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MILK BITCH LOST
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Ward breaks Gina, then fixes her ... by force. |
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Gina lay next to Daddy in his sumptuous bed, under a many-layered canopy of ornate, richly coloured cascades and swags in the Inn at Little Washington’s gleaming aubergine brown bedroom. Her fury had returned in the form of sulkiness. She still resented him. But she was yearning to speak and now found it impossible to do so. The sentences were buried too deeply. Daddy was showing uncharacteristic patience. He prompted her, “Tell me what’s going on,” or “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” or “Is it still the jump? What happened up there?” With every prompt, speech came microscopically closer to the surface – but not close enough. After fifteen minutes, he brutally raped her, laying the full, crushing weight of his body on top of her and on top of her swollen, aching breasts. She first fought him with every minute shred of her angry might. With remarkable strength, he pinned her thrashing limbs against the magnificent bed, digging his thick elbows into the pressure points in her upper arms and his powerful knees into her thighs while she tried to scream in agony. One hand covered her nose and mouth except when she fought against his lips and tongue. Then he momentarily withdrew the hand, only to rapidly return it, slapping her face so hard her ears rung and her vision blurred. All the while, he forced her open and penetrated her, his unforgiving penis blindly attacking wherever it engaged, tearing and bruising the tender insides of her thighs, the walls of her vagina and her cervix. When she found she couldn’t prevail against his strength, she became inert, lying like limp clay beneath him. Then his furious action increased and he beat her and fucked her all at once. With a clenched fist, he beat her thighs, her upper arms, her belly and, in a spray of milk, her breasts. She sobbed uncontrollably, helplessly and would have screamed if he had not stopped her mouth. When she thought his rage could not heighten in intensity, he came savagely inside her, ripping into her with all of his might. She lay, bruised and sobbing, on the fine cotton sheets. But he was not finished. He tied her wrists, ankles and throat viciously tight to the bed’s feet and stuffed her mouth with one of her exquisite French lace panties. Then he fucked her with a wooden shovel handle that he had carried with him in his case of canes. One end of the handle was wonderfully penis shaped but that was not the end he used. He used the thick, flat end, made to attach to the metal shovel blade. Its sharp edges raked and scored her tender tissues, drawing blood. She writhed in torment, gasping for breath, while the beautiful room’s subtle grace swirled around her. And then, when she felt the blackness roll up around her, he stopped.
She peered into his eyes and saw, for just an instant before she lost the understanding, that he was not trying to make her into something different. Rather, he was viciously stripping away her socialization – all of it, down to her bare, dark, primal and frequently twisted, distorted, hideous and helpless essence. He was making her who she really was. |
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It
was, finally, his mastery of her that allowed the words’ release. She
had needed him to take control no matter the force required to do so
and, when he did, something in her let loose. The words came out covered
with a thick patina of tears. “I realized no one has ever taken care
of me my entire life.” She looked up at him, into a mist through which
comprehension wavered illusively. “Except you. That’s why you made me
jump.”|
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Ward slowly made his way around the room, stopping in front of each kneeling girl, pulling off her hood, lifting her chin so her eyes met his, then replacing the hood. All were different and all were lovely. He could sense the submission in most of them. Ward began to worry he could not choose … until he came to the seventh girl. She was small and feminine with delicate bone structure and beautiful breasts like ripe golden pears, exactly sized to fit in each of his hands. Her skin was flawless. Dark brown curls framed a small, delicate and slightly plain face – perfectly to his taste. Despite his flamboyant property, Gina, he was attracted to women who were more than they appeared. But what made her irresistible to him was her remarkable, unassuming freshness, both intelligent and compliant. “Begging to be broken,” he thought. He turned to the Sheikh. “This one.”
When they were alone in the luxurious cabin, Ward pointed to the rich carpeting at his feet. Natalie came to him, rose to her knees and quickly lowered her eyes. He walked around her. “Hands behind your back.”
