Message-ID: <59355asstr$1252300204@assm.asstr.org>
From: Foxbat <foxbat00@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Snippets 1 by Foxbat (MF NC Bondage, preg)
Lines: 196
Date: Mon, 07 Sep 2009 01:10:04 -0400
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Snippets 1 by Foxbat  (MF NC Bondage, preg)

Disclaimer: This story contains graphic sex should not be
read if such stories are illegal in your state, or if you are a minor.

Please feel free to distribute this, on the condition that the
disclaimer and author's name remain intact and unaltered.

For previous parts, or other stories of mine, please check out
http://assm.asstr.org.

You can search by title or author, or just browse.  Happy reading.

Thanks to ASSTR, I also have a website at
/~foxbat/ where you can find all of my work.  This
is also available via ftp at ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/foxbat/


Feedback, comments, suggestions, etc are always welcomed and
appreciated at foxbat00@gmail.com





Snippets 1 by Foxbat  (MF NC Bondage, preg)




   I lost my virginity bent over in a mens room stall.  He didn't even
bother to take my panties off; he just pulled them down over my ass, leaving
them to hobble me at mid thigh while he roughly forced himself into me,
grunting.  Ten, maybe fifteen strokes.  That was all.  At first, I was
grateful to be looking at the toilet bowl so he couldn't see my face - my
eyes screwed shut, my lip tremoring, my complexion red more from shame than
pain, although the pain was not inconsiderable.  Later though, I would wish
that he had been looking at that face, instead of my reflection in the
toilet water.

   The asymmetry of it was the worst part.  I have spent thousands of hours,
reliving every moment, dissecting the experience and trying to divine
meaning from it.  I saw him from time to time in the two years after the
incident, and, although we never spoke, his eyes always lingered a moment
before recognition set in, and then moved on.  He had already done me, and
thus I did not merit further inspection.  I don't think he ever thought more
about it than that.

   Afterwards, I lay on the cold tile floor, curled into the fetal position,
and cried.



***


   I called her my "dog-cow."  She had once denounced me, told me that I was
nothing more than an animal, that I was inhuman.  Maybe I  was, maybe I
wasn't yet; it's irrelevant.  I decided then that I would be revenged, that
I would inflict the worst punishment I possibly could upon her.

   I robbed her of everything that made her human.  Her legs had been
amputated just below the knee, and her arms just below the elbow, so she
crawled along the door like a dog.  Weights hanging from her earlobes for
years had elongated them, enhancing, along with a large ring through the
septum of her nose, the bovine appearance of her face.  Her teeth had been
removed, leaving only soft gums that processed a diet of cock and mush.  Her
large and beautiful breasts had been surgically relocated, moved down to
below her navel, where they now hung, almost grazing the ground.

   But the worst thing I did - the part that makes me proud - required more
than body modification.  I fucked her almost daily.  And I required every
male on my staff to fuck her at least once a month, without protection.  She
was now almost 8 months pregnant, her large belly also almost grazing the
floor as she doggy-walked towards me.  Her huge breasts, ripe with milk and
purple-tinged from the veins which stood out now, hung low as well, looking
like udders on this cow.  Soon, she will be so pregnant that I will have to
switch to using her asshole for my pleasure.

   When the time comes, she will give birth alone, unassisted.  She will
lick clean her calf, and it will nurse as she would in a state of nature.
 For a month, they will live together, and then I will sell the child, and
she will begin breeding again.  The cycle will repeat.

   Her mind has been destroyed so many times over, by the punishments, the
surgeries, her total dependency, the hormones that come from being
constantly pregnant.  She never knows what happens to the children, she
never knows which of the many men she services was the father.

   People always recoil when they see it; there is a bestial shame in
fucking it, or letting it suck your cock with its warm toothless mouth.
 Perhaps I have gone too far, for I don't think she has any self-awareness
left, no understanding of what has happened to her or why, that I have
reduced her to she once called me, that despite being continually engaged in
the most human of activities, she is human no longer.

***

   The colors and sounds stand stark in the cold crisp morning air.  The
crack.  The black leather of the whip wrapping around the milk white skin of
the dangling breast, embracing it in slow motion.  The cry of pain, the welt
on the white, both red.

   I moved slowly around, considering the next strike.  Her wrists were
winched up behind her back, forcing her chest forwards, enabling my whip to
lick the delicate, now bruised fruit that now hung enticingly.

   I stretched my shoulder before launching the whip again.  The black
leather again landed against the white skin, leaving another angry red line
across the other breast.  Steam accompanied her scream into the cold air.
 Her nipples stood out, inviting me to aim at them.

***

   There is a moment, just an instance, when you penetrate a woman, of
truth.  You know exactly how big your penis is.  Exactly.

   I call look I see in that moment the "big penis look."  I'm no elephant,
but every single time I see a confirmation, as if for the first time, of the
fact that my penis is, in fact, big.

   It's hard to explain exactly what to look for - the widened eyes, the
sudden intake of breath (as if air pulled in will somehow halt or slow the
progress of the invader), and the way the mouth forms an O of surprise
spiced by the tension between discomfort and pleasure.

***

Maybe it was because it was easier to say yes than no.  Maybe I just didn't
see what was wrong with it.  Either way, I was what guys referred to as "an
easy lay."  I was the class slut, the village bicycle.  I was the girl that
other girls hated for breaking rank and whetting the appetite of boys by
letting them sample the forbidden fruit.  I was "she" in "but she used to
let me do that."


***


   I stood alone in the room, feeling very pregnant and very vulnerable.
 The cold white tile floor sapped all the warmth from my body, leaving my
nipples erect and my breasts achy.  The room was small and very sterile
feeling, except for the large (obviously one-way) mirror across one wall.  I
was unrestrained, except for a steel pole which rose from its mounting point
on the floor to a tapered point uncomfortable deep inside my vagina.
 Standing on my tiptoes lessened the uncomfortable pressure, but left
several inches of steel inside me.

   My vagina was moist by training.  I shifted again, trying to find a
comfortable position which did not exist, and thought about the buyers on
the other side of the mirror.

***

   When I guy first sees a girl, his instinctual reaction is usually to
picture himself and her performing some sex act.  It's not an elaborate act
of imagination, but rather a sort of instantaneous compositing of a mental
picture - her lips wrapped around his cock, her bent over with skirt hiked
up, her naked breasts bouncing as they fuck - that kind of thing.

   I'm no different.  But sometimes I picture different things.  I see a
cute blond girl and I see my hand closing around her neck as her eyes go
wide and her face reddens.  I picture my cock forcing its way into her
throat as she gags.  I see my whip painting delicate red lines across her
breasts as her arms are winched up behind her.  I imagine feeling the moist
folds of her pussy and see her eyes averted in embarrassment as I let heavy
slaps land across her face.


***


   Her posture was that of a woman in her upper thirties, leaning against
the bar and resting her arm on it, a lit cigarette limply dangling from her
hand.  She dressed all in black with gold hoop earings.  Her eyes wandered
around the smoke filled bar, bored and searching for someone foolish enough
to try to entertain her.  She had an air of urbane languer, a muted cynicism
of worldliness, a woman still very much aware of her attractiveness but with
the prickly and world-weary attitude that comes from years of fending off
urbane men.

   She wore makeup, smokey around the eyes with rouge on the cheeks, not to
hide the wrinkles though.  To hide the youth.  Her body, despite its
practiced bar pose, was undeniably small and neither the black outfit nor
the smoke could fully obscure her lithe form.
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