Sitting on her carrier was, undoubtedly, the strangest experience of Almast’s young life. She had never ridden a horse during her human days, but she imagined that it must be similar. Well, sort of.
What would be the same, she guessed, would be the experience of sitting in a leather saddle with a living, breathing creature beneath you.
What would be different, aside from having arms and legs to help you balance and grip, is that horsewomen are not kept in their saddles by two large rubber plugs which are carefully fed into their two intimate holes.
Yes, both her intimate holes .
Having something slid into her love channel was one thing, but she was a little used to it. After all, had not that most feminine of places been graced with the Divine Member of the sultan during their night tonight? Having a rubber dong inserted into it was disconcerting, but not a new experience.
Having a similar dong maneuvered into her bottom hole (with the help of copious amounts of lubricant) was something else entirely. Nothing had ever been put up there before, nor did she think that anything ever should be. As the orifice fought against the unwelcome invader, she recalled Lalag’s words, “It’ll be going in your other holes soon,” and winced. And when it was in and the sphincter muscles closed back around its fluted based, she felt uncomfortably full but very firmly anchored to her carrier.
The carrier itself disquieted her though. Her breasts were squeezed up against its head, yet the head had no human features. She tried to imagine it as a living, breathing normal human being but struggled to relate the contorted anonymous creature beneath her to such an image. It was more like an animal. “Is it human?” she had asked her maid upon first sight of the creature.
“It was once, Exalted One. Now it is your carrier.”
It was once. Once human, now not. Just like her.
She shuddered at the realisation.
Controlling the thing was easy. She merely had to whisper and it obeyed. Walk forwards! Stop! Turn left! Turn right! It was fun even as it gave her a sense of power and control that she had not felt since undergoing the honour of reduction. The maidservant told her that there was a microphone embedded within the large nose jewel that she’d been given as part of her preparations for the first night in the sultan’s bedchamber. “It is activated every time your bottom plug is squeezed. That’s why it works when you are impaled onto the saddle but not when you are removed. You need only whisper; it is trained to respond to whispers and not full speech.”
So she did whisper and revelled in the power she now held. For an hour she got to accustom herself to controlling this thing, whilst it got to accustom itself to her. Then the maidservant informed her that she was ready to leave and that all the pillow girls were enjoying a day with their master in the palace gardens.
To leave the room, she had to don a burqa to preserve her modesty. This was turquoise in colour and expensively embroidered. When it was fitted over her and the carrier, Almast was amazed at the image she saw when she peered through the grille into the mirror. Gone was a strange, half-human, half-animal creature with a limbless torso on its back and in its place was what appeared to be a perfectly normal and fully-limbed noblewoman ready to leave the female quarters and engage in society.
Unsteadily yet excitedly, Almast and her carrier strode slowly yet gracefully out of the room and down several corridors, following the maidservant. They came out into a glorious garden with gushing fountains and trees heavy with fruit. Several birds of paradise walked around the pathways nonchalantly and the scent of thousands of flowers filled the air, Almast revelling in it even through the material of her burqa.
The maid led them to where her sisters were waiting. All were dressed in gorgeous burqas of flowing silk – red, green, blue, purple, yellow, all the colours of the rainbow in fact. The pillows greeted one another by pressing their veiled cheeks against one another. As she leant in to greet Patil, Almast felt a little uncertain, scared that she would slip out of her leather saddle, but the plugs and straps held her firm. “I see you have been introduced to your carrier,” said her sister pillow softly. Almast nodded. “It is a strange relationship that we share; they cannot see us and we know nothing of them and yet we are somehow close. I love mine in a particular way, don’t I boy?” Underneath the burqa, Almast detected a slight wiggle as if the carrier were proud of the praise it had received.