Ward awoke to a soft knock on the cabin door and an accented voice, “Master Ward, we will be landing in 30 minutes.” Natalie stirred also but her brown curls didn’t move from over his crotch, nor her mouth from his cock. Actually, she couldn’t easily move. She lay on her side, her wrists and ankles tied tightly together behind her unnaturally arched back. Her small breasts pressed against his waist and her sweet mound was close enough to his nose to smell her sex-enhanced fragrance. She’d been in that position since he’d finished using all of her holes many hours before and he was certain she was in agony. He smiled to himself. “Amazing, the power of a little rope.” He patted her head. “Ready for another drink?” The question was, of course, rhetorical.
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“Excellent
choice. She is French. Her name is Natalie.” The Sheikh snapped his
fingers. “Natalie, follow Master Ward.” He led Ward to his cabin, Natalie
crawling on hands and knees behind them. “Have a good rest.”
He
pulled a small coil of white rope from his pocket and tied her hands
using an elegant corded noose. He continued his path around her, thinking,
examining. “Yes, I think we’ll see how flexible you are. But first,
you’ll be my toilet and then you’ll make me hard. Comprehend?” The girl
unzipped his trousers and took his penis into her mouth. |
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The servants set about positioning the slaves in front of the seated men. They placed two in front of Ayatollah Amani positioned on hands and knees, one facing toward him, the other facing away, their ripe breasts swaying softly beneath them. One of the servants fitted the girl facing the priest with a large ring gag, opening wide her mouth for whatever use might be desired. He inserted the penis shaped, richly coloured purpleheart handle of a short, stiff flogger between the second’s lovely melon shaped bottom cheeks, then stood back and evaluated his work. His face grew intent. He said something in Arabic and then slashed the gagged girl across her belly, a vicious short stroke, with a two tailed leather strap. Ward watched the edge of the angry red welt rise on her side and her body violently shake as she bit back her screams. Instantly, her shoulders jerked to make her back rigorously flat. The servant laid a rectangle of golden cannarywood across the girls’ backs to form a graceful table. Another girl was placed on her back in front of the Sheikh, her arms lifted above her with palms flat and her knees spread and bent with toes pointed toward each other so that palms and lower legs were level. Her fulsome breasts ebbed softly onto her shapely chest and large nipples fanned out above like blushing anemones. Below, her vagina spread, open and pink. Her blond hair flowed around her head onto the patterned rug like a radiant halo. A gleaming piece of scarlet lacewood was set on top of her. Two girls were squatted, one for each, in front of Ward and Reza. Servants locked curved sections of pale zebrawood edged with purpleheart around their waists to form small round tables. Their heavy, hanging breasts partially obstructed the table tops but, Ward thought with amusement, the trade-off was worth it and, he glanced to his side, Reza certainly didn’t mind. Though never touching, Reza was meticulously examining his “table”, probably, Ward suspected, comparing her to his own inventory. Two girls, one blond, one dark, were laid on their sides in front of the boys, mouths and breasts flattened against each other, legs and arms intertwined. The oval of intricately grained orange tiger maple that was laid above them had a hole cut in the centre to provide clear view and easy access to the girls’ most desirable parts. Tea was ceremoniously served. A servant entered carrying a gold samovar and a second with a gold tray set with glasses in ornate gold holders. Each cup was filled, then placed on a “table” with an elaborate flourish. Some discussion, which Reza did not bother translating, ensued before Ayatollah Amani, then the others, drank. Ward looked at the muddled mint floating in the dark liquid then he too took a sip. Very strong, very sweet and very minty. For him, an exclusive consumer of black coffee, barely drinkable – but he would do so. The musicians began to play. The dancers undulated sinuously in front of them. Servants came and went with tea and platters of food. Discussion in Arabic continued. Ward finally nudged Reza
discreetly under a tabletop. Reza whispered, “These are preliminaries.
