Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present

Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present

Author’s note

This tale is set in the United Kingdom in the year 1967. It is however, not the United Kingdom that we know. Instead it is an alternate United Kingdom set in an alternative universe. Therefore, much of it is familiar to us, but conversely, much isn’t. In the universe of the story, the United Kingdom is an inward-looking, reactionary society that lags behind many of its neighbours. It is governed by a powerful elite formed of an aristocracy of hereditary landowners and the Church. The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century never happened and the place of a woman is very much that of a second-class citizen… or subject. She has no rights and no property, she is owned by her father, after his death her brother or uncle, and upon marriage, her husband. Wives are expected to be virgins and all women are corseted.

At precisely 7 o’ clock in the morning the alarm clock of Dr. Daniel Edwards rang as it did every morning.

And at precisely 7 o’clock in the morning the good doctor woke up just as he did every morning.

This morning however, he felt rather happier than usual, for today was a most auspicious day indeed. For today was the occasion of his seventieth birthday.

And if that were not enough, it was also a Thursday.

Thursdays were the highlight of the good doctor’s week and he looked forward to each and every one. Ever since his retirement from the position of headmaster at the local school five years before, Dr. Edwards’ life had fallen into a very distinct – and mundane – pattern. He’d wake up and dress; eat the breakfast prepared by his housekeeper Mrs. Salt; read the contents of the Times and complete the crossword; relax until lunch also prepared by Mrs. Salt; either go in his garden, take a stroll or read depending on the weather; have his dinner prepared by Mrs. Salt and then finally go to the club to meet with some old colleagues for a port and game of bridge before retiring at around nine at night. Such were his days every day except Sundays with the exception of Thursday mornings.

For on a Thursday morning he always received a visitor.

A few months before his retirement, Dr. Edwards – whose Doctorate, I must mention, is in Education and not Medicine – began feeling ill. He was continually tense, his heart was beating fast and he regularly got severe migraines. So, he paid a visit to his medical doctor who delivered a most unexpected diagnosis. “Dr. Edwards, it is clear to me that what you are suffering from is an excess of sexual tension. It seems that, like many intelligent and respectable gentlemen, you have an extremely high sexual drive and that since the death of your wife ten years ago – and her companion some two years following that – you have had no outlet for sexual relief. This is what is causing all the tension and headaches and if it continues it could endanger your life. Sperm is being produced but it has nowhere to go and so your health is impaired. May I ask how often you masturbate?”

Dr. Edwards replied, quite firmly and correctly, that, as a practising and devout Anglican, he viewed such an act as a sin. The GP did not disagree.

“Then may I ask another personal question? Do you ever suffer from dreams of an erotic and inappropriate nature that result in you spilling seed involuntarily during your sleep?”

Dr. Edwards had to confirm, somewhat shamefacedly, that he did.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of man,” replied the GP, “this is a common situation amongst widowers. The fact is that you need some sexual release. Have you thought of remarrying?”

Dr. Edwards confirmed that he had but it was not a viable possibility. Firstly, he felt that it would be inappropriate to marry a girl too far below him in social status but those of his level had high dowries which were beyond his reach. Secondly though, he confessed to his doctor that he didn’t find women of his own age – or indeed any age beyond around thirty – to be sexually exciting and, more than that, he had several preferences that would be hard to find even if he could find a younger woman willing to wed him. “My late wife and her companion were both Ladies of Leisure, and what is more they tight-laced to admirable sizes. For me there is nothing more exciting than being able to circle a waist with my two hands and if I cannot then I am afraid that I would struggle to accept the girl in question.”

To his surprise, the GP nodded sagely, made some notes and then said he would get back to him.

And once he retired the doctor did just that. “You shall receive a visit from one of the young ladies at the Berkhamstead School for Girls every Thursday morning at ten precisely,” he announced. “It is part of their Community Service Education.”

And so it had been that for the past five years a young lady in the last year of her studies before marriage had paid him a visit every Thursday with her maid. Then the maid would depart and he would help the young lady with her education whilst she would help him with his tension issues. Every Thursday morning, as soon as they had finished their initial cup of tea – which his maid would feed to her as her arms would be ensconced within binders hidden within gigot sleeves – the young lady in question would kneel down before him, take his penis in her mouth and gently suck him to eruption after which she would swallow his seed, lick him clean and then, once he had refastened his trousers, he would sit her on his knee, circle her minute waist, (for fifteen inches was the maximum allowed at the school and many were smaller than that), and they would enjoy a pleasant chat before her maid returned an hour or two later.

Dr. Edwards sat back in his chair, the very chair in which he always sat when the ladies arrived, and mulled over his happy memories, taking out the photograph he kept with photos of each girl in. He’d had five female visitors so far. The first, Jennifer Dawkins, had been an exceptionally pretty little thing with blonde ringlets and cornflower blue eyes. She’d been very shy at first but he’d coached her well and by the time she left to wed a millowner in Manchester she’d been a capable sucker indeed and he had been sad to see her go.

The second girl had been Annabel Hartley. She had been far plainer than Jennifer but what she’d lacked in looks she more than made up for in enthusiasm and technique and many were the days when she’d managed to bring him to eruption twice within a single hour. Dr. Edwards smiled when he thought of her husband, a young Baronet from Norfolk, who had seemed rather soft and easily led and wondered how he was coping with such a tour de force of sexual energy.

His third girl had been one Charity Curzon. To be honest, of all the girls that he’d been served by, she had been the most disappointing, both in terms of conversation and looks, (and indeed ability initially), but then something dramatic had happened: Charity had been caught copulating with a boy and as such her arranged marriage fell through. In place of the original husband – whose name Dr. Edwards could not recall – she was betrothed to Lord Stafford who then proceeded to specify a most extensive range of enhancements. All the girls at Berkhamstead School were enhanced before marriage of course; it was part of their fiancé’s claim to ownership of them, and Jennifer Dawkins in particular had received a lovely pair of 40F breasts, but what Lord Stafford had specified for Charity was out of this world. Over the course of the year he saw her transform from a plain brunette with a boyish figure into a pneumatic lovedoll of dreamlike proportions. Her breasts were expanded into 52MMM balloons of titflesh whilst her face became virtually unrecognisable from that of the girl whom Dr. Edwards had been introduced to at the start of the year, her lips being inflated to such a size that they appeared as two pillows on her face that she could not close them completely and so continually drooled without her fleur de bouche. And when she did have that implement removed, her speech was now somewhat slurred and with a lisp, caused by the fact that her tongue had been deliberately shortened and inflated and a large piercing driven through it. Furthermore, her nose had been reduced to a mere button whilst her eyes were now large and staring like a doll’s, bright blue in colour caused by contact lenses decreed as mandatory at all times whilst her hair was dyed to a platinum blonde hair which finished off the illusion of vacant minded lovedoll. And Dr. Edwards, who had always secretly admired that look – and the impression on his member caused by the new lips and piercings – had been brought to such height of sexual ecstasy by the sucking of her new, vagina-like mouth on his member, that when Charity left he was sadder than at any time before.

Whilst no Charity Curzon, last year’s girl, Cassandra Parker-Heath had also been interesting. Her fiancé, one Simon Armitage, an MP in Wiltshire, it transpired liked to use a penis pump to enlarge his member and so, unlike all the others whose arms were always bound in gigot sleeves, every other week she arrived with unbound arms and began her session with him by pumping his member using the device before then having her arms laced firmly into a monoglove by the delighted doctor, (who had always especially loved the shape that a monoglove creates), and bringing his enlarged and rampant tool to eruption, working hard to accommodate its new expanded size in her tiny mouth.

And then now there was Rebecca Huntingdon, pledged to become the next Duchess of Devonshire following the death of the currently Duchess last year aged fifty-two, caused, some said, through excessive tight-lacing. She was as pretty as Jennifer Dawkins had been and Dr. Edwards couldn’t wait to see what she would look like when the 40E implants ordered for her by the Duke had been fitted. He stared at her photograph in the album and smiled, imagining the ecstasy that she would bring him too in only a few short minutes. What better way to spend one’s seventieth birthday could there be?

He was jolted out of that reveries by the doorbell. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to; she was a little early. Still, it didn’t matter. All the more time to bounce her up and down on his knee whilst he ran his hands round her waist and breasts.

Mrs. Salt opened the door and announced, “Miss Huntingdon has arrived with her maid, Doctor, but she has asked that, before she enter, you wear this blindfold as she has a little birthday surprise for you.”

Mystified, the doctor took it and fitted it. Then the housekeeper added, “and she has also requested that you say nothing until the blindfold has been removed.”

Still more intrigued he nodded and she left. He doctor heard the girl come in and kneel before him. His crotch was opened and she took his flaccid tool in her mouth. “Ahh!” he gasped as she carefully and skilfully brought it to hardness and he was really enjoying it when she abruptly withdrew with a slight giggle. Confused, he sat stock still when she came back again and started sucking once more, this time much hard and more vigorously. Ahh, that was the life and he came close to eruption when she again withdrew. He began to soften when she commenced once again, this time using her tongue once more. He noticed that there was a piercing rubbing against his member that stimulated it all the more. So, this was her surprise! She had been pierced! But oh, it was good! But then, just as he was coming close, she withdrew with another giggle and his member, now aching for release, strained. She returned, skilfully licking in a manner that he had not experienced her do yet. She had been studying well; this performance was up to that of Annabel Hartley! He groaned in ecstasy, unable to control himself but then she withdrew once again and he was left high and dry and desperate for more. Then she enveloped her mouth around him once again and it was… it was different! There were more piercings there and the tongue was thicker and the mouth tighter, almost like a vagina. “What on earth!” he exclaimed, forgetting his promise and he withdrew his blindfold to see to his astonishment, not Rebecca Huntingdon with her mouth around his member but instead the doll-like vision of Lady Stafford – once Charity Curzon!