The pillows sat down on cushioned seats in a shaded corner of the garden and then the sultan himself arrived, fanned by servants carrying palm leaves. Almast’s heart leaped when she saw him, remembering the night of passion that they’d shared together. He too sat down and a band began playing raga music. They continued for some time before a singer was brought out. She was young and lithe, with enchanting dark eyes and captivating curves. Seeing those limbs, Almast felt a surge of jealousy rush through her truncated body, but when she opened her mouth, such a heavenly sound came out that she forgot her anger and lost herself in the beautiful music. The sultan too enjoyed it, for he clapped heartily after each song and demanded more, but then, after about ten pieces, he clapped his hands thrice and the young singer stopped. Then he beckoned her over and, to Almast’s shock and horror, ordered her to strip naked before then impaling her on his now-rigid rod. The pillow gasped as, in full view of everyone, the sultan proceeded to take the (rather unwilling) girl, laughing as he did, before withdrawing before completion, ordering her to kneel in front of him, and take his tool in her hands.
“Watch this,” whispered Patil. “This is his favourite bit!” And, even as she spoke the words, warm salty seed jetted out of his member, covering the face of the weeping singer in creamy white goo. “It is considered a great honour,” continued Patil as the girl was led away.
Soon afterwards, their team of pillows was led away also.
Life as a carrier for Almast, his darling, beloved, Almast, was a surreal experience. He could hear her whispering in his ear in a manner most intimate, talking to him directly in a voice that could melt any man’s heart, yet he could never see her and he was acutely, painfully aware that she didn’t even know his identity. To her he was just a thing, a trolley to cart her truncated form around. Their relationship was like that between horse and rider except that this horse could think and feel like a human. The quiver of her heavenly whispers combined with her warmth and tantalysing curves pressed up against him, caused his member to grow rock hard which was painful because the suit that they’d put him in contained some sort of chastity device which held his cock in a sort of curved metal tube. That was fine when it was flaccid, but when he grew erect and stiffened, the tube stopped it from reaching its desired form and that hurt both physically and mentally.
And in a dark, silent world with only the whispers of his beloved and the warmth of her body pressed against him to occupy his mind, that pain was almost unceasing. When she instructed him to walk some distance with a number of stops and turns before she was then removed from his saddle and an unknown and unseen servant took hold of his leash, he was almost glad.
She was taken to her room where she was removed from her carrier and set down on the bed. Then her maid started fussing over her and beautifying her. She was bathed all over and then fragrant oils rubbed into every pore of her skin. Her brows and lashes were trimmed and extended and make-up exquisitely applied to her face. Then attentions were shifted to her nether regions. Wax was liberally applied to the whole region and then strips of paper applied. When these were removed, the pain was excruciating, but the resulting appearance, entirely denuded of hair, was remarkable.
Then her hair was braided and decorated with jewellery before golden ornaments were added to her nose ring, her ears, her navel and the piercings through her nipples. Finally ready, she was then placed on a velvet cushion and carried through to the sultan’s bedroom.
Already waiting there were her two fellow team members. They were both sitting on the bed, their backs resting against the headboard. They greeted her with smiles and when she was placed between them, both Shushan and Patil squirmed and pressed their truncated forms up against their new sister.
And then they waited.
Around half an hour later, the sultan arrived.
Shavarsh could not understand what was happening. He was led by his leash along a route that he did not recognise and then a strange voice spoke into his ears. It was neither Almast nor the voice, but a new, unknown one. It was male.
“Well done Carrier of Pillow Almast. You have done well and your sultan will now reward you. You will tonight witness the most exquisite of delights.”
The new voice finished and he felt straps being fastened around him. Then, someone fiddled around at his crotch and to his shock – and delight – he felt the chastity tube being removed. His member sprang to life. Then, his eyes cleared. He was in a tiny compartment, just big enough to house his standing form. It was entirely black save for two pinholes located in front of his eyes. He peered through them and saw a bedroom of such size and sumptuousness that he wondered if it were real.
After what seemed like an incredibly long time, the door to the bedroom opened and a maid walked in. She was carrying a cushion and, seated on the cushion, was a girl. She was an incredibly beautiful girl with eyes like sapphires and long blonde hair. What was most remarkable about her, however, was that she was totally devoid of any limbs. Where her arms and legs should have been were only smooth curves of porcelain-like skin. The maid put the cushion down, lifted the girl and seated her on the bed so that she was facing the hidden carrier. Then the maid left.
