The Naked Woman
6
As a child, Natalie had enjoyed drawing. As an adult, she had turned drawing into a career. As a slave, her skill in drawing became just one more measured and marketable trait in her desirability, as much as the suction action of her mouth or the strength and slickness of her pussy had been gauged.
Like those other assets, her proficiency in the art was first tested and then slowly, inevitably improved.
The “mad scientist” doctor treated Natalie, and presumably her fellow prisoner in the adjoining apartment, on a regular basis. He would come by the apartment’s front door every two or three days, then switch and come through the other apartment the next two. The treatments stayed more or less the same; they spanned a period of weeks, perhaps even months. Natalie’s time sense remained faint; she initially tried to count the time she spent in the prison/apartment by the number of her rapes and treatments, but because she had trouble visualizing numbers, it was all too easy to lose track. Keeping any sort of log was impossible: she could neither read nor write with any accuracy. Over time, the pain from the ankle injections, and the similar ones the doctor began administering to her back, diminished, and Natalie began to have the wherewithal to climb down off of the examination table herself and crawl into the bedroom to recover. Subsequently, she saw less and less of her “roommate” across the hall.
The black girl, too, must have been getting used to the pain.
Fewer and fewer were the times either of them needed to carry the other to bed. Eventually, Natalie no longer saw the black woman at all, though now that she knew she existed Natalie retained, somehow, a subliminal awareness of her presence. Somehow, she knew that she wasn’t going through this alone.
This was not a comfort. Natalie had seen enough of her “roommate” to be cognizant of the awful and degrading changes that she must have been enduring, just as they were awful and degrading for her.
Her hair, once short and dark, growing progressively long and blond as it was, was only the minimalist part of it. After perhaps the third visit from the doctor, Natalie’s breasts began to feel swollen and heavy all the time. They became tender, as sore to the touch as she remembered them being when she was a young teen and first developing. After the fifth visit, there was no longer any doubt: her chest was growing! The apartment’s wardrobe held no bras; even had it done so Natalie would not have been able to read the cup sizes; but she was sure she was expanding at least one or two cup sizes on a weekly basis. Slowly but surely, her bust grew from the modest size she remembered to the size of the grape fruits she had in the apartment refrigerator, from thence to something even larger, basketballs, maybe, or maybe even watermelons! They jutted in front of her, large and perfect, with nipples of corresponding length and sensitivity. They interfered with her sleep at first. Sleeping on her stomach became impractical, soon impossible. Over time, finding any position save that of flat on her constantly aching back proved hopeless. Only part of the problem was size. They were so freakin’ sensitize!
Every time Natalie brushed her constantly engorged nipples up against something—and as she grew larger that became oftener and oftener—she had to stop and moan at the sheer delightful reaction.
Whenever “Tommy” used her, or any of the others who only occasionally came by, their fondling of her breasts became overwhelming. They would pinch her nipples, and she would climax uncontrollably.
She couldn’t help it. For along with the increase of her bust size was a steady and escalating increase in her randiness. The pleasure she began to receive from her rapes became horribly humiliating. They made her feel like the lowest, most worthless thing in creation.
When she wasn’t paying attention, Natalie found herself fondling her nipples and breasts, and she had to seriously fight to resist the pleasure this always induced, a pleasure which expanded along with her cup sizes until even the cool apartment air brushing against her breasts would sometimes cause her to climax.
She was hot and wet all the time!
Just walking around the apartment, or cleaning, or cooking, would excite her terribly, and especially so after one of the doctor’s visits, after receiving the injections to her pussy.
He must be giving me some kind of aphrodisiac, she thought.
If so, it was a long-lasting one, and one that was having a permanent effect on her libido. Disgustingly, she began to look forward to her rapes. On the rare nights neither “Tommy” nor anybody else came to use her, she would weep in frustration. When she wasn’t exercising herself to exhaustion, even Natalie’s dreams were filled with fucking. She visualized every lover she had had and masturbated furiously. Because of her desperate, constant sexual need, the men no longer needed to order her about as much. She would go down on them on her own, and when they fucked her, she would scream in pleasure. It didn’t change her feelings; she hated these awful men, these degraders of her body and mind. At the same time, though, they made her climax so hard, just thinking about them got her boiling.
Her very best orgasms, however, came from recalling her rape in the elevator.
Her use at the Hands of her Master!
At the end of these rude sessions with her hand, or any choice fruits she could pull from the refrigerator, she would be layered in sweat, just as she was after every use of the treadmill, every rape of her body.