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Daniel! Happy birthday to you!” chorused four other girls standing all around him before erupting into three “Hip! Hip! Hoorays!” as he erupted into Charity’s modified mouth. It was all his old students come back to make his day one to remember!

“Girls!” he exclaimed, “This is so kind of you! You are all so lovely!”

There were tears in his eyes but Jennifer replied, “No, you were the kind one and we all loved coming here. You were so gentle and considerate and never criticised our efforts and the training you gave us has helped us all provide much happiness for our husbands and made our marriages a success. When we realised this date was approaching, we all knew that we had to mark it and so we contacted the school and they helped us to arrange a special present for you.”

“And what a surprise it has been! Girls, all five of you, this has been the greatest present that I could have ever received, it really is. You have made an old man very happy indeed!”

“Do you think that was the present?” exclaimed Annabel, at which all five fell into a fit of giggles.

“It isn’t?”

“Not at all. Remember how when you were training us, you used to say about how you missed your late wife?”


“And how you loved the actress Olivia Capulet?” added Cassandra.


“Anth show thoo thloveth the enthanthmenths thath I thad thone thoo me?” slurred Charity through her inflated lips.


“Well, we all clubbed together, the school too, and we’ve bought you a present that will keep you happy for the other six days of the week when we can’t be here!” announced Rebecca.

And with those words the girls parted and Miss Martin, the Headmistress of Berkhamstead School for Girls led a seventh woman into the room. This woman, like his five students, was a Lady of Leisure, her hands firmly laced into a cream monoglove that matched her dress and with a waist that was thirteen inches at most, but unlike them, where a human face should have been, there was a delightful doll’s head made out of pottery to look like his favourite actress Olivia Capulet with jet black ringlets cascading from her crown.

“She’s beautiful!” he exclaimed.

“She’s yours,” replied the headmistress. “She is a living doll just graduated from our sister institution, the Chesham Doll Academy which has been producing high-class doll wives from working class girls for over forty years. Her fiancé died in a motor accident last week and so she has been entrusted into your guardianship until you should die or choose to marry her to someone else. She is your companion from this day on!”

Dr. Edwards looked at the vision of artificial loveliness that stood before him, her enormous and obviously enhanced breasts heaving up and down as she struggled to bring air into her lungs so difficult has she found the short walk across the room. To have her to talk and play with every day was just too delightful a thought to contemplate!

“But what is her name?” he asked.

“She doesn’t have one. All the students at the Chesham Doll Academy are simply referred to a “doll” as it reinforces the doll-mind. She is yours to name although, as we designed her to look like Olivia Capulet, we all thought that ‘Libby’ might be a nice moniker.”

“Then Libby she shall be!” declared the doctor, as he rose, placed his hands around the waist of his new toy and, as the fingers met, planted a kiss on her rubber lips whilst the entire room cheered.

“And now to the garden for tea and cake!” he declared, “I wish to celebrate my best birthday ever with all my favourite girls!”

Written June 2016      

Copyright© 2016, Dave Potter

Mastana: Part 5

Part 4

Again she was disturbed from her reveries, this time by her servant tapping her on her veiled shoulder. Mastana got up knowing what was to come, for it was the same everyday. It was time for the Zuhr prayer. She followed her three other shrouded sisters into the Rang Mahal where their prayer mats were laid out ready for them. They got into position and waited and after a minute or so the sound of the muezzin in the palace mosque echoed across the courtyard and into the chamber. Mastana performed her prayers as she did everyday. Prior to her incarceration in the palace she had never been particularly religious and deep down she suspected that she still was not, but recently she had begun to find strength and solace in the reflective ambience of prayer.

Not that reflection was something that she would be unable to do later, quite the opposite in fact for everyday following the Zuhr prayers the king had decreed that all of his wives must enjoy a Contemplation Hour… well, all of them unless he had an urge for something else!

Silently her girl servant climbed under her burqa and guided her arms to the back. Then she fastened the sleeve around them so that they were fixed, elbow to wrist behind her back. Of course, she was pretty much unable to use her hands anyway, but this further immobilised her and forced her into an upright position which encouraged contemplation. It was all based on the practices of the suspect pir whom the king was much influenced by and who, like many Sufis, advocated the quiet reflective life.

The girl exited and then helped her mistress to stand. A thick black shroud was then draped over her so that her world became totally dark and her hearing was further muted. Then she was led to the wall where her Contemplation Cushion was positioned. She knelt on this and then the girl crawled under her layers and fastened the straps the went over her legs forcing her to stay in the kneeling position. Then with her back against the wall, she was left to contemplate.

When their husband had introduced the Contemplation Hour to his wives he had instructed them to focus their minds on Allah and His Prophet but even though she tried hard, Mastana was never able to do that for long. Always, after but a few minutes her mind drifted to the topic that occupied most of her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Rather than relaxing her, the forced position made her more aware of the rings in her nipples and clitoris and the more she was aware of them the more she thought of them and the more she got aroused. She felt her breasts pushing hard against the tight fabric of the salwar kameez due to the position her sleeve forced her into. In the past her breasts had never pressed hard against her clothes and had never been that impressive at all, mere handfuls if that, but immediately following their marriage the king had had all his wives checked into the Cure Hospital and gifted them with generous implants. The result was two firm globes that jutted out from her chest lewdly, without any sag whatsoever. She remembered when she’d woken up in the hospital bed and felt the extra weight on her chest and been angry, angered that she was being turned into some sort of sex object. But at night when the king lay with her and caressed them, tingles of joy had fluttered through her body and she had felt very sexy and desirable.

Except that she wasn’t, Mastana wasn’t sexy and desirable at all, because Mastana no longer existed. Her head encased in black plastic she was a nobody these days. Valeriya had had large fake breasts and so he had given his wives fake breasts. Was it Mastana he was making love to or was it Valeriya? She did not even need to answer her own question yet despite the awful truth she still longed for his touch, still obsessed about him and…

What’s that, a hand on her shoulder? Surely the Contemplation Hour is not over yet. It’s impossible to measure time in a silent black world but it doesn’t seem long enough…

She is guided along the corridors and she knows, yes indeed, Contemplation Hour is not over at all, her three sisters are still knelt their in silence. But he has an urge and today she has been chosen! Excitement pulses through her veins and her beauty lips moisten. Not that she will receive what she wants there, that is haram, but even so, even the other type, to provide him with pleasure, that is enough.

The walking stops and first the shroud and then the burqa are removed. Then the sleeve is unlaced and she is allowed to flex her stiff arms. Then the rest of her clothes are removed until she stands there in the middle of the king’s bedchamber wearing just her hood and hands.

Across the middle of the bed is a stiff leather bolster. Mastana knows well its purpose and she gets onto the bed and crawls up to it, positioning in under her stomach so that she is provided with support. Then two padded rods are produced. The first goes in front of her thighs and the second behind them so that she can neither move forwards or backwards. Then the girl fastens her wrists to the head of the bed and then it is time for the final piece of her bedtime preparations. Her servant brings out an item of rubber with long golden tresses attached to it. Locked into place as she is, she cannot see it, but she knows all too well what it is. The servant takes the rubber hood and fits it over her blank plastic head encasement. The fit is perfect as it was expensively made to her own particular specifications. Once smoothed out and the eye holes carefully aligned then she is ready for the king and the two servants retire. Mastana merely waits in anticipation and as she does she gazes at the image that confronts her in the large mirror at the foot of the bed.


The doll-like unsmiling face of Valeriya stares back at her with her long blonde hair and huge blue anime-like eyes. Inside her blood boils as she realises that once again, she has been turned into someone – or something – else purely for the satisfaction of a man whom she never chose, who stole from her a promising career and life of freedom. The anger fills her veins and she wishes to explode with rage.

Then the door opens and she hears him come in. In a second the anger disappears and desire takes over. Like her mother said to her when she last visited two days ago, she was called ‘Mastana’ for a reason.

She hasn’t got a care in the world.

Mastana: Part 4

Part 3

Six months later

The Harem of the King’s Palace

Queen Mastana of Afghanistan, one of the four Wives of Equal Standing of King Muhammad Akbar Khan, stretched herself out on the grass in the Women’s Garden of the Darul Aman Palace. Not that she could feel that grass of course, these days all that Queen Mastana felt was cloth and plastic, but it was nice to be out there, the warm sun beating down on her and the faint song of birds in the air. Just across from her sat the three other queens playing with a new kitten that the king had given them all that morning, but Mastana has lost interest in both the cat and her ‘sisters’. For a few minutes she wanted to be alone.

“What am I? What is my life?” she said to herself silently. She could not say it out loud because of the solid gag that filled her mouth twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She hadn’t spoken a single word or indeed made even the faintest sound with her mouth for over four months now and she wondered that, if the gag ever were removed, she would remember how to do so. To think, she who had once engaged in debates, chatted to her friends – male and female – on the phone and in cafés in no less than four different languages. But that was when she had not been a member of the Royal family, now everything had changed.

