With great thanks to Cafterhomme for editing support, innumerable suggestions, and online conversations where these bizarre scenaria were mulled over and formed into something solid from the murky mass that existed in my mind.
Thanks also to Slothargy for the incredible artwork accompanying this tale.
Chapter 3
And there I could end my story. Indeed, perhaps I should. After all, is that not where all the best stories end? After enduring trials and tribulations severe, the hero gets the beautiful maiden, they join together and live happily ever after. The end.
But this is real life and not a story, and in real life things are never so clear cut. Yes, I did get the girl, but she was married to someone else. And, in the joy of being with her, I almost forgot something important: she wasn’t the only girl in my life. Nor indeed, was she even my first love.
Brigid O’Leary. Dear, sweet Brigid. I had imagined her to be not only my first love, but also my true love. That evening when I had sat in the back of the church and watched her get sealed into that anonymising latex costume, something in me had died. I had – and have – never felt angst and pain like it. My heart’s desire had been to save that innocent maiden, and yet I was reduced to naught but a helpless spectator. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces because I had failed in my life’s true goal.
Or at least, that is how I saw it all back then. With the benefit of hindsight, I now realise that the agony was due more to another factor, one far more selfish. The moment that hood was fitted over her frightened face, Brigid died. Brigid O’Leary, that smiling, innocent, pretty schoolgirl was gone forever. Yet unlike a normal death, there was no grave to kneel at here. Instead, there was Sister Brigid, living and breathing, yet faceless and inhuman. My brain knew that she was in there and yet I struggled to connect that surreal silhouette with the girl I had once known. I went to her, became her confessor, with the aim of giving her some modicum of comfort, and yet I failed in that mission also. Nor too did I merely fail, but my body betrayed my mind and soul. I wanted to hate what she had become and yet whenever I saw that taut, shiny latex, those enormous, hard, milk-filled mammaries, that faceless ovoid where a head should be, I felt excited, stimulated, lust-driven. Finding relief in the valley between the tits of a Milk Sister was an experience like no other and, even after a satisfying night with Caroline in her grand four-poster, I would occasionally find myself waking up in a sweat, my mind still swimming with Milk Sister dreams.
And one night, after I had been in Kildare Hall for around a couple of months, these thoughts overwhelmed me.
In a way, it was partially Caroline’s fault, not that she did anything deliberately. To spice up our lovemaking, she had commanded me to lay my tool in the warm valley between her own bountiful breasts, and obtain release that way. And when I did so, culminating in me erupting with jets of milky seed all over her beautiful visage, the memories of those Milk Sisters came flooding back and, inexplicably to Caroline, I burst into tears and collapsed atop of my lover. She comforted me the best that she could in her bound state, covering my cheeks with her kisses, and, when I had recovered, she asked what the matter was, thinking, mistakenly, that I was weeping for the fact that she was married to another. And so I told her. I told her about the girl that I had loved at school and the Milk Sister that she had become. I told her about the extraordinary condition those pious nuns are kept in and the lives that they lead, holy undoubtedly, yet perverse also. And she listened intently, kissed me on the lips and whispered softly, “Do not fear, Mike, Brigid is gone. It is not your fault; it is no one’s fault but that of the evil organisation that turned her into that thing. You cannot save her now just as you never could then; do not blame yourself and do not live in the past. You must move on, as she has undoubtedly.” And, of course, her words rang with the clarion bell of truth and they provided comfort and, that night, that first love of mine was consigned to a drawer in the history cupboard of my life; not forgotten and occasionally opened and revisited, but not stopping me from living in the present.
Brigid, however, was only one of the two girls in my past and, a month after Caroline and I had laid her ghost to rest, the other spectre from my past re-entered our lives.
Now let me make one thing clear from the onset: I never loved nor even longed for Grainne McGrath like I did Brigid O’Leary and Caroline Connellan. But spending so much time with the sweet and innocent girl; kissing her lips every night and cuddling up to her fluffy bunny form in bed, had caused me to develop an affection for her, different to that felt for the others maybe, but genuine all the same. For Grainne was quite the contrast to her friend Caroline; whereas Caroline was forward, Grainne was shy; whilst Caroline’s beauty was regal, Grainne was the girl-next-door. And whilst Caroline took active control of her life against all the odds (it was always she who called the shots during our night-time romps), Grainne seemed forever to be the passive recipient.
