Kindness Quasimodo, late in his firelit study, talks to a guest.: Softly, softly. You enjoyed 7, didn't you? Spectacular mouth, wonderful control of that anus. The jewelled clit? I expect you enjoyed using the remote? Good; I don't like her to accommodate too many of my guests, and I do like it when they appreciate her. Took me almost a year to create 7, you know. She used to be called Marilyn; have some of this excellent Armagnac. You have to use the right strategy: I think you had 12 the last time you were here, didn't you? Coarse old bitch, tolerable mouth, extraordinary vaginal muscles. All I needed for her was a dog collar. But Marilyn was much trickier. No, it was 13 you had, wasn't it? I do try to remember these things. Never mind, I'll tell you about 12 another time: she's one of our old stagers. I don't often do my own recruiting but I knew when I met Marilyn that she was perfect. American; slim, boyish figure with rosebud breasts; shy; alone in a strange city. I made a fuss of her, turned on the European charm. She wasn't used to that. The first night she stayed at my house, I made up the guest room for her. I know she was surprised by that. I didn't see her for a week, then took her for dinner to a Michelin-starred place near me. It was late, and I offered the room again. Obviously, it wasn't in the Guest Wing: she didn't know about that in those days. Later, when she came to share my bed, she thought it was her idea. She wasn't much of a fuck, of course; but I enjoyed the offer of her near-virginal body, and accepted it. She had long loins, with light pubic hair over a fine, high slit; she was shy about her sex, but then she was shy about almost everything, including her exquisite little breasts. I had to work on that. I did. She came round to my house two or three times the next week. About the fourth time, maybe the fifth, she allowed her lips just to touch on the tip of my penis. I waited a month before I took the first step. I was half-dressed, she was naked. I was standing behind her stroking her flanks, allowing my hand to float across her pubic mound. "We should do something about that," I said, and felt her stiffen. "You would look so much better without the hair." Even in the dim light of the bedroom I saw her redden. "In fact, I am going to have to insist on it. We could shave you: that would be a fun experience but you'd get stubbly. But then we could shave you again, and it would be fun again. Or we could wax you. That would hurt, but just the once, really. And you would be very beautiful and smooth." I tugged, a little roughly, at a tuft of hair. "What do you think?" I felt her tremble, but she remained silent. "I want you to say one of three things, Marilyn. Shave me, wax me, or drive me home." She trembled again, and there was a long silence. "Wax me," she said. It was her last free decision. I really would have driven her home, you know. Still, it was the right decision: shaving wouldn't have been, well, appropriate. But she did look good afterwards, and she could see it herself in the mirror. I had to go to Paris the next week, and I bought her some spectacular underwear plus a few other things she didn't know about from a somewhat peculiar Belgian friend of mine who lives in Montparnasse. By now, Marilyn expected sexual attention almost every night; some of my cages were getting quite frustrated, especially since I didn't want a guest night until she was ready. She'd become quite proud of her bare pussy: she loved to stroke her own naked mound and as far as I could make out she waxed it herself every couple of days. I waited another six weeks. "It's perfect," I said that night, tracing my fingers over that beautiful, bare cunt. You've never really seen it as it was, of course, but you surely saw enough. Another Armagnac? "A rose; a pink oyster," I told her. "I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else entering it." Believe me, at that moment it was the truth. I've kept it true, as well:. "But nobody will!" she said. "I want to be sure," I said. I did the piercing myself, 8 gauge, right over the introitus. She didn't even whimper, though it certainly hurt. I filled the new holes with plastic studs - impregnated (not a word we use much round here, ha ha) with antiobiotics. Then I made a big fuss out of kissing and cuddling her, and she noticed - she could hardly avoid it - that I had an erection I'd have been proud of at the age of seventeen. That was the first time I used her mouth. She was clumsy, of course, and could barely accept the head of the thing. But she was terribly excited, and desperately loyal, and swallowed everything. The next few weeks were the most critical, while the piercing healed. It was difficult keeping her out of the house - I had an important Guest Night, and I needed to arrange a Great Dane for 9. Marilyn's newly pierced pussy made her remarkably sex-struck: it's a phenomenon I've seen before, and I was counting on it. After the first three weeks, she was encouraging me to probe her sweet little arse with a finger, then two; she was still frightened by the idea of a penis in there. But eventually she was ready, and we made a ceremony out of it. My Belgian friend