Alice: Slave at the Marketplace (2 page)

I mean, babies get fat on it, right?

“Get in,” Mistress Karen instructs us.

The opening of the tent has a sign which
says:

ADMISSION: Fifty pounds.

For fifty pounds, there had better be a
spectacle.

Inside, the ground is covered with more straw
and bales of fresh, sweet-smelling hay. A large and very long
wooden structure with multiple cubicles has been set up to cordon
off one part of the tent. It is pretty much like the changing room
of a clothing store, replete with curtains – which are currently
drawn aside to reveal each cubicle.

Each cubicle is boxlike, but instead of
mirrors on their backs, there is a plan wooden board with two
semi-large holes in its middle – like two oversized peepholes.

I wonder what the entire structure is
for.

Several of the farmhands from our barn are
present. They are dressed in their usual dungarees and straw hats.
They grin as we enter. I recognize the few who have milked and
fucked me in succession back in the farmhouse, including
Samuel.

Samuel comes up to me.

“How’re you doing?” he says in a low
voice.

I breathe in deeply. Samuel always excites me
ever since the first day he milked me. Besides, he has a nice,
thick schlong which fills me capably.

“Peachy, just peachy,” I tell him.

“Good.”

He inspects the tail protruding from my ass
and gives the dildo inside a little wriggle. Tendrils of pleasure
course all over my anal sphincter.

“Now come,” he says.

He leads me to the other side of the
structure. The other farmhands are similarly shepherding the
‘cows’. The reverse side reveals a plain wooden board with pegs and
hooks in addition to the holes. The pegs and hooks have cuffs on
them, linked by chains. The holes are medium-sized, about the
diameter of small watermelons. They are interspersed two by two,
like peepholes for very large eyes.

Samuel presses me to a pair of holes. He
grabs my breasts and massages them, feeling their weight and heft.
To be honest, I haven’t been milked this morning, and so my breasts
feel positively heavy – like I am carrying deadweight. My milk
seems ready to burst forth from my swollen nipples.

“Nice,” Samuel concedes. “Now put your tits
into these holes here.”

“Huh?” I say.

“You heard me. Come on, I’ll help you.”

He pushes the front of my body again to the
board and teases my huge breasts into a pair of holes. Beside me,
the other ‘cows’ are being similarly pressed. The board itself is
not very thick – just maybe about an inch. The texture of the wood
is smooth, and so the edges do not grate on my soft and very tender
flesh.

Once Samuel has finished, my entire chest
juts forward uncomfortably. My breasts are on the other side, bare
to everyone who wants to admire them. My head is forced to tilt
backwards with my chin resting upon the board. My feet have to be
twisted and pronated to the sides.

Samuel tethers my wrists to the cuffs at the
pegs on other side. My chest is very stretched, and my breath
catches in my throat. Surely there must be a more comfortable way
to manage this?

“Stay still,” Samuel says.

Here we are – pretty milkmaids all in a row –
shackled to a board with our tits squeezed for a display that we
are not privy to. It takes all of my effort just to breathe, and my
ankles are starting to cramp from the protracted pronation.

On the other side, a bustle of farmhands and
other people we cannot see ensue. Although I cannot see what is
going on, I feel a warmth before my breasts and some scraping foot
sounds, indicating that someone is standing before me. I hear the
wheels of carts squeaking. Both male and females voices
interact.

“Do you have chocolate sauce? Pass me the
tube, will you?”

“I think I’m going to do a bull’s eye pattern
on this one. You know, like a target board.”

“I should layer this pair with
buttercream.”

I experience a tingling sensation upon my
breasts. Someone is squirting a cool layer of what I presume is
cream upon my tits. I totally understand what they are doing on the
other side. They are decorating our breasts as if they are
cakes!

I can only imagine the marvelous designs that
are being wrought upon our protruding flesh. The creams and icing
used are interchangeably cool and warm – as in room temperature. It
doesn’t take very long before the sensations end and our teats are
coated with a layer of icing.

And then we wait.

