Kindness
Quasimodo, late in his firelit study, talks to a guest.:
Softly, softly. You enjoyed 7, didn't you? Spectacular mouth, wonderful control
of that anus. The jewelled clit? I expect you enjoyed using the remote? Good; I
don't like her to accommodate too many of my guests, and I do like it when they
appreciate her. Took me almost a year to create 7, you know. She used to be
called Marilyn; have some of this excellent Armagnac. You have to use the right
strategy: I think you had 12 the last time you were here, didn't you? Coarse old
bitch, tolerable mouth, extraordinary vaginal muscles. All I needed for her was
a dog collar. But Marilyn was much trickier. No, it was 13 you had, wasn't it? I
do try to remember these things. Never mind, I'll tell you about 12 another
time: she's one of our old stagers.
I don't often do my own recruiting but I knew when I met Marilyn that she was
perfect. American; slim, boyish figure with rosebud breasts; shy; alone in a
strange city. I made a fuss of her, turned on the European charm. She wasn't
used to that. The first night she stayed at my house, I made up the guest room
for her. I know she was surprised by that. I didn't see her for a week, then
took her for dinner to a Michelin-starred place near me. It was late, and I
offered the room again. Obviously, it wasn't in the Guest Wing: she didn't know
about that in those days.
Later, when she came to share my bed, she thought it was her idea. She wasn't
much of a fuck, of course; but I enjoyed the offer of her near-virginal body,
and accepted it.
She had long loins, with light pubic hair over a fine, high slit; she was shy
about her sex, but then she was shy about almost everything, including her
exquisite little breasts. I had to work on that. I did.
She came round to my house two or three times the next week. About the fourth
time, maybe the fifth, she allowed her lips just to touch on the tip of my
penis.
I waited a month before I took the first step. I was half-dressed, she was
naked. I was standing behind her stroking her flanks, allowing my hand to float
across her pubic mound. "We should do something about that," I said, and felt
her stiffen. "You would look so much better without the hair." Even in the dim
light of the bedroom I saw her redden. "In fact, I am going to have to insist on
it. We could shave you: that would be a fun experience but you'd get stubbly.
But then we could shave you again, and it would be fun again. Or we could wax
you. That would hurt, but just the once, really. And you would be very beautiful
and smooth." I tugged, a little roughly, at a tuft of hair. "What do you think?"
I felt her tremble, but she remained silent. "I want you to say one of three
things, Marilyn. Shave me, wax me, or drive me home." She trembled again, and
there was a long silence.
"Wax me," she said. It was her last free decision. I really would have driven
her home, you know. Still, it was the right decision: shaving wouldn't have
been, well, appropriate.
But she did look good afterwards, and she could see it herself in the mirror. I
had to go to Paris the next week, and I bought her some spectacular underwear
plus a few other things she didn't know about from a somewhat peculiar Belgian
friend of mine who lives in Montparnasse.
By now, Marilyn expected sexual attention almost every night; some of my cages
were getting quite frustrated, especially since I didn't want a guest night
until she was ready. She'd become quite proud of her bare pussy: she loved to
stroke her own naked mound and as far as I could make out she waxed it herself
every couple of days. I waited another six weeks.
"It's perfect," I said that night, tracing my fingers over that beautiful, bare
cunt. You've never really seen it as it was, of course, but you surely saw
enough. Another Armagnac? "A rose; a pink oyster," I told her. "I couldn't bear
the thought of anyone else entering it." Believe me, at that moment it was the
truth. I've kept it true, as well:.
"But nobody will!" she said.
"I want to be sure," I said.
I did the piercing myself, 8 gauge, right over the introitus. She didn't even
whimper, though it certainly hurt. I filled the new holes with plastic studs -
impregnated (not a word we use much round here, ha ha) with antiobiotics. Then I
made a big fuss out of kissing and cuddling her, and she noticed - she could
hardly avoid it - that I had an erection I'd have been proud of at the age of
seventeen.
That was the first time I used her mouth. She was clumsy, of course, and could
barely accept the head of the thing. But she was terribly excited, and
desperately loyal, and swallowed everything.
The next few weeks were the most critical, while the piercing healed. It was
difficult keeping her out of the house - I had an important Guest Night, and I
needed to arrange a Great Dane for 9. Marilyn's newly pierced pussy made her
remarkably sex-struck: it's a phenomenon I've seen before, and I was counting on
it. After the first three weeks, she was encouraging me to probe her sweet
little arse with a finger, then two; she was still frightened by the idea of a
penis in there.
