President Slave Girl: The Homouth -- Book 1 of the President Slave Girl series (3 page)

"Now, did they tell you about the panties,
Eileen?" Jenna asked patiently.

Eileen shook her head "no" immediately. There
was no telling where she would be pinched if she did not
respond.

"I didn't think so," said Jenna. "Well, each
time you eat a new pair of panties will be stuffed in your mouth,
so their taste and odor will always be nice and fresh for you. Each
pair will have been worn by one of us who either was jailed, or who
had a loved one jailed, because of you and your stupid Feminist
Church Party from Hell. The pair you're enjoying right now is mine.
I spend a year in jail for acting in XXX movies, even though I was
out of the business for years. I had two kids. Saying goodbye to
them before I was hauled off to jail was the hardest thing I have
ever had to do in my life. And you were responsible for it, bitch.
Well, I think it's time you got to know one of your victims up
close and personal."

With these words, Jenna stood up briefly,
then knelt down so that she straddled Eileen's head, her rear end
resting atop Eileen, just below her chin, her knees on either side
of Eileen's head.

Jenna looked down at Eileen and smiled the
coldest, hardest smile Eileen had ever seen.

"This one's for me," she said, and she
reached forward and seized great handfuls of Eileen's blond hair in
either hand. Then she slid forward so that her private parts rested
on Eileen's face. Eileen tried to turn her head to one side so that
her nose and face wouldn't be in such direct contact with Jenna's
naughty places, which were very damp. But Jenna had thighs like
steel -- Eileen couldn't believe how strong they were. And she used
them and her grip on Eileen's hair to hold her head absolutely
motionless while she slowly and relentlessly ground her private
parts into Eileen's face, giving special attention to her nose.

The disagreeable closeness of Jenna's slutty
genitals, with their rank smell of arousal, was as nothing compared
to the inability to breathe caused by the fact that Eileen's nose
was spending most of its time lodged in either Jenna's pussy or
anus, or was surrounded by the rounded masses of flesh that were
her butt cheeks. Once again, Eileen found herself writhing
helplessly, her body straining against the bonds that held her, her
head straining against the muscles that held it.

She could not breathe, and now it was not her
will that was being tested, Jenna was just torturing her. Time and
again she would bring Eileen right to the point of passing out from
lack of oxygen, then allow her a quick, slucking intake of breath
from a nose only half buried in one of Jenna's nether regions. Then
Jenna would press down again, and begin the game anew, keeping
Eileen just conscious enough to writhe and wriggle beneath her.

Combined with the pain as Jenna pulled
Eileen's hair as if she were some kind of doll that could not feel
pain, it was excruciating. Eileen lost track of time as she lay
there writhing in the ropes, her only consciousness being of the
need for air, the feel of fleshy weight pressing relentless against
her face.

At last there came a time when Eileen was
breathing regularly again, able to think about something beside the
struggle to breathe.

Then she heard the words "The is for
Annette," and the struggle for air began again.

Another long interregnum of struggle against
unyielding ropes and relentless muscle. Then a return to
consciousness of a sort.

Then the words, "This is for Mark," and the
struggle began again.

"All right, Jenna, get off her," said a
distant voice. "Get off her. You've made her wet herself."

"So I have," Jenna said in vaguely
self-satisfied tones.

Jenna climbed off Eileen's face regretfully.
She had thoroughly enjoyed torturing Eileen. She cold have spent
the whole night playing with her helpless captive. Having someone
completely at your mercy, to whom you had absolutely no reason to
show mercy, and every reason to despise, was fun.

But Jenna was glad she had not killed or
seriously injured Eileen. Doing so would have put her on Eileen's
level, a person who ruined people's lives. She didn't want to be
like that.

Eileen's captor pulled her to a corner of the
stall and laid down fresh straw where she'd peed, to keep the smell
down. Then she disappeared for a moment, and came back with a
garden hose in her hand. She hosed down Eileen, also to keep the
smell down. Eileen was the one who supposed to be smelling body
fluids, not her guard.