For starters there was her dress. She was clad in the most beautiful and expensive outfit imaginable. From the outside all that was visible was her burqa, and what a burqa it was! Yellow silk with the finest embroidery. No arm holes of course, since they weren’t really needed these days, but beautiful pleats billowing out at the back when she walked. She always wore a burqa these days, it was mandatory for a queen to be covered at all times, but even though she had rebelled against the garments at first, now her favourite part of the day was after she awoke in the mornings and she chose which burqa she would be wearing that day. She had dozens to select from, all of the highest quality and uniquely crafted by some of the finest fashion designers in the world and she loved viewing herself in the mirror as she tried them on.

But under that burqa there were other fine clothes. A silken salwar kameez set in deep blue with more exquisite embroidery and on her hands black embroidered silk gloves. Under the salwar kameez she had the finest black panty hose and her underwear was an extremely alluring lacy bra and knickers which made her feel very sexy indeed. She loved the feeling of them on her and of the silk brushing her skin. It made her feel special, hell, she was a queen, she was special!

Mastana shifted her position onto her side and two tiny bells tinkled. They reminded her then as they always reminded her of the places where they were attached to, her aroused and pierced nipples. Instinctively her hands rose to caress them but of course, she could feel nothing. She longed to relieve her frustration but it was impossible and so the frustration just grew and grew.

With these feelings, Mastana’s thoughts turned to her husband. She remembered when she had first seen him, dimly through the pinholes of her hood and the grill of her burqa at the coronation. And then that night when the four wives, all identically dressed had been led from the banqueting hall to his bedroom. They were all stripped naked save for their blank black plastic hoods and blank black plastic hands. That was the first and only time that she saw her sisters’ unclothed. It was weird, they looked like anonymous robot clones, inhuman almost, created merely to pleasure a man. Then she realised with horror that she looked identical to them, she was a sex droid as well and at that moment she hated the king for what he had done to her.

His bed was huge and they were all made to lie down on it, Mastana the second from the right. Her outstretched legs were raised and fastened to two chains hanging from the ceiling of the bed, her equally outstretched arms fastened to two other hanging chains. All the other wives were similarly restrained, all four identical, chained and helpless in a row. Tradition insisted on virgins being taken like that in case they might try to harm their Master.

Then they waited, in the dark and the silence. After some time he came. He stripped slowly, but she couldn’t see him, only the ceiling above her head. Then she heard him kneel down next to him and a gasp as he entered the wife to her left. He pumped in and out of her for a minute or so then exited and came to her. This was not how she had envisaged losing her precious virginity! To a husband, yes, but chained like a mare, unable to see or move! But whether it was what she expected or not, it was what happened. She felt his hands caress her breasts and play with the rings and bells adorning her nipples and then his manhood pressed against her beauty lips. Slowly but surely he entered her now moist passage and with a powerful thrust he broke through her virgin hymen. Oh how degrading! How awful! She felt so violated and used and yet, perversely, at the same time, it excited her beyond all measure. She began to enjoy his thrusts and feel her long-awaited climax draw nearer but then, without a word he exited. No!! No!!! She wanted him in her! Come back! But he was already penetrating her sister to the right. She listened with intense jealousy as he plunged in and out of her, before exiting and entering his fourth wife. It was only with that last wife that he came and how jealous she was, surely she should have had his seed! Oh how she hated her husband yet at the same time, oh how she longed for him… oh how she longed.

She recalled a conversation with Taahira, the wife from the Barakzai clan about a week or so after they became queens. Conversations between the wives were difficult and limited. With their encased hands they could not write and with their gagged mouths they could not talk, but every day for an hour in the afternoon the King allowed them to communicate with the aid of special computers. These had enormous over-sized keyboards which her blunt and rigid hands could operate, albeit very slowly. They typed their messages laboriously letter by letter and they appeared on the screen. That was the only time that they could communicate with another human being.

They were talking that day, as they did most days for there was little else to talk about, about their husband. Although he was not particularly handsome and some of his sexual predilections a little strange, Mastana found herself longing for his attentions which was awful since he only slept with each wife every fourth night. She wondered why and so decided to ask her sister.

So is it surprising that I find myself longing for his touch and dreaming of him?

And I dream about him, too replied Taahira. It’s partly those pictures everywhere on the ceilings. They’re the last thing you see at night in the bedroom and the first thing you see in the morning.

It was true, in each of the queen’s rooms there was a large portrait of their husband to gaze at on the ceiling above their beds. And it was no normal royal portrait but instead a view of him naked, his manhood jutting out firm and strong.

Yes, they really understand women in Afghanistan added Mastana. In some ways I hate him for how he has destroyed my old life and turned me into some sort of sex slave but I also simply can’t help secretly admiring him.

All the queens in the harem do. He’s so strong and virile! So ruthless! It makes you jealous, jealous of the other wives.

It is brainwashing, I know it, yet I can’t help it, I need him right now and I need him every minute of every day!

It was true, he used psychology to transform her. Six months ago her mind had been focussed on study and the future, now all she thought about was pleasing him. She imagined lying in his bed, wearing the…

A gong sounded. The other wives stopped playing with the kitten and Mastana was shaken from her reverie. They all got up off the grass and trooped indoors, their colourful burqas billowing behind them like the sails of a great fleet of galleons. Inside they walked noiselessly, their soft slippers making no sound on the marble floor, across the Rang Mahal to the Moti Mahal where they all sat cross-legged on the floor, their burqas draped elegantly around them. It was lunchtime and today the same ritual was followed as everyday. Firstly the first four servants would bring each queen a glass of water to wash out their throat so that the food may be tasted better. Each servant, a young girl of about twelve dressed in a gorgeous salwar kameez in colours that matched her mistress’ burqa, would approach the queen bowing, then kneel down before them, carefully lift the burqa so that none of the person beneath was revealed and climb underneath. Then they would attach a drinking tube to the hood of the queen and guide the other end into the glass of water.

When the water was finished the girl would remove it and place it outside of the burqa. The second four servants, all of these grown women dressed in burqas of matching colour but lesser quality than the queens and who had served their apprenticeships as the young girls were currently doing under the last four queens, would then approach, remove the empty glass and replace it with a bowl of soup. The girl would take this and guide it under the burqa to the drinking tube and then tap her mistress on the breast to signify she could “eat” her meal. This she would do and then when finished the empty bowl would be placed outside the burqa and replaced by the second servant by a glass of fruit juice. When this is finished the final course would be provided, a bowl of yoghurt or perhaps some blended fruits. Then, to wash it all down there would be tea.

As Mastana sucked down today’s meal – lentil soup with mango juice and then plain yogurt – she mused on how her mealtimes had changed. She so used to enjoy her food! She loved lamb kebabs and in India some of the hot curries! But now she was always hungry and although the soups, yoghurts and fruits were tasty, they were more like drinks than foods. Still, they had one positive effect: she had no need to worry about putting on weight. They also contributed to her new toilet routine which at first she had found most strange and humiliating but now, perversely, like everything else about her royal life, quite normal.

On her first day in the palace after the king had taken her virginity along with those of his other wives, after she had woken she was led by her two servants to the bathroom which adjoined her chamber and was lit by tiny skylights in the domed ceiling. Looking around she’d noticed a cupboard high up on the wall that had been opened to reveal three large glass bottles, each containing a different coloured and strongly scented liquid. The liquid in the first bottle was green and soapy-looking, the next was bright red and fizzy like sherbet and the third was bright blue. The sides of all three bottles were graduated to show how much liquid each had dispensed.

Hanging down to the floor from each bottle was a long length of rubber tubing. The tubes terminated in a strangely shaped nozzle made of stiffer rubber. Little taps at the end of each tube enabled an operator to use his experience to repeatedly close down the supply of one liquid to the nozzle and to momentarily open one of the other two.

The work of the operator, who turned out to be the older servant in the burqa – the girl in the salwar kameez was there to assist and to watch and learn as she was undergoing her apprenticeship – was thus not unlike that of a skilled barmaid making up a complex cocktail.

The end of the nozzle itself was gently pointed and covered in grease, but it then quickly became quite large, like a lozenge. However, a few inches back from the tip of the nozzle, there was a strange circular indentation where the nozzle became much smaller. Mastana did not at first realise the purpose of all this. However, she was soon to learn that this was a traditional harem enema and it was very different than those simpler ones used in health clubs such as she had tried once when on a trip to Malaysia with some fellow students at the university. With its choice of different highly scented liquids, it was designed to give a better and more carefully controlled clean out and finish. This was not for medical purposes but rather, in the harem, to prepare the way for the king to enjoy to his heart’s content a popular Afghani pastime – the penetration of the cleaned and scented rear orifice of a wife.

King Muhammad Akbar Khan had the reputation, to everyone outside the women’s quarter of his palace, of being a rather puritanical and religious man. And this was in fact partially true since King Muhammad Akbar Khan had “found” religion some four years ago at the Shrine of Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa. However, before that life-shattering event he had been quite a different man indeed. He had gone to Moscow to study at the university there and whilst in the decadent West had indulged in all manner of haram sexual activities. In particular he had fallen under the spell of a beautiful blonde Ukrainian woman named Valeriya who had pushed forward the boundaries of his sexual knowledge more than he would have thought possible. She was a strange woman indeed, incredibly skilled in the harem arts and with an appearance almost like a cartoon doll which, Mastana was told, is a fashion in that part of the world.

Anyway, the long and short of it was that Muhammad Akbar Khan had fallen into depraved ways, but whilst enjoying his Muscovite life in one way, he also felt a profound sense of guilt. So it was that after his return he went on the Hajj to see if he could mend his ways but he could not follow the strict injunctions of the Wahaabi mullahs who told him to stick only to his wives – who did not, of course, include Valeriya who had now begun a modelling career – and stray away from perversions. He lapsed but still wanting to attain salvation he went to the holy shrine and sought the advice of a renowned pir there.

