Preface

     The good folk of the isolated farm village of Emmittsborough, in a remote mountain valley in the temperate central belt on E21, a backwater planet of in the farthest wing of the Aeschylian Great Corridor, cleave to their strict, fundamentalist faith, called Agropadronism, which decrees that the farm head is Master of all he owns, from acreage, real property, and animals to wife and offspring. The farm-Master is champion and caretaker of life on the farm. Procreation and sexual Mastery are his prerogative. The villagers and farm folk in the bowl-shaped valley, split by the Emmitt River and dozens of meandering creeks, harken to the old ways. The cunt-wives submit to their husbands’ will in all matters and produce copious offspring, though the cunt-moms might wither and die from their efforts—not to mention the marauding of their husbands.

     The Agros, as they call themselves, prompted by the word of their God, revere and protect their young children, for they will become the next generation of Masters and cunt-wives, thenceforth supporting the community’s production of crops and the husbandry of the farm animals, ensuring the existence of their way of life for the next generation. Sexual service to father, older brothers, all their designees, and the farm animals, from the age of majority at fifteen, is commonplace; after Presentation in the Service Rite that initiates fifteen-year-old Agros, all children’s service portals (the cunt hole, because it is the birth path, most of all, and including their ripe, young anuses and tender mouths) become available for sexual service, with the exception that the Blossomed girls’ first vaginal penetration must be performed by their husbands following the onset of the cunts’ first menses. To ensure their children’s virginity until the collaring ceremony that deeds girl children to their husbands’ families, the cunt-wives administer potions blended from ages-old clan recipes designed to delay the children’s sexual-genital development and hormonally inspired rebelliousness. At the fifteenth birthday, the hormone injections cease and the proud father presents the child to the congregation in a ritual. The newly awakened larval-stage adult’s life changes completely from that momentous time.

Chapter 1: Alyssa Alvarez and the Rite of Service Presentation

     As the last offspring of cunt-wife Alice Alvarez and her Master-husband, Alonso, I grew up knowing my birth had cost my mom her divinely mandated ability to procreate. Dad could still fuck her, but I’d wrecked her womb: after me, it only made stillbirths and miscarriages. That made mom and dad both pretty grouchy most of the time, so I grew up believing my fifteenth birthday would be a doorway to a better life—a life as cunt-wife to a loving Master. My dad had a powerful and righteous love of his animals and his eight children, his wife, and all the creatures of Alvarez-Alliance Farm.

     As a protected child, I was mom’s helper in the house and the kitchen. On good days, I was her little puppy. She petted me and cooed over me, fussed over my stick-straight, palest blonde locks, which were always long past my waist. She called me her “blue-eyed porcelain doll” and doted on me on Sundays, plaiting my hair and scrubbing me all over, “Outside and in,” as she liked to say. My older brothers, Alan, Alex, Alron, and Albert, attended to the needs of the animals and, after their Presentations, dad. I suppose his frustrations over mom’s empty womb made him crave the service of his sons’ adolescent backsides and mouths. I was fourteen when Alex and Albert, seventeen and eighteen, left for outside—the way of close to 80% of Agro offspring—and fifteen when Alan, aged seventeen, enlisted in the marines. By then, my oldest cunt-sister, Almyra, had wed and begun her duties to her Master, leaving only myself and Aliya, older than I by a scant eleven months, still at home. Still young and protected, I wasn’t supposed to be privy to the violation of my brothers’ virgin assholes, but I was a curious, overly adventurous child. As the youngest, I sometimes slipped through the cracks, which meant I could sneak out to the barn or the fields and watch the animals. I liked to watch them copulate. It made odd and highly pleasurable things happen to my body. I had to hide my interests, of course, because such things aren’t meant for the un-Presented. The young faithful of the Agros aren’t permitted questions about sexual function and portal service, but I snuck about, kept my eyes peeled, and learned quite a bit all on my own.

     I thought it might have been all that fuck-watching that awakened things in me. From years before my ripening, I fought the compulsion to touch myself, which is punishable, even in young children, by public, pants-down spanking, usually enacted before the gathered family and sometimes, for the more serious infractions—at the tent meetings on Sundays. I should’ve realized mom messed with the recipe for my hormone shots. Her nursing training emboldened her to alter the sacred potion, as Almyra implied before she left Alvarez-Alliance to serve as cunt-wife to Farm-Lord Ferguson’s fourth son, Frankie.

     I was fourteen when my next-older sister Aliya had her rites. Curious as ever and adept at furtive movement, I paid close attention to the preparations. We’re supposed to be innocent of such things until our breasts blossom after our mothers stop our inhibitor potions and release us from our restrictive metal chest harnesses, but I’d learned to be quiet as a snowflake landing on the last of the late crops. I found hidden places, cracks between floorboards or the slats of the barn walls, convenient hidey-holes all over our simple wooden farm house and outbuildings. I saw lots of forbidden things, like dad teaching Albert to screw the sows’ cunts and dad and Albert passing on that wisdom to Alex the night of his Rites.

     On Aliya’s fifteenth birthday, mom came to our room before dawn and unlocked Aliya’s slender ankle from the cuff that restrained her to the bed on the other side of the attic room from mine. Ali’s pretty as can be, with a pert little turned-up nose, big blue eyes, and wavy sun-blonde hair, but she’s a whiner, a rat, and a cry-baby—which my school friends assure me is true of most older sisters, unless they’re mean, selfish, and jealous.

     Mom led Ali down the stairs and into the house’s one bathroom. I thought mom was just going to supervise Ali’s daily enema, but there was a lot more to it than that. I watched through the crease between the floorboards, the same vantage that had made me privy to the sight of my brothers’ young scepters and, after their Presentations freed them to engage with their male members, to the touching I learned from the Internet is called jacking off, spanking the monkey, auto-erotic stimulation, or masturbation. The thick cream that spat out of the little eyes in the ends of their scepters, and the way they breathed so hard, sweated, and sometimes even moaned, all fascinated me. Alan always jerked his hips like pigs and dogs rutting.

     From the floor of my attic room, I could easily hear all that transpired in the bathroom below me, but I had just a narrow slice of view when mom pulled Aliya’s nightie up over her head. “Alyssa can have that one now. You won’t need it anymore.”

     “Mom, it’s my favorite.”

     “Silly child. Today’s your Service Rite. You won’t be using a nightie anymore.”

     “Won’t I get cold?”

     “Dear child, did they not go over this on girls’ day at school? You must leave your service portals open to your Master-husband’s staff. Doesn’t matter if you’re cold. Besides, the fucking will keep you warm.”

     “But Mom, I don’t have a husband.”

     “You will soon, probably right after your Blossom Party.”

     “When, mommy?”

     “Well, let’s unbind your girl-chest and see how far along you are. I was a late bloomer, so we might have to do a few little things to encourage your milk-teats to come forth. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to show at the Blossom dance, even if I have to plump them up with injections. I might be able to speed the onset of your menses as well.”

     “Mom!” Aliya exclaimed. “You said I was done with the shots!”

     “With the inhibitor injections, honey. If you’re slow to blossom your service parts, we’ll just help you along. Could be three, four, even six months until you’re fully sprouted, bleeding, and ready for cunt-service.”

     “After her Presentation, Jessica Johnson said her dad used her big sister’s dark portal when cunt-wife Johnson was near term. She said it hurt.” Ali lost none of her petulance on her special day.

     I heard a loud crack and Aliya’s astonished cry, then a thump as she stumbled against the wall. “You dare speak of such things before your Presentation? Child, dear child. How could you? And such stupid questions! Of course our Lords possess our portals, all of them—and often. You’ll service your husband, your father, your brothers, should they return, your uncles, all the Farm-Lords of our community and their Presented sons.”

     “But she said—”

     Another loud crack, and Ali started to cry. Mom reminded her, “You’re now old enough for corporal punishment, child, so don’t tempt me to invoke the hand of God. Now bend over and spread before I lose my temper.” Ali yielded to the familiar daily enema ritual. We usually clean ourselves out, but mom likes to supervise now and then. She says it’s part of her duty, and her training as a nurse makes her particularly qualified. Automatic responses guided Aliya’s hands to her firm round ass cheeks. She put her hands together behind her back, slipped the fingers of both hands into her crack, and pulled out hard, as we’d been taught, revealing the prized dark portal. While Aliya was thus bent and open, her face down by her knees by the side of the tub, mom switched out the tiny daily nozzle for a training tube that she selected from the four graduated, metal cylinders in a tray. Ali got the second largest, less than an inch in diameter. Daddy’s staff is way bigger than that. Aliya’s bum hole would still be a tight squeeze even with the new nozzle to stretch her hole. The way he’d been ranting lately about the lack of service—despite the loans of elder, unmarried daughters and sons from his parishioners, I doubted he’d even wait until Ali’d been properly stretched. As farmer and preacher both, dad was doubly blessed with strong seed and powerful manly lust. With the four oldest boys gone and Almyra married and dropping pups every year, his rages and demands had escalated. I figured Aliya better let him take it out on her dark portal or he might remember she’s old enough to punish. I’ve watched him use the riding crop, the thick strap, and the horse whip on Almyra, mom, and my brothers. He broke Almyra’s nose and left inch-thick bloody welts from his strap all over her brand-new tits when she tried to refuse mouth service two days after her Blossom (dad was mad he’d only been offered four thousand for her). Despite the beating, he still fucked her dark portal till it bled and squirted his cream on her face.

     Aliya whimpered when the nozzle breached her little, dark, puckered hole. Her slender, round butt clenched. Mom said, “Keep still, child. You’ll be grateful for the extra attention, you’ll see. Just keep it to yourself. He won’t notice if we only stretch it out a little. The burning you’ll feel in just a moment is from an herb infusion that will increase your elasticity so the rim won’t tear too much when he batters your portal with his staff. Oh, do stop squirming, little baby-cunt. Plenty of time for that later.” That was the first time Aliya was called cunt, and the parables make it very clear such language must be reserved for Service-ready women. If mom’s not worried about burning in the unending fires of hell, neither am I, but Aliya with her poor sense of such things, opted to scold. Mom pinched her hard, right between her legs, and brought my sister’s endless whining to a stop.

     Aliya’s squirm reminded me of the porn video clips my BFF Jerena Johnson and I found on the Internet. Jerena, the ninth of her dad’s thirteen, is a whiz kid who can hack into any adult site despite parental controls and other safeguards. I like reading about sex, learning what they do outside, which isn’t so very different from what we do, it seems to me. Looking at what they call “porn” (we call it cunt-service) makes me squirm too. As I spied through the slit in the floorboard, I slipped my right hand under my tummy and pressed my fingers over my virginal cleft. I was a good girl—well, mostly, I guess, except for all those pictures and videos on Jerena’s computer and my spying and heated, almost uncontrollable lust. My virginhead was intact. I knew better than to risk puncturing my precious hymen, but I’d figured out that rubbing the front of my girl-mound feels really good. I laid on the floor, eye pressed to the narrow crack, watching my sister struggle with the hole-prep regimen mom inflicted scant feet below. I rocked on my hand. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and laid it on the floor to ease the pressure on my poor wrist. I rocked on my hand and watched.

