Kinky
Dept

Kinky Dept

Creator of Bondage Artwork


Written by the Kinkydept
Last edited 2024/10/03
Version 1.0
THE MOUNTED HUSBAND
FEMDOM, POST-CASTRATION, F/fm, ENSLAVEMENT, CUNNILINGUS, BODY WORSHIP, SLAVE ORDEAL, DEGRADING, TOILET, SUBMISSIVE POV



IMG-8 preview


Author's note: This story has been written with IMG-1 (slave girl 92), IMG-2 (Slave boy 93) and IMG-8 (Three Slaves) in mind, from IRRESISTIBLE SLAVES 1.


The richness of some slave owners, their vast wealth, and their boundless cruelty always surprised new slaves the most. It left them trapped in simultaneous awe and puzzled disbelief, breaking their hopes of returning to their old lives from the beginning. Hard weeks of training had passed for the captives. It seemed never-ending for a slave; no one was ever satisfied, neither the staff nor their tyrannical and almighty owner, the Mistress of the estate. Someone's wife had simply become #92. They all had become property within this sizable estate. If #92 could still talk she could've warned two new arrivals about their owner's peculiarities. Yet, a big ring went through #92's lower mouth and the center of her tongue, preventing her from articulating any such warnings. Today, Mistress would personally take her three rather unspoiled girls for a nice shopping trip through the city; unspoiled, in the sense that they only had experienced a few months of such slave education. Someone dear to #92 would not join them today, equally captured and changed: her husband. When they had abducted his wife, he had been taken too. Undressed, marked, and modified, they both had become clearly labeled objects. Her husband had simply become #93. Their bare meat stated this irrevocable fact with efficiently burned-in numbers of ownership, right below their crotch—probably the rest of their lives. For weeks, the couple hadn't seen (or been offered) an article of clothing, not even a piece of underwear. And so there was nothing they could do to hide what had been done to them so far. Today, one of them was going on a shopping trip; well, except her dearest husband was nowhere to be seen. #92 was accompanied by two other slave girls who looked just as exposed, chained, and beaten. As a respectable Mistress, the lady of the estate had brought her golden chain with her. Compared to most chains used within this estate, it was a lighter but more expensive model that fit very well in her gloved hand. As luck had it, for the husband, the couple's Mistress turned out to be a lesbian and saw little use in males, except to break them. How did he know that? Mistress showed a disinterest towards anything male. And, incidentally, there was no room left on the chain for #92's husband. The golden leash's three ends clicked to three rings. Three hopelessly outgunned women followed their Mistress without hesitancy, or else the tender rings in their pierced pussies would tense and pull most distressingly. The husband's now cockless existence in Mistress's dark dungeon was a whole nother story. Cruel drills, tutoring by her staff, and many-day-long ordeals had had him quickly broken and willing, much quicker than his dearest wife could have learned the trade. For today, though, he would serve his Mistress in a different way. Earlier this morning, Mistress's well-trained staff had taken #93 from his dungeon, and, with a leash connected to his heavy nose ring, pulled him not too kindly towards the entrance gate of Mistress's magnificent estate. He has worn his custom metal head harness since day one, which featured a tightly locked metal blindfold. Without its key, he had become the women's helpless toy. It forced him to trust his leash holder without choice. His bare feet felt cold gravel underneath their dirty soles. Like the many other oddities of his new slave gear, he could not set his full foot down. A thin steel brace around his foot prevented his heels from reaching the ground. He had to walk as if wearing invisible heels—if he didn't want to feel the many sharp spikes digging into his feet; it turned out, his wife hadn't been the only one who had to wear them. After having spent weeks of uncertainty in the small dungeon cell with his wife, a staff woman now led him outside as he was. A breeze made him all the more conscious of his utterly exposed state. He had not grown used to the touch of his slave piercings. The pain in his nose ring led him on. His fists twitched, unable to get away from his heavy waistband and reach the leash that controlled him so effortlessly. Wearing similar slave gear (or uniforms as they called it around here) as his wife, he had been equipped with the same mouth ring. Begging or speaking coherently was out of the question with such a ring installed. Slaves hated them for good reason because with tongues stuck out, they drooled uncontrollably; the big ring also made them look rather stupid. And so he was led and followed meekly, wherever this woman took him in the dark. He never knew when someone looked or stared at his modified body. He only knew that there were a lot of female slaves around. During his weeks here, he had never seen (or rather heard) another male slave. Just after entering the property, empty display stations were always available, waiting to be filled by either new or bad slave girls. When visitors passed the gate and followed along the fancy gravel road towards the estate, #93 was about to be seated beside the road, right on the first free spot. His blindness kept him helpless, terrified, and docile around the women. With his hands stuck in steel-meshed mittens and locked to his waist, he no longer dared to offer resistance. The whip was much too quick, and the staff women had an easy time with him. In the ground in front, another slut pole was embedded (similar to the two waiting in the couple's dungeon cell). Rough and ready as he was now from his training, slave etiquette demanded that he gave the anal pole a humble kiss before he was even permitted to take a seat on it. His leash holder simply had to pull him to his knees and wordlessly lead him to his bone like a blind and broken dog. His heavy chains clanked as they touched hard, cold cement. His lips soon found the cold surface. The soft whip merely had to caress his abused buttocks, and he promptly licked the cold, round object with sudden eagerness. Morning dew was stuck to its surface. It featured a pear-shaped size but was upside down. The weather seemed not to have washed it all off and something greeted his taste buds: a sordid and foul taste was still stuck to the pole as if it saw regular use. It was placed slightly higher than in his cell as if waiting on a platform. He shivered, half from the still chilly air, half from grim anticipation. Around here—around Mistress and her staff women—he had learned to heighten his expectations over what they were capable of. And also what they had made to fit inside him over the long weeks; the steel pole's sheer size held him in awe. After he had so courteously cleaned it, he heard her put on a rubber glove and lube up the thing. As absurd as it was, he felt grateful because he couldn't lube it himself. Well-trained but red-faced, he had been carefully seated on the cold, hard object. From now on, he was supposed to keep it warm with his gaping slave hole. To his frustration, nothing hard had arisen in his crotch. Nothing could. The second he was posed, chains prevented him from making any decisions on his own again. Naked and chained slave meat, as he had become, was an easy target. They would whip naked meat without hesitancy. And since the slaves couldn't speak due to gag or ring, they felt more and more like the whip's meat. Kneeling in front of the standing staff woman, and feeling the pole intimately within himself, #93's knees were pulled further apart, not only keeping him presentable for onlookers but slipping lower on the slippery thing. The station was a bare, smooth cement section with a slightly raised platform on top. For a split second, he couldn't help but imagine the many female slaves having been seated before him on this very thing, struggling and crying. The floor featured many hard rings and chains, and he now had become its prisoner. If it wasn't for the stench! It reeked of toilets. With what little experience he had earned in this place, it immediately told him that this would be an all-day duty; meaning they would come and feed him but otherwise leave him to his worthless suffering. At the back of his neck, a loose chain clicked to his heavy slave collar, forcing him to kneel upright and show his face. At his waist, more sturdy chains from below clicked into his steel belt, holding him in place on his large rectal pole. Warm, feminine hands touched his stretched balls, but without offering him a word of comfort. His final chain clicked, locking him to the platform by his lowest ball ring. Currently, he wore sixteen rings along his poor ball sack, each one welded shut. Mistress saw no need to remove them ever again. He simply had to endure them and what they did to him, leaving his grotesquely elongated bag of skin slowly lengthening and aching for most of the time (and not just from rings). He had accumulated a voracious hunger for any sort of tender touch, be it feminine hands praising his body, or even his tongue, praising the feminine body, in turn. #93 could hear—and feel—the woman's heeled steps around him, while unavoidably smelling the feminine scent of her hair and clothes. She was rather close to him. Every sensation in his battered body had become amplified, more receptive to anything sensual. There were upsides though: a few seconds of heaven awaited him like the tiniest of orgasms. Wordlessly, the staff woman knelt in front of him. She grabbed and held his balls most tenderly, lubing them up with the utmost care, massaging warm oil into his aching skin with patience and tenderness. This always made him whimper and slide a little deeper on his giant rectal pole; for the moment, he could no longer remember his last proper orgasm. He also remembered that his oiled-up sack of skin served a purpose around here. For once—and to his surprise—he was instructed about his slave duty. His Mistress spoke. It soon turned out to be a generic, recorded message, probably made for this specific slave station. How much more humiliation could he take? His supreme Mistress and owner didn't even bother to speak to him directly. The staff woman between his held-open legs made it rather difficult to focus and listen. In the chilly morning air, her warm, oiled-up hands wouldn't stop milking and teasing his elongated sack as if it was nothing more than one big, long teat. But his two trapped and squeezed marbles waited at its end! The staff woman didn't have to worry about keeping him chaste. He could no longer have erections. So, playing with his helpless body was without risk. Sure, he was still horny as hell. His gracious Mistress had, at least, left his balls attached, but there was no longer a valve, higher up, to offer any relief from that curse. The woman between his legs innocently played with his ball chain, tugging and tensing