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La esclava desnuda

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After some time, all the slave stock started looking the same. Thinking back, perhaps they had always been the same. A salesman after another—mostly saleswomen—approached Peter and presented him with their goods. His family name carried weight, even if he was the youngest child; schools and trainers interested in this side of the world would love to have their names associated with him. They competed for his personal attention.

Enka is very tall for her age and originally Argentinian. Her modest breasts would fill B-cups. She is healthy and educated, but—

Denata is Stateless and has lived in an Arcology her entire life. She has impossible breasts and hips, and her face has clearly seen a lot of work. One look at her eyes, though, and it’s obvious her intelligence leaves much to be—

Holly is from the United States and nearly 30. She makes up for it with her very thorough experience as an entertainer and has had younger ovaries implanted—

It had been like that for dozens of slaves. They kept on coming, seemingly unending. Being in the most popular market probably didn’t help. Being in the largest annual convention of the continent definitely didn’t. He could practically feel the analysis paralysis on his bones—if ever there were market overchoice, this one was it.

Nothing inspired fascination exactly, but he made notes of the ones he could learn to tolerate the fastest, so that he could pick one of them at random if he still hadn’t made up his mind by the end of the day. Otherwise there’d be hell to pay for—his father may have been enjoying a nice drink with his mother at the moment, but he was never known for his patience.

Peter didn’t know why he was having such a hard time. He had been very excited leading up to this day; he’d been looking forward to it for years, almost as soon as he hit puberty. Perhaps it was the finality of it. He was nearly 21 and had barely managed to convince his father to be allowed to select his mate with his birthday mere days away. But now that he was living the dream, he found it… underwhelming.

There was a woman drinking alone—

He stopped himself as soon as he noticed he was procrastinating via people-watching; his eyes darting off to more “interesting” sights involuntarily.

His family came from a very fundamentalist Arcology, and had especially strange ideas of their own. If they didn’t want to be disowned—or worse, enslaved—men in his family were expected to follow a number of seemingly arbitrary rules stemming from some ancestor’s extreme traditionalism. It was a strange thing in light of the rampant hedonism of the Free Cities, but if these beliefs were to survive the test of time, they would necessarily have to adapt to the changing era. The resurgence of interest in social experimentation in this century was a welcome benefit.

Upon reaching the age of majority, Peter was to select a nice and proper white girl to make his wife until death, propagating the family legacy, ideally with the best genes he could get his hands on—but not because of medical tampering, for only the Almighty could bend reality. The slavery contract would ensure she lacked as much of the “degeneracy” of modernity as it was possible to train—his father couldn’t stop ranting about how horrible human relationships of the early 21st century were compared to now. Wealth made the purchasing aspect a non-issue, short of trying to enslave fallen royalty.

Sometimes Peter wondered if his father was overstating things, but his mother seemed to have a perfectly fine relationship with him despite not being a free woman. She couldn’t divorce him that way, couldn’t disobey him, and didn’t even want to think about the punishment should she ever commit adultery. Compared to what other slaves had to go through, her life might as well have been a romance novel.

Still, his eyes turned to the lonely woman, who he now realised was a girl, judging by her size. She possessed some hypnotic quality above and beyond the countless beautiful, nubile women paraded in front of him. He tried not too look too much, to not look distracted; just enough to steal a glance every now and then, examining the strange creature magnetising him.

She wore a frilly, soft white dress—a good match for her porcelain skin—sewn in a way to make it seem like it was a single piece of fabric. It hung around her neck and left much of her back and sides exposed. The neckline plunged deep down, with only a couple of inches of cloth covering her breasts, short interruptions of bare flesh. It gave a good impression of her lack of cleavage. Indeed, it would have been impossible to wear that dress if she was endowed as well as the slaves Peter had been examining. The fabric was thin enough to be semitransparent, revealing a hint of the flesh underneath, and indentations of erect nipples peaked through. A low, layered silver necklace completed the picture, painting a target on where one should be looking at; her youthful flatness.

The fabric united near her stomach, then continuously narrowed down to her groin, becoming a thin loincloth to cover her genitals. Much of her waist was naked, feeding one’s imagination with what was so close yet concealed. She couldn’t have been wearing underwear… or at least, there was no string or fabric that he could see. Imagining how exposed she was under her thin and easily displaced velvet strip on her crotch was— 3.1415926535897932384626433832. With her long, trim legs crossed, her figure had a captivating elegance, her skeleton expertly balanced; her calves, her thighs, the bumps of her pelvic bones and the ridges of her rib cage; upper still, a slender neck, a defined, feminine jaw, and rounded features exuding childishness. Atop, wavy blonde hair in a labyrinthine bun, save for a fringe spiralling down from the right side of her forehead.

He was pretty sure he was looking at a slave; the scandalous dress gave that away. Were it not for that, he could have mistaken her for a citizen’s very spoilt, very well-bred kid. Well, she could still be someone’s kid, as the options weren’t mutually exclusive, and some creeps were into that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be staring so much. Did he look like a creep? Nobody seemed to have noticed, but even if they did, it wasn’t likely they’d make their opinion known, even if they disapproved.

It was just— He was surprised by how good she looked and was appreciating the display. He was curious and fascinated. That was all. There was nothing strange about that, was there? Recognising the cuteness of a girl, and wanting to molest her like those degenerates did were two completely different things. His persistent gaze on her secondary sexual characteristics could be nothing short of the apex of wholesome asexuality. Yes. That was it.

He was supposed to be shopping for a wife.

