Friday, April 16, 2010

Inquisition: Heretic's Fork


There is a basic principle that must be upheld, and it is the duty of the interrogator and jailor alike to deliver punishment to those that would tear apart the fabric of our society.

I never knew her name; she was convicted of heresy against both the church and the king, in the town of Saint Malo. She had been held in the prison cells below the city wall for several days after her capture and conviction. When she was brought to me, she was still clothed, well fed and beautiful. Her hair was a smooth flowing cascade of honey over her while shoulders. Her light skin was smooth and unblemished from injury or disease. Her dark blue eyes looked clear and bright as she stared defiantly at me.

She had spoken out publicly, this was the worst part of her heresy, and determined her punishment.

While the heretic’s fork is not found in all dungeons, its small size and flexible use in producing prolonged torment has made it somewhat popular. It consists of a small spike, a little more than 6 or 7 inches long, both ends ending in a fork with pointed tines. A strap is sometimes attached to keep it stationary on the neck, though if the device is embedded well in the flesh, I have found it is not necessary.

The girl stood before me, defiantly waiting her fate. I smiled kindly, and explained.

“For your heresy, you will be punished with the application of the heretic’s fork. Sometimes called the devil’s fork, this device will prevent you from speaking. A most appropriate punishment, don’t you think?”

I showed her the device and saw her defiance falter for the first time. Her eyes grew large, and she spoke. “Sir, I have done nothing to deserve this. I can not avoid this fate, you have me in chains. All I did was to speak the truth.”

“And so this device will prevent you from speaking your truth again.”

I set the fork down, and turned to her. With a single, forceful yank I pulled her dress from her shoulders. It ripped and slid down to her waist, exposing perfect breasts that wiggled slightly as she tried uselessly to cover herself. Two more strong pulls and her dress lay at her feet, and she was naked. The exposure of prisoners in this way is absolutely required in my technique. It tears the mind, and accentuates whatever physical torment is experienced with humiliation.

I took a moment to view and touch the perfect flesh of this young girl; the shapeliness and firmness of her curves were impressive. I determined that I would visit her and watch her suffering, for she was a remarkable specimen of young womanhood. She shivered slightly from fear, for the dungeon was hot and sweat shown on her bare flesh, trickling down to pool in small pockets of her skin before gathering and running further. My finger traced one of these rivulets, and she shrank back from my touch.

Picking up the heretic’s fork from the table, I nodded to the jailor. He grasped the girls hair firmly and yanked her head back all the way so that she was staring wild-eyed at the ceiling. She gasped, and began to struggle slightly.

The fork pressed against her soft flesh just above the collar-bone. Pressing in firmly, the sharp point slid over the bone and wedged behind, a small trickle of blood showing against the white of her skin. Quickly, before her panic could set in and she struggled more, I pressed the fork in firmly at the center, and the top part slid in below her chin.

When in place, it formed a perfect wedge. The top pressed in and under her collar-bone, and the top sunk well into her soft flesh behind her jaw bone. Her head was so far back that she could not dislodge the fork, it was embedded in her flesh and her neck was already curved so far back that all she could do in struggling was to drive the fork deeper.

When the jailor let go of her hair, this is exactly what the girl did (they all do, it is part of the torment of the fork). She struggled, and strained, trying to push her head back or sideways to dislodge the fork. While she did this, the fork raked the inside of her soft flesh, digging deeper with each movement. When her strength failed her and she relaxed her neck to lower her chin, the fork dug deep once again.

She tried to scream. Screaming is done with the mouth open, which lowers the jaw. Thus, her screams simply drove the fork deeper, and her screams sank into a muffled cry as her mouth closed. Blood burbled from between her lips, a sign that at least one of the fork tines had been forced through her soft pallet and into her mouth.

Sinking to her knees, she continued to stare wildly at the ceiling, bleeding from her chest, neck and mouth. Her muffled cries were strange, quiet in comparison to the agony she must have been feeling. Her naked body shook violently, and tears streaming down her cheeks reached and mingled the blood on her neck.

