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An Inquisitive Federal Agent
East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII
Chapter 10 – The Slaver’s Women (or Whatta Lifestyle)
Across town, in an upscale cosmetic surgery clinic, Doctor Joan Miller was still working on her latest project. “Actually,” she muttered to herself as she pulled yet another suture tight on the abused pussy widespread before her, “it’s a pain in the ass; I’ve been up all night working to save her life and put her back together again. I’m supposed to be keeping in shape for my next stint out in New Mexico.” She was angry for several reasons. Obviously, she was angry at the brutal damage that had been done to her unnamed subject. Her slaver friend had explained that he’d rescued her from two murderous thugs hired by the poor idiot’s own boyfriend, a married man with two daughters. Joan was happy that she’d seen with her own eyes the digital pictures of the now dead murderers. She paused in her mental tirade against stupid men to straighten out the swollen pussy lips to see if they’d been sewn up straight. “Don’t want scars down here,” she mumbled aloud as she visualized the next time that a big, fat cock thundered its way up the poor woman’s vagina. “Scars rip too easily,” she told herself, “they don’t stretch well at all.” Joan had repaired internal tears as well as bringing the shredded labia to the closest semblance of normal that she could, it has taken hours of painstaking surgery.
Gloria Waters was now the anonymous patient of a well-respected and married cosmetic surgeon. Certainly, Gloria was in talented medical hands; but there was some question as to what effect the doctor’s post-surgery recovery process might have on the patient. What few knew was that Doctor Miller was also a volunteer doctor at a local B&D club and that her very twisted psyche made her a dominate, a submissive, a Ponygirl Mistress, and even a Ponygirl herself. She was happily married to a rancher out west and she spent part of each month as respected cosmetic surgeon, part of the month as wife and dominate in charge of the slaves on her husband’s ranch, and part of the month as a helpless sextoy and a working Ponygirl on that same ranch. Doctor Joan Miller was a very complex, and beautiful woman. Gloria Waters would waken to find that her doctor owned her body and soul until she was fully healed from all her rounds of surgery, at least six to eight weeks away. Then she would begin service as a full-time slave to the man she tried to cheat out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Joan carefully disinfected the ripped-open breast meat on the unconscious woman’s right tit. It was very clear that it would take additional surgery to repair the areola and nipple to any semblance of normal. “What kind of nerve damage you have here is a question we will have to wait on for an answer,” she said softly, speaking to herself, mostly to remain calm at the damage to the woman’s body. Doctor Miller glanced up at the repairs she’d already made on the woman’s cheeks and tongue. There would be visible scars on the face to deal with latter on as well. She sighed and returned to work with scalpel and needle. “Whatta fucking mess! “
Finished with the first round of immediate repairs on the woman, Joan stripped off her surgical gloves and stretched. The move brought her swollen mounds forward and she couldn’t help but think of the two men who’d so modified her breasts. “When I begged Robert, the slaver, to let me ‘vacation’ at a Ponygirl training facility, I had no idea what I was in for. The new breasts he gave me are nice though.” Joan squeezed her breasts and thought of the difference it made when Robert (Robert Morgan – the name by which Joan knew Aaron Clarke) decided on his own to change them from a B to a full C cup. She squeezed them again and felt a twinge of passion that jetted from her swollen teats to her pussy. Joan moaned and hurried out of the operating room, it would take hours for her patient to begin to shake off the effects of the anesthesia, and she desperately needed to milk her boobs; besides, it was almost time for her mandatory 5:30 AM milking. She rubbed her tummy with one hand and held her bouncing boobs with her other, Joan was several months pregnant and she’d been lactating for five months, ever since she’d ‘allowed’ herself to be placed on a special hormonal diet by Joseph Loftus, her lean and domineering rancher husband.
