Chapter 4: Bitches Get Stitches

My mother had enough manners to take the cock out of her mouth before she wished me a happy birthday.

Less than a minute earlier the door to the decanting room had opened. This was followed almost immediately by the automatic release of the chain that bound Clara to the wall beside our mattress. I rose quickly, grabbing the chain as I stood. It had detached from the wall, but the metal links were still attached to the cunt’s collar. I used it like a leash to pull her after me and out of the room.

The hall outside the decanting room was plain and unadorned. I followed, with Clara hobbling after, to a second door that opened into an observation chamber. Inside, half a dozen technicians sat watching a bank of monitors that displayed the room I’d just left. They gave me appreciative nods and a few glanced nervously between my legs.

I was still naked, but it was a surprise to realize that the men in the room were all almost as naked as me. Looking them over, I saw they were all wearing shirts but were nude from the waist down. I also noticed a row of hooks on one wall, where they’d all hung their pants and underwear.

Like me, all of the men were, with one exception, soft. Their spent cocks hanging limply between their thighs. The only erection in the room belonged to a tall, gangly fellow in a stained lab coat. He sat facing the door with his legs spread, on display for my entrance. My mother knelt between his legs, the back of her head bobbing obscenely in the man’s lap.

She’d been the prize of the night. There’d been no need to raid the cells for an unused starter pussy. Not with Mom here, willing to offer her holes for their collective use.

Clara muttered, “Whore,” under her breath, which I barely caught over the slobbering sound of my mother’s cocksucking. I shot the cunt a look that warned her not to embarrass me, and she had the good sense to look ashamed.

Stepping deeper into the room, I cleared my throat.

The man in the dirty lab coat looked up, pretending to notice me for the first time. He patted my stepmother affectionately on the head. “Happy birthday, lordling,” he said, grinning widely.

I cringed, only to regret it when I saw satisfaction flicker in his eyes.

Mom heard him and came off his cock with an audible plop. “Dom,” she exclaimed as she turned to see me, her voice filled with genuine warmth. “Happy Birthday.”

It was indeed my birthday, but given the circumstances, her greeting seemed almost a cruel joke. I’d been decanted on my eighteenth birthday. That made me a man, but one who’d never known a childhood.

I felt like a boy pretending at adulthood in the body of a man. The tank had educated me, but the experiences had been ethereal and dream-like. Beyond these mental preparations, the tank had grown me to adult proportions and shaped me into an archetype of perfect masculinity. I was tall, with broad shoulders and a toned, muscular frame. I had the sharp jawline, strong cheekbones, and well-defined, ridged abs of a demigod. My body hair was minimal, and my skin was unblemished.

And there was of course my most impressive feature, the pendulous monstrosity that hung menacingly between my thighs. A glance about the room confirmed the relative inadequacies of the other men. Their cocks were pathetic things, hardly worth comparing to my own. They took note of my size and exchanged nervous glances.

Mom rose to her feet, her legs slightly unsteady as she approached me. She took in my cock and Clara’s hobbled form half a step behind me. “Cuntwrecker,” she mused, naming my cock fondly. It was a playful habit she had of nicknaming my impressive appendage. She’d sometimes call it my third leg, or ‘Thor the Mighty: Destroyer of Wombs’. I’d eventually come to appreciate the affectionate naming. But just then, freshly decanted and still resenting her betrayal, I was not in a playful mood.

I must have scowled because Mom’s warm smile faltered.

I steeled myself and took in her appearance with what I hoped would read as detachment instead of petulance.

She wore the same black dress from my earlier memory, but the fabric was torn and noticeably stained. The neckline was stretched so that it hung loose, revealing her naked breasts, which were red and tender from rough play. Mom looked down at the ruined dress, embarrassed but unable to fix it. There was a bite mark on her left tit, just above the nipple. But even with the damage, she was still stunningly beautiful, with her fiery red hair and those bright green eyes that couldn’t hide her joy at our reunion.