I reached around to the back of her neck, taking the strap and buckling it in place. This assured that she would not be able to dislodge the fork by hitting it on the wall or floor or some other protrusion of her cell (though to do so would surely tear a huge hole in her chest and chin). At my direction the jailor yanked her to her feet and dragged her down the passageway to her small dungeon cell.

The girl was worth visiting again, and I did so the next day. She lay in the corner of her cell, still shaking a little, blood dried on her neck. Unable to eat or drink, she was suffering severely. Rats were attracted by the smell of blood and had tried to nibble at her flesh. She had learned to stay as motionless as possible, for motion moved the fork and created new pain.

The third day she was brought to me. She was semi-conscious and unable to stand by herself. The fork had embedded itself deeply behind her collar-bone, and well within the soft palette of her mouth. The tines surely had torn the underside of her tongue by now.

I unbuckled the straps that held the fork in place, and forced the fork deep within her chest in order to remove the top points from her chin. She moaned at this renewed torment, though I quickly removed the lower tines as well. She fell to the floor, her chin slowly lowering and resuming its natural position after three days of being forced up beyond its normal limit.

She was healthy. She would be given food and water. If no serious infection set in, she might survive, though the damage to her neck and mouth would probably make speaking rather difficult. If she did speak again, she would be brought to me and her torment would be greater.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Miss Brown Takes a Vacation

It was hot and my naked body was slick with sweat. I was laying on my back on the bed, legs up and over the hips of George, the best endowed of all the students on the field trip to Jamaica. I still remember that moment like it was today– the heat between our bodies like fire, his straining and grunting as he thrust into me, my pussy spread wide by his cock which sank deep inside, deeper than I thought possible. His entire body rested on mine. He was heavy, very heavy and oh so muscular, and I gasped for breath as he jerked against me, his flesh sliding against mine, lubed by the moisture of our efforts.

The warmth was gathering in my lower body, the orgasm beginning to build, and my arms surrounded his shoulders, clutching him to me as I began to moan my climax… when the door burst open and four Jamaican policemen burst in. It completely ruined the moment. Adam suddenly leaped off of me, his cock convulsing slightly, semen dripping as his ruined orgasm wound down. I rolled off the bed to pick up a robe but was grabbed from behind, thrust to the floor and handcuffed. I think the cop that did it rubbed his groin against my ass for a while as he did it, too.

Justice is swift in Jamaica. That is to say, I was convicted in a summary Kangaroo court of exercising free speech in less than two weeks.

“For crimes against the state and humanity, I sentence you to six months in a state facility where you will provide services to pay not only for your incarceration, but to help give something back to our society and improve the lot of others.” The judge banged his gavel. “Six months hard labor at the Fenge Farm.”

As the judge left the room, my public defender fondled my right breast. I turned to him, batted his hand away and asked him, “What the hell is a Fenge Farm?”

“Oh, you will see, you will see. At least you will be outside much of the time. Cooler you know. Just behave and you will be out of there in no time. Well, six months. But it will go quickly, they will keep you busy! I may even come visit!”

Arrival at the Fenge Farm was disappointing, in a way. I had bumped around in the back of an old van with metal seats that were far too small and dug into my ass with each pothole. I would have been bounced to the floor a number of times, if the heavy metal collar around my neck and chained to the wall had not kept me upright. Not to mention strangled as the collar yanked deep into the flesh with each hard bump. Stuck in the back with me was one other woman, a young one, barely 18 I guessed. She looked scared.

When the van stopped and the back door opened, we could see a large empty dirt yard, with low wood buildings surrounding it in a square. Our chains were unlocked from the wall of the van and jerked as we were pulled out. Standing in the fresh air, in hills above the town, it was almost pleasant. Except the humidity kept the sweat coming, and the direct sun made me squint like I was under the hot lights of a lineup.

Rough hands grabbed my clothes. I yelled “Hey, stop that” and struggled a bit, but with the help of a mean looking curved knife, my clothing was soon laying at my feet in shreds. I stood naked in the sun, as several mean looking men examined my naked body. Next to me, the other girl stood, also naked. Several men were probing her as well.