had made a fine little padlock, rounded off, quite light. I set it on a little cushion, and Marilyn -- she was still Marilyn, but not for much longer -- presented it to me. Then she lay back, and I replaced the plastic studs with the steel. Cold steel, too: I wanted her to shiver a little, which she did. "Touch yourself," I said. "Go on, tug at your fib." "I feel really horny." she said. "Can we unlock me now?" "Not for a while," I said. "We'll have to find another way." That was the first time I buggered her. You'll note that right up until then no technology except the most primitive sort had been used: that's important. The next morning, she left to go to work. She didn't know it was her last day, of course, but I doubt if she got much work done. All she could think about was that piece of metal bobbing between her legs. Quasimodo breathed deeply above the brandy snifter, and sipped some of the amber liquid. "A strange business to be in," he said. "But very profitable." He reached out and touched the bald head of the young woman by the fireplace. She was naked, of course, with her hands behind her back at the level of her neck, chained to a quite delicate collar. Another chain ran from the edge of the fireplace to the substantial steel ring that hung from the front of her depilated sex. A fine silver mesh covered her naked skull. Almost as remarkable was the chain that joined her pierced tongue to her nasal septum. "She can't suck cock if she isn't allowed, with this device. Or at least not at all easily," said Quasimodo to his guest. "Frankly, it was about the only way I could stop her. Would you believe she used to be a marketing manager? She's an early NetFucker, too." He tapped the silver mesh. "I'd more or less got the hang of the technology by the time I programmed 8, but it's a pity about the bald heads. Still... " He picked up a remote control of the type used for ordinary television sets, frowned at the complex buttons and clicked. The chain fell free from her sex, and she stood up: revealed the neatly tattooed figure 8 on her bare pubic mound. 8, go and bring me 12. If she's filthy, hose her: you have washroom privileges. "But how," said Quasimodo's guest, " Can she do anything with her hands chained behind her back?" It was the only time he spoke "Tut" said Quasimodo. And to the girl: "You understand your instructions?" The young female addressed as 8 made a whimpering agreement: it is quite difficult to talk when your tongue is linked to your septum by a an inch and a half of chain. Quasimodo looked at his guest. "She has a very well-trained mouth.. But I see you are bulging. Perhaps I have not given you enough Armagnac. Still, let's wait and see what 8 brings. In the meantime, let me refresh your glass. In this house, you need not bulge for long." Then: "8: stop. Come here." He turned to his guest. "This is what we call here a ruling ring. Look: right at the front of her pussy, quite deep into the flesh, we put two rings, small. We use anaesthetic, of course, but it hurts and it takes a while to heal. Then a ring that joins them, and then a ring that dangles down. Tug it, and she's yours. She's fibbed at present, of course, but the key is available. No, 8, that will be all. Fetch 12." Quasimodo waddled over to the expensive sound system and made some adjustments. In a few moments, the opening chords of Beethoven's Seventh filled the room. A few moments after that, 8 returned, leading -- not easily - a larger woman, on all fours, by means of a slender leash she held between her tongue and her lower teeth. "12's fat and ugly," said Quasimodo. "But I'd never sell her on. Do you know, she can remove screw tops with her pussy? 12, come here." 12 approached on all fours. She was a woman of about 35, more than somewhat overweight and with a bulging belly. Her tits would have won no prizes for anything other than size; one of them bore a heavy steel ring about two inches in diameter, and drooped a little lower than its neighbour; the ring touched the floor. Like 8, she had her tongue clipped to her nose. Her bald head was also meshed, but her pubic area was a forest of tangled hair: not enough, though, to hide the multiple rings that dangled in front. The number 12 was branded in the soft flesh of her left buttock. "12 really likes to suck," said Quasimodo casually. "So I don't allow her to do that, not often. Frankly, she's not very good at it, but that's what she was originally programmed for, and I wasn't very subtle in those days. She's also programmed to crawl like that and I'm afraid I overdid that one, too: she gets dizzy and falls over if she stands up unsupported. That was NetFuck 1.1, not the world's finest piece of software. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Microsoft didn't write it, or who knows where we might be? "12, turn around and raise your rump. My guest requires your attention. Now, I recommend that you use her pussy. I know it looks like a great, slabby slack thing, but her fib is open and I you that you will be very pleasantly surprised, I promise you. I am afraid I must go to the toilet. Just take her: look, she's wet. You'll find that tongue-nose connection saves a good deal of tiresome conversation. Not, of course, that 12 can speak." Quasimodo returned after a decent interval - ten minutes or so - and brought out his humidor. 