


Codes: ScFi Mf ped bd




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*   WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING  *
*        WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING        *
*                                                                              *
*                                                                              *
* For the love of SPOONS no one under the age of twenty-one (21) or the age of *
* consent for their geographical location (whichever is HIGHER) needs to be    *
* anywhere near this.  This is a story meant for legally-adult readers.  Don't *
* let your kids read this.  Don't let your dog read this.  Don't let your      *
* religious leader within the same postal code as this.  You know, really, YOU *
* probably shouldn't even read this horrible, nasty, terrible story.           *
*                                                                              *
* Hopefully it goes without saying, but if you ever even vaguely ponder the    *
* SLIGHT idea that MAYBE you would CONSIDER doing anything even REMOTELY like  *
* anything depicted herein--GET HELP.  NOW.  Therapy is a wonderful thing.     *
*                                                                              *
* This story can (and probably does) contain one or more of the following (bet *
* your last nickel on "more"): Incest, pedophilia, watersports, extreme female *
* domination, bestiality, psychological torture, and who knows WHAT other      *
* sick, perverted, dirty, terrible, and disgusting things I can come up with.  *
* Really, you ought to stop reading.  Right now.  I'm serious.                 *
*                                                                              *
* ...still here?  You sure?  This is bad-bad mojo.  Last chance...             *
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*        WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING        *
*   WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING  *
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                              THE POISON CHRONICLES
                         Chapter Two: Amassing the Flock
                                       by
                          Forbidden Fantasy Storyteller



        I awoke to sunlight streaming in through the windows.  Yawning, I
stretched and pushed back the covers, then looked over at the cage under the
window.  My precious Baby Maker was chained to it, and was still dozing.  She
was getting used to sleeping in her cage, sprawled in a nest of blankets.  I
smiled when I saw her bulging stomach.  Ten years old, and she was going to bear
me children.

        We had gotten her pregnant about two months previous, though she was the
equivalent of four or so months pregnant.  That was part of my gift to her.  My
symbiote--an alien creature who survives by bonding with other life forms--and I
changed her, to make her fit her name.  We left behind a bit of the symbiote, to
help regulate her system, keep her healthy, and in this case, make her system so
efficient, my child would develop in almost half the time.  I of course would
have wanted an even shorter period, but much more and the baby would be in
danger of not developing properly.

        I couldn't decide whether I wanted a boy or a girl, so I flipped a coin.
Literally.  It landed tails-side-up, so--girl.  We fucked little Baby Maker
left, right, and sideways--mostly just because, really.  The first time her womb
was ready, the symbiote bit inside her selected only the best sperm from me and
the healthiest egg from her that would produce what I wanted.  Best way to get a
girl pregnant.  No worries, no questions--you know what you want.  Easier than
going to the grocery store.

        As I lay there, watching the snoozing girl's swollen breasts leak milk,
I realized that I have no idea how I survived before the symbiote.  We were made
for each other, complementing each other perfectly.  And we were both prisoners
at one time, under the painful eye of fools who shouldn't be in charge of a
hamster, much less myself and an alien.

        We were both made for greater things.  By his very biology, he could
make me physically better than any other human on the planet.  I now had an
eidetic memory, I could rip small trees out of the ground, roots and all.  The
most interesting was the ability to climb walls--one of the things we can thank
our egg-head captors for, making us learn that one.

        I looked down the length of the bed, to where Horse Slut and Dog Slut
were chained to the wall.  Like Baby Maker, they wore collars, short chains
attaching them to a ring we'd attached to the wall.  In addition to the collars,
these two were allowed "tails".  Symbiote-made tails, stretching their assholes.
True to their names, Horse Slut had a horse's tail, and Dog Slut had a canine
tail.  They learned to swish their hips to make those "tails" move.  It was
quite endearing, especially now, when they were swishing for all they were worth
in their anxious need.

        These two were completely devoted to me, and would happily kill
themselves or each other to satisfy my whims.  Which is how I remade them--or,
perhaps put another way, how they became after I enlightened them.

        They were quietly whimpering, thighs squeezed together and looking at
me pleadingly.  "Do my sluts need to go outside?" I asked, grinning.

        "Yes, Master!" they exclaimed in unison.

        "Alright, alright."  I slid off of the bed, chuckling to myself.  After
pausing for another stretch, I went to retrieve two leashes from the set hanging
next to the door.  I didn't bother conferring with the symbiote about clothing.
No point in clothing at the moment, really.

        After attaching the leashes to their collars, I unhooked them
from the wall.  I had to laugh as they strained, though were well-trained enough
to not try and force me along.  Still, the leashes were taut for the entire
journey through the near-maze of the Tudor mansion.

        I took my pets outside, and we had barely left the steps when they
squatted on the balls of their feet and leaned over to plant their hands on the
ground.  They groaned as they pissed, and apparently they'd been holding it a
while, judging from the look and sound.  Imagine miniature fire hoses, and
you'll be close.

