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Chapter 2: Puncturing Aliya
Dad didn’t wait until we got back to Alvarez-Alliance Farm to begin working Aliya over. He told mom to drive the van and sent me to ride with the Emmitts, who had six of their little ones with them. Their second youngest, a darling little boy named Everest, three-years-old and a little devil, his mom said, sat next to me in his car seat. He patted my arm and then the top of my thigh. His soft, pudgy little hand stroked my leg, rising higher and higher. I twisted to escape him, but I was flanked on the other side by Emmilie, Emmen, and Emmsie. Emmsie, the five-year-old, squealed, “Emmerest is trying to feel Alyssa’s cunnie, mommy!”
“Emmerest, you stop that right now!” Emma-May Emmitt said. “I’m awfully sorry, Ally. Boy babies can be such a handful at his age.”
“Mommy, Alyffa cunny ftinky!” he said, sniffing his hand.
“Now stop that at once,” Emma-May admonished her second youngest. “Three and already such a little man,” she said with a laugh. Emmerest was her ninth child, her first boy after three girls in a row. Mom says they spoil him something fierce.
The Emmitts dropped me by the mailbox and I walked the 500 yards to the house from there. The van was parked out back. Mom would be expecting me to come help with supper, but that little tap-tapping between my legs propelled me past the house at a trot and up to the barn, quiet as a mouser.
Dad knows the rules. Not even the husband can take his virgin wife’s cherry before the onset of her menses. But the Sire is entitled from the moment of the new adult’s Service Rite and Presentation to use her mouth and her anus any way he pleased. He can rightfully inflict any kind of corporal punishment so long as it causes no permanent marks and does no permanent harm. The virginhead and the option to mark and harm are left only to the husband-Master—unless the sow-cunt is unwed at twenty, at which time she’s deemed unmarriageable and can be fucked—but not impregnated (and Jerena and I haven’t figured out whether it’s because her body can’t, her husband can’t, God doesn’t permit it, or some potion prevents it)—by any male over fifteen who cares to use her.
Dad always follows God’s writs to the letter, which is not to imply that Aliya got off easy. First, he was really sweet, but his tone struck me strange, stilted and unnatural, as if he were reciting lines from a script. He sat her on a stool in one of the stalls on the back wall of the barn and wiped the blood summoned by her thorny collar from her face, neck, and chest. She wasn’t dopey from mom’s concoction anymore—it’d be mom’s hide, for sure, if dad had to fuck a groggy sow-cunt. That meant Ali whining, because that’s what Ali does. Presentation and mom’s unending lectures hadn’t made my annoying older sister any more pleasant to be around. “Daddy, it’s too cold. It smells bad out here.”
He backhanded her so hard her head smashed into the wooden planking on the side of the stall. She fell from the stool onto her knees on clean hay. “Get up, cunt-slave. Has your cunt-mother taught you nothing? When your Owner, which I remain until your husband-Master rips into the sacred hole, demands service, you speak not! You do not whine or complain. You do not shirk your God-given duty, for if you do, your Owner shall take you to the Punishment Pole, where the wrath of the people shall be visited on you for your failure. You are cunt, slave, whore. You have duties, chief of which is to your Lord-and-Master’s staff, thence to his pups, his home, and his property. You serve, after those obligations, any duty to which he commands you! The results of dereliction of your slave duties shall be a pound of your flesh, rent from your body with great and terrible, lasting pain. Do not tempt such a fate, child. Take your slave duties as a blessing, for the worst curse is to be denied the privilege of such service, such that your teats and your womb shall wither and stink, your children shall be wrenched from you, and erased from your line forever.”
She pleaded again.
“Silence! Must I teach you to submit with the strap as well as the staff?”