12 was kneeling near the fireplace, her hands on the carpet before her; Quasimodo's guest looked somewhat more relaxed. Quasimodo reached down and patted the bald head affectionately. "We don't want any dribbles on the carpet, 12, so head down and arse up. No sucking tonight. Into the corner, now. The overweight, ugly woman called 12 padded away from the fireplace on all fours, the semen that dribbled from her open sex gleaming in the lamplight. "But we were talking about 7. (They're not in numerical order, you know.) When she came back after that last day at the office, well, I have never seen a randier woman. I put a collar on her then, and linked her wrists to it: she loved the whole thing. Her smooth pussy with the padlock between her legs... Then I unlocked the padlock: she came at once, quite strange, really, but not entirely unsuspected. Then I slid the Belgian chocolates into her: back then, that amounted to three egg-shaped things, linked, with a battery. And a connection to the remote control, of course, which is why the damned thing was so complicated. We played around with that for a week or two; at the end of the month, she was sucking off the plumber who came round to sort out a little problem. Only when I allowed her, of course. After that, she knew what she was; and what she was for. But I never branded her: that perfect pussy, you know. Maybe I will some day, but for now we just use a long-lasting dye to show her number. In some ways, her pussy is way too delicate: I've often wished she had enough flesh in her lips for a ruling ring. Still, it would spoil her in some ways. Look at 12, here." He gestured towards 12, who still crouched silently near a corner of the room. The woman crawled forward into the light of the fire, and raised her rump. Quasimodo pulled at the substantial metal rings that dangled between her legs. "She carries heavier iron than 8 does, as you can see. I rather like this sort of thing," he said. 12 whimpered. "But 7 simply hasn't the material for it. Still, what she has is pretty exquisite. Quite honestly, it's the most perfect little pussy I have ever seen. Which is the marvellous irony of the whole thing. A perfect pussy, utterly unused. She hasn't been fucked in three years. I only remove the fib to change the batteries. Nobody is allowed to fuck 7, not even you. I'd never dream of fucking her myself, for that matter. And I know she'd hate it, too: I'll explain in a moment. So I couldn't imagine selling 7 on. I don't mind sharing her with special visitors, but..." "7's serious conditioning began with the Belgian chocolates and the remote. The idea was to link what was going on in her mouth with what she felt in her vagina. It took a lot of skill and practice, if I say so myself, and a lot of cooperation from 7, but we got it so that she orgasmed just as I filled her throat. "I might have left things at that if it hadn't been for some quite startling new technology my Belgian friend was developing. That's the clit-jewel, by the way. It's actually a microprocessor, grafted into the nerve stock down there. The clit itself had to go: I let Armand keep it in a pickle jar. I told you he was a pervert. We upgraded the stuff inside her vagina, too, preloaded some programs then took her down to his house in the Ardennes for some heavy conditioning: images, sensations, sounds, careful feeding, very modest use of drugs. Effective, as well as interesting and good fun. Good fun for 7, too, I should add. She is now physically disgusted to the point of nausea by the thought of a cock entering her pussy. She hates seeing any of the other girls fucked; I make sure that she almost never does. I actually have to give her a sedative before I unlock her fib to change the batteries; her hearbeat goes way up and she shakes like a leaf until it's back in place. On the other hand, she gets all tense and jealous if she sees a cock going into anyone's mouth but her own. The point is that after the Ardennes session, 7's mouth is her prime sexual organ, the one that brings her to orgasm. In fact, she is physically unable to reach any sort of orgasm without a penis in her mouth. A dildo won't do it: there are all sorts of olefactory links we programmed in. She has to taste genuine semen or pre-come, and she prefers it if she can also taste a little of her own shit. If you set the remote to Program 17, you'll see what I mean. You did? Oh, excellent. Mouth, anus, mouth: you'll note that she pushes you from her anus back to her mouth after just a few strokes: we didn't want her to get all sloppy and huge back there. And she's still girly girly about having her little tits played with. She's a pure joy, is 7, a pure joy. The pleasure feedback loop is specifically matched to my own preferences, but no guest who has used her has ever complained. She probably has the best-trained mouth -- remember, the subtle thing is that she trained it mostly herself -- in the world. In history, even. But that's only one reason why I'd never sell her on. I'm quite genuinely fond of her, you