The Imp of the Perverse

I was curious—but also worried. The acolytes were not exactly leather bound prison guards with cudgels but they were skilled in providing misery to us and I knew I would be an object of fascination.

Before feeding us, it was required to use the squat toilet. The girls who had been here longer than I did so, shuddering in humiliation, with all the guards around them, ordered to pee and move their bowels in a deep open squat that obscured nothing. There were tears, but no resistance.

They were wiped by an acolyte, refused the dignity of doing it themselves.

When it was my turn, they opened the cell and coaxed me out. The dungeon was a frightening place and I admit; I was scared. The other penitents looked wretched and humiliated—but not injured (unless you count their marked bottoms) still, the acolytes had to somewhat gently convince me to leave the cell.I suppose they could have come in and hauled me out and I was grateful they did not. When they marched me to the central squat hole I was a mess of tears: the acolytes gazes were hungry: I could feel them sizing me up for punishments. The other penitent's eyes on me were intensely curious and explored my stomach, my breasts, my clefts.

My two minders squatted down with me, making me spread my knees wide so that many pairs of eyes fell on my denuded sex, and bade me pee. I had been trained to do it in the wretched belt which had arts and chambers for cleaning—but naked an looked upon, I could not. I cried wretchedly, pleading that I could not do it under observation, until one girl held me and the other spanked me in the deep squat with a tawse until I could no longer bear it and peed with eyes fixed on my buttocks, anus, and nether lips. I was weeping in her arms when they got me into the pillory device.

I thought they would activate the engine and it would apply the whips to my bottom—and I panicked and begged and pleaded with them—but instead they produced a large enema bladder and hose.

I groaned and sobbed and shuddered . . . and filled. They left me, in pressurized desperation as they moved about, feeding the other inmates. I could hear soft conversations between jailers and penitents.

I was too distraught to learn much—but it seemed that the wretches were only here for a limited stay and would be moved to better quarters, once they were deemed cowed enough.

I considered myself subjugated enough already and the various eyes studying the intimate place where the hose entered me made me cry constantly through out the awful process.

One of the acolyte girls brushed back my hair and asked if I was ready to perform now? I had been squirming in desperation to for quite some minutes.

I expected to be released from the pillory to be allowed to squat over the toilet hole—but she simply shifted my location and gave me permission to release.

Those terrible moments of being under the entire room's eyes on all fours, my neck and wrists trapped, were a wet, miserable nightmare. I couldn't release! My body would not allow it. Their gaze plied into my anus, my vagina—up my thighs and over my buttocks. I moaned—again; I begged and pleaded—but they waited patiently. My bottom gave out, and the waste spurted out of me. I wailed through several terrible iterations of this, I was worn out and they cleaned me and took me, somewhat bowlegged, to my cell. It was there that they fed me the porridge and made me drain a waterskin.

I ate it dutifully. It was gross and tasteless, but I was hungry and I knew if I refused them they would punish me, if only reluctantly. The girls were not without sympathy for the penitents—but they were dedicated to our correction.

It was the leader who came with a small bottle of liquid—a flask—and bade me drink. She said this was sent from the abbess. I was reluctant—but again, I knew better than to refuse her. I drank and immediately knew it was a mistake. The fluid tasted smooth and sweet, but I could taste the spirit of it and I gasped in horror as it diffused through me.

The lead acolyte smirked and bid me good night. As much as I had cried, I cried more—the milk diffused into me, and I was wracked with terrible need! I curled on the bed and wished, in desperation for my belt!

The acolytes dimmed the water-lights, and I lay in darkness, my hands between my thighs. I resisted as long as I could, but it was too much, and I began to touch. I opened my legs, knowing it was forbidden, and found myself. I was wet and ready—but the milk was too powerful and it made me horribly sensitive such that I could not keep my finers away, but had to navigate my sex delicately. Small moans escaped as I tried to muffle my voice in the darkness.

SHLLURP—

The noise, a wet, horrible sound, told me that the warnings about the mucks had been real. I lay in an obscene position on the cot, legs apart, face down, one hand under my body addressing my sex. One covering my mouth.

I froze. I wanted, terribly, to roll to snap my legs closed—to flee—but I knew better. In my forest, there had been mucks. They did not address trees, so they were of no concern to me, from time to time, young humans would find their way across them and be taken. I had made a point to observe these ordeals often lengthy and sometimes intricate, and I knew how Mucks worked.

