Shana's suspicions about whether they had been observed were confirmed the next morning, when she was awoken with a familiar banging on the ladder. Shana had been sleeping in her robe, as usual, and jumped to her knees on the floor. The Usher yanked aside the curtain, and took in her tousled hair for a moment before he spoke. "Ablutions," he said abruptly. "Then come outside. I'm waiting. "Shana rose, brushed her teeth at the pedestal sink, and stepped out onto the ladder in her tiny robe. Once out of the shower, and having dried herself in the small change room, Shana found her tunic, cleaned and waiting for her on the couch, along with her black heeled sandals. She wriggled into it and tugged down the hem as far as she could before stepping out into the corridor where the Usher waited. A draft in the corridor tickled her bareness under the tunic. "We'll go to the scullery, this morning," he simply said. Shana felt some measure of relief - it would mean being with the Caterer. It also left her feeling uneasy. She felt hungry, and decided to hope for breakfast. Shana's hopes were dashed when they walked into the kitchen to find the Understudy standing amid the pots and pans. Shana stopped, and fell to her knees.
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The Caterer was nowhere to be seen. "Good morning, Slave Shana," he said. "Did you sleep well?" Shana nodded. The Usher strode out of sight, and returned with a glass of orange juice. He handed it to the Understudy. "Would you like some breakfast, then, Slave Shana?" the Understudy asked. There was a menacing tone in his voice. Shana hesitated, than nodded. The Understudy walked over to her, slowly, carrying the juice. "Well good, then. Why don't you start with a nice glass of orange juice?" Shana didn't move. Nothing at that moment felt right, and without thinking, she shook her head. The Understudy cocked an eyebrow. "Was that a 'no'?" he asked. "Answer out loud.
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Don't shake your head at me. ""No," she replied meekly. "No? No that was a yes, or no that was a no? Perhaps yes, that was a no? Or you don't know?""No, sir," she said, her voice shaking. "So give that to me in a full sentence. No, sir, I don't want some orange juice. "Shana breathed in, shakily. "No, sir, I don't want some orange juice. ""Well, there we go. That wasn't so hard, was it?"Shana shook her head. "No, sir," she quickly answered. "No, sir, that was hard? Or, no sir, that wasn't hard? I like full sentences, sometimes, Slave Shana, particularly when I'm in a rotten mood. ""No, sir, that wasn't hard," she said quickly. "Thank you. Now drink the orange juice. "Shana hesitated.
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Something about the way he proffered the glass was menacing. She quailed, and shook her head. "Slave Shana, you will drink this orange juice!" The glass was now being held in front of her, and the kitchen was silent, except for the sounds of the Usher's footsteps as he strode around directly behind Shana. Shana looked at the floor, unmoving, shaking like a cornered doe. "Alright, then," said the Understudy, and put the glass on the counter next to him. Then he nodded at the Usher. Two gloved hands seized Shana's head. One on her forehead, the other on her lower jaw. The Usher forced her head back until Shana was staring at the bright lights on the ceiling. Her jaw was forced open by the Usher's other hand. Shana gagged, and her hands went reflexively up to grasp the Usher's. Her breathing was ragged and raspy in the silence that followed. The Understudy stepped forward again, leaned down, and seized the notched collar of her tunic. With a powerful jerk of his large hands, he tore it open down the front of her chest. Shana squeaked in fright.
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With her mouth forced open, the sound came from her gullet, like a muted trumpet. The Understudy ripped some more, and then shucked the ripped collar down off her shoulders, baring her shoulders, her collarbone, and the top of her cleavage. Her tunic now resembled a twisted parody of an off-the-shoulder party dress with a plunging neckline. The Understudy reached back and took the glass of orange juice. "Let me tell you a story," he said to Shana in a conversational tone. "A long time ago, I was captured by a ragged little bunch of Separatists near Les Coteux. I was part of a federalist service battalion. We'd been fixing an Iltus jeep off of highway 338 when we were ambushed. "I knew how to use my rifle better than my colleagues, of course, and I was the only one who survived the fire fight. My gun jammed, so the Separatists were happy to relieve me of it and hit me with it. They dragged me to a little house in the middle of nowhere, by the Delisle River and interrogated me. It was mid-July, and sweltering. I knew very little, of course, but they figured they could make me talk just the same. "So the leader of the group - a big, fat, sweaty, mustached fellow – cranked my mouth open with an oral speculum of some sort. It must have been for a horse.
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I couldn't close my jaws. And then from a bag, he drew out the biggest, fattest water snake I have ever seen. I hadn't seen any since I was young.
They used to frequent the South Shore, but I thought they were extinct. Not this one. A big, old, black, northern water snake. They must have found it right in the nearby river. And as he began to thread the snake down the back of my throat, he kept telling me in French to relax, because he didn't want the snake to bite my throat on the way down. "This was a big snake, and I had to fight not to gag. I was terrified. I didn't like snakes, and my heart was pounding, and the sweat was rolling off my face. But I reached this point in my mind, you see, where I realized that it would be best just to give in and let what was happening happen. Fighting it would only prolong it somehow. So I just squeezed my eyes shut. And that's when the snake bit me on the inside of my stomach.