Over time, the nature of her fantasies changed, from tame recollections of past encounters to orgy fancies with famous actors or movie stars to imagining herself playing a more . . . submissive role: of being put to her back and fucked, fucked like a whore, fucked like a slave, fucked like the little slavegirl she knew she was becoming, steadily and surely.
She relished every sensation from her rapes. Even when she wasn’t being subjected to them in real life, she dreamt herself raped on her back and on her knees by every man she could recall, by “Tommy,” and, most especially, by either of the two Men, those uber-masculine Men! she had seen, the Blond God from the building in which she had worked, and the Dark One from the elevator, and she would scream aloud her passion only to have it reawaken the very next time she moved!
She lost her freckles. She lost the scar from her appendectomy. She needed to shave less often.
Her skin became smoother and smoother as she grew increasingly voluptuous: baby smooth, everywhere, eventually, without the slightest bit of hair below her head. Natalie exercised nearly every waking period in the apartment. This, in part, must have had some effect on her figure, her lost weight, but surely not all! Her waist shrank as her bust increased. Her hips began to flare out, Her ass grew tight and round. Her legs developed greater definition from the treadmill. Maybe it was because she could no longer rest her feet squarely on the floor anymore. The pain from the ankle injections gradually diminished, but this was only because of the effect they were having on her lower legs, the way the back of her legs grew tighter, shorter. It hurt to put her ankles all the way down now. Wearing the very high-heeled stilettos the men began bringing her, along with her groceries, became a necessity.
Sharp and elegant, she could no more use these fuck-me pumps as weapons or tools as she could use anything else to harm her assailants or escape the apartment. The heels got bigger as she got used to each new size, until near the end of her stay Natalie was practically on her toetips the whole day long, with no pain whatsoever. The treatments to her back made the weight of her humungous tits bearable.
Natalie was no fool. She could see what was happening to her. What was being done to her.
The image of the blond slut she had seen on the street filled her mind. “I’m becoming her,” she would say out loud to the mirror sometimes. “I’m turning into a living blow-up doll, just like her.”
Even her face wasn’t immune to these rising changes. The doctor had been giving her shots and coating her lips with a tingling solution every visit, administering the chemical through the dildo she was forced to suck. The effect on her lips was as if they were being injected with collagen. They grew a little puffier every time she saw herself in the mirror, it seemed, so much so that even when she opened her mouth all the way they barely seemed to part. Something very similar was happening to her lower lips, too.
The role for which she was being prepared was plain. She was being turned into the ultimate male sex fantasy. She was being turned into an uber-slut. She was being “readied for sale” as a fuck slave.
One morning Natalie, naked all but for the heels she was forced to wear, minced into the living room and found her old sketchpad lying on an end table. She was stopped dead in her tracks by the sight.
Her eyes widened. A plethora of thoughts raced through her mind.
My pad! How did it get here? They’ve been in my apartment! I knew it! I knew it!! Someone left it! I can now draw! But . . . they want me to draw? I won’t!! I refuse! Her fingers clenched.
But it’s something to do! Her hours spent alone with nothing to do, looking forward to her next rape, were a torment. But if I do it, any drawing I do will be ruined. It’ll take the fun away if I’m forced to do it. It’ll ruin art for me forever.
But they want me to do it! What if they make me, they way they make me clean? I refuse! But I want to draw, too! She actually stood there shaking for over a minute staring at the anonymous book before tiptoeing over and sitting down. Her hands continued to tremble as she picked it up.
Beneath the cover, loose, was the drawing she had made of the naked woman from the street. Natalie had to resist a sudden, savage impulse to tear the picture to shreds. She hated that woman!
It was all her fault she was in this mess!!
But that’s not true, she thought a second later. I saw her. Somehow, I could see her. It wasn’t her fault. Natalie looked into the blank eyes of the woman on the page. She had never actually completed the drawing, never put in that perfect expression of utter sympathy she had finally perceived in that poor slut’s eyes. A package of pencils and a pencil sharpener had been hidden underneath the sketchpad.
Hands no longer shaking, Natalie picked the package up, carefully removed a sharp pencil, and finished the drawing. It was the work of only a minute.
She examined the picture when she was done. It was, simply, the best thing she had ever done. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said to it afterward, to her. “I’m sorry.”
The picture stared back at her. I’m sorry, too, it seemed to say.
Natalie stood and hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure what she was doing.
After a minute passed, she realized she was standing waiting for the impulse to make her start drawing . . . something.
She was waiting for the same compulsions that made her clean up the apartment, that prevented her from hurting herself, prevented her from leaving, compelled her to obey men and work herself half to death on the treadmill nearly every day.
