Sylvia
woke. She looked, with her eyes, slowly rotating them on their axes,
to the right, and then, pivoting them, up, and left.
She
did this methodically. She didn't want anyone to know she was
conscious and she wanted to escape.
She
closed her eyes, listening, hearing nothing but white noise. The
room was white, the ceiling, white. She lay on her back, strapped to
the table, unmoving. She couldn't so much as wiggle her toes, each
part of her body was strictly and exactly secured.
She
felt sometimes like she was floating, but that was numbness, or
stiffness, she didn't remember which, and the table would shake a
bit, from stimulation, electric, and feeling would return.
The
whole thing was quite frustrating as far as she was concerned.
She
counted to three, slowly, exactly, and then pulled, hard, trying to
yank up and off the table. Her muscles strained against the leather,
her jaw tightened. After a few moments she went slack, lax,
breathing heavy.
A
camera in the distance whirred slightly, sensing motion, turning on.
Something clicked. She knew what was next and her heart rate
increased, her pulse sped up.
Sensors
stuck to her body detected the increased activity in her circular
system and confirmed what the cameras were recording: She was awake.
--
Lasers
activated, calibrating the instruments, making sure that the table
was still in the same location it was the last time it had performed
this drill. Nothing had moved, not a micrometer, and the program was
given the green light to proceed.
The
algorithm was very particular, Syliva knew it precisely, and dreaded
it. It wasn't so much what happened so much as what it represented. She
was a thing, an object, shelved and maintained, without human
contact... and she was going crazy.
First
it was her hair, neat and bald:
The
shaver ran over her scalp, removing and gathering up the bits of
stubble that had accumulated during the night. A similar device ran
over her crotch and denuded her there as well.
Measuring
tape ran over her torso and stomach, then hips, then thighs,
recording her figure and adjusting her metered diet accordingly. The
program compensated for the minute amount of calories she expended in
struggling each day, the pan under her bed collecting all her sweat
and body waste and relaying the amounts to the program as well.
All
of her fluids were replaced, she was kept in perfect form, toned, and
supplied with everything her body needed to lie still in torpor all
day, every day.
What
frustrated Syliva the most was that there was no 'being good,' there
were no demands placed on her, she wasn't being punished, she wasn't
being anything.
As far as
she knew she as on Mars... No one talked to her, no one came in to
check on her, it was all automated...
She
wanted to scream... she couldn't. She noticed right away that her
vocal cords no longer worked. She wondered at times what other
changes had been made to her body. Some were obvious:
It
was hard not to notice the size her breasts had become, she squinted,
off to the sides sometimes, and was able to see the read-outs the
measuring produced: It recorded her chest at a constant 38D. It was
uncomfortable to carry at first, used as she was to her minute B cup,
but it had distracted her from a subtler problem she hadn't noticed
initially.
Time
was difficult to tell while in her jail, while kept, as she was... But
she had the growing suspicion that she had been here for over a
month. What bothered her was the fact that she hadn't grown cramped,
and hadn't gotten her period.
She
thought at first that maybe they had impregnated her, whoever they
were, but her stomach hadn't grown... and she didn't see or feel any
'patch' or 'implant' that might suppress her period.
She
was especially concerned with how far in one measuring device went
when it explored her vagina. It prodded and poked about inside her
but her insides felt especially hollow. She was no meek woman, she
had been sexually active and knew what a dildo and a vibrator felt
like, and the one that went inside her to take measurements was long
and wide but she just didn't feel
it the way she thought she should.
Her
womb had been removed, she just couldn't bring herself to consider it
yet.
Sylvia
was kept in a white room, a small room actually, a small white room. No
one came to check on her, all of the monitoring was done by
remote. Occasionally a technician would check on her personally, but
that consisted of walking by the outside of her housing. She didn't
see anyone, didn't hear anyone, or anything.
She
lost whole patches of time while sleeping, or resting, she couldn't
distinguish between sleep and awake at times. She would close her
eyes and couldn't tell if three seconds or three days had passed when
she opened them.