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"That bite felt like a bomb going off inside me. I felt like my stomach had ruptured. I can tell you that a northern water snake isn't poisonous. But their saliva contains an anticoagulant. So my stomach began to bleed for the next five hours. They pulled the snake out, and they let me throw up all the blood. It was pink and foamy, and I kept throwing up, and then I'd throw up some more. I thought I would bleed to death. But I didn't. I lost a lot of blood, but I didn't. "The Understudy brought the glass of orange juice to Shana's forced-open mouth. "I had to explain this to the Caterer, too. What a fighter. But I think he's learned, and he has more to learn shortly. So the moral of my story is," and the Understudy tilted the glass, "don't fight it, slave.
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"Shana choked and gagged as he poured the juice down her throat. She coughed up a third of it, which ran in rivulets over her lips, over the gloves of the Usher, and down the front of her bared throat and cleavage. She struggled fiercely, making raw, garrotting sounds, but in the end, she was forced to swallow most of it in order to avoid inhaling it. The Usher let her go, and she collapsed on the tiled floor, the front her ripped tunic soaked. She coughed and spluttered, and felt the cold tiles on her bare legs and hips. Then, quite predictably, she felt the dizziness, and slipped into darkness. * * * Shana came out of her haze and felt cool metal against her face. Blurry shapes around her slowly resolved into recognizable objects: the doorway, the cement floor, and the Caterer, shackled to the wall. The expression on his face was one of complete defeat. Shana blinked, and stared at him in confusion. "Ma petite belle fleur! Je suis trés désolé. . . " he whispered. "Daniel.
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. . ?" Shana asked in confusion and tried to move. She found she was pinned at the waist. It dawned on her, then, where she was. "Ah, good, Slave Shana, you're back with us," said a familiar voice. Shana snapped her head around and found the Understudy and the Usher standing behind the console of the machine. She knew then that she was pinned, on the same cold slab of metal where she had been violated before. She had been strapped to the table on her stomach, instead of her back. She lay there, her cheek against the cold metal, her bare legs behind her, the heels of her sandals and her rear facing the ceiling. Her newly-ripped tunic was hitched a couple of inches up over her bare rear. The piston had not yet come to life, but rested inert at the end of the table, long, gleaming, and nestled in its mesh of hydraulics. Shana turned her head back to the Caterer. "Daniel!" she whimpered plaintively. The Caterer struggled against his manacles, but he was completely and firmly shackled.
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"I think perhaps it would be better if the Caterer watched this time," said the Understudy. "He might better understand your role here. ""Oh no, oh no, oh no," she said, her eyes welling up as she shook her head. "No, not this, not this!""Yes, this," said the Understudy. "I promise you, the stretching will be deep!"The Usher nodded in agreement, and then looked over the Understudy's shoulder. "The Clinician has arrived," the Usher said. The Understudy turned towards the door to see the Clinician stride in. "I'm not too late, I assume?" said the Clinician, taking in the sight of Shana strapped to the table. "No, no," said the Understudy in an oddly collegial tone. "Please join us over here. I believe the Caterer is unfamiliar with this treatment, so this should be quite instructional. " The Clinician glanced at the Caterer bemusedly as he picked his way around the table. He stopped at Shana's side and inspected her between her legs. Shana whimpered in terror. "Hmmm, not too bad," he said casually.
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"Try to relax this time, and it shouldn't hurt as much. " He rubbed her pussy briefly with a finger and patted her bare bum reassuringly. Then he squeezed in behind the console and talked with the Usher quietly. The Understudy turned back to Shana and the Caterer. "I should think by now you'd have learned your places," he said. He looked at the Caterer and stabbed a finger in his direction. "You I'm especially disappointed in. I expect this will help you to understand. " Shana sobbed loudly. The Caterer looked down at the floor. "Good," said the Understudy after a pause. "Then let's begin. " "Nooo!" screamed Shana. The Understudy turned and nodded at the Usher, who flipped the switch. "You can't! You can't! You can't!" Shana shrieked.
She struggled as she felt metal on her bare thighs. The piston was moving up between her legs, pushing them apart roughly. Shana beat her hands on the table and kicked furiously to free herself. Her waist was pinned firmly down, however, and all the wiggling and squirming, and struggling up on her forearms did not help. "Daniel! Help me! Help me!" she cried. The Caterer looked horrified and stricken as he realized what was about to happen. He tried to say something, tried to reassure her, and strained at his bonds, but he stopped, and his face froze in horror, as he watched the expression on Shana's face abruptly change. Sure enough, the piston found Shana's groove, found the entrance to her vagina, and pushed its way in. Shana's face contorted, and she screamed. She screamed again. She grabbed the front of the table. Her bare legs went rigid, and she arched her feet. Her eyes bulged. The Caterer looked down and away, covering his face with his hands. The only difference Shana could feel was that she was no longer a virgin.