Therefore, that morning when Lord Kildare announced at breakfast that his old chum John Hart was coming to stay with his wife, then my heart skipped a beat. “I daresay you’ll be happy to reacquaint yourself with your old school friend, dear,” he said to Caroline. She did not reply as her fleur de bouche was still in place, but she nodded the little that her neck corset would allow. “And I believe that you know Mrs. Hart too, Michael, is that not so?”
“Indeed it is, Hugh. She was one of my pupils, and a charming one at that. It shall be lovely to see young Grainne again.”
“That it shall, Michael, that it shall, although I should warn you; John’s gone and renamed her. She is Grainne no longer, but instead Mrs. Love Hart.”
Renaming wives was not de rigueur then as it has become during this era of dollification. Indeed, it was virtually unheard of, and I cannot say that I approved. In my mind I wondered what sort of husband would feel the need to rename his wife, and particularly with such a, well… silly, moniker. The moment that they arrived I learnt the answer to that question.
When I first clasped eyes on Mrs. Love Hart, I wondered if this was perhaps someone whom I had never met before. She had changed. Nay, she had been changed. Trust me, there is a difference.
She arrived on the arms of her spouse, the famed fashion designer, John Hart. He carried himself in a way that seemed almost feminine and he betrayed his trade through his apparel. I am no expert in the world of clothing, my lot being consigned to wearing the black robes of my vocation, but I could tell immediately that the walking suit that he wore was not only expertly tailored, but also unique. The colour – a light cream – was one that I had never before seen used in men’s tailoring, and on the pocket was tastefully embroidered her emblem, a small red heart which of course, was a play on his name.
But if he hinted at his work through his attire, his spouse positively shouted it to the world. She was wearing a travelling dress of course, for they had had a long journey to get to the hall, but this incorporated a vast crinoline over which was stretched a gown of deep pink printed with hundreds of tiny black hearts. Her upper body was hidden by a heavy mantle in grey fur, also punctuated by countless hearts, although these took the form of (I assume faux) rubies. On her head she wore an absolutely enormous travelling bonnet with a long poke, the opening to which was hidden by a piece of pink satin (again, decorated with hearts) so thick that I doubted the wearer could see anything through it (certainly, judging by her gait and his firm hold on her, it seemed as if she were blind).
After entry, the mantle was first removed to reveal a waist of astonishing minuteness (although after so long in the school, such things no longer shocked me), picked out by a golden belt some three inches or so thick, with a prominent (yes, you guessed it) heart engraved on the clasp. Above this, the body widened out into an impressive bosom, easily the equal of Caroline’s own magnificent, enhanced chest, yet not up to the dimensions of a Milk Sister. Her arms were ensconced in beret sleeves as was the mode, but, contrary to the majority of the other Ladies of Leisure, they were not folded within those balloons of pink material, but instead nestled before her waist demurely, held in place within a furry scarlet heart with the letters ‘Love Hart’ stitched on the front.
Having taken in the intriguing vision, it came time for the final reveal, and the great bonnet was removed and, when the wearer came into view, I do confess that all three of us gasped in astonishment. Gone was the homely schoolgirl that I had once known as Grainne McGrath and in her place stood… well, something very different.
Her mousey hair was now dyed a brilliant pink and cascaded in ringlets down either side of her face. That face was so heavily made-up that she appeared more like a doll than a living person, with almost porcelain white skin, smooth and flawless, obviously false and drawn on brows and enormous lashes. Of her mouth I could see naught, for it was filled, not with the more common fleur de bouche such as Caroline was currently modelling, but instead what looked like an infant’s dummy, save that this dummy was significantly larger, bright pink, and, of course, heart shaped.
