The Breeder

by Mark Andrews

  Once partly inside, they pushed the poles up hard under our crotches and then brought the collars as far back as they could and tightened the butterfly nuts so they couldn’t move.

  The gigs were weighted, or rather they were balanced on the axles so that there was upward pressure on the dildos once anyone was seated in the chair but as I stared down at the shaft now poking out from between my legs I was struck with horror at the implications.

  I was going to have to run alongside Jenny, high-steppingt as we had been taught and trained and pull a man in the gig behind me with these two horrors in my body! And that was going to be the only connection of the gig to it. The whole weight of the gig and its passenger would be borne by my vagina and anus!

  It was unbelievable. I had thought General Sun’s programme of creating an army of automatons using us as his brood sows had been bad enough but this! This was dreadful. But of course there was nothing Jenny or I could do about it. With our arms pulled tight behind our backs (thrusting our breasts out proudly) and our wrists locked back up to our upper arms, we were utterly helpless.

  Now they added another horror, though. The two trainers now fetched bridles for us. Yes, real bridles. They had straps that went over our heads and under our chins. They had rings at the cheeks to which the various straps were connected and yes, there was even the steel bit that went into our mouths and when the straps were buckled tight, these were pulled right to the back of them, forcing our mouths open so that we dribbled all the time.

  At the top of our heads, embedded in the straps that went across and along our heads was a ring and our now quite long ponytails were carefully threaded through these.

  We were now ready for our first real training run.

  I thought the harness to be utterly dreadful but it certainly showed off our bodies perfectly. The way our upper arms were pulled back behind our backs made our breasts thrust out beautifully and of course the dildo, prominently poking into and out of our anuses and vaginas, accentuated both those orifices, drawing any spectators’ eyes inexorably down to them. And with our whole bodies being depilated totally naked of any natural body hair, they were openly and totally on view to all.

  One of the trainers now jumped up onto the seat and clicking the two sets of reins, clucked to us to move off. Was it painful? Incredibly so at first. I had never had anything at all stuck up my rear end and this dildo was really big, but I found after a few minutes that this pain abated to a dull nagging ache rather than the sharp agony it had been at first.

  The other one was painful all the time. A vagina is possibly the most sensitive part of a woman’s body and although Dr Yuen had already done terrible things to it, stretching it with his horrible tentacle claws and constantly delving inside it to look at the inner area on a weekly basis, the pressure of this dildo as I began to trot around the track was horrible.

  But added to that was the way it excited me. I suppose I should have expected it but I didn’t. I thought the pain would override any pleasure I might feel as the dildo excited my clit. It didn’t. As the minutes passed I felt the first tingling of a very unwanted pleasure that grew and grew in intensity until an orgasm burst upon me. Of course I faltered but the trainer had been waiting for it and he screamed at me to get moving, underlining his commands with a series of lashes of his whip to my back and haunches.

  No doubt you can imagine how I felt but as he also threatened me with a prolonged dose of the prodder when we were finished for the afternoon, I quickly put the convulsions associated with my climax out of my mind and got back to the job in hand.

  Jenny was in the same boat as me of course. We weren’t allowed to look at each other, being enjoined to look straight ahead as we trotted along, but I could sense her orgasming alongside me from time to time.

  The dildos were horrible, both of them. As much from the implication of being raped by the gig as we pulled it as from the pain itself. That pain came and went. I said the anal intrusion was horrible at first but then it abated and it did, but as the hours wore on it became a problem again as the massive dildo reamed up and down my rectum and its surface, smooth and all as it was, wore against the anal sphincter itself.

  But the frontal one was worse and every step became a nightmare after an hour or so. Beside me, I sensed Jenny was in as much trouble as I was. Oh how much I wanted to speak to her, to renew our friendship and to commiserate with her in our troubles but as yet, all I had been able to do was to minutely raise an eyebrow and give her a tiny smile of recognition. She had been a friend, a training friend but a good one nevertheless and I so wanted to tell her that...

  Alas, we were never allowed to talk to other slaves on pain of losing our tongues so you can see I didn’t make any attempt to do so!

  Our days now assumed a pattern of gym work in the mornings and gig training in the afternoons. They worked us hard, very hard. But still they didn’t tell us what we were being trained as ponies for. When we found out, it was utterly dreadful.

  So I had been kidnapped, enslaved and made to carry triplets for the mad Korean dictator’s new army. You might argue nothing could top that. This did. I was already pregnant again for my next six-months of gestation of more of the poor little things who faced a life of slavery as almost mindless soldiers, trained to kill on command - and nothing else.

  But when we discovered our new roles I just wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

  We were going to be used to carry our so feared and hated master, General Sun and his immediate entourage around the city.