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But the immense girth, filling her and stretching her out wide was still as shocking and breathtaking as the previous time. It was as though she had lost her voice. The room fell silent as her scream spiralled away into her empty, open, silent mouth. The Caterer felt the room go quiet. The special silence hung over the small assembly. All eyes were focused on Shana, except for those of the Caterer. But it was the faint squishing sound that compelled him to finally look up at Shana, rigid and in agony on the table. Slowly, he took his hands away from his face. His eyes met her bulging eyes. Her mouth was open, her jaw twitching, as if she were trying to talk. The piston jerked up into her, inch by inch. Slowly, she reached out a shaking hand towards the Caterer, reaching for him, as if drowning. Her hand quivered as it stretched towards him. "Da. .
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. Da. . . " she croaked, unable to form his name. "Oh, tabernac!" he whispered. The piston jerked in another inch. "Ah . . . ah. . . " she said to him, her eyes locked with his, her hand clenching and unclenching at him. Silence.
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"Dah. . . ah. . . ah. . . "Silence. Shana's bare legs stretched out behind her, taut and straight. She kicked them in little kicks, her feet arched. Her sandals slowly worked their way off her arched feet, as she dabbled her toes frantically. One fell to the floor, then the other. The Caterer could see them slip off her feet, and clatter onto the cement.
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Her bare feet fanned the air. The piston continued its upward push, deep inside her. "A. . . a. . . " she croaked again. Inside her mind, Shana tried to leave, and found she could not. The only choice left was to stay and fight the machine. It was so deep, so deep, and she was stretched so wide, so full, that she could feel herself on the brink of tearing. But she could not leave, and the Caterer would not move, and would not come to save her. Why, she wondered, will he not help me?With every expanding inch of the violator, Shana had to adjust her legs and hips to try and accommodate its girth, to try and minimize the stretching. But the stretching itself was relentless.
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She could feel every square inch of herself filled. There was no air left, no space left. It was either cold, stainless steel, or it was her warm, stretching pussy, but there was nothing else. It threatened to break through, to break through something, but she did not want to find out what. Only that there seemed to be a limit to the stretching, and she could feel it coming, building, and she begged herself to pass out, but found she could not, and still she could not leave. The friction sucked her breath away. It stole her voice, until all she could do, all could make, was her tiny hiccups, hoping they would somehow free the Caterer, so he could take her hand, just take her hand, and perhaps if he pulled hard enough, he could pull her off it, off of the stretching. She would slip off the end, and it would feel so good, so good to have it just slip out, slip all the long way out, and let her breathe again–"Aa–!"She broke the silence. The tearing began. As the piston reached the back of her, the Usher looked expectantly at the Understudy. The Understudy shook his head. "Let it go," he said. "I want it to penetrate her cervix. ""A-"The Understudy turned to the Clinician. "Would that likely cause too much damage?"he murmured.
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"Aa, aa-""If it's slow enough, I think it may go through," the Clinician answered quietly. "Aaa-""Well, then, let's see what happens," said the Understudy. "Aa-"Sweat prickled on Shana's forehead, and on the soles of her arched feet. Her sweaty thighs brushed back and forth along the piston, her bare, sweaty skin rubbing the stainless steel. She sucked in her breath and tried again. "Stop-st- aa!"The piston jerked again, and began to push through her cervix. At this, a change seemed to take hold of Shana. She stopped making noise, but her mouth stayed open in a silent scream, opening and closing. Everyone watched her slowly get up on her forearms as she began to arch her back. Her forearms rested on the table like a sphinx, while her back curved up, her head tilting over her shoulders to the ceiling. She brought her legs and feet up behind her, toes pointed hard. She remained this way for a moment, wordlessly, her mouth open. Then her head tilted further back, her hair falling down to her rear. It was silent in the room. The piston had entered her womb.
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Shana began to slowly, slowly kick her bare feet back and forth, in tiny jerks, toes pointed hard. She felt a rupture. She stretched her jaw open wide. Her head was so far back, she could almost touch the arched wrinkled soles of her feet. A tiny, breathy moan escaped from deep at the back of her throat, and her eyes rolled up into their sockets. "Crisse de tabernac!" moaned the Caterer. Everyone watched her, transfixed, and no one moved. She stopped kicking her legs, and held them still. They quivered, every muscle straining, the toes pointed. Her knuckles were white. A small noise escaped her again. She gulped in a breath, and seemed to hold it. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Well, I think that will do it," said the Understudy. He motioned at the Usher, who reversed the switch and let the piston begin to withdraw.
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Everyone watched her collapse on the table, and jerk her hips as the rod exited her with a rush of fluid. She began to cry brokenly, and the Caterer's face collapsed. The Usher went to the piston and cleaned it off. The Clinician took off his spectacles, wiped them with shaking hands on his shirt, and put them back on. "Quite a remarkable machine," he said to the Understudy, who nodded. "You'll take care of her for me in the infirmary for a bit, won't you?" asked the Understudy. "I have to try this out on the Caterer next, I think. "The Clinician nodded, and stepped forward to the table. .