     Mom opened the clamp on the enema bag and let the soapy water drain into Aliya’s bowel. Mom likes a clean child, inside and out. I’d watched her clean Almyra, between Presentation and cunt-contract, with a thick bottle brush.

     While Ali held her solution, Mom used the key on the chain hanging from her wife-collar to unlock the clip on Aliya’s chest binding. Dad had sprung for the high-end binding harnesses, which resemble a metal replica of a young boy’s chest, but with no areolas. The modesty device is hinged at both sides, with the hinges on the outside so they don’t dig into our sides the way the old ones did. Mom pulled away the cloth-lined metal device by undoing the crotch and shoulder straps and letting the harness clang into the tub. “That can go to Alyssa too. She’s straining a bit in hers. I hope she doesn’t end up fat like grandma. I’m worried about your little sister. There are things going on in that virginchild’s head that shouldn’t be. I can tell. I know the signs. Best pray her Lord-Sire doesn’t get wind of her arousal.”

     I snatched my hand away from my snatch, then clamped my hand over my mouth. How did she know, I wondered. Maybe the smell, I thought. My fingers smelled like Almyra after Frankie got done with her.

     After eleven pregnancies resulting in eight live births (mom had two miscarriages after me, and then my two younger sisters were stillborn, and my oldest sister, Alabama, died from a fall off a horse when she was six, long before I was born), Mom’s aging fuck hole was no longer much good to Alonso, who’s hung like Alcatraz, our Clydesdale–quarter horse cross. My Presented older sibs all knew first-hand . . . and first-mouth . . . and first-asshole, and I know because I watched.

     On top of the pain of her worn-out body, mom still endures her husband-Master’s disciplinary measures when things aren’t to his liking—or when he’s grouchy, which is just about all the time since the boys bailed. She suffered in scowling silence, though, as befitting the preacher’s wife, for dad does multiple duty: farmer, preacher, father, husband, upstanding citizen and, for a few years, mayor of Emmittsborough, population 1237 (with the rest of the valley, we have about fifteen hundred from fifty-six family lines). When dad’s powerful backhand and his enormous prick put mom out of commission, her post-Rites children took some of the heat. I’d be the last of the family to serve that way, until Almyra’s children ripened to service (her first was only three)—unless he bought another cunt-wife. That would be difficult, I learned from Jerena—a year my senior and my mentor in all things since we were toddlers—who knew everything and shared it all with me. The locals said daddy’s seed had rotted, and they were all eager to pair their sow-cunts with more fecund, younger men—ones who wouldn’t let their cunt-wive’s birth-tanks become dilapidated and useless. His station as preacher and citizen keeps him in loaned cunts, but of course, you had to catch that service before they married or between births, so the pickin’s are sometimes slim. Agros don’t stay single for long, unless they’re really dogs. Jerena said my dad’s grouchy because he can’t get any good, tight pussy. I always blush when she uses the outside slang word for cunt.

     A squeal, then a slap and another squeal from the bathroom below disturbed my reverie. I peered through the floorboard. Mom had stood Aliya up, turned her to face her, and began a careful inspection of my sister’s breast meat, which was evidently tender. I’d heard on girl-days and overheard conversations of post-Rites kids and cunt-moms that blossoming titties can get mighty sore when they’re about to pop out. Aliya turned and I saw she’d sprouted two tiny, delicate nubbins in the centers of her rounded, pink areolas. They looked like sweet little pencil erasers, but puffier. Mom poked at them, and Aliya squirmed. “Be still girl or I’ll have your Sire beat you after your ceremony—in front of the whole congregation. I know you’re sore, and they’ll be sorer still over the next few weeks, but I have to make sure they’re well-formed before we show them around today.” With an exasperated sigh, she opened the front of her frock and freed her wrinkly, saggy teats from their sling.1 “See? This is what they’ll look like when they’re all broken in.”

     All my exploring on the Internet had never unearthed a pair of jugs that ugly. The nipples, dark as a mule’s eyes, are the diameter of my forefingers and a good inch long. Her breasts are flat as pancakes, hanging past her narrow waist, those long nipples pointed straight down toward her bony feet. I clapped my hand to my mouth to silence my reaction to the transition from Aliya’s delicate new bumps to mom’s used-up dugs. Dismayed as I was, I stuck my hand between my mound and my pillow and squirmed, pressing the feel-good spot against my wrist bone as hard as I could. Her service had deformed her body, which seems both ghastly and exotic. I throbbed and rocked.

     Mom grabbed both of Aliya’s delicate pink nubbins between the balls of her thumbs and the knuckles of her forefingers and gave a good hard tug. Aliya’s a big-mouth and a whiner, but when you get right down to it, she’s actually more obedient—and far more naïve—than I am. She gasped, but she stood there and took it. I rocked.

     “A good mother keeps track of her daughter’s development,” mom told Aliya when she blushed and squirmed at the touch of mom’s perpetually icy fingers on the swollen roundness. “You must keep them supple, so your babies will attach strongly, grow, and thrive. This is your duty to your children and your husband-Master, who will own and use your body, your service-holes.” In a sing-song, she lectured on and on about keeping clean and pristine, about servicing her future Farm-Lord, about proper Agro cunt-wife duties and burdens that would soon come to Aliya. “Work your tender spigots. I’ll give you some clamps. Tug them to make your nips longer and to get used to the pain, but be careful not to let them get crusty or leathery. Every night before you go to bed, young lady, you spend twenty minutes training your little faucets to their God-given purpose: your Master’s pleasure and your children’s succor. The life of cunt-service is a blessing, child; never complain about your lot as slave-cunt. Your menses will begin in the next few weeks, judging by the swelling of your young buds. When the flow begins, you come to me right away, and I’ll clean you properly for service and show you how to shield your tender rim from the worst of his violence with some slippery potions I know. Your dad is eager to claim service of your dark portal, but of course he’d never do that until you’re fully ripe—much as he’d like to rip into it right this very minute—so trust me, he won’t be more than a few hours behind your first rag.”

     Aliya wept and burst out at least six times with, “Oh, gross, mom, you cannot be serious.” Swallowing man cream or receiving it on her face seemed to upset her more than the idea of a thick, hard appendage entering her holes. After all, we’re farm girls. We’d seen such things. After my electronic explorations of the world beyond our valley with the dazzling Jerena, Aliya’s naïveté astonished me. Where I’d scoped www.facialcumshots.com for hours, it had never occurred to my simple older sister that she might have to swallow her husband-Master’s “seed,” as mom called it.

     “Seed? They have pits?” I heard from below.

     Mom chuckled. “The seed of his staff, the cream that carries forth the seed that will make a baby inside your womb.”

     Aliya rolled her eyes. “Mom, you can’t have a baby out of your stomach.”

     “No, dear, but your husband, let us pray God, will have plentiful seed and needn’t worry about wasting it by squirting it on your face or down your throat, if he’s the type who finds that amusing, or humiliating, or just plain hot.”

     “Ew.”

     “You’re slave-cunt. You do your duty even if it messes up your hair. Honestly, Aliya Alvarez, you’re going to have to stop whining for good, girl, or you’ll be one sore, sorry cunt. Your husband-Master has the right to discipline in any way he wishes, and honestly, if he doesn’t, I might just. You have the right to be judgmental only about your pups. You’re slave, owned property. Without your Farm-Lord to keep you, what do you become? You have no home, no name, no family, no wealth, no property, no children—no purpose, no life. If he turns you out for failure to serve, or for just plain annoying him, you will perish. Your children will be taken from him, shorn by arcane rites of their names, and adopted out to others as mule-slaves with no rights, not even to have children. So, dear child, my advice is to stop your wretched whining and complaining. I want grandchildren, you hear me? You’re a good girl, Aliya—way better than that loose-cunt sister of yours.”

     “Mom!” Ali gasped, shocked at the vulgar reference to me.

     “Well, she is. She’ll end up run out on a rail not for whining—and they need no more reason than you no longer please them—but for promiscuous behavior. You mark my words. Your sister’s trouble. I see it coming. So you be my little darling, now, Aliya. Assume your burdens bravely. Protect the little ones. I’ll teach you my revisions to the potions, between now and your Claiming, so you’ll have the lore of our long-suffering cunt-mothers to ease your way.”

     Mom made Ali hold that enema for at least twenty minutes. Mom lectured the entire time, debunking all the sexual myths of our naïve childhoods.

     Aliya quit protesting as her souped-up enema potion took the edge off her fears. She zoned out on mom’s fucked-with recipe. Mom told her to squat over the commode: “Better than sitting, dear. Keeps your thighs strong and shapely.” Aliya released her anal cocktail with a lot of moaning; crying; contorting of her middle; and huge, noisy farts. I almost gave away my peek-hole by giggling, but her flatulence was so loud mom didn’t hear me.

     Mom cleaned her up and strapped her into the Presentation gown—though that’s a misnomer. It’s not a gown so much as two four-foot squares of pure white, sheer, batiste fabric. The top corner of each is knotted to a braided tangle of blackberry vine, the collar that symbolizes the pain of transition to service for girls (and transition to full manhood rights and duties for the boys), placed around the neck of the Presentee. The sides of the gown are open, but the new cunt is protected from chance flesh exposure on the way to the tent meeting by a thick, many-buckled belt cinched tight around the waist. The sturdy leather extends from the widest point of the hips to just under the teats, like a shorter, tighter version of our chest harnesses, but without crotch or shoulder straps. The collar’s thorns cut into her pale neck, releasing tiny trickles of blood. Ali would’ve freaked if mom hadn’t drugged her. My sister’s a total wuss about blood of any kind, especially her own. Her bare feet were half blue from the cold by the time they got her from the van to the tent, but she never so much as opened her mouth to protest.

     I was in my virgin whites, of course, pristine, shapeless, and pure, draped over my chest harness and the thick, padded undergarment with the crotch hole for urinating, befitting the preacher’s daughter and all the un-Presented. We’re not allowed to attend the Presentations, of course, but I’d snuck out of the Holzapple’s cellar where some of the young married cunt-moms entertain the little ones on Presentation days. I’d peeked through a loose flap at the back of the tent during more than one Service Rite. I’d never been caught, but the cunt-wife Holzapple kept a hawk’s eye on me. I think mom must’ve said something about my curiosity about my sister’s Presentation. The view from the tent flap isn’t so great; there’s only one tiny space between the podium and the Punishment Pole, so you can only see one or two Presentee’s shoulders and back (Aliya’s solo Presentation is a rarity), depending on how they’re bound. I didn’t need to watch another one, though I might have tried harder to slip out if the Presentee had been a boy. I was just fascinated by those young boners.