Most arresting of all though, were her eyes, for these were not the eyes that I had gazed into countless times. The grey irises were now a deep pink whilst the pupils, incredibly, were more prominent and no longer circular, but heart-shaped. She looked inhuman, scary almost, and yet, at the same time, I was transfixed.
As the bonnet was removed, she flicked those arresting eyes towards her husband as if asking for something, but he shook his head and she lowered her gaze.
“So, my old friend, what do you think of my latest creation, eh? May I introduce Love Hart!”
“Bloody hell, Johnnie boy, when you said you were making a masterpiece, I never thought that you would go so far. But she is something; that I must say.”
“Something? This little doll of mine is nothing yet; why, the painting has only just begun. When you see what is to come, your eyes will pop out of your head with amazement!”
As he said those words, I noticed her eyes dart up to his as if fearful.
We retired to the drawing room and he helped seat his wife on a straight-backed chair whilst Hugh did the same for Caroline. I stayed in the background, it not being my place to interfere in such aristocratic chatter. The two men began to talk as the servants brought wine, whilst the ladies sat in elegant silence. Then Hugh turned to his old friend and said, “Should we not let these two gals catch-up, old bean?”
“Perhaps we should, and I think you’ll be intrigued by Love’s final little surprise.”
My ears pricked up. What had his devilish mind thought up now?
Hugh got up, went over to Caroline and expertly removed her fleur de bouche, before taking the glass of lemon water proffered by the maid which he brought to her lips so she could refresh her mouth. Then John arose and went over to his own spouse. He slowly pulled out the pink dummy which had a rather long and thick protrusion attached to its back. This was not overly surprising – I had been around high society enough to normalise the preponderance of phallic insertions into ladies’ mouths – but what was shocking was that once the dummy was removed, Love’s tongue also began to exit her mouth. Confused, I looked closer and realised that the dummy was actually attached to a short golden chain, which was itself attached to a large piercing that graced the centre of Love’s tongue. With the dummy removed, her tongue hung out of her mouth like that of a dog.
“By gawd, Johnnie, is that thing permanent?”
“Indeed it is, and isn’t it bally good? I’m marketing them as Love Dummies and they are going to be the sensation of the season. After all, ladies of distinction like Love here rarely need to speak and with this elegant accessory in their mouths, then their voices become delightfully silly. Love, say something for old Johnnie here won’t you, my little doll?”
“Thyour those ith abtholutethy wontherfuth!” said Love, her words slurred and indistinct, like those of a baby rather than a fully grown woman.”
“Well, what ho!” said Hugh, slapping his thigh. “What say I fit you with one of those, eh, Caroline?”
If looks could kill, both men would have dropped down dead in an instant.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. John, it transpired, was the friend whom Hugh was devoted to and who had shared in his Arabian misadventure. The two were obviously close, and after only an hour or so, Hugh suggested, “Why don’t you two ladies retire for the night to chat. Caroline has asked if you may sleep with her in her bed tonight as she misses the days when you shared a room at school, and I have agreed.” As he said these words, he glanced at me and I understood the hint.
“I shall also take my leave, Your Lordship,” I said. “I have my prayers to attend to and it has been a long day.”
I entered the bedroom as I always did, excessively quietly so as not to disturb any servants who might be creeping about where they should not, inching open the door to the cavern of pleasures beyond, and then carefully locking it behind me in case any butler should inadvertently enter. That evening though, my member was straining against its prison even more than usual, for the prospect of not one but two beautiful women awaited me on the bed. Holding my lamp up high, I slowly drew back the curtain to reveal the treasures within and, when I did so, I almost dropped that lamp in shock.
Only one woman was waiting for me and that was the one that I was used to coupling with. Unlike on every other night however, Caroline was not trussed up in her usual bedroom attire, but instead sat naked wearing naught but her night stays, cruelly laced, a pear gag, and a monoglove which pinioned her arms behind her, causing those juicy melons on her chest to be thrust out.
And unlike usually, she was draped across, not her quilt and pillows, but instead a large plush cushion in the shape of a heart. I looked at her quizzically and she motioned with her eyes for me to remove the gag. I willingly did so and embraced her eager lips with ardour. Then, when I withdrew, I began to ask her where Love Hart was when, in an instant, I realised with a jolt.