This pir, who was from a Sufi tradition far removed from the puritanical Wahaabis of Saudi Arabia explained to him that to have pleasure in sexual activities was only natural and that he should not feel ashamed for enjoying women’s bodies. He cited the Prophet himself as an example who famously loved women and was said to have been an excellent lover. But he cautioned that Muhammad Akbar Khan should only fornicate with his wives though how he did this was of no concern. However, the issue of his having given his heart to Valeriya could be resolved in an Islamic way as Mastana was soon to learn.

But returning to her first toilet, the younger servant pointed to a rubber mat on the floor under the strange-looking bottles. She gestured for her to kneel down on it on all fours. Mystified and nervously Mastana quickly did so.

In front of her, low down on the edge of the mat, was a strange-looking wooden contraption that rather reminded her of an old fashioned stocks. It was hinged and there were small holes and it was securely fastened to the floor.

Before she realised what was happening, the older servant had put her two wrists into the bottom half of the holes and then closed the stocks. Her hands were now held helpless, down close to the floor.

Then, assisted by the girl, the older servant quickly fastened her ankles to the side of the mat with little straps. With her immobile encased hands fastened in the stocks, she could not stop him. Then a padded bar was slipped under her belly to keep her nicely raised. She was now firmly secured kneeling on all fours with her knees parted and her rear orifice well displayed.

The older servant picked up the operator’s stool and, placing it behind Mastana between her outstretched knees, sat down on it. She stroked the queen’s trembling bottom with her gloved hands reassuringly but Mastana still did not quite understand what was going to happen.

The apprentice turned on the taps of each of the three coloured tubes in turn to test that all was well. She was rewarded by little jets of three differently-coloured liquids shooting out from the tip of the nozzle onto the tiled floor. Satisfied, she handed the nozzle to the older servant.

Suddenly, Mastana felt the servant’s hands part her cheeks. She blushed as she felt the end of the greased nozzle press against her rear orifice. It slipped in and she felt the servant slowly pushing it up her. Then she stopped; the sphincter muscles round her rear orifice had closed around the indentation in the nozzle, holding it tightly in place. She would not be able to eject it.

Then the girl momentarily turned on the blue tap. No! No!’ Mastana screamed inwardly as she felt a little jet of the liquid shoot up into her, cleaning her as it did so. Frantically she tried to reach back to pull out the nozzle, but her hands were firmly held by the stocks. Then she tried in vain to shake it out, opening and closing her muscles desperately. But her sphincter held it equally firmly in place.

The girl again gave the blue tap another little two quick twists, provoking further movement from Mastana who was now shaking her belly and hips to and fro, in an automatic, but vain, attempt to stop the burning liquid from going further up her

Then the girl switched taps and gave her a good dose, of the red fizzy liquid. She closed the blue tap, opened the red one and left it open.

Mastana at first calmed down as this new liquid seemed to neutralise the awful first one. Then she began to shake again as she felt its strange fizzy action inside her.

The servant got up off her stool and went and stood by the kneeling queen’s side to get a better view of her now slowly swelling belly. She nodded as Mastana writhed in vain on the mat whilst the fizzy liquid slowly and inexorably penetrated deeper and deeper.

The servant put her hand down and felt her mistress’ stomach. Yes, she would soon be ready for the green soap and then for a return to the blue burning liquid. It was, always better to do it by stages, with the belly being made to give a good little shake between each one. She sat down on the stool behind her again and turned off the red tap. Mastana let out a gasp of relief as she felt the liquid stop. But the relief was short-lived, for the servant then motioned for the  girl to turn on the green tap.

Mastana gave another little cry as she felt the soapy liquid swelling up inside her. After another minute the servant reached forward and felt her stomach again. Yes, it was getting very nicely swollen. She would let it run for another minute and then finish off with another shot of the Blue Burner, before she was left for five minutes, whilst all three liquids completed their cleaning tasks.

A minute later and Mastana writhed again as she felt the blue burning liquid shoot up inside her. Now keep still the servant wrote on a notice which she thrust in front of her mistress’ face. This was always a tricky moment. She put the bowl down on the floor between her legs – just in case. The girl was standing beside her holding a well-greased rubber plug. It had a circular indentation, like the one on at the rear of the nozzle, for the queen’s sphincter to grip. Slowly she began to withdraw the nozzle, easing it past the sphincter. Mastana gave a sight of relief. Oh how she longed to release everything. Quickly she pulled out the nozzle, grabbed the plug from the girl and pushed it in. Yes, the sphincter was holding it. She got up from the stool. It was time for a coffee.

Five minutes later the girl was feeding the queen coffee through her drinking tube whilst her mistress was still in the stocks, her belly full of the cleaning liquids. When she had finished the servant gestured to the girl to remove the plug and to hold up the bowl so that all the liquids – and Mastana’s wastes – flowed out.

Then it was time to repeat the process. But this time there was nothing left to be washed out and the emphasis was more on the liquids’ pleasing scents than on their cleansing properties. The queen was left exhausted and utterly degraded by it all but after the ritual she did not need to use the toilet all day and with her liquid diet, there were few wastes to expel anyway. The elaborate enemas had now become part of her daily life, a natural function taken away from her, but also with a secondary benefit for the king: his favourite orifice was now ready for his use.

Afghani men, many of whom are brought up without female company or indeed ever seeing an unveiled woman other than their mother or sister, are infamous for seeking sexual solace elsewhere as teenagers and so it was with Muhammad Akbar Khan. When he had gone to Russia and met with Valeriya all that had changed, but he still retained a preference for using the rear orifice and besides, it had an added advantage: his religion insisted that he treat all wives equally with regards to intercourse, only using specific wives on allotted nights. However, the pir had informed him that congress using that orifice did not count as a valid sexual act since children could never be produced that way and so, so long as he still enjoyed his allotted wife in the evening, he could enjoy additional sessions with whichever wife he fancied so long as they were of this nature.

And since King Muhammad Akbar Khan was a man with a vivacious sexual appetite, then he often availed himself of this loophole in religious law!

Part 5

Mastana: Part 3

Part 2

About an hour later the nurse and Dr. Rastagar and greeted her. She was fed some water through a tube which she gulped down thirstily but then, to her dismay, the nurse got a strap and put it over her head, fastening it securely to the bed so that all she could see was the ceiling up above her. Then several more straps were placed over her, securing her body with her arms and their now-useless hands by its side, firmly to the bed. They then turned their attentions to her feet which were lifted in the air and put through stirrups. Straps were then passed around her ankles holding them there. She was helpless and vulnerable, her most private parts exposed to the world.

Then to her surprise, she felt fingers parting her beauty lips and begin tickling her clitoris. Immediately she became aroused and started to moan into her gag. The tickling continued as the clitoris swelled and then she felt it being firmly bound around the base with a cotton thread making it extend outwards between the beauty lips.

Then it was the turn of the helpless Mastana’s nipples to be aroused and similarly bound with cotton threat. She could feel her nipples were now greatly extended. But why she asked herself, unable to move to touch them.

She heard Dr. Rastagar saying something about leaving them to get nicely swollen, and then she heard their footsteps going away.

Silenced and secured, Mastana just lay helpless on her back, wondering what on earth was happening. What was being done to her and why? What had all this to do with treating the tribes equally?

After a few minutes, she heard footsteps coming back into the room a noise like a hospital trolley being wheeled in. As it was being brought up to the couch, she heard a rattling noise like surgical instruments on a metal tray. Astaghfirullah, what was this, an operation?!

Mastanaa heard bottles being opened. There was a sudden smell of antiseptic and she heard a liquid being poured. Then she gasped as one of the figures, Dr. Rastagar most probably, wiped a cloth, soaked in a strange freezing liquid, over her beauty lips. They seemed to lose feeling. She hardly felt it when she then parted her lips again and applied the cloth to her bound and swollen beauty bud. She felt her beauty lips being clipped back leaving her swollen and bound clitoris projecting and on display.

Then there was noise as if a little lamp was being lit. She could feel the heat of the flame. Something seemed to be being heated in the flame. She felt her swollen clitoris being pulled out. Then she felt a prick as if something sharp and hot had been gently pushed through the cotton thread binding her clitoris and was now touching it. She automatically tried to raise her head to see what horror was being done to her, but of course it was futile and she could see nothing but the featureless ceiling above. Then she screamed into her gag as, unknown to her, a red-hot needle was expertly thrust right through her clitoris.

It was held there momentarily and she then she could feel it being alternatively turned left and right. Then it was withdrawn. Mastana gasped with relief. But to her horror, she then felt something else being pushed through. It seemed to be covered in some sort of creamy grease. She felt whatever it was being pulled to and fro. Next she felt a flame being brought right up to her beauty lips making her tremble with fear. She had the impression that the flame was being used to braze something together, brazed permanently. But what? And why?

She felt the cotton threads round her beauty bud being undone. She could feel some of the swelling subsiding, but now there was a strange feeling, as if her clitoris was being held permanently extended outwards – and permanently aroused. She also felt something metallic between her outstretched legs. She felt hands admiringly touching something that seemed to be attached to her. What had they done to her? She moved slightly in her embarrassment and again felt the metal object. Astaghfirullah! What was it?

