BABY BUSINESS

                                               CHAPTER ONE

       At 23, Cathy was much too young to be divorced and marooned in the suburbs.  She didn’t like the house that had come to her as part of the divorce settlement or the neighborhood.  She didn’t know if her neighbors were likable or not since she didn’t know them at all.  The husbands all left early for work and came back late.  Many of the wives did, too.  The ones who stayed home were much to involved with their children to be interested in her.    Sometimes she wished she had children, which she would surely have gotten, too, like the house.  At least they would be company.  Sometimes she was so lonely she slept almost as much as a male lion.

       Having taken a couple of pills and a couple of drinks, she was sound asleep at 2 a.m. when company finally came calling.  He studied her barely covered form stretched out on top of the covers, and he approved.  Here breasts were certainly C cup, maybe even D.  Otherwise she was slender, even her hips, which might not bode well for having children, and he was a man who cared a lot about having kids, but he was willing to risk it.  Besides her breasts, her blonde Nordic good looks persuaded him.  When he applied the drug-soaked rag to her pretty face, she seemed to shrug and then settled into a deeper sleep.

       (space)

       To tame them, he always used sensory deprivation at first.  So he kept her blindfolded with her ears plugged with candle wax.  She was chained spread eagle on a piece of plywood which was slightly canted so her piss would drain away.  Her shit just sat there.  He came in every other day to replace the water bottle with a nipple that hung above here lips, but she had to strain to reach it.  She always ran out of water at least a day before his visits.  While he was there, he “cleaned her cage,” not that it was a real cage, just a plywood plank and chains.  He used a hose to wash away her shit and to rinse off her sweaty body. 

Then he fucked her and fed her a carton a yogurt.  He wanted her to associate him with the few good things left in her life:  a drink of water, a little food, and a break in her isolation.  He wanted her to look forward to his visits.  And she did.  He wanted her to long for his return.  And she did.  He was almost courting her.  He almost wanted her to love him.  But the chains squeezed too tightly and the plywood was too hard to make love true love quite possible.  But he was the only human being left in her universe.  She would have hugged him to her if her hands had been free.

Occasionally he told her to pee.   She asked why.  He hit her in the face.  She peed.  Since she was blindfolded, she couldn’t tell that he was collecting her piss in a pregnancy kit.  Test after test came out negative.  He was worried, because if she couldn’t get pregnant, he would eventually have to kill her.  She wouldn’t be economically viable.

Meanwhile she was going crazy in her silent darkness.  She didn’t know if it was day or night.  Sometimes she didn’t know if she were alive or dead.  Most of the time, she didn’t know if she were awake or dreaming.  And her own voice kept pounding in her head:  Come back!  Come back!  Won’t you ever come back?  Don’t abandon me!  Fuck me!  Fuck me!  Fuck me!

(space)

When she woke up, more or less, still drifting in and out, she was thrilled to discover that she could see.  But even this dim light hurt her eyes.  Her vision kept going in and out of focus.  When her sight came back, she thought she saw that she was no longer alone.  Other women were all around her.  Strangely they were all naked.  What kind of after life had she awakened into?  They were all naked and bound.  But not with rope.  With chains and pipes and metal stocks.  And she was bound, too, not to a board, not with her hands above her head, but chained behind her back.  And somehow her handcuffs were tethered both to her asshole and to her pussy.  Able to move her hands with more range of motion than before, she investigated and discovered to her horror:  Her hands were chained to a ring that went in her asshole and came out her vagina.

Watching her wake up, her new master wondered if she could make out the biology of her bonds.   Since her colon and vagina ran parallel and close to each other, he had simply punched a hole connecting the two and inserted a ring.  Then he chained her hands to that ring.  He thought it was his most elegant binding yet.

