Teddy Boy: Part 3

Part 2

Chapter 5

The wedding signified a real change in things, namely the start of Charlotte’s womanly education and the presence of Miss Ross. Nowadays, rather than continual carefree play, for several hours a day, they were all confined to the nursery whilst Charlotte had her lessons.

But these lessons were not like in any normal school. For starters, a lot of them focussed on new items of attire. Whereas previously, she had been allowed to run around with only her tights or stockings on, now Charlotte was made to wear high-heels at all times, starting with a pair of Mary Jane’s with 5cm heels, but getting progressively higher. Furthermore, for the lessons themselves, she was now forced to wear something called a monoglove which kept her arms pinioned behind her, palm-to-palm, elbow-to-elbow, in a single leather sleeve behind her back, “out of harm’s way” as Miss Ross put it. Charlotte hated it. She threw tantrums and screamed and cried, but Miss Ross merely added a gag until she subsided.

“Most women expect their wives to be bound in this way as it is elegant and reduces temptation,” the governess explained patiently for what seemed to Bernie like the four hundredth time. Afterwards though, Charlotte still complained. When the governess was gone and she was sitting in the room with the teddies, she would lament to them, “Oh, it’s so unfair! Why should I have to live like this, my feet and arms aching and hurting and useless in this infernal sleeve! No one has suffered like I have, no one!” The irony of saying this to two people who had had all four limbs amputated was entirely lost on Charlotte Harrison; however, after all, she did not see them as people in the first place. Nonetheless, Bernie uttered a heartfelt, “Don’t feel sad!” and Bambi added, “Please smile for me!” which cheered her up a little and made her nuzzle their faces with her own.

The education was not all about restriction, however. Instead, the teddies were used to demonstrate wifely behaviour to Charlotte. The girl-woman was made to watch them kissing one another, and then to practise her own skills on both teddies in turn, something that Bernie did not mind at all, causing him to exclaim “That feels good!” repeatedly. That, however, was only the prelude.

About a fortnight or so after their wedding, Miss Ross said to Charlotte, “Now Miss Harrison, do you know what it is that husband’s and wives do together when they are in bed together?”

“This kiss, of course, like we have been practising!”

“Indeed they do, but that is not all. As well as kissing, they also do something else. All men have something down below like a sausage and all women have a slit like you do. What husbands and wives do is this: the men put their sausage into the woman’s slit.”

“Eugh! That is horrible!”

“It sounds it, doesn’t it, but in fact most of them really enjoy doing it. They enjoy it so much that they sometimes want to do it all the time. Your husband will want you to do it and so it is something that you must learn, and our friends Bernie and Bambi are here to help us. Now, they are married, they too should be doing the sausage and slit thing which we call sex, so shall we help them?”

At these words, Bernie’s ears picked up. “Surely not?!” He looked at Bambi who appeared as surprised as he was.

But then Miss Ross gave Charlotte a little golden key. His mistress inserted it in the golden padlock and turned. The lock slid open and she unzipped his crotch. His member sprung up, rigid and aching.

“Is that the sausage? How funny it looks!”

“Stroke it, Charlotte, feel it!”

“That feels good!” said Bernie chirpily.

And with those words, the gorgeous girl-woman started stroking his cock, giggling all the while. “It’s so warm and hard!” she tittered.

“And so it is, but it needs to go somewhere other than your hand. Unlock and unzip Bambi now.”

And before Bernie knew what was happened, Bambi’s crotch flap was open, and her moist and expectant slit was waiting for him. Chrissie Bailey’s moist and expectant slit; he was about to fuck the most eligible girl in school… who was also his wife… and a teddy bear. It was fucked up, it was weird, but it was… heavenly. His mistress grabbed Bambi and slowly manoeuvred her onto Bernie’s waiting spear. Bernie felt his member engulfed in the warm, fleshy cavern whilst their lips met, and they dissolved into a passionate embrace, Bambi squealing “That feels good!” and “You’re good at this!” repeatedly whilst Bernie rhythmically moved his tool inside her, as he squeaked, “I love you!”

Those brief minutes that followed, far too brief, were the most incredible in Bernie Bear’s life, and when he exploded deep within the teddy bear he loved, he truly felt complete, immersed in blissful happiness.

For the first time since his teddification, he felt glad to be alive.

“Is that it?” asked Charlotte confused and a tad disappointed.

It was it, but there was more. Charlotte could not have sex herself because of the plastic chastity belt that she must wear until her husband unlocked it on their wedding night, but she could do a lot more and she had two teddies to teach her to do it. After witnessing them copulate, Miss Ross gave Charlotte a strap-on faux cock and had her practise on Bambi whilst Bernie watched. His poor mind was all over the place; the juxtaposition of such a childlike person in a childish room committing such an adult act on his… wife, well, it was… mind-bending.

With Charlotte’s sixteenth birthday, came more changes. Her heels were now a full 10cm high and were now white boots rather than shoes as her ankles needed the extra support. Furthermore, a new item was added to her wardrobe, called a cincher which went around her waist and made it smaller. With these changes in dress came oral sex and, after watching Bambi perform on her husband, Charlotte was then made to have a go. Bernie could not believe his luck as this gorgeous sixteen-year-old knelt down in front of him and sucked and licked him to completion before he erupted, firstly all over her face and then down her throat (and Miss Ross made her swallow the seed and thank him for it). She also provided hand jobs (which Charlotte enjoyed since it meant time out of the monoglove) and then, after six months and more of perfecting her oral and manual skills (on both bears), came the next level.

One day in the lesson, Miss Ross propped both teddies up in front of her charge and asked her if she had noticed any difference in their appearances. Charlotte shook her head and so she asked her to look harder and then the girl-woman clicked and exclaimed, “Are Bambi Bear’s titties bigger than they used to be?”

“Indeed they are, but what about Bernie Bear?”

“His tummy looks rounder,” Charlotte giggled.

“Well done, and so it is. Bambi and Bernie are like real human beings in that way. Women should have large round titties because it pleases their husbands, whilst men should have large round tummies because it shows they are clever and handsome.”

“But I think they look better with smaller tummies!” protested Charlotte.

“Well then you are thinking wrong,” replied Miss Ross. “You should want a man with a large round tummy that you can rest your head against at night, and I am sure that your daddy will find you one who is delightfully fat and flabby. But that is only half of it; you need big titties and the ones that you have at the moment are only tiny girly titties.”

“How can I keep my husband happy then?”

“Oh, don’t you worry; a nice kind doctor will make your titties big and round just like your mummy’s. However, what I want you to do is feel Bambi’s and then we’ll play a little game with Bernie’s sausage.”

To be honest, Bernie had felt his suit getting tighter over the months (and he suspected that on more than one occasion, it had been swapped for a larger one when he was being cleaned), and it was hardly surprising that he was putting on weight since essentially, he and Bambi could not do any exercise to burn fat off with their new, truncated forms. And he had definitely noticed her larger tits, which he had suspected were as much due to some sort of implantation as to the build-up of fatty tissue. Now he realised that their new body shapes were entirely intended; as with everything else in their lives, it was all to further Charlotte’s education. Obviously, the man that her father had chosen for her was obese, so her male teddy had to be chubby too.

Not that he minded when he found out what the “little game” was. It involved unlocking his crotch, taking out his member and Charlotte bringing him to fulfilment by placing it between his teddy wife’s furry tits and rubbing them up and down until he exploded all over Bambi’s surprised face. “That tastes yummy!” she exclaimed, as the governess and her pupil clapped with joy.

“Will I be expected to have by husband rub his sausage between my titties one day?” asked the innocent young lady when they had calmed down.

“You most certainly will,” replied Miss Ross firmly.

And nor too was that the final stage of Charlotte’s sexual education. One day Bambi was upended, her bottom plug removed, and her husband’s cock freed from its prison. “Some husbands like to use this hole as well, which is why you must be trained here too, Charlotte,” the governess explained, before smothering Bernie’s excited tool in oil and slowly manoeuvring it into his wife’s tight bottom hole. This experience excited the blue teddy bear as much as all the others and he was soon shooting his load deep into Bambi’s bowels as he squeaked, “That feels good! You’re my favourite girl!”

Nor too were the only ones he was ejaculating into. After the initial demonstration, a small pearl bottom plug became part of Charlotte’s daily attire and, after a few weeks, Bernie found his mistress on all fours before him, whilst the governess slowly fed his cock into her waiting asshole. The feeling of tightness and of power over the very person who dominated his life, coupled with the fact that, for the first time in his life he was having genuine penetrative sex with a “real” girl (and a pretty one at that) caused him to explode within her after only a few thrusts, whilst she groaned in a mixture of pain, humiliation and ecstasy.

Their lives were transformed. On her seventeenth birthday, Charlotte was presented with a love ball which, that evening, was inserted into her forbidden vagina (whilst she was restrained, the chastity belt being reapplied straight afterwards). This kept her constantly aroused and frustrated and so, even when the lessons had finished, the passion play continued. Nor too was it the only change for poor Charlotte, for the high-heeled boots she now had to wear were so extreme that they reached to her thighs and incorporated heels that forced her to stand on her tippy-toes like a ballet-dancer, making walking tiring and unsteady. These days, Charlie would come into the bedroom even whilst his big sister was there and just carry the bears off, and, trammelled as she was, she was helpless to do anything about it except scream or cry.

Charlie’s games though, whilst childish, did afford some diversion. Rather than just hiding the bears, these days he would act out role plays with them. He would put a policeman’s, or fireman’s helmet on Bernie and pretend that the bear was one of the emergency services, or make him a soldier or mediaeval knight. For Bambi though, the role was always the same: a helpless maiden who needed to be rescued and protected by a man. Pretty soon, Bernie realised that the boys in this hateful elite were being brainwashed just as much as the girls, but he didn’t really mind so long as he got to rescue his beloved Bambi and give her a passionate kiss on the lips at the end.

When Bella came round, although both girls were almost permanently strapped into armbinders, the two tortured teens spent all their time kissing or rubbing against one another or the teddies, whilst at night Bernie found his mistress rubbing away at his imprisoned cock, or passionately kissing him, or ordering him to suck on her nipples whilst Bambi used her tongue on her bottom hole. Although still stuck in a child’s world, everything had suddenly become very adult.

And six months later, things got ratcheted up even further, for the guest of honour that day was none other than Mr. Jon Parker, her fiancé. The teddies did not meet him, of course, since they were left in the bedroom, but they heard all about him afterwards; how he was thirty-five years old and rather portly, and how the wedding was scheduled for only six months hence.

Although they never met Jon, his arrival onto the scene did have another, most unexpected impact on the days when he came round. Then, they would be removed from the bedroom (in case the young lovers wanted to retire there to let Charlotte practise her newly-learned oral skills), and they would find themselves carried to an even grander bedroom where two people were waiting for them. The first was the man whom Bernie hated more than any other, Charlotte’s father, the architect of all their distress. He would be accompanied though, by a young and very attractive lady wearing only panties and with her arms laced up in a monoglove. Her name, they learned, was Bosom, and she was another victim of the N-TES scheme, her “national service” being to serve as Mrs. Harrison’s official companion, a role that, for some reason, involved her having her breasts augmented to the size of basketballs and spending most of her days almost naked and restrained in the bed of Mr. Harrison.

bosom

And whilst the head of the household was unzipping Bambi’s crotch and having his wicked way with her, Pillows was kindly allowed to have her monoglove removed and could retire to a sitting room where she would sit Bernie on her lap, his head nestled in those magnificent breasts, and tell him all her woes.

She knew a lot more about N-TES because her master, one of the architects of the system, regularly boasted to her in bed about his power and the genius of it all. For starters, the lottery was not random; instead only the prettiest girls were chosen, and there were many more roles than mere teddy bears and companions to the mistress. She told him of a house that she’d been to full of living bunnies and puppies, and another with truncated girls serving as pillows for the men that owned them.

She also spoke at length about the lot of the women in these twisted group of billionaires who controlled the governments and the economy. How their husbands married them for life and augmented them with surgery into hideous dolls, parodies of female sexuality with enormous breasts and bottoms, or puffed-up lips. Even with this though, most bored of their wives after they’d hit thirty-five, as had been the case with Mr. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison still lived in the house of course and was still afforded all the honour and status of a wife, but she never shared his bed, which was now reserved for Bosom. For the first time since his arrival in this world, Bernie Bear shuddered when he thought of the future ahead for his mistress who, despite her annoying childishness, was a sweet soul who deserved better.

And as he did, his hatred magnified for the father who would sell his daughter into such a fate; the same man who had ruined his life and who was, at that very moment, raping his beloved wife.

And as he nestled his head in those marvellous breasts of Bosom, a new thought crossed his mind, a huge cloud hanging over the minds of both teddy bears, namely, what was to happen to them after Charlotte’s marriage? Miss Ross had already made it clear that teddies cannot live with their mistress after her marriage, and they had heard rumours from Bosom and some of the maids about brothels where teddies are used by countless strangers, or unlicensed establishments where deviants could practice their torture fantasies on the defenceless toys. Was that to be their fate? And more importantly, would they endure it together or separated? On the days when Charlotte was downstairs being trained by Miss Ross to walk around the garden in her new ballet boots, the two teddies would sit and stare at one another and pray silently that, if nothing else, they could stay together, and Bernie would see the tears well in his wife’s eyes and rage at his impotence at being unable to wipe them away.

Chapter 6

The bedroom is dark, and he lies there. Unable to sleep, he has recounted in his mind the entire story from when he was called with Chrissie Bailey to the headmistress’s office, to their mistress’s wedding day when, after she had visited the plastic surgeon for her breast and lip augmentations, she was laced down into a stunning white gown and led up the aisle by her father to the waiting Jon Parker.

Well, he had recalled most of the story. What he had not recalled though, was that moment the following day when, much to his surprise, he and Bambi were taken from the bedroom after sleeping without their mistress for the first time, into the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Parker were standing waiting for them.

His mistress was a woman transformed, and Bernie gasped when he saw her. Gone were the prissy and frilly frocks of her girlhood, and in their place stood a woman, teetering on ballet heels, holding her husband for support, who seemed to have been poured into the gown that she now wore. Made of a shiny pink material and incorporating a tight monoglove, it picked out every curve of her body until it ended at the top of her thighs. Most shocking though, were the two white-lined cut-outs, the first over her breasts displaying her new impressive cleavage, and the second, lewdly revealing her butt, the heart framing its crack which was not covered by any panties. Gone was the girl; this was an announcement to the world that Charlotte was now all woman.

“Aha,” said Jon, who did look his thirty-five years and more and whose girth dwarfed his bride despite her new breasts, “so these are the two wonderful teddy bears that you’ve told me all about.”

“Yes darling, these are my two best friends in the world from before marriage. I’ll be so sad to see them go, but you are right, it is the only possible way.”

“Indeed,” said Parker, who had by this time picked Bambi up and was busy squeezing her plush bottom and breasts, “although if it were not so improper, I wouldn’t mind having this little lady lying about my bedroom!”

“Oh Jon, you are so funny!” Charlotte giggled.

“But no, you are right, they must go,” said her husband, as he kissed Bambi on the lips. “Which is why my dear teddy bears, my wife in her boundless generosity has decided to donate you both to the National Teddy Bear Rehabilitation Society, a charity dedicated to, well, I’m not sure what, something to do with teddies anyway.”

“Oh darling, I told you, they help poor lost and lonely teddy bears. Some kind people called activists I think set it up to rehabilitate teddy bears and I thought my poor Bambi and Bernie would be so sad and lonely without me that this would be the next best thing.”

And so they kissed goodbye (well, she kissed Bambi, her husband told her that kissing Bernie would now be improper so she nuzzled his face in her breast cut-out instead) and Bernie ended up here, in this dark bedroom in this comfy bed. Charlotte, he is told, gives a generous donation every month for their well-being and the women that run it – a mixture of middle-class do-gooders and student leftists who find the whole N-TES scheme and teddification process morally abhorrent, try as best they can to make them somewhat human again. For the first time in years, he and Bambi were stripped of their teddy skins and allowed to use their old names. Of course, their limbs were still missing, but Bernie – or Nick – has heard tell of a process being developed whereby new limbs can be grown in labs using their DNA and then attached to their bodies, so there is a glimmer of hope in that department and both of them are down to have this surgery done the moment the process is perfected.