Mom squared her shoulders and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing drool and cum across her cheeks. Then she stepped closer, opening her arms for a hug.

I ignored her, looking coolly past her to the half a dozen men who’d had their fun inside her holes.

“Let me take a look at Clara,” she said, changing the subject. I nodded, and she turned to my slave.

Clara whimpered as Mom approached, but stood still as my stepmother bent down behind her to examine the slave’s pussy and asshole.

Mom clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she spread Clara’s cheeks “Always so reckless with your master’s property,” she mumbled.

Clara whimpered and looked down at the floor, her shoulders hunched in shame.

I watched as Mom probed her asshole, using two fingers to check for damage. My cock twitched at the sight, remembering how it had felt to plunge into that tight hole only minutes earlier.

When Mom got a couple of knuckles deep, Clara bucked and tried to pull away. “You’re going to have to hold her down,” Mom said, looking up at me with a serious expression. “I have to stitch her up.”

My stomach clenched at the realization that I’d done some actual damage to my slave.

Clara looked up at me, anxiety plain on her face, but only nodded in agreement.

I took hold of her arms, pinning them behind her back, and dragged her so that she was bent over a nearby table.

Mom moved to squat behind Clara, as one of the techs brought her a suture kit.

I tightened my hold on Clara’s arms, feeling the tension in her body as she braced herself for the pain. “Maybe we should call for a doctor,” I suggested.

My stepmother shook her head. “I’ve been mending broken fuckholes since before you were born,” she chided.

I looked at Clara and she smiled to reassure me. “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “Your mom’s stitched me before.”

Mom chuckled, at this. “Already calling him, Daddy,” she remarked with obvious judgement.

Clara flinched at my mother’s dismissive tone and tried to look back at the older woman. She couldn’t quite turn with how I’d pinned her to the table so she hissed at her, “Mind your business, Whore!”

Mom responded with a rough jab at Clara’s injured asshole. The cunt yelped and twisted in my grip, and Mom muttered a warning against upsetting your nurse when she’s poised to put a needle in your asshole.

Witnessing the exchange did little to increase my confidence in the procedure’s safety. “There must be someone better suited for...”

Mom interrupted my objection with a gesture past us, to the man in the stained lab coat. “Quinion’s the FemVet,” she offered, her mocking inflection making it clear what she thought of his skills.

I followed her gesture looking to the man, this Quinion. He was the decanting facility’s female veterinary specialist. As such, Quinion spent most of his time at the facility patching up the starter pussy. He rarely involved himself with volunteers like Clara. In extreme cases he’d step in and recommend a write-off, sending damaged volunteers to Murdstone’s to be spayed and cored.

Murdstone compensated Quinion for each write-off and sold the cored holes back to the decanting facility. This put them back on Quinion’s roster. And as starter pussy, he could fuck the cored girls whenever he wanted. So, it was no surprise that the prettier and more fuckable volunteers were the ones most likely to be written off.

Of course, I knew nothing of this arrangement at the time. But it didn’t matter. One look at Quinion, who was eyeing Clara while toying with his thin, slimy cock, let me know he couldn’t be trusted. He met my gaze with a smug confidence that made me want to hurt him.

I turned back to Mom, nodding my reluctant approval for her to continue.

She asked the tech who’d given her the suture kit for assistance, directing him to hold Clara open. After a quick nod from me, the man spread Clara’s cheeks, and Mom leaned in, expertly plunging the needle through the slave’s delicate flesh.

Clara whimpered with each stitch as I gripped her arms tighter. I focused on the sensation of her soft skin beneath my fingers. “You’re a good little cunt, Clara,” I whispered, trying to assuage my feelings of guilt. I could feel her muscles releasing their hold as she tried to relax into the pain.

Mom hummed absentmindedly as she worked, her fingers deftly weaving the sutures into Clara’s torn flesh. Each pass brought a whimper from the slave, but I held her still.

Clara’s body tensed as Mom tied off the last stitch. “There you go, that wasn’t so bad,” Mom said as she examined her work.

