Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
The first symptoms were easy to dismiss. After all, waking in the morning from an erotic dream to discover your pussy is wet, is perfectly natural. Embarrassing also, if you’re in a shared dormitory with nine other young woman you’ve known for less than a day. With whom you share a bathroom too, without doors that lock, without cubicles for privacy. The lack of privacy is what is abnormal, not awaking in a state of arousal.
Being persistently wet through the day is also easy to dismiss, especially when you’ve nothing to do except kill time and for the first time in months you’re not cycling between depression and panic about whether you can afford to eat. None of that matters now. Especially when you, and your nine companions, have nothing to wear except brown, knee-length, pleated skirts and tight, white T-shirts. And Japanese-style wooden sandals. No underwear.
They’d assured me – all of us – that the contract did not involve sex work, but when ten young women are rounded up and dressed in an undeniably sexy fashion, you have to question the truth of that assurance. I wasn’t the only one whose swollen nipples betrayed arousal. I wasn’t the only one blushing whenever I sat down, carefully arranging my skirt to ensure my stubbornly wet pussy stayed concealed.
I tried not to stare at the others. Especially their breasts, all larger than mine. Tiny Tits had been my nickname in school, and my self-consciousness about my small breasts had made me very shy around men in social settings. My occasional attraction to women was something I never understood, or at least never wanted to acknowledge, but it was certainly there.
I dismissed it, just as Rosie dismissed the way her fingers kept drifting towards her nipples, a persistent itch there in need of scratching. Just as Polly dismissed the way her hand kept finding itself between her thighs, nudging her skirt higher than was really safe.
On the second day, I dismissed the fantasy that I could smell my own arousal. That I could smell the arousal of the others too. That, indeed, I could distinguish them by their smell. Who, after all, would want that superpower? I dismissed too that my aroused nipples were longer and thicker, that indeed my breasts were at least a cup size up. I had often wished for larger breasts, but knew perfectly well they didn’t grow like that overnight. Besides, they were still tiny compared to Rosie’s and Polly’s and all my companions’ breasts. An absurd fantasy.
By the third day, we all knew better. We were all transparently aroused, our pussies dripping wet beneath our too short skirts, our thick, swollen, darkening nipples making lewd points in our tight T-shirts, our breasts enlarged and gaining weight.
“What the fuck are they doing to us?” Rosie growled.
“I need a hard cock in me,” Polly said to no one in particular, clearly fingering herself beneath her duvet
*
We weren’t prisoners – at least, not technically. Coming to the island had been a choice, a five-year contract signed with the understanding that there would be no holidays, that there would be no returning to the mainland at all. It had even been made clear and explicit that some temporary body modification was a possibility, although exactly what that entailed was never stated.
Only a desperate person would sign such a contract. I had been desperate.
We weren’t prisoners. There were no iron bars, no armed guards, but there was no internet either, no telephones, no choice of clothing either. The ten of us clomped around noisily in our wooden sandals, slept and showered and ate together, lounged around reading books and watching television and playing cards together, and even went outside for walks together. The clinic had a magnificent view across the wind-swept sea, dark Scottish waters that no sane woman would dare to swim.
There was a beach even, a small one, but the water was cold and the weather warm but blustery. We often went for walks along the beach in the early afternoon, some of us even daring to paddle for a while, but most days there was a constant fight to stop our skirts being blown up around our waists. Though I wasn’t looking – or trying not to look, anyway – I caught frequent glimpses of bare bums and wet pussies. No doubt my own bare bum and wet pussy were glimpsed by others too. As frustrating as it was to be dressed this way, there was a shameful eroticism to it too.
Being outside, getting the chance to clear our heads, meant that returning indoors again was an impact on the senses. The atmosphere inside was thick with the smell of arousal. A closed environment with ten women walking around with wet pussies, filling the air with our pheromones (or whatever), was enough to make you dizzy with lust.
And it was just the ten of us. The handful of staff who looked after us, grey-haired women old enough to be our mothers, seemed entirely unaffected, entirely indifferent. They did their jobs, cooking and cleaning, and that was that. I Ostim Escort never smelled the faintest whiff of arousal from them. Even the matronly nurse who checked us physically every day, who examined and measured my expanding breasts with cold hands, displayed no sexual interest in them at all.
