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Chapter 4: Aliya’s Betrothal
I stole up the outside ladder to the hay loft and belly-crawled over the bales to my preferred hidey hole for watching barn action. I heard voices below—several of them, some familiar—mom and dad—and some I didn’t recognize. I shifted a hay bale to reveal a plank with a small knot that I’d pried loose two years before. I looked down on seven heads below—mom, dad, Aliya, and Farm-Lord Holzapple and his cunt-wife, plus their two most recently Presented pups: Harry, aged sixteen, a strapping galoot of a boy with terrible acne, and his older sister, Halle, who was nearing twenty. I knew Harry from school and Halle from tent meetings. She always watched the un-Presented during Presentations and the grown-up sermons. I think meanness just runs in the Holzapple line, because all of their offspring and both parents wear scowls and inflict their ill tempers on all around them pretty much all the time.
Farm-Lord Hugh Holzapple was among the more devout of the parishioners, but dad had never cottoned to that family. Their farm was on the other side of the valley, so we didn’t see much of them except at meetings or the occasional chance encounter in town, usually at the feed store or the library. His wife, Hester, was a short, rotund woman with enormous teats—no surprise, given her fourteen live offspring. Hugh gave his son a shove, which landed him a step closer to Aliya, who of course was blindfolded. The cunt-wife wouldn’t knowingly see her betrothed until after he claimed her. I witnessed an Offeror’s Inspection, the first I knew of for Aliya, and good news. The Holzapples could afford a decent cunt-price, and most of their pups stayed on in the valley, several taking up residence in the small outbuildings on their extensive properties. The Holzapples had only lost one pup to outside, Hollister, their fifth, who’d run off the day after his Presentation never to be heard from again. Most families lose all but one or two, which fuels the frenzy to procreate. I’d always thought Farm-Lord Holzapple must have less of a temper than dad, if his pups—boys and girls—were so willing to stay on. Maybe, I thought, Aliya would have less to whine about. Maybe she’d end up happy. Farm-Lord Holzapple encouraged his hesitant son. “Go ahead, boy. She’ll be your cunt-wife if she proves worthy. State your case.”
Harry turned to my dad and said, “Preacher Alvarez, with respect, sir, I’d like to examine—”
Cunt-wife Hester Holzapple interrupted, “Inspect, son.”
Someone chuckled; I couldn’t tell who from my vantage.
Harry continued, “inspect, that is, sir, your Presented daughter. We’re prepared to offer—how much, dad?”
“A goodly price,” was all the Farm-Lord would cop to at the moment.
“A goodly price for a sturdy virgin to bear my sons. Is she virtuous?”
“Her cunt-mom avows that her hymen is intact.”
“And since her Presentation?”
“I avow that she has an able mouth and an accessible anus. She proceeds apace to her Blossoming. Allow me to prepare her for inspection.” Dad grabbed Aliya’s upper arm and her ponytail and pushed her toward the side door of the barn. There he had her stand with her back to the wide-open door. She wore her Presentation gown, including the blackberry vine collar around her neck. Algonquin, our prize-winning stallion draft pony (who brings in thousands for a successful cover) in the first stall, whickered as I scampered over his stall for a better view of the proceedings.
Daddy took up the cross-ties: ropes hooked to eyes near the ceiling and floor on either wall of the aisle, concluding in stainless steel clips meant to secure a horse’s halter for grooming or shoeing. Dad hooked the ropes to either side of the blackberry vines into clips installed there for that purpose. Aliya trembled. I don’t understand her nervousness. I can hardly wait to be bared before my Lord’s eyes!
As at Presentation, Daddy lifted the thorny vine until it sat under Aliya’s nose, pulled the front piece of the gown over her head, then took the back piece, with the fabric of the front bundled within, and put it back over her head to the front. The hanging tail he snugged tight around the collar. Aliya whimpered, but all the butt-fucking must have taught her not to whine so much. She didn’t say a word.
Aliya’s breasts had sprouted righteously in just a few days. I can’t say they were as plump and lovely as Jerena’s, but the nipples were well formed, jutting out in the cold air of an early spring evening. The surprising thing was the rag harness securing her rag. Ahhh, I thought. Her first menses, which declared her marriageable and fertile, would signal the unmarried Presenteds to come check her out. I was pretty sure Harry was the first, but the Holzapples, with all their local sway, are always among the first at everything.
