This is very boob-oriented, and includes some very old body-modification ideas I slightly touched upon in my Angela's Last Resort series some months back. I'm still a long way from finishing this story, but I've managed to write out a few scenes like this one, so I might post some more excerpts in the future. If there is interest, anyway.
As always, the story is after the break. I'll keep this tale posted until I finish and publish the main story. Until then, please enjoy this sneak peek into my dark, little mind.... :-)
- Tabitha Kohls
PS. And don't forget to check out last week's free story. It'll be gone when I post the next part later this week. Have a happy holiday! :-)
by Tabitha Kohls
* * * * *
Melons waited patiently. She had little choice, after all.
She was staring, as always, out from her perch on the wall. She had only the vaguest idea of what had been done to her, but was quite sure where she was.
She was on a wall, sticking out into the small room beyond. It was an old-fashioned smoking room, of the sort she'd only seen in period movies, or read about in the occasional old book. Not that Melons had ever been much into reading, or watching old movies for that matter.
Though, to be accurate, she wasn't sticking out of the wall; her tits were. Just her breasts, sticking out of some sort of wooden plate, like a trophy on the wall. That was all she was to him now, she knew. Just a trophy.
Once upon a time, she had been more than that to him. She'd been a woman back then, however long ago that was. Time was so very hard to keep track of anymore. At least two or three years, she was sure.
Back then, Melons hadn't been Melons, she'd been a young woman named Rebecca, but it was best not to think about that too much. She might be punished, if she forgot her new, true name. She didn't want that to happen. Not again, at least.
Back when Melons wasn't Melons, she had met the man, the man who had changed her, taken her life from her, turned her into... well, Melons. He had been rich, and to her jaded, calculating eyes, more than a little naive. She saw the way he stared at the beautiful women at the club, how he liked to flash his cash around, attracting the attention on young women like herself. He had seemed like a perfect mark, back then. Back before...
Melons pushed her mind back on track, not daring to dwell on the past too strongly. That way lay madness, she was sure. And every day, every second, was a battle to remain sane. She had to remain sane.
Melons stared out into the room, wishing she could blink. She couldn't remember the last time she'd blinked. Years ago, at least. She had no idea why she didn't blink anymore; perhaps the man had removed her eyelids?!
She pushed the thought out of her mind; that way lay madness too, and panic.
"I am just a pair of tits; I exist to give men erections; I am Melons; I love to be stared at, to be fondled; I have no purpose but to give men pleasure; I am Melons; I exist to be groped; I am just a pair of funbags; I love to squeezed; I am Melons; I am just a bouncy pair of jugs; I exist...."
The voice in her ear was unending, playing even when she slept, rare as that was now that she couldn't blink. Melons listened to the mind-numbing mantra. For the millionth time, she wondered why it sounded like her own voice, from back before she was Melons. She hadn't really said all that, had she?
She thought back, running through her memories of her change. She'd been drugged, she recalled; that was probably why her memory was so disjointed.
Melons remembered the look on the man's face, when he confronted her in his office. When he showed her the report from his private investigator. She must have missed something, must have somehow acted a little too desperate in her seductions, must have somehow tipped him off. She could still see the report, and the background check beside it. Yes, she must have done something wrong, something suspicious.
Or maybe he had planned it all from the beginning? Melons thought, recalling how the man had flashed his cash, how he had made a show of hitting on all the young women in the club. Had that all been an act, just as her seduction had been.
It was troubling thought, and for all she knew, a new one too.
Or perhaps she had had the thought before, and had just forgotten. Melons felt so confused nowadays, since the change. Since she became his trophy. Hanging on his wall.
Melons focused her mind, as best she could, and stared out at the half-dark room before her. Her vision of the world was forever limited; she imagined that she wasn't really seeing the world at all, but was actually staring at a screen set before her eyes, watching the view from a small camera.
The camera must have been set just between her jutting breasts, because her view of the room was limited to a narrow field between her own massive breasts.
She suspected the camera had a fisheye lens too, one that gave her a severe case of myopia, because the room was mostly a blur of random shapes, never changing. Something that she guessed was a bookcase sat on the wall opposite her, with strange blobs sitting atop it.
She had a slightly more clear view of a coffee table set about halfway across the floor in front of her, but her breasts blocked one side of the table. The last time he had visited the room, he had placed some object on the portion of the table she could see. It was too blurry to make out in detail, but she thought it might be some sort of short statue, or maybe a marble bust.
Oddly though, it seemed more flesh toned, than white or grey stone.
Besides the room itself, her view was dominated by the huge, curving walls that framed her vision: her breasts. They were the only thing she could really see in focus, though they utterly blocked her view to either side.
They were also the only thing she could feel, had felt since she became Melons in the first place. The rest of her body, if it still existed at all, was totally numb. Her entire world was built around her breasts; besides seeing the world from their vantage point, they were also how she felt the world around her. From the air currents of the room, to the heat from the fireplace when it was lit, to the all-too-rare sensations when he brushed past them.
Her namesakes were massive, but then, they'd always been quite large, she recalled. But now they were truly massive, and not just because she was staring straight from between them either.
