This story is a bit heavier than most of my offerings and has been inspired by the following tales:
Bosom by Unknown Author on the Benfanstorybox Yahoo! Group
Doing the deal
David Hemingway was impressed as he was shown into the house by a smartly-attired Filipino servant. This guy had money, serious money, and so not only could this contract be potentially lucrative but, if the customer ended up satisfied, then well, who knows if he has any friends who might want more of the same…?
He was shown into a large sitting room where a young Arab man dressed in an immaculate white thobe got up and greeted him before gesturing for him to sit. After the obligatory salutations and tea, they got down to business.
“My friend in America whom I do business with, Kevork Manuelyan, he recommends you very highly and says that you can help me.”
“I understand that you’ve had women troubles?”
“More than troubles Mr. Hemingway, more than troubles.”
“Please elaborate Mr. bin Yusuf and also, please, call me Dave.”
“Thank you kindly, Dave. Well, it is my latest wife. I have just divorced her, she was having an affair with a gardener and this destroyed my honour, although the gardener is now in gaol for thieving; I shall make sure his hand is chopped off. However, that is not the problem, the problem is that this is the third wife who has either left me or who I have had to divorce. I am a liberal man for a Saudi and so I give them freedom but all they do is mock me and insult me. They are after my money, that is all and so I have no faith or confidence left in any women now, yet also I cannot live without them as, well… you are a man, you know what it is like, I love being with women!”
“What do you most like about a woman?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the warmth of her smile, the depth of her heart…”
“Please sir, if I am to help you, I need you to be serious, talking truly, not from a bad poetry book or boy band song. What is it that you most miss about a woman now that your latest wife has left you?”
“Well, to be honest her body, I like the smooth feel of her body, to lie next to her and…”
“I need specifics, sir, what part of the body? The breasts for example?”
“The breasts are nice but no, to be honest what I love the most, what drives me absolutely wild when I see it in the bedroom – or when walking along the beach in California when I’m there on business – is the bottom, I love what the Americans call a butt, the round firm cheeks and…”
“You’re a butt man then, ok, I can deal with that. Has a butt ever dumped you or two timed you?”
“Well of course not, but the woman attached to the butt…”
“Then detach sir, detach! What if I could present you with a perfect female bottom as a wife, the absolute epitome of everything you desire in a woman that will never nag, dump or humiliate you. Could that be a solution to your woes?”
“Mr. Hemingway, that could be a ticket to Paradise itself! To think, a butt to play with, the carress, to smack, to spear. Ahh, those are heavenly thoughts!”
“And they could also become a reality, but in order to do that, I need some particulars off you. I need to know about colour and shape. What kind of butts do you like?”
“Well, to be honest I prefer Western women, maybe a little tanned like an Arab though, not too pale, although if she were a Muslim girl then…”
“You may rest assured sir, that she will not be Muslim.”
“Oh, I see. Well then, yes, I like Western but I also like curvy, like an Arab or a Latino girl, like that Shakira or Jennifer Lopez say on the TV.”
“Hmm, I see. Now, let me look.” Hemingway dived into his bag, rummaged around a file and then produced a large colour photograph of a female behind covered by skintight jeans. Like that?”
“Oh yes Sir, that is it! That is my wife!”
“Yes sir, that is your new wife, even if she does not know it yet. Her name is Peach which in Arabic is Qard.” And with those words he smiled a secret smile. For Hemingway knew only too well the woman to whom that magnificent bottom belonged and what is more, her name was not Peach or Qard.
Well, not yet.
Dave Hemingway had first met Chelsea Staples on the Greek holiday island of Kos. She’d been nothing then, just a girl from a provincial town having fun out in Greece working in a bar. He’d been a lot more naïve then, but whilst she’d been nothing, she had certainly not been naïve. They’d got together and before he knew it, he was paying for her designer clothes, had set her up in a flat in London’s Docklands and was introducing her to the capital’s high society. Shit, he even paid for her breasts to be improved and what thanks did he get? Only to get home one night and find her gone. He later learnt that she’d hooked up with a fashion designer who she then married before divorcing him a year later, several million better off. She was nothing more than a cheap slut, a gold digger and Dave was angry at himself for falling for such a nonentity. Anger however, was not enough for Dave; he needed revenge, so he’d kept an eye on her goings on and knew full well that she now spent most of her time on the South Coast of France leeching off wealthy yacht owners. Soon, however, she would be leeching no more.