Aliya, cowering, sobbed again, and daddy grabbed her by the hair, spun her around, pushed her down over the stool, and brought his hand down over her ass cheek with a resounding crack!, according to the prescribed punishment for a recalcitrant virgin on the cusp of her first ass-fucking. She screamed and jolted, and in no time at all, he had her gagged with a red rubber ball secured with tight straps around the back of her fair head. He cuffed her wrists and ankles to the lowest crosspieces of the tall stool, so her stomach pressed against its flat seat. Her little nipples seemed to pulse as they peeked over the edges. Daddy stood back to admire this arrangement, then stepped close and started spanking Aliya’s bottom with his wide, hard palm. He kept at it, striking her again and again, with a long-armed stroked and loud retort each time, until both cheeks and the backs of her skinny thighs were a cheery red color. Ali sobbed and sobbed. I thought he’d stop and get down to fucking her ass, but he shook his hand and rotated his shoulders as if the exertion had made him ache. He took up the short horse crop from the hook in the tack room a few steps away and laid a pattern of stripes across her back. Every now and then he stopped, reached down, and stroked the big protrusion in the front of his priestly robes. Between, he schooled Aliya about proper cunt conduct: “You open your holes for your Master’s use at his whim. You obey, in this, and all things. This beating is a tiny taste of the torments that will befall you as cunt-wife if your sniveling and whining persists past this very moment. Suffer your lot in silent repentance and do not trouble your keeper with your petty woes.”
He opened the fuck flap in his robe, and his staff, bigger than my forearm, hove into view. He opened a jar of udder cream and grabbed up a big handful, slathering it on his rod, stroking carefully to coat every inch. He pried her virginal cheeks apart and poked the remainder of the goo into her little hole. He moved his hips, grinding against her, then all at once, slammed into her in one long stroke, his thick shaft disappearing between her spread cheeks clear to the hilt. Her little body jolted and shook, and I thought, Get her, daddy! Make it hurt!
My virginal vagina oozed and pattered. I was jealous. I couldn’t wait for my Presentation. I couldn’t wait to be a treasured slave, the prized sow-cunt of a handsome Master, to receive his heavenly rod into the pit of my womb and produce his heirs, to work his land and make him strong and wealthy. Sure, dad had been a little rough with the crop, but I thought, ooh, ooh, me, me, me next!
Aliya squirmed and wrenched against her bindings, and dad’s big ham-hand came down on her butt with all his great strength. The scream was shrill and pathetic through the gag and for a few seconds, the sow-cunt’s body went stiff and tight. Daddy just stood there, breathing heavily, his considerable length inside her hole, waiting until the seizure passed. From the shadows, stepped mom, still in her mud-green floral Sunday frock with its gleaming buttons and dainty pin-tucks. She took in the scene and shook her head.
“How’s she taking it?”
“’Bout like you’d expect, I reckon,” dad answered. “’Bout like you did, when your daddy took yours—like the worthless, withered old cunt-hag you are.”
“You seen Alyssa?” she asked with a somber nod to acknowledge his criticism.
With that, I skedaddled. I ran like the wind down the tractor tracks between the near pasture and the cornfield, behind the wood shed, and up the garden path to the little wooden house. I scampered into the van, laid down on the floor in the back, and pretended to sleep. I’d get scolded for shirking kitchen duties; the punishment for spying, on the other hand, was unthinkable.
Chapter 3: Deadly Curiosity
Aliya sat very carefully at supper that night. She wouldn’t answer my questions when I was finally alone with her again a few nights later. She only said, “Run away, run far away, Ally. You have all these romantic notions. Go outside, away from Emmittsborough, away from the valley, as far as you can get. You don’t want to be a woman in this world.”
I thought she was just silly: outside’s no different in the position afforded their women, even if some countries let them be politicians and VIPs, at least in the big spaceport cities. I couldn’t wait to be welcomed into the awesome world of sex and service. Now that I had a bedroom to myself, I took advantage of the privacy to explore those portions of my body I could reach—those I dared touch. I touched my cleft and penetrated my dark hole with my fingertips. I rubbed my pillow between my legs and thought of daddy’s thundering staff plowing to the hilt inside Aliya’s bum. I wondered whether he’d made her bleed, whether he’d shot his cream inside her or on her face, imagined her licking the evidence off his rod when he was done. I rocked against my pillow, lying on my tummy, ankles crossed, frustrated. I needed more to resummon that weird, shrieking ecstasy that rises all at once from that nexus of sensation. More pressure—more pain—I thought, might tip me over the elusive edge. I slipped my hand into my modest, white cotton panties and pinched my nubbin between my fingers. I flicked it with my fingernail, pressed it with my knuckle. I dared make no sound, dared not alert my parents, or I’d have strafed the swollen, wet cleft with my comb or slapped it with my hand.
The God-fury seized me at last and I contorted, biting my pillow to silence myself until the spasm passed.
