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Tales 12

Tales 11

Tales Vol.9

Deep Waters

Tales NHSP 8

Challenge of Love

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Coming of Age

In The Dark II

Breanne's Three - Chicago BDSM

The Society of the Golden Rose

The Silver Locke

Michael Alexander Stories

Writhing In Orgasmic Agony

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Part One

I’m Charlie

I don’t know why they let me have paper and pencil.  To be honest, I doubt anyone will ever read this.  It’s not like they will want the truth to get out and cause our entire culture’s foundations to be burnt to the ground.  But regardless of whether someone reads this, if you are reading this, there are some things that must be said.  If I am the one to say them, then so be it.

My name is Charlotte, but everyone I’ve ever cared about calls me Charlie.  When I was younger, it bothered me a little because it was a boy’s name, but as I grew up, playing with my sisters and the boys from down the street, it became something more personal.  The nickname stuck and it grew on me. 

            Like everyone else in this fucked up world, I was brainwashed into believing the whole spiel: hook, line, and sinker.  Despite the contradictions that smack us all in the face practically every day, even from an early age I thought that life meant a pleasant childhood, sexual maturity and appeasement, and then finally either getting married and pregnant, or if I were lucky, being selected to provide the cannibalistic feasts and death spectacles our society has come to love. 

            Now it seems a perversion and quite wrong, but my perspective has changed quite a bit.  When I was fourteen I watched in jealousy as my older sister Wendy was chosen at random to be a meat girl at one of the company picnics hosted by our father’s company .  Of course, even then we all knew that the ultimate way to go, the way we were taught to long for, was being spitted, followed by a live roasting over low heat.  We had seen it so many times; the lovely naked girl, tied hand and foot, a long and thick, steel metal spit, forced upward through her pussy, all the way through, carefully threaded to avoid doing too much damage until it was forced up through her throat and out her mouth.  The end was hollow too, complete with drilled holes to allow breathing.  Then the girl would be basted in sauces and set over the glowing goals to fuck herself stupid for hours, wriggling her little hips, orgasming over and over until finally, the heat cooked the life out of her.

            What the hell were we thinking?

            Wendy wasn’t selected for roasting though.  Her death wasn’t anywhere near as sexually exciting, but I suppose it was quick.  She was laid out on the butcher block table while we watched.  The butcher fucked her, his drug enhanced cock pumping in and out, until she screamed out in orgasm.  The flash of the knife opened her throat from ear to ear and her cry was lost in a bloody gurgle.  Her eyes flashed with some unknown emotion and then her head fell to the side.  Stupidly I clapped, hopping up and down in excitement, those dead blue eyes staring at me, hoping one day, I’d be just like Wendy.

            I have nightmares about it now.

            Not all girls are killed though, not like that.  There is a grading process you see, and it’s not just the simple A, B, and C’s you’re familiar with at those company picnics, festivals, and the occasional butcher shop run through your neighborhood.  Oh no.  You see they start grading females at a much younger age, unofficially.  As we grow the powers that be know who is worth barbecuing, who is worth being bred, and who isn’t worth either of those things.

            I’m in the third group.  The perfect B, with bland mousy brown hair, boring hazel eyes, a bust no bigger than a decent sized apple, and just a tad bit too lean to be curvy at the hips.  In other words, not good enough to be bred, much less spend a few hours writhing in orgasmic agony on a spit.  And certainly not so bad that I needed to be chopped up instantly for dog food.

            In order to be married off and bred, you have to be Grade A girl at the very least.  If you are double or triple A, it’s almost a sure thing.  Oh, you’re still going to get snuffed at some point, just like everyone else, but that day is much father down the road.  You get to be a baby machine for a while first.  If you’re lucky, you’ll marry a man who hasn’t been through the Y chromosome inhibiter treatment and have a son.  You’ll never have to see him die.  But if not, then it will be girl after girl, almost one a year, raising them for the slaughter. 

            I know.  It’s hard for you to hear this, isn’t it?  But it’s sick… our fascination with this unholy feast.  We’re eating our loved ones!  What’s wrong with us?

