An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 4

Book 4

August 2049

Book 3

Chapter 1

The next day, week, month; they were torturous, even by her standards. The days sitting in the light of her drawing room, the evenings greeting guests in the parlor or away in the community, and anytime in-between or beyond servicing her husband, always silent; Emily worried about her sister. Why was she not home already? Great Ormond Street never took this long, she should know! Oh how she cried and cried for her dear, innocent, intelligent Anne! Or she would have, if her eyelids didn’t flutter at a ceaseless pace of seventeen and a half times per minute.

It was a long five weeks later that Emily received news. Humphrey came bursting through the door to her drawing room, with a touch tablet in hand, and sat next to her on the chesterfield. “Oh my, darling, this is quite firm. How do you sit here all day? No mind, let me show you something special.” And with a quick motion he touched her temple until a click was heard. It was like she had been given back her full sight! Her eyes darted around, slow to focus but altogether not too atrophied. This was indeed a luxury and for a serene moment she loved him for his generosity. She looked to him, shuffled her sizeable arse and hourglass figure closer, and he wrapped his arm around her armless shoulders, holding the black mirror in front of her. Two years deprived of human touch save for these moments had Emily’s chest abuzz and her juices dripping past the invaders in her nether holes.

But ignorance is indeed bliss, for when he turned on the display, she found a horrid slideshow of photographs sent from her brother’s address and letterhead over the wireless. And then he whispered sweet nothings and stories of altered perfection into her ear:

Photo 1: Anne restrained in bed, looking with tear-stricken eyes toward the camera. Missing her arms from the shoulder and hairless from head to toe. Her feet point straight down, and fine sutures can be seen on her ankles and closer to her knees. Her waistline, even uncompressed, is more accentuated, and her ribcage is noticeably foreshortened.

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Photo 2: Anne unconscious in a pinkish chemical bath to treat her skin, submerged with air supply. It might be the lensing of the bath but her breasts and behind had grown immensely.

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Emily averted her eyes. This was simply too much! She could not bear to see her sister uncovered and degraded as such! Even when Humphrey grabbed her sensitive breast in his vice-like grip, and threatened to use her arse exclusively for a year, she did not look. But she finally broke when he reminded her he could just re-adjust her vision so she didn’t have a choice. She felt more saliva slide down her throat.

Photo 3: A close-up of Anne, or she thought it was Anne, for her face was modified, with blossoming lips, flawless latex skin, and a vacant but flirty stare. Her propped-open mouth was like a tight tube and featured bumps and ribbing, a half length tongue, and no uvula. So that’s where her gag reflex had gone. Her throat featured a breathing hole and a rose of a different shade than Emily’s. “It’s how I’ll tell the two of you apart,” her husband jested tellingly.

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Photo 4: Anne in gynecological stirrups, a close-up between her smooth legs. Anne’s floral lips look different than Emily’s, Humphrey remarks, even after the silicone skin treatment, and her mons is more prominent. She already wears a healthy-sized plug in her rear bud, and Emily has no doubt she has experienced a doll’s waste removal system.

Photo 5: Anne in clinical white, restrictive undergarments, suspended from the ceiling and walking in heels on a treadmill. Her bald head and immense mammaries are held proud by her surgically-forced posture and extremely tight stays and underbust. Two silver rings, unlike her gold, clip her nipples to the top edge of the bust. One can see the glistening shine coming from the juices dripping down her chin, chest and inner thighs as she stares dutifully, directly in front of her.

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

“That last one was taken two days ago. My dear wife, you don’t know how lucky you are to have had the time I allotted you to adapt and learn your place in this household. All of the lessons you have been taught by your maid and I will need to be taught to your sister in a fraction of the time, just two months total! I can only absolve myself as I let her read her silly books too for a time, like you. You should really thank me,”

And with that he pushed her off the couch and down to the floor in front of him, and watched as she unsteadily crawled on her knees towards his open zipper and raging erection, which he had no doubt sported since first receiving the photographs from Bramwell earlier. She hesitated, full of hate and still in shock, but he easily overpowered her by grabbing her fake golden locks, pulling sharply, and bending her at the hips to meet her ready mouth to his cock. Once it was past her lips, her mouth responded on its own and any motion she made with her tongue was only supplemental to the automatic processes at work, as her contracting muscles coaxed his dripping precum forth. Once she had taken him to the hilt, her eyes reset so she could only stare at the aging hips her head now rested upon.