Despite the subtle horror of knowing that your body is being changed and manipulated by others, waking up each day to discover that the breasts you always hated for being too small are now bigger and bigger… well, I was thrilled. By Day 7, I had beautiful, bouncy breasts, double-D at least, and without the need for expensive surgery and silicone implants. The other women were larger still, but I was catching up.
But back on the third day, we were all in shock. That afternoon, when the nurse had completed her checkup and she handed me the usual assortment of pills to swallow, I demanded, “What are these doing to us? And why am I aroused all the damn time?” Bad enough that I had to sit there and let her feel me up every day, I was now so horny I had to bite my lips to stop myself begging her to continue.
The nurse chuckled. “As is probably obvious to you all now, the drugs are promoting breast growth. But don’t worry, the growth is reversible – if that’s what you wish at the end of your contract.” Honestly, I didn’t mind the breast growth at all, at least so far. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “arousal is a side effect of the medicine, but it’s one you should adapt to quickly.”
She did have a point. The fact that it was an experience all ten of us were sharing, and that there was no hiding it from each other how aroused we all were, meant that our embarrassment soon diminished, and our shyness gave way to playfulness. By Day 7, we were openly masturbating in front of each other whenever the constant itch demanded scratching.
And that wasn’t all.
The bus had collected me from outside the house that was no longer mine. It had been making its way slowly north, criss-crossing England and then Scotland. I was the fourth of us to board, and Rosie had been the last. By her red hair as much as her accent, Rosie was pure Scottish, and whenever she was excited she spoke so fast and with such a thick accent no one could understand her.
None of us spoke on the bus. My own head had still been full of the tensions of the previous few months and lingering depression. It was only really when we were forced together on the boat that we really started talking to each other. In my case, I was too busy being sick over the side of the boat to talk much at all, but Rosie kept me company and made sure I didn’t fall into the water. She told me of how she had been married, how she had an affair with her brother-in-law, and how that had ended up eventually in disaster, divorce, and eventually debt.
The following morning, we had breakfast together. “So, what’s your story, then?” she asked.
Even without saying anything, I could feel the heat of shame in my cheeks. It was not a story I wanted to tell, and indeed had I still been back in my hometown, my reaction to her polite curiosity would have been hostile. But I wasn’t there. All that had happened hundreds of miles away and months before. “I, ah, got caught,” I mumbled, not daring to meet her eyes, “with one of my students.”
“Ohh,” she said, chuckling. “Tell me more. Judging by the colour of your cheeks, you were doing more than holding hands.”
The burn in my cheeks intensified. “I’m a high-school English teacher. He was eighteen, and cute. I’d had a bit of a crush on him for a while, and then bumped into him one evening in town. I’d been having drinks with some friends, was all dressed up, and when he started telling me how sexy I looked and how much he wanted to kiss me, I couldn’t help myself.”
Rosie laughed. “What is it with schoolboys always lusting over their teachers… Was he a good kisser?”
I was too used to people being horrified at this point. Rosie’s genuine enjoyment of my sordid fall from grace was a pleasant change. “He was. I mean, I was tipsy and hadn’t kissed anyone in months, let alone a cute boy, but yes. I could have spent the whole rest of the night kissing him.”
“So is that all you did? Kiss? Boring…”
“Well, he wanted more. He held me tight against him, and I could feel his cock against my belly. I could feel how hard he was. I tried to push him away. I told him it was wrong for us to do anything, but he kept kissing me, kept saying, ‘Please, Miss Ayres, I need you,’ and I thought: Would it really be so wrong?”
I sighed, thinking of my own foolishness. “Not sex. No way was I going to have sex with him. But I could use my hand… Anyway, I let him guide me away from the crowds to a secluded spot. We were outdoors, in town. It was a warm night, no wind, a bright moon and stars. Almost romantic. Between kisses, he lowered his trousers and boxers to reveal his hard cock -“
“How big?”