But eventually she was ready, and we made a ceremony out of it. My Belgian
friend had made a fine little padlock, rounded off, quite light. I set it on a
little cushion, and Marilyn -- she was still Marilyn, but not for much longer --
presented it to me. Then she lay back, and I replaced the plastic studs with the
steel. Cold steel, too: I wanted her to shiver a little, which she did.
"Touch yourself," I said. "Go on, tug at your fib."
"I feel really horny." she said. "Can we unlock me now?"
"Not for a while," I said. "We'll have to find another way."
That was the first time I buggered her. You'll note that right up until then no
technology except the most primitive sort had been used: that's important. The
next morning, she left to go to work. She didn't know it was her last day, of
course, but I doubt if she got much work done. All she could think about was
that piece of metal bobbing between her legs.
Quasimodo breathed deeply above the brandy snifter, and sipped some of the amber
liquid. "A strange business to be in," he said. "But very profitable."
He reached out and touched the bald head of the young woman by the fireplace.
She was naked, of course, with her hands behind her back at the level of her
neck, chained to a quite delicate collar. Another chain ran from the edge of the
fireplace to the substantial steel ring that hung from the front of her
depilated sex. A fine silver mesh covered her naked skull. Almost as remarkable
was the chain that joined her pierced tongue to her nasal septum. "She can't
suck cock if she isn't allowed, with this device. Or at least not at all
easily," said Quasimodo to his guest. "Frankly, it was about the only way I
could stop her. Would you believe she used to be a marketing manager? She's an
early NetFucker, too." He tapped the silver mesh. "I'd more or less got the hang
of the technology by the time I programmed 8, but it's a pity about the bald
heads. Still... " He picked up a remote control of the type used for ordinary
television sets, frowned at the complex buttons and clicked. The chain fell free
from her sex, and she stood up: revealed the neatly tattooed figure 8 on her
bare pubic mound.
8, go and bring me 12. If she's filthy, hose her: you have washroom privileges.
"But how," said Quasimodo's guest, " Can she do anything with her hands chained
behind her back?" It was the only time he spoke
"Tut" said Quasimodo. And to the girl: "You understand your instructions?"
The young female addressed as 8 made a whimpering agreement: it is quite
difficult to talk when your tongue is linked to your septum by a an inch and a
half of chain. Quasimodo looked at his guest.
"She has a very well-trained mouth.. But I see you are bulging. Perhaps I have
not given you enough Armagnac. Still, let's wait and see what 8 brings. In the
meantime, let me refresh your glass. In this house, you need not bulge for
long."
Then: "8: stop. Come here." He turned to his guest. "This is what we call here a
ruling ring. Look: right at the front of her pussy, quite deep into the flesh,
we put two rings, small. We use anaesthetic, of course, but it hurts and it
takes a while to heal. Then a ring that joins them, and then a ring that dangles
down. Tug it, and she's yours. She's fibbed at present, of course, but the key
is available. No, 8, that will be all. Fetch 12."
Quasimodo waddled over to the expensive sound system and made some adjustments.
In a few moments, the opening chords of Beethoven's Seventh filled the room. A
few moments after that, 8 returned, leading -- not easily - a larger woman, on
all fours, by means of a slender leash she held between her tongue and her lower
teeth.
"12's fat and ugly," said Quasimodo. "But I'd never sell her on. Do you know,
she can remove screw tops with her pussy? 12, come here."
12 approached on all fours. She was a woman of about 35, more than somewhat
overweight and with a bulging belly. Her tits would have won no prizes for
anything other than size; one of them bore a heavy steel ring about two inches
in diameter, and drooped a little lower than its neighbour; the ring touched the
floor. Like 8, she had her tongue clipped to her nose. Her bald head was also
meshed, but her pubic area was a forest of tangled hair: not enough, though, to
hide the multiple rings that dangled in front. The number 12 was branded in the
soft flesh of her left buttock.
"12 really likes to suck," said Quasimodo casually. "So I don't allow her to do
that, not often. Frankly, she's not very good at it, but that's what she was
originally programmed for, and I wasn't very subtle in those days. She's also
programmed to crawl like that and I'm afraid I overdid that one, too: she gets
dizzy and falls over if she stands up unsupported. That was NetFuck 1.1, not the
world's finest piece of software. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that
Microsoft didn't write it, or who knows where we might be?
"12, turn around and raise your rump. My guest requires your attention. Now, I
recommend that you use her pussy. I know it looks like a great, slabby slack
thing, but her fib is open and I you that you will be very pleasantly surprised,
I promise you. I am afraid I must go to the toilet. Just take her: look, she's
wet. You'll find that tongue-nose connection saves a good deal of tiresome
conversation. Not, of course, that 12 can speak."