Mucks are Unclean: they are commonly, by men, thought to be unintelligent, but this is not so: they are consummate disciplinarians—avid and inventive punishers—and if I had heard the noise, that was no mistake. The Muck was reprimanding the bad little nature spirit who had been at her dirty cunny and if I tried to avoid my punishment, I would suffer for that as well.

I slowly slid my hand, drenched in my own oil. from my sex, which was still a blast-furnace of demand, and, weeping softly, I raised my hips and rolled my buttocks and arched my back. I was trapped in this cell, naked. It was going to take me. The milk I had drunk made everything there heightened.

I knew what was coming, at least in the awful, broad strokes, and still my sex was eager for attention—even the Muck's attention. Maybe especially its attention?

Raising my bottom, pushing it back, entirely naked, I presented like a whore! Mucks . . . understand these things. They are creatures of shame as well as discomfort.

GLUP!

The noise, a wet sound, came from between my spread legs. It was on the cot! My sex still DEMANDED my attention. I covered my mouth with both hands, one covered with my saliva, the other with my lubrication. My tears ran over both.

I took from its way that it was satisfied with its prey's submission—but I knew that would not spare me! My awful, demanding pussy demanded me try to relieve her before it had me! That she was CLOSE to satisfaction and the humiliation of being caught, thus, pushed me even closer. My sex howled at me that the deepest horror would be going unsatisfied in the thing's embrace! I wanted to wail. I didn't. I pushed . . . further back, spread wider. Fuck me, I offered the Muck, knowing it provided nothing more than punishment.

At this point, my awful, traitorous sex was eager even for that, Ohhhhh! I felt it—the slick slime, like mucous—caress one of my labia. It was too dark to see, and I did jerk in horror—but, trembling, I put my sex back. Its stroke was almost pleasant—cool, slick—wet. I struggled not to clench myself, but to submit.

Ohh—the other labia. Now I imagined my mound glistening with a colored skein of slime. The soft, pliable pseudopod pushed apart my nether-lips, and I felt it taste the channel beyond. It felt like a slick, heavy oil sliding into me and pushing along my vagina. There was an awful feeling of dirtiness that came with its touch. It was a slight irritation of the skin, yes—but was more than that. The "Unclean" are called thus for a reason and the Muck was pleased to give its subjects a sense of revulsion as it quested inside me.

Mucks can "bite"—they can inflict much discomfort and I was well aware I was going to endure that—but for now, it entered me, as though curious, and I lowered my head and submitted to its invasion.

Deep inside, the milk had me imagining it as a cock—and however dirty, the fullness in my channel was a desperate need. I felt it, numbingly close to my stomach. It was, I though, gently touching—enveloping my inner ring. The thought of it entering my womb was outright revolting and I sobbed into the bedsheets. Blessedly, it stopped its invasion in my vagina and "inflated." The fullness became discomfort—the discomfort the pressure of a stretch. It now had an unpleasant heat and a sensation like grit as it expanded. I detected a smell that reminded me of human garbage. It slowly filled me—was it testing the depths of my submission?

The sense of filth invading my private place was awful and now, the with the increasing pressure, it got a cry from me. It stopped expanding. I quivered—my vagina could erupt in pain at any moment. It had me! I felt a second probe touch my anus. A whimpering moan and I bore down, feeling it enter.

I could hear other sounds from out in the cells. It was very dark but I thought the other penitents were talking in hushed voices. I expect they understood what was going on.

Uhhnnh—It flowed through my anal channel like a thick syrup enema. I grunted. It filled my rectum, expanding again, and spread out, covering my cleft. I had been cleaned by the acolyte after my expulsions—but feel of the muck coating me made me think of sitting in a mess. I sobbed and sniffled. When the muck spread across my vulva and buttocks, joining itself at my hips, I knew my reprieve was at an end. It pressed on my urethra, again foregoing its bite and I, letting out louder sobs, relaxed and let it in.

I moaned in discomfort—it had all three portals into me and at each it jiggled like a thick coating of mucous. The jiggling on my exposed clit made me vocalize and roll my hips in a hump.