The tent is filled with the low murmur of
voices as the bakers confer with one another as to the intricacies
of the art of breast decoration.

We wait. And wait. My leg cramps are getting
worse, and I have to constantly shift my feet. The wood around my
breasts are starting to chafe my skin. Either my breasts have
become more positively engorged, or the holes have become
positively smaller.

We don’t have to wait very long, thank
goodness.

There is a lot of activity going on outside
the tents. More voices. More laughter. More trooping feet. It is as
if someone has opened the floodgates and let the customers in.

I can hear them outside, asking questions
about the cakes. I have expected most of the visitors to be
English, but to my surprise, I hear a mixture of accents – as if
the clientele to this exclusive marketplace has come from all
corners of the Earth: English, American, French, German, Italian,
Chinese.

There are both male and female voices of all
ages.

“These cakes look positively scrumptious. But
the prices are ridiculous.”

“That’s because they are made from human
milk, Madam. The butter used here is churned from human milk from
our very own ‘cows’.”

“Human milk is far creamier than cow’s milk,
Mildred. That is why the cakes are so pricy.”

“Can we just have a little taste to decide if
we would like it before we purchase it?”

“What’s inside the tent, young lady?”

I tense.

“Sir, if you would like a taste of the icing
and the milk itself, our ‘cows’ are inside for you to sample.”

“And there would be a prohibitive fee, of
course?”

“Certainly, sir, though I would not call the
fee ‘prohibitive’. Two hundred dollars is very fair game for a
generous sampling.”

“Sir, I would add that the sampling will have
to take place within twenty minutes to allow everyone ample time to
enjoy the merchandise.”

There apparently are plenty of takers,
because after all the questions bantering back and forth, there are
voices saying:

“Thank you, sir, for your kind contribution.
If you may step right in and choose a booth. Only the ones that are
open are available to you.”

I can hear footsteps coming into the tent. My
engorged breasts strain in their woody confines. Someone comes into
my booth. The curtains are drawn.

“Mmmmm.”

I can hear a man’s voice sighing on the other
side of me as he takes in my icing-covered breasts. I wonder what
designs have been drawn onto mine. Would my tits be decorated like
one of those round plump cakes I see on the display shelves of
bakeries?

A wet tongue immediately begins to slather my
breasts, starting from my right nipple. It trails around my areolas
and makes lines upon my iced flesh. It licks the cream off from my
right breast copiously. A thrill of pleasure courses through my
legs. My nipples are extremely sensitive.

A hot mouth seals itself around my right
nipple and suckles me. I feel the spurt of my milk – so pent up
within the confines of my mounds – into that warm orifice. Tendrils
of pleasure immediately run all over my breasts from my nipples,
even from the one which is currently not being suckled. My pussy
goes moist despite my otherwise discomfort.

I rotate my wrists in my shackles and bunch
my fists.

The unseen mouth sucks harder, and I hear
similar suckling noises and moans of pleasure from the other
booths.

My milk flows and flows, molten honey that
turns my loins into mush. A moan escapes my lips as my sweet liquid
continues to gush. With each suck upon my nipple, I can feel my
vagina contracting. He empties my right teat of its milk before I
am even aware that his mouth has latched onto my left nipple.
Providing he is a ‘he’, of course. So far, I have no clue of my
drinker’s gender.

Once again, he licks my left breast copiously
and strips it of its icing. I must be delicious because I can hear
slurping noises from him. Then he starts on my left nipple, and I
can feel the pull of my milk again – like a taut string connected
straight to my groin.

My pussy combusts with the tug, and my milk
once again geysers into his mouth.

I hope he’s getting his money’s worth.

My milk once again empties itself into his
greedily suckling mouth. Spasms of satisfaction find refuge in my
erogenous zones. My brain is filled with endorphins and other
hormones. I am on a complete high, as though I am floating on a
delirious cloud.

I never knew being suckled could be such a
pleasurable activity until I came to the farm.

He sucks my left breast until I am dry once
again. I hear the sound of the curtain being opened, and a voice
saying: “Sir, your time is up.”