Quasimodo returned after a decent interval - ten minutes or so - and brought out
his humidor. 12 was kneeling near the fireplace, her hands on the carpet before
her; Quasimodo's guest looked somewhat more relaxed.
Quasimodo reached down and patted the bald head affectionately. "We don't want
any dribbles on the carpet, 12, so head down and arse up. No sucking tonight.
Into the corner, now.
The overweight, ugly woman called 12 padded away from the fireplace on all
fours, the semen that dribbled from her open sex gleaming in the lamplight.
"But we were talking about 7. (They're not in numerical order, you know.) When
she came back after that last day at the office, well, I have never seen a
randier woman. I put a collar on her then, and linked her wrists to it: she
loved the whole thing. Her smooth pussy with the padlock between her legs...
Then I unlocked the padlock: she came at once, quite strange, really, but not
entirely unsuspected. Then I slid the Belgian chocolates into her: back then,
that amounted to three egg-shaped things, linked, with a battery. And a
connection to the remote control, of course, which is why the damned thing was
so complicated. We played around with that for a week or two; at the end of the
month, she was sucking off the plumber who came round to sort out a little
problem. Only when I allowed her, of course.
After that, she knew what she was; and what she was for. But I never branded
her: that perfect pussy, you know. Maybe I will some day, but for now we just
use a long-lasting dye to show her number. In some ways, her pussy is way too
delicate: I've often wished she had enough flesh in her lips for a ruling ring.
Still, it would spoil her in some ways. Look at 12, here."
He gestured towards 12, who still crouched silently near a corner of the room.
The woman crawled forward into the light of the fire, and raised her rump.
Quasimodo pulled at the substantial metal rings that dangled between her legs.
"She carries heavier iron than 8 does, as you can see. I rather like this sort
of thing," he said. 12 whimpered. "But 7 simply hasn't the material for it.
Still, what she has is pretty exquisite. Quite honestly, it's the most perfect
little pussy I have ever seen. Which is the marvellous irony of the whole thing.
A perfect pussy, utterly unused. She hasn't been fucked in three years. I only
remove the fib to change the batteries. Nobody is allowed to fuck 7, not even
you. I'd never dream of fucking her myself, for that matter. And I know she'd
hate it, too: I'll explain in a moment. So I couldn't imagine selling 7 on. I
don't mind sharing her with special visitors, but..."
"7's serious conditioning began with the Belgian chocolates and the remote. The
idea was to link what was going on in her mouth with what she felt in her
vagina. It took a lot of skill and practice, if I say so myself, and a lot of
cooperation from 7, but we got it so that she orgasmed just as I filled her
throat.
"I might have left things at that if it hadn't been for some quite startling new
technology my Belgian friend was developing. That's the clit-jewel, by the way.
It's actually a microprocessor, grafted into the nerve stock down there. The
clit itself had to go: I let Armand keep it in a pickle jar. I told you he was a
pervert. We upgraded the stuff inside her vagina, too, preloaded some programs
then took her down to his house in the Ardennes for some heavy conditioning:
images, sensations, sounds, careful feeding, very modest use of drugs.
Effective, as well as interesting and good fun. Good fun for 7, too, I should
add.
She is now physically disgusted to the point of nausea by the thought of a cock
entering her pussy. She hates seeing any of the other girls fucked; I make sure
that she almost never does. I actually have to give her a sedative before I
unlock her fib to change the batteries; her hearbeat goes way up and she shakes
like a leaf until it's back in place. On the other hand, she gets all tense and
jealous if she sees a cock going into anyone's mouth but her own.
The point is that after the Ardennes session, 7's mouth is her prime sexual
organ, the one that brings her to orgasm. In fact, she is physically unable to
reach any sort of orgasm without a penis in her mouth. A dildo won't do it:
there are all sorts of olefactory links we programmed in. She has to taste
genuine semen or pre-come, and she prefers it if she can also taste a little of
her own shit. If you set the remote to Program 17, you'll see what I mean. You
did? Oh, excellent. Mouth, anus, mouth: you'll note that she pushes you from her
anus back to her mouth after just a few strokes: we didn't want her to get all
sloppy and huge back there. And she's still girly girly about having her little
tits played with. She's a pure joy, is 7, a pure joy.
