Notice: the following story is meant for mature, slightly twisted adult readers
only. It contains imaginary depictions of graphic violence and depravity as well
as sociological and political viewpoints that are patently impossible,
nonexistent and absurd. Anyone reading this needs to understand that all these
ideas are meant strictly for fictional storytelling and for the idle amusement
of curious readers and fans of bizarre fiction.
This story is not meant to contain representations of any actual persons or
institutions, living or dead, nor is it meant to convey or condone the idea of
violence or sexual activities by, with, to, or between anyone under the legal
age of consent. Having said that, if you have no desire to read an outrageous
imaginary story, what exactly are you still doing here? You've been warned.
This story is about a slightly different world from that of High Heeled Hell.
There are similar elements of capitalism gone mad, and pervasive misogyny, but
history has been skewed toward state-sanctioned gynophagia. If anything, life
for the average female is even more difficult than in Miss Juniper's world...
It is named: MPI
___________________
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2004, All rights reserved
Chapter Nine
6:18 PM:
An elegantly dressed woman stood in the hallway as Don opened the door. "Hi, I'm
Sarah," she said, "I'm here for Mr. Bowden."
"Yes," Don said, pulling the door open wider, "That's me. come in."
"Thank you," she replied, entering the short entrance hall of his guest room. A
petite lady with a profusion of red curls, Sarah wore an evening dress and tall
pumps in a matching white satin brocade, trimmed in green. She wore no jewelry,
but her eyes and face were articulated with dramatic evening makeup. She turned
around slowly before looking up at Don with large green eyes. Her pale skin
contrasted vividly with her darkly painted toffee-colored lips.
"I'm here for you then, Sir," she smiled, "Is my appearance satisfactory to
you?"
"You look great," he said, realizing he had no idea what to expect, "Call me Don
though."
"I'm not supposed to do that, Sir," Sarah answered, smiling in appreciation of
his compliment, "It's part of my training."
"Well, sit down then," Don said, waving her to a chair, "Would you like some
champagne?"
"Why am I so damn nervous," Don thought as he fumbled around for the bottle
opener.
"Please Sir," Sarah said, placing her hands over his, "Allow me to do it. My job
is to entertain you. Not the other way around."
"OK," said Don with a chuckle, "Sounds pretty logical..."
Sarah gracefully arranged two wine glasses on a serving tray and began twisting
a corkscrew into the bottle. Don felt himself relax as he watched her perform
this ritual with a practiced sense of ease.
A moment later, with bubbles tickling both their noses, Sarah seated herself
demurely on a corner of the bed a short distance from where Don stood. "Would
you like us to go out for dinner soon, Sir?" she asked, "Or would you prefer us
to have sex here first?"
"Well, uh, let's just talk for awhile," Don said abruptly, doing his best not to
choke on his champagne or her forwardness, "This stuff is pretty new to me."
"I understand, Sir," Sarah said, "My supervisor told me you were a new driver.
That you might be a little tense."
"There's an understatement," Don smiled after another sip, "This was my first
day for a great many things. I haven't heard of half the stuff MPI does to their
wenches, or work-study girls either. To tell the truth I didn't even know girls
like you existed until a few hours ago."
"We're an executive perk, so you must be entitled to it," she said admiringly,
"You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself."
"Oh I am," he said, "What kind of person are you, Sarah? Tell me something about
yourself."
"Not much to say," Sarah answered glancing away for a moment, "I'm a work-study
wench in preparation for a TBA live-spitting assignment. I'm 23, grew up in
Phoenix. I was working as a hair stylist in Cincinnati when my number came up. I
was a governors' pick. That gave me 72 hours to report in with my tote-frame
signal. I lived alone. The thought of doing it myself terrified me, so some
girlfriends at work framed me up as gently as they could."
Don was impressed by her degree of honesty. "That must've been difficult," he
said.
"Yes it was," she said, "The fear was the worst part though. One of my friends
did some research. She gave me a medicated enema to settle my stomach, and a
concoction to drink that tasted like a whisky sour. It relaxed me so good I was
almost happy to climb into the tote-frame. But when the bands went tight around
me it was pure hell. My boobs and tongue felt like someone had sliced them off.