Her friend was the cushion that she was draped over.
“What has he done to her?” I whispered.
“She tells me that she always sleeps like that. I saw them put her in it; it’s horrible! Within that thing she is held completely motionless, her legs bound to her bottom and spread, her arms similarly bound, and her mouth filled with that hateful dummy.”
“Can she see?”
“Not a thing, nor, I imagine, can she hear a great deal. Her head is surrounded by padding.”
“And breathe?”
“Tubes in her nose lead out to here.” She motioned to the tip of the heart with her head and I looked carefully. Two tiny holes could be seen in the plush. I placed my finger over one of them and could feel the warm air being emitted before the cooler air was sucked in.
“But how am I to…?”
“Check out the other end.”
“I manoeuvred myself across the bed until I was facing the two bulges of the heart. There where they met, I discerned a small button. I pressed it and a flap opened to reveal a waiting vagina.
A vagina most unlike the only other one that I had ever seen.
Whereas Caroline’s love cavern was a veritable celebration of her femininity with its lacings and nub adornment, Love Hart’s seemed to almost wish it did not exist, as if a doll should not possess something so basely human. Rather than a baroque flowering of folds, in its place was a simple hairless slit, barely an inch in length.
“What?!” I cried in amazement.
“The cruel tyrant has doctored her down there. Her pleasure nubbin has either been removed or is buried within her – she is unsure which.”
“Can she not feel pleasure then?”
“She says no, not by casual touching as all women can, although she did tell me that she felt something on the one occasion when her beast of a husband tried penetrating her with his rod.”
“I thought that he suffered from the same affliction as Hugh?!”
“He does, but John is more experimental. He wanted to try it once, the day after she returned from the hospital, ‘to see what all the fuss is about’. He was not impressed apparently and has not touched her since.”
What I was witnessing chilled me to the bone and yet, perversely, at the same time, I felt excited by the thought of this doll, barely a woman any longer, so controlled and altered, and I longed to thrust my own rod in that unadorned orifice. Yet I did not have my key. I turned to Caroline and made to unlace her down below when I was stopped. She was wearing another piece of apparel that I had not formerly noticed.
The chastity belt that had plagued us at the school.
She laughed. “Hugh says that you have a job to do tonight and he does not want your little man distracted by my hole when it should be in hers. I told him that was intolerably unfair, which is why he let me wear this easier bedtime outfit. However, as for those damned pants; he holds the key I’m afraid, and I wouldn’t want to disturb him tonight.
My mind formed an image of what Lord Kildare and John Hart might be doing together and I shuddered. She was right.
“So where is it then?”
“I’ll tell you when you unlace my monoglove.”
“Won’t Hugh object?”
“If you lace it back on in the morning, he will never know. Besides, you know how I cannot get comfortable in those damned things. The idea of wearing one to bed is preposterous.”
I slowly and carefully unlaced the restraining sleeve and then drew it off her. She rolled her shoulders and flexed her arms for a few minutes as the blood returned to those beleaguered appendices and then, for the first time ever, threw them around my neck and brought me down on the cushion that was her best friend, in a passionate embrace. “You don’t know how much I have wanted to do that over the years,” she said laughing when she eventually withdrew.
“But where is the key?” I hissed.
“Reach inside,” she replied, pointing to her friend’s waiting vagina. I carefully slipped my finger into the tight slit and yes, there inside was something hard and metal. Slipping a second finger in, I drew it out and held up the key to my cage. Then Caroline took it and sprung open the trap. Immediately she took my rock-hard member in her hand and started massaging it up and down until I was on the brink. “Stop!” I cried. “I have a job to do, remember!”