Thinking back, she remembered that part of her seduction had been agreeing to get them enlarged. The man was a surgeon, after all; he'd been happy to do the surgery for free, had been overjoyed, in fact.
No, she thought suddenly, remembering. That wasn't what happened. He asked me if I wanted them enlarged, and I said yes. But only a little bit bigger, I said. And then he pointed out that he was a surgeon, could do the work for free. But only if I let him choose the new size. Yes, that's how it happened.
Or was it, she was so confused.
"I am just a pair of gloriously bloated sweater puppies, begging to be groped and squeezed and played with; I exist to make men horny; I am Rebecca Morstern; I am--"
Rebecca, now Melons, felt a sharp explosion of pain course through her body, a body she was never really aware of anymore. The pain appeared strongest at her anus, where the electric prod was forever inserted, along with her permanent waste line. She gasped, or though she did; her lips, like the rest of her body, were totally numbed. For a brief instant, she remembered everything that had happened to her with total clarity.
She had been twenty-five, blond, very attractive, and a con-artist. She'd spent half a year seducing the famous, rich surgeon Dr. David Vance, hoping to marry him and then take him to the cleaners after the divorce. He would have, should have, been her fourth victim.
But somehow he'd figured out what she was, even before the engagement became official. He'd confronted her with her past, dug up by some nosy private eye he kept around for exactly these sorts of situations. She had tried to flee then, nearly making it to the door, before the drugs in her last glass of wine finally hit her.
She'd awoken a week later, already installed in her new, permanent home. He'd explained her situation then, spelling out her new life in excruciating detail. She was just a pair of breasts to him now, nothing more, nothing less. She would grace his wall as an eternal trophy to his victory over her. And there was nothing she could do about it.
The voice playing in her ear slowly pulled Melons out of her strange reverie. She pushed frantically at the memories still playing out in her mind. They were just too painful to consider, to relive. Thankfully, after a few moments, her mind cleared.
She knew what had happened though; she'd reacted to her real name, and been punished for it. As the droning voice said, she was just Melons now, and nothing but.
Every now and then, to test her, the voice would say her old name. A sensor built into her butt plug would detect any involuntary response to the name, and activate the electric prod. The key to avoiding punishment, was to constantly remind herself that she was Melons, just Melons, and nothing but Melons. If she did that long, and hard enough, she wouldn't react to hearing her old name.
Melons stared out through her eternal window on the world, and waited for the last vestiges of her memory to fade away. She didn't want to know what she had been before, how far she had fallen.
Besides, she knew the truth, knew that, in some small way, she had in fact won. She wasn't hanging on this wall as a trophy to his victory; she was a trophy of her own victory over him. She knew in her heart that he had truly fallen for her seduction, her act. He must have, why else would he have obsessed over her so much to place her on his wall. Practically every day he showed up, sitting behind his coffee table and staring at her.
He could pretend, could claim, that she was nothing but a failed con-artist to him, but Melons knew the truth. She knew she meant something more to him.
And one of these days, that truth would set her free. One of these days, he'd come in here to bask in the sight of her, and finally realize the truth. Then he'd have her taken down, and he'd marry her, and everything would go just as she had always planned it.
Oh yes, she had him exactly where she wanted him.
David Vance walked down the hallway, passing a few busy servants, and slid a key from his pocket. The door to his secret sanctuary beckoned from a small, nondescript nook in the wall. Few of his servants even knew the room existed, and none had ever been inside.
Reaching the door, he pushed the key into the lock, and turned it. The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The Trophy Room, as he preferred to call it, was quite small compared to most rooms in his family mansion. But it was easily his favorite room in whole estate.
He slipped out of his coat, and draped it on the rack nearest the door, putting his hat on the rack as well. The only light in the room came in from the tiny windows near the high ceiling, placed there so that none of the trophies would ever accidentally catch a glimpse of the outside world.
But the small windows allowed in little more than a dim glow, so he flipped the switch next to the rack, bringing the lights on. Instantly the room lit up, revealing the rest of the racks on the wall, as well as the large fireplace, and the various trophies sitting on the mantle.
His very first trophy, his first ex-wife in fact, turned her head to glare at him from her spot on the coffee table, exactly where he had left her the last time he had visited the tiny sanctuary. He returned her glare with a wide smile. He knew she'd have been screaming profanities at him, if only she still had vocal cords. And a functioning diaphragm, of course.
He stepped to the mantle, and reached to pick up his tobacco and pipe. One of the trophies, his fifth ex-wife if he recalled correctly, had been turned into the perfect pipe holder. Her bizarrely mutilated body served little other purpose, but to hold his lovely curved pipe firmly between her breasts, which she presented out toward him.
She too glared into his eyes, as he removed the pipe. He pulled a long-handled match from the dozens filling her modified sex, and winked at her, reveling in the sharp look of rage that burned over her face. As he remembered it, she had been some sort of model when he had first met her, nearly a decade ago.
Another trophy, his sixth ex, was beside the fifth. He'd designed her to hold his tobacco, turning her body into a perfect humidor. Her tiny body was laid back on its metal stand, buttocks sticking out over the mantle edge.