it, making him much too aware of how hopelessly locked in place he now was. He shivered again. The pole in his ass felt like an icy fist. This early, the station's entire purpose seemed to expose him like a skewered piece of slave meat. He had to remain where he was, no matter what he wanted or tried. Working on such a sizable estate, he imagined the staff woman perfectly dressed in something fancy and warm. His nose could not tell him that; neither his blind eyes, which desperately tried to puncture the steel and gain a glimpse of what was in front of him. After his Mistress had spoken to him, in a way, he had gotten the gist of it (even though he was more than a little distracted): For today, if slave heard someone approach—and it didn't matter if it was a delivery truck or somebody simply leaving the estate—he had to offer a courteous gesture, namely humping his rectal pole like a good, eager slave boy. His throat became sticky and tight at the thought of doing this all day. There was always the carrot and the stick for a slave. And fortunately, if he complied, he'd receive a reward. At the end of the day, he'd get a yummy treat! Mind you, slave gruel is extremely dull, and getting it served in a dog bowl for the past few weeks had neither helped its taste nor his cause. For once, it sounded easy enough for #93. He still hadn't gotten used to the constant humiliation in front of all these women, be it dressed staff or naked slave girls. They must be staring at him and his exposed body nonstop! The staff woman left him hanging (and his sack) without offering him a single word of comfort or acknowledgment. Its effect was unsettling and further molded his vulnerable and trapped mind. He didn't even know the face of the woman who had just touched him and locked him in place, her voice, her expression, her mood. He knew nothing about her except for a faint feminine smell. Was she wearing servant clothes or something more threatening-looking, with her heels? Subconsciously, his body had tried following her—to smell her, to taste her—if it weren't for his many rigid and heavy chains anchoring him in place like a murderous felon. The cold cement floor held him with the same hopeless efficiency as his cell had done for so many weeks. Around here, women touched him without asking, sometimes cleaning, sometimes teasing, and sometimes hurting him without the slightest hesitancy. This early, the air was uncomfortably fresh for a slave, touching every part of his body. Collared as he was, not a single item of clothing had been offered to him. He was suddenly alone, left naked outside. As it was customary around here for a mere slave, he could no longer feel body hair anywhere on his body, not on his head, his face, nor his legs. He had never felt so naked and reduced. No longer able to suppress any of it, overwhelming shame and helplessness hit him in sudden waves. That's when he fought against his restraints like this aforementioned felon. Nothing came loose. Fighting against his slut pole had certainly been a bad idea, and his hole ached needlessly before his duties for today had even started. They certainly knew how to keep their slaves, he thought. But worse was the fear of not knowing if someone watched him out here, observed him, or added penalty points to his weekly performance reviews. After some early morning delivery vans and foot traffic, he quickly became warmed up on his display station. But noon had come around not too soon for him. By then, the ache in his body had him further detached from reality. He had to fight with himself to stay focused on the task at hand. Everything around here, in this place, this estate, felt like a constant, unending ordeal. Mentally, he couldn't tell any longer if he was either swathed in a tight blanket or simply but certainly melted on the spot, starting from his hole. There was nothing else to think about, to distract him from, not from his sensations nor his slave duties. Put on display like a toy, it was a dull but seemingly important task he fulfilled as Mistress's meek and naked slave meat. A sound in the distance caught his attention again. He anxiously raised his head, listening. His aching asshole couldn't take much more humping! The gigantic size they had picked for him today slowly broke his hopes. The clanking of chains and the tinkling of many small slave bells approached him along the long gravel road. There were also more obvious footsteps in between. In the distance, heeled shoes or boots crushed pebbles under their soles with determined steps. In the isolating pitch-black, its pace sounded intimately familiar and distinctive to him. It was his Mistress! Dread filled him. Ever since she had taken away from him his intimate friend from down below, he couldn't shake a certain rising fear, an anxiousness, an aversion, slowly choking him... Any moment, he would be nothing less than trapped again within this woman's overpowering presence. He feared her skills with the whip! Unable to run away from her, from all the cruel things she had done to him since the moment their paths had crossed, his conditioning kicked in like flipping a switch: his learned coping mechanism. In the surrounding dark that trapped him under her will, he began to slide up and down his big steel pole, smearing lube across the entire length of the giant shaft. Of course, this motion always carried a consequence: immediate and terrible arousal gripped his insides every single time, making him want to grab his imagined cock and explode on the spot. Of course, no such cockiness happened. Obediently, his asshole slid upwards, closer to his pole's bulbous and bigger top. At this point, his ball chain engaged, making him inhale not only from his slut pole's growing size but also from the squeezing grip around his chained balls. Occasionally, his developing eagerness-to-please had him jerk on his two aching marbles. It squeezed them. At first, very pleasant, but quickly turning into an unendurable ache. It offered him a weird pleasure but also reigned him back in. If he went any further up in his eagerness, his hip chains engaged last and stopped him from accidentally dismounting from his duties. They told his body the furthest point he was permitted to move. Besides, he no longer had any energy left to fight her. The endless sadism coming from her hand and her sheer creativity in lessons of cruelty had put him in a hopeless starting situation. Weeks had passed, probably months even, and #93 could no longer think about true, real escape. Sure, escape from some situations... or escape from reality, but the only trajectory left, as her slave, was forward, and that meant becoming her property in mind as well. There was no other choice left that he could think of. Running away from her had become as good as impossible: from the tracking chip somewhere implanted in his and his wife's body, to the most obvious and permanent marks of ownership etched or melted into each one, to the welded shackles and chains he felt his every move—heavy, noisy, and restricting—, keeping him and his wife a prisoner of this woman with as much certainty as tomorrow's sunrise. Maybe the future held better cards if he behaved and became what she wanted, no matter the cost. Equally worse than his vexing and insatiable thirst for an orgasm was the constant and perpetual blindness surrounding him like a never-ending night. He never knew when a whip would crack and pain explode. Around here, they mostly aimed at his balls, offering free lessons. Just a few weeks of slave training had made #93 very good at doing what the women around here wanted from him, be it his Mistress or her well-trained staff. The familiar note of Mistress's perfume entered his snotty nostrils. If he could just stop drooling like a mutt with his silly mouth ring! The aromatic note was closely followed by a sweaty tinge of unwashed slave girls. Like many times a day, his imagined erection instantly stood at the ready, hard and powerful, driving him insane with unquenchable desire. Simultaneously, the many potential women staring at him in his current state made him feel very small. The touch of a single finger would send him over and release him from Mistress's invisible curse. Locked to his waist, his mittened fists no longer attempted to even reach his dearest friend; he had tried that many times, without success. Besides, that battle was over. It was no longer his to touch—his Mistress had made sure. His twitching, wet hole ached from the sheer size that resided now within his abused body. Worse was the feeling of not having felt a simple, pleasant erection for many, cruel weeks. Mistress's eyes lingered on his beaten body, or, he vividly imagined so, feeling her malevolent stare in the dark. The not-yet-broken stares of his wife, too! It must be close to noon, judging by his thirst and hunger. If nobody came and fed him, he would not eat. So, being given a chance to taste a treat later on—actual human food—was too tempting to pass up as a slave. Bald, naked, and chained, #93 fucked himself like a good slave boy at the sound of the approaching footsteps. Blind and anchored in place, he secretly ached for his wife, her face, her lips, her body... With rattling chains, his wife walked just a few meters from him, pulling a heavy ball and chain behind her ankle, sweating and gasping like the other two girls who trudged beside her, and looking none the better. A little higher up on his wife's body, a golden chain pulled her by her labia ring, leading and convincing her like nothing else. All three slave girls followed Mistress's firm hand stiffly but eagerly. Of course, they tried not to follow with their hips first, but their cruel slave gear left them at a great disadvantage compared to Mistress's resolute tempo. Mistress might wear extra tall leather boots, but her slaves' shackled, bare feet stood no chance. The mounted husband couldn't even watch, only listen like a blind man. Driven on, the three slave girls scraped by with their balls and chains. Before they passed the high fence of the glamorous property and the public road, his naked wife glanced with forlorn eyes at her kneeling husband. He had been erected like a piece of meat. Except now, he was a visibly broken piece of meat. #92 felt the familiar sharp spikes dig into her stiff, bare feet. She gave another hopeless moan. She had to concentrate with her tiptoe braces! They forced her to walk like she wore invisible heels, day and night. She couldn't even imagine how her husband must feel, wearing the same devices as her on his feet. She, at least, has had some proud experiences with heels. For just a moment, her mounted husband had distracted her with his lewd movements. She couldn't bring herself to look away! A familiar tingle within her closed-up snatch rushed upwards like a wave of a burning-hot desire. It was unwanted, unasked, unfulfilled, particularly, when she was about to be led naked and bound into the freaking city! Fresh tears blurred her vision. She had no use of her hands and couldn't just wipe them away. She had to wait for them to take the long and obvious route along