Their silence is still a factor of course. Despite the best efforts of scientists, no procedure has yet been developed to fully restore vocal chords, but what the charity has managed to do is develop a system whereby the bear’s ten responses (one per finger nerve) have been transformed into thousands of sentences, through being able to reconfigure the system to recognise the twitching of two or more fingers at once. So now, by twitching both pinkies, Bernie can articulate the verb ‘to have’ and by adding his left index finger, he can make it past tense. Most of their days are spent in class along with the other former bears, learning the thousands of combinations, but now, after only a couple of months, he can have conversations with his beloved wife which is worth more than the whole world.

His wife who, in his eyes, is more beautiful today than ever, even when she wore her school uniform and was called Miss Chrissie Bailey. With a healthier (and tastier) diet than in the Harrison house and regular muscle exercise using electric shock pads, she, like he, is now slim and toned, and her long hair is growing back to its former glory whilst her enlarged breasts (due, they have discovered to injections administered whilst Bambi was out cold for her monthly cleaning) are still as glorious as they were during their teddy bear days.

And so he gives thanks. He gives thanks to the good people at the National Teddy Bear Rehabilitation Society and he gives thanks to his old mistress for donating him to the charity. He even gives thanks to the N-TES because, strange though it might seem, had it not been for that perverse scheme, he may never have ended up in this bed next to the sleeping form of the woman he loves most in this world, the girl who was out of his league at school and yet who now, he is proud to call his wife.

Life in the charity is not bad. There are volunteers who help them with everything from toileting to moving about, and every day there are lectures and classes to attend, whilst in their spare time, they sit and chat with the other former teddies. Their best friends are Sally and Mike, once known as Bella’s Beatrice and Basil.

They cannot leave their past entirely behind them though, for once a month, in accordance with the instructions of the donors who fund everything, all former bears dress in their teddy suits for a special open day when their former mistresses are allowed to come and visit with their husbands (an experience that Nick always enjoys, since most are extremely sexy; indeed Bella has blossomed just as much as Charlotte did after her wedding and seeing the blonde girl who once owned their best friends always gives him a hard-on). Sadly though, Nick and Chrissie never receive visits or even mail, for Jon Parker (according to Bella) keeps his new wife on a very tight leash (literally), and always in a gag and a monoglove, so communication with anyone is quite out of the question. Indeed, on occasions, Nick muses that, should the limb regrowth technique ever be perfected, and they regain their full humanity, it would almost be like a role reversal with their former mistress. Still, at least she has been well trained for it.

Seeing his beautiful wife’s breasts rise and fall, Nick wriggles closer to her and rubs his erect member up and down her bottom crack. Sensing his movements, she stirs in her sleep, turns to him, and smiles and in the dark night they kiss, dreaming of the day when they may be able to hold one another as well.

23/05/20

Teddy Boy: Part 2

Part 1

Chapter 3

When the large cardboard box was opened, Nick found himself staring through the two pinholes at a huge room, opulently furnished, filled with people. The one who had opened the box in which he had been placed only a hour or so earlier, was a girl of about his age dressed in a ridiculously frilly white dress. He recognised her from the photo. It was his first glimpse in real life of his owner, Charlotte Harrison. She clapped her gloved hands eagerly like a small child and said, “This is the boy teddy! Thank you daddy!” She then went out of sight to Nick’s left and opened the second box, presumably to reveal Chrissie. She clapped her hands in glee again and squealed thank you to her father again. As she was doing this, Nick surveyed the crowd. He loathed them all, the privileged elite who had ruined his life, butchered him, torn him away from his family because they could. He longed to spit at them, bite them, but remembered the cock torture and the horrific sight of Chrissie’s near asphyxiation. No, it was hopeless, entirely hopeless.

All of them were expensively dressed, but the women were unreal. Whilst the men wore hand-tailored suits, the females were all clad in unbelievable gowns. What was most striking however, was that there was a clear difference between the girls and the women. The girls, like his new owner, were all frills and furlebows, innocence personified. The women though, were something else, with enormous, obviously enhanced breasts, many with pneumatic lips. A few wore tight corsets and most long gowns that clung to their unreal figures, although some opted for wide crinoline dresses of satin that had echoes of the Victorian era. It was a clear display of wealth and femininity.

“Now now darling,” said one of the suited men, “you know full well that it is customary for a father to give his daughter living teddy bears on her special fifteenth birthday, but now that you’ve received them, you must name them.”

Nick realised that this man was the cause of all his sorrow, and he hated him.

Charlotte pointed at Nick and said, “I’m going to call him…”

“Wait a moment, darling! You can’t name them until you’ve seen their faces, so why not take off the masks and name them then?”

The room laughed and Charlotte giggled in response, putting her silken gloved hand to her mouth. Then she walked over to Chrissie, unclicked the mask and squealed, “Bambi! I’m naming her Bambi Bear!”

The room clapped and Charlotte walked over to Nick. She unclicked his mask and light streamed in. Nick breathed in the clean air with thanks and then looked at his new owner.

He looked at her and she looked at him. Then she smiled and squealed, “Bernie! It’s Bernie Bear!”

The room clapped again and Nick… no, Bernie Bear, gulped as he took in the very erasure of his identity.

During the party, Bernie and Bambi were seated on special chairs on a podium at one end of the room. At first Charlotte and her friends – all aged around fourteen and all wearing ridiculous frilly outfits – came over and looked at them.

“He is such a cutie!” squeaked one girl in a dress with printed pink flowers on it and an enormous white bow in her blonde hair. “May I give him a kiss?”

“Of course!” squealed Charlotte. Bernie smiled and his member hardened beneath his suit. This girl, although ridiculous and prissy was really hot. When her soft lips touched his and he could smell her perfume, he felt ready to explode.

“Oh, he is lovely. Mind you, so is my living boy bear that papa bought me. I’ve called him Basil and my girl living bear is Beatrice. She’s a real cutie too, but yours is exquisite.”

“Would you like to kiss her as well?”

“I’d love to! Thanks Charlie!”

Bernie enjoyed the kisses, but all too soon, like a group of young children, these girls lost interest in the living bears and drifted away to the party where they danced and ate dainty sandwiches and cakes whilst the two bears could only watch passively from a distance. Regularly, Bernie turned his head towards Bambi. She looked sad and he longed to be able to comfort her, but silenced and helpless as he was, what could he do? She turned towards him and he winked at her and stuck his tongue out. This made her grin which made him as warm and fuzzy inside as he was on the outside.

When the party finished, they were carried by smartly-attired maids to their new home: Charlotte’s bedroom. It was a large room decorated in the style of a five-year-old, with soft toys everywhere and pink walls. In the centre was a large bed with heart-shaped cushions on it. Wordlessly, the maid unrolled two plastic mats and placed the teddy bear on them. Then she opened the flap at Bernie’s crotch and simply said, “Time to pee, bear.” To be honest, Bernie was desperate to pee, but it was embarrassing having this young woman – who was not unattractive – ordering him to so. Indeed, his cock had hardened the moment it was free of the constraining pouch incorporated into the suit and so it stood proudly, aimed at her face.

“Like what you see, do you? Well, I ain’t got time for it, bear. Just pee, ok, otherwise you get zipped back up!”

And so Bernie had to tinkle, with great embarrassment whilst both the maid and the girl he’d fancied at school, watched on.

But if that embarrassed him somewhat, it was nothing to compare with what came next. Both bears were flipped over onto their fronts and their bottom flaps opened. Then the maid got out a strange contraption with hoses attached to it. Approaching Bambi, she lubricated a nozzle on the end of one of the hoses and then slowly inserted it into her bottom. Realising what was coming next, Bernie started to fidget, but the maid calmly held his truncated furry form down with her arms and inserted another nozzle into Bernie’s arse. It was painful and shame making, but there was nothing he could do. Then water was pumped into them both until their furry stomachs distended so that they looked pregnant. The maid then left, leaving them writing and bloated, but entirely helpless. Some minutes later she returned and flipped a switch, sucking the water out. The process was then repeated before, deciding they were now clean inside, the maid then removed the hoses and inserted small perfumed plugs into their nether holes, before zipping the flaps up again and securing them with small golden padlocks.

She then picked up a bowl of mush and started to spoon-feed Bambi and, when it was all done and washed down with a glass of water, she did the same to Bernie.

She wiped their mouths and then said sternly, “Next feeding and toilet is at nine tomorrow morning after the mistress has left. Any accidents and the mask stays on for a full week with the eyeholes covered up. Work with me, bears, and we’ll get along well; fuck about and I can become your worst nightmare. Goodnight and sleep tight.”

And then she left, switching the bedroom light off, leaving them alone and in the dark.

Charlotte came some time later, accompanied by another pretty maid. She helped her mistress divest herself of her ridiculous dress, and then took her into the en suite bathroom to shower and clean her teeth. Bernie’s mind was almost in overdrive as this sensuous girl stripped naked before him, her pert breasts standing proud and her budding curves bared for him to see. Well, she was almost naked. Around her intimate area was what looked like a white plastic thong with a grill at the front. Sadly, this was not removed.

When she returned from the bathroom, the maid brought out a frilly baby doll nightgown in white satin. She put this on and tied the large bow at the collar, and then fitted padded silken mittens on her charge before tucking Charlotte into bed.

“Collette! May I have my new teddies in bed with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” said the maid, and she picked both Bambi and Bernie up, one under each arm and carried them over. She then tucked them in, one either side of the teenage girl. Again, Bernie was in overdrive; basically he was in bed with a gorgeous girl and the hottest chick in school who had been transformed into a living teddy bear, something which, inexplicably, excited him further. But alas, his member was locked away, impotent and useless. It was too much!

Charlotte cuddled up to him and kissed him on the lips. He felt her warmth and smelt her perfume. It was intoxicating. “I hope that you’re going to be a good teddy for me Bernie,” she started, like a child talking to a toy (which, she was). “I’ve been so excited about receiving my living bears, you can’t believe it and although Rupert and Camilla will be sad – I’m sorry my darlings, but I still love you! – daddy says that they must not sleep in my bed anymore and instead I must cuddle up to you two. Yes, you as well, Bambi, sorry for turning my back on you, but I so wanted to kiss Bernie, I don’t know why, I just did because I’m so happy I suppose! Anyway, I’ll put one arm around you and the other arm around Bernie and we’ll just drift off to dreamland…”

Which she did, but they didn’t drift off to dreamland straight away, because Charlotte kept on talking like an over-excited five-year-old. She told them all about her other toys, about her friends in the party, about her mummy and daddy and about the dreams she has, her favourite foods and a million and one other things. Strangely though, Bernie didn’t mind; in fact he even enjoyed it. Although unable to respond, having this cute girl hold him and talk to him made him forget his predicament and the fact that his entire life had been ruined in order for some over-privileged adolescent to have a toy to play with. Her words washed over him and he felt himself conflicted. He had been preparing himself to hate his new mistress and yet, hearing her speak like a six-year-old, so innocent and naïve, he began to realise that, perversely, she was almost as much of a victim of the whole fucked-up system as he and Bambi were. Kept stupid, reduced to a prissy little doll whose only purpose in life was to play with her toys before her father married her off to a man of his choosing; how could one do anything but feel sorry for such a girl. He wanted to hate, to feel anger, yet he couldn’t and instead wriggled closer to her for warmth and protection.

And when she finally did exhaust herself and drift off to sleep, he nuzzled his face against her left breast and slowly descended into sleep himself.

Chapter 4

Life as a teddy bear in the bedroom of Charlotte Harrison took on a very particular routine. Every morning he would awaken in his mistress’s bed, usually with her arm around him. She would greet both him and Bambi good morning and then go off to get showered, leaving them lying there. Sometime later the maid would come, allow them to pee (Bernie was usually struggling to hold it in by this stage) and then administer their enemas, before popping their bottom plugs back in and feeding them their breakfast mush again. And then they waited. How this was accomplished depended largely on the maid and her mood, but also on their behaviour.

If she’d deemed them to have been churlish or ill-behaved, she might put the hateful masks on and, if really pissed off, cover the eye holes up inside with tape so they were both left sitting in a black void. If only mildly annoyed, she would put them up on the shelf. This was annoying because the shelf consisted of several compartments and, when in one, you could not see the person – well, teddy bear – in the adjacent compartment and so the loneliness set in. if in a good mood, she might set them on chairs looking at one another and, if in a really good mood, she would position them together facing one another so they could rub faces and kiss.

Best of all though, were the days when she forgot to switch off their speech mode. Charlotte, always liked to have her bears talking to her when they were together, so every morning, as soon as she woke up, she would flick their switches (having speech mode on a night was forbidden by her father) and they would chirpily greet her “Good morning!” in their teddy voices. They would then often have a short conversation – usually them complimenting her on how she looked in the chosen outfit of the day, before they were left alone when she went out. Usually, the maid remembered to switch them off again, but sometimes she forgot and so the two of them stayed silent until she had left the room.

The first time that it happened, is still etched in Bernie’s mind. It was one of those horrible days when they had been placed on the shelf and so he had nothing to do but stare forwards at a room full of toys until Charlotte returned when, out of the blue, a squeaky voice to his left said, “Good morning!”

At first, he wondered who it was, but then it dawned on him that it was Bambi and that the maid had carelessly forgotten to switch their speech functions off.

He twitched one of his ghost fingers. “Good morning!” he replied.

There was a long pause. Then, “Thank you! That feels good!”

Even though the voice was squeaky and somewhat robotic, Bernie knew that it was Bambi – Chrissie Bailey! – who was talking to him and that made him feel warm inside. He twitched his ghost fingers: “Don’t feel sad! You’re my favourite girl!”

Another long pause and Bernie wondered if he’d gone too far. Then came the reply: “That feels good! You’re very special!”

“You’re very special!” he replied. He thought of going further but wondered if she might take it the wrong way, so, although his finger was itching to twitch, he never let it say the words.

Silence reigned. A beautiful silence pregnant with emotion.

It took several months though, for the bears to figure out how to put the maid in an excellent mood. Bernie discovered one morning when she announced out of the blue, “Well then, let’s see if you bears are as good as they say.” Then she lowered her underwear and thrust her crotch in Bambi’s face. As a woman, the bear who had once been Chrissie Bailey knew instinctively what to do and very soon the maid was groaning in ecstasy.

The following day Bernie had his turn.

After this the maid left them sitting facing one another with their speech function on. Bernie looked at Bambi and Bambi looked at Bernie. He smiled and she smiled back. Then she screwed up her nose and laughed silently, and he copied. She then blew the wisp of blonde hair that poked out of her teddy suit and he said, “You’re very pretty!”

She frowned at him as if to say ‘That was a bit forward!’

“Please smile for me!” he said.

She laughed. “You’re good at this!” she replied.

Now it was his turn to laugh. “You’re very special!” he said.

She looked at him without replying, her eyes full of love and affection. “You’re very special!” she replied.

“I wish you would kiss me!” he said.

She continued to stare at him and then started to rock to and fro on her teddy limbs. He did likewise and, once a little momentum had been gathered, they both fell forward into one another. Her face now pressed against his, she opened her mouth and they kissed passionately and meaningfully. This was not like the automaton love play with the maid; this was real. It meant something.

“That was yummy!” said Bambi when they had finished, and their cheeks pressed against one another.

“I love you!” Bernie replied.

The waiting around lasted until Charlotte decided that it was time to play with them. This was always a random occurrence, but if the day was sunny, she might decide to have a teddy bear’s picnic. Bernie enjoyed these most of all for they were carried outside by the maids, sat on a blanket and their mistress would feed them tasty titbits, a most welcome change from the bland mush they usually imbued. Furthermore, she liked it when Bernie sucked her fingers clean, an act that made his poor imprisoned rod strain against its fetters. “Thank you! You’re my favourite girl!” he always said to her, whilst Bambi would declare, “That tastes yummy!”

On other days, when the rain fell, Charlotte would retire to the bedroom and read them stories or play games. Despite developing physically into a woman, mentally, Charlotte was very much still a child and it was clear that this was what her father had intended in raising her the way that he had. Bernie loved sitting on his mistress’s lap, watching Bambi’s smiling face framed by her bear suit, as they were told stories of princesses and dragons, fairies, and unicorns.