Her body was decorated with the marks of the lash. Bruises decorated her hips and butt, evidence of daddy’s strong hands when he fucked her ass. Harry and Hugh stepped up to her, standing just in front and eyeing her with their arms crossed over their chests. Harry’s package suddenly looked like it had some real clout. “Use your hands, son,” Farm-Lord Holzapple advised him. “Squeeze them. Pull the nipples. Make sure they’re good and sturdy. You’ll be wanting many sons to use those jugs. Keep your own uses in mind as well.”
Harry stood arm’s length away and raised his hands to Aliya’s lovely B cups. He tugged the nipples, twisted them, then grabbed each tit in his fist and squeezed. Aliya moaned but kept her arms at her sides. I suspect mom had dosed her up again.
Hugh coached his son, “Check out her belly, hips, and thighs. She’s thin now, but imagine her after a dozen younglings, thick and ugly as your cunt-mom, her teats down to her knees. When she’s big and used up, or big and pregnant, you’ll want to fuck her ass, so check her out from behind as well. We can afford shapely, son. You don’t have to settle.”
Harry circled, feeling as he went. On his second trip around, he gestured to Halle, who stepped over and unhooked Aliya’s rag harness. She reached under and her hand emerged with dark red on her fingers, which she held up to her parents then dutifully licked clean, honored by the sip of cunt-wine. Harry opened Ali’s nether lips to inspect her clit, a tiny nubbin buried beneath her blond fur. He opened her cheeks and eyed her brown hole, which was considerably softer and wider than the morning of her Presentation—no surprise, given that dad had been enacting his fatherly duties with such great vigor just about hourly around the clock. “Farm-Lord Alvarez, I’d like to proceed,” Harry announced.
“As you wish.”
Harry stood up and gestured to his sister. She approached him and knelt with her hands clasped behind her back. He opened his fly and handed his young but admirably thick pecker into Halle’s open mouth for fluffing, as they call it outside, and wetting. When he was slick with her slobber, he turned back to Ali, stood behind her, pulled her hips back, and said, “Open.”
Aliya didn’t move. That should’ve been her cue to reach back and pull her butt cheeks apart, but she didn’t even flinch. Maybe mom gave her too much . . . maybe because mom knows how much preacher-daddy loves to punish.
He lifted the longest crop from a hook by the door to the tack room. He positioned himself, then unloaded on Aliya’s breasts with a dozen hard swats. She screamed on the third and didn’t stop until twenty seconds after he did. “Open,” he repeated, with great bile and seething anger.
I decided Aliya and Harry would be well-matched: he needed to be fluffed all over again. If he couldn’t get wood from watching a good tit-whipping, perhaps he’d be gentle enough for poor, whiney Aliya. Halle did the honors, again, sucking her brother to full erection. This time, Aliya opened on command. Harry lunged into her and jackhammered his narrow, young hips, his butt cheeks flexing. His hands clenched at her hips. Her ghostly, white-wrapped head bobbed with each vicious thrust. I thought about climbing down from the hayloft for a ground-level view so I could see his nuts flapping but feared the tiniest sound would lead to my discovery.
Harry pulled out after a couple minutes, during which both sets of parents and his sister, on her knees next to Ali, watched with rapt attention. He stepped back and said, “The cunt-mouth.” Daddy unclipped the cross-ties and guided Aliya to her knees. Harry circled around in front of her. Dad stood behind, securing Ali’s wrists in one hand and grasping her bundled gown/hood with the other. Harry said, “Open.” This time, Ali didn’t need a beating to cooperate. Harry’s pecker filled her mouth. I was kinda surprised: when dad and the older Als fuck face, they always jam deep into the throat; Harry only slipped back his foreskin and set the head in her mouth. “Preacher Alvarez,” Harry said, his voice strained, “please release one of the virgin’s hands.” He wanted to be stroked—even I knew that—though in all fairness, Aliya couldn’t have understood, being that dad never allowed such a thing. Before dad could react by punishing Ali’s slowness to obey, Harry said, “Show her, Ha— cunt-sister.” He’d almost said her name, a gross breach of etiquette, as I understand it, for betrothal inspections. Halle guided Aliya’s hand to Harry’s fuck stick and showed her how to grasp the staff and stroke from her lips and the root of his shaft. That seemed like cheating to me, but Harry liked it, and both Sires appeared to approve. Harry worked up a good rhythm and a sweat.
All at once, he extricated himself, worked his rod in his fist, and turned to his sister. He grunted and his hips jolted as he stroked faster and faster, then he spurted thick gobs of man-cream over Halle’s face and hair. He shot off a lot more goo than dad ever did, that was for sure. In fact, I think Algonquin could have been jealous of that load of jism, as they call it outside. Before he was done, Halle was covered with the stuff. It dripped from her nose and chin and clotted her dark hair. She licked her lips.