            Grade B and Grade C girls are never chosen for breeding, and their dreams of writhing orgasmically on a pole never come to fruition either.  They are stock, butchered with little to no sexual preparation, never experiencing the Big O.  I’ve seen that too, a line of women, one by one led to a guillotine, or electrified.  I watched the news one night and saw a factory where the bound girls were led in to stand on a giant copper plate.  A technician walked down the line attaching a wire capped with a wicked looking copper clamp, complete with teeth, to the right nipple of each girl.  Some of them bled, not that it mattered. Then he stepped off the plate, pulled a switch, the lights dimmed, there was a little wisp of smoke, and then the camera panned down the line of dead girls.

            But now I know one thing for certain.  Those girls had it easy.

            Sure, I longed for a public execution; the spit, maybe a hanging, maybe even a decent screw before having my throat slit.  But being as average as I am, not even as remarkable as my older sister or mother, I was destined for something worse than a quick death or a public one.  No one would feast upon me, enjoying my delicate body.  When my turn came to be sold, disqualified from the breeding program and not nearly special enough for a feast, I expected to be in line for a quick beheading.  Instead I found myself shoved naked into a tiny travel box and shipped half way across the country, away from my family, my friends, everything I had ever known, all for a purpose they never told us about, never mentioned, never wanted you to know.

            I’m experiment fodder, a testing animal, and the things they do to us, the cruelties we endure…

            When I first arrived I was sprayed down with some sort of antiseptic, a cold spray that had me squealing.  Two white clad attendants hung me by the cuffs on my wrists to a sort of conveyor belt.  I still had no idea where I was, or what was about to happen to me.  I expected at any moment to meet my end and that sort of fatalism makes it difficult to resist or even care about what is happening.  They sprayed every inch of me, front to back, even lifting each foot, spreading my toes, and getting the nooks and cranies.  I squealed only when one grabbed my foot, tugging my legs apart to spray the thin and runny whitish water over my clit and vagina.  The other attendant grabbed a brush, a thick long handled bristle pad and began scrubbing me.  I winced as it excoriated my back, my buttocks, and then down my legs.  Neither my breasts nor my stomach was spared either, and when finally the brush rubbed violently at my crotch, I cried out, twisting in the entry like a strung up pig on a meat hook.

            I thought I was destined for the freezer, right after visiting the butcher, but to my surprise the conveyor moved me into the facility and moments later a blast of hot air sluiced the remnants of the anti-bacterial fluid from me, warming me nicely.  As I groaned, I moved onward, unwillingly following the track as I tried to keep pace.  Frequently I tripped, letting the machine drag me forward, toes sliding on the slick walkway beneath.  Minutes later it stopped and another attendant, this one dressed in slacks and a long white lab coat, took me off the conveyor and led me to a single door.  My wrists were released and as the door opened, I was pushed into the room.

            I blinked in astonishment.  The room was huge, easily the size of the gym at my old high school and it was relatively warm – easily in the lower eighties.  One wall held a row of open toilets and showers, not a single door to provide a smidgen of privacy.  After all, we’re just meat, aren’t we?  Half the open floor was covered with sleeping mats, some placed alone, some grouped together.  I stumbled in, ignored by the forty or fifty something girls who sat around, or sleeping, talking, playing, or making love. 

            Like most girls my age, I’d been having sex since I started menstruating.  In my case, that happened around eleven years old.  Most of the males in my family had used me at some point, though in hindsight I have to admit that they were all pretty gentle about it.  I remember poor Rebecca Jarrel from down the street who had been tied spread-eagled in the front yard next to a sign that said “Two Fucks for Ten Bucks.”  Granted, I had been kind of envious when that boy Rick on the high school wrestling team came and screwed her brains out, but still… she was out there all day!

            But I had never had sex with another woman.  I know, it seems odd.  I know a lot of girls did it with their moms or sisters, but never me.  In hindsight, I don’t know why I my family didn’t move along those lines.  Perhaps we were too busy.  Perhaps mom didn’t want us too and dad agreed.  It was there in the waiting pen that I first fell into another woman’s arms, tasting the soft sweetness that I had thought only men could feel.  It was a heady sensation and as I adjusted to my new life, the social cliques within the holding pen, I was passed around the group that took me in like a favored sex toy.