her flushed cheeks, and until she had to taste them. Marked and collared, she no longer had sole power over such human freedoms. Weeks of teasing and denial made her pussy, her body, feel like it was out of control, no longer hers to command but being commanded by it. The familiar wetness between her legs was back, no longer stopped, blocked, or hidden by any fabric—when it would've been needed the most! With wet eyes, she gave an idiotic grin like she was losing it. How quickly this woman in front of her—their mutual owner—had turned and molded her husband so willing, but also had broken him far too quickly. Spit dribbled incessantly from her chin, thanks to her mouth ring, then followed the soaked cleavage between her breasts. She wondered if he felt just as crazed and horny and hungry for a simple, caressing touch as she ached for with her ever-chained body? Another miserable sob and sniffle escaped her. The times when this woman had forced her to lick other women, other slaves, taste their wet vulvas, and humiliate herself. The memories disgusted her. To be clear, what disgusted #92 was its arousing effect on her. It was also what aroused this leather-clad woman in front of her: the humbling, the dehumanizing, the punishments. #93 felt that anger again, joining the hot flashes of shame that wouldn't leave her alone while she was stuck to Mistress's leash. Sometimes the wife even forgot that there was no longer anything to rub, down there where she was marked like a cow. She gave another idiotic grin. She would no longer need one of those archaic chastity belts. There was nothing left to play with. No matter how strong the urge, she would stay chaste like a nun for the rest of her life. Thoughts like these did not help her vision to clear up in front of her mounted husband and his mesmerizing movements. After the forceful operation by Mistress, many things had changed. They called it 'full infibulation' or something. She was clitless and sewn up. If her three bottom labia rings were removed, with the help of her Mistress, only one of Mistress's fingers barely managed to still fit inside her slave vagina, nothing larger, nothing really pleasant. Yet, each time Mistress had played with her body, the penetration still teased her enough until she begged with tears in her eyes—not to stop but to make her cum! That's when her Mistress would always put her three labia rings back in, sealing her up again and left to drip. #92 clenched her big steel plug without choice. Unfortunately, it was stuck in the wrong hole! Yet, her steel buttplug felt like her new best friend. With unwanted but wet eyes, her gaze rested on her husband's similarly modified groin. A cool breeze gave her goosebumps and a shudder rose across her hairless body. How desperately she craved his former cock! It gave her a rousing shiver. But it was no longer there, no longer functioning. He was no longer truly male. Yes, his balls still dangled obscenely, stretched beyond recognition by many golden rings, but they had been fiercely whipped by the women in charge all around, all day, that they looked painfully red and swollen. She stared with hungry, deranged eyes at him—just a little longer. When the deep ache within her pierced nipples became unbearable, she realized again how little movement her outfit permitted, and how rigidly it demanded perfect posture from its wearer. From her skewered nipples, two weighty and taut chains ran up towards a big mouth ring that kept her silently drooling. It had been a stupid attempt to challenge her uniform again. With eyes still leering, she stared at her husband's crotch. It reminded her more of a pussy nowadays. Above his grotesquely shaped balls, a tiny hole remained. She always wondered if he could still feel something, like a pulsating ghost limb. She had to keep her bald head perfectly straight if she didn't want to suffer as a slave girl. Her tight nipple chains prevented her from seeing him any longer. They had passed him. The incessant pain in her lower labia ring made #92 follow her Mistress like the obedient and well-trained pet she had become, only focusing on what was in front of her and—at all cost—avoiding to stumble with her tiptoe braces. It was far too easy to fail around here. #92 had no intention yet of hobbling naked through the city, dirty, smelly, and hairless as they had made her. It seemed, though, she was going anyway? Like many things in her new life, from uncomfortable to horrible, she seemed to run on autopilot and no longer had to make any tough choices, except two simple ones: Submission or unbearable pain? Submission seemed the reasonable choice, for the moment. A few sharp lashes from this morning still burned fiercely on the back of her lower thigh and buttocks. Everyone would see her failures and mistakes, her slave marks, her rings, her modified pussy. Her nose started to drip again. Week-old dirt and filthiness covered her skin like a crust. She no longer had to wash any hair, yet even her shaved and exposed scalp felt, by now, rather sticky. The four women had left the property. Many chains clanked and little slave bells tinkled on their perverse journey. They walked along the sidewalk and aimed right at the inner city. #92's inner thighs had become smeared and cold from the breeze, drying her forbidden excitement in the most unwelcome way. Still, she followed on her leash like any beaten animal would, she reckoned. Unsure when they would really be out of sight, the husband had to slide along his pole for a long time. For Mistress's sake, just to be sure! Her will has become all-encompassing. Slowly but certainly, pleasing her became his utmost goal, but also to rise up from the lowest of slave ranks around here. (Around here, the original short story happens, part of IMG-8 from IRRESISTIBLE SLAVES 1.) Many hours had passed for the mounted and displayed husband. Hungry, horny, and unable to empty himself, he had to wait for a long time in his stuffed state to hear the sweet tinkling of their slave bells coming home again. His imagination about his wife's ordeal had driven him restless. No one had come to feed or water him. He was famished. If he wasn't hallucinating again, the slave girls' pace had changed. When they came closer, he was already sliding up and down his slut pole, drooling and aching, but having become too helpless and fearful not to do it now in the afternoon. Mistress's heels drew nearer but still sounded sharp and untiring on the hard gravel. Only her shackled entourage sounded less enthused from their journey. Their bare feet took shorter steps and three naked women panted, groaned, and moaned as if close to collapse. As if a faceless Mistress fucked him from behind with a fist-sized strapon, it slid in and out of his aching hole without pause. He never understood how women could find this invasive sensation so pleasurable. But as much as his asshole had become sore and full, for this important duty in front of Mistress, he could no longer go back to his old state of mind; or, maybe once passed the threshold of voluntary submission, a slave was past the point of no return. "Girls, look at this horny bitch, what an eager slave boy," Mistress said in a clear voice. "I just wished you three girls would have been as eager to please me outside my modest property as this cockless boy." What the husband couldn't see, as they approached him, were the many fresh lashes that covered the three pretty but sweaty bodies. A single-stranded whip had left deep, red marks without modesty, sometimes cutting the skin and leaving it bleeding. Mistress's whip hand was relentless. Most affected by the cruel grip of their slave uniforms was his wife; her tiptoe braces were not meant for walking barefoot for miles and miles. Her face had become a mess, flushed, broken, and soaked with tears and sweat from the humiliating ordeal. She no longer looked at him. Panting and sweating, the three girls inadvertently carried many packages and bags from Mistress's pleasant shopping trip. On purpose or not, some were heavy purchases. With hands restrained, they had to carry them the best way they could: with their bodies. Some bags dangled from nipple chains, some from arm rings and waistbands. But most hung from the back, and they had to carry that weight with their slave collars. The girls just knew enough by now that they wouldn't want to damage or lose any of their charges! #92 stood slightly bent forward. Her modified and heavy breasts tried to pull in front. Her tight nipple chains thought otherwise and kept her ringed breasts presentable and pulled painfully up. Her heavy steel collar, loaded up with many parcels and bags, tried to pull her back. Her glowing breasts had received no loving touches—as she had hoped—but had made acquaintances again with the unforgiving leather of the whip. They carried many unruly, red lines beneath as if encouraging them to stay up. Her pussy and buttocks did not look much better off. Yet, the whip had brought her home, against her better judgment. The other two hairless women looked no better. No longer featuring clothes or hair but white, bare skin, they looked unlike most humans; their missing eyebrows and thickly ringed noses helped them neither. Their hips still followed its golden chain like it delivered the words of god, or, dictated the commands of the goddess of the estate, to which they had just so willfully returned like meek cattle. Unfortunately, no bull waited for them at home. It had been another lesson in slavehood, one of many. Even when walking outside, walking straight through crowded public places, escape from their plight seemed no longer a remote possibility. The whip and the chain had become their new life. If there was no longer escape from suffering, they had to go through it, and inevitably suffer as powerless slaves its transforming consequences. For the moment, all three pain and tear-soaked faces had this newly found realization etched into their still beautiful faces (beautiful for slaves if you asked any owner). But none of that #93, the former bull, could see on his knees, while he still eagerly fucked himself. Mistress's sudden praise, on the other hand, left him with something much more profound. Satisfaction washed over him like a warm shower of bliss. For weeks, this woman had tormented him with her staff and set exhausting and unreachable ordeals. His Mistress's close presence smelled like his lifeblood; particularly, the three horny and sweaty slave girls standing suddenly in front of him left an impression on his reduced senses. The entirety of his situation left him more exposed and displayed than he had ever felt before. Each jerk, each taut chain left him without choice or escape. The confined circumstances of his situation in front of all these women made him feel terribly weak, or, as if he was a child again. He could hide nothing from his exposed body, nor close his legs to hide his smeared slut pole. Mounted, filthy, and cockless, the pain in his bound body had only grown since her staff had mounted him many, many hours ago. "Such a good boy!" Mistress said. Her gloved hand had