Happy with the evidence of Harry’s fecundity, dad turned to Farm-Lord Holzapple. “Will we hear from you?”
“Sunday, at the meeting, I suspect,” Hugh Holzapple answered. “In the meantime, I offer you the services of sow-cunt Halle. She’s approaching unmarriageable, as you’re well aware.”
“We’ll waste her virginity on December 31, unless she’s claimed by then, of course. It’s been on my calendar since her last birthday.”
“We appreciate your attention to such matters, Preacher. In the meantime, she’s available for dark-hole and cunt-mouth service, at your pleasure.”
“And discipline?” daddy prompted.
“No, sir.”
“Animal service?”
“No, sir,” Hugh Holzapple reiterated.
Daddy stopped short of grumbling, but I could see he wasn’t happy. The negotiations distracted his attention from Aliya and Harry, who used that opportunity to set his hand on Aliya’s shoulder. He didn’t speak to her, I’d bet Ali read volumes into the gentle gesture.
A minute later, the Holzapples, minus Halle, who would stay on with us until they came to reclaim her, got in their electric pickup and left. Harry barely managed the climb up into the truck bed. Jerena says all the boys want to do after their rapture is sleep, which is way different from dad’s irritable post-coital pacing, cursing, and growling.
Halle and mom got Aliya cleaned up. Mom disinfected her bleeding lip—she’d bitten herself while dad was beating her—and gave her a fresh rag before cinching the harness back around Ali’s hips. Mom left to take Ali up to the house, and dad called Halle to serve. He scolded her about using her hands and threatened to bind them before she tilted back her head so he could ream her throat. I didn’t stay to witness the big finish but snuck back to the house as if I’d just returned—late, of course—from the Johnson-Joy Farm.
Chapter 5: Aliya’s Blossom and Alyssa’s Buds
Aliya’s Blossom party was Saturday night. The Preacher’s daughter—traditionally well-trained, devout, hard-working, and tractable—is a big deal Agro ways, and the gorgeous weather brought out all the uncommitted, unclaimed Presenteds. I’d been trundled off to the Johnsons. Jerena would join the celebration at the Blossom, but the un-Presented aren’t allowed, of course. Blossom parties, according to Jerena, are great for cunt-shopping and sometimes turn into all-out orgies, with the older girls servicing all the young rods. Jerena’s cousin Winfrey’s Blossom party, she told me, turned into a spanking marathon. One of the Durnham boys bought her the next morning, and my friend became cunt-wife Dinfrey Durnham. I had high hopes for Aliya, who would become Hiya Holzapple if the deal consummated, and Harry, who Jerena said was “an okay dude.” He’s only a few months older than Ali.
Cunt-mom must’ve told cunt-wife Julie Johnson to keep a close eye on me. I had no opportunity to sneak out and spy on the festivities. I so wanted to watch Jerena get her throat pumped or her ass reamed by some eager boy (any one of whom could end up being my own Lord and Master!!). Jer’s way more fun than Aliya to watch for sure.
Jerena’s older brother Jeremy, newly married and so not attending the Blossom party, came in while I was helping cunt-wife Julie with her mending. Jeremy gave me the oddest look, an eye-to-eye direct stare not usually bestowed on one of my (virginal) status by males outside the family. Jer says Jeremy’s a mean one, that he likes to do a lot of hitting when he fucks. He regularly rats out Jerena and her Presented cunt-sisters when they misbehave and then helps Punish them. Jer was so relieved when he married Hiya (now Jiya) Holzapple. We’d spied on him plenty of times in the culvert. I thought he was sexy, but Jer said he was just mean. I didn’t like his staring at me, and I turned away, ever the shy virgin in front of the cunt-moms.
Jeremy stood in the room for a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth. His older brother Jackson was there; Jack’s wife Jenice (formerly Denice of the Durnhams) had been summoned to the barn by Farm-Lord Johnson. Jack and Jenice had been married almost three years without a pup, and I figured the Farm-Lord was trying his hand at producing his son’s heir. Jeremy said, “Dad wants you.” Jack stood up to answer the summons. “You, too, mom.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Well, you stay here and look after Virgin Alyssa.”
“You bet, mom,” he said with a big smile.
My perimeter alarms bleeped. A nervous thrill ran through me.
Jeremy waited a few seconds after the back door screen slammed shut before he came over to where I was sitting by the lamp and unzipped his fly. “Serve, cunt.”
“Jeremy! I’m not yet—”
His hand snaked out and slapped my face. “I know exactly what you are, cunt. I saw you in the culvert, slut-whore. Now suck my dick before I decide to rat you out instead.”