The vision before him was strange yet curiously erotic. The girl was undeniably beautiful, that was true, but it was more than that. The total lack of limbs, a mere torso waiting to be used, sexually excited Shavarsh. Her absolute helplessness and dependence aroused him in a manner that he did not understand. His member stiffened further and he felt guilty, as if he were being unfaithful to his beloved.
He gazed at this vision of female loveliness with unimaginable longing. For so long he had been denied any sight at all, condemned to a hell of blurred shapes, and now, with full sight restored, he had been given a great sight indeed to feast his eyes upon! How glorious and kind was the sultan! He stopped himself even as he thought it: glorious and kind, the man who had transformed him from an agile young gallant into a thing, condemned to carry a truncated torso on his back. He should hate, not praise such a person! Yet he was thankful, more thankful than he had ever been before in his life. To a starving man, even a morsel of stale bread is heavenly.
The door opened again and another maid walked in, also carrying a velvet cushion. And on this velvet cushion was another truncated girl. She had long ebony tresses and chocolate eyes, yet straightaway it knew that it was not her, not the one that he yearned for. This girl was placed on the bed near the other. Both visions of reduced loveliness stared back at him and his dick went into overdrive. He was desperate to touch it, to relieve the pressure; the slightest touch would cause him to erupt, but his hands were chained behind him and, squirm as he might, the belts fastening him to the wall prevented him from rubbing that throbbing tool against one of the sides of the compartment. He was in heaven and hell at the same time.
And then it got better and worse. The door opened for a third time and another truncated girl on a pillow was brought in. And this time, in an instant, he knew that it was her. His eyes drunk in that perfect face, those kind and captivating eyes, those rosebud lips just waiting for a kiss. She was placed in the middle and looked at him unknowingly whilst the other girls leaned in towards her.
All four waited.
The door opened for a final time and a man walked in. Naked and smiling, he made his way over to the bed where the three girls waited defensively. He spoke to them and picked the blonde one up. Then he kissed the second and finally lifted up Almast, talking to her and then kissing her on the lips. Jealousy and hatred coursed through Shavarsh’s veins. How dare he! She was his girl! But she wasn’t, of course; he was no longer even human, reduced to a mere thing by the man who now played with the pinnacle of female perfection.
As helpless as the girls on the bed, he watched with anger and fascination.
The Sultan lay on the centre of the bed. Then he took the black-haired girl and positioned her under his head. Shavarsh gasped in anger. He was using her, such an exquisitely beautiful creature who could melt the heart of a thousand men, merely as a pillow. He rested his head on his ample breasts, snuggling into them and then ignored her. It was wrong! So wrong! She was much more than that. And yet… yet, stripped of her limbs like that, didn’t the girl – didn’t all three of the girls – resemble pillows in a perverted way? Shavarsh tried to shake the notion from his head, but it stubbornly stayed there.
Then the sultan took the blonde girl. He lifted her up and then placed her between his hairy legs, her face just above his throbbing cock. In amazement, Shavarsh watched as the girl wrapped her mouth around it and started sucking eagerly. He was using her mouth like a love cavern! It was so wrong, so perverted and yet so absolutely erotic at the same time.
And finally, the sultan picked up Almast, his own darling, beloved, perfect, innocent, Almast. He lifted her onto his stomach and then cradled her in his arms, moving his face to hers and embracing in the most erotic and passionate fashion imaginable. Without arms she returned the embrace in every way she could, whilst the blonde sucked away on his cock and the black-haired girl gave him comfort with her breasts. The kiss was long and intense, last minutes, and only finishing when the sultan suddenly sat up, removed the blonde from his cock with a push, put his own hand around it, placed Almast on the bed, positioned himself over her and then sprayed his salty, milky seed all over her face.