Another distraction was her younger brother Charles. He would sneak into his big sisters’ bedroom when she wasn’t there and steal one of both of the teddies. As they were rather heavy for the nine-year-old to carry, he would grab one of them by the ear and drag it onto his cart which he would then pull into his room, before hiding them under his bed or in a cupboard. Charlotte always found them of course (although it could be hours later), and she always admonished her brother but he merely found this funny and continued with the game.

Best of all though, was when her friend Bella, the blonde girl from the party, came to visit. Like Charlotte, Bella was a woman living as a girl, always dressed in prissy outfits. She would arrive in her dress wearing a fur mantle, her hands in a fur muff. This, Bernie learnt from the girls’ conversations, actually restrained them so that she could not use them for “sinful purposes” outside of the house. The maids would remove this, and the two girls would play with the bears. Bella though, was more physical than Charlotte, always wanting to kiss both Bernie and Bambi, and to squeeze and stroke their nether regions. Bernie wondered why this was and, evidently, so did Charlotte, because one day she asked her friend why she liked kissing and stroking back bottoms and front bottoms so much.

“That is because I am older than you and more advanced in my education, silly,” the blonde girl replied. “You’ll be the same soon, I promise!”

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Actually, Charlotte’s education was something that had been puzzling Bernie. After all, had not the Toybox Supervisor told them that that was why they had been transformed into bears, yet six months in and there was still no sign of any education at all. Then, one Monday, quite unannounced, a governess named Miss Ross, a stern Scotswoman, arrived. She called Catherine to the bedroom and then said, “And why do we not play a game today?”

“And what game is that?” their mistress asked innocently.

“Why not play husbands and wives. We could stage a marriage!”

“But who would I marry, Miss Ross?”

“Not you, Charlotte.” She gestured with her eyes to the two teddy bears.

“What? You mean Bernie and Bambi? Why, that’s marvellous?!” The girl-woman clapped her hands in glee and busied herself setting up the room as a church, with all her other soft toys as the congregation. As she did so, Miss Ross explained to her, “Teddy bears, like people, get very lonely and need someone to be together with them all the time. Women need a man to look after them and poor Bambi here is no different!”

“But what about me, Miss Ross?”

“Charlotte, you are not a man, and besides, what about when you are married yourself? Who will look after Bambi then?”

“She can continue to live with me, Bernie too.”

“That would not be appropriate, Charlotte. You’ll be a woman then, not a girl, having to think about your husband, not your teddies. No, let’s marry these two to each other now.”

“Excellent! Let’s do it!”

Bambi was dressed in a special teddy-bear sized white gown and they put a special teddy-sized suit on Bernie. He was then placed by the altar and then Bambi was carried down the aisle by Charlotte. However, when they got to the altar, there was a problem: who was to be the priest?

“No fear,” said Miss Ross, “I have a surprise!”

And out of her bag she pulled a teddy bear priest with a real human face. Bernie was shocked; this was the first living teddy bear, aside from Bambi, that he’d seen since his arrival. “This is Father Fluffy,” announced Miss Ross, “and he is a genuine certified teddy bear minister. Unlike most living bears, he can talk.”

And so a surreal ceremony ensued, in which Bernie found himself married to his school crush in a ceremony overseen by a priest in black and white plush named Father Fluffy.

“I now pronounce you man and wife!” the teddy bear said at the end. “You may kiss the bride!” And Miss Ross and Charlotte pushed the happy couple together and the two silent teddy bears shared a lengthy kiss as genuine and passion-filled as any in a normal human wedding.

Part 3

Teddy Boy: Part 1

Teddy Boy

Thanks to Cafterhomme and Slothargy for the suggestions and support with this. Thanks also to Slothargy for the artwork.

Prologue

He awoke with a start. His eyes jerked open to reveal the dark bedroom lit only by a thin sliver of moonlight where the curtains had not been pulled together properly. It had all been a dream, a horrible dream, that nightmare that kept returning, night after night. He calmed himself down and stared at the ceiling. The hospital, the lights, the doctors, faces obscured by masks. He hears the sound of her breathing and feels reassured. He turns his head and sees her lying there, fast asleep like a baby. He is safe. The nightmare is gone.

The dream that is also his reality.

Chapter 1

When the Head of Year had come into his classroom and told him that he had to report to the headmistress’s office, he’d been puzzled. He wasn’t aware of having done anything wrong… or particularly right for that matter. Mystified, he’d walked down the shabby corridors of the comprehensive where he was receiving his free education until he came to the wooden door with the word ‘Headteacher’ embossed upon it. Underneath was a sign saying, ‘Occupied’. He sat on one of the chairs outside and waited.

A moment later he heard footsteps. He looked up and saw, to his surprise, Chrissie Bailey walking towards him. His heart leapt! She was totally the fittest girl in the whole school! Her long blonde hair framed her sparkling blue eyes and her smile…

“Hi Nick,” she said with that smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Dunno,” he replied. “Mr. Baxter came to my maths class and told me Mrs. Chatham wanted to see me.”

“Me too. Can’t think why though. Do you think it could be connected?”

He shrugged. Connected to Chrissie Bailey! He wished! How many times had he – had all the boys – dreamed about such a thing. How many evenings in bed had he imagined walking hand-in-hand with her down a beach at sunset, or sitting by a campfire, their arms around each other. For the thing is, not only was Chrissie really pretty, but she was also, unlike most attractive girls, not full of herself. There was no arrogance, no superiority about her. Instead, she was friendly and open to everyone, even geeks like him, just a nice warm person.

“Mind if I sit next to you?”

He did not mind at all. Indeed, he could think of nothing better on all the earth.

Five minutes later, the door flung open and Mrs. Chatham, the headmistress, appeared in their view. She looked grave. “Chrissie, Nick, you’d better come in.” They followed her into the office and were surprised to see two more people in there; police officers, one male, the other a woman. They also looked grave. Nick was worried, but he couldn’t think of having broken any laws.

“Children, sit please,” said the head. She did not meet their eyes with her own. “I have called you here today to tell you some very… ahem, serious news. Are you both aware of the National Tax-Exemption Scheme?”

Nick nodded, although he didn’t really know much about, beyond that, because his family struggled to make ends meet, they had applied to some government scheme which meant that they never had to pay any tax. “Yes, miss,” said Chrissie. “It’s N-TES, a scheme whereby poorer families can have their tax paid for by richer members of society.”

“That is correct, but that is not all.”

“No miss, there is also the draft.”

“That is correct, Chrissie. Do you both understand what the draft is?”

Nick shook his head; Chrissie replied, “Sort of. Those families that are receiving the tax relief have to put themselves on a register and, every year a certain number are picked at random for some sort of national service.”

“Correct again, or almost. Not the families themselves, but their children, or at least, those within the age bracket 14-15. Only a few dozen are required every year so the chances of being selected are slim indeed and…”

“Miss,” interjected Nick, “we are both fifteen.”

“You are.”

“Does that mean that we have been…?”

“You have. You must leave here and go with these two police officers.”

“But our friends, our family, we must…”

“The terms and conditions of the scheme are clear.”

“But where will we be going? What is this national service exactly?” asked Chrissie.

“I am sorry, Chrissie, you too Nick, just go with these two off…”

“No, I don’t want to! You can’t make us! How can you do this? How can you sit there and sell us, your pupils into some sort of slavery for the rich bastards who run this country? Are you a teacher or a pimp? We are free…”

But even as he was saying those words, he felt a needle sink into his neck and the world went black.

And when he woke up it was in the nightmare. In that hospital with the doctors standing over her, masked and frightening. He tried to move and call out and one of them said, “He’s come round. Reapply the sedative immediately, nurse!” And it all went dark again.

And when he awoke the next time, he was not in that horrifying hospital. Instead he was lying on a soft bed in a room filled with toys, like some sort of child’s nursery. Something was wrong though. He was wearing something tight and warm. He tried to get up and move, but his limbs wouldn’t work. He called out but there was no sound! What sort of national service was this? What had happened to him?! He turned to his right and was shocked to discover a large pink teddy bear lying in the bed next to him. What was that doing there? He watched it for a few seconds and realised that its chest was rising and falling. He could hear breathing. The teddy bear was breathing! What sort of teddy bear breathes? Then the bear turned its head towards him, and the shock hit him like a blow to the stomach.

The bear had the face of Chrissie Bailey!

Chapter 2

They were both sitting on chairs, their backs propped up so that they didn’t fall over. In front of them was a mirror and a man. A man who the two teens had just spent five minutes screaming at, spitting at, and threatening… or at least, trying to threaten and scream at. A man who had ignored all of that passively, before he got tired of it and then just unzipped Nick’s crotch, grabbed his cock and started to squeeze it until the pain was intolerable and Nick was in tears and silently begging him to stop. “Tell her to stop too!” the man had merely said as he continued his torture. “Nod your head if you stop, girl!” Nick had pleaded with Chrissie using his tear-filled eyes, defeated and disgusted with himself. She nodded.

That over and done with, and the two teens calmed down, the man was explaining what had been done to them, why it had been done and just what sort of fucked-up surreal nightmare this “national service” actually was.

“The reason that billionaires are prepared to pay into N-TES is that there are certain roles that they need fulfilling which ordinary people are no prepared to fulfil. When your families signed-up for the scheme, they signed a document that stated that, should you be picked by the lottery, you will cease to be viewed as human beings with the same rights as human citizens, and instead become the property of the contributors that have paid for you. Although they are not allowed to kill you – that would contravene animal rights legislation – they are fully entitled to do what they have done. You may wonder why your families signed such a document? Well, the chances of being picked are slim indeed, and they may have had no choice. Your father is unemployed, is he not Nick, whilst your dad’s business failed, Chrissie, leaving him with significant debts. Do not blame them; they did not want this.”

Nobody wanted this. No their parents, not Mrs. Chapman, not even this man, their mentor, who had introduced himself only as the Toybox Supervisor. He was very neutral and passive about it all, taking the ‘I’m only doing my job’ attitude. Nick still hated him though and would have poked his eyes out if he could.

“The contributor who ordered you is one of a number of billionaires who requires you to fulfil a role in helping to educate his daughter. Her name is Charlotte and she is currently fourteen years old. She has been home-schooled all her life to help prepare her for marriage to a gentleman selected by her father.” He showed them a photograph of a smiling girl with long chestnut hair and dressed in the most ridiculously frilly outfit that Nick had ever seen. It was made of what appeared to be pink satin and had so many ruffles and frills that it stuck out either side of her. In her hair was a large, sky blue ribbon tied in a bow and a similar bow also adorned her chest. The skirt was excessively short, so short that Nick could catch a glimpse of her while satin panties, whilst her long legs were covered in shiny white tights. She looked both sweet and innocent, yet at the same time extremely sexy and appealing. Her mode of dress was definitely rather strange, childlike, yet at the same time, he found his cock hardening down below. What strange fantasy world was this?

Whatever it was, Nick had decided that she was a bitch and he hated her, as one of the class of assholes that had done… this… to him.

“Charlotte is a lovely girl, but very innocent. Her father, who dotes on her greatly, has kept her shielded and protected from the evils of this world. That is where you two come in. you will be given to her tomorrow as her main presents to celebrate her fifteenth birthday. Over the years that follow, between then and her marriage, you will be living with her and teaching her some of the skills she will need to succeed as a wife in a manner that will not alarm or upset her. That is why you have been transformed into living teddy bears. Let me explain what the expert surgeons have achieved.”

Moving over to Chrissie, he picked her up and used her body to demonstrate the changes. Nick suspected that he rather enjoyed doing it, as he regularly squeezed her arse as he was holding her and was continually brushing over her breasts, although he kept clear of her mouth as she looked ready to bite his finger off if she got half a chance.

“You are both, of course, now encased in this plush covering. It is permanent, or at least, so far as you are both concerned, it is. Actually, once every month or so, it will be removed and your skin underneath checked and cleaned, but you will both be knocked out whilst this happens. So far as you are concerned, this is your skin now. Now, you will have noticed that your new teddy legs and arms are considerably shorter than those of a standard human being. To achieve this, your legs and arms have all been amputated, with stumps of only 30cm or so being retained. These have now been fixed, by having metal pins driven through them, into the semi-rigid teddy limb forms. You may wiggle them – yes, Chrissie, give it a go – but they are, to all intents and purposes, quite useless to you now.

“Your colour schemes naturally match your gender. Nick, as a boy, you are blue; Chrissie is pink befitting a girl. Charlotte has been brought up to understand that gender roles are quite distinct and so too must her soft toys leave no room for confusion. That is why your breasts have been picked out in white plush, Chrissie, whilst you, Nick, have a patch of white around the vicinity of your little tool. Talking of which, the suits do open for you to have your toileting needs attended to. Your maid shall see to them at set times during the day. At those times and only those times, are you allowed to pee or poo; any dirtying of your suits at other times will result in severe punishment, such as being blindfolded for a day or perhaps electric shocks, I am unsure which exactly is de rigueur in the Harrison household.”

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At this point, Chrissie began to cry. Nick longed to comfort her, but he was helpless, instead only sitting on his chair, wiggling his pathetic stumps around a bit. The Toybox Supervisor, brought out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, stroking her furry head until she calmed down. Then, he resumed:

“Under the teddy skin, all your body hair has been permanently removed by laser. Only that on the top of your heads, your eyebrows and lashes remain although the latter will be sculpted weekly and the former cut on your monthly cleaning. You may be wondering why we have not provided you with perfect teddy bear faces to match your perfect teddy bear bodies. Well, we do have two masks made, but generally you will not be wearing them, since having a teddy with a human face able to express emotions, is part of the learning process for Charlotte. However, we could not have you talking to her and using non-teddy vocabulary, so your vocal chords have been severed. Again, this helps with Charlotte’s imagination which her father deems to be important. Now, I am aware that you can still express yourselves in other ways; spitting like I was treated to earlier, or unsightly grimaces, silent screams, and even biting. All are not allowed, and since there will be maids present at all times, then all incorrect behaviour will be noted. As I said before, I don’t know what punishments exactly are de rigueur in the Harrison household, but, believe me, that little bit of cock torture that you received earlier, Nick, is nothing to what they can do. Imagine live electric cables attached to your thing, or tow your nipples, Chrissie. Yes, they do it. Imagine being hung upside down for a full week wearing a blinding mask? One teddy I know received that punishment only a month ago for merely mouthing the words ‘Fuck off!’ to his mistress. Oh yes, they can be very creative and you, as I have already demonstrated, are entirely unable to stop it, are you not?”

And as he said that, he pulled a plastic bag over Chrissie’s head. Immediately, it was sucked to her face as she tried to breath. The Toybox Supervisor smiled and waited. She started to thrash her limbs, as she fought desperately for air, but her movements made no difference. The demonstration was clear: they were now entirely at his mercy. Nick longed to help her, as her eyes widened and her struggle became more desperate, but he was entirely powerless. Hatred and defeat welled up in him and his impotence overwhelmed him, broke him. Then, just as it seemed as if she would asphyxiate, the Toybox Supervisor casually pulled off the bag, leaving Chrissie gasping in the glorious fresh air. “Now, imagine having that done continually to you for a full twelve hours,” he said nonchalantly. The two broken bears stared at him – and each other – in horror.

“Returning to your lack of speech, bears. From time to time, you will be able to communicate with your new mistress and I shall demonstrate how now.

Embedded in the end of this paw is a small switch which I shall now flip on you, Nick. Now, although your hands have been removed, the surgeons have kept the nerve-endings that once linked to your finger and have attached them to a bank of sayings. Each finger represents a different, teddy-appropriate phrase and when you activate the nerves, the right saying will come out. So, let us try. Nick, imagine you are flexing your left pinky.”

Confused, since how can one flex a finger that isn’t there, Nick nonetheless tried to imagine using the muscles that he’d once used to move his little finger. And, to his shock and amazement, as he did, a childlike voice from somewhere in his neck said, “I love you!”

“Excellent! The voice comes out of a small speaker implanted in your neck. Now try the next finger.”

“You’re very special!”

“Well done, and the next.”