picked up the steel handle to his mouth leash and gave him a jerk forward. It pulled on his big mouth ring and on his chained nipples, jerking him awake. It was also a well-trained command. #93 immediately presented himself just like she had trained him. He had to sit as upright as it was possible for him with his restraints, with his head pointing straight ahead. Her command also meant straightening his chains and dilating his aching hole as far as it was permitted. The now constant pressure and humiliating ache in his abused hole mixed together with Mistress's leathery aroma. On her imposing boots, she towered over him. All he could do was breathe in her overpowering and leathery scent and sit in awe. Had he been permitted at this very moment, he would have given in to the unbearable urge to grovel in front of her, fall flat on the ground, and make himself small and insignificant to escape her sadistic inclinations. Weeks of cruel slavehood had taught him this lesson. His chains prevented him. To avoid the pain of the whip, he remained frozen in posture. He noticed again how filthy his display station smelled; he had peed himself more than once since this morning—without much of a choice. Mistress's cold boot touched his balls, gently lifting them with the tip of her foot, probing, playing. "I see they have been nicely lubed up by my minions. Good. That means we can continue to stretch them," Mistress said proudly. Her firm voice had that happy but dreaded undertone again. There was a pause, as eyes scrutinized his body. "You do want them to get further stretched, don't you, #93?" #93 nodded vigorously! Anything but vigorous agreement was not permitted around here. Too scared to even feel an imagined erection, the sheer size and pressure that now continuously spread his filled asshole held most of his attention. His entire body had to remain tense to please his Mistress—for as long as she wanted. But more than that, the pole stretched his entire being, reducing him to someone's object. He had no say in any of it. Seconds went by while his aching hole tried to adapt. "I'm glad to see you so eager, slave. Then, tomorrow, we will add another pretty ring to your sack and weld it. This will be your 17th ball ring. I will let my staff know." The three chained women behind his esteemed Mistress stood waiting and watching. The husband's fists strained in their mittens. He knew that none of his present rings would ever come off again. How he craved to reach his aching balls just once, to touch them, to ease the stretching pain and massage the burning skin for just a moment! Another permanent ring? Was she trying to squeeze the manliness entirely out of him? Maybe. Or maybe, one day, one more will be one too many? He knew that his Mistress would certainly love the idea of such a slow torment. The dirty sole, in which Mistress had just walked through the streets of the city, rubbed the unfamiliar spot where she had so cunningly taken all from him. The little number she had tattooed beside his pisshole, he had never even seen in his constant darkness. It read '2024' and marked the year of his castration (about three months ago, during his collaring). "Leaking cum, good. If you didn't, I knew you hadn't been a good boy! Fucking yourself on the slut pole like one of my horny slave bitches takes effort, doesn't it?" He did? Leak, that is? He was no slut! But none of that he dared to say in her face. He wasn't mad! Mistress liked to rub the special spot. As usual, her foot had to make a point. He winced without a choice. That's not what his mouth ring was supposed to prevent, but uttering words was impossible with his ringed mouth. His long tongue stuck out, dripping without a choice. "How much do you miss it, #93?" Mistress asked jovially, drawing more circles with her filthy sole along his well-healed scar. "How horny you must be by now... do you think you are as horny as my three girls here?" He let out a frustrated groan. The touch of her boot, where he was supposed to feel something sizable, scratched no itch. It dispelled again his imaginary sensations. Not for one waking second had she permitted him to touch the changed spot with his greedy hands. This left him stuck with the old, hopeful impression as if there was still something to touch down there on his body. He had been unable to see it and for his brain to acknowledge that fact. Mistress liked to show him, again and again, with gentle, pleasant motions of her foot. The women behind, waiting on Mistress's chain, still panted and twitched, yet their muffled groans and moans sounded defeated. He had trouble holding the strenuous position. Her boot pressed down. His manly groin was supposed to rise and grow. Instead, his hairless crotch formed into a smooth sack of skin, stretched and deformed by many tight rings into a funny-looking, phallus-like tube of pain. The sheer exhaustion in his muscles gave way, and he slid back down on his smeared slut pole with a hopeless moan. "Tsk, tsk," Mistress said. "How embarrassing. Aren't men supposed to be stronger than this?" He desperately tried to hold position, while the slut pole fucked him on his way down; a dejected moan escaped his lips. For the moment, his muscles had lost their strength. Of course, Mistress's voice sounded anything but sad. His wife looked at him with red eyes, barely able to tiptoe and stand in place. "Do you want to taste my pussy now?" Mistress asked him. His head immediately snapped forward until it was caught by the painfully short chain of his collar. His long, studded tongue wiggled vividly, but remained muzzled and anchored in place by its big mouth ring, unable to retract nor move further out than it already was. Since day one, Mistress had been teasing him about it. He no longer had any nasty words to offer her. With all his teeth removed, his loud mouth had become nothing but a harmless hole. And his elongated tongue featured many piercing beads and rings to enhance the female pleasure. But even that pleasure she had kept from him. "Hmmm," Mistress said in a teasing tone. "Still not good enough, slave. Soon...maybe." Not that she told them, but her slaves needed to suffer 20 weeks of chastity before she saw them even remotely fit to train their mouths for pleasure. (As tempting as the gestures were, she had other well-trained slaves to rely upon whenever the need arose.) Still, her fingers grabbed #93's mouth ring, unscrewed it at the bottom, slid it out of his jaw hole, and off his long, wet tongue. He stammered a whimsical but almost incomprehensible "Thang youu, Misdess!" with his stiff tongue. "Quiet, slave!" Her words felt like a slap. #93 spoke no more. The hardest part about it was not to immediately beg her, to beg her to free him from this station and his many ordeals. Mistress jingled with the chain of her girls. One by one, her leather-gloved hand felt each girl's pierced groin—from the wife, she got a particularly big glob of milky suffering—and promptly smeared it in the husband's waiting mouth hole. "Hurry up. Don't let me waiting." Her serious tone left no doubt in him. "Lick until my pretty glove is sparkling, slave!" He had never felt so motivated in his entire life. Except, her hand made him again rise up to the task. The curse of his slut pole washed over him like an unwanted lover. But even more overpowering and maddening than that was the sudden aroma and taste in his mouth. It was pure bliss! The attention, the taste, the closeness, the sudden purpose. If it wasn't for her foot. It continued to play with his cockless groin. The sweet-sour taste of slave girls turned bitter quickly. The three naked objects watched from behind their Mistress like hungry but naked animals. With exhausted eyes, they searched for any signs of a cock to sit on. They also knew by now that this would never be allowed for as long as this leather-clad woman owned them. The warm and fresh aroma spread through his mouth while he remained mounted and spread. It reminded him of his full thirst. Like an overeager pet dog, he licked and sucked on, and in-between, Mistress's fingers, as if he had to convince her that he was much more devoted and capable, more than a mere rectal sleeve for a slut pole. He could serve and please her so much more! The blinding hunger in him found no relief, not from her boot in his crotch, nor from cleaning her gloved fingers from the flavors of pussy juice. His wife's pussy was a most familiar taste, and now suddenly so close and intimate again within his mouth and mind. He would have licked Mistress's smeared glove forever if she would've just let him. Either from the hours of intimate training on this station or for him to find even the faintest relief for his impossible hunger, he humped his slut pole and slid up and down like he was indeed her horny bitch. It didn't really scratch that old itch in front but objectified and violated him and got him no closer. The certain knowledge that four women watched him in this state, while he did these unspeakable things, didn't help. In his blind state, he received no feedback from looking back at them. And so he could neither see the pity in their looks nor the same unsatisfied hunger coming back from their swollen eyes. The blank humiliation of his situation hit him worse than the hard grip of the chains that kept him so very much hers. Ever since he had awoken from his slave operation, his mouth felt weird in its new, toothless state. Besides the fact that his tongue had become longer, there was nothing he could do with his new, soft mouth to hurt his Mistress—not by accident or choice—except to lick and suck like a good slave boy. Mistress seemed to like it, too, as he sucked most devotedly on her fingers. Eventually, his tongue searched for it, frantic. Where had it gone, her sparkling clean glove? He no longer found it in the dark. He was so close to speaking, begging her. Just barely, he managed to stop himself and leave the words burning on his tongue. He knew his Mistress held all the cards, and slaves were forbidden to speak if he preferred the big hole in his tongue to remain unoccupied by its equally big mouth ring. It felt like his owner tested him every second of the way. "Slave boy wants his reward, doesn't he? You've been such a good boy on his pole. Even my neighbor's daughter looked impressed—she still does. Well, why not?" A lighter chain clinked. Somebody moaned. "#92, come here!" Mistress said. "Give your husband a wet kiss. "He had been such a good, cockless boy for his Mistress." His wife, #92, huddled quickly closer but looked confused. She couldn't speak as she wore the same invasive mouth ring. Mistress unclipped her from her golden pussy chain with one simple motion; simple, if you had free hands. By grabbing her by her other chains, Mistress hurriedly positioned the wife until she stood with her legs apart over her kneeling and blind husband. His tongue, in turn, still searched at the very limits of his chain, seemingly broken for a human being. With a little push by Mistress, the wife's hips moved into position, connecting with the husband's eager hole. She let out a startled