When the meds kicked in through my tongue disks everything went kinda fuzzy. I
remember bouncing around in a loud truck for what seemed like days, strapped
down by my tits. I already felt like a stupid slab of meat. Some MPI guys told
me I was going to make a tasty little roaster. For some reason I thought that
was funny and started laughing. I was kinda losing my mind by then, but they
seemed to like me just fine that way. I got my mouth screwed a lot the next
three days while I was in that frame.
I played the part for them I guess, like I loved everything they did to me. And
in a way I really did enjoy them, because anything they did to me with their
cocks took my mind off of my bondage. Pretty soon the guys started calling me
their hottie and bringing friends over. Someone told me my meal plan had been
pulled for a work-study hitch. No one asked me if I wanted that, but I didn't
care as long as they kept having sex with me. The week after that they
transferred me to Cleveland. They said they needed more 'G' -girls here at the
hotel. That was about a month ago."
"G"-girls?" Don echoed.
Sarah smiled up at Don, dislodging herself from the traumatic memories, "You
really are new. 'G' stand for general accompaniment. We usually arrive in
evening dresses and escort clients to dinners and other social functions. We
accommodate all types of sex and torture too."
"Like auto closets for instance?" Don asked mischievously.
"Definitely auto closets," she replied, "There's one right over there in fact.
Would you like me to use it now, Mr. Bowden?"
"No," Don said, "At least not yet. I was just wondering..."
"Wondering how we do it?" she asked, "How do we handle all of this?"
"That's right," Don replied smiling, "Guess it's a pretty common question."
"Actually, no, but I saw it in your eyes. You're a very curious man, Mr. Bowden.
Not many men fret over what we girls are thinking about. They prefer to see the
actual suffering instead."
"It intrigues me," Don said, "I grew up around gynophagia, so I'm not easily
shocked. But MPI has taken the enslavement-of-meat thing to a whole new level.
Take the work-study arrangement for example. It sounds great for us guys. And it
even looks like a reprieve for you girls too. But it can't be a very easy one."
"No, it's really not," she agreed, "Then again nothing about being meat is easy.
The tote-frame teaches us that. Some of us are better suited than others. We're
fortunate in a way, staying alive for a bit longer and enjoying limited amounts
of freedom. Our jobs afford us frequent orgasms, and there is some glamour too.
It's not too bad, considering the alternatives."
"Do you know what your schedule is now?" Don asked, "I mean, is the chef coming
to nab you soon?"
"The wild-eyed cook?" laughed Sarah, "With cleaver in hand?"
"I'm still somewhere on his menu, all right." she continued, eyes shining, "They
tell us three to six months is the norm for 'G-girls,' but I know several who've
been around for a year or more. It's not always the ones who've been here the
longest that get cooked. Every week or two a few girls are told to go to the
spitting room without any warning. Then they march them out, and some
replacements march in."
"What about being promoted or something?" Don suggested as he finished his
drink, "Is there any hope of working your way up somehow and getting out of
there?"
"I'm really not sure," Sarah replied thoughtfully, "I kind of doubt it. Two of
our supervisors started out as meat wenches themselves. But as far as I know,
nobody's ever had their meat status changed. We try not to worry about that.
They tell us to focus on being the best work-study girls we can be, and that's
what we do."
"I see," Don said, placing his empty glass on the tray, "Still, it amazes me.
There you sit perfectly composed, a beautiful woman in the middle of all this
uncertainty."
Sarah stood up, sat her glass down next to Don's and put her arms gently around
his waist.
"Mustn't get too poetic on an empty stomach, Sir," she said, smiling playfully,
"Tell you what. why don't we go upstairs and have dinner? Afterwards, if you're
still consumed with curiosity, I'll give you a tour of MPI below-decks. That
will answer a lot of your questions."
"What if I'm burning up with lust instead?" he asked, bringing his mouth close
to hers.
"Well... we'll have to come back here and put your fires out," she whispered,
"...Sir." Then she gave him a light kiss.
***
Up on the 45th floor Don and Sarah enjoyed a delicious candle-lit meal at MPI's
exclusive Loft Restaurant. They laughed and joked their way through their salad,
soup and steaks, and washed it down with Chardonnay.