know. Unfortunately, that kind of training is expensive, and takes time. Armand thinks he can automate the process, especially if we use pain or more drugs. I simply couldn't have allowed that kind of treatment on 7. Still, we've got contracts out for a few fresh 16- or 17-year-olds, and we'll give it a try. There are plenty of them around: all those Kosovan refugees, for a start, and all those useless little druggies although one does have to worry about disease. The industrial-grade girls could never be as good as 7 but Armand reckons we can get 60, maybe 70 percent of the quality in two or three weeks, for no more than about 5,000 euros. There would be a certain amount of brain damage, almost certainly, but the sell-on potential is colossal, especially in Japan. You'd like one yourself? It could be a year before we have a serious production line running. They'll be our 100-series, I think. And it'll be a year after that before we can program for specific requests as opposed to the mouth business. You'd like to invest? Good. That may speed the process. It was quite an exciting time, you know. I still play around with 7's remote on manual, but it's much easier just to hit one of the program keys. Where was I? "I really must insist on more Armagnac. Look at 12 there, still drooling, with your come dribbling from her pussy. She really has to be taken back to her cage: 8, take her back. The best idea I ever had was connecting tongues to noses. We call it a bridle: it's the one thing the girls don't really like, and they're all envious that 7 doesn't have one. You pleased 12, there, you know. She hasn't been properly fucked in a month at least, and she doesn't really like dogs. Not that she gets a vote, but I prefer to see my girls reasonably happy. Have a cigar." "I'm not a sadist, as you know very well: it's all done by kindness and training here. None of my girls has ever been whipped: conditioning is far more effective. And Armand's new technology has quite possibly changed this business forever. My long-term plan here is to upgrade 8 -- she's very envious of 7 -- and sell on the rest, except for 7, naturally, and old 12. Call me a sentimentalist, but I really do have a soft spot for the fat little beast. Besides, she's a victim of my own learning curve: I honestly didn't want her to spend the rest of her life on all fours and I feel a certain responsibility. I only have seven in the Guest Wing right now, down from ten just last week. 4, 5 and 6 all went to Nomura; 4 and 5 were a matched set, and he paid well for them, so I threw in 6. Nomura and I go back a long way, and I value the business. Let's see... you've had 7 and 12, and you've seen 8. 13 you had last time: she's spending a week in the Soft Room right now doing strengthening exercises on her cunt muscles and watching some rather strange TV with a silver net on her head. I spent a lot of money going to NetFuck 4.0, even though I think that Armand's new stuff is going to make it totally obsolete. But we'll see. I may make something of 13 yet. Of course I re-use the numbers, otherwise I'd be up to, what, well, it might surprise you. But I leave the slots empty for at least six months once they've gone: seems only polite. I don't expect I'll have another 4 and 5 until April. They're the second matched pair with these numbers, too: I think I may reserve them for that. I still feel bad about the last ones. Greed on my part, really: I couldn't resist what a certain Saudi prince was offering. But these Arabs ruin girls, simply ruin them, and they have no perception of quality. Nomura and his people can be rough, but not that rough. I honestly don't think I could ethically pass on any more really good stuff to the Saudis. I do care about my girls, you know. No, I don't take them back, ever. I made that mistake once in Beirut; it's the only time I ever had to have one put down, and it upset me very badly. Arabs again, you see. Please, let's talk about more cheerful things. For example there's 3: she's brand new, was sleeping rough in Dublin until ten days ago. She's going through what we call "confusement" right now. Early stage heroin addict, no HIV and believe me we checked very carefully. She shouldn't really even be numbered at this stage, since we might have to reject her: but I have a pretty good feel for the business after all these years, and I think she'll be fine. Confusement? Well, the details are a trade secret, as you can imagine. But it involves confinement and confusion. We make her a soft thing in a hard place, and then a hard thing in a soft place. I told you it was a trade secret. But it's all very gentle, I can assure you. She'll be beaming when she comes out of it, and feels her ruling ring for the first time. Then she'll get her number, officially. You have no idea how important that is: she's already lost her name, that's part of the job of confusement. That's why they aren't numbered 10356b or anything horrid like that. I know that's what some of my competitors do. But when Teresa - I'm guessing, really I have no idea what she was once called and frankly I don't want to know - finds out that she's 3, she'll be happier than you can perhaps imagine. And 18: she's the