squeal, yet, dared not to move away again. The warm, wet touch and the immediate sucking noises of his depraved mouth must have startled her. Her kneeling husband seemed to have lost his mind to resist any longer—to her dismay. Not that she didn't like the sudden blissful tongue between her legs—it felt awfully good! But she was dirty and stank. And her magic 'box' no longer worked, really. The utterly broken-sounding husband between her legs let not a second go to waste. He tasted her warmth and sweatiness. The short cement platform, on which he remained chained and mounted, held him just high enough to be of use to a standing person. Instinctively, she pressed down on his face, ever conscious of Mistress's absolute command. How could she disobey after today's trip? She had no strength left in her legs nor her body. Her legs shook when she tried lowering herself even further on her husband's eager mouth. Her invisible heels (her tiptoe braces) prevented her from anything but tiptoeing if she didn't want to feel the brutally sharp spikes. Her husband had to put in the work and rise up to the task again, she realized somewhat miffed. She couldn't even see his face any longer, with her absurdly large slave tits! But she felt him, searching and probing, as usual, when Mistress wanted to be entertained. (It was not an unfamiliar spiel they, too, had to play in their cell, back under the mansion). When the husband suddenly lost contact with his wife's wonderful and hairless crotch, he had no choice but to find new strength in his hurting legs. This wasn't an unfamiliar notion for a husband—to rise to the task at hand—except, this time, he had to rise from his slut pole and spread his abused asshole far apart for her. The things he was willing to do for his wife ('s pussy) felt very heartwarming to her. When he finally had his poor butthole dilated to the hilt (and to the very limit of all his chains), he could fully taste her again. The familiar pussy was back in his mouth! And he loved every second. Mistress, in turn, loved nothing more than to watch her mischief play out. She knew very well that it was perfectly safe for her cockless slave boy to indulge himself. He would never get it, neither give nor provide it while she had a say in the matter. His wife's hips gave a jerk. From further up, he could hear a faint but hopeless moan coming from her throat. She had unfortunately been made as chaste as him, with a slave operation similar in purpose and cruelty. For the impotent husband, there was no disobeying. He liked and sucked like mad, with no will left. He was Mistress's toy, or, what it felt like he was becoming, what she shaped him into. The frontal chain pulled most agonizingly on his ringed balls. He was still part of the platform and anchored to the floor. He had to persist and lick and taste and play with his wife's wonderful pussy—and taste his reward. "Good boy, go on, she likes it," Mistress said in a soothing and happy voice, playing with her unclipped whip while watching. The warm thighs around his face seemed to disagree with a shudder; it might just have been her blank frustration coming to the surface. He certainly knew every strength and flaw of her. One thing his wife would certainly not agree with was to be put on a platter like a piece of fresh meat and served as someone's horny reward. The building, cramping pressure in his abdomen made him jerk on his balls, trying to get off the damn pole. He would have taken a dump a few hours ago if his slut pole had just let him. He felt full and bloated. Mounted on his slave station since this morning, he worried about the mess he'd leave behind if his many chains wouldn't prevent him from accidentally slipping just an inch or two higher. Eventually, it will happen, though, when the staff has to take him off his station. His wife's culinary charm and intimate closeness convinced him otherwise, and he stood tense and upright, his face pressed in her wet opening. His studded tongue crept upwards along the hot skin, searching, probing. Where there should have been a peculiar and super-sensitive knob of pleasure, he could barely feel a thin scar. Her shapely vulva had been such a familiar indulgence, once. Since he had awoken a few months ago in bondage, his tongue had become his new fingers in the pitch black. It had inevitably (but not voluntarily) made him better at touching and feeling with his mouth. Their Mistress had forced him more than just a few times to taste and explore every inch of his wife's changed body—to the wife's dissatisfaction. The upper area of her crevice had become a smooth patch of unresponsive skin. There was a sunken recess as if they had cut out more than was necessary, and then used normal skin, from the sides, to stitch and pull it together to close the cut-out void. By stroking that scar like a lowly mut in heat, he felt no response coming from her body. His frustration grew with every stroke. He sucked and licked like mad like it could make him cum, or grow his missing dick back. The harsh training took its toll on him and left hardly anything unchanged. Either way, no one from this estate would ever leave unchanged. Even though he knew what his mouth would find, his wiggly tongue crept lower, licked along her heavy rings, and followed the thickening, straight scar. How much pleasure he could offer her now with his voracious hunger and his changed mouth. For a second, the strength left him again; he succumbed to his pole. For that, his balls thanked him, but not his asshole. Desperate with desire, he rose up to the task, but also because he was expecting unbearable, punishing pain any second in the dark. He seemed to have escaped punishment (of the whip). His mouth was all the more eager at work at his wife's fragrant snatch. Like everything around here, he had to work for it. The wife, in turn, gave an occasional, tender moan but dared not to move her aching body away from the ordeal and the ordered position. For today, her beaten body couldn't take one additional blow. "Don't you miss it, #92?" Mistress said gleefully to the wife. "Your husband's tongue is right where it should be. Today, he's more than just a little eager, isn't he? Your horny stallion." #92 tried to say something with her mouth ring, but it wasn't clear if she had complained or begged her Mistress with her silly ring. Just the caressing touch of Mistress's uncurled whip made her jump on the husband's mouth before she realized Mistress's whip merely moved along her beaten ass. Today's fresh lines from the city instantly flared up, burning angrily and reminding her of what can be freely earned around here as a mouthy slave. The wife no longer dared to speak or beg while she felt her husband's seemingly unwanted but terribly intimate touches and strokes along her slave crotch. Another soft moan escaped her lips. Had it come from the flaring-up pain in her ass, or the plain frustration trapped within her disfigured groin? For the moment, her husband didn't care. His unstoppable tongue continued to lick, clean, and taste her broken pussy without judgment or hesitation. This act, in itself, subconsciously drove his wife to new desperate heights. One big vulva ring after another, he cleaned and explored with his soft, warm hole. The wife couldn't lift herself any higher, so eager was her man that she was almost sitting on his hairless, smooth face. It felt like she was sitting on one of Mistress's broken pet dogs already. But she dared not say another word. Her mind was more occupied with preventing another shameful moan from escaping her lips. She wouldn't give this sick woman the pleasure and behave like one of her broken slave bitches. Her husband's altered mouth had reached the bottom of her slit. It challenged her convictions suddenly to the very limit of her being and she fought a hopeless battle against Mistress's many weeks of slave training. Her husband's mad tongue tried to wiggle in, tried to get past her protective rings. How she prayed for it. The wife clenched her buttplug in denial and frustration, unable to bite her own hand in trying to silence the growing madness rising up within her body. Mistress's filthy hands appeared on her body, kneading and caressing her heavy breasts. #92's outfit left her helplessly exposed. Mistress's gloved fingers pinched her rock-hard nipples, working her body like only an experienced woman knew how to. But either on purpose or due to sick intentions, Mistress made her feel like nothing more than a toy—a living, naked pleasure toy. Since day one of her dreadful awakening, the wife had hated her enlarged breasts and what Mistress had done to them. The tight steel rings locked around their base never come off, keeping them constantly tight and bulging outward. Unfortunately, her 'slave tits' (as they called this upgrade), felt in the heat of the moment extremely realistic, natural, and oddly fulfilling. Even her monstrously large (and enlarged) nipples had their perks—as long as no sadistic fingers pinched them! But the worst was her husband's eagerness to get in—if he just could. She knew just how terribly close he was. One thick vulval ring was all that had to fail to offer his wriggling tongue entrance into her moist hole. Mistress's boot stepped on her buttplug's chain, the one connecting all three girls by their humiliating plugs. #92 knew the fancy, leather-clad woman behind her wouldn't let her cum. That would never be her intention. The wife couldn't bear the sudden thought a second longer, the frustration of permanent, lifelong chastity with her husband's mouth so very close! It only took a few moments of Mistress's playful fingers. Her slave girl suddenly moaned and sobbed as if her dam had broken, spilling her well-hidden emotions like a cohered orgasm, of sorts, an orgasm of utter dissatisfaction. It was a wet dish best consumed hot. Her Mistress was right there, close and intimate, touching and feeling the owned body—because it was, hers that is. What a feast! When Mistress's gloved hand tenderly stroked #92's bare groin and number (where Mistress had branded her many weeks ago as '92'), her slave girl couldn't help but start sobbing and sniffing as if she had received an unwelcome whipping. The absurdity of the entire moment was only underlined by the willing and broken husband between her legs—who just wouldn't stop! But how could he? Mistress's hand hadn't commanded him to stop. The wife, in her tumultuous upheaval, had completely forgotten how terribly he must feel down there on the floor. As a gesture, she continued to offer him entrance, even if it was just that, a gesture. "Aren't you two a cute couple," Mistress mused, and her hands eventually disappeared from #92's body. "You've learned a few commands since you've come into my possession, #92. Let's see how far you've progressed. Failure to comply will get you the whip. Are you ready?" With the big mouth ring still locked in place, it was another one of Mistress's many rhetorical questions. "Piss, right now!" Mistress shouted, without any more gleefulness left in her ever-confident voice. The wife's body stiffened and dread