     The fun part of Aliya’s ceremony, for me, would be after the inspection and the reception, after we all climbed back in the van and headed back across the valley at the end of the festivities, around sundown, when I would sneak out to the barn to watch daddy’s staff rip into my sister’s tiny dark hole. Jerena said her dad had tied her up and fucked her ass for a good hour, but she said her Presented friend, one of the younger Ferguson girls—Francie and Frannie are twins, and I don’t remember which—said her dad made her brothers, from youngest to oldest—including Almyra’s husband-Master, Frankie—limber her up for him. I mulled that over, while the Holzapple cunt-moms kept the toddlers and preschoolers from destroying the rec room. My theory was that the scepter keeps growing, to a certain age. Perhaps the hand of God in Agro men, their dedication to the stroking of their charges’ holes, keeps them huge and hard so much. When daddy’s massive staff ruptured Ali’s anal cherry in a few hours, I’d be paying close attention to see whether it was bigger than the last time I’d watched him fuck the pigs or mom, and I frankly couldn’t recall which had been last.

     I was sad no one would watch when he did mine in twelve months, three weeks, and four days. I fantasized getting Jerena to hide and watch.

     I knew from my past spying what transpired in the tent down at the end of the fallow field, far enough from the house that the little ones wouldn’t hear the muffled screams: Daddy-preacher would read scripture and go on about his proud day. Two of the Johnson girls, who always came in pairs to lend cunt-service to dad, would undo the belt buckles and pass the device to mom, who would accept it with reverence for my use in eleven months. Dad would intone, “We’ve had fifteen years to adore this pristine, unused child’s lovely face. Now, we must turn our admiration to other parts.” As he did with all the ripening cunts and scepters, he would lift the front square of fabric, and with it, the thorny collar, until it lodged under her nose, then pull the white sheet over her head and drape it behind her. Aliya’s visible face would be reduced to her sobbing mouth and chin. The thin white fabric would puff out when she exhaled and suck in tight under her nostrils when she inhaled. I imagined Daddy-preacher fitting the ring gag over the fabric between her tender lips and securing the metal device behind her head, which presses the blackberry thorns into the skin. I envisioned the blood of my own Presentation, in a year, garnet over the pale white of my skin, over my lips, symbolizing the blood of my split hymen that will decorate my nether lips on my wedding night.

     I mused about Ali’s ceremony, proceeding so close by: Mom would open her dress and walk through the congregation. The cunt-wives would rub her dangling teats for good luck, and the husband-Masters would stroke, pinch, or even slap them for the same reason. If Alan, the youngest Presented male of our family, had been there and unmarried, he’d have been called upon to come forth and bare his staff as evidence that the cunt-mom of the Presentee had produced fecund male offspring. If the Sire passes before a girl’s Rites, then said brother would use his staff to initiate her after the ceremony, in place of the Sire.

     I envisioned the lactating cunt-wives in the tent down the hill, opening their dresses and squeezing their teats to express some milk, for good luck, according to the age-old traditions. They would prime their founts, as it says in the scripture, and then follow their Masters to the pulpit to lay hands on the new girl-cunt’s soon-to-blossom teats. The husband-Masters would grab their cunt-wives’ tits and squirt some tit-milk on the Presentee, to hasten her ripening and make her fertile and service-worthy.

     Dad would smile. He’d stand behind Ali and place his fingers on the front of her pale neck among dainty rivulets of blood freed by the cruel thorn collar. He would espy, for the first time, her newly popped spigots and reach both hands down, I imagined, from the traditional encircling of the virgin’s throat—a symbol of the continuing power of the father over the cunt-child—to press those tender nipples with his fingers. His swelled manhood would press against her sheet-covered rump, warning her to stillness. “Come, come, Farm-Lords and cunt-wives, all who have been Presented whether mated or as yet unclaimed, come celebrate the addition of our newest cunt-slave to the midst of our God-fearing community. Venaki, Agro Padrones, desei, deseia, Dei: Come, Farm-Masters, Lords, cunt-wives, and God. Come feel the tender nubbins of her blossoming body, the teats that will feed her Master’s pups, the lovely swell of flesh that will grow to great and blessedly abundant milk-sacs, the pure, delicate, and holy folds of her service portals. Set your fingertips on the blessed one and rejoice, then take a moment to remember the pain of service, the price of devotion to Master and God. Cunt-wives, remember your own taking, the stab of your husband’s staff into your cunt, into your dark tunnel, into your throat, the agonies of birth and service. Bless this slave-cunt, no longer a child. Send your post-Rites sons to examine her pristine body, and your coin as bride-gift to her father in payment for the care, training, and sustenance he’s afforded her through her fifteen years of sacred virginity.”

     The Johnsons, the Emmitts, the entire Holzapple clan (except for the babies, of course, and the child-watchers), all of the fifty-six devout families of our valley would come to examine my sister the cunt. They would touch and stroke, squirt her with tit-milk, and coax out her nether button.

     On girls’ days, they don’t talk about cunt pleasures—cumming, they call it on the Internet. The cunt-wife who gives the girl’s-day talk never mentions what that little pink button does, but she says the spasms of womb and birth-tunnel urge the semen to shoot with great vigor toward the unblessed eggs. I guess we’re supposed to figure out the details when our husband-Master rips open our cunts with their eager rods. I doubted Aliya would get it.

     Jerena told me her older brother Jared, newly married with his first on the way, said Aliya tried to cover her swelling clit with her hands. This is a serious breach of behavior standards, a huge embarrassment to the daddy-preacher. He was infuriated, the front of his priestly robes tented as always when he anticipates inflicting Punishment—or even the private kind, with the lowercase. It finally occurred to me, even after watching him deflower all of the older Al’s dark portals, that it wasn’t that dad was such a perfectionist that he found fault with all their behavior on Presentation day, but that he manufactured criticism to fuel his divine rage and his enthusiasm for the violence with which he would then beat and ream them.

     I envisioned my father’s rod perched at my virgin hole, one hand at my throat, one clutching and yanking my hair. I felt a weird tap-tapping, quick like mouse steps, inside my own virginal passage. Aliya wouldn’t be the only one beaten if the scent of my shameless virgin-cunt escaped my white Sunday robes.

---

1 leather , silk, or burlap, depending on the generosity of the Farm-Lord. Halter-around the back of the neck, chest band below tit, an open half cup that leaves upper swell and nipple fully exposed. Older women add extra straps or lower the waistband when they start to sag—usually before 30, by which time they’ve had an average of 12.75 children.

Chapter 2: Puncturing Aliya

     Dad didn’t wait until we got back to Alvarez-Alliance Farm to begin working Aliya over. He told mom to drive the van and sent me to ride with the Emmitts, who had six of their little ones with them. Their second youngest, a darling little boy named Everest, three-years-old and a little devil, his mom said, sat next to me in his car seat. He patted my arm and then the top of my thigh. His soft, pudgy little hand stroked my leg, rising higher and higher. I twisted to escape him, but I was flanked on the other side by Emmilie, Emmen, and Emmsie. Emmsie, the five-year-old, squealed, “Emmerest is trying to feel Alyssa’s cunnie, mommy!”

     “Emmerest, you stop that right now!” Emma-May Emmitt said. “I’m awfully sorry, Ally. Boy babies can be such a handful at his age.”

     “Mommy, Alyffa cunny ftinky!” he said, sniffing his hand.

     “Now stop that at once,” Emma-May admonished her second youngest. “Three and already such a little man,” she said with a laugh. Emmerest was her ninth child, her first boy after three girls in a row. Mom says they spoil him something fierce.

     The Emmitts dropped me by the mailbox and I walked the 500 yards to the house from there. The van was parked out back. Mom would be expecting me to come help with supper, but that little tap-tapping between my legs propelled me past the house at a trot and up to the barn, quiet as a mouser.

     Dad knows the rules. Not even the husband can take his virgin wife’s cherry before the onset of her menses. But the Sire is entitled from the moment of the new adult’s Service Rite and Presentation to use her mouth and her anus any way he pleased. He can rightfully inflict any kind of corporal punishment so long as it causes no permanent marks and does no permanent harm. The virginhead and the option to mark and harm are left only to the husband-Master—unless the sow-cunt is unwed at twenty, at which time she’s deemed unmarriageable and can be fucked—but not impregnated (and Jerena and I haven’t figured out whether it’s because her body can’t, her husband can’t, God doesn’t permit it, or some potion prevents it)—by any male over fifteen who cares to use her.

     Dad always follows God’s writs to the letter, which is not to imply that Aliya got off easy. First, he was really sweet, but his tone struck me strange, stilted and unnatural, as if he were reciting lines from a script. He sat her on a stool in one of the stalls on the back wall of the barn and wiped the blood summoned by her thorny collar from her face, neck, and chest. She wasn’t dopey from mom’s concoction anymore—it’d be mom’s hide, for sure, if dad had to fuck a groggy sow-cunt. That meant Ali whining, because that’s what Ali does. Presentation and mom’s unending lectures hadn’t made my annoying older sister any more pleasant to be around. “Daddy, it’s too cold. It smells bad out here.”

     He backhanded her so hard her head smashed into the wooden planking on the side of the stall. She fell from the stool onto her knees on clean hay. “Get up, cunt-slave. Has your cunt-mother taught you nothing? When your Owner, which I remain until your husband-Master rips into the sacred hole, demands service, you speak not! You do not whine or complain. You do not shirk your God-given duty, for if you do, your Owner shall take you to the Punishment Pole, where the wrath of the people shall be visited on you for your failure. You are cunt, slave, whore. You have duties, chief of which is to your Lord-and-Master’s staff, thence to his pups, his home, and his property. You serve, after those obligations, any duty to which he commands you! The results of dereliction of your slave duties shall be a pound of your flesh, rent from your body with great and terrible, lasting pain. Do not tempt such a fate, child. Take your slave duties as a blessing, for the worst curse is to be denied the privilege of such service, such that your teats and your womb shall wither and stink, your children shall be wrenched from you, and erased from your line forever.”

     She pleaded again.

     “Silence! Must I teach you to submit with the strap as well as the staff?”