She
was slowly losing her mind... or was it quickly, she couldn't tell.
--
The
measurements, she looked over at them, it was the only thing she
could hang her mind on. She looked at them, her figure was the same,
only, wasn't her chest a D before? It didn't feel any bigger, if it
had grown it had been very slowly, and, how would it grow? It said
38EE now, but that could have been what it was before.
She
looked at it, sitting there on her chest, innocuous, she thought she
could reach out and touch it, and she did, mentally, but her arms
stayed obediently bound at her sides. She had been having a lot of
out of body experiences lately, it felt odd.
She
thought she could get up and walk around the room, stretch, and then
reality would settle in.
She
ached for some stimuli, some food maybe. All of her feedings came
intravenously. She wondered if there was a sedative in it or if she
just slept on her own. She slept.
While
she slept her chest slowly grew, thanks to the hormones and drugs
being steadily fed to her body. The straps holding her body down
were purposefully loose around the areas Sylvia was developing
in. Her breasts expanded and her waist grew wider.
It
never occurred to her that her waist was also slowly being cinched
because, from her angle, she couldn't see it. All she could see were
the twin mountains of her tits staring down at her. She pretended
she was a mountain climber and mentally lassoed one nipple and pulled
over to it. They kept her company, she sang songs to them, in her
mind. She was almost completely gone by this point.
--
Other
days she was lucid, and this was one of them.
She
opened her eyes to slits, trying to catch someone in her room before
they knew she was awake. Noone, just white, white all around. She
opened her eyes slightly, but didn't move them, she tried to look
around the room while holding her eyes still. She tried very hard to
do this and she thought it worked, she scanned the room and when she
stopped her eyes were back where they started. Success!
She
tried to think about it, there had to be a way out, it eluded her,
she just had to think about it, she could figure it out. She looked
around and saw what she saw, now all she had to do was take the saw
and cut her way out. It was there, just on the tip of her tongue,
she laughed, thinking about it, and of course no sound came out but
she heard it, in her head.
Her
body grew, or, more specifically, certain parts
of her body grew. Imagine if you will a woman whose head, neck,
shoulders, arms, hands all remain the same, but whose torso does
not... It grows out, and it grows towards the sides, and it grows
down, like fruit grows on a tree. The branches become heavy with the
fruit and it sags, but not these, they're lying down, so they
flatten, like pancakes, but very perky pancakes.
The
waist grows in, and
the hips grow wider, grow rounder... The butt lifts, growing larger,
and the thighs remain tight, but grow, slightly. The legs maintain
relatively the same shape, thanks to their binding.
All
of this takes place over an indeterminate amount of time, for her
keepers it matters not whether it takes days, or years, so long as
she develops in accordance with her program. To her producer it
matters, he keeps a time table, but she's on it, she isn't aware of
it, but she's on it.
To
her life has stopped... Its just one seemless transition, awake,
sleep, awake, sleep, even the robotics that attend her are
unintrusive, she doesn't even really feel the one that goes deep up
into her cunt. Partly because her lady parts, and she has started to
dwell on this possibility, have long been discarded as medical waste,
but also because she's numb in that area, nerve dead.
In
fact, and it hasn't been easy to glean, but all the nerves in her
body have effectively been quelled. There are no feathers tickling
her face but there is so little else to do but think and observe, she
is quite certain that no nerves in her face function, nor do any over
any other part of her body. It doesn't make sense, and sometimes she
thinks that she is dead, perhaps in limbo or purgatory. Or maybe
hell.
She
isn't sure why she'd have such large breasts in hell, they're not
something larger than they were before but the readout isn't clear,
she thinks maybe its 40FF, but that seems absurd, and, frankly, they
look no larger than they were yesterday, whenever that was.
She
yawns, well, of course, with the tight face bondage she's been in,
she doesn't actually yawn, but she does mentally. And she naps. She
does that in response to most things, it helps to pass the time, not
that anyone's counting.