He was proud that all of his girls were bound differently.  The first had simply been handcuffed behind her back.  The next had been handcuffed to a chain around her waist.  The next to a chain that ran from her wrists through her pussy valley, between her breasts, to a ring around her neck…and on and on…One girl’s wrists were chained tightly to her nipples…another was secured with a stock that looked like this   o-----0-----o with her head through the middle circle and her hands through the o’s on each side…hands chained to knees…hands chained to ankles…hands chained to labia…hands chained to clit…and on and on and on and on…

He waited until she seemed wide awake, or as awake as she could be under the circumstances, before he approached her.

“Hi, Cathy,” he said.

She tried to say something, but she had almost lost the ability to talk.  She just coughed.

“You’re probably wondering where you are,” he told her.  “Well, I am going to tell you.  You are in a baby farm.  There are millions of women who want to have children, but who can’t.  My mission is to supply those girls with kids.  We grow babies on this farm.  You will get pregnant, have children, and those babes will be sold to adoption agencies.  Anyway I hope you will get pregnant.  I really do.  Because if you don’t, you will either be hanged, beheaded, or starved to death which takes longer but it more painful..  Your choice.”

Cathy coughed.

“But you don’t have to decide now because you’ll probably spew out babies like an assemble line.”

Now Cathy noticed that many of her naked, bound companions had bulging stomachs.

 

…Now Cathy noticed that many of her naked, bound companions had bulging stomachs.

“Any questions?” he asked.

She coughed.

“Better ask now.  Don’t wait.  Because you are going to be gagged from now on.”

CHAPTER TWO

It was turning into a tick:  For some reason, she couldn’t seem to stop turning the ring that went in her pussy and came out her asshole.  Or did it go in her asshole and come out her pussy?  She “played” with her ring so much that both orifices were sore.  Not only was her new habit a source of pain, it was also a source of shame.  Was she secretly masturbating?  What was wrong with her?  At first, she had studied the other girls to see if they were “playing,” too, but none of them had a similar ring.  She did notice, however, that the girl whose hands were chained to her clit seemed to be playing some guilty games of her own.  Whenever the girl noticed her watching, she always looked away and then turned her back.

“Sooooeeee, pigs!” called a gruff male voice.

Cathy knew she was being summoned to the feeding.  She and the other girls, some two dozen of them, all bound differently, lined up dutifully to have the ball gags removed from their mouths.     

“Thank you, Master,” said the first girl as he removed the red ball.

Blond, beautiful, tall and six or seven months pregnant, this expectant mother wore a metal disk stamped with the number “1” suspended from the steel collar around her throat.  On the side, her pregnancy-swollen right breast, she was branded “#1.”  Her left butt cheek was branded “BR” with a circle around it.  Her left butt had four short parallel lines burned into the skin.  While she was playing with her ring, Cathy often tried to guess what the BR stood for.  Bed Room?  Bill’s Reckroom?  Baby Something or Other?  And what about those parallel lines?  She also wondered why she hadn’t been branded.  Or was it that she hadn’t been branded yet?  Did she still have that ordeal to look forward to? 

“Thank you, Master,” said a pretty brunette who wore a “2” medallion on her chest and a “#2” brand on her swollen right tit. 

He slapped her on the butt, turning pink the skin around her four bright white parallel lines.  The slap sent her on her way.  She hurried to the still empty trough and knelt next to #1.

“Thank you, Master,” said #3.

Slap.  Hurried steps.  Then she knelt beside #2 and bowed her head, like the others, as if grace were about to be said.  Although their gags were removed, the girls did not speak.  Speaking was a hanging offence.  Unless you preferred to have your head cut off or to be starved to death.

“Thank you, Master,” said #5.

Cathy wondered what death-sentence crime she had committed:  Talking?  Not producing enough babies?  Not obeying one of the master’s obscene whims?  #5 only had two stripes on her right ass which Cathy guessed was probably bad news.

“Thank you, Master,” said #9.

Maybe he just got tired of fucking #6, #7, and #8 and so cut off their heads.  Perhaps they weren’t good in bed, not that there were any beds in this prison.  The girls slept and fucked and passed their time as best they could with no furniture whatsoever except a concrete floor and bars.