“Ah yes… my dear… you are certainly welcome.”

Chapter 2

Early that September, Anne’s arrival was finally announced. Emily only knew the date because her husband had practically bounced out of bed the day before. His sadistic flair for surprise had largely left him now that all of his assets had been obtained and conquered. “I’m going into London today, Lovely, to shorten my travels bringing our new toy home on the morrow. I will be staying at the gentlemen’s club, oh you know the one run by the House of Enhanced Venus that I’ve told you all those stories about.” He was met with silence. Stories? Or had they been veiled threats, Emily wondered.

After Humphrey departed, Emily was led through the longest day of her life, for impatience does not suit a dolled woman. First, her automaid helped her top-heavy body rise from the bed, her gigantic breasts – left unsupported by the night stays – swinging below her open, drooling mouth. Her pointed feet were led blindly into bedroom mules far below her line of sight, and she was lifted to a standing position. Her automaid led her to the adjoining private washroom, a room which was necessary for her involuntary lifestyle. First she squatted over her waste-relief mount, feeling her bowels released, cleaned, and a silicone toy cleaner solution rinse Humphrey’s semen from her holes.

Then, she was led to the wide walk-in shower, her night stays were removed and her minute waist was pressed into a tight, C-shaped brace mounted to the wall. The only time of day she was ever truly nude, this held her rigid torso safely upright whilst the automaid went about turning on the warm water and cleaning her thoroughly with fine scents and soaps. Emily saw across from her a newly installed brace mounted to the opposing wall, and remembered her first time in this routine. Oh how she had fought and fought! Of course it had all been futile as the minute her maid pressed her into that brace, her weak legs below could only scramble against the smooth marble floor. She had then been subjected to ten minutes of the most excruciating nipple torture from the robot’s gloved hands for her “inefficiencies”. Somehow, she must warn Anne not to make the same mistake!

After the shower, her fearsome day corset with bust was cinched tight by an auto-lacer on the wall, and then those devilish prongs on the strap below were seated in her extra-sensitive holes, like every other teasing day. On days like today when she was alone in the eclectic manse they were especially cruel. They were designed to not trigger her contractions, but she almost wished they would for some form of relief. The maid pulled at her nipple rings inconsiderately to clip them to the underbust, and Emily could already start to feel them throb in protest. A fleur-de-bouche was deposited in her leaking mouth and pumped to a tight seal, and she was promptly covered in fine hosiery and lingerie, then laden down with fabric and dresses until she was the perfect womanly idol her husband demanded, before finally her hair was done and makeup touched up.

She was then led for her first daily tour of the house, which usually meant a bee-line to the parlour for that was all her constrained breathing could handle. After two-plus hours of prep, she waited docilely for another two, staring at the endless bookshelves she could not read, yearning for the lunch bells to ring. When they did, her nutritional paste was deposited in a realistic rubber replica of Humphrey’s erect manhood, which was then lodged in her open mouth for her oral workout and feeding. A second inserted phallus contained an Earl Grey-flavoured shaft which Emily enjoyed dearly as it leaked clean water from the tip down her throat, hydrating her for dessert. Once resealed, the doll was led out to the porch to gaze upon the fine gardens and gentle pastures in the distance. Gaze upon but not to comprehend: for her fixed-focus eyes could no longer fathom the rich, painterly complexity of this landscape beneath the greenish blur she saw.

This proceeded through the early afternoon, sitting in the shade, until her second trip to the bathroom, then back to the drawing room until dinner, a meal which was usually prepared solely for her husband. While going through the motions, perhaps having some phallic refreshments while he would prattle on about his day, she would fidget and wait for him to signal the maid to undress her upstairs.  Now, upon sitting down at the empty table, she realized that the folds of her dress had bunched up just right between her prominent flesh cushions! Oh yes finally! From afar, one would have seen a beautiful Lady of Leisure, staring into no-space, a bergamot watercock extending from her lush lips, her breasts heaving as she struggled to rub her fleshy pear of an ass into her seat in the dining room. An hour later, repeatedly exhausted, Emily had only managed to torment herself further. She was despondent, screaming and crying inside. Anne would be here tomorrow, Emily realized fully, and this is the sorry life that is laid out for her! As an older sister she had not been able to protect her own blood, even with the sacrifice of her own. She was utterly, hopelessly useless.