--
Exactly
seventeen days have passed since her captivity. Seventeen days,
sixteen hours, and fourty-seven minutes, and its time for her cell to
be opened, its time for her to leave the womb.
2, Silvia's Plaques
Alex
checks his watch, delivery will be made within the hour. She's
sedated of course when he goes to get her, supervising the cargo
pick-up as strong hands carry the table she is on, not removing her
from it of course, but taking it and all its accoutrements, plugs,
cords, straps, IV's, with it. They leave the metal anchoring, the
stand, behind, ready for the next occupant and table, and power cycle
the monitoring equipment.
The
camera's records are archived, a copy to be delivered with the
product itself as pedigree, and Alex rides along for the sale. They
arrive at Mark's house, the back entrance, so that his
competitors don't deduce
his supplier.
He's
a collector, and Syliva is to be his newest conversation piece. She's
not exactly one-of-kind but she's mint, fresh from the factory,
and Mark knows that precious things appreciate over time...
As long as
they're kept in the wrapper.
--
Syliva
wakes up, her heartbeat artifically accelerated by a dash of
adrenaline injected, on a timer, into her system. Its morning, and
she begins her routine, eyes open, slowly
rotating them on their axes, to the right, and then, pivoting them,
up, and left.
All
she sees is black.
The
cameras whir on in her mind, and she cringes, the muscles in
her
face not responding. She hears nothing.
Syliva
is in a room. A large gallery room, in a different house. Its
Tuesday, although she doesn't know its Tuesday, and while she's still
strapped to a table, its upright now, and made of hard plastic rather
than metal. Tubing circles her neck, holding her to the table as
though she were a Barbie. The same material encircles her waist.
She's
wearing something over her face, its spheroid, and made of heavy
black rubber. It obliterates her sight and hearing, leaving her in
total darkness, deaf. A doll-mask over top provides a cheerful
visage to viewers, and a golden blonde wig tops off the assemblage.
The
table she's on has helpful information to viewers passing by, the
measurements dutifully taken up until the moment of her 'birth'
showing her stages of growth from her initial arrival in Cherish
until her current viewing state.
Every
few minutes a shock is administered, causing her breasts to jiggle,
drawing attention to her from around the room of curios. A group of
boys on a school trip are guided over to her.
They
gather around, getting a full and clear view of her body, which is,
for posterity's sake, kept behind glass.
They
tap at it, and put their faces up against it, angling for a closer
look, getting their breath on the glass.
At
various points, beside her head, for example, are instructional signs
pointing out features. They are made of plastic and worded in black
letters on a white background.
'Hair'
the top one reads, in a medium font, and points to the blonde wig,
giving its length.
'Face'
the next one reads, in a small font, and points to the mask, giving
oral capacity in liters.
Her body's overall height and weight are given where one
might
read her name. '114lbs.' her weight reads, '5ft. 5in' reads
the
height.
'Left
Tit' the next one reads, in a very large font, and points to her huge
chest's left member. Beneath
it reads '42HHH, 22lbs.'
'Right
Tit' the other reads, in an equally enormous font, and points to her
chests' equally large right. Beneath
it reads '42HHH, 21 lbs. 4oz.'
'Arms'
the next reads, in a tiny font, and points to her side,
non-specifically.
'Waist'
the next reads, in a medium font, and points to her waspish-middle,
specifying 14” afterwards proudly.
'Hips'
the next reads, in a medium font, and points to both sides of her
Hips, noting diameter.
'Ass'
one reads, pointing to both cheeks in a large font.
'Mid-waist'
the next reads, pointing to the area between her thighs, this one has
an arrow pointing to the display located next to Syliva, labeled
'Inner-waste', an obvious typo, but which contains the preserved and
intact removed portions of her womanhood, all carefully housed and
stored for casual viewing.