(space)

“Thank you, Master,” croaked Cathy who was still having trouble with her almost-never-used voice.

If she had had a medallion or a brand, it should have read “41” – or perhaps even higher – but she was actually just the 23rd girl in line.  A slap on the ass and she hurried to kneel beside the trough. 

He walked over to the wall that was just bars top to bottom.  Well except for the ledge that ran along the bottom of the bars, a kind of curb used by the inmates for a shared pillow at night.   He reached through the bars and retrieved a tall, thin bucket that barely squeezed inside.  Then he approached the head of the trough where #1 was kneeling.  He poured a kind of slop – made mostly of various dog foods – into the trough from one end to the other, from #1 to the 23rd girl.

“Sooooeeeee, pigs,” he said again.  “Put your snouts in there and get busy.”

“Thank you, Master,” they said in unison which was half their vocabulary.  The only other words they were allowed to say were:  “Yes, Master.”

The pigs’ snouts buried themselves in the slop and their ass went up in the air.  The trough, which was very deep, had been designed with this posture in mind.  So posed, Cathy knew what was coming.  His cane struck her across the ass leaving an ugly welt.  She tried to stifle her cry but couldn’t help herself.  Not only did she cry out, but she then took a reflex breath which filled her nostrils not with air but slop since her nose was buried in the horrible snuff. 

“Just for that,” he said, “you get three more.”

She stifled a “no” in her throat, but she couldn’t silence her screams.  He nonetheless moved on to cane the others.

“Faster!  Faster!  I don’t have all day,” he shouted.

The slop tasted terrible, but Cathy, like the rest of the girls, gobbled it as quickly as she could get it down.  The last one to “clean her plate” always got a sound and thorough caning at the end of the meal.  It was a race not to win to the prize of being able to sit down for the next couple of days.   

“Faster!  Faster!  I’m feeling especially strong today.”

Cathy gobbled faster which seemed impossible but she managed it.  She could hear herself making pig noises and felt ashamed but kept making them.  Then she felt the sting of his cane on her ass again.  Her master was making a second round.  This time she gritted her teeth and only half screamed, but she got the same three penalty strokes anyway.

The master slopped them only every other day.  Which was good because the slop tasted terrible and always involved a beating.  But it was bad because they were always hungry.  Between feedings, they longed for the next one and dreaded it at the same time.

#10 raised her head and leaned back on her haunches.  She was a big girl with a correspondingly large mouth.  She almost always finished first.  She looked like a big blonde Suede milk maid, especially with her hormone stoked tits.  The master appeared behind her.  He used a wet, dirty rag to clean her face.

“Open wide,” he said.

#10 opened her big mouth as wide as she could.  He stuffed in the extra large red ball made specially for her.  Then he fiercely tightened the strap that held it in place.  She would have to break her jaw to dislodge it.  He moved on while she sat as still as a statue.

#20 was next.  She leaned back on her haunches with a great sigh.

“I hope that means you liked your dinner,” he said. 

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Then her ability to speak was cut off abruptly by the insertion on a regulation-sized red ball.

Each time another of her roommates leaned back and accepted her gag, Cathy grew more frightened.  She usually finished in the middle of the pack, but today she found it harder than ever to choke down the slop.  All too soon, she and two others were the only ones still “eating.”  With only three victims to attend, the master rained down blows on her ass with much more often.  And since she could never keep from screaming, she got many more blows than the others.

Her only hope seemed to be that #31, who lost more than any other pig, would continue to lose.  She had lost so often that she was actually crippled.  She limped horribly around the cell.  Lately the master had resorted to novel tortures since he was in danger of killing her.  Or worse, she might miscarry.  He caned her tongue.  He caned her ears until she went deaf.  What he didn’t cane was her swollen belly.  But #31 licked her carefully calibrated portion of the trough clean and sat up.  The even dirtier rag.  The gag.

And for Cathy the terror.  Trying to gobble faster, she succeeded in throwing up.  Then she had to eat her vomit.

