Chapters An Artist's Masterpiece Book 2 Chapter 4
And so Emily entered a new stage of her life after the birthday party, a life with even less independence than before. A life where she seemed reliant on the automaid for almost everything which is, after all, the whole point behind being a Lady of Leisure.
Of the two new companions introduced that day, the fleur-de-bouche and the monoglove, the former was enforced at all times when in public and not eating but the latter was constant. Upon rising she was laced into it and on it stayed until bedtime came around again. Only between the sheets was she free, yet another reason why she looked forward so eagerly to that time of the day.
At first the monoglove had been excruciatingly painful as it dragged her arms into a position where nature had never intended them to go. For several weeks it could not be laced fully and the elbows were still inches apart, but slowly they drew nearer and then, even more slowly, her arms became accustomed to it until they became simply numb. But even though the pain dissipated, the feeling of helplessness did not. Whenever she wanted to read, she had to ask her automaid, or to get up, or for a drink. And when her fleur-de-bouche was inserted, she couldn’t even do that. Instead she just had to wait. At least now she did not have to ask when she needed the bathroom.
Her new reality in that department though, was equally disconcerting. To sit on the contraption twice a day in a rigid schedule regardless of pressure nor need, feel the plugs make their way up inside her, then the valves pop and the fullness within diminish, to be replaced by a jet of warm water. It was so unnatural, inhuman. It was somehow… wrong.
When she was not on her contraption her holes were still, of course, filled, constantly reminding her of something else: sex. Her time on the bed with her husband was now the highlight of her days. Not only was she freer then, but she also experienced pleasure like she could never have imagined.
Her modifications only increased her husband’s vigour and desire for lovemaking. He would joyfully bury his face in-between her enormous mammaries, then take out his rampant, rock-hard member and work it up and down in the crevice between the two taut balls of flesh, at times bringing himself to a climax that was so forceful that his semen spurted out and covered her face, something he found particularly amusing and aesthetically pleasing (he had taken to keeping a camera in the bedroom and capturing moments like that on film). When he used her modified love cave, which was now tight, rubbery and hyper-sensitive, the ripples of pleasure that flowed through both of their bodies were so exquisite that, coupled with her over-tight stays which could now, of course, never be removed, she would pass out in ecstasy, only to come around again and find her husband still pumping frantically away. But, sadly for her, those moments of vaginal bliss were few and far between, for these days Humphrey much preferred to have the automaid prepare her so that she was face down on the bed, her middle supported by a bolster and her enormous arse proudly on display and ready for his tool to enter it. It simply made no difference to him as both of her implants were ribbed, ready, and activated to contract and vibrate around his manhood. These involuntary muscle movements deep within her were the only saving grace of these arse nights. This was never so pleasurable as when he used her front hole but she was so excited by the clothes that trammelled her and the plugs that teased both orifices all day long that she still enjoyed it.
And on the days when her husband was away on business and she had to lie in bed alone, her hands wearing the infernal golden bracelets and clipped to her nipple rings, then she almost went mad with frustration and desire. When she was found one night attempting to pleasure herself with the bare heel of her pointed feet, she found not only no relief, but a new punishment; a compressive sheer garment that held her legs tightly closed like a chaste mermaid from her childhood storybooks.
It was in those minutes after sex though, when Emily most often managed to speak with her husband, for then he was willing to listen and the fleur-de-bouche was far away. She would ask him what modifications would be applied to her in the future - he would never answer that beyond the phrase that she began to hate “Don’t worry about such things, darling, you’ll love them!” and why he still wouldn’t parade her in public as his wife: “An artist never exhibits a half-finished painting now, does he?” She told him how frustrating she found life as a Lady of Leisure (“It is your destiny, my love”) and how painful the monoglove could be (“Don’t worry my sweet, soon you shall require neither monoglove nor fine bracelets”), and then finally she would lament about her waist, at which point he would always encircle it with his two hands, whisper sweet nothings in her ear and then silence her protestations by stuffing his again-rampant cock into her waiting mouth.
And strange as this may sound, slowly Emily began to get used to this, she thought it was normal and she even, at times, enjoyed it. And then, just over a month before her twentieth birthday, her husband announced that they were to return to London, to the hospital in fact, on order for her to receive some “very special birthday presents”. Her mind worked overtime in terror even as her maid held up the tea which she knew to be drugged.