As they stood waiting for an elevator, Don drew one arm around her narrow waist
and submerged himself in Sarah's smiling lips for a long buttery kiss.
"Couldn't resist," Don said proudly as they came up for air, "I've been wanting
to do that since I first saw your face."
"Yes, I could tell," she smiled, opening up her compact mirror, "You rogue, look
what you've done. I'll have to re-gloss now."
The elevator doors opened with a hiss. The two stepped inside as Sarah pouted
into her mirror, stroking a rich rum-colored stain across her lips with a small
wand, darkening them even more than before. After she was satisfied with the
color and shine, she dropped the cosmetic case and lipstick back into her purse.
"Are you up for a quick tour, Mr. Bowden, or would you like us to go back to
your room now?"
"Let's walk around first and have a look at things," he said. "I can't think of
anyone more qualified to show me the sights."
"Thank you, Sir," Sarah smiled and pressed the button marked B-5 on the
elevator's keypad. A small computer display above the pad flashed, requesting an
authorization code. "Access code required for all lower levels," she said,
quickly entering an eight digit number, "In case you don't know yours yet we'll
just use mine."
A moment later their high-speed descent slowed and the elevator doors opened
with a warning chime. "Sub-level five, main processing." a computer voice
intoned, "MPI personnel badges or guest badges required by federal law."
Exiting the elevator slightly behind Sarah, Don saw they were in a spacious
foyer covered in gleaming beige marble that led directly into two hallways, one
hallway to the left and one directly ahead. Fifty feet to their right the foyer
opened out into the cavernous atrium area Don had seen earlier from his office
balcony. Plants and ferns were arranged everywhere. Soft music emanated from
hidden speaker systems.
Sarah pointed to signs mounted above the two hallway entrances, listing the
departments in each direction. "There are lots of specialized work areas down
these halls," she explained, "The left hallway, B South, has our stasis labs,
body mods and rehab clinics, along with some of our staff training centers. Down
this central hallway, B West, are more surgical suites, research facilities,
nutrition labs, and our famous spitting rooms."
"Is your work-study department down here too?" Don asked.
"Yes it is," she said, "Our staff reports to an area just past the nutrition
labs, but I'm not allowed to take you there. How about I show you the
body-modification works? That's always interesting."
"I'm game," said Don, still feeling pleasantly tipsy.
Sarah captured his arm fondly, and they strolled down the southern hall, past
several doorways. They saw a number of white-jacketed technicians along the way.
Nearly all the techs were escorting naked girls whose hands were firmly secured
behind their backs. Most of the girls hobbled along on steel toeboots, jerking
in pain with each step. But some were barefoot, and still others rode naked in
wheelchairs and atop hospital gurneys.
"Where are they taking all the girls?" Don whispered conspiratorially into
Sarah's left ear.
"Lots of places." Sarah answered in wide-eyed mock-suspicion, "Some are coming
in for repairs or checkups. Most are being prepped in one way or another, either
for stasis-packing or for the spit. You can usually tell; if naked wenches'
breasts and bodies look extra nice, with lovely tanned skin and sparkling makeup
on their faces, it means they're about to be shipped, either on alloy tubing, or
shrinkwrapped inside steel enclosures.
"That's funny. I thought wenches stayed in their tote-frames all the time around
here," Don said.
"Not quite," Sarah said, "The public perception is that wenches remain in those
god-awful frames till the bitter end, and MPI promotes that idea because it's a
valuable conditioning tool. As dehumanizing as it is to be framed, believing
that you will never be released from it has an even greater impact on our minds.
In truth they only keep a girl fully framed for one to four days, basically
until her cooking assignment arrives."
"Framed girls are kept in large rooms on B-North at the opposite end of the main
floor," Sarah continued, gesturing back toward the atrium area, "There are about
two thousand framed wenches at MPI at any given moment. Depending on which plan
she's assigned to, a girl's experience and handling will vary a lot. But one
thing is for certain: when she kisses her tote-frame goodbye, it's only to face
more difficult things."