He panted, exhausted by the exertions and rang a bell. Moments later, a maid arrived carrying a glass of water. The sultan greedily drank it all by himself and then got the blonde-haired girl and pushed her against Almast. The blonde licked Almast’s face clean and then the sultan discarded her, before taking the now-spotless Almast and cradling in her arms as he drifted off to sleep, his head resting on the breasts of her companion.
And as he did, Shavarsh’s vision faded into opaque again.
But the stiffness in his member did not fade away.
And there was no one to lick away the tears that soaked his face under the skin of his carrier suit.
And so the days became weeks and the weeks became months and the months became years and for Almast being a human pillow became normal.
She still thought back to the days when she was fully-limbed and could walk and run around, but the memories grew hazier and the reality of being totally dependent on others for everything became more normalised. In her dreams she sometimes walked through the streets or even copulated with a man on a bed of satin sheets, but most of the time her nights were dreamless or the copulations involved her being taken as a torso.
The same could not be said of Shavarsh. Following that night when he was given the honour of watching the sultan use one of his personal pillow teams, intense dreams filled his sleep. Every night, the moment he closed his eyes, he would see those limbless girls, those pillows of perfection, eager and ready, waiting for satisfaction. And in his dreams it was he, not the sultan, who was doing the satisfying. He would hold them in his arms, lower them lovingly on his cock, or cradle them as he drifted of to sleep. His fingers would trace their chests and his lips would meet theirs with passion. Unlike the sultan, he never relegated one to the status of a headrest and unlike the sultan he always shared his glasses of water with them.
And unlike the sultan, he never erupted all over the face of one of them, but instead would let his warm seed gush into the womb of Almast, filling her and pleasing her.
And then he would wake-up to the blurry darkness and the reality of his life as a carrier would cause him to weep whilst his member strained for that release that could never come.
All was not so bad though, for though they could never join as Shavarsh wished, he did experience Almast pressed against him every day and hear her voice lovingly whispering into his ear. She was a kind mistress. She never chastised him if he made a mistake and always thanked him at the end of the day. And during those long periods when, clad in a hot and heavy burqa, she had to watch some dull entertainment provided for the sultan (and then, invariably, him rape that entertainment for an encore) she would start a conversation with her carrier. She would whisper to him her secrets, her hopes and desires. Through those monologues, he learned that Shushan originally came from Europe and had been spotted by the sultan when he had been on a visit to Copenhagen on business. So smitten was he with her, that he’d ordered his secret police to follow her and then kidnap her before subjecting her to the honour of reduction and taking her in his bed. Her name had been Susan – or Suzie – then, but she had been renamed in Hayastani fashion and now she struggled to think of her old self. Susan was Danish and a sports-loving athlete. Shushan was a Hayastani pillow who was honoured to serve the sultan. Things were easier that way.
Patil was also not her an original name. She came from the high mountains of the Caucasus and so was renamed Patil – snowflake – because the snows lay heavy there for six months of the year. She had been engaged to a boy in her village whom she loved very much before she had caught the eye of the palace scout. She often wondered what happened to that boy and had come up with a theory – crazy in Almast’s mind – that her carrier was in fact, that boy. ‘He seems to understand me and love me; it must be him’ she had told Almast one night.
“I wish I too had had a boy that I loved and that loved me,” Almast had whispered to Shavarsh, “but, alas, my upbringing was too sheltered and protected. I saw very few boys, aside from my brothers and father of course. There was one though, a servant name Shavarsh. He used to look at me in the evenings in the garden. I thought that I didn’t know he was there, but I did. I could have told my father of course, but I did not. Dad would have beaten him soundly and banished him from the house, but I didn’t want that. You see, I rather liked him too and I used to dream about a life with him as a free peasant girl, away from all the restraints of society. In fact, at night when I dream, sometimes the man that I imagine myself lying with is him. In my dreams I am fully-limbed and I entwine my arms and legs with his and we become one. It is a beautiful dream, so much nicer than the time I spend in bed with the sultan who only cares for his own pleasure – do you know what, he has only used my holes twice in the last six months and I am so desperate for release! – but incredibly naughty. But it will never be! Ahh me! Ahh my!”