filled her. She couldn't do that! The husband's eyes opened in shock while he licked. Everyone was watching. She'd die from shame. And this...this was her husband! Seconds passed. Behind, her owner took a cautious step back to stay out of splatter range but also to gather enough momentum. A fierce crack exploded, echoing back from the estate's many buildings. It left the wife trembling, speechless. A moment of shocked silence held all. Then the whip's victim erupted, letting out a restrained shriek of terror, unable to keep it in but also unable to keep her tears in, tears her Mistress treasured like liquid gold. The slave girl's held body shuddered in its chain, almost falling over if it wasn't for her supporting husband and his mouth between her legs, keeping her just standing. His perverted closeness was a comfort. An ugly, dark line joined the others on her bare ass. Her tensing hands could not reach it but remained locked as ever to her waistbelt. Growing, burning waves of bitter and painful disobedience tore through her body, unwanted but not unasked for. She could not take another blow! She could not. Her bladder had been bursting from their exhaustive shopping trip. When they came home, she just hadn't imagined emptying it... into... her husband. It was no longer her choice, she realized. The thought helped, and not much was needed on her part to let go. She couldn't believe it when the warmth rippled and spread between her legs. She pissed herself like a baby! And worst of all, she was pissing on her waiting husband. "Good girl," Mistress finally said, with a strict but amused-looking expression on her face. The wife's thick rear friend moved; someone was playing with her buttplug chain, making it sway and move. Her hips twitched. She knew from the long shopping trip that her beefy plug could not come out by itself, no matter what. She tried to endure the chain, the buttplug's nasty size, the fresh fire of another welt blemishing her sorry ass, and the soothingly opposite relaxation coming from emptying her bursting bladder. She experienced sudden and new emotions mixed together all at once. Nowadays, her pee can only come out at the very bottom of her infibulated vulva. Her husband knew that and tried as best as he could to swallow the hot, salty mess from its very source. The pressure of the filthy stream turned out too great for him. He failed, at times, but was quickly learning. He knew the potential consequences and tried hard to get it all in his mouth and not on his naked body. They didn't wash the lower slaves very often. The staff around here didn't exactly run around with hoses and towels. And that had him worried from the moment Mistress had spoken the shocking command. He didn't want to reek for days like a broken toilet. Maybe drinking it all would at least quench his current thirst? He tried his best to remain sealed to her hole. Like any obedient slave who was in the presence of his Mistress, he gulped his wife's hot piss down like mad. He'll soon find out if it'll quench his thirst. When #92's bladder finally emptied—and it had taken many resolved gulps from her ringed hole—her husband felt proud, to his own surprise. Regressed far too deep into his humbling role, it simply felt natural now for him to lick such a soaked pussy clean as well. If his strength hadn't just left him for a brief moment. The large, nasty pillar under his ass wandered all the way inside him, penetrating his colon with the full weight of his body. His asshole didn't even contract anymore but simply accepted its giant, pear-shaped occupant. Through gritted teeth, or, in a matter of speaking, he took one big lungful of fresh air. Filled with new strength, he pulled himself back up. Above him, his wife's pussy, even in its broken state, was too compelling not to fight for it. "Good boy! Now clean your wife." Being personally ordered by Mistress gave him another forbidden rush. At the same time, his lowly position on his pole made him nauseous for a second; or maybe it was his wife's piss? He disgusted himself. But fear of Mistress and unimaginable arousal helped him through the shameful burp; an acquired taste, even for a slave's mouth. Hot piss undoubtedly sploshed around within him. #93 licked and sucked like someone had finally served him a proper dinner. He imagined his Mistress's exquisitely aroused pussy in its place, training and conditioning himself voluntarily for her. It wasn't cheating if his wife was present. Nowadays, just a few strokes of his warm tongue seemed to be enough, in turn, for his wife to get her dripping; or it might just be bedroom conditioning from another life. He found no sensitive or arousable genital features to lick or tease. Nothing feminine had been left, on the outside. Somehow, in his crazed mind, it still counted as pussy cleaning. Stroke after stroke, he licked and sucked at the very bottom of her closed slit. Stupid as the urge was, it would neither get him, nor her, anywhere. With his tireless appetite, his tongue touched something warm and hard: a steel base. His wife wore a buttplug! A sizable one at that. How she always disliked anything up her second hole (and then only for his birthday). This dislike went now both ways. He must be losing it, though. When his tongue moved with its own mind, pushing and slithering between her metal base and skin, her stuffed butthole immediately clenched and twitched, giving him a taste of something foul. A fart shot in his face. As tight as she sat on him, the way of least resistance for the hot, putrid gas were his nostrils and wide-open mouth. The sudden stench made him cough, struggle, and fight for air. Maybe he had deserved it. Yet, the taste of her piss lingered in his throat and helped little to urge him on. The strong thighs that still held him, squeezed his head as if trying to stop him from going any further with his filthy tongue. Apparently, she still had some decency left with her naked slave body. Already, he had moved deeper from coughing, and her pussy's intoxicating, wet aroma incessantly smeared itself across his nose. He knew she had been ordered to stand still, which meant she had to remain right where she was with her hips. Her enticing opening might be very small now, but it still leaked and trickled as easily as it used to. That had not changed and was still waiting within. Something deep within, something voracious, urged him on, told him that he had to be without human inhibitions, unstoppable, tirelessly, and to shamelessly display his unquenchable appetite, his desire for duty and service. It would be his best hope to find himself, one day, between Mistress's overwhelming thighs. A suppressed moan from above drove the cursed misery of his celibacy on like the sweetest reward. His wife's many slave bells tinkled whenever her body let out a repressed shudder. They had not been able to talk for weeks, which left them both suffering in surprising solitude, for cellmates. In truth, he didn't know how she was doing, he thought, while cleaning her twitching anus. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his tongue between her anus and the shaft that spread it apart. It must be huge because she had been regularly sitting on the same slut pole for weeks (that waited in their rather peculiar, matrimonial cell). All he managed to achieve, with his now foul-tasting tongue, was to make her slave bells dance. Someone pulled #93 back in the most convincing way: by her buttplug chain. Revealed again and waiting beneath her wet thighs, the wife glared at her kneeling, soaked, and still blind husband. He peered helplessly up with his bald slave head. She just hoped she didn't look remotely as bad as he did with his glowing, white scalp! Tattooed on his forehead, it was hard to miss: his official slave number. In her misery, she had almost forgotten about her own, identical look. "Next," Mistress commanded and pulled #821 by her nipple chain. The almost identically looking slave girl moaned in defeat but wore a beefy gag to comfort her. Again, Mistress's unpopular, golden pussy leash was easily unclipped, and #821 was pulled into position by the ruthless woman in leather. If #93's husband looked stunned or flabbergasted underneath, his steely blindfold hid it well. When his open mouth made contact with #821's pussy, his wife couldn't help but feel a touch of irrational jealousy. How stupid that notion was in her current state. The wife spotted a bulging lower stomach on #821, either from a full colon or a full bladder waiting for relief. The relief came as quickly as the snap of a finger. Mistress had barely spoken the command 'Piss!' and #821 had let go without hesitancy or shame. Maybe the wife's slight disobedience just before had reminded her sister-in-chain of how futile it was to resist this woman. The husband's long, wet tongue had barely had time to explore another shaved and tormented groin when a swift, hot stream of slave piss sprayed into his face. It forced him to quickly raise himself up and come as close as possible to this unfamiliar pussy from above, showering him in misery. He had to tense all his chains to reach her. As if by design around here, this forced him again to squeeze his balls and torment his aching hole, spreading himself apart like he was laying a giant egg. He had to. Not only to satisfy his Mistress's command and her relentless nature but to avoid a full shower of hot, filthy piss coating his entire body. He did not deserve that, he thought. For a naked and hairless slave, the gagged woman above him still groaned, but seemingly more out of relief than displaying any out-of-place modesty. Already feeling his wife's gallon of piss swelling in his stomach, he drank from this new slave crotch as much as humanly possible. If it wasn't for the old, lingering, and musty smell pressed in his face as if it hadn't been washed for days! Fortunately, for his buttocks, he was way too horny to care at the moment, and needed no lashes to properly discuss this like Mistress and slave. This woman's piss tasted quite differently! Maybe his horny mind was just playing tricks on him in the dark, but his wife's urine had tasted somewhat more... tolerable? For piss. He almost forgot to swallow another big gulp of the warm, putrid liquid. What a silly realization! Piss was piss, as long as he drank it fresh from the faucet, right? It also made him feel, for once, oddly useful, like he served a proper purpose now, anything but uselessly rotting away under Mistress's mansion. Her damn dungeon cell had become a claustrophobic nightmare, after having been trapped within for so long. As thirsty as he had been just moments ago, his bulging stomach could barely take another gulp of the salty liquid. He fought his own body. Then, finally, her bladder had become empty above him. He had barely spilled anything on himself and proudly cleaned the ringed pussy just as eagerly as his wife's. Just one flick of his warm tongue and the unknown woman pressed her messy crotch right in his face. This slave woman was very different compared to his wife. #93 didn't have to be told twice! He heard a muffled