At least one person had noticed him: the target of his interest. She looked at him, but it was prompt and subtle. Did their eyes meet? Had she known? It could go either way, and he decided on a negative. She finished her drink, turned, and left. God, she looked even more salacious from behind; he could make out the outline of her buttocks from the way the dress stuck on her rear and moved to the rhythm of her steps. The cavity of her spine was defined enough to do geometry with, drawing an arrow with her Venusian dimples to her arse. It was small, and her hips narrow, and the polar opposite of motherly or fertile, but it was pert and tight and so pleasantly round, calling him to look at it, to touch it, to—

Ah… He was getting too excited.

Truthfully, he was glad she was going away now. It would be best to try and forget her, a little momentary, unchristian indiscretion for once in his life. After so many years of obedience and repentance, surely his Father and his father would forgive one distraction, a sinful thought, most perverse though it may be. A mind that worshipped arse was low class, for that was the path to sodomy, homosexuality, and paederasty. As enticing as her butt was, he should remind himself that proper coitus involved a woman’s genitalia and had nothing to do with her posterior. He was hardly starved of stimuli. It would be the easiest thing in the world finding someone else to turn his worldly desires to. Someone all grown up, fertile, and completely unobjectionable.

Right before she disappeared behind a corner, she stopped and turned to look at him. She made no effort to conceal her intentions this time around; he couldn’t rationalise his way out of it. She jerked her head, inviting him, then she was out of his sight. It must have taken her no more than a few seconds, but to him it felt like minutes had passed in the time it took her to travel those last few centimetres.

There it was then. Clear as day. When he’d thought he hadn’t been given an option, it was easy ignoring the bait. Now that he’d been cordially invited, there was a war in his adolescent body between the head that knew what was good for him and the head that was too much of a dreamer and refused to provide an exit strategy. Unfortunately, at this point he couldn’t tell which was which.

“Excuse me,” he said to the saleswoman trying to secure a sale and began walking. He still hadn’t decided what to do with the situation, but his body was moving on its own. He was enough steps in the girl’s direction now that pulling an 180° would have been even harder to explain in its awkwardness. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. Was he really that easy to manipulate? No matter the time and no matter the upbringing, men proved to be simple creatures. Wave a tasty enough carrot and even the man of the highest faith would find his presuppositions shaky.

But to be attracted to this girl— No, even this he could explain. He wasn’t looking for anything lewd. Perhaps she had important information to share, or a very profitable proposition. As the youngest, it was very unlikely he’d ever get to manage a non-trivial part of the family fortune, but still… still… if he proved himself innovative enough to secure lucrative deals in the most unlikely places, surely that would be praiseworthy. Peter comforted himself with these fables, even as he followed the girl through twists and turns and stairs he couldn’t hope to memorise, for his focus was entirely on her rear.

How could something so tiny be so appealing? Those narrow hips and shoulders did nothing for her nubility, but in her unfemininity she radiated more feminine allure than all the other specimena he’d seen that day. She ought to have no effect on him or any normal person. Perhaps that indicated that he wasn’t a— Banish the thought! He wasn’t like that! He absolutely, most certainly didn’t think about how tight it would feel to be inside a child less than half his age; a child still years away from puberty. No, that would be horrible. He bet it’d feel horrible.

What kind of man would fetishise someone so young…

…and untouched…

…and tiny…

…and exaggerating the swaying of her hips, as if to tell him which hole she’d like him to put it in.

For a little girl to have an anal fixation… Kids her age should be playing with dolls, not seducing old men with their perfect, virginal buttholes. Oh, God!

She used a fingerprint scanner to open a door, which closed behind her. He looked over the panel she had touched for information, and it appeared to be some sort insurance contract to compensate for the risk of meeting a slave in private. Though inebriated by arousal, he had enough wits remaining to surmise what he’d got himself into. This was a very roundabout— unusual— creative way of making a sale, and the room would serve as the interview location. He’d never heard of a slave purchase going through in this matter, as the sheer trust a trainer would have to place on their stock would be impractical, but on the other hand she wouldn’t have made such an impression otherwise, so perhaps this was the cutting edge of marketing. These kinds of contracts stipulated that if he fucked it or broke it, he bought it, though not with such brevity. He needed only glance over the legalese—he’d read thousands of them as part of his education. Signing his agreement with his own fingerprint and his public key, the doors opened for him, too.

The room was a wide cylinder and was purpose built so citizens could “test drive” their new purchases. The walls were lined with all kinds of sex toys and tools that they might need in order to get their tingles firing, from run of the mill bullet vibrators to what must have been medieval torture devices. There were no windows; it was lighted by a series of LEDs, all warm colours but slightly different from one another, in a gradient. The result near the centre looked off-white, but it was hard to tell exactly without reference. He couldn’t distinguish the material of the floor. There was no carpeting, only a smooth, dark grey surface with a brushed texture in a radial pattern. It refracted the various light sources in an interesting fashion, not quite sci-fi, but not natural either.

In the very centre, a large bed, probably, for the mattress and base were round, and the only thing breaking the radial symmetricity was the back; a circle arc about 30°, extruded from the end opposite to the door. He hadn’t seen anything like it. It was very utilitarian, the mattress simply stacked atop a wooden base without any attempt at decoration, save for the bed sheets, which were red; cliché, but topical. If he was being honest, the shape of the room was a waste of premium arcology space—if retrofitted, it could be a very cosy apartment—and dedicating so many resources to it spoke volumes of the indulgent upper class. It was impressive at least.

She’d been waiting for him there. She wasted no time approaching him; now that they were alone, her expression and movements were more obviously suggestive as well. As she got closer, he got a better impression of how short she was: he knew she was small, and he was above average, but up close it was more noticeable that he towered two feet over her, her face not even reaching to his chest. Her sensual smirk brought out more of her excellent characteristics, curves defined but soft, and always symmetrical. Did she always have blue eyes? His throat was dry. He swallowed. As the saliva made its way down and his focus was on himself for a few moments, he could feel a pressure on his chest.