But no such impulse came.
She couldn’t read the label on the sketchpad. But she recognized it for it was.
It’s my choice, she thought. They’re . . He’s giving me a choice.
The image of the Man from the office filled her mind, and a wave of pleasurable stimulation passed through her, emanating from her blazing hot pussy. Natalie touched herself and almost climaxed on the spot. “What should I do?”
Nobody replied.
I won’t do it. I won’t give in to them. She nodded her head, approving of the plan. “I’m hungry,” she said, talking to herself. She had developed that habit lately. She was always hungry, too, it seemed like, especially so after one of the doctor’s visit, as if the changes she were going through were burning megacalories. She had never eaten so much in her life, yet every day her waist got a little bit narrower.
Natalie went into the kitchen nook and ate her first meal.
The pad lay on the couch the whole rest of the day.
Eventually, of course, she went back for it.
An indeterminate amount of time passed: numbers of days (or weeks!) Natalie was unable to comprehend. Her universe had been reduced to a scrupulously clean living room, bathroom, bedroom, and laboratory.
Her back gradually stopped hurting.
The muscles had strengthened, or something, to support her now massive rack. Her boobs stabilized finally, too, at a size that made them look like the balloon breasts of a rubber sexdoll.
Natalie would occasionally stand before the bathroom mirror in amazement and cup her massive breasts in her hands—whenever she did so, she felt a nearly irresistible urge to fondle them—and say to herself, “Theef are nof my bhreasfs.” (Her cushiony, blowjob lips distorted her voice.)
It was impossible that the blond superslut she saw in the mirror was herself. She actually did look more like a doll than a real person. She had been turned into a parody of the feminine form. She actually got dizzy staring at her own reflection too long, the discrepancy between what she saw and her own old self-image—a short, moderately good-looking brunette with a modest figure—being so vastly far apart.
“Theef are nof my bhreasfs!” And she would cry because she knew they now were her breasts, that she now was a slut, that she now was little more than a rubber sexdoll brought to life.
Her hair, her exquisitely long and blond hair, now, descended all the way to her waist. It had grown at a pace that was simply impossible, yet no more impossible than all the other changes to her body. (Her skin, for instance, no longer had any imperfections whatsoever, anywhere. Not a freckle, not a mole, nothing, just creamy, inhumanly perfect skin. Once, Natalie had used to aggravate herself by touching and feeling her own nipples. The areola on her left breast had been, well, particularly bumpy. She had thought about having it fixed, maybe, had tried all sorts of creams and medications, but in the end she had learned to live with it. Now, both areolae were smooth and silky, perfect. And large as well, as big as silver dollars. Touching them sent rivulets of pure pleasure coursing through Natalie’s body.)
One morning Natalie felt the impossible-to-resist urge to braid her long, fine waist-length hair, to comb it down from a straight line to the nape of her neck, to divide it, to pull each strand into position and twist and tighten until she had two long, long pigtails, just the spitting image of the naked slut she had seen.
She knew instinctively what they were for. Her pigtails would be useful in holding her head in position when she gave blowjobs. The thought . . . thrilled her.
For fucking was constantly on her mind. Not sex: fucking.
Her fantasies always involved herself now as the submissive recipient of a Man’s use of her sluttish body. Whether she was on her back or on her knees, whether she was taken from behind or simply raped spread-eagled on the floor, Natalie wanted desperately to be fucked. To be used.
Love and romance had nothing to do with it; all she thought about was fucking, fucking, fucking!
Natalie masturbated whenever she could. Whenever she wasn’t drawing or eating or exercising, or being raped by “Tommy,” she played with herself. She had developed the tendency to rub against things, running her incredibly sensitive tits over the furniture, sliding her incredibly smooth and utterly hairless skin across the surface of her bed, the towels in the bathroom, foodstuffs from the kitchen.
She found herself licking things.
Unable to stop herself, she would kiss her pillows in the morning, imagining them brushing against the hard, masculine body of her Men, her Masters, imagine herself swallowing their cocks, worshipping their cocks, sucking their cocks, being fucked by a multitude of men, and so she would kiss and kiss and kiss everything.
Every act became a sexual act. Everything in her life took on a special carnal significance.
Whenever she ate, Natalie imagined herself licking and swallowing a cock. Whenever she exercised, she grew excited by the way her smooth, velvety thighs swished together. When she slept, her dreams involved herself as the lowest of serving wenches. The only way she could distract herself, to keep her hands off of herself for even a short period of time, was by drawing.
