Not sure where I’ll take this from here, but the idea came to me from some of the Japanese artwork I’ve seen depicting “pillow girls.”
As always, feedback of all kinds is welcome. I suck at proofreading (at least my own stuff), so I present this with all the usual caveats regarding typos and errors of syntax. For some reason I was moved to use both present and past tense. Not sure why. I actually started writing this two years ago, so who knows what I was thinking then. I decided to keep it this way. It might be annoying to some. I apolgize for that in advance.
“Hmmm ... this looks interesting,” Michael murmured as he read the message on his smart phone’s screen. “I don’t think we’ve done one of these before. I wonder...”
And, you, too, dear reader, may wonder as well. You may wonder who this “Michael” person is and what the contents of the intriguing message were. Patience, my friends. All will be revealed in due course.
Michael got up from the comfortable wingback leather chair in his study and stepped through a door, disappearing down a short hallway and into another room. Muted sounds of conversation drift back to our vantage point and after a few moments, footsteps, two sets this time, can be heard approaching. Our vantage point? For the moment, the eyes and ears of a female human slave, complete with welded collar and a slave-flower brand high on her left thigh mere inches from her pubic mound. Her name is Priscilla. She has been commanded to hold the position known as “nadu,” among certain sub groups of the D/s world. She is owned, utterly and completely by Michael – one of many such slaves although a recent acquisition. Slaves may be bought, sold, or slaughtered for food. Every slave knows that she (or occasionally he) is the absolute property of the owner with no rights whatsoever. This isn’t some BDSM game with a “safe word.” There are no safe words. If the Master wants to fuck you, you’re fucked. If the Master wants to sell you, you’re sold. If the Master wants to eat you, you’re dinner. If the master wants to ... Well, you get the idea.
“Can it be done?” Michael asks the older bearded man who follows him back into the room.
“Theoretically, yes, but why?”
“I have a buyer who wants a slave configured in just that way. And, we can use the spare parts for this year’s company picnic,” Michael says, calmly, as if discussing the weather or a stock purchase he is considering.
Priscilla, who is not encouraged to think independent thoughts, or for that matter, thoughts of any kind that do not directly apply to perfect obedience to her Master’s every whim, remains silent, passive, and perfectly positioned. She is a beautiful specimen of the female form. Thick auburn hair, braided in a single, long, braid so as not to cover her (welded) slave collar, fair skin with a few freckles here and there, full breasts with marvelously shaped teats, a slave belly with just a hint of softness, well shaped legs and arms, dainty feet and hands with skillful fingers, and a beautiful face with a sensuous mouth and bright green eyes. Rightfully, her name should be Kathleen, or Maureen, or Coleen – something to acknowledge her Celtic heritage. But she is Priscilla and Priscilla she will remain. For now. Unless her Master decides to call her something else.
“What’s the time frame? How long would I have to get her ready?”
“How long would it take to make the changes and deliver her in decent shape? She must still be fully functional and mentally capable of doing what is required.”
“A month. Maybe longer depending on how she tolerates things. The surgery itself will take several days – we can’t just do it all in one go. And it will take a month or more for her to heal.”
“That is satisfactory. How soon can you start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Are you going to explain? This will be a shock. She may go a little crazy.”
“She is a slave. She has no will in these matters and no feelings about which I need concern myself. She is property to be modified and disposed of at my whim. She will make me a tidy profit and that should make her proud. She is giving the service she was born to give and that is all the explanation required.”
“You are a cold bastard,” the other man said, chuckling, “but you are right of course. Have her at the clinic by 8 in the morning and all will be done as you have ordered, sir.”
“Good. See you tomorrow then Dr. Mengele. Your fee will appear in the usual way when she is ready for shipment.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said, shaking Michael’s hand before disappearing through the doorway.