            That first day was still a shock for me.  I didn’t know where to sleep, when we would be fed, anything.  Heck, I was still embarrassed to use the toilet facilities, trying to cover myself as I sat on the toilet.  Sometime after my first hour a bell rang and to my surprise every woman in the room got up, some after being woken by friends, and assembled into a single line to follow a glowing red stripe that had appeared on the floor.  Since no one told me what to do, my herd instincts inspired me to join the assembly and I took a place next to one girl who looked to be about nineteen, far older than most of us. 

            The metal sliding door of the room opened and four men, all in their mid-thirties or so, waltzed in carrying clipboards and dressed in white lab coats.  They started down the line, examining faces, reaching out to touch a bare breast, or pinch a nipple.  Several times they actually touched one of us between the legs.  I blinked when they pulled one girl out of the line and set her apart.  Another girl joined her, and then another, and I noticed that all of them had much larger breasts than me.  One of the men came down the row and then it was my turn.  He fondled me and I sucked in a breath, immediately feeling the rush of sexual preparation between my legs.  His fingers tightened on my nipple and I felt my heart beat faster.  Then he touched my clit, slipping a finger downward through my folds.

            And then he moved away.  He fondled the girl next to me, who moaned loudly, thrusting her hips lewdly to attract him, but he moved on down the line.  Four girls farther down, he selected one of our peers and then took her back down to the door and the selected women.  They marched out of the room and then another bell sounded and our line splintered.

            “Damn!  Damn it!  Again!” the girl next to me muttered.  She turned and I reached out and touched her elbow.

            “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m new.  What was that all about?” I asked.  I hadn’t been informed of where I was.  I was still expecting to be taken to a butchering room and quickly transformed into various cuts of wholesale meat.

The nineteen year old waved her hand in a disgusted fashion, though it was clear that she wasn’t upset with me or my question.  “That was the choosing line.  Whenever the scientists need a new guinea pig, we get lined up and they come and choose the ones they want,” she growled.

            “Scientists?  But I thought I was going to be slaughtered for…” I said but was interrupted quickly.

            “For meat?” she asked with a laugh.  “No, that would have been decent.  That would have been acceptable.”  Her eyes flashed with smoldering anger.  “You see, meat girls get to die, most quickly.  For us… it takes a long long time.”  Then she stalked away.

            I ended up bawling in a corner.  It was just too much.  Medical experiments?  Psychological ones?  I had never even HEARD of such things!  It just wasn’t right!  I remember reading about the protests two hundred years before where people had protested animals being subjected to cruel and inhumane tests.  Now we were doing it to PEOPLE?

            But wait, I’m not a person, am I.  I’m just a girl, a girl bred for slaughter, aren’t I?  Who cares what happens to me?  It was my destiny to be put down.  It’s all our destinies.  It’s what we’re here for, right?  To be spitted, choked, hung, gutted, boiled, grilled?  I saw a girl grilled once.  They had to stretch her taut between two poles, face down, hands and feet tied so she couldn’t move.  Then they lowered her down onto the barbecue.  Smoke had immediately curled up from her skin as she screamed, thrashing.  She had died within minutes, in unbearable agony.  And my wide little eyes accepted it because I knew she had just spent the last four hours on a clitoral and vaginal massager, in one unending series of orgasms as she was “tenderized”.  And she was so succulent.

            Well I care.

            It was that same nineteen year old girl who finally came to me in the corner, pulling me to my feet and holding me as I cried into her shoulder.  Her name was Sherri and if I considered myself average in looks and shape, she was even plainer than me.  Her brunette hair was lackluster, straight, and cut exactly the same length as everyone else in the room.  Her skin was neither dark nor light, with a few moles, but nothing intriguing.  Her smile wasn’t beautiful, nor were her eyes special.  In fact, what made Sherri so amazing was something those scientists would never see on their quick walk through of the line.