After closing the deal with bin Yusuf, Dave jetted off to Monte Carlo where he installed himself in a flat and checked out the lie of the land. He discovered Chelsea’s regular haunts and learnt that her current beau was a seventy year-old property magnate from Mexico who had a yacht moored off Cannes. Obviously true love that one.
Always anxious to distance himself from these dealings, he contacted an old client in the area who he knew had a yacht. Yiannis Hatsiastros was only too happy to help and so one evening, when a handsome young Greek man, (not Yiannis of course, but a nephew), sidled up to her and offered to take her back to his 100m yacht and mentioned his $1 billion fortune, he was not surprised when she accepted the offer.
And once on board it was the easiest thing in the world for the butler, (whom, if she’d been paying attention, was actually a guy that she’d once begun an affair with when she was a humble bar girl on Kos), to serve her a cocktail that was spiked with a very heavy dose of sleeping pills.
And the rest is, as they say, history.
Chelsea woke up feeling groggy and aching all over. She wearily opened her eyes and immediately realised that something wasn’t right. She could see out of them but what she saw did not make sense.
She was lying down, that she knew because, well, you know when you’re lying down don’t you. Yet the image before her eyes which was of a small square room with white walls, was viewed from a very high vantage point, obviously from a standing position, or more likely standing on top of a ladder. The room that she viewed was completely empty and featureless, except for a closed door on one side. However, what was stranger was that the image, which was not her full vision but instead a small square directly in front of her eyes, did not seem to be real, it was second-hand somehow, like watching the TV.
Confused she sat up. Or at least she tried to. But her arms wouldn’t respond and so she merely jerked a bit. What was even more curious though was that her view did not move an iota. It stayed still and motionless, more like that of a camera than a real person. Undeterred, she tried again and found that she could right herself by slipping her legs off the bed upon which she had been lying and standing up. Still the view did not change and still her arms did not respond, almost as if they weren’t there. Where was she? What on earth was happening?
She took a couple of steps and something happened. A woman entered her field of view, or at least, she assumed it to be a woman, although she could be far from sure as whoever it was completely covered in the black veils of an Arab woman. From head to toe she was draped in thick black cloth, like a featureless cone of material. This cone stopped and just stood there, not looking at her – the woman seemed not to have even noticed her presence – but instead blankly at the wall. Chelsea took a few steps forward to meet her and the woman started walking but again, bizaarely, Chelsea’s viewpoint didn’t move a millimetre. Nonetheless, she carried on walking and so did the veiled woman. She walked straight into the wall and as she did Chelsea felt an obstacle blocking her way and almost knocking her to the floor.
It was then that she realised that she was the woman in the picture.
Closing her eyes – as she found this easier than having to rely on the disorientating image in front of them – she made her way back to the bed and sat down on it. What on earth was happening to her? Was this real or just a surreal nightmare. No, it was real, she knew that, but that was about all that she knew.
Mentally she listed the facts:
She was now a heavily-veiled woman in a white room.
Her arms didn’t seem to work.
Nor too did her eyes. Or at least, she could see with them but not sight, instead what appeared to be the view of a camera high on the wall above her.
That was all pretty weird and bad, but by now she was beginning to realise that other things had changed too. The initial shock of her sight changes and loss of arms were receding and some other sensations were becoming apparent. The main one of these was that there was something up with her mouth. She tried to speak and could not. In fact, she couldn’t even open it. It was as if there was something in there. In fact, there was something in there and whatever it was, it extended not only into her mouth but down her throat, like a feeding tube for some unconscious patient. That thought actually reassured her for a second, after all she had blacked out and woken up in a white room with a feeding tube; she’d obviously been in some kind of accident and was now in hospital. But then she stopped herself and remembered that she was veiled like a Muslim lady and viewing life through a camera perched high on the wall. No, that was not normal for a hospital; there was nothing to be reassured about.
She began to concentrate on other areas of her body now and realised that there were other worrying changes as well. Her legs seemed to be ok, although they were covered in some sort of tight coating that felt like latex or rubber or something, but above them, well, her private areas felt kind of weird whilst her butt, well… that felt somehow full like there was something in it… OMG, there IS something in it! And above her bum, well, apart from her arms, that felt kind of normal except that it all felt enclosed somehow, like she was covered somehow. She remembered when she bumped into the wall and it hadn’t hurt, it had been very second-hand almost, cushioned. Oh yes, and there was something else too, everything was quiet. And I mean deathly quiet, like no sound whatsoever. That was weird! What the fuck was happening?