  Can you believe it? Believe it or not, that is what he had decided. No doubt the former rickshaw boys may have sown the seeds in his mind but they were fully clothed of course, were self-employed and could work or not at their own discretion.

  We were slaves. We had no clothes - not even a rag to cover our sexual organs and certainly not over our breasts. We had no discretion as to whether we worked or not and believe me, after experiencing the training and conditioning we went through, you did as you were told - when you were told - and to the very best of your ability.

  Accordingly, when we were judged sufficiently trained and ready for actual service, and were then harnessed to a considerably more ornate gig that was then mounted by a boy in very smart black and gold livery, to our horror - it was Jenny and me that first time - we were steered out of the complex and had to trot all the way in to the President’s palace.

  Yes, right out in public, stark naked, high-stepping it all the way and exposing all of our bodies - our breasts and vaginas on full display to everyone on the streets.

  They all stopped and stared, of course. The intense propaganda campaign had taught them to hate all foreigners, most of whom had been expelled from the country. But now here were we, stark naked and harnessed to the beautifully crafted gig as human ponies. They were as shocked as we were appalled, of course but they soon got the drift and cheered what we were, or jeered us as slaves as we trotted by or stopped at traffic lights.

  Once at the palace we stood under the porte-cochere and waited for the general. When he came out at last it was to beam at us as we stood there, straight as ramrods, naked breasts thrust out by the position of our arms (now no longer constrained by the plastic bands but held in that position by our own muscles), legs together and perfectly straight, our near-perfect muscles showing off our athletic bodies to a tee.

  He walked around us and stood in front of us, reaching out to feel our bodies while we continued to stare directly ahead, as if he wasn’t even there as his hands roved so lecherously all over our flesh.

  Of course we had had to put up with the same kind of inspection and manhandling from the first moments of our training by his minions but that didn’t make it any easier now that the President himself was inspecting us - just as he might have if we had been real equine ponies. The boy who was our driver had been waiting beside us for the
President to emerge from the palace and at his nod, escorted him to the comfortable seat at the rear of the gig while he then climbed up into the little driver’s seat in front of it.

  At the flick of the reins, we were off once more and now began a day as shameful as I could imagine. The President was dressed in full military uniform and we now trotted him to each of his appointments that day. Of course we were still in perfect unison, our knees properly raised so that with each step, our thighs were both perfectly horizontal, our bodies erect and our hands held up in that awkward position, arms bent double, shoulders back, hands up near them with the palms facing forward.

  They made us assume this position not only to show off our breasts better but also to force our upper bodies to sway from side to side. Normally, of course, humans use their arms to counter the actions of their legs as they run. With our hands up next to our shoulders, we couldn’t do that and therefore our upper bodies swayed to act as a counter to our legs. I watched the other girls running or trotting in this position and I have to admit it made us look more provocative - which is exactly what they had in mind.

  Of course our breasts jigged up and down with each step and this also was a turn-on for the males who stopped to watch us pass - and cheered their President accordingly. He smiled at them and waved graciously I have no doubt. We just slogged on.

  Now you will understand why they were at such pains to train us in strength and endurance. I doubt if any Olympic runner could do what we were made to do for President Sun and his upper echelon of ministers, almost on a daily basis.

  Of course that first day was the worst. We were quite new to being exposed publicly as stark naked pony-girls then and the shock and the shame of it was dreadful. Jenny and I made the best of it, however. We still hadn’t been able to speak to each other but we learned to communicate by winks, imperceptible (to our masters) nods and little gestures and I knew she learned to cope with this new misery as quickly as I did.

  It wasn’t so much the work involved. Heavens, I had always punished my body hard in my training as a gymnast and I know Jenny had, too. Remember, we attended the same gym back home and I had watched as she had put everything into her gym work to aid in her track ability. No, it wasn’t the work and it wasn’t even that we had to act as ponies for the President, I think. It was our nakedness in that role. The shame and humiliation he delighted in heaping on us as he forced us to trot him and his senior ministers around the capital.

  He must have known that in this day and age satellites watch everything that happens on this Earth and that the lenses in their cameras were so good as to be able to read a document on the ground. He must also surely have known that they would therefore have been able to see us and even to identify who we were within a few minutes of our setting foot outside the training complex.

  I doubt if he cared. In his mind, he was about to unleash a war on his neighbours and then the world, using his new army of automatons, who were even now growing at an incredible rate and were already being trained as soldier/slaves.

  Was he mad? I imagine he must have been, at least as mad as Hitler and Idi Amin had been. Whether he was or not is moot. What was important right then was that he was in power and he was brilliant enough to have swayed his people to his own way of thinking while we were his slaves.

  Those thoughts were far from my mind that first day, however. Carrying the President himself was fraught with risks. If we were to shame him in even the slightest degree, I knew we would be in for a terrible time of it when we returned to the complex and so both Jenny and I concentrated every second on keeping our legs high, responding to the touch of the reins that were clipped to the rings in our bridles and therefore acted on the bits to steer us this way or that.

