Adventures of Me and Martha JaneChapter 12D
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My fatly erect and sensitive clit was poised over the red glowing knob and so close that it felt like it was being roasted as it danced wantonly in the rising heat. The sensation was like nothing I had ever experienced. Waves of pain and pleasure coursed through me simultaneously. The fear and lust had destroyed my reason, leaving only the irrational desire for unnatural intercourse with the iron phallus. If my tongue had been free, I would have begged him for consummation. I would have pleaded with him to shove the hot iron cock through my pussy and plunge it deeply into my body, destroying my sex utterly and driving me instantly into what my body was convinced would be the most cataclysmic orgasm I could, and would, ever experience, leaving my body and my mind totally destroyed.
The tension itself finally broke me and I climaxed while imagining the flaming iron ravaging my pussy. My vaginal muscles flexed violently and forced a stream of liquid to shoot from my spasming pussy and splash onto the glowing iron rod, showering it with hot juice that flashed instantly into a cloud of steam.
The feeling of relief was incredible. The orgasm poured through me like a flood in the desert, rushing into the dry, thirsty places and instantly saturating them with a refreshing torrent. I rolled my eyes back into my head and surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. My body shook and quivered all over with the sudden release of the intense sexual tension that had built up inside me. The only thing that kept me conscious was the hard ball of fear that remained in the pit of my stomach.
Without making a sound, my captor watched me moan and twitch in a glorious fit of ecstasy. He watched, motionless, while I performed my dance of lust, shaking and straining convulsively against my bonds while I climaxed shamelessly, brazenly showing him the degree of control he had over my body and my mind. When I finally stopped quaking and ran down to an exhausted lethargy, he returned the now-darkened iron cock to the brazier, where he carefully covered it in glowing coals to allow it to recharge its heat.
"Marvelous! You are the best specimen that I have been fortunate enough to find in some time. Your breasts are magnificent. Your skin is golden. Your face is beautiful. You burn with a sexual heat that outshines the coals. And yet, there are still improvements to be made! You will see. You will see. I have learned a thing or three since I started. You just wait and see. Now, let us begin."
He rolled the stand with the electrocutor on it out of the way; but still to hand, I noticed. He replaced it with another wooden box that he sat behind me before I got a good look at it. He reached over my head and brought down two clear plastic funnels attached to tubes that went back to the box. I guessed what the contraption was even before he showed me the quart-size collection bottle.
"One job of the female is to provide nourishment for her children. You will demonstrate to me that you can perform this function. If you do not, or cannot, I am prepared to help you."
He held up a large brown bottle of fluid. All I could make out on the label was "metaclopromide", a word I remembered from the pamphlet on milk donation. It had something to do with stimulating lactation, but if I remembered right, it was part of a treatment that took days to work as the breast tissue hormone levels increased. I had no idea if injecting girls with this stuff would make them lactate instantly and I was highly dubious about being subjected to the treatment.
He rubbed some greasy white stuff on my nipples and they immediately began to swell and itch. They got warmer and warmer until they felt like they were burning up. They grew so large that I could easily see them poking out on the ends of my breasts.
My tormentor watched and giggled as my nipples turned bright red and swelled to the point of bursting. When they stopped growing, he put the funnels on them like little party hats. He pressed them down and they stuck to the cream, making a seal. He then turned on the machine, which made a loud rhythmic thunking noise. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't identify it at first. When I felt the suction pull my nipples up into the funnels, I remembered where I had heard that sound before — it was the sound the vacuum pump in the school Physics lab made when it was pumping the air out of a bell jar. His homemade breast pump wasn't going to take Empty for an answer.
"You have five minutes to begin producing milk. If you cannot, the machine will continue to run and your breasts will rupture and you will give blood instead. Either way, I will take no less than a pint. Milk or blood, it is your choice. I give you the option of having the injection to assist you in this task. If you want the injection, nod your head."
At that moment, the pump sucked all the air out of the wide part of the funnels and my nipples were sucked up into the narrow end, making me jerk. He interpreted this to mean I was asking for the drug and he picked up a syringe with a long needle and filled it from the bottle.
When he had the syringe filled, he jabbed one breast with it and then the other, shooting a massive dose of the drug into each one. He wasn't as gentle or as careful as Bambi had been when she had injected my breasts with her serum and it hurt like hell. He did sterilize the needle and the injection site each time, for which I was grateful. When he finished the first dose, he immediately filled up the syringe and gave my poor breasts a second dose from a different angle. Each injection was as unpleasant as the last. The pain was annoying, but sufferable. It was the idea that some foreign substance was being put into my body without my consent that bothered me the most. I wondered what the effects had been on his other victims and I had an unsettling thought - was he crazy enough to continue to use a treatment that did not produce the desired effect? If not, then what would be the effect of the drug on someone whose hormones were already geared to milk production?