A particularly smelly guard forced me to bend over and jammed fingers between my legs. What can I say? I reacted, swinging around, jerking away, my knee coming around and heading for his groin. He turned at the last minute and I think I landed a good one on his thigh but missed the more sensitive parts. He grunted with pain, and then took a hooked stick, placed it behind my ankles and pushed my chest. I went down, skinning myself and grunting from the fall. Several other guard leaped on me and in seconds my arms were bound securely behind my back, wrists and elbows held tightly together by a strap.

The guards picked me up and dragged me into a barn and into a small stall. Six foot high rough wooden walls surrounded the space which was about 8 x 4 feet, with a dirt floor. A heavy metal collar was placed on my neck, and chained to a ring on the wall. I slumped to the floor, exhausted and shaking from my ordeal.

Before they left, the guards grabbed my naked body, flipped it over so that I lay face down in the dirt. A sharp prick in my ass followed by a stinging pain announced that I had been given an injection. I lay on the ground, face in the mud, and didn’t move for a long, long time.

The chain which held me to the wall was about five feet long. It was enough that I could move around most of the stall. In one corner was a small pit which was obviously used as a toilet (based on the smell and looks). Near the stall door lay a dirty dish, which looked like it might once have held food, along with another dish that contained some foul looking water.

When thirst took me, I drank. When darkness descended, I slept. My arms were still bound behind my back, painfully compressing my shoulder blades, and thrusting my breasts out in front. Nevertheless, exhaustion took me and I did not wake until daylight the next morning.

Stiffly, I rolled over where I lay. The sunlight showed that I was actually in a barn, a bare wooden barn with rings and harnesses and hay and dirt, as if designed for farm animals. But instead of farm animals, I was in this stall.

The door opened slightly and a guard that looked more like a farm hand reached in, took the dirty plate, and dumped some slop into it. He dropped the plate before me and closed the door. I knelt to look and smell… it was awful, a congealing clump of something unrecognizable and brown. But I was so hungry I bent over, lowered my head, and ate like a dog. Before I knew it I had finished the food and drunk some of the moldy water.

The day proceeded slowly. There were sounds of activity in the barn, and even voices of some women filtered over the walls. But they were hushed, and the one time I heard a girls voice more distinctly (I think it was the girl I had come with in the van), it was followed by a loud *thwack* and the sounds of sobbing. Speech was not encouraged here, I gathered.

As the pain in my body receded, some discomfort in my breasts became more obvious. It was almost as if they had been caned or beaten in some way. I explored my cell, but moved slowly and gently, making sure my boobs did not bounce or brush up against anything. By the end of the day I felt fine (thought hungry), except for my breasts.

When the evening meal arrived, so did a guard with a syringe. I struggled but once again, I was flipped over, one guard sat on my back as the other injected something in my ass. It stung, but I stopped struggling, not wanting to break the needle off inside my butt. When they left I crawled over, ate dinner like a dog once again, and drank some of the fresh water they had provided. It struck me as very strange that this was all the infamous “Fenge Farm” was about.

The next day, my breasts were hurting so badly I was in tears. They looked swollen and distended as well. As I examined them, trying to understand what was happening, I noticed a small discharge from my left nipple. It was a white liquid that trickled slowly down the curve of my breast.

I was lactating.

The shock was profound. I have never had a child, never known what it was like to create and give milk. Yet here I was, my breasts large and heavy with milk that was seeping from my nipples. I sat and cried for a while, wondering if they would ever release my arms, and whether I might be allowed to see a doctor to find out what might be happening to me.

At mid-morning two guards came into my stall. This time they lifted me up to my feet, unlocked my neck chain from the wall, and led me down to a large room at the end of the barn stalls. There was a strange metal frame made of metal pipes with straps attached. Pushed toward the frame, I was forced over one of the pipes, painfully bending me over in a bow. Strapped to the frame in this position I was held motionless, my breasts hanging down from my chest. Another injection stung in my ass.