        As they pissed, I looked up at the mansion.  Three stories, wider and
longer than any museum I've been in (and I'm cultured enough to have been in
quite a few in my time).  Once Horse Slut became my pet, everything she owned
was passed to me, lock, stock, and deed.  It took a lot of money to find a
shyster who would do it without telling anyone; her family was under the
impression she and her daughter--my dear Baby Maker--were on a cruise around the
world.  And that's how I wanted to keep it.

        The lawn was really a garden, bisected with a winding gravel path, and
the front gate was far enough away where you'd have to drive for a good fifty,
sixty seconds to even see.  Nestled in the well-to-do area of Montecito, in
Santa Barbara, California, it was a damn fine home.  And it was ours--the
symbiote had as much ownership as I did, even if it wasn't legal.

        It was barren, mostly; we let go the servants we didn't kill and "hired"
a team of young women.  Naked female flesh as far as the eye can see--naked save
for a large black collar.  Inside each of my lovely drones were bits of the
symbiote; it could separate small parts of itself to act as non-sentient drones
with simple instructions (though what's "simple" for the symbiote is not in the
slightest for humans)--instructions such as re-writing a person's personality.

        For more major physiological changes, that would require the symbiote as
a whole, though I didn't mind.  He could create a mental bond between himself,
myself, and a third person, able for us to control the subject while we root
around and rearrange things to our liking.

        I was brought from my reverie when I noticed my pets had stopped pissing
and shitting, and were meticulously cleaning each other with leaves.  One girl
would rest her head on her forearms, ass sticking up in the air, while the other
cleaned her, then they would switch.  When they were done, they crouched on the
balls of their feet, swishing their hips to make the "tails" move and looking up
at me expectantly, smiling.

        "Ah, you're done.  Good pets," I said, affectionately petting their
heads.  "Now--you will tend to your name-given duties, cunts, and if you break
your records you will earn a surprise--but BOTH of you have to succeed."

        I unhooked the leashes and they took off like they were on fire, racing
around the mansion, giggling as they left a trail of grass in the air behind
them.  I chuckled and headed into the house.

        I eventually settled in my library, and my personal attendant--a buxom
Swede who spoke very heavily-accented English (stereotypical, even cliché, I
realize, but why not, really?)--brought me a pot of herbal tea (the real
stuff--with the leaves) and a cup.  I caressed her ass, enjoying the sight of
her large breasts swinging as she bent over.  I'm normally not one for large
breasts; Bs are fine with me, as even Cs are if they "fit" the woman well.
However, if you're going to go cliché, go whole hog, you know?

        I relaxed for about a half-hour, reading Dostoevsky.  I really want to
like "The Brothers Karamazov", but--he drones, on and on and on and on and on.
I can rarely make myself read much in one sitting.

        The Swede kept me company, turning to let me absently fondle whatever
part of her body drew the attention I was trying to give the book.  She was a
Swede born and bred for generations, with that slightly odd yet alluring ("odd"
to Western tastes) body that I really didn't want to resist.

        I gave up reading and slouched in my chair, letting my Swede kneel
beside me so I could stroke her hair.  I sat and pondered for a while.

        I knew damn well that I'd be labeled a "cult leader" or the like, if
anyone outside my as-yet small following of enlightened women really knew what I
was up to.  I wouldn't necessarily deny the charge, of course, since it would be
accurate--but my followers aren't the only cult, not by far.

        Merriam-Webster defines "cult" as, first, "formal religious veneration;
worship", second, "a system of religious beliefs and ritual; also, its body of
adherents", third, "a religion regarded as unorthodox or spurious; also its body
of adherents", fourth, "a system for the cure of disease based on dogma set
forth by its promulgator (health cults)", and fifth, "great devotion to a
person, idea, object, movement, or work (as a film or book); especially such
devotion regarded as a literary or intellectual fad".

        You can see the obvious path of logical progression.  Every religion
currently on the planet qualifies as a cult, usually by more than one of those
definitions at one time.  Christianity wasn't always the "in" religion; its
roots are rather heretical--unorthodox and spurious.  Same with every other
religion.

        And yet, new members of this or that religion are born all the time--
because they are indoctrinated literally from birth.  Baptisms, circumcisions,
naming ceremonies, religious teachings to kids as soon as they can read or
even understand speech.

        And how many of THOSE cults have members who are unhappy without knowing
why?  How many of THOSE cults have members who profess one thing in the open,
but behind closed doors commit acts that fly in the face of said declarations?
There's a certain level of honesty in my cult.  The girls honestly adhere to the
best of their ability, one and all.  Can that really be said of other cults?

        In the face of "Sunday Christians", "Islamic extremists", and whatever
else, I think the answer to that is obvious.

        Which leads me to another thing--every other cult has people so
convinced that the current leaders are full of it, they either depose the
leaders, branch off and form some "fundamentalist" version, or try and make a
bigger stink and cry out that they are the RIGHT way to go about things.  Not so
in mine.  The symbiote and I are ultimately in charge; it's that simple.  There
isn't some lengthy list of dos and don'ts, no complicated system of what's
alright and when.