I pulled away. “No way, you pervert. Leave me alone.” Jeremy had made one miscalculation, and that was the fact that I had a thread snip—a tiny, super-sharp scissors—in my hand. I took a back swing, but I was too slow. He caught my hand before I could land the scissors points in his groin. My training was to scream if harassed as a virgin—which never happens—and I did. I howled and set up a terrible ruckus, but it did nothing to help me as all the older siblings were in the barn and the younger ones asleep in bed, behind a locked door, oblivious to my distress or unable to respond if they weren’t.
Jeremy made the mistake of trying to wrestle me into compliance. I’m too small and quick for him, and he stumbled, barked his shin on the coffee table, and then chased me to the door. I don’t know whether I’d’ve run home or to the barn because within three steps from the porch, he caught me by the hair. I turned and kicked him in his already bruised shin, with the net effect of makin’ him madder than a shook-up wasps’ nest. Then I remembered to scream. By the time anyone responded, I was on my back on the ground with Jeremy sitting on my stomach, grinding his staff against me through our clothes, his hands flailing, slapping and hitting me on my face, neck, and shoulders.
I heard Julie Johnson screech, “Jeremy Johnson, what in the name of the dear Lord are you doing to that virgin-child? Get up right now!”
“She was spying, mom.”
“What!? No. Honestly, Jeremy, get up off of her. She’s our neighbor’s un-Presented virgin. This is unseemly. Spying, indeed.”
He got up and I turned and crawled away, huffing for breath. He said, “I have proof, cunt.”
Most of the Agro families avoid electronics because of the risk of contamination from outside, but Jeremy had a cell phone with a camera in it—probably cobbled together by Jerena, just like she’d cobbled her computer and Internet hookup. My cunt-mom would’ve turned away from the heretical invention, but Julie Johnson isn’t owned by the preacher. She looked. She gasped as he flipped through the photos he’d taken of me and Jerena exploring each others’ bodies in the culvert a few weeks before.
Julie said, “Damn. Damn. Damn. Oh, shit, Jeremy. Look what you’ve done! That’s your sister! We’ll never sell her off now. Heaven help us. Oh, shit, heaven help us.” When I realized I’d been caught and that Julie Johnson was no ally, I started to run, but she barked, “Catch her, Jeremy, quick, don’t let her get away. Take her down to the barn. I’m going to call over to the Alvarez’s. Looks like we’ll have to Punish the preacher’s daughter. Damned shame. Damned shame.”
Though I screamed and cried and begged, I spent the night shackled to the chain-link fence of the goat and sheep pen, freezing cold, hungry, horrified. Even then, shamed and knowing I was about to be turned out or left to the animals, deprived of husband-Master and children, I couldn’t quell the insistent thrumming between my legs when the goats and sheep came to check me out, when they nuzzled and nibbled at my virgin-mound. The worst was imagining daddy’s reaction. He’d do a fire-and-brimstone sermon to get the holy riled up so they could watch my daddy waste me by bringing down the hand of God—a rough wooden scepter in the shape of a large phallus—on my virginhead with the whole congregation watching. He would expose me, beat me bloody, and then offer me to the villagers, according to tradition. I don’t know for sure what happens to failed cunts, but they seem to just disappear. I’ve heard stories about being sold to the Friar’s Commune, but no one can really say what they do up there. I’d heard that failed cunts are cut up, boiled, and eaten, fed to the animals, or dried and used to fertilize the fields. I’d heard their female parts are removed to make room for the large staffs of the animals that’ll use her until she dies. Jerena and I speculated the Wasted are sold into white slavery outside and shipped off to strange, foreign countries to be used as whores or for manual labor, wet-nursing, or scientific experiments. Some say aliens with slimy fangs and many tentacles take the slaves off-planet and traffick in body parts and S&M sacrifice ritual personnel.
I wept, late into the night, grieving the lost chance to be claimed and cherished by a loving but strict husband-Master.
I saw cars and wagons leaving the Blossom party late at night, and later, heard dogs barking and horses nickering.
Jerena came up, screaming and crying. She’d be punished severely for corrupting a virgin-child, but she was past Presentation, so she’d get off a lot easier than I. “Ally, baby, what have you done?”
“Ask Jeremy. He took pictures of us in the culvert.”
“Oh, baby, how could this happen,” she wailed.