only black we have at the moment. Difficult case: tall, superb tits. She tries to dominate the other girls, and that's not how we work here. But it's a quality we can use. Just possibly, she could help with training, but we have never done that before and I am more than somewhat reluctant. Armand has a few ideas. I wouldn't risk her mouth, not right now, and I don't want to draw her teeth or break her down until I've tried some of Armand's suggestions. A high risk proposition, 18: I am thinking of hanging her in the small cage during the next guest night, just so she understands. But it's difficult. We could lose her. This job isn't nearly as easy as some people think. And dear old 9 I've been keeping really for spectator sport. She's not very good looking, and she could never learn to suck properly -- though she does try, bless her. Her arse is just about tolerable, and I have kept it tight. But when you see her laying down in front of a big dog, it's quite something. We have her seen to by a pig or a donkey, too, at least once a month. It's not as easy to arrange as you might think; she pays the farm people herself with her mouth -- they're not what you'd call connoisseurs -- and I am sorry to say that her cunt is stretched more than some might like. Sometimes I wonder why I feed her. I don't get all that much from selling the pictures, and we can't really bring a donkey round here for Guest Nights. At least, not often. She'll have to go, I know it. It's quite true what you've heard, I am indeed a sentimental old fool who hangs on to his girls far too long. But 9 is under offer, to tell the truth. A woman, too: unusual but certainly not unheard of. She breeds horses. Well, 9 won't actually breed from a horse, but she will surely go through the motions. So you know the routine here, now. I don't normally use their cunts, myself: much prefer a skilled mouth or a tight arsehole. Though I do have the odd prod, just to keep in touch, as it were. Still, if you have time next week, I'd value your opinion on a couple of half-trained vaginas. It isn't what you'd call my own speciality. And if you're serious about that investment, you might like to get involved with 3's early training. Anyway, they're all fibbed, even 12, who's usually left open with her lock hanging from one cuntlip. Though all of them are available down there if anyone feels like it, except for 7 of course. Again, except for 7 they've all had that nose-and-tongue bridle job; you really ought to unchain them if you want their mouth, but it's no trouble really and it certainly helps them understand their place. Most of them have a ruling ring, too; and know how to use it. 8?" The woman called 8, who had been standing silently near the door, walked forward. "Clip yourself by the fireplace, will you?" 8 came into the firelight, and knelt. Quasimodo touched the back of her collar and set her hands free. 8 reached down, and connected the spring clip mounted by the fireplace to the steel oval that dangled from her sex. Silently, she returned her hands to the collar position, but Quasimodo cuffed her gently and said, "I'll have your mouth, now, 8. You may free your tongue." The young woman, her hands trembling a little from lengthy bondage, opened the spring clamp that held her tongue chain to her septum. Briefly, she closed her mouth, then opened it again. Her tongue protruded slightly, and the little chain dangled over her chin. She glistened with saliva. Quasimodo moistened a finger in her mouth, and held it up. "That's what I mean by conditioning," he said. "8 salivates as soon as you open the bridle. She knows that cock is coming: it's the only time her mouth's ever opened, in fact. She learned to eat and drink with her face chained a long time ago. I'm not so stern with any of the others, but I have high hopes for 8. Isn't that right, my little darling? You'd like to be just like 7, wouldn't you?" The young woman nodded vigorously. "She can't speak," said Quasimodo. "Vocal chords tweaked, you know. But she can listen and she understands nearly every word. She knows as well as I do that Armand's new stuff -- it's the software more than the hardware, really, plus that nerve-grafting stuff -- has changed everything. But 8 was prepared in old-fashioned ways, and they do still work you know. Isn't that right, my sweet?" He adjusted his clothing. 8 brought her face forward around his engorged penis, and Quasimodo squeezed her perfect, pointed breasts affectionately. "I don't usually have their nips pierced, except by request when they're sold on," he said, breathing a little deeply as 8 engaged seriously with his member. "But 12 sags anyway and I quite enjoy abusing the beast. Ahhh...." He allowed 8 to lick his softening penis clean, then stroked her head gently. At his signal, she reconnected her tongue to her nose and moved her hands behind her back, lifting them to the level of the neck ring. Quasimodo fastened them in place. "All done by kindness, as I said."