"UHNNHHH!!" I gave a cry. Now it 'bit'! It was as if the muck diaper became a swarm of scurrying ants, some of whom bit! I froze, my face in the cot, soaking it with my tears.

uhn-uhn-uhn—It stroked and fucked. The need to move my bowels was intense. I desperately had to pee. It quivered on my clit, making me want to reach down and drive it off—clawing with my fingernails.

I didn't. I'd seen a girl suffer greatly for hours before it tamed her. The muck had gotten inside her pants (she suffered extra for wearing pants) and the muck, just a common brown, had punished her exquisitely before it allowed her to remove the pants and, finally, "really begin" her punishment. I admit to watching her with fascination, learn her place beneath the command of the muck.

Now it was going to happen to me, and I was terrified.

The milk of Sattva still had me in its grips, though and its teases at my clit caused me to hump or moan or try to close my legs—each time it "spanked" me. A sound like bubbles popping but loud and the feel of a burning slap across my buttocks (and then a few more to ensure defeat was complete!).

A ravenous, prickling itch in my vagina. I moaned and squirmed (it allowed me squirming in the teeth of its punishment). I held my hands to each other, crying out, knowing if I tried to scratch or even break position the results would be awful.

"You've got a Muck on you?" the voice came through the bars after I gave up trying to hold my bowels and tried to poo the horrid thing out. There was what felt like an endless cacophony of popping bubbles and snaps as it spanked my anus.

"It's got me—" I called back, my voice ragged with tears.

It had reverted to minor torments and the teasing of me where any breech of its authority drew a harsh punishment.

"Do what it wants, hon," said the girl. "It wants you to crawl or sit or stretch—or even talk. If you obey it, it won't be as awful."

She was right. These girls had clearly seen more than one mucking. I remember seeing two girls in the wood together both caught by mucks. The mucks made them lie with each other—apply their lips to the other's sexes and anuses and lips

The mucks had them naked save for their slime diapers, put them in multiple mortifying scenarios, each more intimate than the last. When the girls objected, they were punished grandly. By the end of the day, they were an exhausted tangle in each other's arms. Both smeared with slime and mud by their overseers.

I watched over them as they slept, the mucks maintaining position on them and providing them with sobs and moans in their dreams.

"I'm trying," I gasped. Its resonance against my clit increased."Uhnnh! please" I begged it. It quivered—the discomforts shifted.

I slid a knee forward, and it rewarded me with less pressure in my bottom. I rose my head slowly. Okay, okay—Oh! When I had gone far enough, a pricking of terrible itch around my clitoris.

I slowly moved my other knee. There-there-oh! Ahhh! The surge of urgency in my bladder caused me to 'leak' (as I was full of muck I couldn't really "leak" but I released and got another smattering of spanks—fortunately only on my buttocks. I hunkered down, whimpering, and waited for it to finish its punishment.

When it did, I slowly slid off the cot and crawled, miserably, to the bars.

"Is it moving you?" one of the girl's asked.

I came to the bars at the front of the cell, not far, and I was shocked to see that the door swung. The bitch acolytes hadn't locked it. They well knew I couldn't resist the awful milk. Out in the central circle of the cell area, I crawled to a wall and very carefully climbed to my feet.

With small gasps and cries, I knew it wanted my position exposing, bottom expressed backwards, legs wide. Trembling , I found the valve that sent fluid to the water-lights. Oh! OW!!

I cried out and turned the valve.

Now or cell filled with dim yellow light—but enough that I felt their eyes on me—on my tear-stained face—and around the quivering muck that wrapped my entire region and clung to it.

I understood it now, though—we had reached a horrible accord. It was my master, and I was its slave. I sat, obscenely spread on the punishment pillory and it pulled back from my vulva and at its bidding, I cried constantly as I masturbated before the girls. They stared in fascination as I edged with no hope of relief.

I squatted for them—and it made me "defecate" its own quivering jelly over and over, while they watched.

I crawled on the floor, whimpering and yelping to each cage where I presented my breasts and body for them to touch—and, if they placed their face to the bars, to kiss them—and kiss them lustily, the limb of the ooze in my vagina ensuring my performance was humiliating and memorable.

After a time, it crawled me back, utterly defeated to the lights and I was not allowed to stand, so I had to stretch up and sort of jump to try to reach the valve. It amused itself that way as I moaned in frustration and received little encouraging punishments until I reversed the valve and the lights dimmed and went out.