The pleasure feedback loop is specifically matched to my own preferences, but no
guest who has used her has ever complained. She probably has the best-trained
mouth -- remember, the subtle thing is that she trained it mostly herself -- in
the world. In history, even. But that's only one reason why I'd never sell her
on. I'm quite genuinely fond of her, you know.
Unfortunately, that kind of training is expensive, and takes time. Armand thinks
he can automate the process, especially if we use pain or more drugs. I simply
couldn't have allowed that kind of treatment on 7. Still, we've got contracts
out for a few fresh 16- or 17-year-olds, and we'll give it a try. There are
plenty of them around: all those Kosovan refugees, for a start, and all those
useless little druggies although one does have to worry about disease.
The industrial-grade girls could never be as good as 7 but Armand reckons we can
get 60, maybe 70 percent of the quality in two or three weeks, for no more than
about 5,000 euros. There would be a certain amount of brain damage, almost
certainly, but the sell-on potential is colossal, especially in Japan. You'd
like one yourself? It could be a year before we have a serious production line
running. They'll be our 100-series, I think. And it'll be a year after that
before we can program for specific requests as opposed to the mouth business.
You'd like to invest? Good. That may speed the process.
It was quite an exciting time, you know. I still play around with 7's remote on
manual, but it's much easier just to hit one of the program keys. Where was I?
"I really must insist on more Armagnac. Look at 12 there, still drooling, with
your come dribbling from her pussy. She really has to be taken back to her cage:
8, take her back. The best idea I ever had was connecting tongues to noses. We
call it a bridle: it's the one thing the girls don't really like, and they're
all envious that 7 doesn't have one. You pleased 12, there, you know. She hasn't
been properly fucked in a month at least, and she doesn't really like dogs. Not
that she gets a vote, but I prefer to see my girls reasonably happy. Have a
cigar."
"I'm not a sadist, as you know very well: it's all done by kindness and training
here. None of my girls has ever been whipped: conditioning is far more
effective. And Armand's new technology has quite possibly changed this business
forever. My long-term plan here is to upgrade 8 -- she's very envious of 7 --
and sell on the rest, except for 7, naturally, and old 12. Call me a
sentimentalist, but I really do have a soft spot for the fat little beast.
Besides, she's a victim of my own learning curve: I honestly didn't want her to
spend the rest of her life on all fours and I feel a certain responsibility.
I only have seven in the Guest Wing right now, down from ten just last week. 4,
5 and 6 all went to Nomura; 4 and 5 were a matched set, and he paid well for
them, so I threw in 6. Nomura and I go back a long way, and I value the
business. Let's see... you've had 7 and 12, and you've seen 8. 13 you had last
time: she's spending a week in the Soft Room right now doing strengthening
exercises on her cunt muscles and watching some rather strange TV with a silver
net on her head. I spent a lot of money going to NetFuck 4.0, even though I
think that Armand's new stuff is going to make it totally obsolete. But we'll
see. I may make something of 13 yet.
Of course I re-use the numbers, otherwise I'd be up to, what, well, it might
surprise you. But I leave the slots empty for at least six months once they've
gone: seems only polite. I don't expect I'll have another 4 and 5 until April.
They're the second matched pair with these numbers, too: I think I may reserve
them for that. I still feel bad about the last ones. Greed on my part, really: I
couldn't resist what a certain Saudi prince was offering. But these Arabs ruin
girls, simply ruin them, and they have no perception of quality. Nomura and his
people can be rough, but not that rough. I honestly don't think I could
ethically pass on any more really good stuff to the Saudis. I do care about my
girls, you know.
No, I don't take them back, ever. I made that mistake once in Beirut; it's the
only time I ever had to have one put down, and it upset me very badly. Arabs
again, you see. Please, let's talk about more cheerful things.
For example there's 3: she's brand new, was sleeping rough in Dublin until ten
days ago. She's going through what we call "confusement" right now. Early stage
heroin addict, no HIV and believe me we checked very carefully. She shouldn't
really even be numbered at this stage, since we might have to reject her: but I
have a pretty good feel for the business after all these years, and I think
she'll be fine.
Confusement? Well, the details are a trade secret, as you can imagine. But it
involves confinement and confusion. We make her a soft thing in a hard place,
and then a hard thing in a soft place. I told you it was a trade secret. But
it's all very gentle, I can assure you. She'll be beaming when she comes out of
it, and feels her ruling ring for the first time. Then she'll get her number,
officially. You have no idea how important that is: she's already lost her name,
that's part of the job of confusement. That's why they aren't numbered 10356b or
anything horrid like that. I know that's what some of my competitors do. But
when Teresa - I'm guessing, really I have no idea what she was once called and
frankly I don't want to know - finds out that she's 3, she'll be happier than
you can perhaps imagine.