Everything
below the waist is summed up in 'Legs' written in a neat, medium
font, and giving their length.
--
Sylvia
is kept, housed in mint condition, sealed carefully away, but viewed
by men of all ages as they visit Mark in his home and tour his
gallery. Its open on Tuesdays to the public, for educational
purposes, Mark gets a tax write-off for his home by having it serve
as a museum one day of the week. Today students from Cherish Middle
school are taking a trip for their biology class.
The
students are paying particular attention to Syliva's 'Inner-waste'
and taking notes on its colour and behavior.
A
large red button dominates the center of the right side of Sylvia's
glass case, and pushing it causes an electric current to run through
the female organs housed in the smaller display. The uterus pulses
and the fallopian tubes jump, causing the boys to giggle and draw
silly pictures about it. They'll take what they've learned back to
class to share.
--
A
little while later a visiting publisher will use the Syliva display
as a basis for a biology book, wanting to market it to the middle
school, for distribution in Cherish only, of course, but with the
idea of making it popular he will include one of the boys' drawings.
The
school, wanting learning to be fun, will use the book for next years'
class, and Syliva will be required study.
Since
boys in Cherish are taught to think and to lead they will be quizzed
on what they've learned in a free-form way, the teachers want the
students to tell them what they thought about and what they felt
about what they learned, in order to validate their students or
encourage them for their efforts.
In
response to the question about how the students felt about Syliva one
of the answers, not untypical of the class, was that she was 'pretty,
with ideal female proportions and well-kept, but I was unable to see
the value of the ugly thing inside her. I think women can be made-up
pretty on the outside, but they'll always be ugly on the inside.'
On
the follow-up the teacher showed them a short video of Syliva during
her 'cocoon' stages, where she was less well-defined and not made-up
and the students invariably graded her lower. The video also asked
the students, who had just observed Syliva during one of her periods
of long inactivity, eyes open, and breathing, if women think. The
students all checked 'No,' and then 'False,' to, 'Are women people?'
When
asked to categorize them the students all put them in the category of
'Things.'
One
student asked why women's names are capitalized, to which another
answered, 'Its still a proper noun, you know, people, places, and
things,'
to which they all nod.
--
The
same book was used to teach the female students at the same age level
but instead of asking the children to think about what they saw the
young growing females were to use the image as a role model,
practicing posture (sitting still and unmoving, not betraying
thought) and their mo-doll-ing, posing to look like a doll, act like
a doll, be a doll.
At
the end of the class the girls were given the boys finished workbooks
and asked to look over the boys' answers and find ways to agree with
them. One of the girls couldn't think of anything, anything at all,
and was rewarded with a sweet, another quickly found a way to be
praised, she said 'Boys are right,' and yet a third said 'This boy
says women are things, and dollies are things!' and another girl said
'I want to be a dollie!' which promptly led to a thirty minute long
follow-up mo-doll-ing session in which the girls practiced their
doll behavior this time with breast prosthetics.
They
wore large rubber molds over their chests, carrying the weight
stalwartly, happy when the teacher complimented them on how pretty
they looked in them. Since the teacher was a woman she couldn't give
them grades but each girl knew she would be graded by the male
students at the end of the day so she tried to look her best.
--
For
Syliva life remained a timeless journey, interrupted by short
interludes, the slight murmur of a crowd jostling to ogle her, the
slight pressure when her case was open and she was dusted, or the
light tingle in her arm when a new IV was added.
It
was several months later that she was finally released from her
bondage, a wealthy man in town had finally gotten around to Mark's
museum and decided that he just had to have her, she was too perfect.
3, TITs & Trophies
She
was released from the table, and the hood was removed. Her new owner
swept her up in his arms and carried her away from it all, back to
his place...
He
sat at the end of his dinner table, sipping his wine and smelling his
soup. Seated at the other end was his bride. Syliva looked
resplendent in her summer dress, pink bow adoring her head, large
ruffles accenting her chest. She sat, unmoving, arms folded in her
lap where he had placed them.