"I may have seen one of those things earlier from my office window," said Don,
"Some girls out there on the floor were getting their lips tattooed. They didn't
seem to be having much fun either."
"Ah yes, the lipstick saddles," Sarah said brightly, hugging his arm like a
debutante, "I remember it well. It's one of the first things they do to us after
repairing our breasts and putting those infernal toe-boots on us. They rivet the
darned things on, you know. Aren't you glad I told you that, Mr. Bowden? The
boots are a permanent bondage all by themselves. A girl can't exactly run away
wearing those things, now can she?
"No, I guess not," Don answered feeling his cock grow stiffer, "MPI thinks of
everything don't they my dear?"
"Did you enjoy watching the booted ladies having their lips done, Sir?" she
asked coyly.
"Actually yeah, it was pretty hot," Don confessed with a smile. He was enjoying
her silly way of carrying on. "In my viewer-scope, I could hear the technician
lady talking to them. She was pretty cruel about it, making threats, going
non-stop if you know what I mean."
"I sure do know," Sarah said, "Believe me, you're not the only one who
appreciates those things. The lipstick ladies are one of our most popular stops
during guided tours. And not just because people like watching women have their
makeup applied. Once each day there's a surprise live-spitting down there and
all hell breaks loose."
"Really!" Don exclaimed, "It just gets better and better doesn't it?"
"Yes," Sarah said, "A wench will be impaled right while she's sitting there on
her saddle. And you never know who it'll be, or when. A spit pole will just rise
up through her saddle without warning, twirling into her pussy. It's narrower
than our usual spits. It rotates up through her body like a snake until it
finally passes out of her mouth. That takes about twenty minutes from start to
finish."
"Must be quite a show," said Don, "What happens then?"
"Well, the girl never lasts long," Sarah answered, "After all, she hasn't had
her corolla grafts done yet, and her airway hasn't been optimized. She'll
strangle and bleed out pretty quickly when the spit pierces her diaphragm and
lungs. When it's over they mop her down, answer questions and take her to the
commissary for roasting."
"Amazing," Don said.
"It's always a big event," Sarah said, "You can tell when a saddle-spitting
starts up because the whoops and screams of the guests can be heard all over the
main floor. Of course, the unlucky rider and the wenches sitting nearby do some
of the loudest yelling too. It gets pretty wild."
"You kind of lost me with the airway and grafts stuff," said Don, "What's that
all about?"
"Good of you to ask, Sir!" Sarah said proudly as they walked through the large
double-doorways marked Body-Mods. "Because this is exactly where they do those
kinds of things."
The two had entered a lobby area of a large surgical suite adjoined by recovery
rooms and examination rooms. Five naked women were waiting in sturdy chairs
along the right-hand wall. Each girl's hands were tied behind her back like the
wenches Don had seen in the hallway. These women were tethered to their chairs
by simple steel cable loops connected by hinges to their chair-backs and draped
freely around their necks. Barely as big as the diameter of their heads, the
stiff hoops were nevertheless impossible to lift off without assistance.
The women also wore red ballgags, huge rubber plugs wedged deeply in their
mouths and held fast with wide plastic cable ties stuck through the centers of
the balls and encircling the napes of their necks. They were the largest most
uncomfortable-looking gags Don had ever laid eyes on.
"These gags are enormous," he said in wonderment as Sarah slowly released his
arm. The expressions on the women's faces stopped the two giddy travelers in
their tracks. The cheek muscles of all five women rippled in continuous spasms
of pain, and tears flowed steadily from eyes tormented into constant squints by
the cruel pressure of the gags.
"It conditions their jaws for the spit," Sarah said almost sympathetically,
walking closer to the girls, "And yes, it really does hurt. They're given
injections to relax and lengthen the jaw muscles, but that doesn't help their
facial muscles at all, or their mouths and necks for that matter. Wenches
usually get to wear these things for three or four days while they're recovering
from their corolla and airway surgeries."
"It looks tough," said Don. "Compared to this, a two-inch spit pole would almost
be relaxing."