She raised a hand to his shirt, looked at it, then up at him. She rocked her hips slightly, pivoting on her legs. “I am Lýdie,” she said, finding a button and fiddling with it. She had an accent which he couldn’t claim to identify, but it didn’t make her difficult to understand; just an exoticism. “Who is mister?” She unbuttoned the button as slowly as she could for dramatic effect.

“Pet—” His voice cracked. “Peter.” This wasn’t the time to be getting flustered over a little kid. He’d like to leave this encounter with at least some of his adult pride intact, although as far as his father was concerned he was still a few days too young to be doing anything lewd with a woman, a man, or himself—which counted as doing lewd things with a man, for the record. Thankfully he was afforded enough personal freedoms to escape the curse of a chastity cage, ironically granting him more bodily autonomy than minors used to have back in the Old World.

“Peter, are you the kind of person who fancies children? Do you fancy… me?” she asked, then walked away before he could manage a response more eloquent than “Er…” She removed her flats on the way to the bed, taking care to show off her legs in doing so, but not posturing herself in such a way that gravity would displace her dress and expose her more intimate parts. Her legs were very long—over half her total height—and impossibly slender, her thighs and calves at almost the same width. Watching her manoeuvre her elegant body was aesthetic in itself.

She turned around and fell back onto the bed, the strip of her dress waving behind her like a tail. She raised her right leg and placed her foot right in front of her crotch, knee still in the air, and let her left one rest. Her thighs were wide open, but she blocked him from what she knew he wanted to see, even as he was still in denial. She patted the mattress on her side to summon him, resting her weight on her other arm, outstretched behind her like a hinge. Her roguish smirk was the explicit reminder that nothing healthy or Godly awaited Peter should he approach her, but he was well past heeding warnings now.

He sat beside her, pretending to not know what to expect. Some part of him had to know, like the part that sent blood down to his more self-aware head, but such was the case for all religious fanatics: biology had to fight against decades of indoctrination in order to get anything done, though arguably indoctrination was preferable when biology meant lusting after a little girl.

Lýdie placed her hand on his leg—

He jumped a little due to the overstimulation, but she did not budge or look put off by his motion. Her hand was so tiny! Ah, and when he looked at her like that, with how she balanced herself on her other arm, her torso also flexed, so he had an excellent view of how the impression of her rib cage protruded from her skin, both the individual ridges and then the more pronounced angle the false and the floating ribs formed with her abdomen. He hadn’t seen anything more perfect in his life, and he couldn’t recall if he’d ever examined anyone’s bone structure, or found any particular type more pleasing than others.

“What are you here for?” she asked.

There were several answers he could give, depending on the level of abstraction he chose to interpret the question with, so he chose the most inoffensive. “I’m getting married soon.”

“Wife shopping? Anything catch your eye?”

You. “I’ve kept a lot of notes. The conference always attracts lots of—”

“You didn’t seem very interested in the sales. Your gaze wandered to other things…,” she interrupted him. She’d been daring throughout their entire encounter, but a slave acting with this degree of informality meant one of two things: either she was too bold for her own good, or she’d performed a masterful dissection of her target’s insecurities and wanted to exploit them to better serve him. Whichever the case, he didn’t have it in him to reprimand her.

“Ha ha, yeah, I guess.” He tried to laugh it off to loosen some tension, but she wasn’t about to let go. In fact, she was staring at him with almost as much insistence as he had when he’d first seen her. “I’m a little nervous. You don’t get to select your life partner every day. I don’t want to make the wrong decision and regret it later. You know?” As the words left his mouth, he realised how stupid the question was; of course she couldn’t know, she wasn’t a citizen and she would never get to buy a slave, stupid.

She raised her hand a little, so that only her index finger was touching his thigh, and she started signing orbits with it as she spoke. “Back in the day, in the Old World, when marriages were arranged, most of the time people married for convenience or financial benefit, to better the family name and its position in society. The personal desires of the spouses didn’t factor in very much.”

The orbits were closing in on his crotch. He shifted his legs a bit when he noticed what she was doing, as if a couple of inches would slow her progress much. She kept at it, undeterred. “Oh, they tried to make it work as much as they had to; enough peace not to kill each other, enough sex for their desired number of kids. But neither one was very happy. I’d say most of them were fairly miserable. Adultery was rampant. Ironic, isn’t it, that the era of tradition revivalists so valiantly yearn for had less respect for their most sacred institutions than the degenerate modernity that followed?”

Peter didn’t have enough oxygen to be having this conversation right now. No matter how fast or deep he inhaled, he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. “I think… revivalism never was about accuracy. The idolatry of an exaggerated past isn’t a weakness, but the whole point.”

“Maybe so…” Lýdie turned over to him and got on his lap, arms on his shoulders. He sighed and looked away, but didn’t resist. She was stunningly light, though he should have anticipated it given her size. “If the principle supersedes the law, you shouldn’t make a decision just to please your father. Look out for yourself, and you’ll have selected a better partner for it. Someone who won’t commiserate. Someone you’ll want to have fun with.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She leaned in to whisper to his ear; with his head turned, he’d placed himself in the perfect position for it. “Why settle for those rotting old hags, compensating for what they lost decades ago with surgery and cosmetics, when you can have the real thing?” Even closer now, “I will be smaller. Tighter. Softer. Flatter. Younger. The innubile pinnacle of the female form, the endgame of a neonate species, a taste so eclectic it’s beyond lay men.” She bit his earlobe and flicked her tongue over it. “With me, you’ll be what you really are: a filthy paedophile…!”