I smiled. I was Escort Ostim actually enjoying the tale this time, and enjoying too the details I never usually shared. No doubt the subtle arousal we both shared was having an effect too. The first dose of drugs had been given to us on arrival the day before. “Big,” I said. “Not particularly thick, but certainly long, and it looked beautiful to me. Of course I wrapped my hand about it and stroked it. It felt so warm and smooth, somehow both powerful and vulnerable. I’d never actually touched a man’s cock before.”
“Wait, no,” Rosie interrupted. “You were a virgin?”
“I’m still a virgin.” So very sad, but true. One of the bitter ironies of my cruel fate.
“Oh, so just a handjob, then?” She sounded disappointed.
“Well, no. He begged me to use my mouth instead, and I really didn’t want to, but he asked so nicely, and eventually I gave in.” So stupid. “Maybe I wanted it a little too. I had no idea what I was doing, though. I licked curiously at the head until he instructed me to make a ring with my lips about the shaft and to keep my teeth away, and suddenly he was fucking my mouth. It was all I could do to stop him pushing into my throat.”
“I wish I’d been there to watch it.”
“Well, it’s on the internet. It has been watched already by thousands of people. No reason I shouldn’t send you the link too – if we ever get back to civilisation.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes,” I confirmed with a bitter scowl. “It was a setup. Two of his friends had followed us and filmed the whole thing. All the way to the point where I was choking on his cum. A right fucking mess.”
“I’m guessing the school found out?”
“Uh, huh. No more career in teaching for me. Just lawyer’s fees and a media shitstorm. Life, as they say, sucks.”
I’d fallen severely in debt. I lost my car, and eventually my house too, and then the Foundation had bought up and consolidated all my debt and given me a choice: a lifetime spent paying off every penny I owed, or a five-year contract.
I liked Rosie. On Day 7, I awoke in the morning with her fingers in my cunt, her lips warm against my breasts. She had made me come several times during the night, and I had returned the favour too. I didn’t care that the others had all heard us. That they had heard me whimpering in ecstasy. After all, they had all paired up too. It was amazing any of us had gotten any sleep.
*
The Foundation had assured me that the contract did not involve sex work. Absolutely the one thing I was sure about is that, no matter how bad things got, no matter how desperately I might need money, I would not resort to sex work.
So far there had been no suggestion of sex work, but what was undeniable is that one week into the five-year contract, I was one of ten young women, all of us wearing short skirts without underwear, all of us with large breasts and very prominent nipples, all of us increasingly acting like sex-starved lesbian bimbos.
If the Foundation had suddenly announced at that point that actually the five-year contract would be spent in some sleazy brothel somewhere, very likely the chance to finally get a hard cock in me would have had me – had all of us – crying out with joy. None of us were actually lesbians, but probably we’d all had some bicurious urges before finding ourselves in a lesbian erotic fantasy.
I’d never actually slept with a man, but if I learned one thing from Rosie’s fingers, from her hand and her wrist even, it’s that I needed to find myself a real man. A real man with a thick cock ready to pleasure me at a moment’s notice.
Over the following days, our breasts continued to expand, but more slowly, becoming heavy and sore, the areolas darkening. Long walks along the beach became too burdensome, and what exercise we got was increasingly between the sheets. Later in the second week, there was some discharge too, giving Rosie’s nipples a salty taste whenever I sucked on them.
It confirmed my suspicion that they weren’t merely expanding our breasts, but also inducing lactation. “Colostrum,” I said, scooping up a droplet of the thick, yellow fluid and studying it. “Either we’re the objects of a very specific kink -“
“- or they’re planning to milk us like cows,” Rosie finished.
“Eww,” I said, laughing. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind having men line up to fuck my tits while I squirt milk all over them.”
“I’m serious, though,” Rosie said. “I’ve heard there are farms where they use humans instead of cows. Apparently there’s a market for human milk.”
Polly was listening in on our conversation. “They’re called hucows,” she said while leafing idly through a magazine. “They’re going to hook us up to milking machines for five years.”
“No one’s hooking me up to a milking machine,” I muttered.
Two days later it had got to the point where we were all leaking actual milk, and none of us could stand to wear anything over our breasts. The nurse lined Ostim Escort Bayan us up, ten women in short skirts with huge bare breasts, and led us along a long corridor we’d never seen before. It tunnelled through the hillside to a different complex.