            It was her heart.  She was the most sweet, wonderful, amazing woman I had ever met.  She helped me that day, our naked bodies touching frequently as she helped me claim a sleeping pad and move it near her very own.  There were no “possessions”, no blankets, no books to read, or paper to write with.  There wasn’t even a television.  Why provide mental stimulation to lab rats? 

            Sherri showed me the ropes of survival.  For the most part, the women in the holding tank were sweet and kind, but there were a few who preyed upon the younger, weak and frightened.  Food was sometimes taken.  Fighting occasionally broke out.  But Sherri stayed with me, protecting me, guiding me, holding my hand, introducing me to her friends.

            Three or four times a day that bell would ring and we would move forward to the glowing red stripe.  Sherri had explained that she had been in the holding tank for almost eleven months, overlooked and never chosen.

            “Surely that’s a good thing?” I asked.

            Sherri had glared at me.  “A good thing?  This is limbo!  I want out!” she demanded.

            Like her, I was overlooked time and time again, though unlike Sherri I was frequently fondled by the scientists.  A couple of times it looked like I’d be chosen; only to have my hopes dashed as another girl was selected.  Sherri had told me that eventually it would happen, that one of us would be taken away.  I cried at the thought, wanting us to be taken together.  The idea of facing the future alone was difficult.

            It had been that first night when Sherri had touched me with desire.  Her fingers ran down my side as we slept spooning, her fingers exploring.  At first it was nothing more than a caress, a merciful softness that lent a little pleasure into my topsy-turvy world.  But when her fingers had grazed my nipple, I felt that same reaction I had when my grandfather or my uncle, or even one of my father’s friends, had suckled my tender breast.  I felt the wetness between my legs and the tiny moan I let out in the darkness was all the permission Sherri needed.  We made sweet soft wet love that night, our bodies curling around each other as our soft moans matched the sounds of other couples finding solace and release in each other.

            We live in a sexualized society. I hope you realize that.  Women are nothing more than sexual objects and worse, ones with little value outside a meat locker.  To me, that no longer seems right.  Aren’t we just as smart as the men?  Can we not paint, write, draw, invent, explore, or dream?  Why are we the ones who are bred to endure the roasting pits or the noose?  Does it seem right that we are snuffed early, physically perfect, without being allowed to achieve emotional or mental perfection?  Are we not a wasted resource?  School taught us that humans once ate animals, like “cows”.  I know there aren’t any more, but still… is it right for us to eat people?

            I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you.  No doubt you’re sitting there, eating a cunt steak or a juicy breast burger.  I’ve done that too, relishing the simmering goodness.  I especially like it with mashed potatoes.  But now, it’s just…  well, I think too much.

            Sherri and I became best friends and time passed.  We told each other our stories, our pasts, our likes and dislikes.  We interacted with other couples, gathering in groups to tell tales and poems and share our dreams.  We became the entertainment for each other, using our imaginations to stimulate the minds of those around us.  Sherri was both held in awe and contempt by the other girls in the room.  As the one who had been there the longest, the others thought she was either imperfect, or doing something right.  It didn’t matter to me.  All I knew was that when the lights went down I’d be in her arms, our tongues and fingers exploring each other in sweet bliss until release took us into the depths of slumber.

            Months passed and still I was overlooked, just as Sherri had been. We never saw any of those girls who were chosen back again and I think all of us suspected that most, if not all, of the tests conducted were lethal in one way or another.  Or perhaps girls who finished were merely sent on for processing at some meat factory.  Regardless, new girls arrived daily to keep our number at about fifty.  The turnover was horrific.  Each day somewhere between eight and as many as fifteen girls were taken.  Sherri ended up forming a group to welcome new girls and get them set up with mats and a mentor to explain things.  That helped with some of the more argumentative or bullying girls.

            Me? I was in love; real honest to goodness love.  Sherri was amazing and I walked in her shadow, which to me felt like light it self.  We were inseparable and I readily agreed with her every wish.  Even when she asked me to make love to her during the day, something rarely done and frowned upon by the other women, I did as she asked, spreading myself open for her questing tongue and fingers.  In the end, we started the orgies that spread through the room like wildfire, ending the prohibition on sexual activity in daylight. 