“Don’t feel sad…You’re very pretty…Please smile for me.”

Next Chrissie was allowed to experiment. Her teddy voice was high-pitched and girl and whilst some of her phrases were the same as Nick’s, others were different. Where he said, “You’re my favourite girl!”, she said “You’re good at this!”, and whilst he uttered “I wish you would kiss me!” she spoke “That tastes yummy!”

The Toybox Supervisor let them experiment with their new voices before switching them off again and moving on with his explanations. “And that is, basically it; your role in life from now on is to be a friend and source of joy – and education – for Miss Charlotte Harrison. I know it sounds hard, but trust me, you will get used to it and, who knows, perhaps you might enjoy aspects of it. I personally hope that you do; after all, there is no alternative. Now, since you have been fully briefed, and because the courier is due to arrive in less than an hour to take you to your new home, I think we shall put on your teddy masks so that you may get a feel for them, and then off we go. Do not worry if you are needing the toilet; the nurse will service you in a moment. So, here we are; I’ll fit yours first Nick.”

The Toybox Supervisor put down Chrissie and then fitted the mask over Nick’s face. It was made of the same sky blue plush as her teddy skin but had a white patch below the black nose. Nick found himself enclosed and claustrophobic, her vision reduced to two dim pinholes through the black eyes of the bear. The mask clipped into place around the rim of his facial opening. With hands, it would have taken a split second to unclick it, but with his newly truncated limbs, he was entirely at the mask’s mercy.

“And now you, my dear,” said the Toybox Supervisor, turning his attentions again to Chrissie. He picked her up again, cradling and squeezing her teddy bear butt, and then produced the mask. She gazed at him in silent horror and he said, “but before we seal you away for your new owner, it would be a shame not to kiss those pretty lips of yours!” and with those words, he fastened his mouth to hers, exploring her mouth with his tongue. Chrissie desperately tried to pull away, but it was a fruitless struggle. Eventually, he removed himself and she stared at him with daggered eyes. He merely smiled and clicked on her pink furry mask, transforming her into a happy, mindless soft toy, just waiting for a little boy or girl to play with it.

Seething with hatred and a sense of impotence, Nick sweltered beneath the confining mask.

Part 2

Vignettes from the Harem #7: Fig

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Harem inductee 8:

Fig

Inducted: June 2016

John Cobbler sat on the terrace of his bedroom looking out over the luxuriant valley before him as the sky grew orange with the setting sun. At his feet knelt Melon, his gargantuan breasts – now even bigger than before thanks to a second round of implants given to her as a present for bringing him to a hundred climaxes – pushed against his legs as she worked away on his member with her collagen-enhanced lips. She wasn’t working too hard this evening, just enough to keep him erect and interested. When he felt himself getting too close to finishing, he would tap her on the head, and she would stop for a few seconds until he started to go limp and then patiently resume. She was an expert at oral service these days and over the five years since that fateful interview in London, the two had developed a close relationship with her able to subconsciously assess and fulfil his needs.

And tonight quick fulfilment was not what he wanted, nor even great erotic excitement of any kind. Instead, tonight, John Cobbler need to think because he was facing a quandary.

It had begun a month before when the mayor of the nearest town, Mr. Mohammed Lehri, had invited him around to his home for dinner. Knowing the importance of honouring local hospitality (and keeping the local politicos happy), he had of course accepted, and enjoyed a very enjoyable evening in the company of the politician who, like him, had a passion for cricket.

And so the invitation was repeated a week later, and then a week after that and so on. And six days ago, he had dined there once again and, during that dinner, a most astonishing offer had been made to him. “Mr. Cobbler,” said the fawning Lehri, “word is reaching my ears of the most amazing harem that you are assembling in your new home. Women of great nobility and beauty it is said.”

“My good sir, if this is a problem then…”

“A problem?! No, no, sir, you misunderstand me! A problem, not at all. Indeed, we do admire your cultural adaptation greatly. I myself have no less than three wives and, inshallah, a fourth shall be added soon. You know how much we admire your conversion to our faith and adoption of our ways. But among those women, it is said that you have only chosen to marry once.”

“Well sir, yes, that is true. Marriage is a massive step that I do not take lightly. A woman might be comely and alluring in a sexual way, but a wife is to be a mother to your children and so she must be picked using… different criteria.”

“Indeed, sir! Why, again we are of one mind, which brings me to my point: how say you to taking a second wife?”

“I am not averse to the idea, my good friend, but it must be the right candidate; I cannot marry just anybody.”

“Indeed not, but what if that candidate were to be my daughter Jamila?”

And there was his quandary: Should he marry the daughter of Lehri or not? On the one hand, it was a great honour to be asked and it would certainly strengthen his relationship even further with the ambitious man who he had already bankrolled in one election campaign and who turned a blind eye to the regular additions to the Cobbler harem.

But on the other, he had promised himself that the Fruits Basket was to be for exquisite and remarkable girls only and, judging by the photograph that he had been shown by her doting father, Jamila fell well short of his usual standards. Not just that, but she would also be entering, not as a standard piece of fruit, but as his wife, second only to his darling Peach. How could he give such a mediocrity that honour and remain true to his principles?

But how could he refuse without giving offence?

No, it was a tough quandary indeed.

He watched the valley darken and closed his eyes as the rhythm of Melon’s lips took over, letting his mind wander and drift and… yes, that’s it!

His sudden jerk disturbed the girl at his feet, but he stroked her hair and she resumed her regular rhythm. Now he closed his eyes again and started thinking about this solution he had chanced upon. Could it work? Yes, it could! Surely it could! And indeed, it would be a marvellous experiment, a way of enhancing the variety and thus prestige of the Fruits Basket, not demeaning it.

And as he thought more about the glorious end result, he found himself growing more and more excited, harder and harder until he clicked his fingers, Peach obediently withdrew and, taking his cock in his left hand, he finished himself, spraying his copious seed all over her waiting face.

“Thank you Master,” she declared with a loving smile, before rising and departing from his presence.


“So, Brother, what is it to be? Did you think about my offer?”

John was sitting on Mohammed Lehri’s terrace, smoking a shisha with his host. It was the moment of truth.

“My friend, I have thought long and hard about this matter and, I am afraid, much as I would love to marry your daughter Jamila; indeed, the honour of being asked is a great one, I fear that, in the final reckoning, I must decline.”

“But why? Is she not good enough for you? I can assure you…”

“No, it is not that. Indeed, she is too good for me, a man born an infidel and with the weight of past sins almost crushing him. No, I refuse because I do not want to be hard on the girl.”

“Hard on her? What are you meaning? I confess I am now confused.”

“Have you ever seen my wife or harem girls, my friend?”

“Well no, of course not.”

“And do you know anyone, aside from me and my eunuch Ahmed, who has?”

“No I don’t but I fail to see…”

“Your daughter is a pious girl, Lehri, her reputation for chastity and goodness is widespread. But, since reverting to Islam, I have had to go further than others as I have so many wasted years to compensate for. The standards in my house for all my women, wives or otherwise, are strict. Extremely so. You have not seen them, nor has anyone else save for Ahmed and I, because I insist on the strictest of purdah. Jamila veils, this I know, but I go further. My women do not leave the house, nor even their own quarters. More than that, they do not speak nor, for the most time, communicate. Their sole purpose in life is to seek Jannah and avoid Jahannam. It is the most pious of lifestyles, but it is a lot to impose upon a woman, particularly one as young and vibrant as your Jamila.”

At these words, Lehri’s face brightened. “You worry that purdah is too hard for her? Brother, you are mistaken! I chose you because I had heard of the piety of your women. This is an example for her to follow, not be afraid of. Jamila rarely leaves the house as it is and is always veiled and silent in front of non-mahram men.”

“Lehri, my friend, you still misunderstand me. I insist not on purdah, but on the strictest purdah, and there is a difference. Have you ever seen one of these before?”

Out of his pocket, he pulled a promotional brochure. The mayor took it and read:

THE AL-SAFIYAH PURDAH SUIT

SUITABLE FOR GIRLS OF GREAT PIETY

ONLY $1,899

He read further, scrutinising the small print and, as he did, his eyes grew wide. “I… I did not know such things existed!” he exclaimed at last.

He did not know because, well, they do not. Not outside the realms of fantasy that is. But John Cobbler is a man with many fantasies and, in addition to his own, he enjoyed reading other people’s too. For many years now he had been a regular visitor to a website full of erotic fiction about women who veil heavily. Indeed, reading the stories on there had helped him to decide on burqas as standard outdoor attire for all his pieces of fruit. And on the site were a number of stories featuring fictional purdah suits – full body suits of thick rubber designed to restrict, hide and torment the wearer all in the name of piety. And these stories had given his idea.

And in the intervening week, he’d had a graphic designer produce a faux brochure and catalogue of said suits whilst a famous BDSM clothing company create a number of unique, handmade purdah suits in Jamila’s size.

“You would expect her to wear one of these?”

“At all times, 24/7. It would be un-Islamic to treat her differently to my first wife and other girls.”

“No, no, I understand, but it would be hard for her…”

“Indeed, hard indeed, which is why I respectfully and regretfully must turn down this great honour and…”

“Hard, yes, but not impossible. And it would guarantee her place in Jannah which is, after all, my prime concern as a parent…”

John Cobbler smiled.


John lay back on his bed as his wonderful new bride was brought before him, guided by Ahmed.

She needed to be guided because the copious black veils that she wore totally blinded her. But even without the veils, the girl formerly known as Jamila and now referred to as ‘Fig’ would have struggled to see him.

He had chosen her new name with much thought and care, settling on Fig since that is a fruit that does not look particularly tasty and is native to the region but, when prepared correctly, can be transformed into something quite marvellously appetising. Just like her, as we shall see.

Jamila had been transformed into Fig only a couple of hours or so before being presented to her new husband in her father’s house at the hands of her mother and sisters, and also Ahmed who John had insisted be present to ensure that everything was done correctly. It had been a trying ordeal for the young girl, and she would have probably felt even worse had she known that her spouse – for the wedding documents had been signed in her absence earlier that day – was watching her tribulations through a hidden camera located in Ahmed’s buttonhole.

Firstly, she had been stripped naked and her long black hair shaved from her head, an act that had caused her great mental distress. Then a strange paste was rubbed all over her which caused all her remaining body hair to fall out but had the side effect of making her skin feel like it was on fire. She was then bathed after this which cooled her down again, and then the fitting of her new reality began.

The Al-Safiyah Purdah Suit (designer: John Cobbler, number made: one) was made out of rubber some 2.5mm thick and covered the entirety of Jamila’s body. She stepped into it from the back and, once that had been zipped up, a heated rubber strip was placed over the zip, sealing her within the suit for as long as her Master decreed (usually two weeks, after that she began to smell). The hood incorporated a large inflatable gag that filled her mouth but allowed for eating and drinking through a tube, whilst the padding over her ears dimmed her hearing somewhat but did not deafen her completely. More interesting though, were her eyes. In some of the wilder stories online, there were purdah suits that kept their wearer’s totally blinded, but John knew that this was always going to be impractical. For starters, how could he ever explain it to her parents? The beauty of the purdah suit was that it could be known publicly that she was wearing it because there was a religious rational for it, namely extreme modesty and the treating of all wives identically. But why on earth would you ever need to deprive a girl of her sight? Even the most conservative schools of Islam would struggle to justify that. So, instead, the eyeholes were covered by mirrored lenses that let the girl see out but not the observer see in. But, in addition to these, John had added his own little innovation, for over each eye was half a dome. The purpose of this was similar to that of blinkers for a horse, namely, to prevent her from glancing in any direction save for that where she should be looking, i.e. down at the floor. The result was, from that day to this, Fig’s only view of the world has been for several feet in front of her. Not only has she not seen his wife’s face, but she has not seen his. And that can be justified Islamically: the half-domes help her to resist temptation.

The other holes in the suit are, naturally, at the pussy and the anus, but these are covered by a pair of matching rubber underpants, only to be removed when she is using the toilet or in bed with her husband. Unbeknownst to her family however, the underpants she now wears are a different pair that those which her sisters fitted on her on her wedding day. They were merely black rubber pants, but, following her wedding night, Ahmed replaced them with a different pair, identical from the outside, but within containing a dildo and butt plug. It delights John to know that, with every movement of her body, his second wife is teased mercilessly by her attire but can do nothing about it.

And she can do nothing because the arms of the Al-Safiyah have incorporated gloves in them, gloves that hold her hands as useless paddles, with separate slots for each finger and reinforced with metal strips so that they stay rigid and she cannot even flex her fingers. For periods, these arms are them pinioned together behind her back in a monoglove, but now they are free.

He watches with joy as Ahmed slowly removes her layers to reveal the vision of shiny buffed rubber beneath that he will soon enjoy.

While he is watching her, inside the suit, Fig knows what is to come. She knows because it is a Thursday and her husband, who is an extremely pious and fair man, had told her that Thursday is her night. Monday belongs to his first wife and Thursday to her and he is very strict about treating them fairly. The other girls, who are not wives, have to share the other days between them, but, as a wife, she has the honour of a set night.

She feels thankful to him for such a consideration, although she finds the six days in-between each visit hard, for those rods in her bum and front hole tease and caress her all day long leading to sinful thoughts. She would love to tell him this, to ask him to remove them, but she cannot since he is so pious that, as he explained on their wedding night, the sound of her feminine voice might cause Shaitan to multiply sinful thoughts in his mind connected to lust.

It is hard, extremely hard to live in this suit, she reflects. To be so separated from the world, to be unable to communicate with anyone. At times she longs to tear it off but then she stops herself and reminds herself of its pious purpose and her good fortune to be married to a religious man who treats all his wives equally and is so concerned with their chances of entering Jannah after this life.

And besides, she will get a small foretaste of that joy tonight. It is a Thursday and, now that Ahmed has removed her veils, she can see the exquisite tiles that she knows cover his bedroom floor. She will receive her only skin-to-skin contact and it is heavenly. She wishes fervently that, when her purdah suit is changed and she is bathed, she could experience that too, but her husband has explained to her that she is always knocked out during the process since that helps her normalise the purdah state and is to keep her mind balanced and stable.

He is so considerate… but this life is so hard!

She hears his voice, muffled through the rubber.

“Come here my darling wife!”

She shuffles forward, her footsteps limited by the chain around her ankles, and then, the foot of the bed comes into view. She climbs onto it and sees his naked legs and then his crotch with his thing standing proudly erect.

His hands encircle her and then remove her underpants, the two invaders coming out with a loud slurp. Their absence makes her feel empty down there, longing to be filled.

He climbs on top of her and his lips kiss the fake rubber lips affixed to the front of her mouth area. She cannot see him, but she can smell him through the nostril holes, the smell mingling delightfully with the omnipresent odour of rubber.

And then he enters her and she can feel his warm, human flesh within her, that heavenly reminder that she too is human and that there is more than rubber to this world. Silently, she gives thanks to God as the man she never chose starts to use her for his pleasure.

Vignettes from the Harem #6: Banana

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Harem inductee 7:

Banana

Inducted: February 2016

Banana sat and looked across at Peach. She was really cute, and it was easy to see why she was the Master’s favourite. Like her, Peach was naked save for her golden chastity belt and jewellery. Like her, Peach’s arms were held behind her body in the elegant, yet difficult bondage position known as “reverse prayer”. Like her, this caused Peach to thrust out her obviously fake bosom as if presenting it for approval. Both girls had only been trained in reverse prayer a month earlier; before that it had been monogloves. They were both still finding it difficult and, like her, Peach squirmed somewhat, although Banana knew that this was as much to do with the large plug in her bottom as the arm bondage.

Like her, Peach found the butt plugs difficult, particularly each time the old one was swapped for a slightly larger model.

Peach wasn’t just cute though, she was also a lovely person, which is why Banana was glad that she had been as her companion. Unlike her, Peach hadn’t been subjected to induced puberphonia, so when they chatted, aside from the slight slurring caused by her tongue piercings, she sounded as she had done before she was Peach.

Banana, on the other hand, was glad of her voice modifications. They helped enforce her new identity as a harem girl in the Fruits Basket.