        In short, we were brought together to provide something humanity sorely
lacked--stability and discipline.  And we could give it.

        My pondering ended when I dozed off.

        I awoke around an hour or so later, if the light levels were any
indication.  My Swede had dozed off as well, curled up against my leg.  I
chuckled and woke her up, then sent her about her duties while I retired to the
bedroom.

        My dear Baby Maker was awake, and I smiled at her as I entered the room.
"How's my baby doing?" I asked as I crossed to the window overlooking the rear
of the property.

        "She's doing good, Master," said the child.  "Movin' a lot, though."

        "I'll see what can be done for the discomfort, alright?"

        The child smiled and relaxed in her nest.  It was important that she be
secluded, so her system could be carefully maintained.  A pregnant girl is a
precarious balancing act, one that would even strain the symbiote bit inside of
her.  Every little thing can affect a baby's growth--air quality, food, even the
mother's moods.  So it was clear that she had to be caged for my baby's health.
The child understood, after a while.  Or at least as much as she could; I
confess that I never cared enough to see if she understood the minutiae.

        I gazed out the window; the property was even larger than just the front
would have suggested.  There was a fully functional stable in the distance,
and my symbiote-enhanced vision let me watch as my two sluts did their work.  I
smiled, watching Dog Slut help push an Arabian's cock into Horse Slut.  I have a
mild, inexplicable phobia regarding horses so I'll never ride them, but since
they were there, I might as well have made use of them.  I'm told that Arabians
are the smartest breed, which didn't help my fear of them any.

        A few hundred yards from the stable was a dog kennel.  Normally I don't
like the concept of keeping dogs caged outside, but I spent the money to make
sure that their kennel was as nice as my house.  A human could live there
comfortably, really.  Enclosed with central heating and air, fresh water piped
in, fresh blankets, dog doors light enough to be easily moved by the canines but
heavy enough so only heavy wind will make them clack noisily.

        The only area left open to the elements was my mounting stage.  Fenced
off and only accessible by one of two gates, it was where my Dog Slut could love
the dogs as much as she loved me.  As I watched the two in the stables, I
wondered if Dog Slut had already broken her record, or if she'd go next.  They
were enlightened, sure, but I kept their reasoning capabilities intact.  What's
the use of a woman if she's a drooling idiot, you know?

        Looking out at the back of the property, there was a lot of room I had
an idea for what I wanted to do, some animals I wanted, but there was an
interesting problem with animals, one that, at first glance, might not make
sense.

        As a life form, my symbiote lived by bonding with hosts.  This means
that, amongst other things, it can "fit" with the entirety of the host (in this
case, a human host), down to the molecular level.  This requires a level of
knowledge that, as yet, Earthlings are nowhere NEAR.  As a species, and as much
as actual biologists try to discourage it, we're still under the assumption that
there's one gene for everything.  The "eyeball" gene, the "red hair" gene, and
whatever else.  That isn't how it works, but evolution and biology are for
another time.

        The symbiote, by virtue of its own biology, had the capability to affect
its host, again even on the molecular level.  That's why it was able to augment
my own body so much, why we can enlighten people, and so on.  However, ability
is one thing.  That ability is nothing without knowledge.  The symbiote studied
humans, carefully, to get that level of knowledge.  He hadn't had the
opportunity (or, until then, the desire) to study animals.  Much of the rest of
the animal kingdom is comparably simpler than humanity.  However, without the
knowledge, the symbiote couldn't just go in, alter this and that, and come out
with a functioning creature.  He would need to bond with it and stay bonded for
quite a while.

        It's almost surprising, isn't it?  A species as complex as humanity can
be my symbiote's play-thing, but other animals--not so much.  Almost surprising,
but definitely humorous in a way.

        The symbiote suddenly had an idea, and once he shared it with me I could
have slapped my forehead for not thinking of it sooner.  However, I smiled
instead, and hurried out of the room, though I did give my darling Baby Maker a
wiggle of my fingers.  I'd have stayed a moment to properly give her some
attention, but I wanted to get on this idea.

        I headed to the study, as it had a computer with access to the Internet.
I don't believe in keeping distractions like that in the bedroom; I don't even
have a television in there.  A few books, but mostly music C.D.s and an
expensive sound system.

        There were eight people in the world--just eight--with the skill and
training for what we wanted.  Most were around the world or otherwise beyond
easy reach, but one would be in Los Angeles in just a few short months.  I sat
back in my chair and planned with the symbiote.  We knew what we wanted to do;
the question was just of how to execute it.

        A thought occurred to me, so I rummaged around the desk, finally pulling
some manila folders out of a drawer.  Horse Slut's family had interests in quite
a few businesses around the world, most of which ran autonomously.  Basically,
they did their jobs and the family got cut a substantial check.

        That's all fine, well, and good, but we had big plans.  We wanted to
ultimately form a secluded community, far away from everyone.  That required
more money than could easily be gotten ahold of.  I would have to liquidate
nearly everything just to raise the funds, and I wasn't about to do that.  So,
that required a more hands-on approach.