A pre-tank memory surfaced then, of Mom treating a toddler’s scrapes and bruises, quieting my tears with love and kindness. It was an image of my mother rooted in the deepest part of me. But Clara’s revelation of my mother’s betrayal had put the lie to that sort of maternal affection, and so I pushed it away.

Still, I half expected Mom to lean in and kiss her booboo better. But she just wiped her hands on her torn dress and rose to her feet.

I released Clara’s arms and the slave turned to look at me. There were fresh tears in her eyes and her voice trembled as she whispered, “I’m sorry, Daddy. It won’t happen again.”

The tech who’d been holding Clara’s asshole open had released her cheeks. He looked dubiously at the gaping hole of Clara’s rectum and then at my cock, which even soft hung impressively between my thighs.

“Don’t be a silly slut,” Mom admonished. “Bitches are bred to be broken, as sure as boys are built to break them.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, or to Clara’s apology. Was it so easy to accept the inevitability of male violence? I’d brutalized Clara and she’d apologized for being broken. No one thought my behavior was wrong or even surprising.

I turned to face my mother. “You’re sure she’s okay?”

“She’ll be sore a day or two,” Mom said, eyeing Clara’s goffered orifice. “Just let her rest, and she’ll be fine.” She paused and then added, “No anal for at least two days.”

I frowned, unsettled by the knowledge that I’d injured my slave but Mom interpreted the frown as disappointment. “You always liked destroying your toys,” she muttered, shaking her head ruefully. “If you insist on anal play before Monday, just send her to me when you’re done. I’ll sow her up again.”

This reply didn’t help with my guilt, or ease my frown.

Mom reached out and touched my arm, her voice becoming playful and suggestive. “There are other assholes available,” she mused. And then she arched her back, pushing her round bottom out towards me.

I felt my cock twitch, and couldn’t help but imagine sinking myself into Mom’s tight, inviting asshole. She was my stepmother, unrelated by birth or blood. But she’d raised me, and her body called to me on a primal level. I wanted to bury myself inside her and forget about everything else, if only for a little while. But she had also betrayed me, and stolen years of my life. That betrayal warred with the impulse to bend her over and turn her into my personal cocksocket

My cock, of course, was less conflicted, it thrilled at my stepmother’s touch and the offer of her asshole. I felt it harden between my legs, lengthening to hang heavy and full. Every set of eyes in the room noticed.

Next to me, I heard a sharp “Oh my!” from Mom, and her hand on my arm tightened. Her gaze bounced between my eyes and my swelling erection, a flush of pink spreading across her cheeks.

There’d been a note of fear in her exclamation, and that only made me harder. I could see Mom assessing my size, silently considering the damage I’d done to Clara. She’d seen us fucking on the monitors, but it was a different thing to see the beast in the flesh.

If she had chosen to retreat it would have likely changed both of our lives. I was a teenager, young and contrarian, and filled with defiant rage. If she’d stepped away, I’d have seized her, thrown her down, and mounted her, right there, in front of Clara and those half-naked technicians. But instead of stepping away, my mother leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, “I’m here for you, Dom. Mommy’s always been here for you.”

I could feel her breath against my skin, hot and heavy with desire. Her hand stroked my arm, and the warm curves of her body melted into my side. But she hadn’t been there for me. Not when it had truly mattered. That lie chilled my lust and turned her breath and touch to ice.

Older now, I think back on that first reunion and wonder what could have been. If I’d taken her, I would not have been gentle. I’d have forced her to the floor and turned her out in front of an audience. She would have taken my thick, throbbing cock like the whore she was, her tight asshole struggling to swallow every inch of me. I would have gripped her hips and pounded into her with reckless abandon, driving her face into the floor as I relentlessly claimed my due.

I know myself enough to admit that this would have destroyed me. In the aftermath, I’d have been consumed by guilt. But out of mutual destruction, I might have come to an understanding with my mother. Torn holes mend, and maybe fucking her, hard and brutal and without regard for her comfort or consent, would have exorcised my anger and resentments.