They’re chatting politely about the religious education of the Sheikh’s
sons at the moment. This will go on for hours, so relax.” Ward sat back
and watched the facial expressions, determined he wouldn’t fall asleep. |
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He had become absorbed in the dancers’ hypnotically rippling breasts. Their massive glands seemed to him the ideal size and consistency for breast suspension – no longer considered impossible but still very rare. A commotion snapped his attention back to the discussions. The Sheikh’s table was quivering and twitching. The Sheikh sat calmly watching, faint amusement not quite hiding on his lips, while several servants raced forward to catch the sliding glass and bone china and attend to the recalcitrant table. A favourite saying popped into Ward’s mind. “It’s always the things that look the easiest that are the worst.” Ward was surprised she’d survived the unrelenting stress on her arms for this long. He watched a servant haul her up by the hair and drag her to a magnificently carved and polished wooden frame brought in for the purpose. It really wasn’t fair to punish her for her unavoidable fatigue. Ward’s smile was gentle … and so sadistic. But then life wasn’t fair.
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Six
giant servants entered and lifted the food laden marble table to the
room’s side. They withdrew, then some minutes later, returned carrying
various many-hued wooden objects and driving a herd of slaves between
them like a flock of lambs. Instead of hoods, silk scarves, multi-coloured
to match the wood, were tied tightly over the girls’ eyes. The ends
of the scarves flowed over their long hair, the rich colours billowing
slightly with the girls’ movements.
Following
came six musicians and two dancers, all in traditional garb. The musicians
carried three stringed instrument, the small lute-like uq, a long-necked
buzuq and a qanam table harp, single and double wind instruments and
the small drum tablah. The dancers were beautiful, dark and voluptuous
with enormous soft bare breasts. They wore gold headdresses with rows
of gold and garnet beads swinging over their eyes and longer strands
draped over their hair. Crimson scarves sewn with pounds of gold coins
were wrapped tightly around rounded hips. One dancer carried a tambourine,
called a daff, and the second held finger cymbals on her long tapered
fingers. They settled themselves opposite the marble table. 
Two
of the giant servants returned, one to her front, one her back. The
music became lively, louder, not to cover her screams – the observers
enjoyed those – but in energetic accompaniment to her savage whipping.
They used short single tailed whips, endlessly striking until her body
was covered with red, oozing gashes and she sagged in the shackles.
Then they took her down and again dragged her by the hair, this time
from the room. The table base was replaced and discussion resumed.|
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The doctor used an ocular reader in front of the last door in the hallway and ushered the men through. “These girls are 24 to 48 hours away from producing milk so we apply extreme measures. I’d let you examine them but, at this point, their handling must be precise.” Dr. Roland gave a hearty and solitary laugh. “We can’t have any orgasms now, can we?”
Most girls lay on their
backs with knees bent. Only arms and ankles were restrained using metal
clamps. “We allow the girls’ bodies to move in any way needed. |
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The tech leaned close. “Don’t worry, dear. In a few days you’ll have as many orgasms as you want.” |
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Ward’s
cock was hard the minute he surveyed the scene. The room was filled
with writhing girls, their voluptuous bodies twisting and turning uncontrollably
in the throes of unsatisfied arousal.
The
bent knees allow increased arousal by tilting the pelvis,” Dr. Roland
explained. Long suction cups bobbed on distended nipples. Between their
legs, the doctor’s probes penetrated and retracted. Techs sat beside
each girl applying small hand held vibrators to their clitorises with
eyes fixed on the monitor screens. They repeatedly brought the girls
almost to orgasm then backed them off.
Several
girls were on hands and knees, suction tubes hanging toward the tabletops
from swinging breasts. “These girls are more aroused by anal stimulation.”
He spread one girl’s anus. “Please note that in this position, the larger
side of the probe penetrates the anus rather than the vagina.”
Suddenly
one girl screamed shrilly – in frustration not climax. A few drops of
milk appeared in the suction tubes. “Very good!” Dr. Roland was enthusiastic.
| You can find Frances G. Bennett,'s entire Milk Bitch series, including "Milk Bitch Lost" at Pink Flamingo. |  |
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