Like all the pieces of fruit in the basket, she found it hard to comprehend just how her life had changed in the six months since she had first met the Master. That had been at a cricket match in Jo’burg. The Proteas had been playing England he had been in the crowd. For some reason, he had been transfixed by Banana – not that she was known by that name then – and, a few days later, masked men had broken into her house and… well, once the chloroform mask was put over her face, she remembered no more.

She woke up in a hospital. She was tied to a bed and people in white scrubs were operating on her. When they saw that she was awake, they injected her with something and her world went black again. This happened several times, but in-between those wakings, her dreams had been surreal and disturbing.

Almost as surreal and disturbing as the world that she found herself in when she awoke.

Like the other pieces of fruit in the basket, when she awoke, she found herself with a new name and purpose in life. She found herself blessed with a spherical pair of breasts and minus any hair from the neck down. She found her body adorned with jewellery and her arms restrained. She found her voice to be squeaky like a twelve-year-old girl’s and her private parts locked away in a golden chastity belt.

And she found herself being prepared for a night with her new Master.

That first night she was petrified. She resisted and fought, but since she was chained down to the bed face-down, it made no different. Her rear hole was lubed thoroughly and her Master positioned himself behind her and then slowly, gently, yet firmly, pushed himself in. Never before in her life had she felt so mastered, so truly conquered and defeated.

After he had finished, he unchained her and held her in his arms. Her fight was all gone and instead, she welcomed the loving warmth. A week later when she was called to his bed again, although scared, she did not resist and even found some pleasure in the act.

By blanking out all that she had been and thinking only of her duties now, she slowly began to accept her new reality. The days spent veiled in her hot and heavy burqa seemed natural – why should she not be veiled when strange men are about? – and the fact that she had not had any use of her arms since her arrival seemed normal – what did she need them for anyway? She was no longer what she had been, active and free, and instead was a decorative ornament, another tasty piece of fruit for the bowl, ready for her Master to take a bit out of whenever He chose.

And indeed, she now began to enjoy their sessions together and, even though he never undid her arms, he would now unfasten her chastity belt which caused her great joy, particularly when he cradled her in his arms as the morning sun rose over the lush valley.

But having Peach, her Master’s only wife, as her special friend, made things even better. Here was someone that she could share her secrets with (well, some of them…) and talk about, and lay her head against and cradle with her lap. Oh, how she would have loved to do more, to be able to express her love for that girl in the most natural way possible, but it was not to be. Still, she did have the next best thing.

Two weeks ago, their Master had decided to invite her to His bed along with His wife. For a whole heavenly evening, she lay there on the silken sheets with the two people that she loved most in the world. Of course, it wasn’t perfect: she would play lower girl and lie under the sheet, her Master’s tool in her mouth whilst Peach lay atop, kissing him while she sucked away until he erupted down her throat. But they were together, and in the post-coital bliss, despite her own immense, painful frustration, she could rest her head on Peach’s ample bottom and breath in her scent.

And that first glorious night had been repeated two days later and then again and then again.

And tonight, Ahmed had told them that they had been called to His chamber together once more.

Peach leaned over and kissed her dear friend in excitement, a kiss that Banana eagerly returned, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths until their locked-away private parts ached with longing.


John Cobbler lay panting as he surveyed his seed splashed all over the impressive backside of his only wife. Peach groaned with the effort before collapsing onto the bed while Banana stopped rubbing her gloriously-fake breasts all over his face. It had been a fantastic bout.

Once they had all recovered though, he decided to move onto the real treat for the evening: the denouement. “Peach, thank you so much for that; there is truly no bottom on the planet that can match yours.”

“It is always an honour when you use me anally,” she replied dutifully.

“Perhaps so, but I suspect that whilst I am fully spent, you are perhaps not totally fulfilled…?”

“My needs are of no concern, Master, I…”

“Nonsense! You are my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my son! Of course your needs matter! And Banana here, you too have pleased me greatly. It is six months to the day since you arrived in the Fruits Basket, and you have adapted well even though, for you, the adaptation was all the harder.”

“Master, thank you for the praise but…”

“Shh, Banana! You need not say it! Peach here is unfulfilled, and so I have decided to unlock her belt and allow her release.”

“Master, I should be honoured to use my tongue to bring Peach to fulfilment and…”

“Nonsense! You too are greatly frustrated! You haven’t been allowed a climax since your arrival here! I shall unlock your belt and you can bring each other to climax!”

“Master, unlock my belt! But… no… Master, you know it is not possible, I cannot…”

“Banana, this is an order!”

And with a smile, he unlocked Peach’s belt to reveal her wet and waiting slit, before then turning to Banana and unlocking, hers.

And when the metal was taken away, her rampant cock sprung up, ready to enter that place that it had dreamed about for so long.


The following day in the garden, Peach did not lean her head against Banana’s shoulder like she usually did.

And when it was time for them to be together, she said that she was ill and went to bed.

And then night the Master called for Lemon.

But the following evening, Peach did appear in their private quarter and sat next to her friend. For ten full minutes they did not speak, but when Banana began to sob quietly, Peach leaned into her and whispered quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

So she told her. She told her how she had been a man, a straight man, a man who had never wanted to be anything but a man. But then one day, whilst at a cricket match, another man had bumped into him and spilt his beer. The man had mumbled an apology, but he had shoved him and told him to be a bit more fucking careful. That other man was their Master. Three days later he was in hospital.

And when he awoke again in the harem, he was a she, with breasts, hormone treatment and a girlish voice. The only remainder of her former maleness left was her cock, now forever imprisoned within a chastity belt.

“Hence the name ‘Banana’,” Peach had said.

“Hence the name ‘Banana’,” she had agreed.

And then Peach had nodded slowly and replied, “And whilst all this is a shock to me, as it was when our Master unlocked your she-cock last night, I know that it was not of your choosing. Can we still be friends?”

And Banana then dissolved into very girlish tears and buried her head in the bosom of her best friend.

Vignettes from the Harem #5: Raspberry

Vignettes from the Harem

Harem inductee 5:

Raspberry

Inducted: September 2014

Lemon may have been the first ex that John Cobbler thought of when he was establishing his harem but, unfortunately, she was not the only one. The sad reality is that a man of John Cobbler’s calibre can accumulate rather a number of ex-partners during his lifetime as most women are totally unsuited to living with a man of his complexity, intelligence and general spiritual and emotional levels.

Or at least, that’s how John Cobbler sees things.

And whilst Lemon may have been foremost in his high-functioning and unique mind when he was setting up the Fruits Basket, she was not the only ex who had scarred him, nor was she even the one who hurt him the most.

The question might be asked therefore, is that why did John go for Lemon first? Well, the truth is that, John, intellectual and genius that he is (in his own mind) realised that one is unlikely to get things perfectly right the first time around. It is always good to have a trial run and so a trial run Lemon was, a delicious hors d’oeuvre before the even tastier main course.

And revenge is a dish best served cold.

Plus, there was also the fact that Jenny Bailey was a lot further back in time and John did not have a clue where or what she was doing these days. So, for almost a year, he waited, enjoying Lemon’s predicaments to the full and getting the most out of her payback, whilst also starting to collect his other girls.

But now, with the prospect of two full months back home while he enjoyed the England cricket team play India in a five-match series and four pieces of fruit already nestled in the basket, he contemplated adding a fifth.

The one that he most wanted to savour.

Jenny Bailey had been one of the most sought-after girls at Trentham Road High School. She had been a vision of schoolgirl perfection, her long legs emerging from the pleats of her navy uniform skirt, her long golden mane cascading down her back and her blue eyes sparkling in the strip lighting of the maths class. She was a schoolboy’s wet dream.

And, at the time, John Cobbler was a schoolboy.

He salivated over her in Double History and longed for her during Art. He enjoyed watching her bend over her work during CDT, but most of all he loved watching her run and jump in the gym during Gymnastics.

Jenny, on the other hand, never noticed John.

Until one day when, to his surprise, she came over to him, stroked his shoulder, and asked him how he was. She then sat close to him, put her hand on his thigh (only inches away from his raging erection) and asked if he fancied meeting up with her after school.

How could a guy say no?

So, he went to the assigned place (the copse of trees near the railway station) and there she was, like a forest nymph, waiting for him. She approached him slowly and seductively, put her arms around his neck and then kissed him tenderly. And then, when she withdrew, she whispered in his ear, “Would you like more, big boy?”

Her hand was on his crotch, so she knew that he did.

He nodded.

“Kneel down then and kiss me down there. Then we’ll do it.”

He knelt and she lifted up her skirt. To his amazement and delight, she was wearing no panties and he could see… everything!

He moved his head in but she tapped him on the cheek and said, “No. Close your eyes and I’ll show you where.” Dutifully he closed his eyes, felt the warmth of her skin drawing near and then….

Frrrrappp!

She farted in his face! Whilst his eyes had been closed, she had turned around, presented her arse to his nose and let rip. It stank, but that was not the worst of it.

No, the worst was the laughter of all his peers who were gathered around, filming his humiliation on their phones.

So now you know why John needed to make this one absolutely perfect.


Tracking down Jenny Bailey was easier than he’d thought it would be, and when Yuri showed him the photos that he’d taken of her whilst out shopping, John was shocked. She had really let herself go! Fat and lanky-haired, with heavy make-up, distasteful tattoos and a fag in her mouth. Ugh! Jenny Bailey was queen of nowhere these days; she wouldn’t even make duchess.

It was therefore his job to redeem her.

“Living in a council house on benefits, mainly off microwave meals. Smokes, drinks heavily and has a minor weed habit. Also has a steady stream of partners. Got rid of the last one when he smacked her. Are you sure you want this one, Mr. Cobbler? I can find you much better candidates…”

“Oh no, I’m having her, Yuri. I have a conscience after all, and there is a girl that needs redemption, a second-chance in life.”

“You can say that again. Fair enough, we’ll go in tomorrow night; I’ve already introduced myself to her in the pub. She thinks my name is Kev and I like her tats.”

“Good work. Bring her straight to the facility. She will be having a lot of work done…”

A year and three months later…

John Cobbler sits looking through the latticework screen at the five exquisite ladies ensconced in his harem. He can’t see them of course, since they are all wearing their gorgeous embroidered burqas, but he knows who each one is from the colour: Lemon, Melon, Peach, Apple and Pear. His five special girls. Unbeknownst to them, he takes out his camera and snaps a picture: his five lovelies, his entire collection, gathered together to celebrate the special day of his marriage (not that any of them were aware of it, including the bride). Later that photograph will adorn one of the walls of the Fruits Basket.

But then his face clouds slightly. For this is not the entirety of his harem; there is one piece of fruit that is not there in the basket… and the photograph. Turning away from his lovelies, he puts the camera down and walks over to the large cupboard at the foot of his bed. Then he opens the one-way mirrored glass door using the little key that he keeps on a chain around his neck along with the keys for all his other girls’ restraints, fits it in the lock, turns it in the door and opens it wide to reveal Raspberry.

Or at least, Raspberry’s head.

One of John Cobbler’s favourite pastimes, when not enjoying the fruits in his basket, is to read innovative and stimulating erotica on the internet. For obvious reasons, he enjoys stories centred around women being restrained, dominated and modified. And, when designing Raspberry, he decided to take his inspiration from some of the best of them.

Her name, of course, comes from the humiliation that she once, unwisely, submitted her now Lord and Master to. And to reflect her new moniker, she wears a costume in deep, pinky red, like the colour of a raspberry. And, continuing the parallels, it is also soft and slightly furry, being made of a velveteen material that is pleasant to touch and stroke. Her costume covers her entirely from her (tightly corseted) neck, all the way down to her (tightly corseted) waist and then below, ending in her crotch. It has holes for her breasts and her two holes but nothing more.

Certainly not for her arms and legs, for they no longer exist.

Raspberry had been horrified when she awoke, strapped to a hospital bed, with John Cobbler standing over her.

Despite the passage of the years, she recognised her old classmate immediately and realised within a split-second why she had been abducted. After all, there was no one on the estate who hadn’t heard of the local boy made good and, many’s the time she had wished that, rather than humiliating him (an action she regretted anyway – she’d only done it because Brett Mason had dared her to) she had dated him, married him, and become co-heir to his fortune.

Oh well, too late for that now.

And, as he spelled out what was to be done to her body, too late for anything else as well.

With a sick smile he described how each breast would be pumped full of silicon so that it would resemble a perfectly spherical beachball affixed to her chest.

And how her lips too would be pumped, this time full of collagen, with an O-ring implanted so that she would never be able to fully close her mouth or speak.

Indeed, he carried on, speaking was an impossibility anyway, since he’d had her vocal chords and teeth removed already.

And then he’d removed her gag to prove it.

He then spoke at length about piercings and some extensive remodelling of her pussy so that it would resemble her arsehole more than anything else, a small puckered opening through which she would feel no pleasure or relief when he fucked her.

But then he’d moved onto the terrifying bit. The bit when he talked about removing her arms and legs so that she could become his perfect human pillow.

He’d wanted to keep her awake for this process, but the doctors had not allowed it. They’d said that there was a risk that the shock and pain could kill her and, since he wanted his revenge to be long-term, he’d foregone the pleasure.

As compensation though, he’d had the whole ordeal filmed and one of his favourite entertainments was replaying it on loop before her eyes on the small TV screen located on the inside of the cupboard door while he went out for the day.

And it was in that cupboard that she stayed 24/7, or at least, whenever he didn’t need her. Speaking to no one, seeing no one save for her Master and Ahmed. None of the other girls even knew that she existed, although her Master did allow – or force – her to watch as he took one of more of them each and every night through the one-way glass of her living tomb.

She hated him, oh how she hated him. But she also hated herself. Why had she listened to that bastard Brett Mason (who’d only gone and dumped her the day they graduated)? Why had she gone out of her way to humiliate the class weirdo? Why had she aimed to cause pain rather than swallowed her pride and returned the devotion that he so obviously felt towards her (for she had noticed all those longing glances, even if she’d never returned them).

Of course, in her more rational moments, she knew that she would have never chosen to go with John Cobbler at school – which seventeen-year-old would? – but those rational moments came less and less these days.

And in their place came a desire to make up to him for the great wrong that she’d done, to debase herself even further as a way of demonstrating just what a worthless cow she had been then and still was now.

And so, when he turned away from his other harem girls and faced her, she stared back, trying her best to smile at him with her doll-eyes and modified mouth.

John detected the smile and revelled in the beautiful face that he had not only restored to its former glory but had also improved. “I suppose you deserve to be part of the celebrations too,” he said to her, walking over to the cupboard, picking her up from her stand and carrying her over to the bed.

He undressed slowly, lay down beside her and then positioned her enormous pillow lips over his cock. Thankfully and happily, she began sucking away until, minutes later, he erupted with ecstasy into her modified mouth.

A couple of minutes later, after the post-coital ecstasy had resided, her wiped the saliva and sperm off his crotch with her long blonde hair and then walked back over to the window, before turning back to her and smiling. Raspberry’s redemption is coming along nicely.

With a satisfied smile on his face, John turns away from Raspberry and fixes his gaze again on his five, more complete harem girls. Tonight he will do Peach the ultimate honour of making her his wife. That is the difference you see; girls who love him and obey him are rewarded. Those who disobey and humiliate him… he glances back at the truncated form in the cupboard, helpless, anonymous and all alone. Justice can be harsh sometimes.

He turns his face to the other pieces of fruit. Lemon and Melon make a good pair, as too do Apple and Pear, but he is sad that his beloved, the enchanting Peach, is, like Raspberry all alone. At first, he’d thought about pairing those two up, but then rethought the idea: the duplicitous quad might corrupt his wife’s pure mind.

No, once he’d made her his perfect wife, he needed to get her the perfect wedding present: his next job was to find her a friend.

Vignettes from the Harem #4: Apple & Pear

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Harem inductees 3 & 4:

Apple & Pear

Inducted: January 2014

You’d struggle to find the Republic of Transnistria on a map. That’s because it’s not marked. But it does exist! Established in 1994 after a brief war with Moldova, it has remained independent ever since, with its own army, government and currency. But, like South Ossetia, Abkhazia, the Luhansk People’s Republic and the Donbass People’s Republic, it is an unrecognised country born out of the ashes of the Soviet Union, unknown to most of the world.