“
What's
the matter honey?” He asked, after a long soliloquy. He liked
to
talk about himself and Sylvia was a great listener.
Her
hearing wasn't quite what it used to be, it wasn't that there was any
physical damage, just that she was out of practice. She found it
hard to focus on anything. She could be having a conversation at a
slow pace and then just tune out, her lips and face going limp, and
start to drool.
To
anyone else it might be irritating, to her husband it was endearing.
She couldn't remember her old life at all, as far back as she could
remember was the white room.
To
her there were only three parts to her life, the white room, which
she could only remember vaguely, and then her time in darkness.
It
felt as though she had woken up, just born, a full-grown and
voluptuous woman. Her husband couldn't be happier, he didn't go in
for woman talk, and if Syliva said anything that lasted more than a
couple syllables he would cut her off and she would stop talking,
what she had been saying forgotten.
She
found it hard to focus on what he was saying, or on what was
happening around her. She drifted through life, awake and aware, but
only semi. Her husband's concern for her had dissipated when he had
gotten a phone call.
He
was halfway through negotiating a business deal when the second
course arrived and her soup was taken back to the kitchen, untouched.
She was hungry but eating was a skill she had lost. She looked
vaguely off to her side, at the IV, neither approving nor
disapproving of it, it was just there.
Sometimes
she cried, or tried to, her ducts were stretched from all the
cosmetics (Her husband was a big fan of face lifts and botox.) She
had been in her late twenties when initially abducted but her husband
had gotten her 'all the latest' so that, now, with her big pouty lips
and tight face she didn't look a day over fifteen.
At
least in her face. Her chest was another matter. Not content to
simply have them as large as pumpkins her husband had ordered
additional treatment for her chest, giving her bovine hormones until
they were plump and fat like giant watermelon. He then proudly
showed them off by tattooing their measurements on the cleavage.
Ribbons
billowed about the letters 52RR, with the R's standing for 'Red' and
'Ribbon' respectively. She'd won prizes.
In
fact the medals she'd won at the town fair were stuck prominently on
her butt (the chair wasn't backless, but left a large area exposed
nonetheless, its back's interior tastefully removed during the design
process.)
Cherish
Produce Quality Melons – Second Prize (it was a sore point
that she
had lost to one of Spencer's tit beasts, but, since such a lady's
body mass ratio was over 90% tit, it was hard to compete. In fact
she had won first place later that year, but only because Spencer's
entry was bought ahead of time by Sylvia's husband: Spencer hadn't
minded, he only competed to advertise business.)
Cherish
Debutante Butt - First Prize
Cherish
'Best in Show' Overall
It
made him so proud to display his trophy wife in this manner, her
breasts tattooed and festooned prominently, her awards tacked to her
butt, her hair up in a bow, her face smiling, well, he reached down
to his side and pressed a button on a remote, there, smiling.
He
let go and her face resumed its normal unemotive expression. Syliva
felt the light tingling sensaion leave her face, but thought little
of it. One of the reasons she had been awarded best in show was that
she was so docile.
The
judges had come up and opened her mouth to inspect her teeth, and
seen little intelligence in her eyes. They rated her very highly in
the 'housebroken' category.
--
Later
that evening Syliva was brought to the bedroom and chained, neck to
the wall, ankles shackled behind the back to wrists. She was laid
down in her crib and the weight of her own bosom rocked her to sleep.
That's a misnomer, her breasts were leashed at the base and their
cord looped over a pulley. An automated pulling mechanism rocked her
to sleep, but it was by the breasts, their weight causing the crib to
rock.
Molly
(all of Spencer's titbeasts were named Molly, after the first one to
perfect the treatment, such that it was more of a product name, more
specifically Molly #11, but Molly for short) was carefully tucked
away in the room as well, and, while Sylvia was dumb to a lot of
things, her husband had found that she still retained her feminine
sense of jealousy whenever a woman with a larger pair of breasts
attracted the attention of her husband.