Then it was the turn of her nipples. Again she felt a cloth soaked in a freezing liquid. Then she felt something sharp being pressed against one of her bound and extended nipples. Again she screamed into her gag as it was driven right through and again turned left and right, and then withdrawn.

Then once again something else was pushed through this new hole. It too was moved to and fro, and was greased. Again she felt the heat of the flame as if something was being carefully brazed together.

Now it was the turn of her other nipple.

She felt the cotton threads around each swollen nipple being removed. As with her beauty bud, she felt some of the swelling subsiding, but there was a new feeling of it being held permanently erect. But this time there a difference. There was a weight on each breast and with every little quiver of her breasts she heard the tinkling of a little bell. What was it? She longed to sit up and see what dreadful thing had been done to her but, still strapped to the top of the couch, there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do.

The green niqaab nurse came into view, stroked her head and then unstrapped it before moving down to her body straps. Mastana sat up and looked down at herself, Her legs were still fastened to the stirrups. She saw large sized thin golden rings had been inserted into her nipples! And to each ring a small bell was attached. Astaghfirullah!

She looked down at her parted legs. From between her now hairless beauty lips hung another golden ring. It had been put through her precious beauty bud and seemed to be making her constantly aroused! She saw that it had been inserted so that it hung neatly parallel to, and between, her beauty lips and not awkwardly at right angles across them. She was now ringed in her most sensitive and private places and those rings caused great arousal. But it was arousal that she could do nothing about for when she put her rigid, plastic-clad hands to the rings, they were too blunt, too unwieldy to allow her to pleasure herself.

After being released from hospital, covered with a burqa again and driven to the family home, Mastana had to try and get used to her ‘preparations’ for becoming a queen of Afghanistan. To start with, it was hell. She longed to rip off the awful plastic helmet that most silenced and encased her. It made her feel claustrophobic and, as was the intention, anonymous. But how could with useless plastic hands, more like spoons on the end of her arms. She could grip nothing, feel nothing, all she could do was produced a soft clacking sound as she pounded at her own head in desperation. On the first night in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the world through the tiny pinholes which were all she was allowed now, she got up and started banging her head against the wall. It did nothing of course, except give her a headache and wake the entire household. There was no relief, she was a silent, anonymous droid and she shuddered as she felt her personality seemingly seep away.

People treated her differently. Since she couldn’t speak with them or indeed make any meaningful communication at all beyond a yes and no, then they took to ignoring her even when she was present in the room. Without thinking servants would talk about her as if she wasn’t there and family members began to act, not as if she were a living person with them in the room, but instead some lifeless statue whom they spoke about respectfully yet with a tinge of sadness as if she were a great hero who had died in battle.

It was perhaps that treatment that finally did it. If they were to act as if she had died, then why live? What right had the nation of Afghanistan to deprive her of everything that she was, all her hopes and dreams, even her face and voice so that its mad mullahs would no longer cause the people to kill each other? No, that was their problem; if she was gone all they would do is find another sacrificial lamb? That night she crept out of bed and went to the window. There was a drop of two storeys. She leaned out…

After her suicide attempt things changed. She hadn’t died in the fall, indeed she hadn’t even hurt herself seriously. True, the drop had been two storeys, but the blow was softened by bushes planted at the foot of the house and, cocooned in their plastic prisons, her hands and head had been perfectly cushioned.

After the suicide attempt her father had talked to her. He had chastised her for trying to desert her duty and alter her destiny. He reminded her that life is a gift from Allah and she had no right to forfeit. Then he’d bent her over, bared her bottom and given her ten whacks with his cane so that her cheeks were red raw. After that though, he cuddled her and said that whilst he had to punish her sin, he understood her frustrations and plight, and that he would do something to help. All she could do was nod silently.

After he left, her mother came. She put her arm around her daughter and then spoke softly, “We women have ways to make it bearable.” Then, she took the rings that adorned her daughter’s nipples and played with them. She turned them in her fingers and beneath her mask, Mastana groaned in ecstasy. “It is improper for a mother to do more than this,” she then said, “but I shall instruct a special friend of mine She will make life bearable for you.”

That night things were different to before. To ensure that she no longer tried to commit suicide, she was not chained to her bed, a cuff around each ankle and wrist leading to each of the four bedposts. Then, in order to stop her from banging her head, a padded cover was drawn over her helmet. It had only one hole at the nose and so left her blind and her hearing muted. So there she lay, spread out like a starfish in the pitch black. Silence reigned but then the door opened. Who was it? Footsteps came over to her and she felt her sheets being removed. Someone sat next to her. It was a female and she smelt sweet, prepared with oils and attar. She nestled her rounded buttocks next to Mastana and then started playing with her nipple rings just as her mother had. Mastana groaned and an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Aha! You’re enjoying that I see! Now, how about this.”

The mystery hands left the rings in her breasts and crept down to her exposed crotch. Mastana longed to cover herself, protect herself, but as she was all she could too was proffer herself like a wanton. She felt something being tied to the ring, a string and then pulled tight, but not so it hurt. Then it started, a soft strumming of the string, like a harpist caressing the strings of their instrument. This mystery woman was playing her and the music was heavenly. Still strumming, the woman climbed on top of her immobile charge and started kissing her and caressing her buttocks. Within minutes Mastana exploded in ecstasy. The woman slumped onto her and then moved her head next to Mastana’s ear. “You see,” she said, “it is not all bad. Forget the past and immerse yourself in your new existence. If you remember what was you shall only be miserable. Live not for studies or money but for pleasure now and you shall be happy.”

And with those words, the mystery woman left, leaving Mastana to the pitch black, panting, spread-eagled on the bed. Yes indeed, the old life had gone, she must become someone new, someone who lived for pleasure, a pleasure that she would soon be experiencing with a man, not a woman.

Part 4

Mastana: Part 2

Part 1

Cure International Hospital

Mastana was nervous as she entered through the doors of the hospital. No one could see of course for she was wearing her finest blue burqa, but to her it was as if she were naked and the whole world could feel her misery and trepidation. For three whole days after her father’s announcement she had locked herself in her room and cried. She knew that she had no choice, that he had no choice in making her for what is one life compared to so many? Yes, another Ahmadzay girl could have been chosen, her cousin Farrukh for example who was quite the traditional, religious girl and would have been far more suited, but if the Ahmadzay’s had not sent their most prominent virgin then the other tribes and the king himself would have seen it as a slight on their honour and once an Afghan’s honour is questioned, then… No, she had to marry him, that she knew but it was so unfair, so very unfair. Why her? She had always loved studying and was so close to achieving her MBA and she had dreams, plans, to travel the world, to set up in business, to marry the man of her choice… Now instead she was to become a co-wife of a king and…

…and what…?

Preparations. All queens go through particular “preparations” to ensure that they remain equal in the eyes of their lord and the nation. Preparations to ensure they remain pious and submissive and modest like a good queen should be. Examples to the Nation.

But what are these “preparations”? And why would no one tell her? Two days ago she had been taken to the hospital and her entire body scanned and measured. Then… then that was it, back home as if nothing had happened.

What exactly was in store for her?

She looked through the dense grille of the burqa at the room before her. It was a standard hospital room with a bed and a bedside table. A nurse in green scrubs stood by the side, her face hidden by her niqaab. “You may remove your burqa now, Miss Ahmadzay,” she said. Mastana was glad to remove her burqa; she hated the thing. She had never worn a burqa except for special occasions and in India not even then. Ever since she had been announced as a fiancée of the king though, there had been a surge of interest in her and it was now mandatory whenever she left the house. She took it off and shook her long black hair out. The nurse gestured for her to sit on the bed and said, “Now Miss, I’m afraid my first task is to shave off that lovely hair of yours…”

“Shave my hair! But why?”

“It is necessary for the ‘preparations’ Miss, but I agree, it seems such a shame. Still, it can be made into a nice wig and sold to help the poor. Please Miss, sit there and I shall begin.”

Tears fell from Mastana’s eyes as her beautiful waist-length locks were cut off and fell to the floor, and they continued to flow as the nurse got out a razor and shaved her head completely bald. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ she thought to herself. ‘What man wants a wife with no hair?’ She tried asking the nurse of course, but she would say nothing beyond that it was all part of the “preparations”.

“Excellent Miss,” remarked the nurse when she had finished. “Now you just sit back in bed and I shall get you a cup of tea. That’ll make you feel better.”

And when she reappeared a minute later carrying a steaming hot cup of tea and Mastana sipped it, she did feel better. It was comforting and relaxing. She lay down in the bed. “Don’t worry my dear, don’t worry,” the nurse said, stroking her head. Mastana’s eyes felt heavy and she realised that it was the tea but by then the darkness was taking over.

When Mastana woke up, something wasn’t right. Her head felt heavy and her vision somehow different. She couldn’t figure out and the thinking hurt as the drugs were still in her system. Within seconds she drifted off again.

When she came to for the second time, her head was clearer and she was more aware. Nonetheless, things did not feel the same, something was not right, something had changed. Her vision. She could see alright, it wasn’t blurred like when she put on her burqa, but it was limited. All she could view was what was straight in front of her which was the white ceiling of the room. She turned her head and the window with bright light streaming in through came into view. Yet turning her head was somehow strange. She resumed her original position and the niqaab-covered face of the nurse came into view. “You have awoken, Miss, how good!” she exclaimed.