Then the most horrible thing happened. One of the farmer types came over and with a bored attitude smeared some liquid lube over both my breasts. I winced at the touch, not only because a stranger was fondling me but because I was so sensitive. He then took a wide clear tube with a small rubber hose on the end and flipped a switch. The tube made a sucking noise and was applied to my left breast. The vacuum sucked my breast into the tube painfully and I yelped, crying out. The same thing was done to my right breast, and in spite of my struggling and trying to free myself, the vacuum pump machine stuck to my nipples and breasts securely.

Then the pumping began. Alternating, back and forth between my breasts. Suck, whoosh… suck, whoosh. First the right and then the left were kneeded and pulled by the vacuum. I could feel, as well as see, the milk squirting from my breasts. The white liquid trickled down and into the tubes, collected someplace below where I could not see.

I was being milked. Like a cow.

Standing bent over and strapped motionless, the milk was sucked from my breasts. I was amazed how sensitive they were, and yet… there was discomfort mixed with pleasure. It felt good to get the milk out– satisfying– and it relieved a lot of the pain I had been experiencing. And of course… there was absolutely nothing I could do but let the milking machine do its work. Suck…whoosh…. suck…whoosh…

15 minutes later and there was no more milk. The machine kept pumping, trying to get milk from me but I had no more. It began hurting, and I whimpered with the pain. Finally, I called out… “Hey! I am done here, get this machine off me!” A couple of minutes later, the farm hand came and turned the machine off. With a sucking *pop* the tubes were removed from my breasts. What a fucking relief. I felt half way normal.

The guards came and took me to my cell. On the walk back we passed the other girl in the aisle between the stalls. I could see now that she was being taken to be milked, just as I was. Her breasts were enlarged, and dribbling slightly as my own had been. She looked away from me, obviously humiliated.

That evening, my breasts had filled with milk again, and I was taken to the milking machine. This time, I knew what to expect and cooperated. The feeling of being milked, while humiliating and not very comfortable, still had an element of great pleasure for me. I found that the nipple stimulation was very erotic, and the constant suck – whoosh felt a little like having sex. I felt myself becoming aroused, wetness forming in my pussy.

Over the next week, the milking sessions became the highlight of my day. As my breasts filled with more and more milk, the number of sessions increased to three per day. I must have been producing well over a gallon of milk a day, and perhaps even two gallons.

The process of milking had also become increasingly erotic, and on the fourth day I had my first milking orgasm. I had been feeling more and more aroused and sensual, the stimulation of my breasts and nipples creating an electric pulse that ran to my pussy. Suddenly, I shuddered and felt the warmth of a climax spread across my hips, back to my breasts, chest… and then all over my body. I moaned aloud. It was totally unexpected.

When it was over, I looked up from my odd position and saw the farm hand smiling. He knew exactly what was happening. The next day during the lunchtime milking, he walked behind me, his hand feeling my naked body as he went, until he settled on my pussy. Feeling how wet it was, his fingers slipped in, stimulating me and bringing me to an orgasm almost immediately.

I wasn’t always alone when milking time came. Sometimes one or two other women were there, being milked as well. I counted about 20 different women total, all being milked at various times during the day. Once, I tried to talk to another girl being milked, to see what she was experiencing, how long she had been there and the like. She seemed frightened when I spoke to her.

“Don’t talk!” She whispered. I talked anyway, asking her why, what harm there could be in talking as we were being milked.

“They will punish you. Don’t do it.”

I guess I didn’t care too much about punishment. I was already a human cow, what could they do to me?

I found out. The farm hand, when he disconnected me, told me that talking was not allowed between the “milkers” and that punishment was one day without milking. I laughed a little at the thought. Gosh, I thought, if that’s all it took to stop the milking, I would have been chattering up a storm much earlier.