Joan had returned from her ‘vacation’ trip out west newly married, weeks pregnant, and already with swelling hooters. Her formerly beautiful but pampered body had been sculpted into a precision running machine during her strenuous Ponygirl training. Several months after she returned to Miami, she’d traveled to the Saudi Peninsula for the adventure of a lifetime; a Ponygirl race impossible to finish. It was the grueling ‘Ocean of Fire’ [read E.C.S.O. – 11: A Race to End All Races], a thirty-five day race across more than a thousand miles of inhospitable burning desert, a certain path to death or slavery. Somehow, she and her new husband had not only survived the impossible race, they won it and returned to the states with money and slaves.
Her cramped run toward a well-secured, locked room at the back of the clinic was graceless and reminded her of how the changes in her body had already made her into an unlikely Ponygirl. It was almost 5:30 in the morning, and she didn’t dare be late. She locked the door behind her and desperately began to strip off her clothes. Her milk-swollen torpedoes were making her desperate; they were anything but the size B and then size C cup she’d had in her life before conversion to a Ponygirl. The hormones had puffed them up into obscenely heavy, meaty Double Ds at the least. The pressure made her glad she’d made it to her ‘milking room’. Joan barely took the time to lock the door behind her as she hurried toward her ‘milking station’.
Joseph Loftus, her fiancé at the time, found out before the start of the Ocean of Fire race that Joan had placed contraceptive slivers in his new Ponygirls, thwarting his plan to breed them and to make milk mares out of them. Ultimately, he realized that she had been correct in what she did; but nonetheless, he had to either punish Joan or take steps to ensure that she would follow even the orders she found distasteful. The ‘milking station’ was the result.
Completely designed and built from scratch to capture, milk, and inoculate lactating Ponymares, the frame was a piece of art that could best be described in common terms as a hyper-modified bicycle frame linked to a computer workstation and high-speed internet access. Three times a day, Joan straddled her milking station and kicked one bare foot into a self-locking stirrup. Then she grabbed a tiny set of handlebars and raised her crotch high up over a floppy six-inch long dildo. Desperate to get relief from the pressure in her breasts, Joan slammed her drooling cunt down a little too hard on the cock and grunted when her pubic area struck the tiny saddle extending an inch from the base of the cock on the sides and three inches forward and aft of the rubbery dildo. A click heralded the locking of Joan’s other foot in a stirrup.
The talented doctor then leaned forward and eased her aching boobs into a set of soothingly cool, clear breastforms, each with a deep recess for her elongated nipples. She leaned down, bit her teeth into a hard rubber mouthpiece slightly protruding from a facemask, and stuck her hands down and forward to grasp a pair of handgrips. Her teeth gripping the mouthpiece activated the mask that released four hinged sets of locking fingers to fly backward, gripping the back of her head to hold it tightly in the mask. Simultaneously, her fingers triggered a set of locking wristcuffs. Joan Miller was now mounted at her milking station until such time as the computer or her husband released her.
Joan sighed in relief as a vacuum started to build in the breastforms that could barely held her ballooned-out tits; the pull brought her nipples deeper into the center cutouts and into contact with the milking cylinders. Even without her vision, Joan felt the suction bring her nipples from their now permanent one-inch stiffness to two-inch long cow-like udder tips. The digital stills Joseph had e-mailed her were quite graphic in depicting the vacuum-induced growth.
Two vacuum pumps in the milking station worked in perfect offset synchronization to squeeze a breast outward into the breastform, to pull strongly on the nipple, release the breast and nipple, squeeze a breast, tug on the nipple, release … The act of her milk letting down brought real sexual relief. Relieved it was started, Joan’s cunt squeezed the dildo, her own pussy juiced up with each cunt squeeze. Greedy for more, Joan brought her butt up a few inches and then slammed herself down on the pad that held the inflatable dildo. The harder she slammed down on the base, the more the cock inflated; the faster she fucked herself, the longer the cock remained inflated from each pumping of air. The cock was a cleverly designed pneumatic device with a unique feature that let the air inflating it slowly leak out, necessitating her continued fast pace of fucking to keep the cock fully turgid.