Her chance was gone, and as her maid prepared her for bed, replacing her dress and charms with night stays, Humphrey’s inert replicas (for her three holes), and the tight sheer cocoon, all she could do was wait.

Chapter 3

The next day was much like the last, except two automaids attended the needs her husband prescribed, as she was led through the grounds. One of these Humphrey had recently purchased for Anne, as his other automatic servants were busy keeping the estate prim and proper. So it was that Emily was just completing her short garden tour when she heard the quiet whir and rumble of Humphrey’s autocarriage far off near the front gate. If her rose had not been aflutter from the decorous walk, surely it was now.

Emily minced on her heels as fast as she could around to the front entry and carport, her maids in leisurely tow. As she made it to the front steps, the carriage found its way up the slight hill to deposit its passengers, and within a few minutes, there stood Humphrey with Anne in his arm, staring blankly, silently. As far as Emily could tell from her peripheral vision, her sister’s face was recognizable, but altered towards Humphrey’s vision of twisted beauty enough that they could be twins, nevermind sisters. Her head was adorned with similar golden locks, and above the hem of her traveling coat and her open bosom, right above her clavicle, lay a small pink-white rose, unlike Emily’s deep red.

She didn’t know what to do, and so was almost thankful when her automaid forced her to proceed inside, leading the way into her home like a good hostess does. Guided inside to the drawing room by their merciless maids, Humphrey followed behind for the view. “Dearest, aren’t you going to say ‘Hello’?”

She could not believe it. After everything he had done, he still jested. It overwhelmed her, and submitting to her instructions on courtesy, Emily took small, graceful steps towards her doll sister. Their eyes did not meet. They did not speak in warm tones of reunion. When she reached Anne, she faintly heard the ragged breaths of someone still in shock. What could she do? What was left? What had she needed most when she had returned from her final, imprisoning doll conversion surgery?

Touch.

Without a consideration for the spectator in the room she walked closer to Anne, and pressed her body forward, not enough to unbalance the poor newcomer but enough for their restrictive busts to press together quite lewdly. Emily did not care, and it surely showed on neither of their faces. And through her one form of intimacy, of embrace, she matched her sister’s stormy chest with her own, and she heard and felt her sister’s breathing slow.

“Truly touching.” her husband mocked. “Maids, bring the girls to my room and prepare them: I need to get acquainted with Anne, and Emily I want you there of course.”

Chapter 4

And so began another stage in the increasingly miserable life of Emily Battersby. Was this the worst yet? In some ways, yes. If asked – and if she had been able to answer – she would have undoubtedly answered yes. No only did she suffer now, but also the person dearest to her in the entire world, her beloved sister Anne: sweet, innocent Anne who, because of her doing – Emily blamed her own gullibility for everything – was now condemned to a life of suffering as a mute and helpless sex doll as well.

Yet at the same time, much as she hated to admit it even to herself, the day that the modified Anne doll was brought into her home represented the day that her life improved. Before she had been alone in her suffering but now she shared it, she had a confidant, someone with her who understood. That moment when they had pushed their gigantic chests against one another, felt each other’s’ pulses beating and stared mindlessly at one another’s modified faces, then there had been a communion and even though the sisters were now unable to talk to one another, in a strange sense, mentally, they had never been closer.

And not just mentally either. On that first meeting as dolls, Humphrey had ordered them upstairs immediately and had the automaids undress them both down to their stays. Then began their joint initiation into the new sexual reality of their lives.

The first change was that from that day forward, Emily always had to share her marital bed with another woman. Literally. And that woman was her own sister. After the automaids had prepared them, Humphrey had both of his dolls kneel on the floor and then he inserted his rock hard tool, firstly into one mouth, then the other, Emily, Anne, Emily, Anne, bringing him close to orgasm and then withdrawing on the brink of release. Then he had Emily lie on the bed face down with her legs spread wide and he lay atop of her, using her generous firm buttocks as a pillow, before lowering his new doll symbolically down onto his raging member and taking her virginity with a cry of joy, jetting his copious seed deep inside her only moments afterwards.

And that was how Humphrey had vaginal sex from then on, with one doll as his pillow and the other as his pleasurer. More often though, he would enjoy them anally, the two sisters on their knees presenting their glorious bottoms to him whilst he would spear one and caress or slap the other until his seed was spent. And then it would be time to sleep, his head still nestled in-between the wide buttocks of one, or perhaps the firm breasts of another, waking only to use the mouth of the other girl as his urinal.