#11 sat back on her haunches and started to cry out of relief, happiness or something like it, a painful bullet dodged.

Cathy felt the sting of the cane on her still upturned ass.  This time she choked down the scream, but she knew it didn’t matter.  There would be plenty more screams to come.  She wouldn’t be able to swallow them all.

CHAPTER THREE

He tied her to the bars, slightly bent over, her ass slightly cocked in the air.  The first stroke stung but the gag choked of her scream.  The second stroke hurt much worse and not even the gag could hold it in.  In spite of the red ball, her screams rang out over and over in the big barred room.  Each stroke hurt in and of itself, but every new stroke also awakened the pain in the older lashes.  The welts seemed to vibrate together like guitar strings, and she provided the wordless lyrics.  He beat her bottom until he got tired and had to sit down on the bare concrete floor to rest. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as she was.  She gasped for breath and gagged on her own spit.

When he got his breath back, he turned her around and tied her with her back pressed up against the bars.  Then he went to work stroking her breasts.  They didn’t begin to swell until after the first dozen or so blows.  But then they puffed up quickly and changed colors from red to blue to black.  She kept on screaming although she knew it would do no good.  Her right nipple started to bleed.  She was giving blood instead of milk.  Even between strokes, her tits ached individually and they ached together.  Then in mid stroke, he paused, he hesitated.  She distrusted the hesitation.  He never hesitated about hurting anybody.

“What do you know,” he said, pleased with himself.  “I’ve got a new idea.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

He fished in his jeans and came up with a cheap, plastic, kerosene lighter.  Naturally he was a smoker.  He flicked it open and grinned at the flame.  Closing the lighter, he knelt at Cathy’s bound feet as if he were a supplicant.  With his left hand, he reached out and examined her pubic hair.

“A little sweaty from the pain,” he reported, “but I still think it will burn.  We’re gonna have us a bush fire.  Like a brush fire but it hurts more.”  He blew on her pussy, moving her hair around.  Then he laughed and said:  “Take a deep breath.”

She did.  Then she watched as the lighter’s flame approached her pussy…but stopped and pulled back.  He was teasing her.  Then here came the flame again.  She heard her singed pubic hair popping.  But the flame went away again.  She exhaled.  He inhaled thrust his lighter into the heart of her bush.  The moist hair sputtered at first and then swelled into a tiny bonfire one her pubic mound.  She screamed as her own flesh was cooked by her own hair.  She felt blisters rising and popping.  Her labia minora caught fire and flames danced along these lips.  She strained at the ropes, strained at the gag, strained at her limits for pain and terror.  She passed out but came to much too quickly to find her pussy still burning.

“Beautiful!” he cried.  “The girl with the burning pussy.  I think I love you.”  He laughed.  “Now all of you others, line up, #1 to whatever it is.  Put your backs against the bars.”

As they lined up, the breeding stock began to realize what must be in store for them.  He could see the hesitation in many of their eyes.  They milled rather than lined up.

“Would you rather have your pussy haired burned,” he said, “or would you rather be burned to death.  I’d love to pour gasoline all over you and light you up, and who’s to stop me, huh? 
       As Cathy’s pussy smoldered out, still aching, screaming with pain, the others lined up and were tied in order to the bars.  Then he lit them all up, moving as quickly as possible, running from one to the next, so he could have them all burning at the same time.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, I’m an artist,” he crowed, still breathless after his race.  “I should have video-taped it.  Why didn’t I video tape it?  Now, you pigs, shut the fuck up!”  He raised his hands over his head as if he had scored a goal.  “Regular Guy Faulkes Day, ain’t it?”

Cathy noticed a stain on the front of her master’s jeans:  He had come while he watched a couple of dozen bush fires.