     Aliya, cowering, sobbed again, and daddy grabbed her by the hair, spun her around, pushed her down over the stool, and brought his hand down over her ass cheek with a resounding crack!, according to the prescribed punishment for a recalcitrant virgin on the cusp of her first ass-fucking. She screamed and jolted, and in no time at all, he had her gagged with a red rubber ball secured with tight straps around the back of her fair head. He cuffed her wrists and ankles to the lowest crosspieces of the tall stool, so her stomach pressed against its flat seat. Her little nipples seemed to pulse as they peeked over the edges. Daddy stood back to admire this arrangement, then stepped close and started spanking Aliya’s bottom with his wide, hard palm. He kept at it, striking her again and again, with a long-armed stroked and loud retort each time, until both cheeks and the backs of her skinny thighs were a cheery red color. Ali sobbed and sobbed. I thought he’d stop and get down to fucking her ass, but he shook his hand and rotated his shoulders as if the exertion had made him ache. He took up the short horse crop from the hook in the tack room a few steps away and laid a pattern of stripes across her back. Every now and then he stopped, reached down, and stroked the big protrusion in the front of his priestly robes. Between, he schooled Aliya about proper cunt conduct: “You open your holes for your Master’s use at his whim. You obey, in this, and all things. This beating is a tiny taste of the torments that will befall you as cunt-wife if your sniveling and whining persists past this very moment. Suffer your lot in silent repentance and do not trouble your keeper with your petty woes.”

     He opened the fuck flap in his robe, and his staff, bigger than my forearm, hove into view. He opened a jar of udder cream and grabbed up a big handful, slathering it on his rod, stroking carefully to coat every inch. He pried her virginal cheeks apart and poked the remainder of the goo into her little hole. He moved his hips, grinding against her, then all at once, slammed into her in one long stroke, his thick shaft disappearing between her spread cheeks clear to the hilt. Her little body jolted and shook, and I thought, Get her, daddy! Make it hurt!

     My virginal vagina oozed and pattered. I was jealous. I couldn’t wait for my Presentation. I couldn’t wait to be a treasured slave, the prized sow-cunt of a handsome Master, to receive his heavenly rod into the pit of my womb and produce his heirs, to work his land and make him strong and wealthy. Sure, dad had been a little rough with the crop, but I thought, ooh, ooh, me, me, me next!

     Aliya squirmed and wrenched against her bindings, and dad’s big ham-hand came down on her butt with all his great strength. The scream was shrill and pathetic through the gag and for a few seconds, the sow-cunt’s body went stiff and tight. Daddy just stood there, breathing heavily, his considerable length inside her hole, waiting until the seizure passed. From the shadows, stepped mom, still in her mud-green floral Sunday frock with its gleaming buttons and dainty pin-tucks. She took in the scene and shook her head.

     “How’s she taking it?”

     “’Bout like you’d expect, I reckon,” dad answered. “’Bout like you did, when your daddy took yours—like the worthless, withered old cunt-hag you are.”

     “You seen Alyssa?” she asked with a somber nod to acknowledge his criticism.

     With that, I skedaddled. I ran like the wind down the tractor tracks between the near pasture and the cornfield, behind the wood shed, and up the garden path to the little wooden house. I scampered into the van, laid down on the floor in the back, and pretended to sleep. I’d get scolded for shirking kitchen duties; the punishment for spying, on the other hand, was unthinkable.

Chapter 3: Deadly Curiosity

     Aliya sat very carefully at supper that night. She wouldn’t answer my questions when I was finally alone with her again a few nights later. She only said, “Run away, run far away, Ally. You have all these romantic notions. Go outside, away from Emmittsborough, away from the valley, as far as you can get. You don’t want to be a woman in this world.”

     I thought she was just silly: outside’s no different in the position afforded their women, even if some countries let them be politicians and VIPs, at least in the big spaceport cities. I couldn’t wait to be welcomed into the awesome world of sex and service. Now that I had a bedroom to myself, I took advantage of the privacy to explore those portions of my body I could reach—those I dared touch. I touched my cleft and penetrated my dark hole with my fingertips. I rubbed my pillow between my legs and thought of daddy’s thundering staff plowing to the hilt inside Aliya’s bum. I wondered whether he’d made her bleed, whether he’d shot his cream inside her or on her face, imagined her licking the evidence off his rod when he was done. I rocked against my pillow, lying on my tummy, ankles crossed, frustrated. I needed more to resummon that weird, shrieking ecstasy that rises all at once from that nexus of sensation. More pressure—more pain—I thought, might tip me over the elusive edge. I slipped my hand into my modest, white cotton panties and pinched my nubbin between my fingers. I flicked it with my fingernail, pressed it with my knuckle. I dared make no sound, dared not alert my parents, or I’d have strafed the swollen, wet cleft with my comb or slapped it with my hand.

     The God-fury seized me at last and I contorted, biting my pillow to silence myself until the spasm passed.

     The ecstasy left me wasted, and I slept hard, with my fist still jammed between my legs. I woke and rode it again, this time, imagining not my father reaming my sister’s ass, but that sweet Johnson boy, Jason, who’d been eyeing me even before his Presentation. I imagined him Presented, ready and glorious, poised to claim his Man-rights by plunging his delicious staff into my cunt-hole. I seized again and again that night, riding the fires of my fantasies.

     Thursday after school, I walked home with Jerena. We snuck up to her room and signed on-line so she could show me something new she’d found on the Internet. Outside, it turns out, Farm-Masters—really just husband-Masters, I guess, as not all of them seem to be Farmers—practice a sort of variation on Agropadronics called BDSM. They have this cult motto that makes the Masters kind and loving toward their charges, responsible for their well-being. They define most of our cultural rituals as abusive and misogynistic. Outside, after the Lords torture and fuck their service-cunts, they cuddle with them and tend their wounds very lovingly, declare their devotion, pet them, kiss them, and praise them. The only thing I don’t understand is what they do with their children. None of their pictures show Presented children participating, as if they don’t exist at all. “See?” I said to Jerena. “Ali said I’ve got it all wrong.”

     “Ali is an asshole. Just ’cause your dad likes to hurt his cunts doesn’t mean they all do,” Jerena said.

     “Doesn’t your dad?”

     “Only when he’s mad. Nobody’s quite as devout as your old man, but outside they put people in jail for what they do to us routinely. Why do you think we lose eighty percent of our teenagers? Emmittsborough is a sick place, Ally. You’re going to have to go outside if you’re going to find that loving husband-Master you crave.”

     A month past her Presentation, Jer was my most reliable source of information about what it’s like outside. Her breasts were plumping, her nipples popping, her hips widening, but no one had offered a contract. Her cunt-mom said it was Jer’s bitchy attitude: “Dad thinks he can just have his fucking way with me any time he wants, and the older Js are worse.”

     “Jer, I’m not Presented yet,” I reminded her, as prescribed by duty.

     “Yeah, well, you and I both know . . .” she laughed, looked over her shoulder, and put her arm around my waist. “Wait’ll you get a pair of your own,” she said. “They’re totally all that.”

     “Does it hurt?”

     “Only for a while. Your nipples ache like the devil when you’re on your rag, though. Jacob and Jed keep roughin’ ’em up, but that just makes me hot.”

     “I’m not—” I started, but she laughed. That old habit was absurd between us.

     “You want to check ’em out?”

     “Your tits? Could I?” That tapping started again.

     “You bet.” She led me out the kitchen door and down the hill, over the fence into the main pasture, then behind the blackberry bramble where the stream runs about three feet wide and no more than a foot deep. The herd was in the other pasture, so we were alone, out of sight from the house and the barns. “Come in here,” she said, parting the thicket to admit us into the six-foot culvert pipe that passes the stream under the driveway. We’d spent hours down there as younger children, chasing guppies, looking for frogs, and spying on our older siblings, who hadn’t known we knew where to look.

     Despite the early spring, the water was fiercely cold as it trickled around our feet, but I forgot my discomfort when Jerena flipped up her blouse and pulled down her tit harness. Her breasts were beautiful, round orbs, pink-tipped with ripe nipples, bigger than Aliya’s, rounder. The nips hardened in the cold, and more so when I touched them, and little bumps stood up on the areolas. “Oh, Jer,” I cried, “they’re so pretty! They look like they’re all ready for suckling. I can just see you with a baby hanging from each teat, you lucky cunt.”

     She pressed them and let them bounce up, squeezed them together. “Touch them, Ally, please, they just want to be touched and touched and . . .” I did what I’d seen mom do to Aliya’s nipples and caught them between my thumbs and the knuckles of my forefingers and squeezed. “Pull!” Jer cried. “Pull! More, more. Here, use your mouth, suck on them, quick, really hard, oh, dear God, I need my husband-Master to claim me!” she cried and pressed my face into her stunning, soft flesh. I sucked one nipple, clamping down hard on it, and pinched the other, and then our legs were all tangled together and we were humping each other’s thighs like horny dogs. We squirmed against each other, my face buried in her luscious tit. The harder I sucked and bit, the harder Jerena squirmed, but she was frustrated. She needed more, as I had the night of Aliya’s Presentation. I backed her to the side of the culvert and pressed her against the damp, curved concrete. “Try this, sweetie,” I said. “Spread your legs wide.” I stood back and slammed my knee right into her swollen bud, through her wide skirt.

     She chuffed out a big ooof, but then looked at me wide-eyed and lifted her skirt to bare her still virginal mound. “Again! Harder!” she barked in a desperate whisper. “Harder, Ally!” I kneed her six more times before she quaked, shivered, and convulsed. Liquid splattered down her inner thigh.

     I was shocked. “Jerena, did you pee?”

     Recovering, she laughed. “Silly virgin-child.”

     “It’s so not fair,” I moaned.

     “Tell me about it.”

     “Do me, Jer! I made it happen the other night like four times, on my wrist bone, but I can’t kick myself. Please?”

     “You’re not Presented . . .”

     “A technicality,” I snapped. “I just made you serve! Doesn’t that mean anything?”

     “Serve? That’s not serving, that’s just fucking around.”

     “Jerena!”

     “Relax, your maidenhead is safe with me, little piglet. But, hey, since you’re touching yourself anyway . . . I know just the thing.” We switched positions. She knelt between my legs and licked me like a bitch in heat cleaning her own bloody portal.

     After a few minutes, I shuddered and soared, astonished that her sweet, soft mouth had elicited such a strong reaction. “Doesn’t your mom do that to you?” she asked.

     “No way!”

     “Way, silly. Dad has her line up all the Presented and go right down the line.”

     “Even before?”

     “Sure. There’s no penetration. That’s allowed.”

     “My dad never did that. Us virgins were never touched any kind of way, except like, taking baths and stuff—oh, and enemas.”

     “Anama? What’s that?”

     “No, enema. How can you not know? It’s required daily cleansing ritual.”

     “Not in the Johnson house, it’s not.”

     “Awww,” I teased, “wait’ll I tell preacher!”

     “You’re kidding, right? What is it?” I explained the process, which Jerena thought was the grossest thing she’d ever heard. “But if you don’t clean yourself out, won’t you get poo on your husband-Master’s staff?”