That however, was not the end of it.

As a prelude to sex or as a show for his friends (and that circle included Branwell), Humphrey now developed a new kink. He would have the automaids lie his two dolls on the bed and then attach their nipple rings to one another, before then inserting an enormous two-ended dildo into both of their love caverns and a similar monster into both of their mouths. They were then required to bring each other to orgasm repeatedly, the onlookers taking bets on who would reach climax first. Another game they played included watching the girls go at it, whilst an automaid masturbated them to completion; the one who spurted his seed on the doll-pile was given the privilege of a blowjob by the doll of their choice.

The humiliation was crushing and Emily’s mind was torn. On the one hand, the knowledge that she was coupling with her own sister and engaging in the awful sin of incest mortified her, but at the same time she loved the sexual stimulation which was far more loving and consensual than when Humphrey took her. Her attachment to Anne had only grown through their shared fate and this act, although lewd and obscene, was one of the rare chances that they had to truly be together and demonstrate physically the mental and spiritual closeness that they both felt.

Outside of the bedroom though, life was hard. Although always together, they could not communicate with one another in any way. Emily would hope and pray that the automaids sat them together although this was rare and they were generally left on different chairs across the room from one another where, because of their locked eyesight, they couldn’t even look at each other clearly. On the rare occasions when they were seated side-by-side on a chesterfield or sofa, Emily loved to feel the enormous mass of her sister’s bottom squeeze up against her own and they would lean on each other’s shoulders and listen to their breaths through the two flickering roses. Moments such as those made life almost bearable.

But others were the opposite. Such as on her birthday party when Branwell paid, as a birthday treat for his sister, for a professional photographer to come in and take some family portraits of the three “happy siblings”: two vacant dolls with inhuman tits and non-existent waists flanking the leering and evil-looking brother with a hand wrapped around each of their minute stems. The best of these photos was then blown up, framed, and hung alongside another of the three siblings as children in the same position. These two hung prominently on the wall of the drawing room as constant reminders of their sad, sad lot in life.

Equally traumatic was the news announced casually by Humphrey one brunch as they sucked on their mush-filled phalluses that their father had just passed away and that Branwell was now head of the family, and had both inherited all his wealth and put their mother into an old people’s home, despite the fact that she was only fifty-five. They had not been particularly close to their father, who had always preferred Branwell and whom Emily at least partly blamed for selling her to Humphrey but even so, the death of a parent is always hard, particularly when one is forcibly unable to grieve.

That though, was the life of both of them now. Sex, boredom, helplessness, mush, more sex, and humiliation: a sad and sorry life that was to stretch on ad infinitum until they went to their graves, forgotten as people and remembered as dolls.

Until, that is, on the fateful day when we find them now:

A month after the grandiose celebrations for Emily Battersby’s 23rd birthday. Emily and Humphrey lie in their marital bed together along with Emily’s sister and companion, Anne. Humphrey is using Anne’s enormous bottom – or is it Emily’s, he struggles to tell the difference between them – as a pillow like usual whilst Emily’s equally large derriere bounces up and down on his member, milking him delightfully as he reaches up and squeezes her taut and over-large breasts. He is in seventh heaven, enjoying the greatest pleasure that life can bring, when he suddenly feels a strange tightness in his chest and the feeling of blood rushing to his head. He stops his exertions and clutches his breast but it does no good. The tightness spreads and he feels pain. He realises that this is serious and croaks out “Help! Get help!”

His two lovedolls stare silently into the middle distance, passive and unmoving, and Humphrey realises in horror that he has an enormous problem.

Book 5

Serving the Dear Leader: Part 10

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Chapter 15 – A Night at the Opera