"See these little incisions down here?" Sarah asked, running her fingertips
lightly across one of the girls' lower tummies, "Amazing isn't it... In just a
couple of days they're almost fully healed. The corolla surgery is one of MPI's
best-kept secrets. They install several inches of tubing linking the uterus and
the stomach together. The tube is cloned from the wench's own body tissues. Thin
membranes are grafted in place to seal up the tubes at each end. That prevents
any fluids from going places they shouldn't, until it's time for the spit pole
to break through the membranes. This way a spit can travel through her body
without tearing abdominal tissues, or damaging her lungs"
"God that's brilliant," Don said running his hand over one of the faint scars,
"... then from the stomach the spit goes right to her mouth without rupturing a
girl's diaphragm or esophagus... so that's how MPI does it."
"A small part of the formula, yes," Sarah concurred, reaching for one of the
girl's wrists and looking at the narrow info-band encircling it, "It appears
these girls are due for spitting in three more days. They're probably here to
get their breasts plumped up and their airways done. Tomorrow or the next day
they'll have their tans and final makeup tattooings applied."
"How does that airway business work?" Don asked.
"You're familiar with a standard tracheotomy procedure, right?" asked Sarah.
"I think so," said Don, "isn't that where they cut a hole in the lower throat to
rescue choking victims?"
"That's right," said Sarah, "Our incision is larger but the method is similar to
that procedure, only without the emergency. The additional airway is created
along with a small removable plug that looks cosmetically perfect. Spitted
wenches get ample amounts of air to breathe already by oxygen infusion through
their spits, but they may panic anyway and asphyxiate. If that starts to happen
the plug can be pulled out. Then whatever other problems the girl is having,
breathing shouldn't be one of them.
"I wonder how they cope," Don said, reaching out to touch one of the girls'
quivering cheeks, "There's no way to ask them now is there? Maybe this all seems
like a crazy kind of dream to them."
"Crazy yes, but no dream," Sarah replied, "Generally those drugs they give us in
the tote-frame are tapered off by the time we're released. So these women are
feeling the full force of things. Pain is a constant for them. As I understand
it, their suffering is useful, it actually prepares them for the agony of being
cooked alive."
"And you say they'll be ready to go in just a few more days?" Don asked.
"Most likely, Sir," Sarah said, studying him closely, "A girl can be safely
spitted as quickly as 24 hours from her corolla surgery. But she'll last hours
longer if she's had two or three more days to recuperate. Optimum live-roasting
times for most girls are reached after about a week."
"If you want to ask a girl how it feels," Sarah added, "You can always ask me.
My corolla and airway were done during my first week as a meat wench. Once
installed, they remain in place indefinitely, or until needed."
Sarah motioned Don back to the hallway, seizing his arm again as they exited
through the double doors. The two of them walked back toward the elevator foyer.
"Ok, here goes," began Don, "Does it ever excite you sexually that you've become
a meat wench now?"
Sarah paused a long moment before answering.
"Yes it does," she said finally, taking a deep sigh in the refuge of Don's arm,
"Sometimes anyway. It makes no sense really. Lots of times I'm angry and
resentful about my situation too. But whenever I'm making love or masturbating,
if I think about being meat I'll just start coming like wild. The thought of it
alone does that to me. Pretty nuts huh?"
"Hmm, that's interesting," Don said, "Do you think it's because of your MPI
conditioning? Or is it the way you're wired?"
"Very good question, Sir," she replied thoughtfully, "A little bit of both I
guess. I know being around horny men who adore the sight of suffering wenches
has a way of getting to me. And all those drugged screwings I got my first days
in the frame must have helped too. But a girl gets certain feelings when she's
owned, and when her fate is sealed like that. Maybe it goes back to our
submissive genes or pheromones or something. Who knows ... but I can be around
other trapped wenches and it sort of rubs off, the sexuality of it hits me like
a heat burst. For instance, right now I'm tingling all over like mad. "
"Same here," said Don, "Good to know it isn't just me."
"No, it isn't," Sarah agreed before brightening again, "Are you ready to inspect
the spitting rooms now, Mr. Bowden, or can your lust-o-meter hold out that
long?"
"Sure, let's go to the spitting rooms," he said, "I think my meter can manage.
Just barely."
END OF CHAPTER NINE
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2004, All rights reserved
