Chapter 5
Five
In almost a dream state, I feel Dr. Rust collect me the way stock is collected, and the difference between his hand and the bull’s is the first thing that undoes me.
The leash clips to the front ring of the collar with a soft metallic sound that I feel more than hear.
I’m still plugged from my last night, still marked with the stall’s stamps, still carrying the rawness in my throat and the deep ache in my ass where I begged to be used rather than folded back into the cradle.
I was left to sleep on the floor, which I did gratefully with my ass plugged up full of semen from I don’t even know how many guys.
Milk beads on my nipples and slides down the undersides of my breasts in thin, warm lines. I present the way the last two days taught me to present almost on autopilot, chest low, ass high, the posture of something that has learned what happens when it forgets itself.
His fingers settle under my chin and tilt my face up anyway.
Dr. Rust studies me for a long time. Not the quick clinical sweep of the first exam.
He really looks into my eyes, into my soul.
He takes in the wet tracks on my cheeks, the swollen redness around my mouth, the way my tits hang heavier and fuller than they did when he sent me down the corridor in chains.
His thumb brushes the corner of my lip where spit and other things have dried.
When he speaks, his voice is low and almost warm at the edges, the strictness still there but threaded with a possession the bull never bothered to pretend at.
“There you are,” he says. “This is much better. You’re finally attractive to me like this. Soft and obedient. No more trying to negotiate your way out of what you asked for. Just my good girl who knows what she is.”
The words sink under my sternum and stay there.
After the rail and the trough and the night of locked machines, after being walked past duty staff while I leaked and after kissing boots with spit on my face, the part of me that still wants his particular attention flares so hard it’s almost painful.
I should feel only the fear of whatever comes next.
I feel that too. I also feel the sick, grateful pull of being called his good girl, of being told the broken version is the one that finally suits him.
My eyes sting as I keep them on his face, because he is holding my chin and because looking away feels like a risk I no longer know how to take.
He walks me on the leash, and this time I don’t walk. I crawl.
The corridor is the same stretch of polished floor and observation glass I crawled through when the overfill training made milk run down my thighs in front of whoever happened to be on shift.
It feels different with his hand on the leash.
It stays short enough that I must keep to his heel, a constant soft pressure on my throat that reminds me I am not walking beside a doctor. I am being led by one.
Every few crawls the plugs shift inside me and another bead of milk gathers and falls.
My mind turns the same ugly circle over and over: I survived the bull by becoming less of a person, and the reward for that survival is this man’s approval.
I hate how much of me wants to protect it.
I hate how the sound of his voice saying good girl still lands warmer than any mercy the stall offered.
He stops me in a smaller suite halfway down the hall.
Not the original examination room with its paper-lined table and bright lights.
Not the stall with its drainage channels and breeding bench.
Something in between. A low platform fitted with soft restraints, monitoring arms folded against the wall, and through a reinforced window, a sealed chamber already waiting, its interior lined with padded rests and coiled lines that make my stomach turn before I fully understand what they’re for.
“Up,” he says. “Present.”
I climb onto the platform on shaking legs and drop into the posture without being told twice or responding in anything other than obedient action.
Chest to the surface. Knees wide. Ass high.
The position has stopped feeling like a choice.
It feels like the only shape that doesn’t earn immediate correction.
And the only way I am truly valuable. He pulls on gloves with the same quiet precision he has always used, and for a moment I could almost believe this is still only an assessment.
Then his hands are on me, and the check begins.
He expresses each breast into a graduated cylinder, timing the let-down, watching the stream, noting the volume with a small sound that is not quite satisfaction.
The tape goes around me again. The numbers are higher than the day he sent me away, but when he sets the tape aside his mouth has flattened.
A brief speculum opens me just long enough for him to see the stretch the bull left.
A gloved finger presses into my ass and tests the same.
He is thorough and silent while he works.
I stare at the surface of the platform and try not to think about the chamber on the other side of the glass.
When he finally speaks, the displeasure is evident.
“Behind on volumetric gain,” he says. “Tissue density is acceptable. Overall mass is not where the curve needs to be for the next classification. You’ll need a few full days in the hormone chamber.
Continuous loading. No interruptions. You’ll be fed through a tube.
Waste will be handled the same way. One line in the ass.
One in the urethra. That will keep the system closed and force the growth properly.
No distractions. No performances. Just your body doing what the protocol requires. ”
My stomach drops so hard I feel dizzy. Fed through a tube.
Emptied the same way. Locked in that padded box for days while hormones push my body into a shape I will not get to negotiate.
I keep the pose because I no longer trust what happens if I break it.
Inside, the last scrap of the student who signed consent forms in the middle of the night is making a thin, useless noise.
The rest of me is already trying to understand how to endure it without losing the soft approval he gave me in the corridor.
I don’t ask questions or talk back. I just spread my ass and pussy for him as he inspects me.
The stall taught me the price of words. I only breathe and wait and feel the plugs and the collar and the wetness on my skin like evidence.
He sets the instruments aside. For a long moment he only looks at me.
“You’re acting so obedient,” he says, and something in his voice has changed.
The strictness is still there, but it has gone thicker, warmer, less controlled.
“So good. This is exactly what I hoped for when I sent you down to him. The attachment to being a person is breaking. What’s left is starting to suit me.
My special girl, finally quiet enough to keep. ”
A hand settles on the back of my neck, heavy and possessive.
Then it strokes down the length of my spine, over the stamps, over the fading welts, lingering at the small of my back where the posture keeps me open.
He cups one heavy breast and thumbs the nipple until milk wells against his glove. He does the same to the other.
“I can let go of control. Just this once. For my special girl.”
He slowly strips off his clothes as I glance at him from the corner of my vision.
His body is slightly hairy with a grey sheen, trim but muscular, surprisingly muscular for a man of his intellect.
He isn’t intimidating like the bulls. He is attractive and even cute.
But the days when I find boys cute are gone.
I am for use now, and the man I like most is about to take me.
My mouth first. He guides my head with both hands and claims the throat that the bit and the night and the bull already stretched. I choke when he presses deep, and he holds me there long enough that my eyes water and my hands flex uselessly in the mitts I am still wearing.
“That’s it,” he says, soft and strict at once.
“Take what Daddy gives you.” The word lands like a brand.
Daddy. Not doctor. Not handler. Something that makes my empty cunt clench around nothing and my eyes burn harder.
He eases only enough for me to drag air around him, then takes his pleasure in long, deliberate strokes that leave no doubt whose mouth this is now.
When he pulls me fully onto the platform and turns me, he takes my pussy with the same claiming patience.
Slow at first, letting me feel every inch, then harder, as if he is rewriting the bull’s use with his own.
The plug is still seated in my ass. He leaves it there and fucks me around it until I am shaking, milk slipping from my nipples onto the surface in thin strings, sounds breaking out of me that are not words.
He talks through it in that same low daddy-voice: good girl, open for me, this is mine now, you don’t get to keep anything back.
I don’t. I open. I stay soft even when it is too much, because the alternative is the chamber without this, and I am already bargaining with myself to earn whatever softness he is willing to show.
He removes the anal plug only when he is ready for that hole. It is still tender from the morning, from the night, from everything that came before.
“I want to claim every single hole before you are bred, baby girl,” he groans as he works into my anus with a controlled pressure that doesn’t rush past the hurt and doesn’t spare me it either.