passed. It is a place intended to break girls. It is utterly, brutally effective.

They are edged, of course, by a bored higher-class slave on her turn in the chore rotation. They can hear her clacking down the aisle in her heels, heavy vibrator swinging in one hand, picking a victim at random and grinding its bulbous head against her clit for exactly the length of time scrawled on her lower belly. (Basic testing, you see.)

They’re also used. As you can see above, any trainer who needs a quick break can hop in, find a hole to his liking, give it a quick test for wetness (rarely failed) and fuck away until he’s satisfied.

The girl in the picture was once named Alice. She will someday be renamed Slip, for the ease with which her cunt takes penetration, but for now she is only Station 8. At this point, her initial captivity in the cages is a hazy blur, and her life before that a dreamlike memory. She clenches the moment she feels a finger push into any orifice, and she is almost incapable of orgasm without command.

It’ll be another month before they unstrap her and carry her squirming, dripping vessel of a body upstairs.