He
had to wait for Syliva to rock herself to sleep before he unveiled
her, pulling the dustcover up off of her gelatinous form, revealing
her pulsating double guns to the air. He rubbed his hands together
and started his journey of discovery.
The
titbeast, or Molly, as it were, responded by oozing a natural
lubricant out of her nipples. Her excretory system had been removed
when her body was restructured to be TIT and nothing else. Her head
was bald and neat, serving only as a house for the brain within,
which, while plucked, carefully, regulated the TITs.
Imagine
a 2-piston engine, such were the TITs. They were almost autonomous,
housing lungs, other vital organs, and digestive tract. They pumped
waste out in the form of an oily, odorless secretion. It acted well
as a natural lubricant and buffing agent. Spencer had worked hard to
make his designs tasteful, they used almost all that they took in and
had to be fed only a few large pellets a day.
The
Mollies also had a built-in obsolescence though, though the lubricant
was odorless and, in fact, fun to rub over their gigantic tits, it
was also fairly inefficient in serving as excrement. A lot of what
their TITs didn't use remained in their bodies, such as they were,
and, eventually caused sepsis and death.
They
had a halflife of about six months though, and who wanted to haul
around the same broad for more than a year, right? Spencer's
customers invariably came back for a new model. It was worth it,
even at that price, for no man was more proud than he who could tout
one of Spencer's famous titbeasts.
“
All
substance,” one ad read. “Take home only what you
really want,”
read another.
“
Wouldn't
you rather be getting more TIT for your buck?” Another one,
appealing to a man's sense of value, read.
There
were those, notably among Cherish's small but outspoken 'feminist'
movement (allowed to flourish, perversely, at least within households
that listened to Streuth, for the sake of having women to 'upset) who
were mortally outraged by the very idea, the very existance of the
Mollies, but no one listened to them (except for when wanting to piss
one off.)
In
fact Mark had bought one of these too (a feminist) because it was the
hot new thing. And she was, imported from the very isle of Lesbos
(or so the brochure had read) this man-hating bush-eating lesbian was
a die-hard feminist who despised everything Cherish stood for.
It
wasn't very fun if your Lesbian (the idea of a feminist, of a
man-hater, and of a lesbian had become synonymous in some circles)
became cowed by the living conditions typcal of women in Cherish so
they were allowed a wider berth and more reign (within limits!)
within those households that owned them.
Mark's
Lesbian (the marketers called her the state-of-the-art in Lesbians
today) came striding into the room, her eyes seizing immediately on
what Mark had out, his Molly. She started immediately to rant and
complain about what Mark was doing, about what Mark's hands were
doing, about what Mark's cock was doing... and then promptly shut up
although she continued to complain even around Mark's cock in her
mouth.
Strapping
the buckle securely around his waist (every Lesbian came equipped
with a face harness) Mark mounted his Lesbian and forced her, arms
struggling, down to the ground so that he sat atop her chest and
framed her head with his knees. She continued to berate him (into
his cock) while the translation unit in her pussy remained inactive.
Mark
switched it on for a moment and was rewarded when her pussy babbled
and bubbled with fluid and then peed a bit down her leg. He laughed
and switched it off. “Silly Lesbian,” he said,
getting
comfortable.
The
thing beneath him's mouth didn't have teeth anymore (I said within
limits!) but she gummed ferociously... It wouldn't take long for
Mark to cum, so he made sure to stare hard at his titbeast, who, even
now, cooed by spurting more of her lubricating fluid from her
nipples.
“
That's
okay baby,” Mark said, “when you gotta go you gotta
go,” he
smiled, patronizingly, and ran a hand over her denuded head, rubbing
the lotion into her scalp.
Mark's
Lesbian was having trouble with the angle, bucking and kicking,
trying to get breath, he sat back upright, straightening himself and
then hump-dragging her face first along the floor, closer to his
darling baby TITs.