And 18: she's the only black we have at the moment. Difficult case: tall, superb
tits. She tries to dominate the other girls, and that's not how we work here.
But it's a quality we can use. Just possibly, she could help with training, but
we have never done that before and I am more than somewhat reluctant. Armand has
a few ideas. I wouldn't risk her mouth, not right now, and I don't want to draw
her teeth or break her down until I've tried some of Armand's suggestions. A
high risk proposition, 18: I am thinking of hanging her in the small cage during
the next guest night, just so she understands. But it's difficult. We could lose
her. This job isn't nearly as easy as some people think.
And dear old 9 I've been keeping really for spectator sport. She's not very good
looking, and she could never learn to suck properly -- though she does try,
bless her. Her arse is just about tolerable, and I have kept it tight. But when
you see her laying down in front of a big dog, it's quite something. We have her
seen to by a pig or a donkey, too, at least once a month. It's not as easy to
arrange as you might think; she pays the farm people herself with her mouth --
they're not what you'd call connoisseurs -- and I am sorry to say that her cunt
is stretched more than some might like. Sometimes I wonder why I feed her. I
don't get all that much from selling the pictures, and we can't really bring a
donkey round here for Guest Nights. At least, not often.
She'll have to go, I know it. It's quite true what you've heard, I am indeed a
sentimental old fool who hangs on to his girls far too long. But 9 is under
offer, to tell the truth. A woman, too: unusual but certainly not unheard of.
She breeds horses. Well, 9 won't actually breed from a horse, but she will
surely go through the motions.
So you know the routine here, now. I don't normally use their cunts, myself:
much prefer a skilled mouth or a tight arsehole. Though I do have the odd prod,
just to keep in touch, as it were. Still, if you have time next week, I'd value
your opinion on a couple of half-trained vaginas. It isn't what you'd call my
own speciality. And if you're serious about that investment, you might like to
get involved with 3's early training.
Anyway, they're all fibbed, even 12, who's usually left open with her lock
hanging from one cuntlip. Though all of them are available down there if anyone
feels like it, except for 7 of course. Again, except for 7 they've all had that
nose-and-tongue bridle job; you really ought to unchain them if you want their
mouth, but it's no trouble really and it certainly helps them understand their
place. Most of them have a ruling ring, too; and know how to use it. 8?" The
woman called 8, who had been standing silently near the door, walked forward.
"Clip yourself by the fireplace, will you?" 8 came into the firelight, and
knelt. Quasimodo touched the back of her collar and set her hands free. 8
reached down, and connected the spring clip mounted by the fireplace to the
steel oval that dangled from her sex. Silently, she returned her hands to the
collar position, but Quasimodo cuffed her gently and said, "I'll have your
mouth, now, 8. You may free your tongue."
The young woman, her hands trembling a little from lengthy bondage, opened the
spring clamp that held her tongue chain to her septum. Briefly, she closed her
mouth, then opened it again. Her tongue protruded slightly, and the little chain
dangled over her chin. She glistened with saliva.
Quasimodo moistened a finger in her mouth, and held it up. "That's what I mean
by conditioning," he said. "8 salivates as soon as you open the bridle. She
knows that cock is coming: it's the only time her mouth's ever opened, in fact.
She learned to eat and drink with her face chained a long time ago. I'm not so
stern with any of the others, but I have high hopes for 8. Isn't that right, my
little darling? You'd like to be just like 7, wouldn't you?" The young woman
nodded vigorously.
"She can't speak," said Quasimodo. "Vocal chords tweaked, you know. But she can
listen and she understands nearly every word. She knows as well as I do that
Armand's new stuff -- it's the software more than the hardware, really, plus
that nerve-grafting stuff -- has changed everything. But 8 was prepared in
old-fashioned ways, and they do still work you know. Isn't that right, my
sweet?"
He adjusted his clothing. 8 brought her face forward around his engorged penis,
and Quasimodo squeezed her perfect, pointed breasts affectionately.
"I don't usually have their nips pierced, except by request when they're sold
on," he said, breathing a little deeply as 8 engaged seriously with his member.
"But 12 sags anyway and I quite enjoy abusing the beast. Ahhh...."
He allowed 8 to lick his softening penis clean, then stroked her head gently. At
his signal, she reconnected her tongue to her nose and moved her hands behind
her back, lifting them to the level of the neck ring. Quasimodo fastened them in
place.
"All done by kindness, as I said."