The ecstasy left me wasted, and I slept hard, with my fist still jammed between my legs. I woke and rode it again, this time, imagining not my father reaming my sister’s ass, but that sweet Johnson boy, Jason, who’d been eyeing me even before his Presentation. I imagined him Presented, ready and glorious, poised to claim his Man-rights by plunging his delicious staff into my cunt-hole. I seized again and again that night, riding the fires of my fantasies.
Thursday after school, I walked home with Jerena. We snuck up to her room and signed on-line so she could show me something new she’d found on the Internet. Outside, it turns out, Farm-Masters—really just husband-Masters, I guess, as not all of them seem to be Farmers—practice a sort of variation on Agropadronics called BDSM. They have this cult motto that makes the Masters kind and loving toward their charges, responsible for their well-being. They define most of our cultural rituals as abusive and misogynistic. Outside, after the Lords torture and fuck their service-cunts, they cuddle with them and tend their wounds very lovingly, declare their devotion, pet them, kiss them, and praise them. The only thing I don’t understand is what they do with their children. None of their pictures show Presented children participating, as if they don’t exist at all. “See?” I said to Jerena. “Ali said I’ve got it all wrong.”
“Ali is an asshole. Just ’cause your dad likes to hurt his cunts doesn’t mean they all do,” Jerena said.
“Doesn’t your dad?”
“Only when he’s mad. Nobody’s quite as devout as your old man, but outside they put people in jail for what they do to us routinely. Why do you think we lose eighty percent of our teenagers? Emmittsborough is a sick place, Ally. You’re going to have to go outside if you’re going to find that loving husband-Master you crave.”
A month past her Presentation, Jer was my most reliable source of information about what it’s like outside. Her breasts were plumping, her nipples popping, her hips widening, but no one had offered a contract. Her cunt-mom said it was Jer’s bitchy attitude: “Dad thinks he can just have his fucking way with me any time he wants, and the older Js are worse.”
“Jer, I’m not Presented yet,” I reminded her, as prescribed by duty.
“Yeah, well, you and I both know . . .” she laughed, looked over her shoulder, and put her arm around my waist. “Wait’ll you get a pair of your own,” she said. “They’re totally all that.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only for a while. Your nipples ache like the devil when you’re on your rag, though. Jacob and Jed keep roughin’ ’em up, but that just makes me hot.”
“I’m not—” I started, but she laughed. That old habit was absurd between us.
“You want to check ’em out?”
“Your tits? Could I?” That tapping started again.
“You bet.” She led me out the kitchen door and down the hill, over the fence into the main pasture, then behind the blackberry bramble where the stream runs about three feet wide and no more than a foot deep. The herd was in the other pasture, so we were alone, out of sight from the house and the barns. “Come in here,” she said, parting the thicket to admit us into the six-foot culvert pipe that passes the stream under the driveway. We’d spent hours down there as younger children, chasing guppies, looking for frogs, and spying on our older siblings, who hadn’t known we knew where to look.
Despite the early spring, the water was fiercely cold as it trickled around our feet, but I forgot my discomfort when Jerena flipped up her blouse and pulled down her tit harness. Her breasts were beautiful, round orbs, pink-tipped with ripe nipples, bigger than Aliya’s, rounder. The nips hardened in the cold, and more so when I touched them, and little bumps stood up on the areolas. “Oh, Jer,” I cried, “they’re so pretty! They look like they’re all ready for suckling. I can just see you with a baby hanging from each teat, you lucky cunt.”
She pressed them and let them bounce up, squeezed them together. “Touch them, Ally, please, they just want to be touched and touched and . . .” I did what I’d seen mom do to Aliya’s nipples and caught them between my thumbs and the knuckles of my forefingers and squeezed. “Pull!” Jer cried. “Pull! More, more. Here, use your mouth, suck on them, quick, really hard, oh, dear God, I need my husband-Master to claim me!” she cried and pressed my face into her stunning, soft flesh. I sucked one nipple, clamping down hard on it, and pinched the other, and then our legs were all tangled together and we were humping each other’s thighs like horny dogs. We squirmed against each other, my face buried in her luscious tit. The harder I sucked and bit, the harder Jerena squirmed, but she was frustrated. She needed more, as I had the night of Aliya’s Presentation. I backed her to the side of the culvert and pressed her against the damp, curved concrete. “Try this, sweetie,” I said. “Spread your legs wide.” I stood back and slammed my knee right into her swollen bud, through her wide skirt.