Ah, shit, fuck it!

He grabbed her and he shoved her away, left the room, bought a slave well into her thirties, had three beautiful children with her and no more sex than was strictly necessary to produce them, in the missionary position, as God ordained, the end.

…Is what a more sensible person would have done, but he wasn’t very sensible. He was, as she’d said, a filthy paedophile, for no other kind of man would be aroused by an undeveloped girl’s body. Perhaps if he’d been allowed more experience with women, more access to pornography, more electroshock therapy, he would have realised it sooner. His father would die inside knowing he’d brought a degenerate into the world, but not before killing him.

But was Lýdie all wrong? All those slavegirls outside and throughout almost all Free Cities—truly, all cultures that have been—desired skin like that of a child, and flexibility like that of a child, and potential like that of a child, even a curious and carefree mind like that of a child, and would slice and dice and medicate their bodies to breaking point, so they could have just a few more years of youth back, staving off the bitterness of irreversible loss to the coming future. Were they all that much better than him? Paedophile was another word for a self-aware man.

So, fuck it.

He grabbed her and he kissed her. She felt like a toy in his hands, far too small and prone to breaking, and when he shoved his tongue into her mouth he filled so much of her that her jaw hurt, but he didn’t mind because he could taste more of her at once. Her little tongue, her cute teeth, anything he could reach. She shouldn’t have tasted of anything—saliva was saliva—but his mind said she did: tasted of prepubescent child. If he was molesting an angel, that’s what she would have tasted like; the flavour of divinity.

He opened his hand and traced it down her back. She was so small that he could reach side to side and then some. He travelled down slowly as most of his attention was making a mess of her mouth, spit drooping down their chins and sloppy pandaemonium filled their ears. He felt every inch that he’d eye-fucked previously, in all of its silky smoothness and all of its taboo.

Her spine. Her ribs. The small of her back.

He leaned forward so that he could carry her, then placed her on the bed. Her necklace rang, soft and high-pitched.

He broke the kiss and stroked her chin, looking into her eyes. His finger was wet with the aftermath of their union.

“How did you first kiss taste?” she asked.

“That wasn’t—”

“Now, now, no need to be ashamed. Chastity is a virtue.”

She said that, but that didn’t change anything. Some of his older brothers had offered to lend a helping hand when he’d been younger—the ones who didn’t take father’s word as gospel—but Peter was risk-averse and far too afraid of the repercussions, should they be found out. That someone had lived their whole life in an Arcology and remained a virgin—not just a technical virgin, but truly, actually inexperienced—was almost comical to imagine. The cultures of some Arcologies were so isolated and engineered, sometimes their core principles were flipped on their heads.

“Me, too. I’ve received training, but…,” Lýdie trailed off. “I’ve actually been with a man. My release rules, too, have been very strict. Maximising purity has been very important, but it must have paid off. I’m rated very highly. A touch over 10,000 on the Euryale scale.”

“Seriously?!”

“Impressed?”

Virgins have always been more desired since time immemorial, and it was no different in the Free Cities, where virgin slaves were a premium product, well above the rest. Many owners ensured their stock remained sexually intact, even if it meant their mouths doing double or triple duty. For certain Body Purist societies, this fascination became an obsession, a kink; the bodies of virgin slaves were so erotic, customers were satisfied through outercourse alone, if it meant they got to enjoy a pure slave.

Euryale took the concept to its logical conclusion: independently benchmarking how “pure” a slave was. Women of the Old World could manage a dozen points on a good day, what with the rampant disease, gene damage, substance abuse, obesity, and all sorts of debauchery. Lýdie was several orders of magnitude over them; the skin that he was touching was rated higher than a newborn baby, unmarred by the world. Could it be because of her age?

“How… old are you?” He couldn’t have come up with a creepier question if he tried in this context, but decorum mattered little when he was literally committing child molestation.

“Nine or ten. My body, that is, but that’s what’s important, isn’t it?” She grinned, but it wasn’t like before; more cute than mischievous.

“Your body…?” He didn’t understand the need to specify. While, yes, she was more than a little precocious, she— “Oh.” Retroviral tampering was ethically dubious and illegal even in the excessively libertine New World, but no law ever stopped an enthusiastic entrepreneur from exploring new markets. That would explain her absurd rating: she was pure of mind and body due to her training, medication, and a very strict diet, but also engineered so that as much hacky genetic junk the species had picked up over billions of years was filtered out. Inversely, changes or insertions could be made that would interest Purists: youth, regeneration, softness, cleanliness…

“Fruit should stay fresh.”

He put his hand behind her head and clenched. Her hair was soft and airy, and he couldn’t get over how small she was. He could fit more than half her skull in his palm, a tactile reminder of her lack of development. Lower, he kissed her neck from the front as he massaged it with his fingertips from behind, so lithe and insignificant he feared that he could choke her to death if he exerted too much force in his excitement. The skin he was touching was purer than any woman he’d ever seen. He’d be lying if he claimed that inspired nothing in him; she practically radiated purity.

Lýdie let out short, pleased aspirations to his touching, pushing her chest forward, arching her back, a bid to go lower. Eager to oblige, Peter drew his kissing to her shoulders, then followed her conspicuous clavicles to her sternum, a bare path owing to the low neckline. The stacks of thin, silver chains were the perfect decorations for her white flatness, not overwhelming her features with brilliance and opulence, assisting in enjoying the erotic infancy of a grade schooler’s non-breasts.