  Naturally, the roads were emptied ahead of us for the President’s progress and we had it to ourselves apart from the motorcycle escort. If anything, that made it worse for the people lined the streets and while they were there to see him and not us, we felt we were on show in our so very shameful state.

  All day, from mid-morning to late in the evening we had to trot him around. It wasn’t continuous work and we certainly had breaks while he visited this place or that but the workload was enough that by evening’s end, at about eleven at night, it was all we could do to trot back to the complex, be washed and then stagger into our stall to sleep. I was too tired even to bother about eating.

  The next day we had a rest day. Just as well for although we had been trained for this for weeks, the actual event was even harder and my muscles were just exhausted.

  But then the training was resumed - and now even harder for our trainers recognised that what the President required of us was harder than our training had provided for.

  Accordingly, our training gigs were now weighted with concrete blocks and we were made to train well into the night and start on our morning regime in the gym earlier than before.

  Our bodies responded. It’s really amazing how the human body adapts to almost anything demanded of it. Left alone, it goes slack quite rapidly but worked hard (as long as provided with sufficient rest and good food), it can achieve wonders and when it is worked as ours were, it assumes the most pleasing shape imaginable.

  We whites were sprayed with a sun block every morning and this meant that our skins assumed a most pleasing light golden colour; certainly not a deep tan and I was glad of that for I am quite fair and I would not only have burned quickly but would have become susceptible to sun cancers if left out in their burning sun too long.

  Korea has a range of climates that alternate between dreadfully hot summers and freezing, ice and snow-bound winters. No matter what the weather, we stayed naked. Jenny and I had to contend with the hot sun on our heads and backs for part of the year - and snow and sleet and freezing ice-bound roads a few months later. Through it all, we stayed stark naked.

  After that first terrible day, it became a little easier. I stress, a little ... we rested for the day after and then resumed the increased training after that, but then, a few days later, we were harnessed to another of the more ornate gigs. It wasn’t the President’s and I was grateful for that. Not that his ministers would be less demanding; just that I feared that man above everyone else in that place and it was just a little less daunting to have to run one of his ministers around.

  The workload was much the same, though. We picked him up from his office and drove him to an appointment. Where it was, I have no idea. To me, they were just destinations: one building to another and since I couldn’t read the language, even if by now I was fairly adept at understanding it, I had no idea what part of the city we were in at any given time.

  The people continued to cheer or jeer at us. I don’t think I really knew the difference. If they were cheering, it was because they were lecherously delighted with our nakedness; if they were jeering, it was because we were foreigners. Whichever it was, they were reviling us as they had been taught by their President’s propaganda machine and while I could understand and even feel for them, it didn’t make it any easier to be the butt of their venom, or their lechery for that matter.

  There was a down side to driving the ministers around that was absent when we drove the President. With him, the roads were always cleared ahead of us and the citizens kept at a distance. With the ministers, that wasn’t the case, usually, anyway and so our gigs had to compete with the few cars and the multitude of bicycles on the roads. It also meant that we had to stop at traffic lights and then men would move in and feel our bodies while the minister waved to them to do so to their hearts’ content.

  It was awful. Okay, so I, and the other girls in the factory and the complex were constantly the subject of our trainers’ hands on our bodies but at least we knew who they were. On the roads, it was the people at large and on each of their faces was that mask of hatred. As their hands mauled my breasts or fingered my vulva around the dildo thrust so rude
ly inside it, their faces displayed contempt or real hatred for me. I wilted under these attacks and I came to dread stopping at lights for it was always the same.

  But through it all, we had to stand tall and take it ...

  For the next few months that was the way of it. We had a day trotting the President or one of his ministers around the city while the citizens stood and watched and jeered at us, then a day of rest followed by a few more at training under the new and vastly more intense regime they now imposed on us. And then we would be called on to drive the President or a minister around again.

  I suppose I gradually became inured to the questing fingers and the hatred on the faces of the people and my body certainly adapted to the training and the work demanded of it but then I started to feel my second lot of little babies making their presence felt and not long after that I was returned to the factory.

  Chapter 5

  Once there, my life resumed as it had been before, even to the so hated internal feeding system via the horrible pipes that intruded themselves right down my throat. The exercise regime also continued, as did our duty on the four types of machines in the room next to the gymnasium proper.

  But I now got to see some other parts of the huge, fortress-like building. I was actually taken in to see what happened to our babies.

  I’m afraid you are going to be horrified all over again at what I am about to reveal about that inhuman place but I feel to leave out the worst bits would be as bad as not telling the story at all and in that regard, I know it is in mankind’s interests that the world knows exactly what General Sun was up to so that any repetition may be prevented...