Blindfolded, face down in the mask, with soft music selected by her husband playing in her mask’s ear speakers, the Ponymare had no idea of her milking progress other than the increased respite from the pressure in her milk glands. She sped up her fucking pace a little and moaned into her mouthpiece at the sensation, knowing that if she went fast enough and hard enough, the computer would reward her after analyzing the signals from the four micro-switches on the cock base. Voice recognition software receiving her grunts and muffled voice sounds from her mouthpiece analyzed the input and rewarded her for appropriate moans and yelps of ecstasy. The tugging on her boobs was now taking her milk smoothly, one side spurting, and then the other. Joan moaned into her mouthpiece, she was enjoying the cock ride. The fake dickmeat was fully engorged now and the feather-soft, warty extensions on the sides were extended, caressing her entire vaginal sheath as she raped herself up and down the ten-inch cock.
Joan’s music cut off with a click and she groaned aloud as the reality of her situation interrupted her self-sexing session. “Hello, Milk Cow Nibbles!” a crude voice grated on her ears as it greeted her. “I want you to hold yourself up on the tip of that big giant dick and wait for my signal.”
“So close,” she moaned to herself, “I was so close to cumming.” Her only consolation was that the computer was on pause now that a paying customer had paid to directly interface with the slut getting milked. Each time Joan mounted the milking station, a series of e-mails launched out at the speed of light to any customer that wanted to know when the huge-titted bitch was on her machine. They already knew her ‘milking schedule’, it was surprising how popular she was.
“Hold it, Bitch! No moving, … I got my finger on the punishment button if you move.”
Customers paid a mere two dollars a minute to watch a silent live feed of her acrobatic demonstrations on the combination fucking and milking machine. For an additional two dollars a minute, they were able to move among the twenty or so video feeds available and even vie for control of the ones not in use. Her most dedicated customers could also control certain other mechanical devices, for varying fees. For fifty dollars a minute, customers could actually speak with her and control certain punishment devices. Joan recognized the voice as belonging to a sadistic bastard that loved to taunt her while paddling her butt and zooming in on the action. She cringed and howled into the rubber mouthpiece that held her teeth locked in place and wriggled her ass about to placate his lust as the paddle stung her ass. Customers could also pay to pump different colored ‘insemination fluids’ (sex lubricant) out of the cock, creating a rainbow jism, resulting in the oddest colors frothing up at the base of the artificial cock. This was her punishment for intentionally thwarting her husband’s plans. Registered customers could also watch and listen to recorded sessions as part of the monthly subscriber fee, increasing the site’s popularity and increasing her humiliation. The most popular download on Nibble’s the Dairy Cow website, the computer moving a full syringe to her ass for her daily injection of lactation hormones. The favorite nicknames given to her love nest on the section of the site dedicated to viewer comments: cock sock, cockpit, brakepads (her long, flapping pussy lips), cream canal, cum dumpster, the grandest canyon, packin’ shack, and the slurpee machine. Nibbles was a popular little milk cow.
Joan’s bachelorette lifestyle in Miami, so far from her husband’s ranch in New Mexico, was centered around the three, one-hour sessions she spent on her milking station (5:00-6:00 AM, 11:00-12:00, and 5:00-6:00 PM). Additionally, her house had a workout room with a running machine and video cams also hooked to the internet. She had to run and walk two and a half hours a day. Doctor Miller had a very busy schedule. In order to make her early morning milking session, Joan had to let herself into her darkened clinic at 4:30 every morning. At a conservative count, at six seconds for each dick-thrust, Joan fucked the ten-inch cock at least eighteen hundred times a day, meaning her body sucked in at least thirteen hundred and fifty feet of fat cock daily (assuming she only backed off nine inches of cockmeat on each outthrust, keeping her insatiable pussy centered on the final inch). Shamefully, Joan found herself having more orgasms on her milker with each passing week. Once, she orgasmed so hard just mounting herself, that she fell over and hung suspended by one ankle and the dick stuck up her twat.
- - - Across town at the original slave processing facility - - -
Helen watched her Master nod in satisfaction as he reviewed the files that she’d just handed him. She found herself sighing contentedly as well. “Is it so easy to slip back into the role of one of his Top Sluts after my freedom?” she mused wonderingly. “But, … if he’s happy, … then for some reason, so am I.” Helen Powell was one of three women that Aaron Clarke freed in his ‘catch and release’ program. As planned, Helen and Regina Tyre each applied for a job at the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Virginia that could be shared with their ‘friend’ Karen Rigden).