It is now 72 hours later and Michael is standing in a large walk in cooler. Hooks are attached to a track built into the ceiling. A pair of perfectly formed human legs hangs from hooks, which pierce the flesh just behind the heel. The skin has been removed from all but the dainty feet. Red polish still decorates the nails capping perfectly formed toes. It matches the raw red flesh exposed by the removal of the skin. At the other ends of these legs, a drop of blood occasionally appears and falls to the floor with a plop.
From two other, smaller, hooks a pair of arms dangles from the track pierced through the palms. Like the legs, the skin has been removed but not from the hands. Like the toes, the nails on the ends of the long graceful fingers are painted red. These are the fingers of a concert pianist, and indeed, at one time the original owner of those fingers aspired to be such. She often entertained her masters, later in life, with her musical gifts. These fingers would not be playing the piano again.
Some miles away, in a specially designed bed in a very secret clinic, a figure lies unconscious, motionless except for the respiratory rise and fall of the chest. Tubes connect the figure to various bags of fluids. Sensors monitor bodily functions. Like a waterfall, auburn hair spreads across a pillow illuminated by a dim light just above and to the left of the bed. The illumination is indirect. The whirring and beeping of various pieces of monitoring and pumping equipment mask the susurration of the air handling system and the sound of the woman’s breathing. For it is a woman – or rather what’s left of a woman.
This is Priscilla. She’s had some life altering surgery. Her new owner, for she is in the process of being sold, wants a very special kind of woman for his very special fetish. The price was enormous and the man didn’t haggle. He paid immediately; in advance. And, so, the lovely Priscilla who once dreamed of playing piano at Carnegie Hall is instead lying in this hospital bed knowing that she will never play the piano again. Her arms have been removed from the shoulders. Her legs just about six inches from the apex of her thighs. Her buttocks remain. Bandages cover the stumps at her shoulders and hips. The amputations were done in such a way that her own skin covers the stumps. The circular ends of eye bolts protrude from the bandages at her hips and shoulders. She will never walk or feed herself again. She will also never speak. Her vocal chords have been disabled. Her teeth have been replaced by a full set of dentures, upper and lower, which serve to maintain the shape of her face. She can only imagine why her teeth have been removed – rumors of such modifications have reached her before. But she has no choice in the matter. Such is the will of her new owner, Pierre Le Cochon. Monsieur le Cochon has a very specific set of fetishes. Priscilla has been altered to accommodate them.
Drugs mask her pain but do nothing for her grief. She knows that as a slave her body belongs to her owner to do with as he or she pleases. Her life was forfeit, she knew, at the whim of any owner, but never in her wildest imagination had she envisioned this. What use would she be now? A single tear leaked from the corner of one eye and made its way down her cheek eventually landing on her pillow before drugs took her consciousness away providing a temporary relief from the horror that her life had become.
“How is she, Doc?”
“Physically she is fine. She’s young and strong and her healing is right on schedule. The bandages come off tomorrow and she should be ready for transport in a few days.”
“Good. The buyer is not a patient man, nor is he particularly pleasant to deal with. I wish this transaction completed as soon as it can be done.”
“Like I said, she’ll be ready to transport in a few days.”
“You said physically she’s all right. Does that mean that she’s not all right in other ways?”
“I warned you that this type of trauma can have mental and emotional consequences, even for a well-conditioned slave like this one.”
“Will she snap out of it?”
“Given time and the right sort of support, yes.”
“She’ll have neither. Drugs?”
“Well, there are some things we could try, but the effects would be temporary at best.”
“Well, give her something to ease the transition. She’s property, after all, and once the sale is complete she is no longer my responsibility.”
“As you wish,” the doctor replied, frowning. He did not feel good about this case. Not good at all, but, Michael was right, as usual.
A few days later, Michael was back at the clinic. Two of his other slaves wheeled a box into the room where Priscilla waited. Her face was expressionless – like a doll face. She was still beautiful, but it was like she wasn’t there anymore. Her vital signs indicated that she was alive and reasonably healthy – as healthy as a quadruple amputee could be of course.
.... There is more of this story ...