Chelsea got up again and slowly walked around the room using the camera view in front of her eyes to navigate. It was weird trying to link her direct movements with a second-hand camera view but she started to do it. However, whilst that eased things a little, her other fears increased: as she walked she could hear no sound whatsoever, even when she stopped and stamped her foot on the floor. Surely that must produce some sound, but no, nothing. Suddenly she slammed herself into the wall again. That proved two things. Firstly, she had no hearing for even that produced not the slightest sound and secondly that her upper body was covered in something, like it was inside a barrel or something, which explained the blindness and lack of arm movement but was hardly reassuring; after all, why would someone encase your upper body in a barrel? Confused she returned to the bed and sat down to think.
How long she sat there she could not say for there was no way of measuring time in that surreal place but after what could have been hours or just minutes, something happened: the camera image of the empty room suddenly switched off and instead a large picture of a female butt appeared before her eyes instead. Shocked, she sat up and then, to compound the shock even further, she heard a voice:
“Time for your meal Miss Qard.”
The voice was that of a woman, a foreign woman with a strong accent. She felt the layers of cloth that covered her being lifted and someone fiddling around in front of her. In frantic desperation she started shifting her position, wiggling around as this was the only means of communication that she had. It had its intended effect, or almost: more human interaction.
“Stop moving Miss Qard, it will affect your feeding. I don’t want to have to strap you down!”
Eager to please this, the only other human in her life, she stilled herself. What would happen with the meal. Would her covering be taken off and she be allowed to see the world and feed herself. Then a strange vibration began, like a machine being started and she felt the tube in her throat move. Something was being passed through it but she couldn’t taste it. However, she did start feeling her stomach fill up. Then, as soon as it had started, the vibrating stopped and she felt the covers being replaced.
“I’ll see you again for dinner Miss Qard,” said the voice before all went quiet again. Then the camera recording of the room replaced the large female bottom that she’d been treated to. She was alone again.
What in the world was happening?
Chelsea waited for another indeterminate amount of time and then something else unexpected happened. A voice was heard in her ear, this time a male voice. “Qard, leave the room, walk down the corridor and then turn right,” he said. And as he spoke, the door to the room slid open. Chelsea sat there for a moment, confused. That voice, somehow it seemed familiar and yet she couldn’t place whose it was. Still, this was surely a chance to find out a little of what had happened. She got up and walked out of the room.
The moment that she left the small white room the view before her eyes changed to one of a long corridor with a veiled figure at the far end. She walked forwards and the veiled figure got nearer until, just under the camera, she turned right. Then the image changed again and she saw a large room, opulently furnished in an Arabic fashion with the same veiled figure in the doorway and a man standing in its centre with his back to the camera.
“Qard, welcome, please come in!”
She walked into the centre of the room and then stopped. That voice was familiar.
“You’re probably wondering what on earth has happened to you? Why do you see through wall-mounted CCTV camera, why don’t your arms work and why am I calling you Qard? Well, I am here to answer those questions. For starters, we are in Saudi Arabia and I am your guardian here, or at least, I shall be for an hour or so before I pass you on to your new husband with whom I signed the documents for my ward Qard to be married only this morning. Qard, by the way, means ‘peach’ in Arabic and it is your new name. Now I appreciate that you probably still think of yourself as Chelsea, but do not, for Chelsea is dead, I saw it reported in the Telegraph only last week. Everyone things that she was drowned in a terrible accident whilst getting drunk on a yacht in Cannes. Yes, the yacht in Cannes, do you remember that? Maybe. Anyway, Chelsea is dead now. After she was drugged on that yacht , she was taken to a very special installation that I run and reprocessed into Qard for the benefit of her new husband. You see, he is a good man but like so many good men, he keeps getting let down by bad women, cheating on him, gold-diggers, basically whores like Chelsea was. So I promised him the perfect woman, a woman that can do none of those things because she is reduced to the bare essentials of what a female is. Yes, your new husband is what we blokes term a ‘butt man’ and you my dear, have one of the finest bottoms that I’ve ever seen. So, when I needed a bum of bums then where else should I look, and besides, I owed you one. So, Chelsea has been reprocessed into Qard or Peach, for a peach is all that she is now. You are a butt and legs, nothing else. Your reprocessing was severe. Your arms were amputated at the shoulders and your vocal chords cut. All your body hair was removed by laser and then you entire upper body was enclosed in a survival capsule. Look!”