Mastana tried to reply but she couldn’t. Then she realised why: her mouth was full of something, something solid pushing against her cheeks. She lifted her hands to feel what it was but when they came to her face all she could hear was the clunk of plastic and those hands felt nothing! She tried to wiggle her fingers but she couldn’t move them! What was happening? She held them up before her eyes and was confronted by a rigid pair of black plastic hands! What on earth did it mean? She started to struggle and the nurse came over and stroked her head. She didn’t feel a thing but felt soothed. “Don’t worry Miss,” she said softly, “you’re fine. I know it’s a big change, all the wives struggle at first with their ‘preparations’ but you’ll get used to them. Everything is fine.”

Mastana stopped moving but then asked, “What have they done to me?” But of course, no sound came out. The nurse however, seemed to understand. “I’ll get the doctor,” she said. “She can explain everything.”

Dr. Rastagar was also wearing the green niqaab scrubs but her difference in rank was clear from the confidence with which she spoke. The words that came out however, were not ones that Mastana wanted to hear.

“Right Miss Ahmadzay, you have now undergone the first and most traumatic part of the preparations for becoming a Queen of Afghanistan, a great honour indeed although so sad to think of the tragedy of the late king. Now I need to explain to you what has been done and why. The first thing that you are probably worrying about is your head. It feels enclosed, am I right? And also you cannot speak? That is because it has been sealed into a rigid plastic hood. That is why you were shaved first and after you were knocked out, measures were taken to ensure that no hair ever grows back. The hood was made in two parts, cast specifically to match your facial contours which is why you were scanned earlier. The back was fitted first and then the front sealed onto it using heat sealing. As I said it is totally rigid and it is also permanent. The only openings are some small holes at your ears to facilitate hearing – although that will probably be much reduced – and of course the two pinholes over your eyes which you are now looking through and of course holes at the mouth and nose. I think it is of interest to you to explain just what has been done with both of those orifices. In your nose, tubes have been inserted for a centimetre or so and these have an air-filtering device which will prevent you breathing in germs and thus getting ill. As for the mouth, in your mouth was filled with a gel-like substance with a tube running through it. That solidified so that it now entirely fills your mouth but the tube allows for liquid intake and breathing. I am sorry to say that consuming solids will be impossible for you from now on, but you can still eat and drink with ease.”

Hearing all this made Mastana shudder and want to weep behind the black plastic of her hood. Why had this been done to her? One minute she was a promising MBA student and the next she wakes up in hospital, her head entombed within a prison of plastic!

“The reason that this has been done dates back to King Muhammad Nadir Khan. When he came to power he needed to ensure that not one tribe – and as such, not one wife – gained prominence over the others, otherwise the whole enterprise would fail. So what he did is have his wives wear leather masks, apparently inspired by Bedouin masks that he saw whilst in Oman, which obscured their features. This was an excellent solution except that before long the wives were taking them off, so he then had them modified to become full hoods which could be locked on. But even this was still not ideal as they had to be removed regularly to cut the queens’ hair and besides, as you will know well, much of the allure of a lady comes from other sources as well as her looks. When they spoke to him, he burned with longing and began to have his favourites, with some having sweeter voices and others more gravelly, some having a good way with words and others somewhat uncouth. So they were all gagged and that way he could love them all and treat them all equally, plus there was the added advantage of them not getting jealous of one another due to looks or getting into arguments over petty matters such as we women often do.”

“When King Muhammad Nadir Khan passed away and his son took over, he continued the practice and when his son, the late martyr King Mir Ahmad Khan ascended to the throne he not only held onto the tradition but had it enshrined in law and modified it. There were many problems associated with the leather hoods, the hair growth being one and skin complaints another and so he decided to employ modern technological means to improve matters. He contacted the Islamic Centre for Technology in Cairo for ideas and they provided the present-day solution. The plastic that your hood is made from is a revolutionary new material, lightweight yet extremely strong and, this is most important, your skin can breath through it. The permanent hair removal technique they also perfected and the result is ideal. Using the old leather hoods some features, a larger nose or the shapes of lips for example, could still be made out but with these hoods all four wives appear entirely identical. The fact is, your husband will not know which of you is which and so he will of course be treating all four tribes fairly.”

‘Astaghfirullah!’ thought Mastana, ‘I no longer exist, I am just a blank, anonymous wife!’

“The head casing is not all however, Miss Ahmadzay,” continued the doctor. “Whilst you were asleep similar casings were also placed around your hands which is why you cannot move your fingers at all. This has been done for a different reason than the hood. Whilst it must be admitted that some of the queens tried to remove their hoods before, impossible I may add with these new plastic models, your husband-to-be Muhammad Akbar Khan also insisted on the covering of the hands. Apparently he had a problem with his former wives in that, with them only enjoying congress with him every fourth night, they became very sexually frustrated and so used to commit grievous sin by fondling themselves. This is something that you will not be able to do now with your hands protected so. It is good that your future husband thinks of your honour so much.”

Strangely, Mastana did not feel grateful.

“And so that is what has happened to you. Today you may rest for an hour or so more and then we shall embark upon the second stage of the preparations. These are also an innovation of Muhammad Akbar Khan, and I think you shall prefer them to the first phase.”

And with those words she left and Mastana lay there trying to come to terms with it all.

Part 3


Mastana: Part 1



Allan Aldiss for his fantastic erotic harem novels

Valeriya Lukyanova, the living Barbie doll from Ukraine


New Delhi, India


Kabul, Afghanistan

The Ahmadzay Family Home











“As his third or fourth wife!”




“No father but…”


Part 2

Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 – The Williamsons

That evening – it was a Monday – Sam returned home from Williamson’s an hour later than usual, his face aglow with happiness. Entering the house, he encircled his beloved wife in his arms, kissed her passionately and then said, “Darling! The greatest of news! I was called in today by the boss, the chief of the entire company, Mr. Uriah Williamson. It transpires that he is really happy with my work and has offered me a promotion. My wage will double and I shall be put in charge of a hundred men! More than that though, he says that I have made an immense personal as well as professional impression on him and so he has invited us to his home in Altrincham this coming Saturday to take tea with him and his wife.”

“What an honour!”

“Indeed, a great honour indeed. I told him that we shall go of course.”

“What is he like, Mr. Williamson I mean?”

“He’s a good boss, and very rich and influential and very fashionable also. I think when we go there that you should wear your best gown.”

“My best gown is not that good, but it is enough. I shall wear my jade green silk which I bought for our honeymoon. It is quite fashionable having a large bustle which are the rage now. It is a little cumbersome it is true, but if it creates a good impression for you then it will be worth it.”

“Indeed and thank you Alison, you are such a perfect and considerate wife. And do not worry too much about your gowns because with the extra money that my new job will bring, you soon shall have some new ones.”

That Saturday morning, Alison got up early to prepare. She knew that as a man of fashion and standing, Mr. Williamson would expect his women to be tightly-laced. Like all decent women she always wore a corset of course, but only to give structure to her figure and she never laced too tightly. After putting on her best stockings and shift, she took out her stays and put them on before lacing them to their usual tightness. Getting out a tape measure, she found this to be around 30 inches. ‘Maybe if I can get to 25 that would create a positive impression?’ she thought and began to pull. But doing it on her own, it was difficult to get the pressure and strength that she needed and when she found that she could go no further, she was still at 27 inches, so she rang for John. He was a little surprised at her request, but he acquiesced and then started pulling on her laces with great vigour until she had to ask him to stop as it was getting rather tight and she was panting for breath. “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “You’re still at 25½! Exhale!” So she did and he tugged and tugged before tying them off. Never before had Alison felt so imprisoned by her stays which left her breasts surging up and down, her stays like a suit of armour around her middle. Then the bustle was attached, jutting out a good two feet behind her derrière, but when the gown was laced over it, the effect, she had to admit, was quite striking, although the bustle was cumbersome, her stays uncomfortable and the high collar forced her to hold her head up straight. Nonetheless, it was important to create a good impression and so it was worth it and off they went to catch the train to Altrincham.

Uriah Williamson’s house turned out to be a large mansion on the edge of town with dozens of windows and a large drive of raked gravel leading up to it. They walked up, their feet crunching on the stones with some trepidation. They rang the doorbell and a maid answered. If Alison was worried about the tightness of her stays, then she didn’t know how this girl coped for her crisp black and white uniform feature a waist pulled in to around 20 inches! How could she work restricted so? They announced themselves and were shown into the sitting room where Mr. Williamson and his family were waiting.

Uriah Williamson was a large, bearded, jovial man of around fifty with a kind yet clever face. However, it was not him but his wife and daughters who stole Alison’s attentions for their appearances were both striking and unexpected. All three were dressed in fine, sumptuous and exceedingly fashionable silk gowns with large bustles easily as half as big again as Alison’s. His wife – Emma – was dressed in navy blue, whilst the daughters – Chastity and Hope – wore turquoise and peach respectively. As Alison had expected, all laced tightly, though even she had not expected the degree to which they pulled in their corsets and below their large bosoms was a stem several inches high that could have been no more than 15 inches around. However, even this was not what caught her attentions the most, instead it was their arms, or to be more precise, the lack of them.