I braced myself for agony, but the drug seemed to have no effect. I felt nothing but the insistent pull of the pump on my nipples, through which something was going to be sucked very soon now, as the vacuum built up in the machine. If I didn't do something quick, it was going to be my blood that the device sucked and that was going to hurt one awful lot.
I closed my eyes and reached for the trance state. Given the situation, I expected that it would be very hard to achieve anything like a meditative mood, but I had done it so many times that I slipped right in. Once there, I got to work concentrating on making milk as quickly as I could.
I visualized the process right down to the smallest level. I summoned the feeling of warm milk filling my mammary glands. I imagined the creamy white fluid flowing through me. I felt my breasts swell and my nipples open and fluid begin to flow out of me. Slowly, I opened my eyes to take a peek. It was happening. Fluid was being sucked up the tubes, and it was milk instead of blood. The suction eased as the liquid filled the machine and was pumped into the bottle. I went into 'cow mode', letting my body yield to the demand of the pump attached to my breasts.
"Wonderful! Marvelous! You continue to impress me. Many girls fail this test and the result is most unfortunate. You seem well suited to this task. Your voluptuous proportions are functional as well as extremely pleasing to the eye."
His praise felt good, even if it was only the ravings of a lunatic. I relaxed and let nature take over. My breasts were keeping pace with the pump, now. The milk was flowing smoothly and the level in the bottle rose steadily. I closed my eyes again, happy to have a momentary break from the torture that I knew had not ended, even though it was very welcome after my bout with abject terror.
While I relaxed, I worked on metabolizing the drug he had unnecessarily injected into my breasts. Just because there had been no sensation or immediate reaction to it didn't mean there would be no effect at all, and I didn't want anything sneaking up on me later when I might have other things on my mind. Since the drug had been injected directly into my breasts, I focused on them, increasing the flow of blood and accelerating all the biochemical processes.
I had developed a wonderful rapport with my body. In the trance state, I could extend my mental control over just about any aspect of it that I chose. If I could visualize it, I could do it, as long as it was possible, didn't require more energy than I had available to spend on the task, and I understood enough of what was happening to activate the proper biological systems. My mental analogy of being a general who commanded an army of soldiers was a good one, but the catch was that I needed to know what had to be done and I had to know who to order to do it, at least the first time through.
The skin-changing business that I was so fond of was a good example. I had become very familiar with my epidermal cells and how to get them to move pigment around to get the effect I wanted. I had fooled around with my 'makeup' enough to make the whole thing almost a reflex. Once I had learned to put on the Dragon face, it was easy to learn how to animate it. Once I learned to make it move, it was easy to make it more realistic. Each effort resulted in better-trained troops who could carry out complex operations with minimal orders from me. If this sounds absurd, think about how complicated a process speaking is and how each of us nevertheless learns to do it at an early age. No one thinks 'I must breath like this, or hold my tongue in this position, or open my mouth just this far'. It all becomes a programmed action, so we don't have to think of the details or worry about the complexity of the action, we can just open our mouths and say, "You want fries with that?"
The catch was in dealing with the unknown. If I didn't understand what was going on, I was more or less helpless to do anything about it. I knew next to nothing about molecular biology or biochemistry, so I was helpless to do anything about being dosed with a complex drug like metaclopromide except to try to burn it up as quickly as possible.
I was 'going with the flow' with the homemade, but effective, breast pump and was starting to enjoy being milked. The sensation was a very primal one and reached deeply into my mind to produce a state of contented euphoria. The only other thing I knew of that could reach that deeply was sex. Indeed, the two activities seemed to share the same primitive pleasure-center in my brain and one sometimes stimulated the other. Lactation sometimes made me horny and sex sometimes made me lactate.
Sometime later, I was floating along on my own private cloud when I became aware of a growing feeling of fullness in my breasts and a feeling of increased weight on my chest. Annoyed at having my reverie disturbed, I opened one eye to check on conditions in the external world.
By accelerating the rate at which I metabolized the drug, I had inadvertently thrown gasoline on the fire. The stuff had stimulated my milk production enormously. 'Enormous' was a good word for it, too, as that was what my breasts looked like.
I had gotten largely accustomed to having big tits. I had been well above average in the breast department when I was still a D-cup. The process to turn me into an HH-cup had been traumatic, but very rewarding, and I would not have gone back for anything in the world. The inconvenience they caused was more than made up for by the pleasure they gave me and the way they fascinated my lovers and admirers.
The large dose of the drug and my attempt to burn it up quickly had combined to swell my breasts to prodigious proportions. They sat on my chest like huge milk bags and my flesh was stretched to the limit to contain the large reservoir of liquid in them. The sound of the pump had fallen off to a soft purr as the amount of fluid available increased beyond its demand.