We were led through an actual milking room full of the hum of machinery. There were twenty steel cubicles down one side, twenty steel cubicles down the other. Soft rubber mats on the raised floors of the cubicles. Jutting out from each of the narrow cubicles was the rear end of a woman positioned on her hands and knees. More than that could not be seen, but the moans and sighs that filled the air did not suggest unhappiness.
The air in the room blended stale milk and fresh lust. There were forty exposed pussies, all not merely wet but visibly dripping. Without conscious direction, my hand moved to my own wet pussy, my fingers slipping easily within. Chained to the wall above each woman’s head was a steel hook that was inserted into the woman’s ass, preventing – or, at least, discouraging – escape. Or perhaps it was more so that the women needed to keep their bums raised, their cunts on full display.
Had I been left in that room on my own, I would have gone from woman to woman, gorging on her pussy. It seemed cruel to leave so many needful cunts so sorely neglected.
“You can touch them, if you like,” the nurse said, and illustrated by approaching the nearest cubicle and rubbing her fingers around the woman’s clit.
The woman pushed back immediately, eagerly, as much as her hooked ass would allow. “Please,” her muffled voice came. “Please fuck me. I need it.”
The nurse snatched her hand away. “Bad hucow,” she snapped. “No talking,” she added, and spanked the poor woman hard.
Close to me was an Asian woman, by the colour of her skin. It struck me suddenly that all the women were shaved. There wasn’t a pubic hair to be seen anywhere. With rapt fascination, I pushed a finger between the soft lips, into the cunt that was so tantalisingly presented to me. She said nothing to encourage or dissuade me, but the muscles of her vagina tightened about my finger as if to draw me deeper.
The smell of her was making me dizzy. I dropped to my knees and buried my nose in her glorious wetness. My tongue sought out her clit and I drank the juices that flooded my mouth.
The nurse pulled me away by the hair. “Fingers only,” she said, stern but not angry. “Naughty hucow.”
I glowered at her, not liking at all to be called that.
We passed through a lounge with a television; peered in at a small swimming pool; there was a library and a games room; a large, sheltered courtyard and garden. There were young women everywhere, dressed like us in short skirts and wooden sandals, all with huge breasts. Hundreds of women. We were merely the latest arrivals into this bizarre, industrial farmyard.
We were allocated new beds in this complex. Comfortable and sturdy beds, much better designed for two women to sleep together in, if they wished. “Settle in,” the nurse said. “You will be ready for your first milking tomorrow.”
*
I had hated my small breasts for years. It was wonderful to have huge breasts instead, even if they were often a very literal pain in the neck. Even empty of milk they were an unfamiliar weight; when full, I felt like I was lifting weights. I could no longer just turn around quickly and easily whenever I needed to, not without my breasts swinging around heavily. They kept blocking my view unexpectedly and getting generally in the way.
But I wasn’t complaining, and I was gradually becoming accustomed to them. The pressure building within them was almost intolerable, however. I awoke in sheets saturated with milk that had leaked during the night, and still I had an aching need to express. That more than anything robbed me of the will to resist as Rosie, I and the others were ordered to the milking room.
It was humiliating to be ordered around like a dairy cow. It was humiliating to be called ‘hucow’ as if I wasn’t even human any longer, and as if I didn’t need any other name.
But suddenly I was distracted from my humiliation and misery by a new scent, and suddenly I came face to face with the first man I’d seen since stepping off the boat onto the island. In his early thirties, at a guess, he was tall and thickly muscled, and wore a tartan shirt and leather chaps. From his exposed crotch jutted a huge, semi-erect cock.
In length it was probably no greater than the only other cock I had ever seen close-up, but its girth took my breath away. It was monstrous, easily the width of a coke can, and the raw, musky smell of it was intoxicating. I didn’t resist as he tugged my skirt off and pushed me into a chair. I didn’t resist as he spread my legs wide. I stared at his cock, sure that he was about to use it on me, sure that it would hurt like hell (because how could it not?), sure that I needed it in me regardless…
But he grabbed an electric shaver and guided it between my open thighs, searching out and removing every trace of pubic hair as the fog of lust clouding my thoughts gave way to understanding and fresh humiliation. This was just another step in the industrial process: shearing the hucow.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