Back at the mountain retreat and life settled into a monotonous and strange routine for Yong-Hee. Every day she was dressed in her uniform complete with monoglove and, more often than not, gag, and forced to sit through endless sessions of political education interspersed with sexual training sessions with her new partner, Valentina. The political education, which had been a feature of her life since as early as she could remember, felt different now and distinctly more uncomfortable, a discomfort caused not by her monoglove either. As she watched the newsreels telling of how the Dear Leader was exerting Himself, going through great hardships for the glory of the People and the Motherland, then she felt somehow betrayed and cheated. Such feelings were unnatural and false of course, and she never repeated them to anyone, but she still felt them nonetheless. Had not she seen and heard ample evidence to the contrary during those months spent in the capital? All those times when the TV and radio declared that He was out visiting the Front or factories or hydro-electric power stations when she knew that it was his double or the story simply made-up and the Dear Leader Himself was instead thrusting His cock into her mouth or drooling over a famous actress, singer or sportswoman whilst watching hard-core porn films in His private cinema. Her mind battled with itself; half said that she must be wrong, that the impressions that she was getting were somehow misleading whilst the other thought the unthinkable: that the Dear Leader was the heartless, debauched corrupt tyrant that the Western imperialist lackeys made Him out to be. Such thoughts made her feel so ashamed as to wish she had never been shown such great benevolence by such a man.

Soon after her arrival, two changes were made to the usual life with the platoon of young pioneers. The first was that, in anticipation of the arrival of some important allied diplomats from Africa, the butt plugs that all the pioneers of Platoon 72 were to wear were to be upgraded to larger ones. By now Comrade Yong-Hee had been in the platoon long enough to know what this would ultimately mean and although, like everything else that was part of her life these days, she knew that it would be an honour to please a black man who supported the Global Revolution for Socialist Transformation embarked upon by the late Great Leader, the idea of having an enormous, throbbing black penis shoved roughly into her tender bottom, was not a pleasant one.

The second change was that Comrade Kim announced that all the pioneers would be enacting an opera for the honoured visitors from the People’s Republic of Tanganyika. Yong-Hee had always loved doing plays at school and so this change was one which she welcomed greatly.

The play however, whilst familiar in some parts, was, in other aspects, not quite so mainstream. It was a brand new one written by a great playwright from the capital and told the story of people overthrowing capitalist oppression. That was not unusual, and indeed every play, film or book that Yong-Hee knew about followed the same theme, and rightly so since capitalist and imperialist oppression is terrible, but none of the others did it in this way.

The story was set in the days when the Nipponese cruelly occupied and oppressed the Motherland. Called the Rape of Manpo, the storyline involved a new Nipponese commander taking over and systematically taking all the beautiful young virgins of the city for himself, keeping them in a prison where he would rape them and play perverse sexual games with them. Some were tied up, others raped simultaneously by several soldiers and so on. He also devised elaborate fetish devices and costumes which the poor young women were forced to wear. All the platoon was in tears when this aspect of the plot was read out to them, partially out of pity for the poor oppressed victims of Nipponese imperialist but partially also because, in acting the play, they would be dressed in similar costumes and devices.

However, all was not lost and the Great Leader came to the town, saw the suffering and, gathering a band of loyal socialist patriots, stormed the city and freed the women who then all joined the Glorious People’s Revolution in gratitude.

All the pioneers had a similar role, that of oppressed young Manpo virgins imprisoned by the evil Hitoshi Tanaka. In Yong-Hee’s case, she was raped by him in the first team, then in the second forced to couple with another Manpo virgin and then finally she wore an extremely strange costume indeed. It involved her having her legs and arms bound so that they were folded against themselves and then covered in rubber pouches. Similarly a rubber garment covered her whole body only having holes for her eyes, nose, mouth, breasts and bottom. Then she was covered in a brown fur costume with a dog’s head so that she looked exactly like a dog and could only see out of two peepholes. I say “exactly like a dog” but that is not entirely true, for her enlarged and firm breasts hung out of cut-outs so that it was very clear that she was woman, not canine. Inside it was hot and sweaty and the enormous plug in her bottom from which the dog’s tail protruded, she had to learn to wag. She was firmly gagged but had to make growling noises when, in one of the key scenes, Tanaka was taking her up the bottom roughly when the Great Leader bursts in and kills him. Then, thankfully, in the final scene, she had to wear a partisan’s uniform and joyfully march towards revolution with all the others.

Rehearsing for the opera was hard as all the scenes, including those of a sexual nature, had to be performed to the very exacting standards of the theatre director. Tanaka was played by a famous actor from the capital whom Yong-Hee had seen act in several films and had, she had to admit when she had been younger and more innocent, been the object of a teenage crush. Even so, that didn’t make the scenes when he was taking her roughly up the arse whilst she was dressed as a dog and barked for all she was worth, exactly pleasant.