This close, Peter could easily make out the outline of her areolae and the shape of her protruding nipples. Her dress was woven in a sparse grid, like a curtain, but textureless and soft. He kissed down to the end of her sternum, where it angled up from her belly, and then licked all the way to the top without break. Her polished skin was sleek as water on his tongue, unmarred and innocent, so pure it felt like she was cleaning all the filth he’d ever spoken, eaten, or drank. He surprised Lýdie, who exhaled louder than before, and pushed her chest farther forward.

So, she liked that?

He adjusted his position, placing his hands on her sides, running his fingers over the crests and the lows that formed as she contorted her body. They weren’t going to get any more noticeable, since she was stretching herself as much as she could in her oversensitive state. Her breathing grew increasingly audible and irregular, and he couldn’t get enough of the sensation of her series of peaks on her bony frame; rough shapes over smooth velvet, evidence of her femininity and good health. He licked her again, taking a different path, and then another, snaking his way up, zigzagging his way down, feeling her all over.

Then, just as he’d built up a rhythm, he brushed one of the strips of her dress covering her chest aside, exposing a breast. He had to keep her on her toes. A cute erect nipple begged to be sucked on, but first he had lick around it, her flat breast, more titillating to him than the inflated endowments of more nubile women. That flatness, that spotless skin, they were the trademarks of youth, of a girl that hadn’t had her menarche yet and had no reason to be sexually desired. Paradoxically, that she was pure and forbidden only added to her appeal, speaking to the twisted desire of men to be where none should ever be, the same desire that had built the Free Cities in the first place. Here, even the bodies of preteen children were products for the enjoyment of depraved paedophiles, men with discerning tastes that couldn’t be satisfied by mediocre, bland adults.

At last, he sucked on her teet with religious zeal, with more enthusiasm than he’d drunk from his mother’s. When she breastfed him, her body had already been defiled by his father, but for Lýdie, he was the first, the very first to taste her, the first to coat her with his lust, the first that had acted on his desires. He understood why some Purists relieved themselves with their slaves’ breasts and thighs in order to preserve this taste. He brushed his teeth on it, then flicked his tongue over it and around it, sometimes gently, sometimes hard. When he tired of her right breast, he moved to the left and repeated the process. With his hands covering her sides and her back, he could feel her every movement as she writhed in pleasure and tried her best to contain her whoreish voice, for if she went all out this early there would be nothing left to surprise him with.

Truthfully, Lýdie would have had sex with him whether she enjoyed it or not—it was her rightful place to serve. She’d been taught to adore and please her master since she was born; she’d never known a day of free life, and sex slavery came as naturally to her as breathing. However, even the slaves with the lowest sex drives learnt to extract some satisfaction from the act by the time they were fully broken, and Peter made it easy for her: though inexperienced, his focus had been primarily on her, and he was far from unappealing. As expected, after two or three generations of selectively breeding with only the highest quality stock, as well as extremely controlled diet and hormonal balance, the citizens of the oldest families of the Free Cities were on a league of their own, and often it was necessary to hire security to prevent their own extralegal enslavement. Peter was tall, large, fit, and dark haired, all features she was partial to. Under his touch, she felt vulnerable and insignificant, her mind wrestling for control of the situation with his body.

Her bag of tricks wasn’t quite empty yet, though.

She’d wrapped her arms around his head, and even one of her legs was on his back. Her heart was beating like a jackhammer, as fast as his was, and he could feel it through her chest like it was the thinnest barrier. It was almost unnerving how palpable it was, like she was a little kitten. It made some sense: a powerful, exercised muscle encased in a meagre cage. He was growing a liking to it, and judging by her reactions she was having a fair bit of fun also, but he worried he was teasing the poor girl too much and he should get to the point.

He returned to an eye level with her, and she made her intentions explicit by guiding his hand on her hip. She looked right into his eyes and tilted her head suggestively, ensuring even the most socially inept person would get the hint. In spite of her forward actions, her blushed cheeks and her involuntary motions gave away that she was bit flustered. Perhaps she did have more years in her than her body would indicate, but not all that many; her innocence was on display despite her training.

He wanted to feel her core, to learn what defiling something so immaculate and chaste was like. He moved his hand from her hip to her abdomen, under her dress. Over her navel, over her hairless pubic region. She opened her legs a little wider to welcome him, her eyes glistening with anticipation. They were both breathing hard, but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his thumping heart, couldn’t even listen to himself think. Now lower… lower…

He did a double take, anxious for moment that he’d done something stupid in his ignorance. No, he has feeling her groin, right between her thighs, where her vulva should have been, but Lýdie had… nothing. It was soft and slightly wet, but it was uninterrupted skin; no orifice of any kind.

Taken aback, Peter sat up with the most stupefied expression. “You don’t…”

Lýdie lifted herself up and rested on her elbows. “You didn’t read where I was from, did you, dummy?” She spread her legs further, and with one hand she moved the strip of her dress that covering her crotch. It was utterly featureless, like a mannequin’s. If he’d spent more time reading the contract, he would have noticed she was a graduate of Nueva Universidad de Libertad, which specialised in slaves just like her: androgynous nulls.

“I, I can’t. If…” He didn’t know what to think.

“Nobody has to know. Unless you’d like them to watch, that is. I’m sure many would like to know how to practice child love.” She lowered her fingers to her crotch, stroking herself lightly, though she had nothing to touch. “How else would they find out? Besides, earlier, weren’t you more interested in this hole?” She fell back and lifted her legs up, almost to her head. She raised her arse so he could have a better view of it, and spread her buttocks with both hands. Her smooth, bald anus presented itself: a pink, glistening ring. It twitched, opening to around the width of three of her fingers, then returned to its initial state.