As Eileen slowly returned to a normal state
of mind, she found a new thought in her head. The guard at the
front of her stall wasn't there to keep her from escaping -- Eileen
wasn't going anywhere, bound as she was. The guard was there to
protect Eileen from other people. People like Jenna.

Eileen began to cry softly into her gag again
at this realization. Some of it was self pity, and some of it was
fear, and some of it was that things were simply too awful to do
anything but cry about.

Around midnight the shift was over and a new
guard came in to replace the old one.

The old guard did not leave immediately,
however. She had watched Jenna tormenting Eileen. It had looked
like fun. And although she herself had not spent time in prison,
her husband had -- that was why she was here.

So she walked into the stall and casually
pulled off her shoes and socks and pants and panties. Thong
panties. then she rolled Eileen over onto her back, waking her from
the light sleep she had been in.

She did not tell Eileen why she was torturing
her. She just enjoyed the sound of Eileen's sobs as she straddled
her, then enjoyed watching her body writhe in abject helplessness
as the torture began anew.

The next morning, Eileen was roused by
another blast from the garden hose. She felt miserable. She had
slept badly. The hogtie had kept her from any kind of physical
comfort, and the torture had given her nightmares.

The strangest thing was that her throat felt
strangely constricted and -- active. There were ticklings and pangs
and all sorts of things going on in her mouth and throat.

Still, she was able to eat from the bowl of
mush and drink from the bowl of water that were placed on the floor
near her head, but her mouth felt different, strange.

She heard some clanking and two more guards
came into the room.

"Time to see the tribunal, Ms. MacCammon,"
one of them said.

She untied the rope that connected Eileen's
wrists and ankles, but left her wrists bound while she
attached metal shackles to Eileen's ankles.

Eileen thought she would find the freedom to
move her arms and legs independently immediately gratifying, but
when she stretched out her legs she immediately suffered horrible
pains in her cramped muscles. She screamed into her gag -- it came
out a pathetic mewling -- and writhed on the floor while her guard
attached the shackles, unmindful of (in fact, enjoying) Eileen's
suffering.

"Work your legs slowly and carefully,
prisoner," said the guard. "I want you on your feet in five
minutes. If you can't walk we'll have to drag you, and that would
be a pain for both of us -- but much more for you than for me."

Eileen no longer had any doubt that these
women would do with her exactly as they said, so she worked her
legs carefully. It was mildly painful, but nothing like the hot
agony she'd first experienced. And in about five minutes, when her
guard seized her, she was able to struggle to her feet and stay
there, and walk in the small steps that were all that her shackles
permitted her, though she staggered a bit now and then and did a
fair amount of moaning into her gag.

"I can't BELIEVE how painful this is," she
thought.

At the same time, she dreaded whatever
awaited her, largely because she had no idea what it was.

Her guard led her down a few hallways, then
up some stairs to a large room filled with people, mostly women.
They were different from Eileen -- they had clothes on, though
often the clothing barely served to conceal their slutty
bodies.

The room was configured like a courtroom,
with a single set of tables facing the bulk of the room, which had
pews, and a single chair set in front of the pews. She was led to
the chair and ordered to sit. Once she sat, she was tied to her
chair at the wrists, ankles, waist and chest.

These people really believed in security.

Once she was securely tied, a group of women
filed in from the back of the room, mostly early middle-aged women.
Eileen recognized most of them -- they were mostly the major
pornographers she'd arrested early on in her campaign, people who'd
been given big show trials and matching prison sentences.

They should still be in prison. But here they
were. And here she was. A pang tore her heart as she realized how
badly things had gone wrong for her.

Once the women sat at the table, the woman
who sat opposite her picked up a gavel and casually banged it a
couple of times to silence the chattering of the sluts behind
her.

The woman who held the gavel was larger and
fleshier than most of the women, with long, hippie-style blond hair
and serene face. Right now it was trying to look stern, but you
could tell by looking at her that she was the sort of person who
would be happy if given half a chance.