Helen and Ingrid Gaviard were still awake after more than thirty intensive hours. The file Helen had just handed to her Master was a synopsis of their tasks and the results of the long night’s work. Refusing to think about her illegal night’s work right now, she instead dwelt on her two friends back at the F.B.I. Academy. “I sure have had a busy week,” she thought. “By now, Karen should be getting settled in my job back in Quantico.” Helen remembered ‘reporting for duty’ in Miami after her six-month stint at the F.B.I. training headquarters concluded. She and Karen Rigden, an ex-undercover agent from Customs Immigration and Enforcement had a joyous, though brief, reunion before Karen was whisked off to Virginia. “At least, after this, I’ll always be free for a year at a time,” she told herself.
Helen, the eldest of the three federal agents in the slaver’s ‘catch and release’ program knelt respectfully beside the overstuffed chair her Master sat upon in one of the warehouse bedrooms. Her black hair had grown out in the last six months and cascaded down her bare back, almost to the delicious crack of her ass. The 5’6” twenty-seven-year-old’s ass and pussy still tingled from her first anal, and vaginal, sex in months. “In fact,” she told herself, “this was my first sex since I got out of the hospital after Regina and I ‘escaped’ from the drug dealers. He knows I like it in the ass, … I sure squealed like a little piglet last night when he fucked me.”
Helen took a quick look at the blonde bimbo still spread-eagled on the bed. She was awake and squirming, whether from the vibrating dildos still humming away at her secretion-streaked crotch, or from the need to pee, … Helen didn’t care if her Master didn’t. She ignored the slut and remembered how she’d first seen the new captive. She’d been directed to meet her Master at the warehouse entrance. The sight of the nearly naked blonde tightly secured in the passenger seat of the little Mercedes had given her some pause. “I never get used to the sight of fresh, new meat,” she thought before mentally correcting herself, “I never get used to the sight of the women he captures.” She appreciated the calm way her Master explained that the woman, Harriet Lynch, was a trophy wife who was perfectly willing to cheat on her husband and that she’d intended to have a girlfriend seduce her unsuspecting hubby in order to get a divorce and a cheat him out of a huge settlement. “Somehow,” she told herself, “the fact that she is a cheating whore made my job of processing her much more palatable. Of course, …” she reminded herself, “I’d even process myself if He commanded it.” Helen shivered in remembrance of her own brutal introduction to slavery. “Not me! I am always an obedient little slut!”
Helen had assisted the blindfolded, bound, and softly whimpering blonde out of the Mercedes and through the warehouse. A strong stench of lust and sex surrounded the just-fucked woman who’d thrown herself into the hands of a slaver. She’d mocked the woman about her musky perfume and than about her clothing rucked about her waist. “Just part of the job,” she told herself,” as the woman’s clear humiliation at being naked and handled by a woman showed in her red face and flushed breasts. Helen had forced the woman to her knees while she prepared her bed for the night; it was actually a king-sized bed in a classroom. The upper sheet and comforter were carefully folded down at the foot of the bed and a body-sized pillow was set in the middle of the bed. The blonde was bound atop the pillow, her limbs pulled tightly out from her body with fur-lined leather cuffs at ankles and wrists. The nice, plump C cups of the blonde protruded straight up into the air.
“Bitch! You’re not a natural blonde! I don’t think Master is gonna like that.” she’d hissed to the housewife mounted on the slaver’s bed. “I recommend that you act the very obedient slut if you don’t want to draw his punishment.” Helen had to hurry to stay on schedule and the unruly mess at the woman’s cunt was an additional chore to take care of. She plopped a warmed washcloth down on the puffy cunt mound and caressed the woman’s stomach while she waited for the pubic hairs to soften from the moist heat. Helen made sure to digitally capture every step of the indignation Harriet Lynch was being subjected to.