“Get away from her,” her dad growled. “Filth. I should send you with her,” he spat. I wasn’t sure whether he meant to the tent meeting in the morning for Punishment or to wherever I’d be sent so as to avoid contaminating the other virgin children with my filth. Farm-Lord Jeffrey Johnson pushed Jerena into the pen, followed by Jackson and Jeremy, their older cunt-sister Jessica, Julie, and Jenice. Julie and Jenice, shamed by my failures, knelt in the dung to watch their brothers and father punish Jerena. They took turns fucking her ass and her mouth; then they took turns pissing on her. She cried and ranted, begging, not to save herself—Jerena likes a good ass-fucking for sure—but to save me. I hung my head to see my friend so accosted on my account. She’d be beaten later, I was certain, probably with switches or a whip.
I looked up when I saw torches approaching. Mom and dad came into the pen with Aliya, who still wore virgin white. They required her to witness my humiliation, though she’d missed the worst of it.
Chapter 6: Alyssa’s Preparation
I didn’t have to see the spittle flying from my Sire’s mouth, the turgid redness of his face, or even the bulge in his robes to know he seethed with unequaled, righteous rage. He turned to my mother and backhanded her across the face, sending her flying. She landed in a heap on the dung pile, and he ran to her, ripped open her blouse, grabbed her hair, and backhanded her three more times, until blood spattered from her nose. He called her filth and whore, then took up a handful of droppings and rubbed it over her teats, between her legs, then into her mouth. “Now go kiss your precious cunt-bitch, my shame. Get up, cunt, get up,” he bellowed. “Let your filthy whelp taste your shame.”
Mom forced her shit-grimed tongue into my mouth and deposited a load of nightmare. She held her hand over my mouth and ripped open my blouse. Julie Johnson handed her the metal cutters. Careless of tender skin beneath, Mom cut away my chest guard and tossed it out of the pen. She’d been so involved in Aliya’s Presentation and Blossom that she’d failed to notice my premature development. I had small, swollen domes of flesh centering on puffy, nipple-less areolas. “Dear Lord,” she breathed, then rounded on her husband-Master. “This is none of my doing, I swear,” she protested, and dropped to her knees to plead for her life. The cunt-mom’s sacred duty is to keep the virgin in child-form until her fifteenth birthday; dad assumed, as I did, that mom’s compulsive tampering with the potions had caused my teats to pop almost a year early. Dad hauled back and kicked her in the chin. She toppled and didn’t move. He kicked her aside and stood in front of me. He almost foamed at the mouth. His eyes flashed and darted. “I’d end your life if I didn’t think I could get a few bucks for your worthless cunt,” he growled, staring at me.
Before I could even beg, before I could offer him virgin-cunt to rend, before I could so much as whimper, he drew back, balled his fist, and punched me with all his considerable strength in my right side. I chuffed and felt a crack and a pain like a knife searing through me. He’d broken at least one rib. It took so long before I could draw another breath that I concluded he’d punctured my lung, but when breath finally came, it was all air.
Farm-Lord Johnson had the nerve to attempt to deter my father’s divine wrath by grabbing his arm. My dad, far the larger of the two men, shook him off and roared, “I am Master of nothing but filth. Stay your hand, Farm-Lord, and do not intervene between a righteous Master and the punishment of the fallen child.”
“Al, buddy, she’ll have her Punishment tomorrow before the congregation. You must let her live at least until then so we can all witness and partake of our failings. You deprive us if you bring the sow dead to her reckoning.” Somehow, he made Alonso Alvarez of the demonic backhand stand down. “Julie, help cunt-wife Alvarez into the house and get her cleaned up while I see to our sow-cunt and her condemned accomplice. You’ve had a rough night, Al, and Aliya should be spared this so close to her claiming.”
Though choking on filth and retching with agony, pain, and hopelessness, I looked to my cunt-sister. Tears fell from her eyes. She shook her head. “Wait,” she said, entitled to be heard in the days between Presentation and Claiming. “This isn’t mom’s fault. Leave her out of this. I’ve known what Alyssa’s been up to. She’s been doing it for years, spying, peeking in on Presenteds. The little pervert likes to watch the animals fucking. She even spied on Presentations, till the Holzapple cunts got suspicious. She’s been promiscuous in her mind, if not in her body, for three, four years now. And I’ve known . . . all along. I kept it to myself to spare her the Punishment, and I’m responsible for her present condition. Spare her and Punish me. I’m still a virgin. You can sell me to the Friars instead.” Aliya wasn’t trying to spare me but to find a less reprehensible alternative to the path of her own life.