“You… you can’t bear children through sodomy.”

“Of course you can. Have you been living under a rock?”

“That’s impossible. That’s where you defecate from, not a reproductive organ.”

“Ask your cock. Does it want to know what the inside of an arsehole is like?”

All of his life, Peter had been an obedient, agreeable child. Whatever his father had asked for, he did. Whatever he wanted him to believe and say, he did. He didn’t ask questions even when he heard things he knew were suspect, things any rational person would have questioned. Now, on this most crucial day, the day he’d looked forward to the most, he only had to choose an obedient, agreeable slave to make his wife. Did all his upbringing matter so little that he would throw it all away in an instant?

Or rather… if he obeyed, when would it end? Surely his father would do everything in his power to prolong his life, and his choice of mate wouldn’t be the last thing he’d try to control. He pictured himself decades in the future, still a dog in service of his family; a citizen in name only. That wasn’t the sort of life he wanted for himself. He had to raise his head at some point, to make a decision strictly out of self-interest.

He took off his shoes. He unbuttoned his shirt. He took off his pants and his underwear, now dressed as he’d come out of his mother’s womb. His eyes were transfixed on the precocious child’s strange, inhuman genitals, her doll-like anatomy. Shock, curiosity, horror, arousal, disgust, everything blended in a haze and clouded his vision. He touched his dick; he was rock hard. He’d asked it the pertinent question and it had answered unambiguously. Perhaps that was the only knowledge he needed.

Returning close to her, he grabbed her thighs and parted them. Thin like twigs, like the rest of her body, he could hold them fully, his own arms wider. He kissed the inside of her thigh, a little chilly for being so exposed. His trail of kisses led to her crotch, and once there, he licked. He never imagined he’d go down on a woman like this, but it wasn’t all bad; as a sensitive area, it was extraordinarily soft, with hint of saltiness; a trace of sweat. Lýdie ran her fingers through his hair and petted him, showing him her appreciation and urging him to keep going.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing; being his first time didn’t help, but it wasn’t like there were any manuals on how to perform oral on a girl without genitalia. He tried focusing on the area where her privates would have normally been and signing the alphabet with the tip of the tongue, and it appeared to work well enough. Their short break had soured the mood, but she was gradually getting back into it judging by her breathing and her noises. Her pubic area wasn’t completely insensitive in spite of its austere appearance. That, or her entire body was oversensitive in order to better serve her master’s kinks.

He found himself enthralled by her atypical anatomy and the way she had subverted his expectations. No, not just his; anyone who’d seen her in public had certainly made the same assumptions as he did. The way her dress advertised her body and left onlookers unknowing and presumptive only added to her duplicity, and that in itself kindled a fire in him he hadn’t been aware before. Like how she was feminine in her prepubescent unfemininity, she was also womanly in her androgyny. He realised now how great a match nulls were for virginity fetishists. Some owners kept their slaves caged in chastity to better enjoy other sex acts, taking in some perverse satisfaction in eliminating an option. Nulls were the conclusion of that light of thought, making their vaginal chastity permanent by lacking a vagina altogether. He found a twisted eroticism in teasing her in the place most emblematic of her modesty.

Lýdie clutched on his hair tighter and tighter as she waved her hips up and down, pushing her crotch tighter against his face for the added stimulation. She may have been doomed to be anatomically vestal there due to the circumstances of her gene edi— birth, but that didn’t mean the evolutionary remnants of what she lacked weren’t still sensitive. In fact, she was sensitive all over, medical alteration synergising with the high sex drives typical of premium slaves to enhance her sense of touch and turn almost every patch of skin into a sex organ.

She was much less shy about letting her voice out, her little, girly moans an exemplary melody for his act. His head, mouth, and tongue were very large compared to her diminutive hips, so he could cover her entire crotch in one stroke, rousing all of it at once. “There, there, that’s good!” she said as she felt a climax coming, the first that she’d had with a man, the thrusts of her hips becoming faster and stronger. She considered it might inconvenience him, but he didn’t seem to mind, his focus directed to tasting her flat groin. She could feel her climax nearing, just a few moments more, just a few more touches, and—

Noticing how close she was, he turned her focus on her inner thigh again and made a trail of kisses, this time in the opposite direction. “Ah, Peter, I was so near…!” she whined, his lips having reached to the side of her knee.

“And you’ll be near still,” he said, and let his tongue out to kiss around to the back of her knee. It was weird, and it tickled, and she was oversensitive so it felt good, and it was weird that it felt good, even for a trained sex slave. He gradually stood up, on his knees, as he licked his way down her leg, her calf, her ankle, her heel. The closer he got to her sole, the slower his progression became, paying more attention to finesse. All the while he fondled and groped different parts of her leg with his hands, taking in her body structure to its fullest; her limbs were very, very long, and she’d been showing them off since he’d first seen her.

He grabbed her other leg and raised it too, and placed his cock in the gap between her thighs. Peter was a very large man, but down there he was simply monstrous, a foot of length and and girth. Laying it flat against her, he reached up to her sternum, wide as her thighs; the idea of thrusting something so large inside of her seemed impossible, scary, and arousing to an utmost degree.

“All the girls today would have killed to have legs like yours. Don’t you feel any shame displaying them in front of sex-crazed adults, though you are a grade schooler?”

“I wanted you to see. I wanted you… to touch me.” She stretched a foot so that it reached to his face and pressed her toes against his cheek. “My legs, my feet, they are also for you to fuck.”

“Then I’ll have you come with your legs.”