The next day, I woke with my udders… erm… breasts, full of milk as they had been for the last three weeks. But this day, no one came to squeeze the milk from me and provide relief. I was unbound by then, having learned the routine and the futility of attempting escape, and tried to squeeze some of the milk from my breasts with my hands. It was a slow and painful process, and I was inadequate to the task. A puddle of my milk gathered on the floor, but my breasts began hurting. The pressure of the milk was uncomfortable, and by mid-day my tits were really hurting.

I spent the entire day massaging and squeezing my breasts, and it didn’t help that much. I was crying, begging for the milking machine by the time the sun went down. There was no sleep that night, and when they came the next morning to get me, I fell at their feet begging for relief. I felt like my breasts were going to pop like balloons.

When I was finally milked, the relief was so great that I had two orgasms.

My need for milking became everything. It hurt, it felt good, it was necessary, it was my life. I looked forward to each session, and when a new milking frame was brought in it felt like Christmas. Occasionally a guard or farm hand would watch and might even fuck me from the rear while I was milked. Those were the best of times, I could not imagine a better life than to be strapped to the frame, milked and fucked. I was completely domesticated.

I learned to be milked in various positions; standing bent over the metal frame as I had first done. Later, a simple platform was used. I had my wrists, elbows and knees strapped into place as I knelt on all fours, and gave my milk that way. Once, when I was being punished for trying to see into another girl’s stall, I was hung by my wrists and had the milk pumped from my breasts as I swung gently back and forth.

My breasts were consistently larger, well formed as they had always been, but swollen with milk almost all the time. The feeling of the tubes sucking onto my tits, the suction playing with my nipples, the milk coming out in a steady stream. I liked it best when I was tied with my legs spread, arms out of the way, locked in position as the milking took place, and one of the guards would come and slide into my pussy from behind. It was heaven, as I bucked and struggled, the guard ejaculating behind as my milk spurted from my breasts in front.

And then one day there was a tour. I had no idea it was going to happen. The farm had become my whole life, I had almost forgotten life before I had become a milker. It could not have been more than a few months, but my stall and my purpose as a milk producer had firmly taken over my mind.

As I stood strapped into the metal frame, waiting for the teet attachments to be used and the noon milking to begin, a guard came into the room with about 20 other people, dressed as tourists. I suddenly became very aware of my nakedness, my hot, sweaty body covered with dirt. My breasts hanging down in front, waiting.

The guard continued a talk he had begun before entering. “… and this is one of 6 rooms we have used specifically for milking. Ah, I see we are in luck and they have one of our best producers all ready to go. This milk producer has been with us for three months, and in that time has given over 150 gallons of milk. See how her breasts appear rounded nicely… ” here he reached out and grabbed my right breast.

His talk went on, but I didn’t hear much more. There, in the middle of the group, was George. The student I had been fucking when I had been arrested. I must have turned bright, strawberry red with humiliation. His presence was all it took to remind me who I was, and how I had been turned from a high school history teacher into a cow, a human milker, naked, dirty with legs spread ready to be mounted from behind while having the milk sucked out of her with a machine.

Tears flowed down my cheeks as I hung my head. George was looking at me with some sympathy, it seemed, though he also seemed to be enjoying the lecture. I looked at the floor, and endured the humiliation as the teet pumps were placed on my breasts and then turned on. My milk flowed, and a small discussion broke out between various members of the group as they watched the process. Raising my head, I looked at George, and pleaded with my eyes. I couldn’t speak without punishment, but I hoped the message came through – I was suddenly miserable, and needed help. He was my lover. He had been inside me at my moment of arrest. He was there now, and had to help me.

The group left, and I hung from the milking frame in despair, sobbing without hope.

That night I tried to escape. I was afraid of not being milked and what that would do to me, but I didn’t care any more. I needed to get out. The neck chain that held me in my stall was attached to the wooden stall wall, and had begun to come loose over the months I had been there. With a strong pull, I managed to loosen it. Clawing and scraping and pulling dislodged it further, and eventually it came out with a large clanking.

Crawling to the top of the stall walls wasn’t easy, but I scrambled over, landing in the central aisle with a *thump*. Moving down the aisle I headed for the barn door. The chain, still attached to my collar, clinked loudly. I barely made it to the door before the guard that heard the noise was there.