moan and felt a shudder go through her hips. If he could just use his mittened hands, too! But no matter what, his fists remained safely anchored in place at his heavy steel waistband. The sudden weight of her eager crotch pressed the strength right out of his legs, and he lost the battle, again, quite painfully. Enraged by the musky closeness and her overpowering weight, he felt nothing but impaled by her. Her sudden urges forced the huge rectal pole all the way back inside him like a giant strap-on. A muffled groan was all that managed to escape him, while her powerful grip squeezed his face like the tightest, most welcome pillow. But just for a second. Then, he had to fight for the very air to breathe under her. Any whiff of air he could catch from between her legs reeked. He, in particular, reeked like a proper toilet. He heard Mistress's dry chuckle again, reminding him that spectators still stood around them. Not being able to stand, while these women stood twice as tall (in his mind), only cemented him further into the lowly role of his meek slave station. Still, for as long as he didn't feel Mistress's terrible whip, he was doing something right around here. And since he was no longer able to return mentally to his former ideas of resistance, his only way was now forward. That meant pleasing his Mistress, his Goddess, however he could achieve that. To his surprise, the unfamiliar slave crotch in his mouth seemed to feature a different slave outfit. Besides the overpowering taste, his long, probing tongue could feel a thin steel cable stuck deep between her squeezed labia. Today, he had been pushed so deep down the rabbit hole (and since he was already intimately at it with his slave mouth) he couldn't help but clean every crack and cranny of this dirty slave pussy. Indeed, this slave girl hadn't been cleaned between her lips for a while, judging by the musky and crusty taste. When he wiggled his tongue underneath her steel cable, he could find no knob to please anywhere. Rather, a faint, textured depression, like a scar, was all he could find with his studded tongue. Exploring the empty spot under the tight cable, the girl's legs became tense and her groin twitched faintly. Of course, he couldn't see her genital brandings right above: her body carried on its crotch the words 'SLAVE' and, beside it, in smaller font, the word 'CLIT', but struck through with an evil line. Her slave markings looked almost fully healed. It was a commonly used mark (by slave owners) to let curious eyes know that there was no longer a clit left—neither to torment nor to tease. The thin cable he had spotted, ran down from her gag, and through a ring in her collar. In her closed crotch, it ran through her many labia rings and back up her crack, up to her collar again in the back. Its length was kept just a little shorter than was necessary or comfortable, forcing her to bend her knees. #93 probed the spot under her tight cable just a little longer, but was still unsure what to make of it, compared to his wife's thin and surgical scar. The current pussy pressed in his mouth still had beefy lips to lick, nibble, and caress. He loved to do that! Its softness and warmth were like an inviting lunch. But no matter what he tried with his eager tongue, further below, he couldn't get past her many thick labia rings. This hole was just as sealed as his wife's, to his indignation. Shock and outrage gurgled in him, warming him up from a sudden chilly breeze. This slave girl not only had her snatch cable to contend with but also had one long chain going down from one of her labia rings, keeping her steps polite and hobbled in a cruel kind of way. Still, when his tongue had inched lower, along her many rings, a faint and tasty opening presented itself, just where he expected it by now. At first, crusty tasting, then becoming slightly fresher and invigorating to his chaste senses. Her hole had a mildly acidic but deeply fragrant taste. Since the moment his face had made contact with her bare crotch, the forbidden lust had unavoidably seeped from in between her rings like a ripe flower in bloom. He sucked the nectar out of her. How he craved it! How she must crave it, judging by the immediate reaction of her body. "And I think thaaat's enough!" Mistress said with a more pleasant note. "Good girl, #821!" The chain clanked again and her warm lips had disappeared from #93's smeared mouth. His raging, imaginary, and—above all—unreachable erection left him strained and deranged, fighting his chains. It took him a painful while. In no sane scenario would he have been able to endure such a selfless sacrifice. It lay beyond his capacity. In her own odd way, Mistress showed him very new and strange ways. But almost worse than even his own chastity, where the completely useless and closed pussies his Mistress offered him so freely to taste. Her calculated and playful cruelty pressed him close to tears. Frustration and old selfishness burned on his face. "#92, your husband seemed to have found his divine vocation. Doesn't he look smug and happy down there on his knees?" The wife still wore her mouth silencer ring. Mistress had connected her again with the golden pussy leash. Butt naked and down on his knees, #93 silently but dearly hoped—prayed—there would be higher slave positions waiting for him in the future! Another unfamiliar scent reached the husband's nose. A moment later, his gaping, toothless mouth had latched onto the next smooth and perfectly hairless groin. This one was very twitchy from the start and seemed to fight an inner battle. Yet, their Mistress appeared to have a knack for spotting trouble before it could even manifest. "#82, you better behave or I'll give your nipple stretchers another good turn." Immediately, the unknown woman's legs stopped twitching and her body froze as the cockless slave's wet face touched her most intimate spot without hesitancy or shame. The stiff steel posture collar #82 continuously had to wear around her soft neck always left her entire bald head stuck in a healthy glow. But once her lower lips had touched with his, she had gained an even deeper shade of red. This certainly pleased Mistress. #82 was the only lucky girl who didn't have to wear a gag. She also was the only one of the three slave girls who still had her clitoris. The filthy, stinky, and soaked husband had risen up from his slut pole—as far as it permitted him—beaded and glistening tongue stuck out and sucking on the meat like a delicious meal had just been served again. The third girl clearly fought with her inner demons. Whip or slave tongue? Whip or slave tongue... she had come to fear the whip, yet her shyness had never been a mental choice. She barely remained standing still, eyes pressed shut in agonizing denial. Forgetting the piss for a second, the mounted husband truly found himself to be trapped in a weird kind of heaven. Like a wet dream, he was served with one savory tidbit after the next, and, almost reachable. After weeks of torture and humiliation, he unfortunately was no longer able to think rationally while being around women. The damage had been done. "Piss, #82!" Mistress shouted. Nothing happened. The husband had his lips tightly sealed around her lower lips. This slave crotch was closed-up as well, and her labia were held together by many thick rings, just like Mistress's other pussies. As he waited, he couldn't help but feel her magic spot. Her snatch tasted much milder on his tongue and was blissfully cute compared to #821's aged aroma. She barely had an actual taste except for a mild saltiness of pretty clean skin. She must be doing well if they cleaned her so regularly? But, on this estate, no slave remained unchanged. For once, and just a little higher up, something coin-sized and ringed greeted his restless tongue. Like an impenetrable fortress, the taste of metal was ominous. "I can help you with that," Mistress shouted, now clearly sounding impatient. The husband had just started rubbing #82's clit shield. Like an explosion, the whip cracked again, splitting skin like a knife. Everyone around flinched as if intimately conditioned by the terrible touch. Her buttocks shuddered and an angry but silent tremble ran through her entire, frozen body. A gasp of air escaped her lips as she tensed in her chains, but nothing else, no scream nor complaint erupted from her lips. "That's almost boring!" Mistress interjected with a half-amused tone; Mistress hadn't held back, that's for sure. But the pain was very much real, and the silent girl had lost control over her bladder, showering the man between her legs with an uneven splashing and splattering of deep, dark yellow. "That's better!" Mistress said, with a particularly proud voice. The tall and leather-clad woman let out another chuckle, clearly amused by her own wicked games. She also knew what was coming next from sheer experience and waited giddily for it to happen: a wet finale to a rather pleasant shopping trip. Pitifully kneeling, #93 had his head raised up as far as possible, and tried, again, to quench the smelly stream of unwelcome piss. His spread-apart asshole was killing him, his bulging stomach too, but what choice did he have? The hot liquid above him kept coming and coming out from between the soft crevice of flesh. His imagined erection had disappeared again, but not his thirst. How he craved pussy and its taste! And how skilfully his owner conditioned him, day by day, to embrace his lifelong chastity. If he could just send one woman over the edge and make her cum with his mouth, at least, then, he was still somewhat of a man; or so his twisted thinking went. Overcome with nausea, he found he could no longer swallow a single gulp of the briny, tangy excretion in his mouth. He found no more room in his stomach. As bitter as the sudden realization was—that he had no more to give to please his Mistress—the torrential jet nonetheless gushed into his face and full mouth for a long time, making him splutter and cough under the hot and humiliating liquid. He still tried to drink, but it all ran down his naked body and soaked him like a very unwelcome, soggy ablution of disgusting slave piss. Mistress let out a hearty laugh. She sounded more than pleased with his failure. "Oh, my! That's disgusting. Just look at you!" Mistress shouted. Her face glowed with a weird happiness, yet her eyes bore into him with clear disdain over what avoidable misfortune now happened to him. With wide, puckered lips he tried to catch more mouthfuls, the shame of his failure rising up in him. His bulging stomach refused to swallow even one more gulp of the dark liquid. Each time, it came up and ran down his chin with the rest of the disgusting torrent. He felt like a clogged toilet, broken by the three women who had used him. The stinky urine had even gotten under his blindfold, burning his eyes. The entirety of his meek situation made him tear up and sob without choice in front of the four women. He had failed. He could not taste his tears. The warm, fresh piss made sure to drown out all other flavors with one overpowering note. When the silent slave girl's dirty