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.
“What’s this?” Dr. Mengele asked.
“This is how she’s to be transported,” Michael replied, opening the box to reveal its padded interior with fasteners and tubes in strategic locations. His two slave assistants lifted Priscilla from the bed and placed her in the box. Tie down straps were secured to the hooks at her hips and shoulders. A mask connected to an oxygen tube was fastened to her face. Other tubes were forced into her urethra and anus. The doctor injected Priscilla and within seconds her eyes glazed over and shut. Her body shuddered once as consciousness fled and she was still except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
“Seal it,” Michael ordered. His orders were always obeyed quickly. Neither of his assistants wanted to end up like Priscilla. They were shocked that he had sold her. Everyone thought Priscilla was his favorite, “the one.” In truth, it was as they suspected and that, in turn, became the main reason that she was being sold. Michael felt that he might be falling for Priscilla and the last thing he needed was to fall in love with one of the livestock. No good would come of it. So, instead, he sold her to the brutal Frenchman, Monsieur le Cochon, and he would probably have her turning over the coals within two weeks, having first used her most brutally. A shame, but, what is one to do, eh?
When Priscilla regained consciousness she couldn’t see. All was dark. The oxygen mask still covered the lower half of her face and she felt cool vapors against her nostrils. She was as comfortable as could be expected under the circumstances. She had the sense of motion but did not feel like her box was moving which suggested to her that whatever the box was in was, in fact, in motion. Her ears popped suggesting a change in pressure such as might be expected of an aircraft takeoff or landing. Then a loud thumb and a series of sharp jerks seemed to suggest a landing. She felt the sensation of slowing down as inertia provided a sense of pressure in the direction of her head. Then it stopped. Time, she had no idea how much, passed before she felt her box being moved. Whoever was doing the moving had not been told that the cargo was fragile and she felt the jolt as the box was dropped on a hard surface.
“Careful, Claude, you imbecile!” she heard someone shout, “M. le Cochon does not want his merchandise damaged!”
More jolts, but gentler, as the box is transferred from what Priscilla assumed was an airplane to some other conveyance. More motion and the faint sounds of traffic. She falls asleep and wakes when the lid is removed from her box; the bright light after so many hours of darkness hurts her eyes and makes her squint. Where is she?
“Magnifique! Parfait! Exquisite! Marie, please call Monsieur Michael and tell him the package has arrived and that he has outdone himself.”
The voice is rough and loud. As her eyes adjust she sees a face leering down at her and knows powerlessness in an entirely new and profound way. She has no possible means to resist anything that might be done to her. And that face! Pierre le Cochon really is a pig of a man. She can see it in his little piggy eyes, the upturned snout of a nose, the fat jowls covered with a day’s worth of stubble, the thick lips. And the smell – clearly M. le Cochon does not believe in regular bathing. Priscilla hopes he will end her life quickly but she fears that he intends to keep her alive to satisfy his perverted lusts.
“Have her washed and brought to my chambers at once, Marie,” he says and the face disappears.
Another face appears this one is female and beautiful. Long blond hair frames a lovely face with fair skin and blue eyes. Only the mouth is cruel. A thin silver circlet is the only outward symbol of this woman’s status.
“I am Marie,” she announced in heavily accented English. “I am M. le Cochon’s Chief of Slaves. I make sure that he has everything he wants whenever he wants it. In this case, what he wanted was you, mon cher. I would pity you but it would be wasted. If I were you I would hope that the Master grows bored with his new toy quickly and has it served for dinner. I wonder what you did to make your former Master hate you so?”
Priscilla wondered the same thing. What had she done to make Michael subject her to this fate? She had sensed that he had feelings for her and wanted to keep her. And, then, suddenly, she had found herself trussed up and taken to the clinic where she had been mutilated for the pleasure of this French pervert to whom she now belonged.
“Let’s get you unhooked from this box, eh?”
Priscilla felt the tubes removed from her urethra and rectum and the oxygen mask was likewise taken off. She felt her body move as it was disconnected from the tie down straps. She could smell Marie’s perfume, a very pleasant contrast to her new Master’s body odor. Then Marie’s hands were under what was left of her shoulders and buttocks and she felt herself lifted from her padded prison and held more or less upright the way someone might hold a baby. Her face was at the level of Marie’s breasts and she noted that those breasts were lovely. She took the time to inspect her surroundings. She seemed to be at some country estate or chateau judging by the lack of city noises and the foliage. It didn’t smell like a city either. She heard birds chirping and felt the sun warm against her skin.