None too gently, he removed the large plug that kept her only orifice sealed tight, and reached into the gaping hole. All of her normal bodily functions were relegated to the complex machinery built into her stand, so her modified passage was quite clean. He removed a bit of the smelly leaves from her, and quickly struck the match against her swollen clit, which still stuck out from the top of the long scar where her sex once was. The match ignited, nearly burning her sensitive nub.
Slinking down on his couch, he kicked up his feet just beside his first ex-wife, and puffed on his pipe. Presently, he withdrew the pipe from his lips, and blew a ring of sweet smelling smoke into her face, enjoying the way her electrically-stimulated lung pulled the smoke into her nostrils, despite her efforts not to breath in.
She'd been his first trophy, more than twenty years earlier. Since her, he'd perfected his techniques, to the point that most of his trophies could actually breath on their own, without needing stimulation.
He smoked the pipe for another few minutes, then sighed, and said to her, "Here dear, I remember how you didn't like to see me smoke."
So saying, he nestled the pipe snugly into her deep cleavage, and pushed the pipe stem between her lips. Her eyes filled with impotent rage, even as her lungs continued to pump air in and out of her tiny form. Soon smoke trails began to blow out her nostrils, as she was forced to smoke the pipe, despite herself.
He chuckled at her green complexion. "I really must buy a few cigars for you, dear. You'd look wonderful sucking on a thick stogie. Plus the exercise would be great for your lips."
Sitting back into the leather couch, he glanced about the room, enjoying his trophies, and relived their creation in his mind. He could recall every cut, every slice, every stitch from the literally hundreds of separate surgeries that had gone into each of them.
Eventually his eyes fell across the wall by the door, and at the racks that graced it.
Each rack was jutting out from a shield-shaped wooden trophy mount, similar to those that hunters mounted deer heads on in their own trophy rooms. But these racks weren't antlers, but genuine breasts, a full dozen sets altogether.
He smiled at the sight. While his real trophies were all the remains of his past failed marriages, the racks were reserved for lesser relationships. Fiancés, the occasional gold digger, even the daughter of one of his old rivals. All reduced to nothing more than a pair of tits, jutting out from his wall.
He imagined the room on the other side of the wall, with a dozen female bodies hanging from the ceiling, wrapped up in complex suits of his own devising. The suits would stimulate the bodies, using electric shocks to stimulate the muscles, reducing atrophy, while various tubes provided nourishment, and removed waste. The inner lining of the body-hugging suits was constantly being refilled with a mild anesthetic gel compound that coated every square inch of the women's bodies, rendered them totally numb to all sensation. Except, that is, for their breasts in the other room.
The suits were mostly automated, but occasionally a servant would enter the room, and clean the women, or otherwise provide some basic maintenance. David Vance wondered what they must think, seeing a dozen women hanging against a wall, their breasts shoved through small, snug holes into the unknown space beyond.
Hardly the oddest sight in the mansion to be sure, but still the servants must be very curious about the room on the other side of the wall.
The thought brought a smile to his face, and he returned his gaze to his first ex, still smoking the pipe angrily and snorting out little circles of white smoke. He grinned at her, topped the pipe up with more tobacco, then pushed himself off the couch. He walked toward the racks.
He bent over slightly before a random pair, and noted with some distaste that they were getting rather dusty. He never allowed anyone else in the room, so it was up to him to keep the place clean and tidy.
Sighing, he walked over to the pair holding his coat and hat, and pulled a small feather duster from between the set of plump tits. Gingerly, he began dusting the racks off, one by one, slowly working his way down the line.
As he dusted the racks, he idly wondered what odd thoughts must go through their minds. He hoped they hadn't all become insane, over the years; that, he felt, would have been a huge waste. He took great care with all his new creations, to ensure they were never quite driven past the breaking point.
One of his earliest trophies, his third ex-wife in fact, had nearly lost her mind after she had joined his collection. Thankfully, he had managed to keep her from slipping totally over the brink.
Now he kept her up on the wall where she couldn't quite make out the other trophies. Over the course of a few dozen new surgeries, he'd turned her into a fully functional cuckoo clock. Her hugely swollen clitoris formed the clock's pendulum, while twin weights hung from her nipples, powering the whole mechanism.
After thousands of hours of practice and training, she had become a perfect item for his sanctuary. Every hour, on the hour, a powerful shock to her anus would inform her to open her mouth and stick out her tongue. A tiny stuffed bird was attached to a set of studs piercing the meaty appendage, and her woeful cries of "Cuckoo!! Cuckoo!!" would fill the room, announcing the time.
He returned his mind to his task at hand, running the feather duster over yet another set of inflated, disembodied boobs sticking out from the wall.
He paused. The tiny nameplate just above the large, overly firm jugs proclaimed the original owner to be someone named Rebecca Morstern. He frowned, trying to remember just who she had been. Not a fiancé, nor a business rival's wife or daughter. And the date on the nameplate meant she'd been here for at least eight years.
After a long moment of concentration, he finally shrugged, and quickly brushed the remaining dust from the set of fake tits.
Between the huge breasts, a tiny camera lens watched in silence, as he moved on down the row.