Mom spoke through a shattered mouth. “No, baby, no, no, dear sweet Aliya, that’s nonsense, of course.” She turned to dad. “Master, I beg you, Aliya’s only covering for her sister, to spare her. I beg you, husband-Master, don’t let our last virgin sacrifice herself for this worthless whelp. It’s my doing. Alyssa matured too soon. See her teats, swelling inside her chest guard. I changed her formula. I cut her dose and omitted the hormone inhibitors. I gave her eufrystus root.”
Cunt-wife Johnson’s hands clapped to her mouth. “Heaven guard us,” she breathed. She turned to my father, “I’m so sorry, Preacher Alvarez.” I thought she’d offer comfort through service, but of course, that’s not her place.
“We Punish them all in the morning.”
“But daddy!” Aliya protested.
He turned on her. “You were my last salvation, cunt. I’ve already collected your fee from Farm-Lord Holzapple, so we’ll preserve your hymen for your husband to wreck, but you’ll suffer for your attempt to deter ’lyssa’s Punishment—and you’ll watch while we nail your cunt-bitch’s tits to the rail and a score of staffs invade your cunt-sister’s wreckage.”
Jeffrey Johnson stood up to his full height. “The Friars pay more for virgins,” he pointed out. I thought dad was going to deck him, right on his own Farm. But Farm-Lord Johnson was right, and dad’s a practical man.
Dad actually backed down, something I’d never witnessed. “Then a score each to rape her ass and her throat, and a score with the whip. A score of nails in her cunt-mother’s ugly teats.”
After a strange time of not knowing whether I was awake or asleep, alive or dead, I heard sobbing—my own.
Dad dragged me by the hair from the van to our own barn. Mom followed. She alternated between pleading to be spared and begging to inflict my Punishment herself.
Daddy cuffed me and put me over the stool in the same position as I’d watched Aliya get her first ass-fucking just weeks before. I thought, thank God, at least I’ll still have that part of my dream, to be anally deflowered by the thick shaft of my Preacher-Sire. I’d get no closer to any of my dreams than that.
He turned to mom and grabbed her by the throat. “Why’d you do it, cunt? Why’d you fuck with the potion? And eufrystus root? Why did you doom us this way?” He squeezed while he talked and hefted her up against the rough wood aisle wall.
She clutched his wrist and kicked until he set her down. When she got done gasping for air and coughing up blood, she said, “To bring her more quickly to your service, husband-Master. I’m a dried up old cunt and unsuitable to serve a great man. With Aliya gone, you’ll need service.”
He shook his head, disgusted and sneering. “I can have any ripe cunt in the valley.”
“Keep her here with us, Master. Sterilize her and use her for your own. We can keep her here. We don’t have to sell her away, my last little puppy,” she sobbed. “Please, Alonso, she’s my last.”
With narrowed eyes and a voice full of venom, he snapped, “Clean out the cunt. Use the Bowel-B-Rid solution. A score of the righteous will fill her with the evidence of her failure. Prepare her for Punishment at the meeting tomorrow. Stop her child-shots and get her tits pumped up—at least C-cups by the end of the week.”
Mom dropped to her knees, in contrition, or maybe to offer mouth service.
Dad glared at her. “You’re not off the hook, bitch. Get to work.” He stalked off and a few minutes later, I heard one of the sows squeal as she took his big staff.
I zoned out again while mom made her preparations, but then I saw her heft the bulging enema bag onto a hook high on the wall. She spread my cheeks and used the largest of her graduated set of nozzles. She loosed the clamp and I felt a gurgle. Within moments, cramps took me. I’d seem punishment enemas in my spying, but I’d never imagined a clenching spasm like the one that contorted my insides and made my budding nipples tingle and thicken.
“Relax Ally, or you’ll never take this big load, which is seriously gas-producing: you’re getting equal parts unprocessed heavy cream from that young cow with the deformed udder—she does give the richest cream—plus seltzer water; good, strong coffee; and pure grain alcohol to help you relax, plus corn syrup and salt to restore your fluids. And a double dose of eufrystus root. Maybe we can bring on your menses. Might lessen your suffering a bit, though your Sire sure is worked up. I should learn not to meddle, I suppose.”
“It hurts, mommy,” I whispered.
“Shut up or I’ll gag you, cunt,” she snapped. “Do you know what it feels like to get your tits nailed? Whore-child. Spying! You watch your father? The animals? And, my God, touching a ripe woman? Penetrating your dark portal? Holy Father, you’re abomination. I’m surprised he doesn’t have them stone you to death.”
I wanted to protest: it’s not my fault! She’d been poisoning me for three years. Eufrystus root hastens sexual development and increases libido. I wept and wept. My head hurt from crying upside-down and my gut hurt.