     “Well, yeah, but I’m sure he’ll do just like daddy and the older Js and make me lick it off. What’s the big deal? It’s my cunt-mouth, not his that has to taste the sourness of his toil and effort in his waste.”

     “They haven’t popped you, have they?”

     “Of course not, but if I don’t get bought soon, they’re talking about letting me out to the Emmitts to service their goats and sheep.”

     “Does it hurt to take it up the ass, Jerena?” I asked because I couldn’t contain the question anymore.

     “Only the first few times.”

     “What does it feel like?”

     “Like God’s mighty fist is going to pulverize your insides and break your asshole right in two. And then, it like, starts to feel right, like taking a really good shit. Your clit starts to throb, and your lips swell, and then you get that rapture.”

     “Rapture? Is that what they call it?”

     “Yeah. Slave seizures, cunt spasms, whatever—orgasm, cumming, or climax outside. My sister Jinna said there’s a spot inside, too, that can make you squirt like I did, especially if you’ve got a rod up your ass and then something up your cunt, too.”

     My hands flew to my mouth and I started to protest, “I’m not yet—”

     Jerena pulled up like my dad and pronounced, “I’ll have to punish your worthless cunt if you say those stupid words again! Come on, little Ally Alvarez. You’ve already come this far. You want to try something up your dark hole?”

     “No! Could we? No, Jerena, I’m not yet—I mean, what if they turn me out?”

     “I won’t tear your rim; I won’t make you bleed. Just a couple fingers. Swear to me you’ve never done it yourself.”

     I couldn’t do that, of course. Good slaves don’t lie.

     “Ally, you’re blushing! That’s so cute! Come on, you know you’re dying to try it. No one’ll ever know but us. We’ll double-pinkie-swear.” We crooked pinkies, shook twice, and tongue-kissed to seal the deal. I almost had rapture from that alone! She had me bend over and pulled my skirt up and my panties down around my knees. I reached back to part my cheeks, which made Jerena laugh. “Eager beaver, eager butthole.”

     “Do it, Jer, please!” My mound throbbed, and my rim throbbed in anticipation. I could hardly keep my narrow hips from jolting.

     “Whore,” she laughed.

     “I’m no such!” I protested, but she meant it the way they use the word on the outside, like cunt.

     She licked her fingers. “Relax now, baby,” she said, standing close at my hip with her blouse still open, her tit sling dangling around her neck.

     “Just do it!”

     She slapped my hip, but I hardly felt it with my skirt between skin and skin, so I hiked it up over my back.

     “Harder!”

     She slammed her pretty hand into my hip and two fingers up my ass at the same instant, and I nearly crumbled. Jerena, taller than I by half a head and twice my girth, wrapped her arm around my waist and easily supported my weight, the tight grip securing me to withstand the pumping of her fingers in and out, fast as she could work them. My hips seized and danced, and an electric flush passed through me from knees to neck, stirring my skin against the hard lining of my chest plate. I cried out, and Jerena hit me again, cautioning me to silence, but she didn’t stop finger-fucking my asshole until three more waves of ecstasy jolted through me. I blubbered with the power of this release, sang out the glory of God, and then went limp and weak, crumbling. Jerena extracted her fingers and turned me toward her. She put her arms around me, pressed her luscious, newly sprouted breasts against my shoulder. I kissed them. I’d learned about kissing on the Internet. I’d never seen it done on the Alvarez-Alliance Farm or anywhere else I’d managed to spy on Presented folk rutting or even working up to it, until Jerena and I read about it on the web and made it part of our private ritual. She said I was good at it, but I figured she didn’t know any better than I did what it was supposed to feel like. Kissing her lovely melons, though, that was heaven—and she seemed to like it too, judging by the way she moaned. She squirted again, then pushed me down to my knees. She spread her knees wide and pulled my face to her mound. “Clean me up, little fuck-slave,” she intoned, just like her dad. I started by her slender ankles and worked my way up, bathing her sweet, soft legs with my tongue. The taste got sweeter and stronger as I neared her shaggy Y. She stroked my hair, holding it away from my face, while I savored her cleft. I split her puffy nether lips and slid my tongue across her cunt-hole opening, forward to her distended nubbin. She gasped because it was sore from my kneeing her. “More, more,” she urged. I pressed the flat of my tongue against it, but she still wanted more, so I nipped with my teeth in tiny quick, staccato movements of my jaw, and she pressed my head into her until I thought she might suffocate me. I pretended to be servicing my husband-Master’s staff and let her grind against me. I didn’t despair that she’d harm me; I was confident of my BFF.

     Buried in my friend’s muff, with a mouthful of clit, and with her moaning to distract me, I didn’t hear the rustling of the syrtinia vines that conceal the opening to the culvert.

     We cleaned up, a few minutes later, and tongue-kissed again to reseal our oath. Jerena ran her fingers through my hair, tucked her breasts back into their sling, and closed her blouse. We inspected each other for evidence of our debauchery before we emerged and headed back up to the house for a snack. Her older brother Jake, twenty-two and returned from the war to the ways of his ancestors, grabbed her wrist and led her upstairs.

     Strange sensations and thoughts accompanied me as I headed home at a trot along the gravel road between our farms. The Johnsons were our closest neighbors, just a quarter mile down the road. I spent a lot of time over there. Sometimes I just snuck off there, crossing through the north pasture and over the stream. I’d learned a lot of things, over time, from spying on Jerena’s older siblings and her Schuster cousins who came to hang out there on weekends and winter breaks. Now, I’d been part of the action. Outside would call me and Jerena lesbian lovers or “barely legal bi babes.” Such sensations her touch had summoned, and more, such delicious submission!

     Daddy, preacher and devout Agro Farm-Lord, advises his flock that cunt-slavery is a God-given blessing. Aliya and Almyra disagree, and so does Jerena. To me, it sounds like heaven: to be cherished and protected, even if used harshly, to be focused on the body and service, to be the source of your husband-Master’s wealth and status! I can hardly wait.

     I imagined my breasts ripening beneath my shield, imagined the onset of my menses, and the violent puncturing of my hymen by the rod of my protector. My satiety, after an hour of climaxes in the culvert, had lasted a scant two hours. I hungered yet again. I rounded the curve on Johnson Drive and hopped the fence, dashing up the front hill with my backpack bouncing against my shoulders, its grommets and buckles eliciting a faint ting from impact through my blouse with my chest shield. I imagined my nipples rupturing the metal harness and popping through, protruding, with a beautiful silvery slave ring through each, declaring me Owned.

     My clit danced. That weird pulse in my anus began afresh. I ran past the house, dropped my book bag on the back porch, and approached the barn in stealth to see whether I could catch any action between mom and dad or dad and Ali . . . or dad and Altoona, the old sow. What I found made me shudder and squirm.

More to come soon!

Des.

Chapter 4: Aliya’s Betrothal

     I stole up the outside ladder to the hay loft and belly-crawled over the bales to my preferred hidey hole for watching barn action. I heard voices below—several of them, some familiar—mom and dad—and some I didn’t recognize. I shifted a hay bale to reveal a plank with a small knot that I’d pried loose two years before. I looked down on seven heads below—mom, dad, Aliya, and Farm-Lord Holzapple and his cunt-wife, plus their two most recently Presented pups: Harry, aged sixteen, a strapping galoot of a boy with terrible acne, and his older sister, Halle, who was nearing twenty. I knew Harry from school and Halle from tent meetings. She always watched the un-Presented during Presentations and the grown-up sermons. I think meanness just runs in the Holzapple line, because all of their offspring and both parents wear scowls and inflict their ill tempers on all around them pretty much all the time.

     Farm-Lord Hugh Holzapple was among the more devout of the parishioners, but dad had never cottoned to that family. Their farm was on the other side of the valley, so we didn’t see much of them except at meetings or the occasional chance encounter in town, usually at the feed store or the library. His wife, Hester, was a short, rotund woman with enormous teats—no surprise, given her fourteen live offspring. Hugh gave his son a shove, which landed him a step closer to Aliya, who of course was blindfolded. The cunt-wife wouldn’t knowingly see her betrothed until after he claimed her. I witnessed an Offeror’s Inspection, the first I knew of for Aliya, and good news. The Holzapples could afford a decent cunt-price, and most of their pups stayed on in the valley, several taking up residence in the small outbuildings on their extensive properties. The Holzapples had only lost one pup to outside, Hollister, their fifth, who’d run off the day after his Presentation never to be heard from again. Most families lose all but one or two, which fuels the frenzy to procreate. I’d always thought Farm-Lord Holzapple must have less of a temper than dad, if his pups—boys and girls—were so willing to stay on. Maybe, I thought, Aliya would have less to whine about. Maybe she’d end up happy. Farm-Lord Holzapple encouraged his hesitant son. “Go ahead, boy. She’ll be your cunt-wife if she proves worthy. State your case.”

     Harry turned to my dad and said, “Preacher Alvarez, with respect, sir, I’d like to examine—”

     Cunt-wife Hester Holzapple interrupted, “Inspect, son.”

     Someone chuckled; I couldn’t tell who from my vantage.

     Harry continued, “inspect, that is, sir, your Presented daughter. We’re prepared to offer—how much, dad?”

     “A goodly price,” was all the Farm-Lord would cop to at the moment.

     “A goodly price for a sturdy virgin to bear my sons. Is she virtuous?”

     “Her cunt-mom avows that her hymen is intact.”

     “And since her Presentation?”

     “I avow that she has an able mouth and an accessible anus. She proceeds apace to her Blossoming. Allow me to prepare her for inspection.” Dad grabbed Aliya’s upper arm and her ponytail and pushed her toward the side door of the barn. There he had her stand with her back to the wide-open door. She wore her Presentation gown, including the blackberry vine collar around her neck. Algonquin, our prize-winning stallion draft pony (who brings in thousands for a successful cover) in the first stall, whickered as I scampered over his stall for a better view of the proceedings.

     Daddy took up the cross-ties: ropes hooked to eyes near the ceiling and floor on either wall of the aisle, concluding in stainless steel clips meant to secure a horse’s halter for grooming or shoeing. Dad hooked the ropes to either side of the blackberry vines into clips installed there for that purpose. Aliya trembled. I don’t understand her nervousness. I can hardly wait to be bared before my Lord’s eyes!

     As at Presentation, Daddy lifted the thorny vine until it sat under Aliya’s nose, pulled the front piece of the gown over her head, then took the back piece, with the fabric of the front bundled within, and put it back over her head to the front. The hanging tail he snugged tight around the collar. Aliya whimpered, but all the butt-fucking must have taught her not to whine so much. She didn’t say a word.