Kindness II Rufe talks. I worked with Quasimodo in London and Paris, and I admit it, I learned a lot from him. But my business is a lot nearer the edge than his is, and maybe he should learn something from me. Especially when it comes to raw product. Speed and shock: that's the way to do it. Five minutes after I had driven the car into the garage, the newbie was sprawled on the floor of its cell, still dazed, still wearing the jeans and t-shirt it had worn when it was harvested. A minute after that, my three Alphas were in the cell, too. I started the stopwatch and left them to their work. They came out, giggling, precisely five minutes and forty-two seconds later. Well, they weren't exactly giggling: it's hard to laugh when you have a ring in your tongue chained to a ring in your septum. But they were happy and pleased with themselves. Anyway, if you're an Alpha you can unclip the rings yourself. I told them to go to the garden lounge and stepped into the cell to check their work. As I expected, they'd done a perfect job. It was naked, its hands strapped behind its back, wrist to elbow. I checked the circulation: it would be bound like that for six weeks or so and I didn't want its limbs to fall off. Its head had been crudely shorn, its genital area waxed smooth and its body had eight new holes: the standard piercings. The nipples and the labia holes for the moment held plastic keeper plugs, steeped in antiobiotics to help the healing. The tongue and the nose, though, had steel rings already in place, joined by the usual two inches of lightweight chain. And no, the newbie wouldn't be disconnecting them. It was sobbing, and when it saw me it actually tried to speak: an impossibility, of course, and its pathetic bleating just caused it more pain. I simply ignored it, and checked out the piercings. They'd keep two of its orifices off limits for a while, but I was feeling randy. I rolled it onto its belly and buggered it quickly: judging by the tightness, it was probably a first. It bleated some more. I pointed to the toilet pan and the bowls of food and water. It would find eating and drinking difficult, but hunger and thirst would find a way. I turned the lighting to a dim red, slammed the door and left it to its new life. The "it" stuff is just doctrine, by the way. "It" is a Delta right now, if it makes it to Gamma it'll be she again. Most of them do. I'm not by nature a cruel man, and I learned a lot about tenderness from old Quas when I worked in London with him. But he's got a lot more money than I have, which allows him to be a ridiculous old poser sometimes. Then again, he doesn't have Alphas. Then again, I don't have access to that crazy Belgian of his, who is probably changing this whole business right under our feet. Or whatever. Quas doesn't have boys either, which is really silly if you're looking at cash flow. I don't train them, but I ship them in, geld them, and ship them out. Mostly to the Yemen; I'd say about 90% of my business is with Sheikh Ramanhi, and the other 10% I could probably do without. I insist on doing the gelding here, which suits the Sheikh: that's what his customers are paying for. Sure, they want blond hair and blue eyes. But they also want compliant mouths and assholes, not stallions. Read a history book: what do cavalry troopers ride if they don't ride mares? Got it in one. I am not really anti-gay, but I had a bad experience when I was 14 and I guess I pass it on. I do try to make it as painless as possible; once Ramanhi is in charge, though, who knows? But if you've seen a 20-year-old's face when his balls go onto the barbecue (it's a treat for the Alphas; they've been known to eat them) then all I can say is that you have seen something. Alphas. Hard to explain, and probably my biggest weakness here. There's me, Carlo, and the Alphas. Carlo is old, shot-up, totally reliable and the most perverted human being I have ever met. Quasimodo thought that too, and he has met more perves than almost anyone alive, I'd guess. So let's leave Carlo out of it and talk about the Alphas. We have four levels in the House. First, the deltas: that's the newbies. Quasimodo uses a very different technique, but he's got more tech, more money and more experience than I have. I make sure that nearly every bad or startling or painful thing happens to them in the first five or ten minutes, and then I let them lie around for six or eight weeks. Essentially, after those first ten minutes, everything that comes to pass is kind of nice, or good, or at least much less bad. If I'd some of Quas's equipment, I might try a few different things. But my kind of patience really breaks a delta, I can tell you. The Alphas come in every now and again, to keep that pussy waxed clean and to shave the head properly. These things have nothing to do with my own sexual preferences, I assume you understand that. It's the breaking. Eventually, we have a coming-out ceremony. Out of the little, red-lit cell. And it *is* a ceremony, that's important. It's led from the cell, is spoken to for the first time in, what, two months, and offered the rings. If it accepts, it's a gamma and a she. If it doesn't accept, back into the box and we check it out again a month later. This can sometimes go on for a while, though it's unusual. The rings aren't particularly terrible: the tongue-nose bridle stuff I got straight from Quas (it ought to be called the Quasimodo piercing) and