Needless to say, the subject matter of her art proved almost entirely sexual.
At first, Natalie tried to avoid this. She began by drawing things from her memory, the places and people she remembered from her life before, the life to which she knew she would never be able to return, not appearing as she now did. She drew the faces of her parents, long dead. She drew pictures of her former friends, including Cindy (Natalie initially had been hesitant to put the image down on paper for fear that it would pique her Masters’ interest. She got over that.) As a kid, Natalie had owned a dog, “Flipper.” Despite her mother’s objections, she had named the little chihuahua after the dolphin. She drew pictures of herself playing with Flipper, some portraying herself as she had been as a child, some with herself as an adult, before the changes. She drew her old house in California; she drew her apartment in the city, her real apartment and not this prison. She wanted to remind herself of who she had been.
But eventually this nostalgic retrospection changed.
Abstract art had never interested her; she had always needed a subject, even if that subject remained only in her mind. She had never been the kind of artist who drew faerie landscapes, either, or fictional settings or people. Her subjects had to be personal, living, real. Maybe that was why she had never prospered, that she had been reduced to becoming a commercial artist.
Natalie began drawing herself as she was becoming.
She sketched several self-portraits in various stages of her transformation. She drew herself in the apartment’s kitchen. She illustrated herself walking on the treadmill. Working largely from memory, over a period of a whole day, she did a very extensive sketch, over several pieces of paper, of the laboratory, of the doctor who came to treat her, and of herself being treated, being transformed.
She also illustrated her fantasies.
Showing an imagination for the unreal she had never before displayed, Natalie depicted her slutty new self in any number of sexual scenarios. Constantly, feverishly, she drew herself being fucked: on her back, on her knees, with her legs in the air, in positions of every kind, positions she had never previously dreamt of actually doing in real life, positions which now she wished desperately to explore!
She illustrated in graphic detail her strange encounter on the subway, up to and including the oblivious expressions on the faces of the passengers (she later redrew this encounter with the passengers actively looking on at her degradation, and it got her even more excited!). She drew depictions of her rape on the elevator from every angle imaginable. When the one-on-one scenarios failed to interest her any longer—that is, when they were no longer enough to satisfy her—Natalie began drawing herself fucked by an endless succession of faceless men and enjoying every moment of it.
She was able to capture in her face the sheer rapture, her delight in, her gang-rapes.
Naturally, she made several illustrations of her Men, her Masters!
She depicted Their strong, masculine Chests, the curve of Their Chins, Their penetrating Eyes with an accuracy bordering, it seemed to her, on the photographic. She had never drawn so well or so copiously before in her life. She drew Their Cocks and then masturbated joyously in front of the pictures. Once, she redrew the naked woman she had seen outside her workplace. She changed the perspective, brought the naked woman into profile.
On a separate sheet of paper, using the bathroom mirror as a guide, Natalie then carefully, painstakingly drew herself. She deliberately avoided the other drawing while she was working.
She only examined both when she was finished, when she could put both pictures side-by-side.
They were, of course, all but identical.
Her favorite drawing was of her in bed with the Man—her Master!—who had first used her, who held the Leash in her mind. The Blond Man thrilled her, but He had only gazed upon her.
The Man from the Elevator had actually used her!
Natalie dreamt of Him constantly. Her treatment of the subject took all of her skill.
She was on her back. Above her was her Master! He was fucking her, taking His time with her, filling her with His godlike Member, and she was glorying in her use, relishing every moment of her abject fucking. Natalie paid particular attention to her eyes in this picture. She put all the necessary emotion into her gaze, the rapture. With a careful understanding of shade and contour, she depicted well, too, their entwined limbs, the way her legs were wrapped about His Waist. She managed to instill what she thought was a subtle suggestion of motion, as if the picture were moving beneath her fingers.
Just the thought of that scene got her wet!
Pictures eventually came to litter the apartment, lying on tables, the sofa, chairs, the bed in the bedroom, everywhere there was space for them. Natalie’s urge to tidy up never struck her in relation to these random illustrations scattered every which where. She cleaned around them.
They accumulated.
Everywhere she turned, Natalie saw her own work. It enflamed her. Her previous work would then inspire new drawings, new scenarios, new pictures of her Masters! She got better. A white hot, carnal inspiration flamed inside her. She drew with a passion she had never before been able to realize, with a fire in the illustrations themselves that she had never before been able to impart. It was more than mere accuracy. She was making truth! She was producing art!
Her art was driving her mad with unfulfilled desire, but it was all that she could do!
Save to fuck or to suck, that is.