Finally though, it was the big night when all the great and good of the nation were assembled as well as the Dear Leader’s honoured guest, the President of Tanganyika, an enormous black man who wore colourful tribal robes. Before the performance all the pioneers lined up to greet him as he arrived and then she was whisked off to get ready for the role. Despite the humiliating and degrading nature of what she had to portray, Yong-Hee did realise that this was only what her ancestors had had to put up with whilst suffering under the yoke of Nipponese oppression and so did her tasks the best that she could and at the end, as she stood there welcoming in the Revolution in a partisan’s uniform, the young pioneer felt both proud that she had performed so well that the entire hall was clapping like mad and also that she had, at least, seen the last of the hateful dog costume.

When the opera was over however, Yong-Hee found to her dismay that she hadn’t seen the last of the dog suit. President Umbago of Tanganyika had, it transpired, been very impressed with her acting during the doggie scene and asked that she dress in her suit again and accompany him as he met with the Dear Leader and talked about the glorious construction of socialism in his homeland. It was most humiliating being led everywhere on a leash and having the trot about on all fours but what made it so much worse was that she was a member of the most superior race on all the earth, the race which had spawned both the Great and Dear Leaders and provided the world with the Juche ideal, yet the man now leading her, patting her head and caressing her naked breasts was a negro, the most inferior of all races whom the imperialists had used as foot soldiers to rape her beloved homeland. How could the Dear Leader allow such an indignity to be meted out to a faithful and loyal pioneer of His select Platoon 72.

And it only got worse when, after a large banquet and copious quantities and champagne, President Umbago decided to turn in for the night and take her, still dressed as a dog, to his sumptuous bedroom. And once in there, rather than undress her and enjoy her in the usual fashion, (which would have been degrading enough), instead he merely fastened her leash to the headboard, removed her tail from her anus and then started lubing it with gusto. Terrified when she saw the enormous size of his member, easily twice that of the Dear Leader’s, she started to scream and plead with him to avoid what was to come but due to her hood and gag, these merely came out as canine-like growls and barks which excited the African so further so that when he positioned himself behind her his penis was rock hard. With a roar and a slap on her furry buttocks he pressed and pressed shouting, “Come on doggie! Come on doggie!” until her sphincter muscles eventually gave in and the enormous throbbing tool was thrust in. Never before had she felt so completely filled and so completely and utterly mastered and degraded.

And never before had President Umbago experienced anything like it.

Chapter 16 – The President of Tanganyika

The day following the performance of ‘The Rape of Manpo’ and Comrade Yong-Hee’s doggie humiliation, all the pioneers were given a day’s rest before being taken to their quarters where they were stripped, showered and then made-up since there was to be another naked ball held that evening, this time in the honour of the Motherland’s Eternal and Faithful Ally, the President Umbago of Tanganyika. Yong-Hee struggled to see how a king could be so honoured and close to a country that prides itself on being socialist and against such things as monarchies as being against the socialist ethos but, as always, she knew that whatever the reasons, it must be for the best if the Dear Leader decided it.

Whilst this was Yong-Hee’s second ball, to her surprise – and dismay – this one turned out to be quite a different experience. The president it transpired, had not yet tired of her charms and was as taken with her out of the doggie suit as in it and so he attached himself to her, (or to be more precise, the opposite way round, as he placed a collar around her neck and led her around by a lead), all night before finally taking her upstairs where he took her vigorously again, although thankfully, in the more usual fashion this time. This was most shame-making not only because of his inferior race but also because Umbago was incredibly corpulent and ugly. Nonetheless, the feeling was not mutual and the following day she was taken into the top-secret negotiations between the president and the Dear Leader and, to her horror, whilst the two men talked politics, she had to kneel under the president’s desk in her uniform, arms forced behind her in her monoglove and, most humiliatingly of all, her mouth kept open by a ring gag so she drooled continually.

After the men had talked business, she was ordered to suck and lick the penis of the President of Tanganyika whilst they both relaxed and Valentina provided the same service for the Dear Leader. Now relaxed, the conversation turned from minerals and armaments to personal pleasures.

“You know what, I really am impressed by your pioneers, Kim and especially this little cutie here. Back in Tanganyika I keep a full harem of exotic and beautiful women, from all over the world and they are trained fully by my eunuchs, but not one can suck cock like Yong-Hee here.”

“Platoon 72 are trained to the highest standards and have given me great pleasure over the years, although I have to say that at the moment I am most taken with this white girl here who was a present from the President of Pridniestrovia.”