I guess that's a little tough. But the newbie's had that since day one. As for the rest: clean nip rings, an infibulation ring at the introitus, a couple of rings at the front. We usually join them together, and hammer on another ring that dangles down; learned that from Quas, too. Depends on the equipment God gave them between the legs. None of this hurts. The holes were made at least six weeks before, and the delta's gotten used to them. As a reward, the new gamma is allowed to grow some hair on her head. Generally a Mohican, but we vary.. If it stays a delta without making gamma for too long, basically I have to kill it. Not nice, and I hate it, but I've only had to do it once in three, four years, and that was after nearly a year's effort to avoid it. It would have starved to death if I hadn't done it clean, anyway. But it's really, really not my bag. So the newbie makes it from delta to gamma. It's not an it, any more, she's a gamma. She's got iron hanging between her legs, and believe me it makes a difference. I could sell her right there, but the margins aren't terrific. I once dumped a dozen raw gammas on the Japs, when I had bills to pay, but in business terms it doesn't usually make sense. So we train her up. First, the mouth stuff. We move her to a new cell, and unclip the tongue. She thinks that's great. But the only food and water comes from a couple of artificial dicks. She has to take them deep to get anything much. I know this is primitive technology compared with the kit Quas uses, but believe me, it works. Nearly always, the new gamma has already lost a lot of weight by this stage, so she's hungry. Same dim red light, by the way; same Alphas keeping her shaved and shorn. The Alphas mess around with her a bit, but mainly she learns deep throat. Occasionally, if I'm passing, I'll shaft her ass. The training takes, oh, a minimum of two months. I think it's better if it takes longer, but there's always pressure on product. Now, to get from gamma to beta is tricky. Beta is public. In this house, a beta gets a public number, not a name but the nearest she'll ever have to a name here-- more stuff I learned from Quas. We're talking Guest Night here. So our gamma gets tried out in a rough trade session first. I take the fib out - remember, she's never been fucked, as in cock-and-cunt- for at least six months - and I take the bridle from her mouth and nose. If she speaks, at all, she goes back to gamma in her cell for at least a month. There's no other punishment. We don't tell her she can't talk, of course. She has to figure that out for herself. Quas fucks with their vocal chords: frankly, I think that's an atrocity. I believe in self-discipline. Then we let the rough trade in. Quas would have some kind of electronic orgasm monitor, but I just keep an eye out. I usually try a mouth or ass myself. We do this a few times, over a month or so. And that's how you become a beta, should you ever be one of my girls. My product, I should say: that's where me and Quas divide. They are not my girls. If you're a beta, you are, like, beta-12. It's the first time in many months that you have been anything individual. Usually, your number will be marked on your body somehow. Not permanently, because this is the point that I sell you and your new boss may have different ideas. Which I can accommodate as required, of course. You're good product, and I need cashflow. My beta has been eating her head off at my expense for the best part of a year, and usually I want to sell her on just as fast as I can. If there's no sale likely soon, we do our our house special. You're twinned with another beta: her tongue, your cunt and vice versa, with your arms strapped. We used to sell pictures on the Net but the price is peanuts so we just do it as advanced training now. It's messy, but believe me it makes you want to please customers at the next guest night. If you make a special visit, I'll show you sometime. Twinned betas trying to piss and shit.... Alphas: hard to explain. Look, last year I had almost 100 newbies through here. That was the time I had to kill one, but I ended up with 99 gammas -- sold about ten right there, I had more than I could handle -- and more than 80 betas. Not all at once, of course. I don't suppose I ever had more than a dozen fully operational betas in the house -- hell, how big do you think this place is? -- at any one time and usually I sell the product on almost as fast as I generate it. I haven't got Quas's Japanese contacts but I am not so fussy about Arabs, and you wouldn't believe what a Saudi prince will pay for one of my betas. Not as much as Quas makes on these Tokyo deals, but I am shifting a helluva lot more product than he is. There are *thousands* of Saudi princes, and they are all, without exception in my experience, fucked-up perves. But *rich* fucked-up perves. You have to understand: a dozen betas and a very small amount of dope makes for a magic sex party. By the time they are betas, they are, well, crazy. Make sure a few congressmen are invited, the local chief of police... saves problems later. Still doesn't get you an alpha. We'll come to that.
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