Harriet had been in mental turmoil. She’d turned herself over to her powerful lover in the elevator at her nice, safe condominium and now she was somewhere not familiar, … not secure, … in fact she was terrified. It was one thing to be wrist-tied while an exciting, anonymous lover took her roughly; it was another to have no control at all over her destiny beyond knowing that she was going to experience a lot of sex and some significant humiliation. The hot cloth on her loins proved that. “I’m going to be shaved, like a little girl,” she complained to herself. Secretly, the thought of having the bare slit of a young teen while having sex was a delicious one. Her pussy was just starting to pulsate with rising lust when one edge of the cloth was removed. A feather light touch of a soft hand pulled her skin tight and then a razor slipped smoothly across. The hair of her pubic mound disappeared in just a few swipes and the rough cotton of the cloth rubbed away the foam and hair. Her back had arched up in need when her labia were pulled this way and that to give the razor access to the last hair below her neck. The woman shaving her did not hesitate to pull on her inner lips and the hood over her clit while the shaving was going on. “Oh, what a slut, you are Harriet,” she’d acknowledged to herself.
As if her unseen, and completely unknown, handler had heard her admission, a hot breath and sexy voice had whispered in her ear, “You are a hot little firecracker, Harriet. That little cock cave you have down there is going to see quite a bit of action over the next few weeks.” “A few weeks!” had been her horrified thought. “I didn’t mean for this to go on for weeks.” Her thoughts were interrupted when the woman began to smooth some sort of soothing lotion over the just-shaved area. The fingers left and then returned, this time coating her inner pussy lips with something slick and fruity smelling. “Ekk,” had been her only brainless response when the fingers delved down below her puss and spread the slippery stuff on her butt. “I’m not sure that I can take it back there again,” she worried. “Once was fine, … but, … now I’m pretty sore down there.”
She remembered how she’d stewed in anticipation of sexual depravity and then been shocked when the fingers returned and wormed something up her butt hole. “Oh, shit, a dildo. Please, God! Make it a small one!” Harriet had several ‘pocket rockets’ at home and she was an expert at getting her own little treasured clitty to tingle and give her a cum. “Never in my ass,” she thought. Before she’d accepted the fact that a fake cock was up her backside, something much larger began to nudge about her sex. Way bigger than her own slender vibrators, this one nonetheless seemed to slip inside her with little effort. Something else pinched across her clit and didn’t let go. Puzzled, she had no idea what the third thing was. Any question she might have had about whether the sex toys were motorized was answered when first the one in her butt vibrated to life, followed by the log in her pussy, and lastly, … oh how she moaned like a true slut in heat when the last one turned on, … the butterfly vibrator on her clit. After her preparation, Harriet was left alone for a long time, hours in fact; alone with the buzzing toys arousing her to climax after climax. “Never-ending,” had been a simple mantra that she spoke each time the vibrations woke her to more arousal after each almost painful orgasm. “Then,” Harriet told herself, “that woman had turned on the dungeon sounds.” The low sounds of female moans, yelps, and screams along with the much harsher sounds of leather swooshing around the air and whacking against soft flesh. Even though she knew it was a fake recording, Harriet’s sexual heat increased notably with the implied promise of her joining the wretched slaves making the noise.
Helen still had work to do that night after the initial preparation of the blonde slut. She approached the passenger side of the van and paid her respects to the older, dark-haired woman already there, “Mistress, this slut is happy to be back working with you.” She was still very much in awe of the woman that had so efficiently ‘processed’ her after her abduction from a stakeout at a drug dealers that had gone very wrong. Respects paid, she crept to the back of the van and made sure that the proper gear was in place. The vehicle lurched out of the warehouse and headed toward its destination. Everything was in order. The Mistress and her sweet little F.B.I. slut had work to do.
Ingrid Gaviard waited until her assistant, and submissive, crawled to her place at the back of the van before starting the engine and opening the warehouse door. She tentatively checked her black combat clothing and shuddered at the weapons in her thigh pockets. Ingrid was an expert shot with both the nine-millimeter automatic and the taser. She checked the directions that her Master had given her and she pulled out into the humid Miami night.
--- To Be Continued ---
Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com
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