Mom sighed and reminisced through a dozen bouts of cramps. “I’ll never forget my initiation. Gramma made me hold my enema for almost an hour while she inspected me.” Mom pressed her hand between my belly and the seat of the stool to palpate my tight little tummy, now bulging from the potion and a full bladder. “I’ll insert your catheter in just a moment. Even with the thick nozzle wide open, your bowel solution will take a while to drizzle into you. While it does, let your mind flow. Pay attention to your holes, dear. Feel the pressure, the wetness. This is your body acknowledging its readiness for use. I’ll get the catheter started so you won’t feel so full. The enema solution needs that space. It’s going to hurt a lot, my dear sweet puppy.”
My heart pounded, my knees hurt, the blood rushed to my head, and all of a sudden, a huge cramp hit. I contracted, rounding my back, chuffing air, and hitting my head on the wall. I gasped, jolted, and cried out from the pain.
Mom knelt by my shoulder and rubbed my back. “There, there, dear. I know, it always comes on like that. I thought we had more time. You just try to relax, sweetheart. I’m going to open the catheter kit now, so try to manage the cramps on your own. They’re just rehearsals for the sacrament of birth, so give yourself to the pain, make it part of your holy spirit.” Mom was babbling. She must’ve been in shock, because she carried on as if she were prepping me for Presentation instead of Punishment and Expulsion. “That’s why we take the cunt-wine, the fruit of our menses, to symbolize our willingness to suffer and bleed to perform God’s command to serve our keeper. To remind us of our primal pain, the price of subservience, the initiation rites require us to suffer—so I’m using pepper oil blended with the lubricant on your catheter tube. Though I expect your next cramp will commence momentarily, do try to remain very still. It’ll really burn if I get any of this in your wine-hole.” She chuckled. “I remember those blisters. Your Aunt Sheryl spent two days in the hospital from it. You can’t do that, of course. We’re poor people, and we have no insurance, so I’d have to nurse you back to health here, but of course, as you know, I’m well trained and credentialed for that. Now hold still, sweetie, while I thread this tube—geez, your little pee hole is just as tight as can be. That’s my fault, really. I always hated when gramma worked on mine. I thought I could spare you, but she was right. Okay, it’s partway in. Hold on. I’ll give you something to bite down on.” She retrieved a wad of used leg wrap from the shelf in the tack room and twisted the sticky wad into a thick, coiled rope. “Open up. This’ll help, trust me. You’ll get a sore throat if you spend all day screaming.” She forced the makeshift gag into my mouth and tied it behind my head then turned back to the burning rod in my pee-hole. “Just hang on. It’ll feel better after we get the thick part through the narrow passage. One, two, three,” she counted, then jabbed, and I screamed into the wadded leg wrap. Searing fire exploded through my belly as another enema-induced cramp wave hit me. My belly wrenched with protesting muscles.
“Relax now, it’ll pass. You don’t even have half the bag in yet, so just cut the fuss. You’ll have another dozen or so waves of cramps before we’re done. I’ve almost got this piss-sucker seated properly.” She shoved again, and I screamed again, arching with agony as my guts churned, roiled, knotted, and protested.
I endured another half hour of alternating agony and lethargy. The ordeal—or the concoction of herbs assembled from an ancient family recipe with which she’d generously laced my enema solution—sapped my strength and suspended my volition. I laid limp over the stool, the seat pressed against my pulsing breast buds, my forehead on the cross-piece, a thick tube carrying toxic sludge into my distended and protesting bowel, and another tube searing my pee hole with pepper juice as it pumped out the bulging golden contents of my aching bladder.
The cramps slowed. Mom toweled sweat from my back and neck. From the side, she palpated my distended gut, now empty of piss but swollen and tight with the entire bag of viscous, gurgling syrup. She tsked. “It’s going to be a long night.”
She released me from the wrist and ankle cuffs that secured me to the stool and helped me sit on it, but her vile serum deprived me of the strength to support myself. “My, my,” she said. “That potion’s really working. You do seem particularly sensitive to its euphoric effects. You’re such a little thing, it’s not too surprising, I suppose. You hardly look like a woman at all,” she mused, feeling my hips and running her hand over my narrow buttocks. “It’s just your breast buds that are ahead of schedule, really.” Her gloved hand went to my thin, blonde bush, to reveal a bulging pink clitoris peeping out from pristine, rounded labia. “That’s the euphrystus root working. You’ll have a nice big button, not as long as mine, but prominent. Now you just relax, baby, and let mommy take care of you.” I had no choice but to relax. My limbs were heavy, my eyelids at half mast, spittle collecting at the corner of my mouth.