No, it never could, for that Almast was gone. Her arms and legs had been removed and then, soon afterwards, her name too, with the sultan rechristening her Lusnka – moonlight – because it was in the moonlight that he had first seen her and taken her. Almast was gone, forgotten and forsaken by everyone save her carrier who cherished her in his heart and prayed for her every day.
And although she did not know the identity of the thing that transported her around daily, she too grew fond of him, for she sensed that he wished to please her and was gentle in his movements. Indeed, on more than one occasion, while lying alone in her bed at night, she mulled over Patil’s theory of her carrier being her former beloved, before casting it from her mind. After all, she had never had a real lover; that boy in the gardens was probably married and a father by now and had forgotten that she ever existed.
And so things continued for twelve years.
Long before it happened, Almast knew that it was coming. She may have been devoid of arms and legs, but her eyes and ears still functioned perfectly, not to mention her other senses. She had seen how Patil had started to age and then, one day, how she left the team, to be replaced by a new girl who was barely sixteen. Then, a year later, the same happened with Shushan. Her two closest friends gone, she never felt happy working with the two younger girls, even though they were both sweet and lovely. Time was ticking by and soon the clock would strike for her too.
When Patil had left, they’d had a little party for her. The pillows had gathered in a circle and, as a rare treat, were fed wine and fine morsels by their maids while music played. It had been marvellous fun and had made Almast long to be fully-limbed once again so she could have danced to the lively tunes. Then Patil was fastened onto her carrier, a fine white burqa draped over her, and led away to her new life.
The burqa had been white because the sultan, pleased with the years of service that she had rendered him, had deigned, in his infinite kindness, to find her a husband with whom she could live out the rest of her days and bear children. Almast had wondered just what sort of man would want a reduced torso as a spouse, but then remembered how much the sultan himself, the finest of all men, loved limbless ladies, and figured that the honour of marrying a girl who had coupled with the sultan would be great indeed. No hints though, were ever given as to who he was. Patil was not even told a name. She was just informed that he was waiting and that was that.
And so too had it been with Shushan.
And so too was it today with her.
“The sultan wishes to reward the pillow Lusnka for the countless hours of pleasure that she has rendered him,” read out the maid in a very formal voice to the assembled pillows. Almast smiled inwardly. Over the last year or more, those hours of pleasure had grown noticeably fewer and fewer. These days she was rarely called to the honour of embracing him or engulfing his tool in her mouth, let alone having her intimate channels used. The younger girls always got those honours nowadays whilst she was relegated to the honour of cushioning his head as he received pleasure and then slept. And looking in the mirror, she understood why. Her sheen and sparkle had faded and wrinkles were appearing around her eyes. He was no longer attracted to her.
“In his infinite kindness and generosity, our Gracious Lord and Master has located a husband for you. You shall be wed next Wednesday and then will start life afresh as a married woman. On Tuesday he has graciously agreed to fund a leaving party for you to celebrate your coming nuptials with your sister pillows.”
And so it was that today her head was dizzy with wine while a white burqa was lowered over her head before she tearfully left the pillows who had been her sisters and friends for all of her adult life.
Wearing her wedding burqa she was carried on a cushion by her maid out of the room. She could not tell where she was going because the burqa incorporated a piece of cloth behind the grille which blinded her completely. In a white haze she merely travelled, leaning against the chest of the maid who carried her. She wondered why her carrier was not being used but then wondered if he had not been transferred to another pillow now. After all, since she no longer served the sultan, did she deserve such an honour? The thought of never seeing her carrier again saddened her and tears fell from her eyes. Despite the fact that it could never speak to her and she could never see it, all those years of being pressed against it, their two bodies acting as one, she the eyes and ears, it the legs, had caused her to have great affection for it. Many’s the time when she’d wondered what it had been like when it was human, what the man had looked like, and what he was called. She would never know, of course.