            We arranged competitions, to see who could orgasm first, or squirt the farthest.  It’s amazing what minds deprived of mental stimulation will come up with.  We allowed willing women to experience multiple lovers at a single time, and I remember myself being held down spread-eagled, a willing victim as Sherri and four other women touched me, caressed me, licked me, and made me cum.

            And still, time after time we were passed over, like unwelcome fruits in the refrigerator.  Sherri began muttering about her “sell by date” and wondered if she’d just be killed and thrown out with the garbage, unusable.  I held her then, telling her how much I loved her, how much I wanted her, how much I needed her.

            We were in the middle of another orgy when the bell rang and as usual, we all stopped and rose, moving to the line.  My thighs were slick and my breathing hard as Sherri stepped up next to me.  Her own lips were covered in my juices and we held hands as the far door opened and two scientists stepped into the room.  As usual they held clipboards in their hands, but unlike other selection processes, they didn’t bother feeling up the girls, or finger fucking us.  They moved down the line quickly, scanning faces, eyes frequently going back to their paperwork.  Halfway down the line, I watched as one of the scientists smiled and pulled not just one, but two girls out of the line.

            I recognized them.  It was one of the other couples, two girls named Ilsa and Becky who had become regular friends with Sherri and me.  As I groaned at the thought of never seeing them again the other scientist continued down through the ranks of naked girls and then stopped, right in front of me.

            “Here they are!” he called out.  He tapped Sherri and me on the shoulder and shocked, but obedient, we stepped forward and moved down the line.  I couldn’t believe it!  We had finally been selected!  And together!  My heart leapt for joy and I couldn’t believe how wonderful this was.  I held Sherri’s hand tightly, our matching grins almost not enough to express our elation.  We joined Ilsa and Becky and we all hugged each other, almost dancing in delight.

            We were the only two couples selected and I turned to look back at the other girls of the holding tank.  I saw shock, depression, sorry, pity, and even anger on some of the faces.  What would they do with out Sherri and me?  Who would be the new leader?  Would things go back to the way they were before?  I put those thoughts out of my head as we were led from the room out through the door.

            It had been months since I had been in this hall and I was amazed to find several burly men dressed in security uniforms standing right in front of us.  Large metal wrist binders were brought out and I found myself holding out my hands, only to be cuffed tightly. 

            “Raise your arms above your head,” ordered one of the men and I did so, only to gasp as I felt a sudden pull.  I looked up.  The binders were glowing with a light electric blue along one side and I tried to pull myself down.  I ended up dangling from them.  I leaned over and then looked at Sherri’s cuffs.  Nothing was holding them to the ceiling!  I wiggled a moment before realizing that some sort of magnetic field was doing the deed.  I grinned, pleased that I had remembered enough schoolyard physics to realize it was magnetism.

            “Magnets,” I said knowingly to Sherri, with just a bit of pride.  She looked at me in confusion, clearly having no concept of what I was talking about. I wilted a little, but then Ilsa, who was in the lead, was ordered to march and we all started walking down the hall, our bare feet slapping rhythmically on the floor.

            There was a distinct medicine like odor to the building.  The floor was immaculately scrubbed tile, perfectly white, while the walls were an off gray.  Glowing lines of various colors seemed to appear at random in the flooring, branching off in what was obviously some sort of directional map for others to follow.  I couldn’t even tell which one was ours and I realized that Ilsa was merely going where her magnetic restraints allowed her forward movement.

            It was a twenty minute march to our new quarters.  The heavy metallic door slid open as one of the security officers slid an access card through the reader.  A tiny beep sounded and then we were allowed to enter.  The magnetic line stopped, though it didn’t release us, and we were herded into the laboratory to stand breast to shoulder blade while the two scientists came in behind us.

            “Rick, let’s get them in their cages,” called out one of the scientists.  Later I was to learn his name was Dr. Madison, a great thinker and a specialist in sexual psychiatric medicine.  His thinning hair and thick glasses made him look “nerdy”, but I have to admit, he was a sweet and decent lover.  Both Dr. Madison and Dr. Berk frequently took us, as did Rick and Henry, the two lab assistants.  Rick was a sandy blond haired man in his early twenties and he worked with a deft confidence as he walked up to Ilsa and tapped her cuffs.  The blue line went dark and her hands dropped like lead weights.