     Aliya’s breasts had sprouted righteously in just a few days. I can’t say they were as plump and lovely as Jerena’s, but the nipples were well formed, jutting out in the cold air of an early spring evening. The surprising thing was the rag harness securing her rag. Ahhh, I thought. Her first menses, which declared her marriageable and fertile, would signal the unmarried Presenteds to come check her out. I was pretty sure Harry was the first, but the Holzapples, with all their local sway, are always among the first at everything.

     Her body was decorated with the marks of the lash. Bruises decorated her hips and butt, evidence of daddy’s strong hands when he fucked her ass. Harry and Hugh stepped up to her, standing just in front and eyeing her with their arms crossed over their chests. Harry’s package suddenly looked like it had some real clout. “Use your hands, son,” Farm-Lord Holzapple advised him. “Squeeze them. Pull the nipples. Make sure they’re good and sturdy. You’ll be wanting many sons to use those jugs. Keep your own uses in mind as well.”

     Harry stood arm’s length away and raised his hands to Aliya’s lovely B cups. He tugged the nipples, twisted them, then grabbed each tit in his fist and squeezed. Aliya moaned but kept her arms at her sides. I suspect mom had dosed her up again.

     Hugh coached his son, “Check out her belly, hips, and thighs. She’s thin now, but imagine her after a dozen younglings, thick and ugly as your cunt-mom, her teats down to her knees. When she’s big and used up, or big and pregnant, you’ll want to fuck her ass, so check her out from behind as well. We can afford shapely, son. You don’t have to settle.”

     Harry circled, feeling as he went. On his second trip around, he gestured to Halle, who stepped over and unhooked Aliya’s rag harness. She reached under and her hand emerged with dark red on her fingers, which she held up to her parents then dutifully licked clean, honored by the sip of cunt-wine. Harry opened Ali’s nether lips to inspect her clit, a tiny nubbin buried beneath her blond fur. He opened her cheeks and eyed her brown hole, which was considerably softer and wider than the morning of her Presentation—no surprise, given that dad had been enacting his fatherly duties with such great vigor just about hourly around the clock. “Farm-Lord Alvarez, I’d like to proceed,” Harry announced.

     “As you wish.”

     Harry stood up and gestured to his sister. She approached him and knelt with her hands clasped behind her back. He opened his fly and handed his young but admirably thick pecker into Halle’s open mouth for fluffing, as they call it outside, and wetting. When he was slick with her slobber, he turned back to Ali, stood behind her, pulled her hips back, and said, “Open.”

     Aliya didn’t move. That should’ve been her cue to reach back and pull her butt cheeks apart, but she didn’t even flinch. Maybe mom gave her too much . . . maybe because mom knows how much preacher-daddy loves to punish.

     He lifted the longest crop from a hook by the door to the tack room. He positioned himself, then unloaded on Aliya’s breasts with a dozen hard swats. She screamed on the third and didn’t stop until twenty seconds after he did. “Open,” he repeated, with great bile and seething anger.

     I decided Aliya and Harry would be well-matched: he needed to be fluffed all over again. If he couldn’t get wood from watching a good tit-whipping, perhaps he’d be gentle enough for poor, whiney Aliya. Halle did the honors, again, sucking her brother to full erection. This time, Aliya opened on command. Harry lunged into her and jackhammered his narrow, young hips, his butt cheeks flexing. His hands clenched at her hips. Her ghostly, white-wrapped head bobbed with each vicious thrust. I thought about climbing down from the hayloft for a ground-level view so I could see his nuts flapping but feared the tiniest sound would lead to my discovery.

     Harry pulled out after a couple minutes, during which both sets of parents and his sister, on her knees next to Ali, watched with rapt attention. He stepped back and said, “The cunt-mouth.” Daddy unclipped the cross-ties and guided Aliya to her knees. Harry circled around in front of her. Dad stood behind, securing Ali’s wrists in one hand and grasping her bundled gown/hood with the other. Harry said, “Open.” This time, Ali didn’t need a beating to cooperate. Harry’s pecker filled her mouth. I was kinda surprised: when dad and the older Als fuck face, they always jam deep into the throat; Harry only slipped back his foreskin and set the head in her mouth. “Preacher Alvarez,” Harry said, his voice strained, “please release one of the virgin’s hands.” He wanted to be stroked—even I knew that—though in all fairness, Aliya couldn’t have understood, being that dad never allowed such a thing. Before dad could react by punishing Ali’s slowness to obey, Harry said, “Show her, Ha— cunt-sister.” He’d almost said her name, a gross breach of etiquette, as I understand it, for betrothal inspections. Halle guided Aliya’s hand to Harry’s fuck stick and showed her how to grasp the staff and stroke from her lips and the root of his shaft. That seemed like cheating to me, but Harry liked it, and both Sires appeared to approve. Harry worked up a good rhythm and a sweat.

     All at once, he extricated himself, worked his rod in his fist, and turned to his sister. He grunted and his hips jolted as he stroked faster and faster, then he spurted thick gobs of man-cream over Halle’s face and hair. He shot off a lot more goo than dad ever did, that was for sure. In fact, I think Algonquin could have been jealous of that load of jism, as they call it outside. Before he was done, Halle was covered with the stuff. It dripped from her nose and chin and clotted her dark hair. She licked her lips.

     Happy with the evidence of Harry’s fecundity, dad turned to Farm-Lord Holzapple. “Will we hear from you?”

     “Sunday, at the meeting, I suspect,” Hugh Holzapple answered. “In the meantime, I offer you the services of sow-cunt Halle. She’s approaching unmarriageable, as you’re well aware.”

     “We’ll waste her virginity on December 31, unless she’s claimed by then, of course. It’s been on my calendar since her last birthday.”

     “We appreciate your attention to such matters, Preacher. In the meantime, she’s available for dark-hole and cunt-mouth service, at your pleasure.”

     “And discipline?” daddy prompted.

     “No, sir.”

     “Animal service?”

     “No, sir,” Hugh Holzapple reiterated.

     Daddy stopped short of grumbling, but I could see he wasn’t happy. The negotiations distracted his attention from Aliya and Harry, who used that opportunity to set his hand on Aliya’s shoulder. He didn’t speak to her, I’d bet Ali read volumes into the gentle gesture.

     A minute later, the Holzapples, minus Halle, who would stay on with us until they came to reclaim her, got in their electric pickup and left. Harry barely managed the climb up into the truck bed. Jerena says all the boys want to do after their rapture is sleep, which is way different from dad’s irritable post-coital pacing, cursing, and growling.

     Halle and mom got Aliya cleaned up. Mom disinfected her bleeding lip—she’d bitten herself while dad was beating her—and gave her a fresh rag before cinching the harness back around Ali’s hips. Mom left to take Ali up to the house, and dad called Halle to serve. He scolded her about using her hands and threatened to bind them before she tilted back her head so he could ream her throat. I didn’t stay to witness the big finish but snuck back to the house as if I’d just returned—late, of course—from the Johnson-Joy Farm.

Chapter 5: Aliya’s Blossom and Alyssa’s Buds

     Aliya’s Blossom party was Saturday night. The Preacher’s daughter—traditionally well-trained, devout, hard-working, and tractable—is a big deal Agro ways, and the gorgeous weather brought out all the uncommitted, unclaimed Presenteds. I’d been trundled off to the Johnsons. Jerena would join the celebration at the Blossom, but the un-Presented aren’t allowed, of course. Blossom parties, according to Jerena, are great for cunt-shopping and sometimes turn into all-out orgies, with the older girls servicing all the young rods. Jerena’s cousin Winfrey’s Blossom party, she told me, turned into a spanking marathon. One of the Durnham boys bought her the next morning, and my friend became cunt-wife Dinfrey Durnham. I had high hopes for Aliya, who would become Hiya Holzapple if the deal consummated, and Harry, who Jerena said was “an okay dude.” He’s only a few months older than Ali.

     Cunt-mom must’ve told cunt-wife Julie Johnson to keep a close eye on me. I had no opportunity to sneak out and spy on the festivities. I so wanted to watch Jerena get her throat pumped or her ass reamed by some eager boy (any one of whom could end up being my own Lord and Master!!). Jer’s way more fun than Aliya to watch for sure.

     Jerena’s older brother Jeremy, newly married and so not attending the Blossom party, came in while I was helping cunt-wife Julie with her mending. Jeremy gave me the oddest look, an eye-to-eye direct stare not usually bestowed on one of my (virginal) status by males outside the family. Jer says Jeremy’s a mean one, that he likes to do a lot of hitting when he fucks. He regularly rats out Jerena and her Presented cunt-sisters when they misbehave and then helps Punish them. Jer was so relieved when he married Hiya (now Jiya) Holzapple. We’d spied on him plenty of times in the culvert. I thought he was sexy, but Jer said he was just mean. I didn’t like his staring at me, and I turned away, ever the shy virgin in front of the cunt-moms.

     Jeremy stood in the room for a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth. His older brother Jackson was there; Jack’s wife Jenice (formerly Denice of the Durnhams) had been summoned to the barn by Farm-Lord Johnson. Jack and Jenice had been married almost three years without a pup, and I figured the Farm-Lord was trying his hand at producing his son’s heir. Jeremy said, “Dad wants you.” Jack stood up to answer the summons. “You, too, mom.”

     “Oh, dear,” she said. “Well, you stay here and look after Virgin Alyssa.”

     “You bet, mom,” he said with a big smile.

     My perimeter alarms bleeped. A nervous thrill ran through me.

     Jeremy waited a few seconds after the back door screen slammed shut before he came over to where I was sitting by the lamp and unzipped his fly. “Serve, cunt.”

     “Jeremy! I’m not yet—”

     His hand snaked out and slapped my face. “I know exactly what you are, cunt. I saw you in the culvert, slut-whore. Now suck my dick before I decide to rat you out instead.”

     I pulled away. “No way, you pervert. Leave me alone.” Jeremy had made one miscalculation, and that was the fact that I had a thread snip—a tiny, super-sharp scissors—in my hand. I took a back swing, but I was too slow. He caught my hand before I could land the scissors points in his groin. My training was to scream if harassed as a virgin—which never happens—and I did. I howled and set up a terrible ruckus, but it did nothing to help me as all the older siblings were in the barn and the younger ones asleep in bed, behind a locked door, oblivious to my distress or unable to respond if they weren’t.

     Jeremy made the mistake of trying to wrestle me into compliance. I’m too small and quick for him, and he stumbled, barked his shin on the coffee table, and then chased me to the door. I don’t know whether I’d’ve run home or to the barn because within three steps from the porch, he caught me by the hair. I turned and kicked him in his already bruised shin, with the net effect of makin’ him madder than a shook-up wasps’ nest. Then I remembered to scream. By the time anyone responded, I was on my back on the ground with Jeremy sitting on my stomach, grinding his staff against me through our clothes, his hands flailing, slapping and hitting me on my face, neck, and shoulders.