The
lesbian was trying to push Mark off, her thumbless unable to operate
the clasp holding her neck to his crotch. Mark ignored her and
continued to rub and oil his babydoll. He slid open a door of
Sylvia's naptime clothing from under the bed and selected a babyblue
bonnet, perching it on the Molly's head and then securing its clasp.
“
Aww,”
he said, waves of pleasure rolling over him. He could see Sylvia's
cleavage rocking itself to sleep, he could feel the Lesbian unit's
unwilling mouth bucking under him, massaging him into its gullet, and
he could feel and touch the slick wet fat in front of him, all
bundled up in a huge TIT package.
When
it reached the end of its useful cycle Mark might take a sharp knife
and carefully explore its insides, it just looked so inviting, the
soft, yielding flesh of the Molly.
It
would bleed, surely, and cry out in pain, its childlike mind
registering only pain, not understanding quite where it was coming
from.
He
came, hard, spitting it up into the back of the Lesbian's throat,
forcing her to swallow when she wanted to spit more than anything,
such was the beauty of the harness.
In
his fantasy he severed one of the beautiful bright bloody TITs,
cleaving the mighty cleavage in two. He opened his eyes and imagined
it, taking his fingers and tracing surgical - - - - s across her
skin.
He
shuddered in pleasure, mimicking the shudders of humiliation and
defeat wracking the body of the suffocating or swallowing Lesbian
under him. She swallowed, “like a good little
girl”, Mark let
her know, before her let her up and smacked her bottom, urging her
out of the room.
She
glowered at him angrily as he unclasped the harness and swatted her
bony ass again. He wasn't worried too much about what she might get
into on her own, she was addicted to nicotine and the only place she
could get cigarettes was from her secret stash outside in the garden
he knew about. She couldn't leave the grounds without an escort as
the collar she wore would shock her into submission if she tried.
He
knew he'd find her outside smoking hastily, not wanting to get caught
(he ground her cigarettes into the ground with his boot if he found
her with them) if he wanted to. She never thought about how easy it
was for her to 'sneak' cigarettes from Syliva's purse, or about the
fact that Syliva only smoked them when Mark held one up to her mouth.
(Syliva would take anything into her mouth Mark gave her, mostly
because of her childlike oral fixation.)
Mark
petted his titbeast on the head, rewarding it for its sluglike beauty
by holding a pellet out to it. Tasting like cardboard, smelling like
dirt, the titbeast nevertheless salivated at the sight and opened
wide. Mark pushed the pellet halfway into its toothless mouth before
yanking his hand out and watching the titbeast devour the pellet.
Mark
was suddenly tired. He still had to brush his teeth but he wanted to
lay down, so he rang for a fem-vant and lay down on the bed. An
armless servant entered, her rubber covered tits ample and yet
seemingly A-cup in comparison to the uncovered titbeast still
slavering about at the foot of the bed. Mark motioned to the
titbeast dismissingly and the maid shooed it back under its covers
with her high-heeled feet.
The
titbeast was reluctant to go, but, slowly, in its sluglike capactiy,
it crawled back under the bed, its gelli-mass spreading out until the
TITs relaxed and fit into a short space. The head turned sideways
and the eyes closed. The maid slammed the drawer shut, jilting
Syliva a bit in her sleep and drawing an eyesquint from Mark.
He
opened his mouth, showing his teeth, and grunted for her to clean
them. Armless, she was nevertheless equipped for this task.
She
climbed up onto the bed in her stockinged legs and straddled Mark
with her high-heeled feet.
She
squatted over him, until her crotch was next to his face. She
pressed a button internally (by squeezing a muscle) and her skirt
lifted mechanically. A close-up of her vagina revealed that it had
been excavated and refitted with metal plumbing and robotics.