It is also a world-renowned centre for people trafficking and mail-order brides and, perversely, an epicentre of “Living Barbies”, strange young women who undergo surgery and dieting to make themselves look like living embodiments of the famous doll. Any why? Well, the women of Transnistria are famously beautiful and exceptionally poor. Such strategies can be a route out of poverty.

Taking all of the above into account, it is no surprise that John Cobbler had always taken a keen interest in Transnistria.

That same John Cobbler currently has a problem. Some six months earlier, the moment his Balochistani palace was completed, he had established his harem, his personal collection of unique and exquisite women. It had two residents thus far, both enjoyable in their own way, but also satisfyingly different. Lemon, an ex-girlfriend of his, now modified into a perfect vision of restrained femininity, satisfied his yearning for revenge and his artist side, whilst Melon, his former PA, a slim and gorgeous Bulgarian graduate, sated him sexually and let him indulge in his love of fake spherical breasts (for she was now blessed with the finest pair in all creation). The pair made for happy nights to happy days, and he was a mostly contented fellow these days.

Mostly.

But not completely.

Of course, part of that lack of complete bliss is that he still had plans to enact, visions to realise. A harem of two is hardly very spectacular when all is said and done, even if those two are as wonderful as Lemon and Melon. But such plans should never be rushed and each stage should be savoured.

There were, however, more pressing needs.

One of these came in the middle of the night, sometimes more than once. Every morning in the early hours, he would wake up with the need to pee and, although the bathroom was en suite and only a few metres away, it was still an effort. At first he’d tried using Lemon as a pee receptacle, but even though she tried her best (at the threat of extensive punishment), the damned girl would splutter or choke and on more than one occasion, he ended up with a damp patch on the sheets where she had coughed up his acrid release.

And besides, who wants to kiss a girl whose mouth stinks of piss?

No, he needed a new solution to this and other problems. This harem had to be sustainable after all; what about when Lemon and Melon started to age too noticeably? And wouldn’t it be nice to have some ‘proper’ harem girls rather than just an ex in need of reform or a jumped-up secretary who caught his eye?

By ‘proper’, he meant ‘properly-trained’ in the ancient arts of the harem.

Training though, takes time and effort… and a good teacher. That, though, was the easy bit. He made some discreet enquiries and then hired the services of one Madame Rashida, well-known among the oil sheikhs as a first-class tutor to the inmates of a dozen or more harems. She agreed to enter his service for a full year to train his first pupils. After which, when they had graduated, they could train the next lot.

Sustainability. The watchword for the 21st century.

Now all he needed was the pupils. And so, the following week, John Cobbler took a flight to Odessa in Ukraine and then took a private car for the short journey across the border to Tiraspol, the capital of Transnistria.


Oksana Lukyanova and Tsvetlana Stepanova looked at one another in fear, their eyes bulging in their heads. This was not what they had signed up for, not what they had been expecting.

A week earlier both had been Year 10 students at School No. 8, Tiraspol City. That day a foreign man had been shown around the school by the headmaster, Mr. Rashkov. He had visited all the Year 10 and 11 classrooms, and the girls had been asked to practise their English on him. He had congratulated them on their efforts and then left. Later, the two friends had been called to the school nurse where, for some unexplained reason, they had been forced to submit to a rather intrusive health check. Upon ascertaining their status as virgins (both girls were churchgoers and, despite the best efforts of the local gallants, had wanted to save themselves for someone special) they had been dismissed. Then, their parents had been invited into the school and it was announced that the two had been selected for an exclusive scholarship, all-expenses paid in Switzerland, plus each family would be compensated for the loss of any earnings their daughters might bring in for the next five years by the princely sum of US$5,000 to be deposited in their father’s bank accounts on the first of every month. This, of course, represented a total change in circumstance for both the Lukyanovi and Stepanovi families and so both fathers had agreed on the spot, even though the two girls could not figure out why they had been chosen since their grades were mediocre at best. But it was agreed and so, the very next morning, they were escorted in a Mercedes Benz along with the foreign gentleman and a large black man to the airport at Odessa where, to their surprise, they boarded not a usual flight, but instead a private jet.

Once on board, an attendant brought them glasses of champagne to celebrate their good fortune and they drank them with glee as the plane taxied down the runway.

By the time it was airborne, they were both fast asleep.

And now they were awake again. And they were not on the plane and neither were they in Switzerland. Instead, they found themselves on a bed in what appeared to be some sort of Middle Eastern palace.

And they were naked.

And clean-shaven down below.

Oksana tried to scream but only a groan came out. She sat up, looked at her friend and saw that Tsvetlana had a large white ball gag on a white strap filling her mouth. Realising that she had the same lodged in her own mouth, she tried to remove it.

That was when she realised that her hands were cuffed behind her back.

Tsvetlana stared back at her full of fear and then both girls turned their heads towards the door for it had opened and in walked the large black man and an Arabian-looking lady.

“Good morning Apple and Pear,” she said in accented English. “Welcome to the Fruits Basket, your new home!”

A fortnight later…

Apple and Pear are now well-established in their new lives as harem girls in the Fruits Basket. Every morning they are awoken from their slumbers by Ahmed, their hands unchained from the headboard, and led to the bathroom where, under the strict supervision of Madame Rashida, they wash themselves thoroughly before towelling each other dry.

Then they don their indoor uniforms. These are simple, a white one-piece swimsuit each. Nothing more, nothing less. No adornment, no extras. They are white because the girls are virgins. They were chosen because of their virginity – and their looks – and, despite being residents in a harem, they will remain virgins for some time yet. And virgins must wear white.

After their ablutions, they eat a healthy breakfast and then engage in some exercise, generally running on a treadmill, aerobics or swimming a kilometre in their own private pool. Then they commence their training, which usually involves either sucking upon a rubber phallus until some salty goo shoots out of it or caressing and pleasuring each other.

But only up to a point. If Madame Rashida senses that one of them is about to climax then she yanks on the golden chain attached to their white leather collar that is always worn for this activity.

They are virgins after all, and virgins must not know sexual pleasure.

In the afternoons though, their routine is quite different. Then they are fitted with their outdoor uniform. This is far more complicated than the simple indoor garb. First up, a small white rubber plug with a jewelled end is inserted into the bottom of each girl and then, over it, adult nappies are secured. Following this, each girl puts on baggy harem trousers in white with incorporated white silken socks. There’s a bra to support their small, budding breasts and then a baggy silken shirt and then, in their mouths, a white ball gag.

White cotton gloves are fitted onto each hand and then their arms are drawn behind them and laced into a strict, white, leather monoglove. White slippers connected by a strap 20cm long are fitted onto their feet and then, finally, white burqas are lowered over their heads. These burqas are identical save for the name of each girl embroidered in golden embroidery over the two oval eye grilles. Then the two girls shuffle out to the courtyard where the fountain tinkles to spend time with their equally hidden and equally silenced sisters.

There they spend several hours just sitting. They are told that it is to “bond” with their fellow “pieces of fruit” but how can one bond with someone one can neither see nor speak to? The real reason, Apple and Pear suspect, is to teach them patience and obedience. But it is hard, for the plugs in their bottoms torment them and it can get hot in the Balochi sun. They long to throw back the layers and breath in the air freely rather than through a layer of cloth. But with their arms restricted as they are, throwing back anything is impossible. When first introduced to their monogloves, they found them unbelievably restrictive and painful, but now, as with everything else, they are starting to normalise these torture devices and besides, after half an hour or so, the arms go dead.

The evenings are what they live for. Then they retire to their quarters, are stripped of all their encumbrances, showered again and their indoor uniforms refitted including the collars and chains. The ends of the chains are secured to a ring set in the floor and their arms are bound again, this time in an even more painful configuration which, when they are fully trained, will enable them to hold them behind their backs, palm-to-palm, elbow-to-elbow, as if in prayer. That though is for the future; now, for a couple of joyful hours, they can speak with one another and, if they feel like it, kiss or cuddle. Despite the fact that both girls are straight, the lack of any other human contact makes this activity appealing.

Tonight though, rather than going to bed at nine like they usually do, Madame Rashida has announced that, for the first time ever, they will be serving the Master in his chambers. This announcement, long expected, both excites them and fills them with a degree of dread. How will they fare?


John Cobbler lies panting on the bed, his left hand cradling Melon’s buttocks and his right squeezing her left breast. Their lovemaking that evening had been, as always, most enjoyable, but now he is starting to feel the effect of those glasses of mint tea he imbibed before coming to bed. He takes his hand away from that exquisite globe of fake femininity and presses the small button by the side of the bed.

Within a minute the bedroom door opens to reveal a most remarkable sight.

An exquisitely beautiful teenage girl with chestnut hair done up in a French plait and wearing a plain, white, one-piece swimsuit, walks into the room. Her arms are ensconced in a strict white leather monoglove, tightly-laced so they stay ramrod straight, palm-to-palm, elbow-to-elbow, behind her back, but from a loop stitched into the end of that armbinder, loops a golden chain which is attached at its other end to the collar of a second teenage girl. This girl is identically attired in a one-piece white swimsuit, but she wears no monoglove and instead her white kid leather-gloved hands hold a brass vase decorated with calligraphy. Most remarkable though is her head, for it is completely hidden by a tightly laced hood of matching white leather with only three holes in it: one over each nostril and the third on the crown of her hidden head for the purpose of letting her mousey hair cascade out in its ponytail.

Melon watches their entrance with interest. This is not the first time she has seen them; their Master introduced his two virgins to their serving role the previous week, but all the previous times she has witnessed them, Apple was the hooded one and Pear the one wearing a monoglove. Each night their roles are reversed and the buxom Bulgarian is eager to see what the other virgin looks like. Is she as pretty as her partner? If anything, she is prettier.

Apple guides her blinded companion to the side of the bed where she then kneels and helps her friend to do likewise. Then Dave turns lazily over towards them so that his member is facing the sightless girl.

Following this, with whispered phrases in delightfully accented English, Apple guides Pear so that the blinded girl positions the brass vase directly in front of the flaccid tool. Once in place, a trickle of golden liquid tinkles into it. Apple watches it as if it were the finest nectar and then, once the stream has finished, she instructs Pear to remove the vase and she leans over and sucks her Master’s tool clean. Finally, she then turns to his face and says, “Thank you for letting us service you, Master.”

He smiles and strokes her hair. She hesitates. Two days ago, when he was sharing his bed with Lemon, he invited her into his bed and cuddled up next to her, stroking her breasts and squeezing her bottom through her indoor uniform for a few minutes before dismissing them, but today he proffers no invite, so she rises, instructs Pear to follow her and they pad their way out of the room.

John Cobbler lies back and uses Melon’s ample bosom as a pillow. Those two new additions to his harem are an absolute delight and he foresees many joyful evenings with them in the coming years after they blossom fully. He is already planning a joint deflowering ceremony in his mind, but that is for later. Now, he is tired; Melon with her boundless youthful energy has exhausted him. He nuzzles her magnificent breasts further and slowly drifts off to sleep.

 

 

Vignettes from the Harem #3: Peach

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Harem inductee 6:

Peach

Inducted: July 2015

On Tuesday the 21st July 2015, John Cobbler found himself waking up in his suite at the Hilton Hotel just off Park Lane in London. He yawned, stretched himself and then looked at the girl who was sleeping by his side. He’d elected to take Raspberry with him on this trip (for obvious reasons) and he was enjoying spending time with her. Nonetheless, he wasn’t happy. The raison d’etre for his extended stay back in his homeland was to attend the five test matches of the eagerly-anticipated Ashes series (being a man of wealth, getting tickets was hardly a problem these days), but, despite winning the first game, the home team had lost heavily to the Aussies at Lords, and he had witnessed every minute of it.

And not even Raspberry’s ministrations could make up for that.

To cheer himself up – and because he was a cultured man – after his trusted Sudanese eunuch Ahmed had packed Raspberry safely away, John betook himself to the Victoria and Albert Museum. He spent a pleasant hour or so examining the exhibits in the Oriental section, and then a good thirty minutes or so checking out some of the sumptuous gowns in the costume gallery (and wondering to himself how some of his girls would look wearing similar attire) before taking himself off to the glorious cast courts, easily the highlight of the establishment. In the Western Cast Court he sat himself down on a bench to contemplate Trajan’s Column when, into his view came a sight far more arresting even than the glories of the Classical Age all around him.

It was, of course, a girl. She was of average height, with long dark hair and seemed to be in her early twenties. However, what seized Mr. Cobbler’s attentions was not her glorious mane, nor even her sparkling eyes and firm, pert breasts (she spent most of her time with her back to him anyhow), but instead her absolutely marvellous, peachy, rounded and glorious bottom. Indeed, it was not a bottom, but a bottom of bottoms, a work of art drawn by a hand far greater than any mere human creator. Why, he could modify a girl a thousand times and not create a bum like that which she had thoughtfully displayed for him in an extremely tight-fitting pair of blue jeans. In an instant, he knew that he had to have her and then, even as the thought passed through his mind, God Himself delivered her into his gentlemanly hands.

She was making a sketch of the lower frieze on the column (which fortuitously put her dead ahead of Cobbler, her delightful derriere exactly in his eyeline and, since the frieze was so low down, she had to crouch to see it properly, the action causing her booty of great beauty to be emphasised all the more). And, as she crouched, something fell out of her pocket.

He watched with joy while she sketched and then traced her with his eyes as she walked off, before rising himself and picking up the dropped object. It was, as he thought, a purse, complete with cards, some petty cash and a photograph of her smiling into the camera with a far-less attractive friend or sister.

John took out his phone and typed out an encrypted message to “Yuri”, his international fixer.

Zala Radosová, Slovenian, student at UCL, London, DOB 22/07/1993

He pressed send and looked up. Zala was still in the Cast Court, and still engrossed in the artwork. She was now busy sketching details from the Portico de la Gloria from Santiago Cathedral. ‘Tastes as sophisticated as her bottom,’ thought Cobbler to himself, this revelation reinforcing that young Zala would make an excellent addition to his collection. He walked over to her.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” he said, referring to both her derriere and the portico.

She turned around slightly surprised and smiled at him. “Yes, it is wonderful.”

Her voice had a beautiful Slavic lilt to it which endeared her even more to him. John Cobbler was falling in love, or at least, as close to falling in love as someone like John Cobbler can fall.

“However,” he said, his voice becoming graver and a frown clouding his visage, “leaving this lying about on the floor is far less wonderful.”

He held up the purse and she looked embarrassed. “Oh my God, I never even realised! Thank you, thank you so much! You are very kind; I do so wish I could repay you somehow”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a smile. “Your smile is payment enough.”

Four months later…

In the gardens of the Cobbler Mahal sit five veiled figures. Each one is clad in a gorgeous Afghani burqa with exquisite embroidery and a tiny grille for them to see out of. All five figures are completely silent due to the gags filling their mouths and so they merely sit there, listening to the raga band that the master of the mahal has brought in to provide the evening’s entertainment.

Although the figures are all entirely shrouded from view – a necessary precaution since Cobbler Sahib has invited some of the local notables around to enjoy the evening – for those in the know, it is clear as to who they are, for each of their burqas is in a different colour. Well, all of them save for the two figures seated to the far right. Both of them wear pure white burqas which all present know signifies their status as virgins, his delightful Apple and Pear. But the others are strictly delineated by colour. From left to right there is a figure in a yellow burqa which is Lemon, one in a green burqa with the embroidery picked out in pink named Melon, but it is the central figure, the one clad in a fine peach burqa that commands all the attention, for not only does she wear a burqa, but on her head rests a diamond tiara. John Cobbler smiles to himself as he sees the other girls glance towards her and then away, turning their burqa grilles in curiosity and jealousy. For the wearing of the tiara signifies, as every member of his harem knows, that this is the last girl to have received the master’s seed. The two girls in white silently wonder what it is like and the other two wish it were them.

For Peach has been wearing the tiara for a full week straight now, an unprecedented length of time in the Fruits Basket.

Under her coverings, the girl formerly known as Zala and now referred to only as Peach, is trying to let the music take her away to another place. When she turns over in her mind all that has happened in the past three months and more, she really struggles to take it in. She is in shock, which, considering the incredible sequence of events, is only understandable.