            Moments later she was led to an open wire door and stuck inside.  Rick closed the door with a smile and then returned for Becky. 

            “No, no Rick.  That one needs to be in the first cage with the other girl,” Dr. Berk said, pointing at Becky.  My heart leapt.  If Becky and Ilsa were allowed to remain with each other, did it mean that Sherri and I would share a cage as well?  Rick nodded and Becky quickly went to Ilsa’s arms after she was placed in the same cell.  Then it was my turn and I caught the heavy cuffs as the magnets were released.  Rick freed me and I gave him a warm smile that caught him off guard.  He escorted me to the second cage, the wire metal door opened, as I managed to brush his cock with my fingers.  His eyes widened and he reached out and deftly squeezed my breast.  Then the door closed and I was able to survey my surroundings.

            The room wasn’t very big, a simple ten feet long by five feet wide.  A thick rolled up sleeping mat lay along one wall, while a plastic chair and a small inset plastic formed desk stood near the cell door.  At the back was a small toilet and sink, but no shower.  Evidently we would be cleaned outside the cells.  The light in the cell came from a single overhead bulb embedded behind thick plastic and the dull beige paint begged for decoration.

            I turned as the wire door opened again and then Sherri fell into my arms, a beaming smile on her face.  We kissed passionately and then we were locked in.  Rick moved away and both Sherri and I moved to the wire frame door and did a better job surveying the lab.

            There wasn’t much to see.  Several large cubical type office separators were set up along one side of the lab, making it impossible to see what was on the other side.  Several desks, one messy and one impeccably neat, stood side by side and it wasn’t long before Dr. Berk and Dr. Madison took their places.  Berk was the neat one.  Madison was a slob. 
Nothing happened that first day.  Madison and Berk worked quietly at their desks while Rick and then later Henry, played a card game on their computer in the corner.  Finally Berk stood up, went to Ilsa and Becky’s cage, and pulled Becky out.  We all huddled at the wire doors, watching as he led Becky behind the carpeted dividers.  To be honest, I expected screams, but in short order we heard the huffing gasps of sexual intercourse and I realized that Berk had merely selected one of us to get his rocks off.  Twenty minutes later Becky was led back to her cell, a satisfied look on her face, which really surprised me.  Berk said goodnight to Madison and left.

            Madison selected me and I swallowed hard and glanced at Sherri before stepping out of the cell.  Rick had gone home, but Henry had relieved him.  Dr. Madison led me behind the partitions and I found myself in a rather surprising area.  A soft red rug lined the floor, taking away some of the undue “hospital” like aesthetics of the place.  An actual bed, a real queen sized bed, sat in the center of the rug.  A side table, with an assortment of sex toys stood nearby.  Madison propelled me forward without a word and I sat down on the bed.

            Right now I struggle with a word to describe what Madison did to me.  He was gentle of course, since abusing me would have served no purpose, especially with the future in mind.  And to be honest, I was a willing participant.  I hadn’t had cock in me in ages and the idea of even Dr. Madison’s prick inside me was enough to lubricate me thoroughly.  But I can’t help wondering if I would have chosen to have sex with him had my circumstances been different.  I was already psychologically damaged, already being manipulated, and I had been trained since practically birth to accept the carnal attentions of any man, regardless of where or who he was.

            Part of me wants to call it rape.  Part of me says ravishment.  And still part of me calls it desirable.  Madison wasn’t concerned for my own pleasure, or needs, or desires. I was a receptacle, a toy, a living fuck doll to use as he pleased, provided his use didn’t conflict with his experiment.  So I laid there, legs spread while he mounted me, his thin and small cock wriggling its way into my body.  His hands found my breasts, squeezing them and fondling them.  Before I had a chance to bring myself to orgasm, he had exploded, filling me with white cream.  Then, dazed and desperate, I was led back to my cell, only to stumble in to Sherri’s arms. 

 

Read Part Two

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