A
whirring, brushing device slid down from her crotch to brush and
clean inside Mark's mouth. The nozzle squirted paste and then later
water for rinsing. The maid's brush retracted as Mark rinsed, and
then a tube within her urethra protruded, the mechanism whirring
slowly, until it was fully extruded, it was flanged at the end, and
opened slightly as it rotated, so that it resembled a slightly
pointed straw.
Mark
put his mouth around it, forming suction, and the waste in his mouth
was sucked up through the tube to rest in the fem-vant's bladder.
Mark
could see from the dilation around her nipples (all fem-vant's wore
rubber around their breasts for easy clean-up, through which small
spongy holes could be seen when viewed close-up) that she would have
to excrete soon.
He
shooed her off quickly, the fem-vant's were known for their perfect
mechanical parts, but their woman parts were still, well, woman.
The
fem-vant got towards the end of the bed before it paused, Mark barked
at it and it moved just off the bed, but it wasn't continuing. Mark
pushed a button on his bed's remote, causing the fem-vant to slide
off as it angled up. She righted herself (with an internal
gyroscope) and Mark was happy to see that she was at least off the
covers...
And
on the hardwood!
He
rang for another fem-vant to come immediately.
The
first one was pooping, its dilated left nipple opening up past the
rubber and slowly pushing out a large mass of shit. The right one
was peeing in sporadic streams. Mark was at once fascinated by the
sight and repulsed. This was one thing they didn't teach in biology
class...
The
second fem-vant entered and a long, thick vacuum hose snaked out of
her vagina, touching the floor. This one must have been newly
created because Mark could see that its woman component was
struggling with its mechanical. In fact it betrayed expression,
frowning in disgust and revulsion as the hose sucked the solid and
liquid waste up the wet-dry vac and snugly into its womb.
The
thought of where it was going must have been too much on her frail
woman-mind because she immediately leaned over (against the servos
urging her to maintain posture no less!) and vomited on the floor. Her
relief was short-lived however, such as it was, the hose was
guided automatically to this new mess and relentlessly cleaned it up
as well, Sh~uuuunnnhkk! And pop, in it went, magic.
The
hose shut down, the sound of the vacuum still sounding in Mark's
ears, but not before snatching up a small bug which had been making
its way across the floor. Mark noticed it as he leaned over to check
on Syliva, she was roused slightly by the sound of the vacuum, and
had turned over in her sleep. Mark unlooped the pulley's noose from
her breasts and wrapped it instead around her butt. The cradle was
balanced to accommodate several sleeping positions, and soon she was
being rocked gently back to sleep by the weight of her her
overdeveloped heart-shaped butt cheeks.
Whiiii~iip! The cockroach was
zipped up into the fem-vant's re-purposed womb
(now waste holding area.)
Mark
idly imagined a fem-vant diagram in his head as the two both
departed.
The
womb was used to store waste because the colon was used to store food
before it was digested, the stomach meanwhile housed the mechanical
parts' power supply and main cpu housing. Mark knew this was because
of its size and central location but he wondered if it wasn't again a
way to get you to buy new ones more often (the stomach acid caused
the supply's housing to break down and the fem-vant to get
electrocuted internally.)
The
majority of the components could usually be salvaged however, and due
to the bonding involved it wasn't uncommon for one fem-vant to have
an old one's womb, stomach, or vagina instead of her own. Some
fem-vants actually incorporated more than one.
The
vagina and anus, obviously, were used for utility purpose, and the
breasts for storing waste. The head, now deprecated, was generally
numbed and sterilized, although the process could take awhile to
sit-in (time was not a luxury in the production of a fem-vant, and
they were often sent off to work as soon as their mechanical bits
were properly situated) leaving the fem-vants fully capable of
controlling their original muscles and leading many new units to
behave in erroneous and/or slowed manners.
“
Takes
a bit to break them in sometimes,” the salesman was keen on
saying,
adding, with a wink and a puff from his cigar, “but that's
half the
fun.”
Mark
slept, peacefully, visions of candy-womans dancing in his head. They
kicked, in a chorusline, and what they showed underneath made him
smile.