Back in my cot, it did not release me, but finally, mercifully, let me sleep.

THE GRAND TABLE - QUASSI

She had stopped fighting: her sex felt bruised, hot, and swollen. She might have more of the gruel on her face and hair than in her stomach—but she had done her best to eat it and around her face had been a corona of the porridge where she desperately to tried lap it up as Miss Kessna cheerfully swatted her proffered sex with the spoon.

Once they felt she had eaten enough of the gruel she was maneuvered onto the table, the rest of her dress removed and lain face down, knees bent and up so she knelt low, her bottom raised and visible. They put her mouth over the penitent boy's cock. "That's where it belongs, isn't it dear," said Miss Kessna having gone back to petting her, now that she seemed sufficiently subdued. The boy's cock tasted odd and smell quite bad—but she got her mouth over the head of it and huddled there and sucked, and sobbed.

She was aware of motion—of things being prepared around her—but she just closed her eyes and whimpered. She did look up through her hair at the boy, who met her eyes, looking plenty wretched himself. A peculiar scent rose from his grossly swollen scrotum: she imagined that in addition to the utter humiliation of his position, he must be in serious physical distress as well.

When the double doors at the head of the table opened, she tried to look up as best she could, without removing her mouth from where Miss Kessna had placed it. Theoretically she was still back there with the spoon!

It was the Abbess. Something was dearly wrong, and she quailed when she saw what it was: The woman, swollen and covered in bovine markings, was not just altered with extra swollen breasts. No, she had four fat legs—two in front and two behind—all four spread so she walked like a great spider.

She smiled broadly when she met Quassi's horrified eyes. "Becoming a Milk Mother has never been done to the extent that I have reached it, child," she said moving up to the table. It comes with vastly punishing trials as you would expect—but also such gifts."

Quassi said nothing. She huddled and stared, caked with gruel and tears and her mouth spread over the pumpkin-orange head of the boy's cock. She felt Miss Kessna's fingers stroke her sex, and unable to resist the violation, she simply whimpered.

"So, little spurting cunt," the woman said, conversationally, "You will be staying with us for several days," she smiled wickedly at the quivering girl. "We will try to see if you can hold your cunt during your stay. I don't think you can, spoilt little brat-cunt. Keep your mouth on that cock where it belongs."

Quassi whimpered. When enough time had passed that the Abbess seemed to conclude that her prey would not offer any defiance, she moved forward. Keeping her mouth on the punished boy's still erect member, she was aware of the woman—and her four monstrous legs shuffling closer. "

"Miss Kessna," said the Abbess, "You will see to Quassi's accommodations."

"Yes, Mistress," said the woman, still stroking Quassi gently. "Oh, and she's going to need to drink her bed-time milk." A bottle with a rubber nipple was placed where Quassi could see it. She could smell the faint scent of vanilla from it. Ohhh!

"I expressed it just for you, Quassi. Be sure to drink it while it's nice and warm."

Her sex was bruised from the spoon-spanking and she was helped off the table by the young acolytes. One of them wiped her face and, gently, her sex.

"Be glad you're in the care of Miss Kessna," said the other. "The punishment cells are far more suitable." Quassi whimpered and obediently pulled on the shirt and light jacket the penitents wore and then hobbled out of the room the two girls leading her down a hall after Miss Kessna who held the bottle of the awful milk.

Miss Kessna's room was not lush, but it was more colorful and comfortable than Quassi had been expecting.

The acolytes placed light metal shackles and ankle cuffs on her. They made her squat over a chamber pot and pee, and then they got her into the bed.

The girl who'd walked her down to the dining area put Quassi face down and put a pillow under her stomach. When the other one left the room with Miss Kessna, the remaining acolyte returned from a dresser with a tin of salve.

"Open up," she said gently. "this will help."

Quessi whimpered and did. The ankle chains were long enough she could flare her knees out and give the girl access to her sore, bruised sex. The girl started to rub the salve in.

"They're going to see if you've any defiance at all," she whispered. "If you show them any, you'll get the garden—or worse."

"What's worse?" Quassi whimpered.

"You don't want to find out," the girl warned her. "Things have gone . . . wrong . . . here. Be as submissive as you can and you'll be okay. I'm one of the lower girls and it's BAD—but it's not . . . Punishment Garden bad."