I began to feel pain. A sharp ache was developing in both breasts as they threatened to grow beyond the ability of my skin to contain them. Something had to be done and quickly.
I turned my head to look at my captor. He was sitting at a table in the corner, fiddling with another of his torture devices and was unaware of my situation. The risk of more punishment seemed small compared to the inevitable damage I was about to undergo. I cried out to get his attention,
"Heeeuuh. Heaaaa!" I managed to force a raspy croak from my sore vocal cords.
Surprised that I would break Rule #1 and risk further punishment, he turned immediately and took in my situation. He knocked over his chair in his rush to come to my aid, his concern evident in his speed and his body language. I was touched.
"My goodness! That's incredible! You've exceeded my expectations! Here, let me turn up the pump. You're overloading it."
He thought I was doing it on purpose! He thought I was inflating my breasts to the point of rupture because I was trying to please him. I didn't know whether to be furious with him for putting me in this situation or pity him for being so clueless and self-centered.
He reached behind my head and I heard the noise of the pump motor rise to a higher pitch. He replaced the full collection bottle with an empty one and set it back where I could see it. He turned the pump control some more, coaxing it to an even faster speed and watched closely to see if it had an effect. After a few seconds of watching me suffer steadily increasing pain, he turned it up some more, and then again a few seconds later.
It wasn't helping. My eyes started to cross from the pressure and the pain. My captor took another look at my face and turned the pump up all the way.
The pump raced to its top speed with a horrible clatter before settling into a loud rumble. The pulsing suction on my nipples became a steady pull. The pressure started to ease off almost immediately and the pain slacked off shortly afterwards. I breathed a deep sigh of relief when my vision cleared and I dropped my head back on the hard metal with a thunk.
The crisis over, I slowly drifted back to my state of bliss and resumed my examination of the similarities of different types of pleasure. It was going to take some time before the accumulation of milk in my breasts could be sucked out and even longer before the effect of the drug wore off and I would be able to turn off the tap. I found the courage to smile to myself when I remembered that this was one of the horrible things Bambi had thought of to scare me into a compliant state. My breasts had, indeed, been turned into udders overflowing with milk. The difference was, I loved the feeling now instead of being terrified of it, and I was terrified then when I should have loved it.
My captor sat by my side this time instead of wandering off to tinker. He stood ready to swap out the collection bottles when necessary and to reduce the pump speed when that looked to be advisable. His attentiveness told me that he was ashamed of violating the terms of our implied agreement — that I would cooperate and he would do me no serious harm — or at least no unintended serious harm.
It was that gray area as to just what each of us thought of as 'serious' that bothered me. To some people, having a quarter-inch hole poked in the middle of your tongue would be serious. To others, it might even qualify as mutilation. To me, it was an interesting bit of piercing. Several girls at school had had something similar done to them. They happily showed off their metal studs and their colored beads to anyone who was curious. Mine was unusual in that it was a larger-diameter hole held open by a hollow sleeve instead of a solid stud. It looked like I might have some trouble eating soup, but that was the worst inconvenience I could foresee. I was already thinking of ways I could show it off.
I wished that I could pull my tongue back into my mouth so I could explore the piercing. It had been pulled out so long that the muscles had been stretched and it was no longer uncomfortable, but it had dried out from being exposed to the air and the warmth of the room. My whole mouth felt dry and I realized that it wasn't just from being held open by the gag. I was losing a lot of fluid to the milking and I was becoming badly dehydrated. I needed a drink in the worst way.
I decided to risk appealing to my leather-clad tormentor again. Perhaps he was inclined to be more forgiving of transgressions of his rules now that he had failed to take adequate care of me. I rolled my head over and waited until I could catch his eye. When he did look at my face, I wiggled the tip of my tongue around to show how dry it was.
He watched my tongue dance for him, but he didn't get the message. I tried to talk but my throat was so dry all I could do was make a hoarse breathing noise. It sounded like wind blowing through dry leaves.
Finally he got the point. He looked around the table at the collection of full milk-bottles and calculated that I had put out a goodly percentage of my bodily fluids and I needed refreshment. Fortunately he seemed prepared for this. He slipped the rod out of my tongue so I could withdraw it into my mouth. Then he reached under the table and came up with a length of plastic tubing that he poked into my mouth through the ring gag.
I wondered how he expected me to be able to suck on the tube without being able to close my mouth. I was trying to illustrate my difficulty by waving my recently freed tongue around when he slid the drinking tube through the hole in my tongue and poked it against the roof of my mouth. Reflexively, I clamped my tongue over the back of my throat. Of course, this did no good as far as keeping the tube out of my throat because it was already through my tongue, but it did tip me off as to how I could drink. With my tongue sealing my throat, I could suck on the tube. I tried it, and it worked like a charm. Water flowed through the tube and I swallowed greedily. It was another example of my captor's ingenuity that he had thought of this.
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