     I heard Julie Johnson screech, “Jeremy Johnson, what in the name of the dear Lord are you doing to that virgin-child? Get up right now!”

     “She was spying, mom.”

     “What!? No. Honestly, Jeremy, get up off of her. She’s our neighbor’s un-Presented virgin. This is unseemly. Spying, indeed.”

     He got up and I turned and crawled away, huffing for breath. He said, “I have proof, cunt.”

     Most of the Agro families avoid electronics because of the risk of contamination from outside, but Jeremy had a cell phone with a camera in it—probably cobbled together by Jerena, just like she’d cobbled her computer and Internet hookup. My cunt-mom would’ve turned away from the heretical invention, but Julie Johnson isn’t owned by the preacher. She looked. She gasped as he flipped through the photos he’d taken of me and Jerena exploring each others’ bodies in the culvert a few weeks before.

     Julie said, “Damn. Damn. Damn. Oh, shit, Jeremy. Look what you’ve done! That’s your sister! We’ll never sell her off now. Heaven help us. Oh, shit, heaven help us.” When I realized I’d been caught and that Julie Johnson was no ally, I started to run, but she barked, “Catch her, Jeremy, quick, don’t let her get away. Take her down to the barn. I’m going to call over to the Alvarez’s. Looks like we’ll have to Punish the preacher’s daughter. Damned shame. Damned shame.”

     Though I screamed and cried and begged, I spent the night shackled to the chain-link fence of the goat and sheep pen, freezing cold, hungry, horrified. Even then, shamed and knowing I was about to be turned out or left to the animals, deprived of husband-Master and children, I couldn’t quell the insistent thrumming between my legs when the goats and sheep came to check me out, when they nuzzled and nibbled at my virgin-mound. The worst was imagining daddy’s reaction. He’d do a fire-and-brimstone sermon to get the holy riled up so they could watch my daddy waste me by bringing down the hand of God—a rough wooden scepter in the shape of a large phallus—on my virginhead with the whole congregation watching. He would expose me, beat me bloody, and then offer me to the villagers, according to tradition. I don’t know for sure what happens to failed cunts, but they seem to just disappear. I’ve heard stories about being sold to the Friar’s Commune, but no one can really say what they do up there. I’d heard that failed cunts are cut up, boiled, and eaten, fed to the animals, or dried and used to fertilize the fields. I’d heard their female parts are removed to make room for the large staffs of the animals that’ll use her until she dies. Jerena and I speculated the Wasted are sold into white slavery outside and shipped off to strange, foreign countries to be used as whores or for manual labor, wet-nursing, or scientific experiments. Some say aliens with slimy fangs and many tentacles take the slaves off-planet and traffick in body parts and S&M sacrifice ritual personnel.

     I wept, late into the night, grieving the lost chance to be claimed and cherished by a loving but strict husband-Master.

     I saw cars and wagons leaving the Blossom party late at night, and later, heard dogs barking and horses nickering.

     Jerena came up, screaming and crying. She’d be punished severely for corrupting a virgin-child, but she was past Presentation, so she’d get off a lot easier than I. “Ally, baby, what have you done?”

     “Ask Jeremy. He took pictures of us in the culvert.”

     “Oh, baby, how could this happen,” she wailed.

     “Get away from her,” her dad growled. “Filth. I should send you with her,” he spat. I wasn’t sure whether he meant to the tent meeting in the morning for Punishment or to wherever I’d be sent so as to avoid contaminating the other virgin children with my filth. Farm-Lord Jeffrey Johnson pushed Jerena into the pen, followed by Jackson and Jeremy, their older cunt-sister Jessica, Julie, and Jenice. Julie and Jenice, shamed by my failures, knelt in the dung to watch their brothers and father punish Jerena. They took turns fucking her ass and her mouth; then they took turns pissing on her. She cried and ranted, begging, not to save herself—Jerena likes a good ass-fucking for sure—but to save me. I hung my head to see my friend so accosted on my account. She’d be beaten later, I was certain, probably with switches or a whip.

     I looked up when I saw torches approaching. Mom and dad came into the pen with Aliya, who still wore virgin white. They required her to witness my humiliation, though she’d missed the worst of it.

Chapter 6: Alyssa’s Preparation

     I didn’t have to see the spittle flying from my Sire’s mouth, the turgid redness of his face, or even the bulge in his robes to know he seethed with unequaled, righteous rage. He turned to my mother and backhanded her across the face, sending her flying. She landed in a heap on the dung pile, and he ran to her, ripped open her blouse, grabbed her hair, and backhanded her three more times, until blood spattered from her nose. He called her filth and whore, then took up a handful of droppings and rubbed it over her teats, between her legs, then into her mouth. “Now go kiss your precious cunt-bitch, my shame. Get up, cunt, get up,” he bellowed. “Let your filthy whelp taste your shame.”

     Mom forced her shit-grimed tongue into my mouth and deposited a load of nightmare. She held her hand over my mouth and ripped open my blouse. Julie Johnson handed her the metal cutters. Careless of tender skin beneath, Mom cut away my chest guard and tossed it out of the pen. She’d been so involved in Aliya’s Presentation and Blossom that she’d failed to notice my premature development. I had small, swollen domes of flesh centering on puffy, nipple-less areolas. “Dear Lord,” she breathed, then rounded on her husband-Master. “This is none of my doing, I swear,” she protested, and dropped to her knees to plead for her life. The cunt-mom’s sacred duty is to keep the virgin in child-form until her fifteenth birthday; dad assumed, as I did, that mom’s compulsive tampering with the potions had caused my teats to pop almost a year early. Dad hauled back and kicked her in the chin. She toppled and didn’t move. He kicked her aside and stood in front of me. He almost foamed at the mouth. His eyes flashed and darted. “I’d end your life if I didn’t think I could get a few bucks for your worthless cunt,” he growled, staring at me.

     Before I could even beg, before I could offer him virgin-cunt to rend, before I could so much as whimper, he drew back, balled his fist, and punched me with all his considerable strength in my right side. I chuffed and felt a crack and a pain like a knife searing through me. He’d broken at least one rib. It took so long before I could draw another breath that I concluded he’d punctured my lung, but when breath finally came, it was all air.

     Farm-Lord Johnson had the nerve to attempt to deter my father’s divine wrath by grabbing his arm. My dad, far the larger of the two men, shook him off and roared, “I am Master of nothing but filth. Stay your hand, Farm-Lord, and do not intervene between a righteous Master and the punishment of the fallen child.”

     “Al, buddy, she’ll have her Punishment tomorrow before the congregation. You must let her live at least until then so we can all witness and partake of our failings. You deprive us if you bring the sow dead to her reckoning.” Somehow, he made Alonso Alvarez of the demonic backhand stand down. “Julie, help cunt-wife Alvarez into the house and get her cleaned up while I see to our sow-cunt and her condemned accomplice. You’ve had a rough night, Al, and Aliya should be spared this so close to her claiming.”

     Though choking on filth and retching with agony, pain, and hopelessness, I looked to my cunt-sister. Tears fell from her eyes. She shook her head. “Wait,” she said, entitled to be heard in the days between Presentation and Claiming. “This isn’t mom’s fault. Leave her out of this. I’ve known what Alyssa’s been up to. She’s been doing it for years, spying, peeking in on Presenteds. The little pervert likes to watch the animals fucking. She even spied on Presentations, till the Holzapple cunts got suspicious. She’s been promiscuous in her mind, if not in her body, for three, four years now. And I’ve known . . . all along. I kept it to myself to spare her the Punishment, and I’m responsible for her present condition. Spare her and Punish me. I’m still a virgin. You can sell me to the Friars instead.” Aliya wasn’t trying to spare me but to find a less reprehensible alternative to the path of her own life.

     Mom spoke through a shattered mouth. “No, baby, no, no, dear sweet Aliya, that’s nonsense, of course.” She turned to dad. “Master, I beg you, Aliya’s only covering for her sister, to spare her. I beg you, husband-Master, don’t let our last virgin sacrifice herself for this worthless whelp. It’s my doing. Alyssa matured too soon. See her teats, swelling inside her chest guard. I changed her formula. I cut her dose and omitted the hormone inhibitors. I gave her eufrystus root.”

     Cunt-wife Johnson’s hands clapped to her mouth. “Heaven guard us,” she breathed. She turned to my father, “I’m so sorry, Preacher Alvarez.” I thought she’d offer comfort through service, but of course, that’s not her place.

     “We Punish them all in the morning.”

     “But daddy!” Aliya protested.

     He turned on her. “You were my last salvation, cunt. I’ve already collected your fee from Farm-Lord Holzapple, so we’ll preserve your hymen for your husband to wreck, but you’ll suffer for your attempt to deter ’lyssa’s Punishment—and you’ll watch while we nail your cunt-bitch’s tits to the rail and a score of staffs invade your cunt-sister’s wreckage.”

     Jeffrey Johnson stood up to his full height. “The Friars pay more for virgins,” he pointed out. I thought dad was going to deck him, right on his own Farm. But Farm-Lord Johnson was right, and dad’s a practical man.

     Dad actually backed down, something I’d never witnessed. “Then a score each to rape her ass and her throat, and a score with the whip. A score of nails in her cunt-mother’s ugly teats.”

     After a strange time of not knowing whether I was awake or asleep, alive or dead, I heard sobbing—my own.

     Dad dragged me by the hair from the van to our own barn. Mom followed. She alternated between pleading to be spared and begging to inflict my Punishment herself.

     Daddy cuffed me and put me over the stool in the same position as I’d watched Aliya get her first ass-fucking just weeks before. I thought, thank God, at least I’ll still have that part of my dream, to be anally deflowered by the thick shaft of my Preacher-Sire. I’d get no closer to any of my dreams than that.

     He turned to mom and grabbed her by the throat. “Why’d you do it, cunt? Why’d you fuck with the potion? And eufrystus root? Why did you doom us this way?” He squeezed while he talked and hefted her up against the rough wood aisle wall.

     She clutched his wrist and kicked until he set her down. When she got done gasping for air and coughing up blood, she said, “To bring her more quickly to your service, husband-Master. I’m a dried up old cunt and unsuitable to serve a great man. With Aliya gone, you’ll need service.”

     He shook his head, disgusted and sneering. “I can have any ripe cunt in the valley.”

     “Keep her here with us, Master. Sterilize her and use her for your own. We can keep her here. We don’t have to sell her away, my last little puppy,” she sobbed. “Please, Alonso, she’s my last.”

     With narrowed eyes and a voice full of venom, he snapped, “Clean out the cunt. Use the Bowel-B-Rid solution. A score of the righteous will fill her with the evidence of her failure. Prepare her for Punishment at the meeting tomorrow. Stop her child-shots and get her tits pumped up—at least C-cups by the end of the week.”