Her life was normal, so very normal. In fact, it wasn’t even normal, it was good. Beyond her wildest dreams. She had worked hard, unbelievably hard at her degree at the University of Ljubljana and had been rewarded with a 1st class honours. But then things got even better; she was awarded to further her studies at the world-class University College London where she could read an MA in Classical Art. And so there she was, the quiet, shy girl from rural Slovenia, in one of the most exciting cities on earth, studying the subject she loved.

Until, walking home one night from the tube station, a woman approached her and unloaded a syringe in her arm. Immediately the world had turned black and, when she woke up, she was in some weird palace in the Middle East.

She had felt so disorientated, so strange. One minute she was on a London street and the next she was lying in a luxurious bed with sunlight streaming in through skylights in the roof.

And she was naked.

Well, almost.

She was naked in that she wore no clothes, but her body was adorned with golden jewellery. Chains looped from her nose to her ears and around her ankles were filigree golden cuffs. Worse than that though, through her nipples were golden rings from which little bells hung.

And worse than that, her breasts had changed. They were larger and firmer.

They had altered her!

But who were ‘they’…?

And that was not the worst of it. Her arms were held behind her back in some sort of device that kept them elbow to elbow, palm to palm.

And around her middle, sealing her private parts away was a pair of golden underpants with a grille for her to pee through.

And around her neck a golden collar, upon which a name was engraved:

Peach

She learned quick. A large black man came to her room and fed her like a baby. He told her that she was in the harem of Cobbler Sahib whom she should simply refer to as ‘Master’. He then went on to say that this harem was unofficially referred to as the Fruits Basket because all the girls in it had been given new names, each a type of fruit, and that hers was Peach.

Peach. Somehow a nice name yet demeaning at the same time.

And that day, when she met her fellow pieces of fruit in the Basket. Well, sort of met. They, like her, had all been covered in thick embroidered gowns with a grille to see through, so she didn’t know what they looked like and, since she was gagged – and she assumed that they were too – couldn’t speak with either. Later though, one of the girls, the one they called Melon who was wearing a dainty tiara on her head, was allowed to talk with her from behind her coverings. She explained that they existed only to serve the Master and that she had been honoured to grace his bedroom last night. Peach had so many questions, the first being about their names.

“We are reborn when we enter the Fruits Basket, so we require new names. In here, we are all fruit, but our names signify something. I am Melon for good reason. Lean you head on my chest.”

Peach did as she was commanded and was shocked to feel two enormous hard spheres beneath the material. “I was an A-cup before, now I have two of the largest breasts on the planet, each as big as a melon, hence the name. And you are Peach, and so, my guess is, you have a large bum?”

Beneath her layers Peach blushed. It was all too crude.


“I must prepare you for your night with the Master,” he told her.

Ahmed had said those words to her after she had been in the harem for about a month. Had he said them on the first night, she would have resisted with all her might, but that month had worn her down. She craved human contact, skin-to-skin contact and, after spending every day looking at the portraits of the Master with his tool standing proudly erect, she longed to meet him in person.

Plus, she was feeling horny. Desperately horny, aching for release like she had never known before.

She’d objected, of course, cried and screamed a bit. She’d pleaded and wailed, but Ahmed had put up with it all with a smile and then reiterated that this was her life now and that usually such a performance would result in punishment but today he would make an exception and that being invited to the Master’s chamber was a great honour.

And, because she was basically a shy, submissive girl and was still in shock, she acquiesced and let him braid her hair and apply her make-up, oils and perfumes.

And then she was led down the corridors to the man who now owned her.

The experience was not how she’d expected it to be. She’d expected him to be harsh and cruel, yet he had been gentle, considerate and kind. After taking her virginity, he’d removed the bindings from her arms and let her cuddle him and, strange though this might sound, she’d relished the opportunity and clung to him for dear life as if he meant the world to her.

Or as if he were her only certainty in a suddenly uncertain world.

Later, when she was sitting with the other members of the Fruits Basket, after Melon had explained to her what the tiara she now donned signified, she remembered reading about something called Stockholm Syndrome whereby kidnap victims fall in love with their kidnappers. Was that what this was?

Maybe so, yet there was something else as well. The Master looked vaguely familiar, yet she could not place him. Certainly, he was not someone she knew and yet she had the feeling that they had met somewhere before…

…somewhere before all this.

She’d woken in his arms, sunlight streaming through the open windows which overlooked glorious gardens cascading down a mountainside. They’d made love again, slowly and passionately, the only thing that was strange was him paying great attention to her bottom, which he kept kneading and stroking. Indeed, he preferred to take her doggy style, as if he wanted to see her bum more than her face. Why this should be, she could not think, since she’d always been a tad ashamed of the excessive size of her bottom, but he was the Master and it mattered not because after they’d finished and they lay there, his hand on that bottom, they’d talked of classical music and art and she’d thought him a fine and cultured gentleman.

After that though, things had been a little harder. The black eunuch had taken her to one side and said that she would be with the Master again that evening, but this time he would want to sample her other hole. Horrified by the idea, she resisted, but a few sharp smacks on her gluteus maximus had caused her to cease her resistance and instead she had sobbed silently as he leant her over the bed and slowly inserted a lubed plug into her anus.

It had been painful but more than anything, it had been humiliating and, after it was done and the chastity belt (such as the golden pants were called) were replaced, it stayed in there and she was expected to wear it for the rest of the day, it’s ever-constant presence disturbing her immensely.

But that evening it was removed and replaced with a larger, living plug of flesh and muscle that slid in and out of that most private of holes before finally erupting deep within her bowels.

And yet afterwards, in the post-coital bliss, he had been so gentle, kind, considerate and loving again that, well, it had seemed almost as a dream.

And so things had continued. Her life had become a surreal routine of luxurious lounging about by day and frenzied sexual activity by night unless, of course, one of the other pieces of fruit was chosen, and then she lay on her bed feeling uncontrollably horny, yet unable to relieve that tension due to the monoglove (such as it was called) binding her arms and the chastity belt around her waist.

And all the time, in her rear hole, there was lodged the plug, teasing and tormenting her but, more importantly than that, reminding her of her new status and identity as the finest derriere in the Fruits Basket.

She squirms, thinking about the plug, and, to try and take her mind away from it and her new status in life, she listens to the music, attempting to lose herself in the soundwaves as the raga band quickens its tempo and causes this world to fall away and a new realm to appear, a realm of spiritual beauty, a timeless age of grace and elegance and…

… she remembers.

The man in the museum.

The man who had handed her the purse she had dropped.

The kind stranger whom she had wanted to repay so very much.

Well, tonight as with most nights, she could at least settle that debt…

And looking at her veiled form squirm, John Cobbler smiles a wry smile. Of all the pieces of fruit in his basket, she is the most intelligent and most genuine. He can respect her as a person as well as enjoy her sexually. Which is why, unbeknownst to her, the raga band and local notables have been invited tonight. For Peach is the first – and possibly the only – piece of fruit that he is granting the status of wife to. He arranged for an imam to sign the documents earlier today and tonight he will enjoy her front hole for the first time since that first night and, for the first time ever, without her being on the pill. After all, he needs a son to carry on his line and who better than intelligent, cultured Peach to bear him…?

Vignettes from the Harem #2: Melon

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Vignettes from the Harem #1: Lemon

Harem inductee 2:

Melon

Inducted: October 2013

When he first entertained his vision of a sexually glorious future in his purpose-built Balochi palace surrounded by his collection of extraordinary women, John Cobbler realised that this was not something he could do alone.

Most of it was entirely feasible for him to map out, organise and cope with. He had an extraordinary intellect and an incredible administrative mind (in his opinion), but he realised that for some of the more humdrum day-to-day matters, logistical support would be a necessity and so, when he had only mapped out the bare bones of the project, he advertised for a project manager to work with him in realising his dream.

And, due to the generous wages he was prepared to offer, he had no shortage of applicants for the post. He diligently sifted out the weaker ones by hand and then had a short videolink interview with the remaining candidates, after which he whittled it down to five whom he then flew to London for the final interview (since he was in the city himself, using as a base whilst he caught the summer’s test series). And so, he hired out a nice suite in the city and spent a day interviewing his five potentials. All were good, but two stood head and shoulders above the rest. The first was a man in his thirties named Michael who had been to Oxford and seemed both dynamic and competent, having managed several projects since for large multi-nationals. He was the safe bet.

The second was named Penka and she was a young Bulgarian lady. Fresh out of the University of Central Europe (to which she had won a prestigious scholarship) she was totally inexperienced yet dynamic, committed, enthusiastic and, to top it all off, gorgeous. As he sat there listening to her speak about returns, workforce strategies and competitive tendencies, he admired her long dark hair that cascaded down her back, her brown eyes that you could dive into, her olive Mediterranean skin and her pearly white teeth, whilst her melodic accent with its soft ‘v’s and ‘l’s soothed his soul. He also admired her shapely legs, shown off to their best advantage by the well-tailored business suit she wore which incorporated a tight skirt that finished mid-thigh. He would trust her to not only bring a project to a successful climax, but also his cock.

And so, in the end, he hired both of them. Michael, it transpired in their post-interview chat, was a big cricket fan as well, and so John gave him the task of sorting out all his new homes and businesses around the globe. To Penka however – or Pepi as she preferred to be called – he handed over the Balochi project, with the deadline of a finished palace a year from the starting date.

And that done, he flew off to the UAE where he’d made a business acquaintance who had promised to introduce him to an Arab with a genuine modern-day harem who was prepared to talk about how to set one up and maintain it.


When John next saw Pepi a fortnight later, she was looking less ravishing, but everything else was to his tastes. Her diminished sexual appeal was due to her having adopted a loose headscarf and flowing full-length dresses so as to give herself an advantage with the locals when negotiating for land and materials. She had located several suitable sites and also sourced several architects and builders. John chose a particularly stunning location on the side of a valley and then selected the design of an Arabian architect who envisaged a sort-of modern-day Mughal-Abbasid fusion villa complete with courtyards and enclosed gardens. That day, the land was purchased, and the construction started.

“There is only one thing I am not so sure of,” said Pepi that evening in the hotel lounge.

“What is it?” John asked.

“This section here, with these courtyards and multiple bedrooms. It is merely marked guest accommodation, but there are a great number of rooms here. Do you really require so many?”

“Oh yes, I intend to hold large parties from time to time.”

“Very well then, but also, the rooms are not large or well-appointed and none of them have windows to the outside. They are a little like prison cells almost. Do you think your guests will like that?”

(Pepi, of course, had not been party to John’s private conversation with the architect around the nature of the expected guests in that wing of the building).

“Yes, it is strange isn’t it, but I have been assured that in this culture, such accommodation is the norm. Unlike us Europeans, the Asians do not appreciate grand views, they prefer intimate spaces that are private, and I have been told they will welcome rooms such as these greatly.”

“So be it then.”

In fact, the cells for the harem girls were modelled almost directly on those of Sheikh Humaid bin Rashid Al Qasimi who had kindly shown John Cobbler around his home during the billionaire’s trip to the UAE. Dave had let the sheikh know that, privately (though not publicly for fear of alienating friends and supporters in Europe) he had converted to Islam and wished to live a pious Islamic life from now on, hence his choice of Pakistan for his palace, and his notion of collecting a harem.

And although, sadly, he had not let John see any of the fifty or more inmates of his private harem, he had talked the Englishman through their training regimes and other routines. Indeed, it was after this talk that John fully understood why he had seen none of the girls: part of the harem methodology was for the girls to never be able to see or speak with a male apart from their master and the eunuchs, so that, over time, they gradually channel all their sexual and romantic desires into the correct place. “Most of my girls have forgotten what any man other than me and my Sudanese eunuchs looks like; they have only fuzzy, shady pictures, whereas I am real and always present, either in person or in the form of my portraits on the wall.” And indeed, those portraits of the naked sheikh, his member fully erect, were one of the first things that John noticed on his tour for they were, well… very noticeable.

“And another thing,” the enthusiastic Arab had continued, “they must be dehumanised. You break who they once were and make them something new. Their old wants, needs and identity is erased the moment that they walk through these doors. The main tool I use to do this is to rename them. Mine are all named after flowers – Primrose, Lily, that kind of thing – but that is not the only option. A friend of mine calls them all after spices. But the renaming is not all; I also keep them veiled and hidden at all times save for when they are in my bed. Apart from a single friend from within the harem – selected by me, of course – and the eunuchs and me, no one knows what they look like. They spend many hours together with their “sisters” as we term them, but they never know what each other looks like, so, of course, their imaginations go into overdrive, and they imagine that each woman is unbelievably gorgeous and so feel jealous and inadequate and work even harder to please me!”

John listened in admiration. The sheikh had given him much to think about.


The next time he saw Pepi, the foundations of the palace had already been put in place and in some parts the walls were several feet high. He could imagine in his mind’s eye how it would appear when finished and he liked what he imagined.

He also liked what he saw before him. Pepi, no longer needing to satisfy the natives, had switched to a more sensuous dress code. A pair of white jeans clung to her hips and buttocks whilst a tight top showed off her upper figure. It was driving the workmen wild which, he suspected, was why she wore it. Her sensuality gave her power over men, including him. But it wasn’t perfect; her breasts, although pert and well-formed, were far too small for John’s tastes. They were B-cup at most, more likely A. As they surveyed the works, he imagined her with large, spherical, obviously fake tits, and liked what he imagined.

John had a thing for fake tits you see.

They flew back to Lahore and that evening he took her out for dinner in the city’s best restaurant. She wore an alluring long black number with a low neckline and, again, John imagined how good it would be if she had a cleavage to show off. It was as if God had made her 95% perfect but had left the remaining 5% up to someone else.

“Listen Pepi, you’ve been working really hard and I love what you’ve achieved so far. But you deserve a break; overwork can cause burn-out you know.”

“John,” she purred, “like I said in my interview, I am focussed and goal-driven. I cannot rest properly until this job is done!”

“Well, why not we meet halfway. My other PM has just purchased a lovely place for me in Barbados. How’s about you join me there for a week or so. It’s got a fully equipped office so you can continue doing everything that you need to, but in the evenings you can relax. My shout!”

Her face lit up delightfully. “Really?!”

“Really.”

“Thanks, so much. You’re a dream boss.”

And when she left that evening, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.


The week she spent at his new Caribbean home was one that would remain long in John Cobbler’s memory. Nothing happened in one sense, but in another the sexual tension and unspoken passion between them fizzled. That was partly due to the aphrodisiacs that her food was laced with, naturally, but there was more than that. John liked this girl, she was steaming. He knew that he had to have her. But to content himself until that time came, he carefully filmed and photographed her using secret camera in her room, and the ones he got of her in her skimpy black bikini on the beach using his expensive zoom lenses, he had blown up and framed. They were really artistic.

And the day she returned to Pakistan, he took a flight to Mexico to meet the plastic surgeon and body modification expert who he’d had recommended to transform his bitter ex-girlfriend into the sultry, helpless and unwilling first inductee into his harem.

And after he’d gone through the details of her transformation, he outlined his ideas for a second girl.

“It’s possible,” replied Dr. Carlos. “In fact, this is easy work for me, for there is little to do. Mostly, it is the breasts, no? From tiny and natural to enormous and fake. Two beachballs on the chest, why not? It will suit her, I think. But tell me, you said you are thinking to call them all by the name of fruit, no? We have already Project Lemon, so what shall I call this one?”

They both looked down at the vision he had sketched out on the paper and then at one another. “Project Melon,” they declared in tandem before dissolving into a fit of laughter.


Pepi Alexandrova looked out of the grand window of the master bedroom at the half-built Cobbler Mahal and smiled with pride and satisfaction. This, her first big break in the world of business, was not only going to plan, but so much more. The palace construction was ahead of schedule and her boss professed himself not only satisfied with the standard of the work, but “overwhelmed” and “more than pleased” at both the cost and end result. So much so, that he’d given her a bonus.