“Why, thank you,” says a crisp English
voice.

Two large and warm hands squeeze my tits as a
parting shot and footsteps pad away.

I am left all alone, spent and weary, until
Samuel comes to unchain me and lead me away.

3

“Where am I going next?” I say as Samuel
sponges my tits off with a cloth and warm water.

He winks. “You’ll see.”

Back at the milk factory, another batch of
‘cows’ take over from us. Samuel removes my tail, puts a red cloak
around my shoulders, and commandeers me out of the tent. Outside,
many customers are milling around, inspecting the wares on display.
They are dressed casually, and – as I suspected from their voices –
of every age, gender and nationality.

“The hens are in need of a little help,”
Samuel says.

“Hens?” I wrinkle my nose as I pull the cloak
tighter around me. A couple of the customers avert their heads to
favor me with interested stares.

“Yes.” Samuel looks at me up and down. “I can
see you’re enjoying yourself.”

Gad, does it show?

“I’m not,” I reply, pretending to be miffed
he would think that.

He grins.

“You still have a little chip on your
shoulder, don’t you? Once you give in to your fate – or rather, the
fate Master Gabriel has planned for you – you will not fight
everything so much.”

He walks fast, and I have to patter after him
on my bare feet.

“I’m not fighting,” I argue.

“But you are. You’re fighting us every step
of the way. You’re not a natural submissive.”

“Oh, you noticed.”

He turns back to me. “Master Gabriel will
beat it out of you. Just you wait.”

A frisson of fear runs down my spine. Beat
me? Is that what they would do to me to make me a submissive? To
render me into a quivering little jelly of a female, subject to
men’s whims?

Never!

I am only going along with all this because I
plan to use Gabriel to seek revenge on my father. I am playing
along – just giving them what they want to see and hear.

We arrive at another tent. This is a green
one with gaudy purple stars all over it. Samuel goes to the back,
avoiding the customers who are all converging on the front stalls,
but not before I get a glimpse of the merchandise on display. Here,
beautifully painted eggs are being sold. The designs are intricate
and boast blazing colors, patterns and even scenes.

Alongside the eggs, a variety of foodstuff is
being sold. There are gleaming puff pastries and what the English
term as Cornish pasties, I believe. There are pies of different
sorts.

“These are all made of eggs incubated by our
very own hens,” I hear the girl at the stall saying to a cluster of
customers.

“Come along,” Samuel says. “You don’t want to
miss the Easter egg hunt.”

He holds open a flap for me and I enter the
tent through the back.

“But it isn’t Easter,” I protest lamely.

“It is when we want it to be.”

Inside, the entire area is designed to
resemble a garden. OK, an artificial garden, complete with
toadstools and green plants and little fountains trickling silver
water. A crazy paving path weaves through the ordered greenery.
There are bushes and ferns and trees and flowers of all colors and
makeup. A pair of speakers blare the sounds of birdsong into the
air.

The girls are all being prepped by their
minders. I don’t really know any of the ‘hens’, since we don’t
mingle, but I recognize some of the ‘rabbits’ here. So we are truly
being rotated. The girls are naked of all accoutrements now, even
their tails.

The farmhands are busy trying to make them
part of the scenery. That’s the best I can describe it. One girl’s
pussy is being stuck with huge petals to make her part of the
flowers. Another girl’s pussy is being decorated with leaves. One
girl is being prostrated over a toadstool so that her ass juts out
high in the air.

“Here,” Samuel says, stopping at a cart full
of gaily painted eggs. “Crouch on all fours on the ground.”

“Why?” I demand.

“You need to work on your natural
submissiveness,” he replies, grinning. “You wouldn’t want me to
wave a cattle prod around, do you?”

Uh, I guess not. So I dutifully get on all
fours. The ground is a green padded carpet, lush with turf grass.
Lush, moist smells permeate the entire tent, whose ceiling is
bedecked with hanging artificial birds. The whole thing reminds me
of a miniature golf track. Roving cameras are mounted everywhere,
surveying the area like vigilant sentinels.