She chuffed out a big ooof, but then looked at me wide-eyed and lifted her skirt to bare her still virginal mound. “Again! Harder!” she barked in a desperate whisper. “Harder, Ally!” I kneed her six more times before she quaked, shivered, and convulsed. Liquid splattered down her inner thigh.
I was shocked. “Jerena, did you pee?”
Recovering, she laughed. “Silly virgin-child.”
“It’s so not fair,” I moaned.
“Tell me about it.”
“Do me, Jer! I made it happen the other night like four times, on my wrist bone, but I can’t kick myself. Please?”
“You’re not Presented . . .”
“A technicality,” I snapped. “I just made you serve! Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Serve? That’s not serving, that’s just fucking around.”
“Jerena!”
“Relax, your maidenhead is safe with me, little piglet. But, hey, since you’re touching yourself anyway . . . I know just the thing.” We switched positions. She knelt between my legs and licked me like a bitch in heat cleaning her own bloody portal.
After a few minutes, I shuddered and soared, astonished that her sweet, soft mouth had elicited such a strong reaction. “Doesn’t your mom do that to you?” she asked.
“No way!”
“Way, silly. Dad has her line up all the Presented and go right down the line.”
“Even before?”
“Sure. There’s no penetration. That’s allowed.”
“My dad never did that. Us virgins were never touched any kind of way, except like, taking baths and stuff—oh, and enemas.”
“Anama? What’s that?”
“No, enema. How can you not know? It’s required daily cleansing ritual.”
“Not in the Johnson house, it’s not.”
“Awww,” I teased, “wait’ll I tell preacher!”
“You’re kidding, right? What is it?” I explained the process, which Jerena thought was the grossest thing she’d ever heard. “But if you don’t clean yourself out, won’t you get poo on your husband-Master’s staff?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure he’ll do just like daddy and the older Js and make me lick it off. What’s the big deal? It’s my cunt-mouth, not his that has to taste the sourness of his toil and effort in his waste.”
“They haven’t popped you, have they?”
“Of course not, but if I don’t get bought soon, they’re talking about letting me out to the Emmitts to service their goats and sheep.”
“Does it hurt to take it up the ass, Jerena?” I asked because I couldn’t contain the question anymore.
“Only the first few times.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Like God’s mighty fist is going to pulverize your insides and break your asshole right in two. And then, it like, starts to feel right, like taking a really good shit. Your clit starts to throb, and your lips swell, and then you get that rapture.”
“Rapture? Is that what they call it?”
“Yeah. Slave seizures, cunt spasms, whatever—orgasm, cumming, or climax outside. My sister Jinna said there’s a spot inside, too, that can make you squirt like I did, especially if you’ve got a rod up your ass and then something up your cunt, too.”
My hands flew to my mouth and I started to protest, “I’m not yet—”
Jerena pulled up like my dad and pronounced, “I’ll have to punish your worthless cunt if you say those stupid words again! Come on, little Ally Alvarez. You’ve already come this far. You want to try something up your dark hole?”
“No! Could we? No, Jerena, I’m not yet—I mean, what if they turn me out?”
“I won’t tear your rim; I won’t make you bleed. Just a couple fingers. Swear to me you’ve never done it yourself.”
I couldn’t do that, of course. Good slaves don’t lie.
“Ally, you’re blushing! That’s so cute! Come on, you know you’re dying to try it. No one’ll ever know but us. We’ll double-pinkie-swear.” We crooked pinkies, shook twice, and tongue-kissed to seal the deal. I almost had rapture from that alone! She had me bend over and pulled my skirt up and my panties down around my knees. I reached back to part my cheeks, which made Jerena laugh. “Eager beaver, eager butthole.”
“Do it, Jer, please!” My mound throbbed, and my rim throbbed in anticipation. I could hardly keep my narrow hips from jolting.
“Whore,” she laughed.
“I’m no such!” I protested, but she meant it the way they use the word on the outside, like cunt.
She licked her fingers. “Relax now, baby,” she said, standing close at my hip with her blouse still open, her tit sling dangling around her neck.
“Just do it!”
She slapped my hip, but I hardly felt it with my skirt between skin and skin, so I hiked it up over my back.
“Harder!”