        I steepled my fingers as I stared at the computer screen, focusing
internally.  The symbiote and I exchanged ideas, plots, until we were brought
back to external awareness by my Swede.

        I steepled my fingers as I stared at the computer screen, focusing
internally.  The symbiote and I exchanged ideas, plots, until we were brought
back to external awareness by my Swede.

        "Master, the visitor you expected has arrived," she said from the
doorway.  That brightened me considerably, so I hurried from the study.

        By the time I arrived, the symbiote had covered me and made itself look
like a dark suit.  Only thing we didn't wear was a tie, for that "casual power"
look.  At the front door stood a young man, accompanied by one of my security
guards (due to efficiency and a lack of desire for intrusive questioning, I kept
the security personnel clothed, as lamentable to my sensibilities as it was).
He had a large tackle box with him, as well as a backpack.  He was the "punk"
sort, shaved head, plugs in his ears, tattoos and piercings covering most of his
body. I welcomed the man in and took him into the conversation hall.

        I had his box and bag taken for him, which were set on the floor next to
the couch.  We sat and chatted, as I had my Swede give him a folder.  He was
considered one of the top branders in the country.  I had him flown in from New
York City, after careful research.  Aside from his immense skill, he was quite
familiar with the B.D.S.M. community.  While I am utterly loathe to apply such a
trite and rather inaccurate label to myself, it worked well enough.  He wouldn't
think much about my girls being kept nude.

        He would be here for the entire day, likely well into the evening.  As a
matter of course, he would be handsomely paid for his time.  Aside from his fee
being doubled, he would have meals there at my expense.  And depending on how
things progressed, he might have a night of lust, gluttony, and any other
cardinal sin he cared to indulge in.

        He would be there so long--and would be rewarded so well--because
branding is such a lengthy process.  What I wanted would take hours on each girl.
Afterward, of course, came another lengthy process, one that would be my
responsibility.  The care of the wounds, which must be reopened often if
one wants a deep, rich-looking mark.  Plus there may be re-applications (which I
could handle, if it came to it), to get the design to look cleaner, and--on and
on and on.

        I had a bit of a cheat in that last matter with my symbiote and his bits
living in my pets, but there's only so much an alien symbiote can do.  A lot of
it would still take patience and time.  Thankfully, I had some patience, and
quite a bit of time.

        He looked over my designs and we discussed the specifics, we went out to
eat on the veranda off the back of the mansion.  Fresh fruit and a hearty
salad--and, of course, some real chocolate on the side for that precious
phenethylamine that my symbiote needed.  I generally avoid an over-abundance of
red meat; the human body doesn't require much, after all, and if you eat too
much, well--look around at the populations of most first-world nations and you
can see the results.  Obesity, health problems, and such.

        On the other hand, it's fitting in a sense.  A race of metaphorical cows
over-indulging on actual cows.  The feeble-minded feeding on the feeble-minded.

        After our meal I invited the brander to ready his equipment and call on
my Swede for anything he might need, then I retired to my bedroom with the folder
of designs, crouching by Baby Maker's cage and stroking her cheek through the
bars.  She looked so beautiful, especially swollen with my child.  I reached
down and stroked her belly, smiling wider at Baby Maker.  She had accepted her
life, enough, and smiled back at me, happy at my pleasure.

        Some time spent just stroking that wonderful stomach, than I sat one the
foot of the bed.  I was keeping track of time and figured the girls would be up
soon.  Sure enough, I was proven right as I heard thundering footsteps running.
I couldn't hide my grin as the sluts ran into the bedroom.

        So fast were they running, they couldn't stop themselves in time and
skidded right into me.  I was pushed back by the force, though I could only
laugh.  The girls, sweaty, dirty, dripping horse- and dog-seed, and smelling
of the beasts they'd fucked.

        Dog Slut was atop me, and she beamed a grin at me as she and her sister
panted from the run.  "We did it, Master!" she exclaimed breathlessly.  I
knotted two more in an hour than I ever have before!"

        Horse Slut chimed in, kneeling next to me, with, "And I took your horse
deeper than ever!  I didn't use my cot, either!"  I'd had one of those special
cots built for her, the kind that she could lay on and put her where she needed
to be.

        I kissed Dog Slut deeply, making her moan softly.  Not to make her
sister feel I was being inattentive, I pulled her in for a kiss, too.  "I'm
glad, my pets," I told them truthfully.  "You did better than I expected."  I
squeezed a breast of each of them affectionately, then laid back and looked at
each of them in turn.  "Would you like to know what your surprise is?" I asked
in a friendly taunting sort of way.

        "Yes, Master!" they said in unison.  They looked so beautiful, gazing
at me so hopefully.  Well, I wasn't about to disappoint them.

        "I'm going to make it clear that you're mine, that I own those
delightful bodies of yours."  I motioned to the folder I'd set on the
nightstand.  They tensed, wanting to rush right over, but knew to wait for my
permission.