Alison knew all about Ladies of Leisure of course, who didn’t? That class of fabulously wealthy ladies who displayed their wealth by rendering themselves helpless and dependent on servants by having their arms restrained in some manner. They were always being discussed in the newspapers and she saw them walking around the streets of Manchester, being assisted by one or two maids. When she had been a child, the fashions had been for large gigot sleeves which ballooned out at the shoulders and Ladies of Leisure had disguised their bound arms by folding them in the sleeves and attaching false gloved wooden replicas in their place. Then, as she had entered her teenage years, fashions had changed with skirts expanding into impossibly large crinolines which prevented women from entering many buildings, and decreasing sleeves. Then, fashion dictated that the restrained arms should not be disguised but celebrated and the monoglove had come into fashion, women wearing their arms pinioned behind their backs in a single glove. That looked – and, according to the newspaper reports, was – more difficult to achieve, but was considered the height of elegance until the bustle started to make its reappearance. Then, the wearing of monogloves continued but some Ladies of Leisure began to shun them. The fact was that the monoglove did not compliment the lines of the bustle well as the bustle got in the way of the hands which rested on it. Consequently, designers began to look at alternative means of restriction. Most Ladies of Leisure went for a single sleeve that kept the arms behind the back, elbow to wrist in a neat fashion that also, like the monoglove, had the added advantage of thrusting the breasts outwards. Some however, decried that as being too easy and none too elegant and so began to wear their arms in the reverse prayer position, a position which involves them being palm to palm as if in prayer but behind the back. The effect was striking: seemingly armless from the front and behind the whole ensemble tucks in neatly above the bustle.

And it was in such a fashion that all three of the Williamson ladies were restrained.

reverse prayer

Uriah welcomed them and bade them sit down and then ordered tea from one of the maids. Then began the conversation with Uriah congratulating Sam on his charming new bride and Mrs. Williamson admiring how Alison had plaited her hair and its fine colour. Only those two spoke however, for the two daughters had their mouths filled with dainty ballgags which appeared to be made of porcelain and had the names of the wearer inscribed on the front. Alison watched it all in amazement; how the breasts of the three Williamson ladies rose and fell with great rapidity, no doubt due to their incredibly tight stays, yet how they all sat motionless, bolt upright. When the tea came, her eyes almost goggled as the maids carefully prepared it, then removed the gags of the two girls before bringing the dainty teacups up to their lips so that they could sip it. All three were entirely helpless and, even when ungagged, the two girls never spoke, merely nodding or shaking their heads when the maids offered a morsel of tea loaf.

Then, after some fifteen minutes or so of polite small talk, Uriah suggested the ladies all retire to their drawing room. Carefully, the gags of the girls were replaced and the maids stayed on hand as the ladies rose from their chairs with a rustle of silk and then walked out of the room, something remarkable not only for the slow pace at which they did it, but also for the smoothness at which they seemed to glide along. Alison followed them into another, more feminine room decorated in rose pink where more tea awaited. Once there, the Williamson ladies sat, (Alison noted that all the chairs were straight-backed, doubtless because of their constricting stays which prevented any bending whatsoever), and, to her surprise, the two younger girls were ungagged.

“I must say Mrs. Withenshaw, it’s such a pleasure to meet you and you are truly beautiful,” said Chastity. “Papa has been going on and on about what a brilliant young man your husband is and when we heard we were desperate to meet his wife as the saying is that behind every good man is a good woman.”

“Well, thank you for inviting me; the tea is excellent and your welcome warm although I must admit to be happier in here where we all may talk together.”

“Yes, my husband insists on unmarried ladies being gagged in rooms where both sexes congregate,” added Mrs. Williamson. “It is good manners.”

“Indeed, and your two daughters seem to be excellently brought up in that regard.”

“Why thank you Mrs. Withenshaw. We have been strict but fair and of course, they have always had it instilled into them the importance of elegance and manners.”

“That is plain to see, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Emma.”

“You are too kind. And you must call me Alice.”

“Well then, pray tell me Alice, how did you meet that charming husband of yours?”

“To be honest, I met him through work. I work at a tearooms in Stockport and he was a customer. He noticed me and asked me to a dance and it all went from there.”

“How charming, like Romeo and Juliet! But you say that you used to work?”

“Used to and still do, out of necessity. My parents died several years ago and so I have the responsibility of bringing my sister up and paying for her education. Your husband pays Samuel a generous wage but even so, what I bring in is necessary to give Katie the best start in life.”

“My heart goes out to you it truly does, both in losing your mama and papa and also being forced into a workplace. Yet your motives are so noble! You truly are an inspiration! Still, now that your husband has been promoted, you shall be able to stop working.”

The thought, strangely, had not crossed Alison’s mind previously. She didn’t want to stop working but at the same time would not say so to these fine ladies who evidently pitied her for not living a leisurely life.

“You are right I suppose, although I shall have to do the sums.”

“And how do you find our home, Alice?”

“Very pleasant although, if it is not too rude, may I ask…? I was unaware that you were Ladies of Leisure before we met and, well, I have never before conversed or made friends with a Lady of Leisure!”

“Really? Well, to be honest Alice,” said Hope, “it is the same for us also but the other way round. We have only ever been allowed to befriend Ladies of Leisure and, aside from the servants, you are the first non-bound lady to have entered our home. However, we do so like you that we don’t mind this at all.”

“But to answer your curiosity, Alice, what questions might you wish to ask us about our lifestyle?”

“Well, for starters, your waists? They are so beautiful! What do you measure?”

“I allow for no more than 20 inches in my house amongst the servants but for family 15 is the maximum. However, both Hope and Chastity here lace to 14 inches.”

“That is remarkable and it is most becoming.”

“To marry well, it is essential. Hope is to become Lady Stanford in June – you may know Lord Stanford, he owns Stanford Mills – and he stipulated tightlacing as a prerequisite for any potential fiancée. However, Hope won the Tightlacing Cup this term at school so she had no problem in satisfying his requirements.”

“Remarkable! And may I ask also, how about your arms? I mean, how do you live without the use of them. I should be lost indeed!”

“We are perhaps the worst people to ask as we have never known any different, but as you can see, we always have maids attending us so there are no problems. Indeed, the idea of using my hands for anything is quite frightening.”

The talk continued pleasantly for an hour or more with more tea and cake before they finally had to leave. However, just before she did, Chastity and Hope who stood up, and whispered in their mother’s ear and she smiled and nodded as much as her restrictive collar would allow. Then she arose and announced, “My daughters and I have decided that we like you very much Alice, very much indeed, and as such we should like to take you under our wing. What say you to a little shopping trip on Wednesday?”

Alison felt sick inside her constricted stomach. She would have loved to have gone shopping with these fine ladies and did not wish to offend them yet she had to work! “I should like to but I am afraid I am short of funds at the moment. Perhaps in a couple of weeks’ time after pay day and I should be honoured….”

“Fiddlesticks! If we invite you, we intend to pay! We wish to dress you in a manner befitting your new status and to welcome you into our circle! Please do come!”

Alison knew that she could not yet also she couldn’t refuse. She nodded in acquiesce and then left after exchanging kisses.

Chapter 3

Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – The Customer in the Tearooms

The waiting on team at Milton Tearooms all started whispering to one another in the kitchen behind the main seating area where they could not be seen by the customers. The young man had come in again, the handsome one dressed in business attire who always kept looking at Alison. When she had served him, he had been happy; when not, he had asked if the “red-haired lady” was ill. “Can’t you serve him today?” Alison asked Martha. Martha looked at her blushing friend and laughed. “No I can’t; we all know why he comes in here and it isn’t for our fruitcake and Earl Grey. He’s just working up the courage. You should be glad anyway; he’s a handsome chap!” The others giggled and Alison sighed. Yes, she would have to face him again, and yes, if she were to be honest, she did quite like him. She went out with her notepad.

“What may I get you, sir?” she asked, her voice as disinterested as it could be. He smiled broadly when he saw who was serving him, then looked embarrassed. “Some fruitcake and tea for one please and…”


“…and, if I am not being too forward, please miss, what is your name?”

“Miss Alison Knight, sir, why?”

“Miss Knight, Miss. So you are… single?”

“Yes sir, why?”

“Well Miss Knight, if that is the case,  then I was wondering, if it os not too forward and if you are not doing anything else and I quite understand if you are, but well, would you like to accompany me to a dance on Saturday night?”

Alison looked him up and down. She knew beyond any doubt that she would. “I shall have think about it!” she replied haughtily before turning on her heels and leaving.

Behind the scenes all her colleagues chastised her but she only smiled. It was good to be wanted but good to keep him waiting too. She said nothing as she brought out the tea and cake, nor as she presented him with the bill. It was only when she handed him back his change that she said in an offhand manner, “By the way, the answer to your question is ‘yes’.”

That Saturday Alison went to the dance at the town hall with her mystery customer who turned out to be one Samuel Withenshaw, a 21-year old junior manager at the local cotton mill, Williamson Mill. He proved to be charming and gentlemanly and so the following week they went dancing again and the week after that, once more. Although she had a limited income, Alison managed to save up her funds to buy a nice new silk dress with a small bustle as bustles were coming back into fashion after years of wide crinolines. She even bought new stays so that she could lace down a little further. Traditionally, she had never laced much, only wearing stays to give her figure some structure, but she tugged hard and managed to reduce to 30 inches from her normal uncorsetted waist of 35. This was bearable on nights out but impractical for working in the tearooms.

As well as going out to dances, they also began to meet in the evenings after work for walks in the park. As they strolled they learned more about each other. Alison told Sam about how her parents had died and so she was left with the responsibility to bring her younger sister Katie up. Katie she adored and she was now sixteen, finishing school and ready to enter the world herself whilst Alison was three years older.