     Mom dropped to her knees, in contrition, or maybe to offer mouth service.

     Dad glared at her. “You’re not off the hook, bitch. Get to work.” He stalked off and a few minutes later, I heard one of the sows squeal as she took his big staff.

     I zoned out again while mom made her preparations, but then I saw her heft the bulging enema bag onto a hook high on the wall. She spread my cheeks and used the largest of her graduated set of nozzles. She loosed the clamp and I felt a gurgle. Within moments, cramps took me. I’d seem punishment enemas in my spying, but I’d never imagined a clenching spasm like the one that contorted my insides and made my budding nipples tingle and thicken.

     “Relax Ally, or you’ll never take this big load, which is seriously gas-producing: you’re getting equal parts unprocessed heavy cream from that young cow with the deformed udder—she does give the richest cream—plus seltzer water; good, strong coffee; and pure grain alcohol to help you relax, plus corn syrup and salt to restore your fluids. And a double dose of eufrystus root. Maybe we can bring on your menses. Might lessen your suffering a bit, though your Sire sure is worked up. I should learn not to meddle, I suppose.”

     “It hurts, mommy,” I whispered.

     “Shut up or I’ll gag you, cunt,” she snapped. “Do you know what it feels like to get your tits nailed? Whore-child. Spying! You watch your father? The animals? And, my God, touching a ripe woman? Penetrating your dark portal? Holy Father, you’re abomination. I’m surprised he doesn’t have them stone you to death.”

     I wanted to protest: it’s not my fault! She’d been poisoning me for three years. Eufrystus root hastens sexual development and increases libido. I wept and wept. My head hurt from crying upside-down and my gut hurt.

     Mom sighed and reminisced through a dozen bouts of cramps. “I’ll never forget my initiation. Gramma made me hold my enema for almost an hour while she inspected me.” Mom pressed her hand between my belly and the seat of the stool to palpate my tight little tummy, now bulging from the potion and a full bladder. “I’ll insert your catheter in just a moment. Even with the thick nozzle wide open, your bowel solution will take a while to drizzle into you. While it does, let your mind flow. Pay attention to your holes, dear. Feel the pressure, the wetness. This is your body acknowledging its readiness for use. I’ll get the catheter started so you won’t feel so full. The enema solution needs that space. It’s going to hurt a lot, my dear sweet puppy.”

     My heart pounded, my knees hurt, the blood rushed to my head, and all of a sudden, a huge cramp hit. I contracted, rounding my back, chuffing air, and hitting my head on the wall. I gasped, jolted, and cried out from the pain.

     Mom knelt by my shoulder and rubbed my back. “There, there, dear. I know, it always comes on like that. I thought we had more time. You just try to relax, sweetheart. I’m going to open the catheter kit now, so try to manage the cramps on your own. They’re just rehearsals for the sacrament of birth, so give yourself to the pain, make it part of your holy spirit.” Mom was babbling. She must’ve been in shock, because she carried on as if she were prepping me for Presentation instead of Punishment and Expulsion. “That’s why we take the cunt-wine, the fruit of our menses, to symbolize our willingness to suffer and bleed to perform God’s command to serve our keeper. To remind us of our primal pain, the price of subservience, the initiation rites require us to suffer—so I’m using pepper oil blended with the lubricant on your catheter tube. Though I expect your next cramp will commence momentarily, do try to remain very still. It’ll really burn if I get any of this in your wine-hole.” She chuckled. “I remember those blisters. Your Aunt Sheryl spent two days in the hospital from it. You can’t do that, of course. We’re poor people, and we have no insurance, so I’d have to nurse you back to health here, but of course, as you know, I’m well trained and credentialed for that. Now hold still, sweetie, while I thread this tube—geez, your little pee hole is just as tight as can be. That’s my fault, really. I always hated when gramma worked on mine. I thought I could spare you, but she was right. Okay, it’s partway in. Hold on. I’ll give you something to bite down on.” She retrieved a wad of used leg wrap from the shelf in the tack room and twisted the sticky wad into a thick, coiled rope. “Open up. This’ll help, trust me. You’ll get a sore throat if you spend all day screaming.” She forced the makeshift gag into my mouth and tied it behind my head then turned back to the burning rod in my pee-hole. “Just hang on. It’ll feel better after we get the thick part through the narrow passage. One, two, three,” she counted, then jabbed, and I screamed into the wadded leg wrap. Searing fire exploded through my belly as another enema-induced cramp wave hit me. My belly wrenched with protesting muscles.

     “Relax now, it’ll pass. You don’t even have half the bag in yet, so just cut the fuss. You’ll have another dozen or so waves of cramps before we’re done. I’ve almost got this piss-sucker seated properly.” She shoved again, and I screamed again, arching with agony as my guts churned, roiled, knotted, and protested.

     I endured another half hour of alternating agony and lethargy. The ordeal—or the concoction of herbs assembled from an ancient family recipe with which she’d generously laced my enema solution—sapped my strength and suspended my volition. I laid limp over the stool, the seat pressed against my pulsing breast buds, my forehead on the cross-piece, a thick tube carrying toxic sludge into my distended and protesting bowel, and another tube searing my pee hole with pepper juice as it pumped out the bulging golden contents of my aching bladder.

     The cramps slowed. Mom toweled sweat from my back and neck. From the side, she palpated my distended gut, now empty of piss but swollen and tight with the entire bag of viscous, gurgling syrup. She tsked. “It’s going to be a long night.”

     She released me from the wrist and ankle cuffs that secured me to the stool and helped me sit on it, but her vile serum deprived me of the strength to support myself. “My, my,” she said. “That potion’s really working. You do seem particularly sensitive to its euphoric effects. You’re such a little thing, it’s not too surprising, I suppose. You hardly look like a woman at all,” she mused, feeling my hips and running her hand over my narrow buttocks. “It’s just your breast buds that are ahead of schedule, really.” Her gloved hand went to my thin, blonde bush, to reveal a bulging pink clitoris peeping out from pristine, rounded labia. “That’s the euphrystus root working. You’ll have a nice big button, not as long as mine, but prominent. Now you just relax, baby, and let mommy take care of you.” I had no choice but to relax. My limbs were heavy, my eyelids at half mast, spittle collecting at the corner of my mouth.

     Though lulled to bliss by arcane chemistry, I focused hazily on mom’s bare foot, the thick toenails of her wrinkly, crusty feet a surprising fire-engine red. My eyes followed a path up her bony feet and ankles, her hard-knotted calves, skinny shins, and knobby knees, to thighs that creped and sagged despite their thinness. I wondered when she’d gotten naked. Where I expected a hairy mound, I saw a metal device locked over her female apparatus, as she called her sex parts.

     “Don’t stare. You’ll wear one tomorrow. It just blocks your cunt-hole. You think this body’s used up, think of grandma. She was a mother of seven by the time she was nineteen and as wrinkly as me by the time she had her twelfth at twenty-four. She was lucky to be so ripe, but it sure wore her out. At thirty, her teats hung down to her waist—and she was never so endowed as you’re likely to be. The Alvarez line is blessed that way.”

     I was too numb to speak or consider the implications. “Yes, dear,” she said when I moaned from cramping. “It’s supposed to hurt. It represents the opening of your vagina to your husband’s staff and scepter when he’s ready to impregnate his most important cow. It hurts when you get parted, when his rod pries you open, and you submit to the use God gave him the power to require.” My eyes tuned to mom’s hairless mound—shaved bare, one hundred percent, perfectly, spotlessly bare, revealing a pussy that looked like she’d serviced the football team, the marching band, and a whole herd of stallions every night for a month. The drooping lips were dark, a grisly gray, wrinkled but puffy and distended around the rough metallic cunt-blocker she wore buckled around her hips and thighs. Her saggy cunt-lips glistened with fluids, which dripped down over a thigh marred by the A-A (Alvarez-Alliance) brand she’d received at her wedding.

     In morbid fascination and lacking the volition even to close my eyes, I stared as Mom gyrated. She used a key to open the lock of her chastity device and hung it from one of the wall hooks. At the top of her slit, peaking out boldly, was a thick, pink appendage the size of Alonso’s thick thumb, a miniature penis right down to the vein and an indentation at the tip. There was no hole to pee through, but my mother’s clit resembled a three-inch, flaccid penis that would’ve done many boys proud. In a weird haze, I studied the twitching appendage, fascinated. I wondered whether all women develop penises when their bodies become worn from service; I wondered what it would feel like to bend it up into her own cunt.

     Despite the drugs in my serum, being absorbed, minute by minute, through the sensitive lining of my bowel, I raised my hand to my mound to press my own tight little clit into hiding, but I found the little sucker bulging and wet, my lips spread wide. I wept.

     “Oh, no, honey, it’s okay. You’ve got ages before your little twat looks as used up as mine. You’ll close up again after you shed your virgin ecstasy, you’ll see. Let’s just get you propped up then,” she said, and fitted a leather harness around my upper body. I thought, mom’s lost it.

     The straps encircled my chest above and below my breast buds, under my arms, around my neck, and with an ear opening between, along my head. It culminated in a thick ring at the crown of my head. She fitted the chin strap under my jaw and buckled it by the ears, then unknotted and extracted the leg-wrap gag. “This’ll ease the stress on your jaw,” she promised, and inserted a device in my mouth. It tasted funny. I felt it with my tongue as she buckled the straps that joined it to the vertical straps in front of my ears. The device was shaped like a pig’s penis, made of smooth metal that made my teeth feel weird. “Relax, honey,” mom said, patting my cheek through the intersecting leather straps. “Once I get you hooked up, you can just hang. I won’t have to worry about you collapsing and hitting your sweet little head.”

     She hoisted me up with uncanny strength that rippled the tight muscles in her loose-skinned arms. She looped the O-ring that topped the harness, at the top of my head, on a hook on the wall with my bare feet dangling just inches above the floor and the rough wood of the aisle wall pressed against my shoulders and butt.

     My gut bulged and gravity added to the weight of the sludge in my bowel, which pressed hard against the restraining bulb. I groaned. I thought it would rip me open from intense pressure that made me sweat and cramp. I tried to speak despite the device securing my mouth open.

     “No, dear, we can’t let it go yet. Not until those titties start to pop. That’s what I’ve been afraid of with you. It should happen together. If you get menses before you get the equipment to handle the fruit of your cunt-service, you’re ill prepared to handle the consequences. You’ll be a bad mother, forget your heritage, deprive your girl-pups of their training, or worse, oppose your Master’s God-decreed governance of your males until their majority.”

Author’s Note: I’d love to hear from you if you’re enjoying my story! More chapters will post soon. Desiree Thorn