Images of Motherhood

Amanda had assumed that the additional terms of her enslavement would largely extend to some kind of domestic servitude, cooking and cleaning, in addition to her sexual responsibilities. What she hadn't accounted for was her use as a party favor by her master and his guests. In the months since she'd requested to be his personal **** she was shared with nearly every guest he brought to his home. Sometimes it was as simple as a blowjob, the guest being able to sample her skills with her tongue and her hand. Other times it was her holes that were used and more often than not the sperm of a stranger would be mixing with that of her master as it incubated in her womb. The only common element of all of these events was her recitation of the terms of her bondage, spelling out how and why she arrived there and what her purpose was. She begged every man between her legs to fill her, to get her pregnant, to make her a mother. She'd repeated it so often, so deep in the throes of sex, that she was coming to believe it. Coming to accept her role as **** and breeder. What had started as a small desire as the means to her freedom was rapidly becoming an all encompassing one, a genuine desire to fulfil her purpose. She had even begun to imagine herself heavily pregnant, her taught core replaced with a swollen, distended belly. Her breasts no longer pert but large, full, and hanging from her chest.

Her daily trips to the breeding rooms with her master gave plenty of imagery to work from. While he checked on his wares she saw them in all stages of their glory, the new slaves under the hips of their bulls. One man after another entering their swollen, filled, pussies to unload their potent seed deep in the folds of the ****'s wombs. The slaves who had been successfully impregnated, including her sister, were paraded around in their varying states of development. Those still early along in their pregnancy would be used to warm up the new studs as they waited their turn, for chores around the whore house, and for the use of men who wanted to sleep with pregnant women. Those that were producing milk were milked at least once a day, sometimes more. Like common cattle they would have machines attached to their nipples and their precious fluid extracted. Becca had been an exceptional producer during her last pregnancy, her large breasts giving more milk than several of the other slaves combined.

Becca had not yet been returned to the breeding rooms yet, she had only given birth a few weeks ago and still needed time to heal. Her second breeding since her arrival on the island had proceeded as well as the first, the fertile woman producing a healthy baby and gallons of milk. She was currently engaged in cleaning the whore house until such a time as she could be bred again. She walked around with a chastity belt fastened around her waist and between her legs to prevent the errant customer from entering her before she was ready. That didn't stop them from using her mouth however and Amanda noted that her friend often returned to the breeding rooms with dried cum all over her pretty face and chest. The life of a breeding **** didn't stop just because she'd given birth. While her master was distracted Amanda had even managed to converse with the two older slaves her master had purchased as midwives. Both bore the signs of many successful breedings from the stretch marks across their now-barren stomachs to their breasts which still sat heavy and low on their chest. The first woman had been bred 17 times she told Amanda, a fact which was born out by the silver disk that dangled from a piercing in her outer labia. 17 small notches could be counted along the rim, one for each successful breeding. The first one was the hardest she'd said, a ****'s body had to get used to the whole process for the first time. But after that each subsequent one became easier. How many a **** could bear depended on a lot of factors, how old she'd been when it was decided she'd become a breeder, how complicated her breedings had been, and how long she remained fertile. But a grade A breeder like Becca could expect at least as many as this **** had produced, probably more. Amanda had glanced down at her own stomach at that, wondering how many she could produce if she remained on the island.

The deal had been for her to be bred once before being released but Amanda had begun to doubt if that would ever happen. She'd been tricked by her master twice before, it was clear he had no problem ignoring his own promises in order to get what he wanted. She had mentally resigned herself to the possibility that her slavery was permanent several months ago. Amanda had been **** to watch Becca's delivery in order to acquaint herself with her own future, or so her master said. At the time she'd wondered when her own time would come as the load he'd deposited in her made it way to her lips. Sometimes she touched herself to the thought of being pregnant, against her master's orders of course. But it had become increasingly difficult for her to cum without picturing herself knocked up. The humiliations of her bondage, the degradation of being **** to beg for the one thing most women her age tried desperately to avoid, and the taboo knowledge that her master or any one of his friends could father her child made her wetter than any other fantasy ever had. The ultimate taboo in the outside world, single motherhood, was a commodity here. And Amanda was beginning to get off on the fact.