She smiled coquettishly, and climbed atop her entrammelled companion, causing a groan to emit from deep within the padding, doubtless at the weight of her significant derriere on the unseen girl’s chest. Then she drew me to her and guided my tool into the waiting slit, whilst bringing me close to her chest and letting our lips meet in passionate embrace. Together, we began to establish a rhythm as our tongues entwined. It was surreal. To any observer, it would look as if I were embracing and copulating with my love, yet in reality my dick was pumping in and out of the vagina of a different girl entirely, a girl rendered entirely immovable and incommunicado. With such thoughts swimming through my head and Caroline’s expert tongue playing with my own, it was not long before I became the first man to ever erupt within the unusual love cavern of the fashion icon Love Hart whose muffled groans kept us both company.
Around an hour later, as Caroline lay in my arms and I twirled her hair between my fingers, I suggested that we honour Love one more time. With those words though, her visage turned stern and she replied, “Love has already had her quota for the evening! It is my turn now!
“But, how can I? Hugh has locked away your hole!”
“A lady has more than one hole I’ll have you know, Fr. Daly, and these chastity pants have a removable plug for me to emit waste!”
And with those words, she climbed atop that large red cushion again, this time on her front, and thrust her ample bottom towards my face.
How could I refuse such an invitation?
The following day, with Love out of her cushion and back into her frippery, I was asked to come to a private chamber to administer her confession. I went willingly, of course, for I still had my priestly duties to discharge, even if my faith was not what it once had been. Besides, this was the woman that I had made love to only the night before and so we shared an unmistakably intimate bond.
When I entered the room, she looked up and smiled at me with her eyes. I carefully removed her dummy, but it stayed attached to her tongue by its golden chain. “Is there really no way to detach this infernal thing?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “Thno, thit iththoldered thut. Thit can nether be remothed.”
“Oh Grainne, I am so–”
“Ton’t thay thath name, I cannoth bear to heah ith a-oud, I mith ith tho…”
Listening to her was a trial, trying to understand the ill-formed words, but I persevered, for it was clear that she was desperate to talk to someone.
“Father,” you do not know how hard things have been for me since I got married to that fiend, that monster.” She looked so sad as she talked and tears flowed from her eyes. “All I wanted was a husband who would love me and yet he only loves himself… and Lord Kildare, yet even that is a form of vanity I feel, and I think if he were not a lord, then the bond between them might not be so unbreakable. To him, I am not a human, not even a woman, merely an object, a mannequin upon which to try out his ridiculous fashion designs, an elegant and expensive ornament. The only reason that he has let me come here and lie with you is because he cannot bear the thought of sullying himself with a woman, and because he needs an heir so someone else must do it.”
Evidently, John Hart had not thought to tell his wife of his past indiscretions and, ahem, shortcomings, down there. Which of course fitted with her assessment of his vanity.
“But I am glad that it was you and not him who finished in me first,for you are far more a man than he ever will be, and much more loving and caring. Indeed, if I were able to choose my husband myself, then a man like you would be exactly the sort that I would pick!”
“Although not a priest I hope!” I commented as a joke, and the quip made her smile and eyes sparkle.
“I enjoyed it last night,” she continued, “even ensconced within that hateful cushion. I wanted to hold onto you so dearly, yet it held onto me without fail or faltering. I felt you enter me and it was incredible, and when the seed jetted inside — I didn’t know I would feel that, so splendid! I prayed silently for a child. Who knows, perhaps when I have conceived, then he will look more kindly upon me and let me live a more usual life.”
“Perhaps he will,” I replied soothingly, stroking her cheek with my hands, wiping those tears away, although even as I said the words, I doubted that wish would ever be granted. From the little that I knew of John Hart, the opposite would be more likely the case.
That evening at dinner, Lord Kildare proudly announced that Caroline was pregnant with their first child, and my heart gave a leap of paternal glee.
The Harts stayed for a full week, John and Hugh heading off every day to hunt or travel, leaving Love and Caroline together in strict bondage at home. Every night though, I thrust my tool into that motionless heart, listening intently for any muffled moans of pleasure from within.
They left on the Friday, and the following Monday we received a telegramme. Mrs. Love Hart had conceived a child with her husband whilst at Kildare Hall and was in excellent health and spirits.
I was now truly going to become a father. Not once, but twice!
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