        I kept them waiting, grinning at them, for a moment or so.  I couldn't
keep doing it, though, so I finally said, "You may go see, pets."  I'd barely
gotten the last syllable out before they sped from the bed in a way that
reminded me of the Keystone Kops.

        I chuckled to myself and got up, pausing by the cage to stroke my dear
Baby Maker's pussy.  "I'll give you a proper fucking soon, I promise," I told
her, then went to the two sluts.  The girls had the designs out and were
squealing over them.  They looked like teenagers just handed the reigns to their
very own ponies.

        "Master!" cried Horse Slut, and they both turned to me, to leap into my
arms.  I laughed as they smothered my face in kisses.  They understood what the
brands were, and what they meant.  They were permanent marks, claims of my
ownership.

        "Show me how much you love me," I told them, and they instantly wriggled
to get free.  I set them on the ground and they both fell to their knees,
tenderly taking my cock in their hands.  I leaned back against the wall and
closed my eyes.

        Slow, loving kisses were given to my cock by one set of lips, while the
other nuzzled my sac.  Hands stroked over my thighs; they were by then very
talented, and didn't need to use their hands to worship me.  Tongues danced
together along my shaft, and I had the pleasant experience of feeling them
passionately kiss each other around my cock.

        Soon they started taking turns swallowing me; one would work her lips on
my shaft while the other suckled my sac, then they would switch.  So aroused was
I, I knew I wouldn't last much longer.  I grabbed the hair of the bitch sucking
me and pulled her along my shaft.  She suckled harder, flicking her tongue
against my cock, as her sister suckled my balls.

        They both started humming, a favorite trick, to add more wonderful
sensations to their worship, and in mere moments that caused my orgasm to surge
up.  I shoved my cock as deep into the girl's throat as I could as I shot my
load.  After a few spurts I pulled her head away and without missing a single
drop, her sister took over, gulping down my come with pleasure.

        When I was milked of every drop, I stiffly went to the bed to sit down
and regain my breath.  The pets knelt at my feet, each laying a cheek on my
thigh.  They closed their eyes, content to wait.

        I stroked their hair, smiling.  Their symbiote-bits were fed, just as
their love of and devotion to me were fed.  My symbiote had injected extra
phenethylamine into my seed, so the symbiote-bits inside them would be fueled.
That thought made me realize that they hadn't eaten all morning.

        "Go and eat, pets," I told them, and they got to their feet.  "Focus on
fruit and vegetables with fiber."

        "Thank you, Master," they said in unison, smiling at me.  After they
departed, I opened the middle drawer of the nightstand to reveal an intercom
system, and called for my Swede.

        When she arrived, I told her, "I need supplies.  Fetch a pad and write
this list down."  I waited a moment while she retrieved a pad of paper and a
pen, then returned.  "Cyclone hurricane fencing, nine-gauge, fifteen feet tall
and enough to enclose a two-thousand-square-foot area.  I'll need contractors to
build a small lagoon.  I'll also need suppliers of live deer and elk, as well
as numbers to veterinary suppliers of meat and vitamins for exotic pets."

        She wrote down everything, and after I dismissed her she hurried to
place the phone calls.  I made a few phone calls of my own, then I went to find
the girls.

        They were just finishing up their meal when I entered the kitchen.  They
took their meals on the floor, eating from ceramic dishes with their names on
them.  A bit on the cutesy side, but they were cute girls, so it worked.

        "Go out to the veranda," I told them, "and I'll be out in a moment to
have you properly branded."  They squealed and rushed out of the kitchen, only
remembering at the last second to take their dishes and put them in the sink.
They then raced out of the mansion.

        After conferring with my Swede and meeting up with the brander, we
headed out to the veranda.  The girls were kneeling not too far away, quite
obviously--and rather cutely--tense with anticipation.

        The Swede set the brander's tackle box and backpack down, off to the
side, then headed off to my shed.  It was a tool shed refitted into a workshop.
As he was putting together his equipment, I went over to the girls, lightly
stroking their hair.

        "I'll keep this brief, my darling pets.  Up until now, it was only known
to you and myself that you were mine.  Anyone would look at you and see
beautiful chattel, but that would be it.  No more.  These brands will eliminate
all doubt that your flesh is mine, that you are my enlightened."

        In the short time it took to make that speech, my Swede was returning
from the tool shed.  She was pulling a low, flat cart with a wooden contraption
on it.  I'd had it made when I ordered the brands.  I had my pets help me set
the contraption up, though it wasn't overly complicated.  It was really a simple
Saint Andrew's Cross, though with a stand that would be tied to stakes driven
into the ground.  As strong as I was, I handled that part.

        The entire thing was set up in no time; less than fifteen minutes.  The
time was spent going over where the brands would be placed, how they would
eventually look, how they'd need to be cared for, and so on.

        The entire process took quite a few hours, which I watched most of from
a chair.  One of the girls would be fastened to the Cross, and the brander would
place a small rectangle of metal in clamps, then heat the rectangle with a
blowtorch.  This was scraped across the flesh of her thighs.

        While not as quick as strike branding, it had the advantage of being
more precise.  The designs would flow wonderfully, with the edges seeming to
melt into the skin.