He pulled his hips back a little, drawing his cock out from the flesh pocket formed between her thighs and her crotch. It was unbelievably soft, and also warm due to the proximity and the friction. He put his hands on either side of her legs to aid with the tightness, and also to better feel her up. God, he couldn’t get enough of her. He would be completely content fucking her thighs like this for the rest of his life; her kiddy thigh-pussy felt better than any well-used whore. Her limbs shouldn’t be so sexual—they had nothing to do with sexual intercourse—yet they were the best things about her. Long and slender and soft, the proportions of a goddess in the size of a young child. Something so perfect ought to not exist in this fallen world, yet here she was, and she was all his, and she sought her defilement.

She’d kindly offered him her foot, and so he partook in the pleasure of sucking on her toes as he began thrusting, having intercrural sex. Minutes ago, he’d been trying to convince himself that his sexuality was completely typical, and now he was being a pervert with a small child’s foot. He would chuckle on the irony if he wasn’t concentrating on savouring his present, sucking on her big toe, and on her smaller ones, around them and between them. It was like her extremities were less meant to facilitate walking and more about arousing paedophiles wanting to worship every inch of their lay’s body.

“You’re very good with your mouth,” she said. Since his hands were lower, pressing her thighs together, it was in fact Lýdie who was dictating the pace of his foot worship; she wasn’t exaggerating when she’d said her whole body was for fucking. When he’d finished having his way with her toes, she changed the angle of her foot so that he could pay attention to her sole, and, after that, her other foot, restarting the process.

The pace of his thrusting increased as he served her, as did the intensity of her moaning. He adjusted his grip so that he was pressing her thighs together with the balls of his hands, with his fingers on her butt. He lifted her up a little, and with the more secure angle, he could up the intensity and the tightness of their intercrural mating even further. Her pale face had now turned completely red owing to the tantalising stimuli he spread all over her limbs. He couldn’t easily lick her in their new position, so her feet were idle on either side of his face, sandwiching it, stroking it.

The warmth that was building up between her thighs and on her crotch spilled onto the rest of her body. Flooded, more like; a furious stream held back by a massive dam, at last unable to hold back the pressure, pulverised as if it was made of cards. She clutched the bed sheets as her torso contorted wildly, all over the place. She pressed her legs as tightly together as she could, involuntary and almost too tight, as her toes stretched and spread and tingled in the onset of numbness.

Peter paced his thrusts more slowly, carefully, helping her feel every inch in her orgasmic state. His size, his texture, his pulse keeping him erect. He turned his face to the side and found an ankle, kissing it, licking it. In her excitable state, that sent her into overdrive, her hips and legs shivering from the sensations. It lasted for more than a minute, though it’d felt like an eternity to her, her breathing erratic as she fought for control against her own body. As promised, he’d brought her to completion through outercourse alone, through fucking her legs.

When she looked liked she’d calmed down a little, he let her legs rest on the bed and leaned into her to kiss her lips, her cheek, her ear, anything he could touch. As she felt exhausted, Lýdie let him do what he wanted to for a while as her senses gradually returned to normal capacity. She raised a hand to his neck and played with his hair.

“You haven’t come yet, have you?” she asked.

“N… no.”

“That’s no good. What a scandal, for me to be the only one who has fun.” She pushed against his shoulder, and he allowed himself to fall back so that she could ride him. She reached behind her neck and pulled her dress up; finally she was almost as naked as he was, jewellery notwithstanding.

“Your cock is still lively. The little monster wants to be inside me. Inside… a little girl.” She ground her smooth crotch on his member as she spoke.

“Could it even fit inside?” She was but a four feet tall child; his member was as wide as her thighs, and long enough to fill all of her belly.

“If it won’t, we’ll make it fit. Besides, don’t you want to ruin me?” She raised her hips up and lowered a hand to his cock, so as to guide it. “To force something huge into something tiny. To spread me and stretch me and split me.” She lined up his glans with her anus, which, he noticed, was showering him with lubrication. “For your very first time…” She pressed her weight down on him. “…to be inside…” Her arsehole resisted, but it quickly gave way as she applied more force. “…the shitting pipe of a prepubescent child?”

Suddenly, around his shaft, the sensation of something far too tight, far too warm, far too wet. She put her hands on his thighs to hold herself stable as she lowered her hips to insert more and more of his cock inside of her. Her warm, wet tightness grew to envelop his glans and then his shaft. She held her breath to allow herself to stretch further; he held his because he was overwhelmed by the sensations. Her intestinal fluids were sticking on him from every direction, and he could feel her hole contracting and loosening around him, as if to milk him.

She continued her descent until there was nothing left to shove inside her. As she did, slowly but clearly, the shape of a bulge appeared on her abdomen. At first small, with only an inch or two inside her, but increasing in size and length, as his humongous proportions deformed her petite, skinny body, reshaping itself to the size of her invader. Soon, the deformation had grown to over four inches wide, worming up to her chest like a timelapse of an obscene pregnancy.

Lýdie had bottomed out. He could feel her buttocks on his waist.

“How do you fancy… the embrace of my guts?” she said between rough breaths. She wiggled her hips around as she sat on him, impaled. She felt completely filled up, feeling every fraction of his length inside of her throughout her body. “Is my defecatory organ the fuckhole you’ve been dreaming of?”

Ah, he’d done it. He’d really, actually done it. The holier-than-thou, well-bred son of a devout revivalist had become a sodomite; that was how much his teachings and upbringing were good for in the face of paedophilic temptation. It was easy to talk about sin and lust when the rectal blessing of a preteen angel was a hypothetical. Now, when he could feel bowels squirming around him, constricting him; when he could feel her heartbeat through her digestive tract: that was true temptation.