"We are a tribunal to pass the people's
sentence on you, Eileen McCammon," said the woman. "We aren't a
court -- your guilt has already been determined. But the sentence
the judge meted out in your case was not really punishment, it was
permission to punish. It remains for us, your victims and their
loved ones, to actually punish you.

"While it's gratifying to see you naked and
in chains, this would only be a punishment if we kept you that way
for a long time," said Bright, "which would violate the judge's
order that you can't be enslaved. So we've come up with something
better. And that's why we're here today, to explain to you the
nature of your punishment, because it's a doozy."

Eileen's heart sank a bit at those words.
What would these degenerate women regard as a "doozy"? It boggled
the mind.

Bright picked up something that looked like a
laser pointer and pointed it at Eileen and clicked. Immediately,
Eileen felt her mouth and throat begin that strange tickling and
panging thing again.

"I'll give the floor to Naomi now as she
explains your sentence," Bright said.

"We understand that the crimes you committed
against us were committed out of a desire to protect women," said
Wolf a raven-haired beauty whose face and body bore the strain of
having been an ink-stained wretch for much of her life followed by
a stint in prison. "Women are able to live in relative freedom
because they enjoy the protection of the law. But one of those
freedoms should be sexual freedom, and you denied us that freedom,
and eventually denied some of us all of our freedom -- locked us in
cages, away from our friends, lovers and families, where some of
us, especially the men, were treated very badly indeed."

As Wolf spoke, Eileen noticed with horror
that her naughty bits were getting uppity. She was definitely
feeling things down there -- and also in her boobies --and in her
mouth!

"Therefore we have decided to let you
experience what it is to be without the protection of the law,
while having healthy sexual instincts," said Wolf. "We know your
sexual instincts are not healthy. We know you are celibate by
choice. We know that you hate and fear, not just pubic expressions
of sexuality, but your sexuality. Therefore, we have injected you
with a set of nanocytes which will augment your natural hormone
systems to make you more sexually susceptible. Essentially, you're
going to get a lot hornier than you used to, a lot more often."

Eileen moaned in despair at these words --
they had invaded her body in a way no man could! Moaning was a
curiously pleasurable sensation. And it sounded funny, too.

"That's not all," said Wolf. "Remove her
gag."

A guard came forward and unwrapped the tape
around Eileen's head. It was a little painful, pulling at their
hair on the back of her neck, but what a relief it was when the
guard pulled the horribly soiled thong from her mouth.

To be able to close one's mouth finally --
what a relief.

"Show her," said Wolf.

A guard brought out a mirror and held it
before Eileen. She looked at it and saw a bedraggled-looking naked
early middle-aged woman whose apparent age was her late 20s thanks
to nanotech beauty mods, tied to a chair. And she didn't look
NEARLY as bad as she felt -- all the perverse treatment she'd been
subjected to had someone failed to show in her face as she'd half
expected it to.

Except for one thing. Her lips -- her lips
were all wrong. They went up and down her face, reaching from the
base of her nose to almost the tip of her chin. And they weren't
smooth, they were wrinkled and puffy and bloated and shiny as if
they'd been oiled somehow.

Then the horrible thing that they were
expressed itself fully in her mind. The lips ... the lips on her
face were vaginal lips -- it was as if a vagina were transplanted
there!

The shock of that realization led her to
utter a full-throated scream -- but not scream came out of her
throat. Instead there were a series of embarrassing ... splorting
noises, wet, juicy raspberries.

But that wasn't even the worst part. Far
worse was what she glimpsed in the mirror as she screamed. For
inside her mouth was not her familiar tongue and teeth, but a
glutinous mass of slimy pink tissues receding back to a dark hole,
writhing horribly as her throat muscles tried to wrest speech from
them, but unable to make any sound at all.

For a few moments, all she could do was stare
at her reflection in the mirror and scream, or try to scream, at
the horror of it, further exposing her face's gleaming pink
mysteries to her horrified gaze. It was sheer, instinctive reaction
to what had been done to her, and the obscene burbling sounds her
disgusting face made only added to the horror of it.