        Both had a stylized phoenix on their left hip and thigh, with either a
stylized dog head or horse head on their right.  Naturally, they depended on the
girls' functions--Dog Slut got the dog head, and Horse Slut got the horse head.
The edges of the wings, the fur on the dog's neck, and the wispy horse's mane
flowed just marvelously into the non-branded skin.

        By the time the artist was done, the Sun was setting.  Dog Slut was
freed, the leather strap she used to bite down on removed, and the artist
brought over his tackle box.  It was full of potions and pastes, as well as
written instructions.  He went over them with me, noting the cleaning routines
I'd have to follow, and of course his card was included in case anything needed
to be touched up.  Thanks to my symbiote, however, my recall was nearly perfect,
so if I had to I could do the touching up, myself.

        My girls were sent inside with the tackle box while I persuaded the
artist to join me for dinner.  It was an admittedly opulent affair, with my
Swede in attendance to pour drinks, light the artist's cigar for him after the
meal, and even fetch an ashtray.  After being handsomely rewarded--in cash, of
course--I even convinced him to stay the night, after finding out which girls
he favored.  As it turned out, he found my security guards most appealing; the
whole attraction to a woman in power, I suppose.  Either way, three off-duty
guards were sent to his room.


                        *              *              *


        Three-sixteen in the morning.  That's when my symbiote forced me awake.

        ~AWAKEN!~ it shouted in my mind, on top of forcing my consciousness to
the fore.  Imagine sleeping peacefully in a hammock, then someone coming along
and dumping you onto the ground.  That's a fraction of what it's like to have
an alien symbiotic entity brutally pull your consciousness.

        I was about to curse it out when I noticed that the room was pitch-
black, as was the property outside my windows.  I kept the lamps in the garden
on, as well as dimmed lighting in the mansion.  I shoved the annoyance at being
awoken so rudely out of my mind as I took in everything I was seeing externally
while being filled in by the symbiote mentally.

        My pets were cringing against the wall, looking around fearfully.  As I
leapt off the bed, my symbiote said, ~The alarm came in less than a minute ago.
The front gate was breached moments before the power was cut.~

        We clothed my body in the black and gold affair we hadn't even thought
about for months, and I looked around with the heightened vision afforded me by
the symbiote covering my eyes and giving us the blank, pupil-less look.

        ~Numbers?~ I asked as we quietly crept to the door.

        ~Unknown at this time.  The front guard was cut off while calling in the
alert, though I do not know whether it was due to the power being cut, or her
life taken.~

        I gave the mental equivalent of a nod, and opened the door a sliver.
Beyond I could see--nothing.  Well, well, well.  I could hear quiet footsteps,
however, so I was certain the breachers were using night-vision goggles.  Smart.

        Two pairs of footsteps were coming down my hall, so I leapt up to hang
onto the wall right above the door.  The bedroom door was slowly and silently
pushed open, and I saw a P-Ninety assault rifle slowly enter.  I knew my guns,
and shockingly enough, this looked like the U.S.G. custom variant--United States
Government.  A revised sighting system was the main alteration, though there
were also modifications to add ammunition rounds.  Wonderful.

        Right as the breacher crossed the threshold, I reached down and grabbed
him by the head, yanking him upward.  I twisted his neck as I did to kill him,
then waited.  Showing a bit more intelligence than I'd given them credit for,
his partner chucked in a gas grenade.  So, it wasn't going to be another episode
of the Keystone Kops.  So be it.

        Releasing the first body, I dropped to the floor and grabbed the grenade
in one motion, hurling it back at the thrower's face.  I heard a loud crack as
the man groaned and grabbed his face.  The remains of night vision goggles fell
to the floor.  I smiled.

        He choked and started gagging on the tear gas that was spewed from the
grenade, and I waded through the fog confidently.  The symbiote would filter it
out for me.  A sharp thrust of my knee to his head snapped his neck, then I
walked on to find the rest of my little playmates.

        I surprised another one as he was searching my private lavatory, and I
grabbed his rifle, gripping it hard enough to twist the metal.  A swift kick to
his kneecap sent him down, and I slowly brought my hand forward.  In my palm was
deposited some waste of the symbiote's, that substance so pleasantly toxic to
humans.

        "Who are you?" we snarled--and I say "we" because at that moment, it
wasn't just my voice.  It was blended with the symbiote's, as angry as we both
were at this invasion of our home.

        The soldier--or perhaps mercenary--said nothing, and I could almost feel
the glare he was giving me behind his goggles.  "Talk or die," we growled, and
the man resolutely kept his silence.  Well, we WERE wondering exactly what would
happen, so we simply nodded.  "A soldier to the end."

        The smoldering, green-ish semi-fluid was shoved into his face, and we
watched it eat through the balaclava.  He started gasping and grunting, clawing
at his neck.  Steam actually started wisping out of his mouth, and what little
we could see of his face around the goggles turned a very, very deep red.