hot stream returned to a yellow trickle and stopped, he returned somewhat hopelessly to the lowly duty at hand: cleaning slave pussy. He had nourished the illusion that he could drink them all and avoid the shower of defeat under them. "You know, I gave my girls their fill when we had been in the city. They had lapped from a dog bowl, too. Could you taste it, slave?" Mistress's sweet voice burst into laughter. However small and insignificant he had become under the slaves' hips, he seemed to be shrinking still, slumping down for a moment on his smelly and soaked station like a bound piece of meat. To his surprise, he also felt silent tears dripping on his scalp. #82 seemed to take her situation not much better. For what little freedom of movement he had been given, he rose up to his duties again, tensing his chains without any good choice but to serve. Hungrier than he had ever felt before, his soaked tongue cleaned the pussy above him. He even tried to get under its steely clit hood—as unlikely as that was. That whip lash must have really hurt, he thought, because he could still feel her legs shuddering in pain—if it wasn't of arousal or shame. His own body dripped from her tangy fluid. It was quickly becoming cold—if it weren't for her warm crotch pressing into his face. Powerless to change it, or escape his station's hold, he desperately tried to distract himself from his unbearable circumstances. The slave girl's soaked pussy soon turned tasty, thanks to his eagerness. Simply known as #82 now, her iron dome featured a weighty ring that went straight through the middle of her shielded clitoris. At first, he had not much luck pulling at it with his toothless hole—his soft gums always slipped and couldn't bite hard enough to hold it—until his wicked tongue had become lucky, and he had her groin quickly following his tantalizing jerks like the most well-behaved slave girl. What little leeway he had in his slave station, her hips followed him like they both had become fused. Being one for the moment, she seemed suddenly his and followed wherever he went. Back to cleaning her again, he noticed with his exhausted tongue two beads on each side of her clit shield, holding the iron dome securely in place, in addition. They felt like deeply set piercing bars that were anything but superficial. The poor thing, that poor pussy, he thought. If her clit was pierced, would she still be sensitive enough underneath? No matter what he tried, her second hood remained tightly anchored in place like it was simply part of her body now. However, his tongue did not escape the mild but growing aroma, coming from further down her almost sealed slit. The taste in his mouth grew to a musky note of overpowering femininity. How he craved it in his orgasmless existence! Being stuck between a woman's warm, wet thighs was no laughing matter, without a cock. Her many weeks of chastity seemed to torment #82 as much as him. Not his cocklessness, his imposed impotence, but his utter inability to offer her pleasure, and therefore offer him a sense of purpose, left him feeling very broken underneath her soft, luscious lips. But even that Mistress seemed to know and skillfully denied him without much effort. Mistress's tireless grip on him and his body had become unbearable. A simple pull on the slave girl's anal chain, and she slipped out of his mouth. Blindly, he searched in the dark for more slave pussies to please. "Such a good boy!" Mistress said in a motherly tone. Mistress's kind words melted his insides. How he craved it! His long tongue remained outside his mouth, presenting it like any proud dog would in front of its owner. "But who said you could stop greeting us, #93? Aren't we worthy of such a gesture?" Her tone was not sarcastic. Looking shocked, he gave a humbled wince, and his lower, aching body returned to its familiar motions of welcome. He fucked himself on his station with seemingly no more outside help. The tall woman stood over him and gave another dry and light-hearted chuckle. "You like a good fucking, don't you? Such a horny boy!" She picked something up from the floor of his station. But then it fell on the hard, wet cement with a clink: his mouth ring. He had forgotten that he wasn't even gagged! Yet, as the moment arose, he could not bring himself to utter a single word. It's as if this simple ring still held power over him, or, as if its weeks of conditioning had left him not unchanged. "Nah! The staff can do that," Mistress said. "I'm not touching something so filthy." Disgust was in her voice. Disgusted not only by his arrogant maleness and the ease at which he had given up so easily—as the warmongering gender, the ruler of this planet—but also by the more obvious and clearly visible signs, like the current state of his body. It had become the new normal, something #93 had grown used to over the last few months in her care: her abuse, her contempt, her attempt to reeducate him for good. None of it could stop him; his brutally acquired selflessness had become blind to her disregard. Being so very close to his beloved Mistress, he fucked himself in his ass without showing any of his former reluctance; how desperately he had to take a shit, though. But no matter how sincerely his body worked the slut pole, he knew he couldn't get off, neither physically nor hormonally. What it did achieve was to make him even hornier and desperate in front of her. He knew perfectly what little his changed body could still achieve nowadays. Seemingly at random, like a few drips of urine had been stuck in his cock, they left his hole like a small dribble. There was none of the old pulsating, and no explosive pleasure radiating from his missing limb. He wondered, at times, where it was, and what she had done with this defining part of his body. As a matter of fact, his esteemed Mistress knew perfectly well. She had a corridor on the upper floor of her mansion that she wouldn't show just to any visitor. Sometimes, she'd stroll from her bedroom to her toilet at night and glance at the sealed glass containers. They remained basked in warm light at all times. Floating inside, were the many missing genitals she had acquired over the years from her cut slaves. Some pieces featured heavy prince albert rings, and other cocks had come into her collection, even with balls attached. A second row, above Mistress's cock collection, featured many more but smaller vessels. Detached clitorises of many different shapes and sizes floated there, some still with small labia attached. The female row had the same mix of rings, grommets, and even locks attached to it. Her cleaning slaves certainly dreaded the sight, but duties were duties, and Mistress loved to hand out this particular one. Along each side of this peculiar corridor, the filled glasses decorated her mansion like the cruelest of treasures. Not only was each glass container spotless, but its insides looked just as clean and sterile, as if the pleasure organs were merely in stasis, or sleeping. But, once taken, they would never again offer pleasure to their former wearers. Each glass carried a meticulous sticker and was marked with a long slave number. The many numbers might tell the cleaning slaves very little, but their Mistress knew exactly to whom every last one of those numbers belonged to. Slave-04919493, or in short, #93, had its own vessel displayed right in her corridor (and below his wife's). His Mistress would, at times, look at his flaccid and separated cock with contempt and a sense of satisfaction that made her call her pussy slave from the bedroom occasionally. Unbeknownst to her slaves, her hungry mind was often with her slaves, their cells, their stations, their suffering—just for her. #93 not only heard the click-clacking of her domineering heels, but he could feel them reverberating through his pole and the cement floor of his station. The sound of her heeled feet changed to the crunching sounds of walking back on gravel. She was leaving him. Chains clanked, steel balls scraped, and little slave bells tinkled. The sounds of slaves moved slowly away from him. How eagerly his hips moved for her. Mistress's well-chained slave girls, in turn, offered not a single complaint, even though her girls perfectly knew they were on their way back to their claustrophobic cells. The women were so worth their money, entertaining Mistress like nothing else in the wide world could.
EPILOGUE
The stuck husband, unable to see and leer after them with the filthiest of thoughts, had to fuck himself for a long time before he felt certain he could stop again. Panting, wet, and cold, he just prayed in the dark for no more visitors, at least for today's trying times. His road to freedom was more than just close, but lay just behind the high fence beside his soaked slave station. All a person had to do was to walk over there and climb the fence. During moments of exhaustion, his chains held him safely and oddly comforted him. Resting was no longer endurable for long. The drying urine on his body had become icy cold and left him shivering. Mixed with the varieties of slave piss on the floor of his station—and motivated by the thrusts of the pole—his tiny, marked hole gave a little squirt of worthless cum, offering him no perceivable pleasure; in fact, he barely noticed it happening. He did feel like sobbing again under his blindfold. The still-fresh scenes seemed to rewind and play out again and again in his mind. The naked solitude of his lowly duties made him feel like a slave in a convent, except the brothers and sisters of this estate prayed for a different kind of absolution, and at a Goddess's that was very much in the flesh. There wasn't much to do to pass the time—as a monk or nun. So, he did the only thing he was permitted to do: hump his pole for comfort and embrace its invasive pain. As her slave, what else was there to do? His hearing had become sharper and vigilant, listening for Mistress's staff woman to finally save him. He could not see if it was getting dark outside, and he had no indication of how much longer he had to endure and serve. One hour? Three hours? His wife must surely be back in their shared cell by now, resting. He would be there soon, too. Her closeness still felt comforting in their cell, no matter the situation; a well-earned treat would also be waiting in his dog bowl. The third time, his bladder was emptying—without much of a choice—footsteps approached, heeled footsteps. At least, for today, the transformative hardship and training demanded by his Mistress seemed to come to its unspectacular conclusion. Today's trial on the display station was over. Nonetheless, a slave of Mistress never knew what the next morning would bring.
THE END
Kinkydept 2024



DETAILED STORY TAGS: castratrix, cock collection, slaves humiliated with other slaves, degredation breaks slaves, urine-soaked forniphilia statue, getting pissed on by slave girls, permanent male and female chastity, bodymod chastity, branded and hairless slaves, humiliation station, cruel anal stretching games, noncon fantasy, abducted by mistress

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