It was exactly a month after their first date when Sam dropped to one knee and asked Alison to marry him. She dearly wished to accept immediately but could not, for when women marry they usually give up their jobs and yet she needed the income from the tearoom to provide for Katie and whilst Sam’s wage was a good one, they would need all of that to pay for the wedding and establish themselves in a home. To her surprise though, Sam was really understanding and said that he had proposed to her knowing of her family situation and that he certainly didn’t mind her continuing to work to provide for Katie until either Katie got married herself or his wage increased so that he could provide for all of them. Overjoyed, Alison said yes immediately and a month later they were married at the Parish Church of St. James with all their friends in attendance. They honeymooned in Llandudno in North Wales and then returned to their new home, a rented terraced house on Pinnox St where they lived in marital bliss until that fateful evening only a month later.

Chapter 2

Serving the Dear Leader: Part 8

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Chapter 12 – A New Friend

The next morning, after the Dear Leader had enjoyed another bout of passion with the pretty Pridniestrovian and then a lengthy lie in, Yong-Hee was taken to her room for a shower by Comrade Jun and then dressed in her usual uniform. As the Dear Leader was in the complex and some pioneers would be needed to serve Him, all the usual political and sexual education was cancelled. However, to Yong-Hee’s surprised, she was called to Comrade Kim whom she found standing in her office with none other than the pretty Pridniestrovian. However, what was more surprising was that the Pridniestrovian girl was not dressed in her foreign clothes, but instead a Platoon 72 pioneer’s uniform complete with monoglove and gag and, what is more, she did not look very happy about it.

“Comrade Hong Yong-Hee, thank you for joining us. I have called you here today because of two reasons. Firstly, I have consulted your school records and it seems that you studied the decadent imperialist tongue of English whilst in Hamyong Province. Is that true?”

Yong-Hee nodded.

“And you achieved a reasonable degree of proficiency?”

Yong-Hee nodded again, less surely this time.

“Good. Now, as you can see, Comrade Valentina from Pridniestrovia has joined our platoon today in order to serve our beloved Dear Leader. Usually, as you know, Platoon 72 is for Children of the Motherland only, but on this occasion, our Dear Leader has wisely and graciously allowed an exception to the rule. Comrade Valentina has joined us but sadly your copulation partner, Comrade Ju-Ae has left the platoon. In the ball last night, the President of Pridniestrovia was most taken with her and used her for his pleasure and thus, in the interests of proletarian solidarity, the Dear Leader has granted her request to serve the President of Pridniestrovia permanently as his sexual servant in Pridniestrovia.”

Yong-Hee felt sorry in the depths of her heart for Ju-Ae having to leave the beloved Motherland and lie with a foreigner. How glorious was her contribution to the global proletarian struggle, but how hard also!

“Comrade Valentina does not speak our language so you must talk to her in English and introduce her to the platoon. I will remove both of your gags.”

Comrade Kim did this and Comrade Valentina let forth a flurry of angry Russian. Then Yong-Hee spoke to her. “Hello Comrade Valentina. Welcome you to Platoon 72 of Young Pioneer. Big welcome you! We happy here! You happy here!”

“What you mean, ‘Welcome Platoon 72’? I am go back my country today!”

“No, you stay here. You lucky in Platoon 72, big honour. Everyday you make happy Dear Leader.”

“No! No! I can’t! I must go back! What about my family? I only signed up for this for a week because the money was good. I need to go back to Tiraspol. I can’t stay here being fucked by that old pervert!”

Yong-Hee didn’t understand the word ‘pervert’ which was probably just as well. “No, you stay here. You Young Pioneer. You in bed make many happy Dear Leader. Everyday me you practise sex play so make Dear Leader maximum happy.”

At this point Valentina burst into tears.

Chapter 13 – The Politburo Conference

That afternoon the President of Pridniestrovia left and all the pioneers went to see him off, including Valentina who glared at him and struggled at her bonds which, for some inexplicable reason, made the strange foreigner roar with laughter. On his arm was Ju-Ae, dressed in a beautiful hanbok and looking very scared at what the future might bring. Yong-Hee’s heart went out to her.

Afterwards all the pioneers were taken to the gymnasium where they had their exercises and watched a short film extolling the virtues of the Dear Leader who cares for the People and the Motherland like a father cares for his children in direct contrast to the leaders of the imperialist nations, and then Comrade Kim explained that several pioneers had been honoured to be selected as Servicers during a conference that the Dear Leader was holding with His politburo following the important visit of the President of Pridniestrovia. The names of the lucky few were read out and to Yong-Hee’s delight, she was one of those picked.

She and the other chosen pioneers were then led to the dining room where they were fed a bowl of noodles with real meat in it and then, to their surprise, were stripped totally naked. Then each pioneered was had oil massaged all over their bodies and strange garments were brought out. They were all in black and made out of thick rubber and it soon became clear that they were some sort of all-encompassing body suits. Comrade Jun started to fit Yong-Hee’s. At first it was much as she expected, a suit that covered her legs, then her bum and body and arms but then she began to realise, with a degree of horror, just how all-encompassing the suit actually was. “You are all to be attending the Dear Leader and the great men of the Motherland and they shall be discussing extremely important issues of national security. Therefore, they cannot leave the room for fear of secrets being leaked to the Western imperialist spies and you must neither hear the negotiations nor see any confidential files, maps or images. Therefore, wearing these suits is absolutely necessary.”

To Yong-Hee’s – and the other pioneers’ – dismay, the suits continued up the neck and covered the entire head save for three holes: two tiny ones at the nostrils and one for the mouth. However, before it was fitted, plug were fitted into her ears which were attached to a small device which Comrade Jun called an i-pod and which were, apparently, popular amongst the bourgeoisie of the decadent nations, and this was then attached to the back of her head where her hair was also bunched up. Comrade Jun pressed a button on it and it started to play revolutionary songs and stirring speeches by the Dear Leader Himself. Then a large ring gag was produced and fastened around her head causing her to keep her mouth open all the time. Then the hood was fitted and Yong-Hee’s world went black and she was alone with the sound of revolutionary marching bands.

She stood there in her own cocoon and then her rubber-clad arms were bent behind her in the usual monoglove and a collar fastened around her neck. She was then led by this collar for a certain distance until having a hand pressed on her head so that she knelt and then the chain was attached to something and Yong-Hee found that she couldn’t move further than a few centimetres.

And so there she stayed, the wisdom of the Dear Leader filling her head, for a period of time that she had no idea about. Nothing happened except that after some time she detected the smell of tobacco which made her realise that the elite of the Motherland were probably all in the room discussing confidential and important matters. The speech finished, then music began, then there was another speech, then more music and after a while the original speech began again. It was all on loop.

Then, whilst she was listening to the Dear Leader talk inspiringly about grain production in North Pyongan Province for the third time, she felt her chain tugged and to her surprise – and disgust – a flaccid male tool was inserted into her ring-gagged mouth. Then, horror of horrors, slowly water began to trickle from it, gathering in speed until it was a gushing torrent of acrid urine hitting the back of her throat. Trying to combat the natural gag reflex, the young pioneer gulped it down as fast as she could feeling violated and humiliated and yet also knowing that it was an honour that she should be glad for as she was serving the Motherland and, who knows, perhaps the penis in her mouth was that of the Dear Leader Himself?

Once the flow had finished and she had licked and sucked it dry and it had withdrawn, she began to think about it and wonder as to what it all meant. And then she realised: had not Comrade Kim said that the men were not allowed to leave the room because of the machinations of imperialist spies? But what if the room had no sanitary facilities? How great was the wisdom of the Dear Leader she realised at this point to provide an alternative to using the toilet and how ingenious was His solution to the quandary. Of course, that still didn’t stop her feelings of disgust, but now that she understood why this was happening to her, it made it easier to bear.

And so it continued until Yong-Hee realised that it wasn’t just the Politburo members who needed to use the toilet for she felt a familiar build up in herself, no doubt due to the fact that she had endured two streams of piss jetting into her throat during her incarceration in rubber. But what was she to do? She tried to hold it in but soon it became unbearable and so she let flow. The pee, with nowhere to go, simply stayed around her, seeping between her skin and the rubber, making it even slippier than before. She felt it trickling down her legs and longed to clean herself but of course, it was impossible. Instead she was entombed in rubber, getting hotter and sweatier, having pee spurted down her throat from the tool of an unknown male whilst her own wastes swilled all around her and endless speeches on the construction of new apartment complexes for steel workers in Ryanggang Province filled her ears.

After some time, something else unexpected happened. Something different was thrust into her mouth. It was a tube. She sucked on it and soup came through. She sucked and sucked realising that it must be dinnertime and the Dear Leader had thoughtfully considered the needs of His anonymous rubber-clad pioneers. After the soup, some water was fed through which was so clean and refreshing after all the pee. But then came the afternoon session, more of the same, with her politburo member peeing regularly, no doubt due to him drinking lots of water as the pee did seem to get more diluted.

She herself was also peeing on a regular basis and the liquids sloshed about in her suit, warming her further. Then came the need for something else, which she tried to stop, but again it was inevitable and after some time her solid waste was also mixed up with the rest. Thankfully, it wasn’t long after that when she felt her chain being tugged and she was led, her legs aching terribly from having been kneeling so long, to her room where she was freed from the terrible rubber prison, cleaned thoroughly by Comrade Jun and then thankfully put to bed.

Not that her ordeal was over though. The conference continued for another three days.

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Proper Lady Dress

This is the artwork by xqilinxxx which helped to inspire Doll Wife, particularly the garden scene in Part 7. I only wish someone with skill in these things could manipulate it further to give her a doll face and perhaps produce some similar images to illustrate the story. Any takers?

Thanks to Paulo for sending the image.