        Suddenly his face collapsed in on itself, as the waste ate through him,
bones and all, like acid.  And the beauty of it was that he was still alive, so
felt every incredibly painful moment of the end of his life.

        The collapsing continued--as well as the clothing that was directly in
contact, his neck, followed by his chest sunk inward before being eaten.

        We crouched and pushed up his goggles so we could peer into his eyes.
"Bet you wished you talked," we muttered, then got to our feet and left the
room, letting the man enjoy his final moments of agony in peace.  We would
rather have liked to have stayed and watch, but we had to deal with the others.

        Another two-man team was caught in one of the guest bedrooms.  Solely
for effect (we're terrible, we know), we managed to sneak in and get to the
other side of the bed without being seen.  Slowly we rose, both palms full of
the green-ish waste.

        The two men had their weapons pointed on us in a fraction of a second,
for which--at another time--we would actually have found rather commendable.
Right at that moment, however, we had other things on our minds.

        The pair studied us for a moment, in our few pieces of golden armor on
the inky-black suit.  We could only imagine what we looked like--blank, white
eyes peering out from behind the helmet, no visible mouth.  Truly, we must have
been a sight.

        "What are you?" one of the men whispered.

        We did have a small fondness for certain clichés, and so we took the
opportunity to introduce ourself.

        "Us?  Why--we're Poison!" we replied, then hurled the globs of waste at
the men.  They went down, clutching their faces and screaming.  We grinned, then
dashed out of the room.

        I shan't bore you with the details of how the rest died--all but three
did die, and that's the important part.  At the end of it, the three we allowed
to live--female, of course--were unconscious, stripped naked, and bound together
in the conversation hall.  Thankfully, my Swede survived the assault, so after
taking stock of the grounds, she reported to us as we stood over the unconscious
invaders.

        We put our hands on our hips and regarded her, remarking dryly, "The
guards better have a good reason for allowing this to happen."

        "They were overwhelmed, Master. The guard at the front gate was killed,
as were three more on the grounds."

        "Well.  That IS a pretty good reason," we conceded.  We wiped a bit of
blood off of our breastplate, then crouched over the women.  "They weren't
wearing any identification--but these little beauties will tell us enough when
they wake up."

        "Master, may I propose a theory?"

        "Yes, Swede."

        She crossed her arms over her bared, ample breasts in thought.  "I would
suggest the branding artist was involved."

        We peered up at her, curious.  "Explain."

        "While you have not graced us with your presence for long, you HAVE been
making contacts.  Your personal life, while mostly unknown, is only MOSTLY
unknown."

        It hit us where she was going.  It was known by a few that we kept these
beautiful women as our pets, and we were starting to make friends--the kinds of
friends who share their toys.  It would have been known that, being generous, we
would have offered the use of our girls to guests.  Plus, with my two branded,
it would have been assumed that I would have spent myself enjoying them--and
thus be in no position to deal with an invasion.

        They hadn't counted on my alien symbiote keeping my body running at peak
levels, however.

        We narrowed our eyes in anger, then bolted up the stairs to the guest
room the artist was in.  When we entered, he had a semi-automatic to one of my
girls' heads.  "Stop right there, or I'll shoot," he said calmly.

        "So what?  Shoot her.  We can get more," we replied, which caught the
artist off-guard.  Not much, but enough to make his eyebrows raise a few
degrees.

        We started walking forward, and he cocked the weapon.  "I said stop!"

        "And we said go ahead and fire!" we roared.  The sudden loudness
surprised him enough to grant us a second to leap forward and grab him by the
face.  We kicked open the French doors to the balcony and dragged him onto it.

        Tossing him against the stone railing, we placed our foot against his
throat and pushed.  "Well us what we want to know, or you WILL die," we hissed.
"Slowly, and very, very painfully."  We added a bit more pressure to make our
point.

        He gasped and choked, motioning at his throat.  He managed to make
mouth movements that seemed like he'd start being agreeable, so we let up.
Though only a little.

        It came out in a babbling rush.  He was hired by an intermediary, one
that let slip he was working at the behest of one Marie Sweeney, C.E.O. of
Thatcher-Greggs, International.  They were what's known as a "close
corporation," which basically means that it's a near-incestuous money-shoveling
business, where stock was held mostly by the board members.  They had their
hands in just about everything, and they were one of the businesses that gave
my dear Horse Slut's family the most money.

        All that he knew was who hired him and that he would have to contact
them soon.  We snapped his neck and dusted our hands off together as we went back
into the bedroom.  we gave the girls orders to clean up the messes around the
house then went to our Swede, who had been waiting in the doorway.

        It was obvious someone had it in for us--freaking duh, right?--but as
yet I didn't know who or why.  We did think that the place to start would be
Miss Sweeney.

        "Not a very cool, super villain-y name for the head of a company and
someone likely trying to kill me, eh?" we remarked to my Swede.

        She smiled at the humor, then said, "Perhaps you could rename her, after
you enlighten her, Master."

        We grinned and stroked her ass affectionately.  "We like the way you
think."