I assume it was a taser. Whatever it was, I exploded in pain, fell on the ground and writhed, my entire body convulsing in agony. I lost consciousness.

When I regained consciousness, I could not understand where I was or what was happening. The sun beat down on me, for the first time in months. But my head seemed to be at ground level, looking out at the dirt and grass around me as if I had no body. My head as all there was. I quickly struggled to see what had happened and quickly discovered my predicament.

My head was poking through a hole in a metal plate on the ground. The rest of me was confined below ground, in a tiny pit barely large enough to accommodate my body, arms and legs. I pushed, struggled, panicked, but accomplished nothing. The metal door which held my head in place also held my body below, and I simply could not move.

In front of me was a low stone wall. In the wall were two small recesses, covered with metal grates. In each was a woman, cramped into a small space. This was the Fenge Farm equivalent of solitary confinement, or in my case, a hole. Literally.

My breasts hurt. I couldn’t move. I struggled, but to no avail. Bugs crawled on my face, but I was unable to brush them away. My sweat attracted flies, which crawled into my eyes. Below the ground, something crawled up on leg. I was unable to see what it was, and brushed it away. A terrible itch came from where an ant bit my cheek, but I was unable to scratch. My breasts hurt, demanding to be expressed. I could feel milk trickling slowly down the curve of my breasts and on down my stomach.

The day wore on, and thirst became even more important than the pain in my breasts. I was dying of thirst. The girls in front of me struggled in their tiny cages, unable to find a comfortable position. I did the same, below ground, though no one could see. I was simply a head, sitting on the ground.

In the evening, a guard came by and kicked dirt in my face. I coughed, spit it out of my mouth and blinked, trying to get the dust out of my eyes. When I could see again, I looked up at the figure standing above me. He had his pants unzipped, and his cock out. I could not understand at first… there was no way he could rape me in this hole… what… and then as the stream of urine hit my face I understood. It covered my head, as he moved the stream around to make sure I was completely washed with it. My hair, face, eyes, mouth, nose… even in my ears. Urine. Everywhere.

I cried, thank goodness, for the tears washed the harsh urine from my eyes, at least. Darkness descended, and the urine dried, leaving behind a musky smell. I wondered if wild animals might come and gnaw on my exposed head during the night. A coyote or some other small animal howled in the distance.

How I slept I don’t know, but exhaustion took me. I knew this for the first time when I was suddenly awakened by a bucket of water splashed on my head. I gasped and sputtered, then licked what little water I could get. It was mixed with the dried urine from the day before, but I didn’t care. I needed the water. A second bucket of water washed my head off more completely, and gave me a tiny drink.

I was finally removed from the hole in the middle of the day. My breasts felt like two bundles of pain, and I could see where a steady stream of leaking milk ran from both nipples down my naked stomach. Since George had seen me the day before, I had become once again aware of just how humiliating my position was. But I was also aware of the price paid for not cooperating. We returned to the milking room. I was strapped into position, and the machine began sucking the milk from my nipples. I almost immediately orgasmed, the feeling was one that I desperately needed.

Three more months passed. A total of six months. I didn’t try to escape again, I did my time. One day, the guards came for me and instead of taking me to the milking room, they took me outside and to an administration building. There I was given some simple clothing, and told I was released. How was I to return to town, and get off the god forsaken island, back home? I was told that my friend was here to take me home.

It was George. Good, sweet George, the best endowed student on the field trip, the underage kid with the big cock. He represented all that was humiliating about this place, the one guy that had seen me here.

Before I left I asked “Wait… I need to be … milked… how…”

The administrator of the farm smiled. “Once you are no longer getting hormone injections, your lactation will stop on its own. Unless you want it to continue, of course. Here. Use this for a while until you decide whether you want to go through the withdrawals, or continue lactating.”

He handed me a small breast pump, similar to those used by mothers to express their milk. I took it gratefully, stood on my tip toes to kiss George, and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”