“Ahh, he is a good guy, I have been to his place as well, and the women there are incredible! However, you can keep your white slut; I have several such girls at home, this little rascal here is more to my taste. I love what you have done with their tits, such massive breasts on a tiny frame, it is really alluring.”

“Thank you.”

“But have you never considered corseting them? Tightlace a girl to 40cm and then the contrast is all the greater, as too is her discomfort!”

“The idea sounds promising, I must order some. Yes, that will be a fun project! But what do you think of the monogloves?”

“A masterful touch, genius. I have never come across one before but now I am thinking of having some ordered for all my harem. Yes, I shall.”

“We can supply them, as a gift of course. And I have another gift as well. Can you guess what it is?”

“No, what is it?”

“Yong-Hee here. Take her with you. I am bored of her now and wish to make a space in the platoon in order to take a young pioneer I met whilst opening an apartment complex in Hyesan. Please, take her with you when you go.”

“Kim, thanks, that’s an incredible present, so thoughtful of you. How can I ever repay you…?”

But Yong-Hee never learnt how the Dear Leader could be repaid, for instead her head was reeling with a dozen conflicting emotions. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. On the one hand she would be leaving, leaving the Motherland, her family and friends, leaving the Paradise of the People, the only land that she had ever known, for some hot desert to serve a corpulent African despot who already had a harem of women. Although she knew that she had a valuable role to fulfil in Platoon 72, she had always assumed that once she retired, she would be able to marry and live a normal life afterwards, with children and a loving husband. Yet how could she now, if she were exiled thousands of miles away, cast into a harem of abused women? And wrestling with the emotions that such thoughts bring were her attitudes to the Dear Leader. On one hand she was devastated: He had said that He was bored of her, bored! Had she not tried her best, gone through some traumatic experiences in order to pleasure Him and now He was just bored! Part of her wanted to shout and rage at the man whom she had given everything to and who now just tossed her to one side like a used tissue. Yet at the same time all those years of devotion, of almost worship to His name made her feel ashamed. Bored of her meant that she wasn’t good enough somehow. Even after all those weeks sucking Him off in Pyongyang and having the lies exposed: He wasn’t really at the front, He didn’t really exert Himself for the Motherland, instead He spent most of the day being pleasured by young pioneers and actresses, watching pornographic films, eating fine food and getting drunk. Yet even though she now knew the truth, that ancient, deeply inbred sense of devotion was hard to shake. She had bored Him; she had let the Motherland down. And then too there was an excitement and a sense of release. Knelt there, the throbbing cock of a fat negro filling her mouth, she realised that a life spent gagged, anally-plugged, sexually-frustrated and restrained, existing only to be raped by political leaders, that was no life at all, that deep down she was unhappy and lonely and wanted to escape. Well, now she would be escaping, starting a new life. But what would that life be like.

At that moment the President of Tanganyika erupted in her mouth and salty semen flooded her throat. Little did Yong-Hee know that her silent question had just been answered. That was what her life would be all about in Tanganyika, just as it had been in Platoon 72. Well, for as long as she pleased the president and then it would just be forced breeding and cast out to be a whore amongst his guards. No, very soon Comrade Hong Yong-Hee, the brave young pioneer from the elite Platoon 72 would realise that serving the Dear Leader was not such a bad role in life after all.

Fact or Fiction?

Some people may read this work of fiction as a veiled attack on the regime of the Late Kim Jong-Il, the Glorious Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea who shone the Light of Socialism brightly across the world and challenged the imperialists and their lackeys. This is obviously a false reading and the Dear Leader in this tale has nothing to do with that Dear Leader at all, despite their being some linguistic similarities. Kim Jong-Il after all, was not a debauched despot in any way whatsoever and instead His only concern was the welfare and progress of the Motherland.

However, there have been articles written, heinous imperialist propaganda no doubt, which describe debaucheries not dissimilar to those in this tale. They are, naturally, wholly false and this tale was written as a means of pointing out the inaccuracy of the Western viewpoint towards the Dear Leader of the DPRK. However, for academic reasons only, please check out these heinous articles which cast terrible aspersions upon the good character of the late Dear Leader.

DP

The Pleasure’s all the Dear Leader’s

http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Korea/MB23Dg01.html

Wikipedia page of Kippumjo

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kippumjo

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10