        In two hours, the mansion was put to rights, such that you'd hardly know
a scuffle happened in the first place.  Contractors would have to be called to
fix the front gate and security wiring, and women were pulled off of other
duties to be guards, but on the whole it was taken care of very well.

        My pets were all reassured, their cunts stroked to calm them, and soon
they all but forgot about the invasion.  I put out feelers, as it were, to see
what information could be gleaned.  In the morning, it was time to work on
something else.

        Time was passed, gathering intelligence on Sweeney, renovating the back
of the property, that sort of thing.  A few important events happened rather
closely together.

        First was the birth of my daughter.  She was showered in my come, which
her mother, grandmother, and great-aunt licked off of her.  From the start her
tiny pussy was filled.  Fingers, small tendrils from my symbiote, and so on.
Her body would be trained, as would her mind.  My darling Baby Maker enjoyed
being out of the cage after the birth, and she took to her motherly duties with
gusto.

        She changed the baby regularly, helped her suckle from my cock, the
breasts of herself and my other pets, and pussies alike.  Of course, the child
never wanted for milk, either, and it was planned to keep the child nursing for
years.  Her mother's milk glands could never be allowed to shrivel, instead kept
in prime condition.  She'd be my little milk machine, as well as a baby factory.

        The second event was the renovations to the back of the property were
finished.  I had a large pen, waiting to be used.

        Which leads to the third event--the veterinarian I was waiting for was
going to be in Los Angeles.  Doctor Ricardo "Rick" Erickson was going to give a
talk on conservation and preservation.  He was also one of the so very few who
raised tigers.  He was one of those who knew more about tigers than they knew
about themselves.

        That was knowledge we needed.  I managed to get a badge for the
conference; it was going to be a large affair, with animal-rights-related events
and talks going on left and right, an entire hotel nearly taken over.

        I had my Swede accompany me, dressed in a sharp white suit, to contrast
with my black suit.  The badge--under the name Julian Augustus--was waiting for
me as expected, and I started to mingle.  I took in the experience, studying the
crowd, catching snippets of conversation.

        Then I saw her.  Marie Sweeney.  She was wearing a business suit that
looked surprisingly wonderful on her.  I'm not much one for a clothed female,
but I was prepared to make an exception for her.  Dark brown hair tied back into
a smart ponytail, wire-rimmed glasses, the frames a dark red that matched her
lipstick and her shoes.

        She was in one of the conference halls, at least twenty yards away from
me, and as she talked she turned slightly, to look at me.  One corner of her
mouth pulled upward in a smile--though what she was smiling at, I couldn't
imagine.  Then she was gone, fading deeper into the crowd.

        Curiouser and curiouser.

        I had my Swede see what she could dig up on the woman, why she was
there, and just after my Swede walked off I spied Doctor Erickson.  He was just
leaving an elevator.  I hurried to him.

        I introduced myself quickly, telling him how I loved his work, so on and
so forth, speaking so fast he couldn't get a word in edgewise.  I steered him
toward the stairs, telling him I just wanted to get off to the side--then I
pushed him into the stairwell.

        The moment the door shut behind us my symbiote burst from me, wrapping
around the veterinarian and drawing him closer.  He struggled, his screams
stifled by the symbiote.  And oh yes, he was screaming.  There was no time to
waste, so we plowed through his mind, tearing aside the irrelevant information
to gather the bits that we were there for.

        It was over quickly, and so was Doctor Erickson.  A shame, really, to
have to turn him into a mindless husk, but, again, time WAS of the essence.  We
met up with the Swede at the car, and she drove us home.

        Not long after that, we decided on "home attire".  We were going to make
ourself a king, so it wouldn't do to dress as anything else.  A crimson toga,
golden bracers, leather boots, and a pendant with my stylized phoenix design on
it.  Inspired by the Roman culture, of course.

        We also managed to purchase a Siberian tiger cub, freshly weaned.  It
would be a rather intense investment, in terms of time, money, and emotion, but
it would be worth it.

        We were sitting in our redesigned conversation hall, one particular
evening.  It had been redesigned with a tall-backed chair that we liked to think
of as a throne, the tiger cub sleeping in our lap.  Most people who raise tigers
are in a far more precarious position--but we were a physical match for even an
adult Siberian, and this cub needed to get used to being outside of the cage.

        That evening, we were lightly stroking the cub, amused by his purrs and
rumbles, wondering what he was dreaming about.  My symbiote told me something
that would change a lot of things, a lot of plans.  It needed to spawn.

        The way its people reproduced was different than the way we do.  While
it would obviously be preferable to sharing their genes with partners, they were
capable of asexual reproduction.  The downside was obviously a lack of true
genetic diversity--but the upside was that the offspring would likely be
reasonably similar to the parent.

        So, basically, my symbiote said it was going to have a baby.  I pondered
that for a while, then smiled.  It wouldn't be so bad, another pair like us.
After all, every king needs his queen.  Someone to help me rule the kingdom we
would create.

        My smile became a grin.  It wouldn't be so bad at all.  I just had to
find the right woman...



                              END OF CHAPTER TWO