“You owe it all to number…” he began.  “Come to think of it, I don’t know what her number should be.  Anyway Number Whatever, she inspires me.  I looked at her pussy and there it was:  the whole burning bush scenario.  Hey, that’s biblical, isn’t it?  Sure it is.  God spoke out of the burning bush to Moses.  What did your burning bushes say, huh?”  He looked from one to the other, as if expecting an answer.  “Oh, that’s right.  You’re lips down there can’t talk.  Too bad.  And your upstairs lips better not either or I’ll cut your head off and make it lick your own pussy lips.  Probably always wanted to do that, huh?  Well, now’s your chance.  Any takers?”  He laughed.

Even after he left, she could see them all glaring at her reproachfully, as if it were her fault they had gotten their pussies roasted.  Anyway she imagined they were accusing her.  Just what he wanted.

(space)

The next morning, the girls all shied away from Cathy.  Whether or not she had caused the pussy burning, she had somehow excited a burning rage inside the master.  She was a kind of brothel bad luck charm.  They all wanted to stay as far away as possible from the violence she inspired in their captor.  Not that they stopped speaking to her, because they couldn’t.  But they could withdraw, and they did.  Cathy felt it and felt the injustice of it.  She was being shunned because somebody had burned her pussy.  She hadn’t asked her to burn it.  She hadn’t wanted him to burn it.  And yet she was guilty of her own hair burning and all the others.  Even the sense of sisterhood in this depraved harem was denied her.

CHAPTER

The next morning, the master appeared bearing tools.  Cathy didn’t recognize them at first.  Two things that looked like pokers from a fireplace and a giant Right Guard can.

“Yesterday reminded me,” he said, “you poor thing, you haven’t be branded.  Sorry.  Don’t want you havin’ and identity crisis wonderin’ who you belong to.  See this?” 

He held out the fireplace pokers close to her frightened face for her examination.  At the end of one of these steel rods, she read “BR” but it was printed backwards.  At the tip of the other was a backwards “49.”  Now she understood what she was looking at.

“In case you’re wonderin’, this here means Baby Ranch.  Because from now on, you ain’t nothin’ but a brood mare.  Anyhow you better come up with a brood.  Otherwise, you’re gonna end up as the headless mare.  Maybe you could team up with the headless horseman.  Go on tour.”

He was the only one who laughed.  Of course, the others were gagged, but they didn’t even try to laugh.

“Now this contraption is called a blow torch,” he went right on.  “It’s better’n a campfire for heatin’ up brandin’ irons.” 

Now that he had identified this place as a ranch, he seemed intent on talking like a rancher, or so Cathy thought.  He turned her around facing the bars and bound her.

“We’ll go with this one first,” he said.

He turned on the blow torch and plunged number 49 into its arrow-like flame.  Cathy shuddered at the implications.  Since the last number surviving on a living slave was 40, some eight girls had been killed since he had found a keeper.  Why were #41, #42, #43, #44, #45, #46, #47 and #48 no longer alive?  Were his standards ascending?  Did he expect more and more from the girls to warrant their staying alive?  Were her chances diminished or diminishing?

He advanced upon her.  At its business end, the tip was red-yellow hot. 

“Welcome to the Baby Ranch,” he said slamming the branding iron home on the right side of her helpless breast.

Cathy heard a sizzle and felt an overwhelming tidal wave of pain, pure undiluted pain, pain that made her want to die.  Then she thankfully lost consciousness.

She finally woke up when he threw buckets of water in her face.  He didn’t want her to miss the additional pain that was coming.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” he cooed.  “You ain’t finished yet.”

He untied her and turned her around.  Even as she staggered and almost collapsed.  He tied her, slightly bend, ass out, facing the bars.  When the BR landed on her left ass, she fainted again.  Was baptized again.  And came to just in time to feel the searing, blistering, childbirth-like agony of 49 buring into, searing, melting her skin. 

>>Alarmed, it occurred to her even more forcefully now:  Would hers be a missing number the next time some poor girl was branded?  How would she die?  Hanging?  Headless?  Then worms fucking her.  Happy to discover that they could easily slide through a hole connected her delicious vagina to her ever even more savory colon.  Her fears for her life made this brand hurt even more than the first one.

       

CHAPTER