She slammed her pretty hand into my hip and two fingers up my ass at the same instant, and I nearly crumbled. Jerena, taller than I by half a head and twice my girth, wrapped her arm around my waist and easily supported my weight, the tight grip securing me to withstand the pumping of her fingers in and out, fast as she could work them. My hips seized and danced, and an electric flush passed through me from knees to neck, stirring my skin against the hard lining of my chest plate. I cried out, and Jerena hit me again, cautioning me to silence, but she didn’t stop finger-fucking my asshole until three more waves of ecstasy jolted through me. I blubbered with the power of this release, sang out the glory of God, and then went limp and weak, crumbling. Jerena extracted her fingers and turned me toward her. She put her arms around me, pressed her luscious, newly sprouted breasts against my shoulder. I kissed them. I’d learned about kissing on the Internet. I’d never seen it done on the Alvarez-Alliance Farm or anywhere else I’d managed to spy on Presented folk rutting or even working up to it, until Jerena and I read about it on the web and made it part of our private ritual. She said I was good at it, but I figured she didn’t know any better than I did what it was supposed to feel like. Kissing her lovely melons, though, that was heaven—and she seemed to like it too, judging by the way she moaned. She squirted again, then pushed me down to my knees. She spread her knees wide and pulled my face to her mound. “Clean me up, little fuck-slave,” she intoned, just like her dad. I started by her slender ankles and worked my way up, bathing her sweet, soft legs with my tongue. The taste got sweeter and stronger as I neared her shaggy Y. She stroked my hair, holding it away from my face, while I savored her cleft. I split her puffy nether lips and slid my tongue across her cunt-hole opening, forward to her distended nubbin. She gasped because it was sore from my kneeing her. “More, more,” she urged. I pressed the flat of my tongue against it, but she still wanted more, so I nipped with my teeth in tiny quick, staccato movements of my jaw, and she pressed my head into her until I thought she might suffocate me. I pretended to be servicing my husband-Master’s staff and let her grind against me. I didn’t despair that she’d harm me; I was confident of my BFF.
Buried in my friend’s muff, with a mouthful of clit, and with her moaning to distract me, I didn’t hear the rustling of the syrtinia vines that conceal the opening to the culvert.
We cleaned up, a few minutes later, and tongue-kissed again to reseal our oath. Jerena ran her fingers through my hair, tucked her breasts back into their sling, and closed her blouse. We inspected each other for evidence of our debauchery before we emerged and headed back up to the house for a snack. Her older brother Jake, twenty-two and returned from the war to the ways of his ancestors, grabbed her wrist and led her upstairs.
Strange sensations and thoughts accompanied me as I headed home at a trot along the gravel road between our farms. The Johnsons were our closest neighbors, just a quarter mile down the road. I spent a lot of time over there. Sometimes I just snuck off there, crossing through the north pasture and over the stream. I’d learned a lot of things, over time, from spying on Jerena’s older siblings and her Schuster cousins who came to hang out there on weekends and winter breaks. Now, I’d been part of the action. Outside would call me and Jerena lesbian lovers or “barely legal bi babes.” Such sensations her touch had summoned, and more, such delicious submission!
Daddy, preacher and devout Agro Farm-Lord, advises his flock that cunt-slavery is a God-given blessing. Aliya and Almyra disagree, and so does Jerena. To me, it sounds like heaven: to be cherished and protected, even if used harshly, to be focused on the body and service, to be the source of your husband-Master’s wealth and status! I can hardly wait.
I imagined my breasts ripening beneath my shield, imagined the onset of my menses, and the violent puncturing of my hymen by the rod of my protector. My satiety, after an hour of climaxes in the culvert, had lasted a scant two hours. I hungered yet again. I rounded the curve on Johnson Drive and hopped the fence, dashing up the front hill with my backpack bouncing against my shoulders, its grommets and buckles eliciting a faint ting from impact through my blouse with my chest shield. I imagined my nipples rupturing the metal harness and popping through, protruding, with a beautiful silvery slave ring through each, declaring me Owned.
My clit danced. That weird pulse in my anus began afresh. I ran past the house, dropped my book bag on the back porch, and approached the barn in stealth to see whether I could catch any action between mom and dad or dad and Ali . . . or dad and Altoona, the old sow. What I found made me shudder and squirm.
More to come soon!
Des.