Marie walked up several steps and through a large set of wooden doors and into a cool dark entrance hall. Then more stairs, up again, and down a thickly carpeted hallway dimly lit from sconces along the walls. Through another open door and now she appeared to be in a huge bathroom of some type. Marie lay her down on thick towels spread on a counter top. She heard water running. Marie was singing softly to herself – a tune Priscilla didn’t recognize. She could hear chains rattling. Then, Marie came back into her field of vision. She picked Priscilla up and hung her from her shoulder hooks to a set of chains hanging from the ceiling. A shower came on, cold at first and then pleasantly warm, and Marie directed its spray over Priscilla’s flesh, turning her around to get her wet all over. Marie put a washcloth into the basin and picked up a bar of soap. Applying the soap to the cloth she proceeded to wash Priscilla’s body, paying particular attention to her nether regions. Then, Priscilla was moved into the shower spray so that her head was under the shower nozzle and Marie washed her hair. The water was turned off and Marie used towels to dry Priscilla’s skin and a blow dryer on her hair. Finally, Marie put her fingers in Priscilla’s mouth and removed her dentures. She propped Priscilla on her hip stumps and gave her some mouthwash, which she was ordered to spit into a cup. Her teeth were replaced after being cleaned. The whole thing was so surreal that Priscilla almost started laughing.
Marie carefully brushed Priscilla’s hair and applied some makeup showing great skill with both. When she was done she held a mirror up to Priscilla’s face.
“What think you, eh? Not bad?”
Priscilla smiled and nodded her head.
“Alas, the fun part of your day is now over. I bring you to the Master’s chambers and then things might not seem so good, eh? But what will you? We are slaves, non? What choices do we have, eh?”
Marie made a last check of Priscilla’s toilet and picked her up once more. She was taken further down the hallway and through another set of double doors into what must have been M. le Cochon’s private chambers.
A sitting room opened through a small archway into a further, inner, chamber which seemed to be lit from within by a ruddy glow, indicating a fire, or at least some source of red/orange light. There was a bed, a large four poster. There were also a variety of chains attached to the walls and ceiling and quite a few implements that Priscilla recognized from her former Master’s play room. A few that were new to her. The room was lit by flickering flames from a fireplace at one end of the large room.
“Bon,” M. le Cochon said as Marie entered. “Placer sur le lit,” he added, pointing to the bed.
“As you command, Maître,” Marie responded and carried Priscilla over to the bed. Marie laid Priscilla gently on the thick comforter and made sure she was properly supported by pillows. She said nothing more but gently kissed Priscilla on the forehead before quickly withdrawing and closing the large doors behind her. Priscilla was now alone with her new owner, the man who would ultimately decide her fate, whether she would live or die or be sold again to some other master. Not for the last time did she wonder what she had done to earn this particular fate.
“Ah, Priscilla,” M. le Cochon said in thickly accented English. “What a lovely little morsel you are. Did you know that I have always wanted a petit jouet, ah, how you say, little toy, yes that’s it, a little toy like you, and now you are mine. Are you perhaps frightened? Do you not know what is to become of you here in this strange land? No doubt you have heard of me, and I must admit, my name alone suggests something not so very pleasant, non? Well, mon petit jouet, this reputation of mine is quite well deserved, for I have spent years cultivating it. I am a cruel master and ruthless. But you, ah, you ... you I have paid a king’s ransom to possess and I will not see that money wasted on simple cruelty. No doubt you are thinking that there cannot be a greater cruelty than what has already been done, eh? Perhaps you are right, but we shall see. For the moment, you are mon petit jouet, and have little to fear provided you give me perfect obedience and I do not grow bored.”
During the speech, Pierre walks to the bed and removed his kimono. He is naked underneath. His cock is very long but of average thickness. Still, it is the biggest cock she has ever seen on a human being. She cannot take her eyes off of it. His hands are large and she can tell that he is powerful and solid in the way that some fat men are. She knows she is his absolutely and completely. Her submission is not a matter of choice or will, it just is. She has accepted her fate, and her helplessness begins to turn her on. Her nipples and clit stiffen, her pussy begins to weep. She wants to be taken and used by this powerful man who can determine her fate at a whim.
“Belle jouet. Now we will show you what you were made for,” Pierre growled as he put his hands under Priscilla’s ass and lifted her from the bed. One hand under her back to stabilize her, Pierre lifts Priscilla until her pussy is at his lips and he inhales deeply, laughing as he sees the evidence of her readiness.