And then, on the screen before her eyes, the man walked forward and lifted the veils off the figure before him. What was revealed was unbelievable, terrifying: A beautiful pair of black-clad female legs ending in a pair of large buttocks supported a featureless black ovoid that started at the waist and ended where the head should be. It was made of blank black plastic and the only opening was a small hole near to where the mouth should be. Chelsea staggered back when she saw herself and the man grabbed hold of her to steady her, squeezing one of her buttocks as he did.
“The hole is for feeding as you’ve already discovered,” he explained. “You’ll never taste food again, your nutrition just goes straight into your stomach. Nor too will you ever experience the toilet. Every morning and evening you shall be flushed out by your maid, before having an extensive facial massage. By facial I mean bottom. Your bum is now your face, in fact it is your whole being, and so we can’t have it looking bad now, can we? And that is it; you shall be flushed out, then exercised and after that, you can relax as you have done today, until your husband decides to use you for his pleasure. However, here I must warn you, never in the conventional way. We’ve had your clitoris and your vagina removed saved for a small hole for the wastes. As I said, you’re a bottom now, nothing more and that is how you shall interact with the world, no other way. To the outside world you shall always be silent and covered in veils so they’ll just think that you’re a heavily-veiled Muslim woman living in strict purdah. Only your husband and maid will know otherwise.
Which brings me onto another thing: you’ll never see your maid or indeed any other human being save for your husband and, for the few hours whilst I am your guardian, me. Whenever another human being comes within five metres of you, your view shall switch to the beautiful photograph of your bottom face which you doubtless enjoyed when your maid came. It’s an incredible photo isn’t it, I chose it myself from the hundreds that were taken whilst you were unconscious, and seeing it like that will help enforce that that is your identity these days. But, that is that and now it is time to present you to your husband. But before I do, in case you haven’t realised who I am, I shall let you see my face before I press the button on your remote control which transfers ownership of you over to your husband. So, did you guess?”
And with those words, the man turned round and faced the camera and with a gasp of horror – if she had still had the ability to gasp – Chelsea saw the half-crazed grin of David Hemingway before that view faded into the photo of her large, naked butt.
2 years later…
The image of her beautiful face faded away and Qard saw the camera view that was so familiar to her. It was of a large, expensively-furnished bedroom with a huge bed in the centre. And knelt on that bed was a strange creature, half human, half machine. The top half, a curious black ovoid, but the bottom, a glorious pair of female legs terminating in a large, juicy peach which presented itself for approval. And that approval would soon be coming; this is what Qard did everyday at this time and everyday at this time her husband came and took her. She looked forward to it immensely when he rammed his penis into her waiting mouth which had been stretched ready to accommodate him. This was the only skin-to-skin contact that she had, the only interaction with a human being and she craved it, thinking only of it during those long hours as she exercised, sat in a room with other veiled purdah women who did not know of her real status, and waited for it to happen. And after all, why should she not look forward to be anally taken, was it not her whole purpose in life. And afterwards too, when he lay down to sleep and snuggled his face next to hers, using her large cheeks as a pillow upon which he nestled himself and drifted off to sleep. Could any marriage be happier?
Qard hardly ever thinks about the days when she was Chelsea now; her tortured mind has blanked them out. In fact, she can hardly imagine being a human being at all; instead she has become a bottom and nothing more, living to be firm, round and juicy and thus pleasurable to the man who looks after her and provides her with the intimacy that she so craves. On isolated occasions she recalls how horrified she was when he approached her on that first night and thrust his member into her mouth, how violated and mastered she’d felt. But these days she cannot hold those thoughts for long for they do not even make sense to her anymore.
She is shaken from her reverie by the door opening and a naked figure entering the room. It is her husband. She wiggles her face in anticipation.
I am honoured that this story inspired two pieces of artwork (above). They are by KS and Sador respectively. Please check out their stuff on the Yahoo! Groups Benfanstorybox.