She was in the perfect position for him to behold her brilliance. Flexed so that her lithe, bony form contrasted with the grotesque tumour of the penetration. She was so… so… he had no words for it. He felt like he’d experienced some platonic ideal of arousal, watching a little child distort like that. That she was young and tiny made the sight of her warped abdomen all the more arousing, a synergy of perversion.

He didn’t have enough sanity to respond to her; he had only animal instinct. He reached forward and grabbed her butt, squeezing as hard as he could, a far cry from the gentleness and the care he had before. Small, tight, and round; he loved her rear end. His hips thrust up, not waiting for his command or his approval. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her. He had to fuck her. He shouldn’t be fucking her. That was were she pooped from, and it was all wrong, and he was ashamed, and his shame mixed in with his arousal, and he could feel that he was losing little pieces of himself as he thrust, and it drove him mad.

He was the first man to fuck her, the first to have experienced that. Hers was first hole he’d experienced, if his own palm didn’t count. His first, formative sexual experience, against which all future ones would be compared: not inside a vagina, but in a shitter. So dirty and sinful he wanted to destroy her.

Deeper. Harder. The whore lacked her womanly parts, but her arsehole did the job of a thousand cunts. She was bred for this. Every moment she’d spent awake, it was so that her body and her mind could be honed to coax men into desiring her arsehole. So that they’d look at her narrow hips and her elegant derriere and crave to touch it and squeeze it and taste it and fuck it with everything they had, with a raging fury that could have waged crusades or founded nations, but instead was dedicated into using her shithole like a fuckhole.

“More… more…!” she begged, throwing her head around. Her hair and necklace waved and jiggled behind her, around her. Her bulge reached up to her sternum when he was in, and slightly lower when he was outside. He forgot how to blink; so focused he was on the play of light, colour, and shapes unfolding in front of him. “Tear my arsehole in half…! This is what you want. This is what all paedophiles want. Rape a little child. A little child. Rape a kid’s turd cutter. Do it! Do it!”

Peter lunged forward and switched their positions, so that he was on top now. A hand on her hips and lower back to hold her up. Another on her neck and upper back to keep her in place. She opened her eyes wide and looked straight at him, a non-verbal challenge to continue. She locked her legs behind him and tried to push with what little strength he could manage. There was no escaping his grip no matter how much she tried; his massive, masculine hands could snap her neck like a toothpick just using a thumb; they weren’t all that different in size, after all. She felt like a toy the way he held her. An anal fleshlight, powerless to resist, living only to have her shit pushed in.

He could use wider strokes in this position, and he did. He pulled out as far as he could and then buried himself inside her again in one fast stroke. “Ah!” Lýdie yelled, discomfort and pleasure at once, so interwoven she could hardly tell them apart. Another thrust, and another, each motion lasting about a second. Her bulge deflated when he pulled out, barely visible at its minimum, then rapidly swelled back. He thrust that thing inside her—the size of her thigh—like it was nothing.

Her hole was dripping bodily fluids on his shaft, his hand, her butt, and the bed. A puddle had formed under them. When he was balls deep, their bodies slapped, hips against hips, testicles against arse. The vacuum of her colon changed, singing watery obscenities with every motion. Even her skin and muscles chimed in, sounds of rapid stretching, like leather pushed to its limits. His strokes carried with them the pleasure and texture and sound of friction, the rhythm of their breathing, the melody of her moaning.

She raised her arms above her head as far as they could go and pushed her chest and abdomen up, so that he could better see her armpits, and especially her deformation. She broke the lock of her legs, and raised one up to his face. When he kissed it, it was like a thousand clitorises were scattered on her skin.

“Come inside my butt. Breed my arsehole. Use it like an arsepussy!”

At that point, the sheer degeneracy of it all was more convincing than the biological impossibility of what she was asking. He increased the pace of his thrusting as much as he could, though at the expense of some of the wideness of the individual motions. It did not matter, as the surge of pleasure led Lýdie over the edge for a second time. Her body began shaking, but her loss of control made it hard for her to keep any sort of mating position.

Catching on, Peter shifted her to the side, so that she rested on her shoulder. He grabbed the underside of her thighs and lifted her legs up, towards her face, so that her arsehole was more easily available. Like that, it really did feel like he was fucking a fleshlight, and he pummelled her preteen hole with everything he had. Her once tight entrance was now a bright red ring, and every time he pulled out, some of the flowery mess of her rectum stuck on him, so tight it refused to let go.

It was too much for him. He came, and he fucked her as he came. He couldn’t remember ever having a stronger orgasm; he unleashed rope after rope of semen inside her immature poop chute, so much that he felt like he’d be coming himself to impotence. All the while, Lýdie wasn’t quite there, lost in her own orgasmic world, the child buttslut finally receiving what she’d been trained for over the few years of her life.

He collapsed on top of her in post-coital bliss. He could feel her cold sweat against his, could smell her excitement and her arousal. He blanketed her with his much larger body, but he remained inside of her even after her orgasm had subsided, making small, involuntary thrusts even though they’d just come. Their intestinal coupling had not yet ended; laying on top of her, hugging her, his slow thrusting made for a second round. He fucked her with his mouth on her neck and her nails on his back, as her arsehole spilled not just her own fluids, but the semen he’d just deposited. It took a good, long while, so long that the aching was obvious even veiled by the pleasure, and when they came again, they slept in each other’s arms, utterly exhausted.

Peter paid a very serious sum of money for that day’s services, but he was one worshipful slave wife richer by the end of it. His parents were taken aback by his choice of mate that was surely infertile, but a few choice words about the marriage practices of Roman emperors and a glance at her shining health were enough to persuade them otherwise.

After all, what is more Christian than loving little children?