More than that, she could tell that he was falling for her. Big time. Coming from an impoverished background in one of Europe’s deadest backwaters as she did, she’d long known that she’d have to use both her beauty and her brains to get her where she wanted to be in life. Her brains had got her the interview, but her beauty – plus the carefully-chosen outfit on which she’d gambled most of her savings – had won her the role. And whilst her brains and work ethic were keeping her in his good books, her beauty was potentially going to bring so much more. When he invited her to his place in Barbados, she’d known that she’d snared him, but she’d feigned ignorance and kept a slight distance so that he’d want her all the more. It pays to be coy sometimes.

And the end prize was well worth waiting for. I mean, just look at that Caribbean villa for starters! She imagined herself installed as the mistress of the place, Mrs. Cobbler. It was a tantalising dream.

Of course he himself was not quite so alluring. I mean, he wasn’t exactly bad-looking, and he did have a certain quirky attraction to him at times, but there was also a rather disconcerting weirdness lurking under the surface, as if his judgement in social situations was not always that sharp. Like the other week in London when they’d had dinner together at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in the West End and then gone on to an exclusive club. In the club, he’d nestled up to her and then started some weird conversation about plastic surgery. What did she think of it? Would she ever consider it? The inspiration was obvious – there were two girls in the booth across from them with obviously enhanced tits, tits so unnaturally huge and spherical that it made them look like cartoon dolls – and true, he was drunk, but even so, is that really what one talks to a lady about? Anyway, she’d made it clear that she was quite satisfied with her breasts as they were and no, she would never countenance an enhancement.

But such incidents like that were occasional and, considering everything else, could be coped with. No one is perfect after all, certainly no men are. And he had so much to offer.

She fell down onto the luxurious king-sized bed. It had been a spark of genius of hers to offer to live on the site so that she could oversee things more closely, and then make sure that the master suite was the first part completed. Now she was living like a sultana whilst earning the wage of a banker and seducing a billionaire.

Could life get any better?

Six months later…

Melon lies on the same grand bed that she lay upon six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

Melon looks out on the same glorious vista that she looked out upon six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

Melon thinks about the same man that she thought about six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

But things are oh so different now.

For now she is Melon.

And Pepi is but a fading memory.

Things were going so well, everything seemed to be running to plan. John Cobbler did fall for her and, one night, just as the palace had reached completion and they were holding a celebratory meal in the freshly painted dining room, he did take her hand and kiss it. And then her cheek. And then her lips. And then they went hand-in-hand to that glorious bedchamber – this glorious bedchamber! – and consummated their new-found love.

And that night she fell asleep in the arms of her boss and her dreams were filled with visions of a life of luxury as the lover of John Cobbler.

Well, in some respects, she muses, they came true.

When she awoke, she was no longer in that – this – grand bed. Instead, she was in a small cell-like room. She recognised it immediately; it was one of the guest rooms that she had supervised the construction of. She realised with a roll of her eyes that John must have carried her here from the master bedroom whilst she was asleep. Quite why he would do that, she couldn’t fathom out, but he obviously had done. Well, as she’d said before, he could be a little strange sometimes.

She sat up and that is when she realised that there may be more to his actions than she’d first realised.

Because when she sat up, she jingled.

And her enormous breasts bounced about provocatively.

Her enormous breasts!!!!!!

What the…?

She brought her hands to them and looked down. Each was easily the size of a football, perhaps more, and perfectly spherical in shape. Furthermore, each was tipped by a puffy, engorged nipple, through which a ring had been fitted and from each ring a little bell hung.

That had been the jingling.

Well… some of it…

Pepi brought her hands to those nipples. They were so sensitive, so wonderful…

She heard more jingling. Instinctively, she brought her hands down to her slit. There was something there too, a piercing, a bell…

She looked down but those ridiculous breasts obscured her view. Still, she had designed these rooms, she knew where to go. She got up and went into the en suite bathroom with its full-length mirror. OMG! Yes, there was a bell there! Her clit had been pierced and a ring inserted and from the ring, a bell. But there was more than that. She stroked her slit. All the hair was gone, not even the trace of any stubble and her lips appeared more prominent and the clit huge and puffed up like…

She brought her hand up to her lips. Yes, they were larger now and…

She opened her mouth and saw the ring through the end of her tongue and the identical bell dangling from it.

What on earth had happened to her?!

She screamed.

Ten minutes later she was back on the bed and her breasts were heaving up and down ten to the dozen with each laboured breath. The shock had caused a panic attack. Standing over her was a large black man with a bloated face and a loose robe covering his flabby body. He was the one who had arrived when she’d screamed. He was the one who had held her down when she’d started flailing and fighting. He was the one who had explained everything.

Explained that she was now Melon, not Pepi.

Explained that she was the second inductee in the Master’s new harem.

Explained that the harem is nicknamed the Fruits Basket because all its members bear the name of types of fruit.

Explained that her purpose in life was now to serve the Master sexually and to make herself attractive and available for him at all times.

Explained that the Master was currently with the other harem inmate, the first inductee whose anal virginity he was honouring her by taking.

Explained that that other inmate is called Lemon and that this Lemon is to be her partner and only friend from now on.

Explained that the Master is none other than John Cobbler, her former boss, and that when he receives her tomorrow night, she must thank him for the honour of being allowed into his harem.

Explained that she will never be allowed to leave.

That had all been half a year – and what felt like half a lifetime – ago. And those months that followed had been hard. The first time he had sent for her, she had resisted and Ahmad – the black man who had inducted her into the harem – had had to chain her down and gag her. And when John had removed that gag to kiss her, she’d spat at him and told him that she hated him and that she would never love him or give herself to him of her own volition again and that he was the worst man in all the world.

And he had just smiled, nodded, and then rang for Ahmad who had unchained her and taken her back to her own room.

And that was that. He never called for her again or took any notice of her. But whilst John did not think of Melon, Melon began to think constantly about John. Of course, having a portrait of him standing naked on the ceiling above her did not help matters. She longed to pull it off, but as she was always chained down in her bed, only being freed to complete her strenuous morning exercises, before being restrained again and then veiled, she never had the chance. And perhaps it was all those BDSM restraints like the binder that held her arms behind her back, or the cuffs that linked her ankles, but she began to feel hornier and hornier.

Hornier and hornier, but with no prospect of relief. More and more, she longed to finger herself, to relieve the unbearable tension in her nether parts.

But it was never possible for even in the shower, her hands were chained to a ring dangling from the ceiling, while Ahmad sponged and rinsed her.

And when she was sitting next to her “friend” Lemon and she – if she could still be called a “she” after all the modifications John had ordered done to her – spoke at length about her nights with the “Master” and what he did to her (well, what else had Lemon got to talk about?), then poor Melon almost went wild with desire.

Until, in the end, she could not take it anymore and so, a month ago, she mentioned to Ahmad that she wanted to share a bed with the Master, and he promised to mention it.

But nothing happened for a whole week, so she mentioned it again, and again he promised to speak to John.

But again she heard nothing and so this time she begged.

And a week later John deigned to have her heavily veiled form brought before him on the terrace. And, with a smile, he had removed her burqa and gag, kissed her on the mouth and then tickled her fanny with his fingers causing almost unbelievable pleasure.

Then she had begged him.

“Prove that you mean it, Melon,” he had said.

She knew, there and then, that this was the moment. Obey him now and there could be no turning back; he would have broken her spirit and sent her on a journey of no return. But the ache in her fanny was so great and his touch had been so momentous that, after only a few seconds of hesitation, she nodded, knelt down in front of him and received his cock in her mouth.

And when he withdrew at the last moment and erupted all over her face, it was as if she were new baptised. Henceforth she never would be Penka – or Pepi – again.

And today, a week later, Melon lies waiting for her Master, ready to truly become his woman… and to satisfy that impossible ache. She is his now; that is all that she needs to know.

Vignettes from the Harem #1: Lemon

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Harem inductee 1:

Lemon

September 2013

Stacey Jones looked at her reflection in the mirror. She surveyed the figure staring back at her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.

And as she looked, she wept.

Half an hour later she was still gazing at the same surreal image. She had no choice. That would be her view until he decided otherwise.

He. That bastard Cobbler. Her “Master” as she was now supposed to say. By God she hated the shit. Hated him like she had never hated anyone before, not even her two-timing ex-husband.

Three years ago, it had all been so different. They’d met online and he’d charmed her with his intelligence and wit. When they met in person, he lived up to his online potential. No Brad Pitt or David Beckham perhaps, but then she was neither Angelina Jolie nor Posh Spice.

Well, she wasn’t back then.

But he had been pretty presentable, willing to pay the bills and, in all actuality, pretty good fun to be around. She’d agreed to a second date, then a third and then a fourth and, before she knew it, they were an item.

Of course, he hadn’t been perfect. His social skills could be a bit lacking at times, and under the surface he suspected he had some pretty weird thoughts running through his head. He always had mad business ideas in his mind that were going to be the next big thing, like fish foot spas or frikandel imports. But they never worked.

Well, not until Market Place.

How many times had Stacey kicked herself for leaving him before that went massive? Of course, we can’t see into the future and how was she – or anyone else for that matter – to know that it was going to prove to be as lucrative as a whole field of gold mines? Nothing else he’d ever thought up had come off when all’s said and done. But even so, if only she’d hung on for another few months, then she could have been living in a palace by now.

Except she was living in a palace now. It just wasn’t how she’d imagined it to be.

It had been the anal references that had started it. He’d asked casually one evening as to what she thought anal sex. She’d replied that it was an act she had never even considered, nor would she, and that was that. But following that evening, every so often, casual references to her arse and taking it up said part of the anatomy were made.

More than though, there was Chris. She’d met him going for a jog in the park and it truly was love at first sight. He was witty, sophisticated and totally hench! She hadn’t meant to two-time John, indeed, having been a victim of such behaviour in the past, she knew how painful it could be, but she just couldn’t help herself. She justified it with the thought that what is meant to be is meant to be and God obviously wanted her and Chris to be together or else He wouldn’t have thrown him in her path. So, a month later, after a minor row over something or other, she stormed out and left. John was history; Chris was now hers for the taking!

Or so it had seemed.

Chris had only lasted eighteen months before he went off with a personal trainer from Wigan. And in that time John Cobbler had gone from no one to billionaire while she was still stuck in the same flat and same job.

As I said, she’d been kicking herself.

Until that is, out of the blue, John Cobbler turned up again. He was in England to watch the cricket (that had always been a rather annoying obsession of his…) and wondered if she wanted to meet-up for a meal to make-up for their rather acrimonious parting? How could a girl say no, particularly when that meal was at a very expensive Japanese place in the West End?

And during that meal he’d suggested that he still had feelings for her, and she’d intimated she still felt something for him and that she was repentant and that she would be open to giving it all a second chance.

And he had invited her to his new place in Pakistan of all places.

And she had accepted and boarded the plane to Islamabad.

But then, when she was walking the streets of the Pakistani capital prior to meeting up with John the following day, a gang of kidnappers, seeing a white woman as easy prey, had surrounded her and knocked her out with chloroform.

The police were at a loss to explain it and did not seem to be in any sort of hurry to do anything. And then, a body burnt beyond all recognition was found on a waste dump at the edge of town. The coroner said that it was hers, though no one could tell.

So what was she doing standing here looking at herself in the mirror?

Because now she knew that the kidnappers had been in the pay of the very man who had invited her here.

The same man who had paid-off both the police and the unscrupulous coroner.

The same man who had brought her here and then done… this to her.

The same man that now intended to “honour” her by allowing her to become the first inductee into his harem.

The same man that now insisted she was called ‘Lemon’ and that Stacey – who was dead anyway – must never be mentioned again.


John Cobbler gazed at the same heavenly vision that his ex-girlfriend was currently staring at. But whilst it brought her horror, to him it brought great joy.

And the vision was exactly the same because, unbeknownst to her, the delicate, teardrop bindi piercing that now graces the centre of her forehead, actually includes a microscopic camera so her Master can now view the world through her eyes.

And that is but one feature of the remarkable updated Stacey, or Lemon v1.0 as he jokingly refers to her.

And it is far from the most noticeable.

John decided to take his ex-girlfriend back because he still had feelings for her. True, they mostly consisted of revenge and bitterness, but Stacey was an attractive woman, and, under his expert tutelage, she could become perfect.

She is his new project you see, the first exquisite woman in his collection.

And boy is she exquisite!

A living embodiment of feminine perfection!

Take for example her neck. Long, narrow and swanlike… and totally immobile, encased as it is in its narrow tube of solid gold covered with intricate engravings.

Or her waist, only slightly larger than the neck, a mere 38cm in circumference, achievable only through rib removal and the wearing of a permanent corset of solid gold.

And how that waist displays what lies both above and below it to perfection!

Lemon’s hips and bottom, previously understated are now a veritable statement of womanhood! Huge implants in her buttocks have caused her to have immense, protruding mounds that would satisfy even Sir Mix-A-Lot, whilst above the waist, breasts of quite unbelievable proportions (unless you are Penelope Black Diamond) jut forth, perfectly spherical and never sagging.

And each is tipped by a monstrous nipple, injected full of collagen, pink, permanently erect and pierced, not only with a nipple shield around its base, but a gold ring through the tip, which is joined to the matching ring with a gold chain whilst other chains connect them to the golden rings in her ears and septum.

More disconcerting though, is the golden plug which fills her anus, on the end of which a large ruby twinkles at the observer. Being constantly filled causes poor Lemon much distress, but her Master is quite strict about it always being present, only to be removed for her thrice-daily enemas.

And there is more! Below the corset her hairless mound has been transformed. Silicone and vacuum pumping have caused her permanently engorged clitoris to almost resemble a miniature penis, whilst a ring with another ruby crowns it and other rings line her pussy lips, through which laces are threaded and tied tightly, denying access to that private area (and making sure the golden ball within does not slip out). So, she is tormented constantly, but release is not possible.

And below this, below the cuffs on her ankles and the chain that links them, we can see her feet forced into boots which force them into the en-pointe position, so that she has to shift constantly from one tortured point to the other.

But none of these things, nor too her tongue piercings, the chains looped across her cheeks nor even the jewel-eye piercings blessing her eyebrows or the medusa piercing blessing her philtrum, are the most striking aspect of Lemon’s extreme new look. No, that honour must go to her arms.

Or the complete lack of them!

That is right, where once there were arms, now there are but rounded shoulders without even an unsightly scar to indicate what has been taken away.

After all, arms get in the way of things and as a looked-after lady, a precious jewel who exists only to serve her Master, Lemon no longer has need of such appendages.

And that distresses her beyond all imagining. She feels so helpless, so mutilated, so… controlled.

Now the only things that just out of her upper body are her tits.

And this is the vision that she now surveys, unmoving for over an hour.

Because this is part of her training. Every morning, after her enema, showering and exercise under the careful eye of Ahmed the eunuch, Lemon is hung from the ceiling in front of her mirror by golden chains attached to her waist. The pressure is immense but she can relieve it slightly as her toes just touch the ground, but standing for too long on them is also painful, so the hour becomes a battle between the two torments whilst she merely contemplates the vision that she has now become.

After that, things get less painful but equally surreal.

Lemon is released, fed, gagged and then dressed in eastern clothes before an Afghani-style burqa, yellow to reflect her new name, is draped over her. Then she is guided by Ahmed to the gardens or the ladies’ courtyard where she sits hidden, silenced and veiled, contemplating the flowers, fountains or perhaps her Master who likes to sit with her and read.

And that is her afternoon. Her Master has hinted that in a short time another girl will arrive to keep her company, but at present she is alone save for him and Ahmed.

Ahmed who then takes her inside, spoon feeds her dinner like a baby and then prepares her for the night.

Prepares her by rubbing oil and perfume all over her skin and in her holes.

Prepares her by braiding her hair and applying her make-up.

Prepares her with another enema so she is as clean inside as out.

And then leads her to his bedchamber.

Oh how she hates him, detests the man that she once loved.

Oh how humiliated she feels when she is “arranged” on the bed, pillows beneath her, her enormous enhanced buttocks in the air and her mammoth breasts squashed beneath her.

For he will take her anally tonight. As he does every night. As he will continue to do until he feels that she has “redeemed” herself.

She longs for fulfilment and yet only he ever receives it.

And after he has “blessed” her with his seed, he flips her over and uses her gargantuan breasts as his pillow.

And she wonders what sort of sick mind could think up such a life whilst the insects hum in the balmy Balochi night.