Almast felt herself being placed down on the seat of a car. A strap when across her chest to secure her and then the engine started. She hadn’t been in a car – or indeed, out of the palace – for years, and she found it all extremely exciting. She wished that she could see out of the window at the passing world.
They drove for an indeterminate length of time and then the car stopped and she was unfastened and carried out. Again, the maid walked her for a while and then she felt herself being set down again. Then the burqa was removed.
She was in a bedchamber. Far humbler than the one that she had slept in whilst living in the palace, and a world away from the regal chamber where the sultan had taken her and the other pillows after nightfall. But it was still a pleasant, well-appointed room, with a double bed and beautiful tapestries on the walls. It also had a dressing table. Her maid carried her to this and braided her hair, reapplied her make-up and then doused her in pleasing scents. Then she was carried onto the bed and lain there. The maid left and she waited for her husband.
After a few minutes, the door opened but, to Almast’s astonishment, no husband entered and instead, in walked her carrier. Overjoyed to see it again, she cried happily, “You’re here! I so feared we would never be together again!” Then she stopped and a frown crossed her face. “But you should leave,” she said gravely. “I am waiting for my husband here and if you are found in my bedchamber there might be trouble. Go now!”
But the carrier did not go.
Almast realised that it probably could not hear her as they were not connected. “You can’t hear me, but go! I don’t want you to be in trouble, darling carrier!”
Again, it did not go. Instead it shook its head and walked towards her.
“You can hear me?” she asked, surprised.
“Then why don’t you go? I’m waiting for my husband! You’ll get in trouble!”
Then, to her shock and amazement, the carrier walked over to the dressing table and picked up a notepad and pen that were lying there. This was the first time that Almast had ever seen it allowed free use of its hands. Normally, they were chained together (usually behind, occasionally in front) and encased in padded mitts. Today they were free. In shaky writing as if not used to holding a pen, the carrier wrote:
I AM YOUR HUSBAND.
Almast read, stunned. This thing, more animal than human, was her spouse! It was horrible and yet, at the same time, it had been human once before. Indeed, it still was human, save for a crooked spine and being encased in a suit. Or was it? Instinctively she looked down. Where previously there had always been a sealed cover, a very human male tool sprang up menacingly.
“You truly are my husband!” she said with a gasp.
It – he – wrote again.
I AM SHAVARSH.
Shavarsh… Shavarsh… where had she heard that name before? Then the penny dropped. Shavarsh was the name of that servant boy who had adored her and spied on her. “Shavarsh who was a servant in my father’s house? Shavarsh who peeped on me in the garden?”
He nodded and wrote again.
I HAVE LOVED YOU ALL MY LIFE AND I LOVE YOU STILL. CAN YOU LOVE ME EVEN LIKE THIS?
She looked at his modified form and then remembered what had been done to her. She remembered his youthful adoration and remembered her own. She remembered the years when he had served her faithfully, anonymously, and remembered her own closeness to him. She gazed at his rock-hard tool and remembered her own need for fulfillment.
“Of course I can! There is no one I could love more.”
And with those words he walked over and joined her on the bed.
Ten years later
The sky is still dark and the world is sleeping. Onto the terrace comes a shadowy shape, a grotesque, deformed creature like something one may read about in a children’s tale. You, the onlooker are shocked, but that surprise only increases when the creature’s arms reach out and then lift the head and torso from its own body! Then you realise, with morbid fascination: this is not one being but two, a fully-limbed human with a curiously-deformed spine and a limbless torso.
It is Shavarsh and his beloved wife Almast.
He carefully places her down on the chair and then sits beside her. Together, noiselessly, they wait as they do every morning while their children sleep soundly in their beds.
Then, slowly, a slivver of sun appears and the fingers of dawn creep across the horizon. The new day has arrived. Shavarsh hugs his wife with silent joy; a wife who can never hug him back and will never see his face nor hear his voice. It does not matter though. They are together forever.
His youthful prayers have been answered.