Though lulled to bliss by arcane chemistry, I focused hazily on mom’s bare foot, the thick toenails of her wrinkly, crusty feet a surprising fire-engine red. My eyes followed a path up her bony feet and ankles, her hard-knotted calves, skinny shins, and knobby knees, to thighs that creped and sagged despite their thinness. I wondered when she’d gotten naked. Where I expected a hairy mound, I saw a metal device locked over her female apparatus, as she called her sex parts.
“Don’t stare. You’ll wear one tomorrow. It just blocks your cunt-hole. You think this body’s used up, think of grandma. She was a mother of seven by the time she was nineteen and as wrinkly as me by the time she had her twelfth at twenty-four. She was lucky to be so ripe, but it sure wore her out. At thirty, her teats hung down to her waist—and she was never so endowed as you’re likely to be. The Alvarez line is blessed that way.”
I was too numb to speak or consider the implications. “Yes, dear,” she said when I moaned from cramping. “It’s supposed to hurt. It represents the opening of your vagina to your husband’s staff and scepter when he’s ready to impregnate his most important cow. It hurts when you get parted, when his rod pries you open, and you submit to the use God gave him the power to require.” My eyes tuned to mom’s hairless mound—shaved bare, one hundred percent, perfectly, spotlessly bare, revealing a pussy that looked like she’d serviced the football team, the marching band, and a whole herd of stallions every night for a month. The drooping lips were dark, a grisly gray, wrinkled but puffy and distended around the rough metallic cunt-blocker she wore buckled around her hips and thighs. Her saggy cunt-lips glistened with fluids, which dripped down over a thigh marred by the A-A (Alvarez-Alliance) brand she’d received at her wedding.
In morbid fascination and lacking the volition even to close my eyes, I stared as Mom gyrated. She used a key to open the lock of her chastity device and hung it from one of the wall hooks. At the top of her slit, peaking out boldly, was a thick, pink appendage the size of Alonso’s thick thumb, a miniature penis right down to the vein and an indentation at the tip. There was no hole to pee through, but my mother’s clit resembled a three-inch, flaccid penis that would’ve done many boys proud. In a weird haze, I studied the twitching appendage, fascinated. I wondered whether all women develop penises when their bodies become worn from service; I wondered what it would feel like to bend it up into her own cunt.
Despite the drugs in my serum, being absorbed, minute by minute, through the sensitive lining of my bowel, I raised my hand to my mound to press my own tight little clit into hiding, but I found the little sucker bulging and wet, my lips spread wide. I wept.
“Oh, no, honey, it’s okay. You’ve got ages before your little twat looks as used up as mine. You’ll close up again after you shed your virgin ecstasy, you’ll see. Let’s just get you propped up then,” she said, and fitted a leather harness around my upper body. I thought, mom’s lost it.
The straps encircled my chest above and below my breast buds, under my arms, around my neck, and with an ear opening between, along my head. It culminated in a thick ring at the crown of my head. She fitted the chin strap under my jaw and buckled it by the ears, then unknotted and extracted the leg-wrap gag. “This’ll ease the stress on your jaw,” she promised, and inserted a device in my mouth. It tasted funny. I felt it with my tongue as she buckled the straps that joined it to the vertical straps in front of my ears. The device was shaped like a pig’s penis, made of smooth metal that made my teeth feel weird. “Relax, honey,” mom said, patting my cheek through the intersecting leather straps. “Once I get you hooked up, you can just hang. I won’t have to worry about you collapsing and hitting your sweet little head.”
She hoisted me up with uncanny strength that rippled the tight muscles in her loose-skinned arms. She looped the O-ring that topped the harness, at the top of my head, on a hook on the wall with my bare feet dangling just inches above the floor and the rough wood of the aisle wall pressed against my shoulders and butt.
My gut bulged and gravity added to the weight of the sludge in my bowel, which pressed hard against the restraining bulb. I groaned. I thought it would rip me open from intense pressure that made me sweat and cramp. I tried to speak despite the device securing my mouth open.
“No, dear, we can’t let it go yet. Not until those titties start to pop. That’s what I’ve been afraid of with you. It should happen together. If you get menses before you get the equipment to handle the fruit of your cunt-service, you’re ill prepared to handle the consequences. You’ll be a bad mother, forget your heritage, deprive your girl-pups of their training, or worse, oppose your Master’s God-decreed governance of your males until their majority.”
Author’s Note: I’d love to hear from you if you’re enjoying my story! More chapters will post soon. Desiree Thorn
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