Nusquam

Obligatory introduction and greetings fulfilled, Kelly Devers and Linda Rankin sit in the office of the Nusquam Director. The words are exchanged as the Director notes that newcomer Linda is distracted, gawking to her right where from ceiling cables there hangs the Director’s latest potted plant.

“Power has always intrigued... enticed. And our subjugants are always so willing to cede it. Oddly they are intrigued as well... though conversely.”

“You’ve had her spiked, Director,” the inflection of Kelly’s voice an inquiry.

“Yes. Felt it’s for the best... until a decision is made. The breast spikes won’t impede her ability to lactate, should the milking parlor ultimately be found acceptable.”

With the words of explanation the trio pause to gaze, conversation diverted by the demonstration of power indeed. The naked hairless form of 128 now hangs, 156 having been relegated to life in the pump house. Deeply implanted shards of stainless steel have cruelly been thrust vertically through the mammary glands, penetrating the pectoral muscles. Cables secured to eyelets at the top feed under the girl’s neck collar then above to ceiling hooks. Similar spikes penetrate the flesh of rounded meaty buttocks, thrust through the gluteus maximus muscles. Cables secured to eyelets likewise are fed under the neck collar and lead to ceiling hooks.

Thus 128 hangs in complete suspension by her own flesh, some six inches above the office floor, silent in her slow interminable suffering. Just as with 156, she has quickly learned that movement... the slightest motion... begins a cascade of agonizing muscle cramps. She is the Director’s newest potted plant, and for Linda Rankin the silent exchange of power is eery, despite her own paraphilia.

“128 had reservations about how we want her to serve here at Nusquam,” the Director explains to a horrified yet amused Linda Rankin. “It seems that serving in the milking parlor, lactating upon demand, is too sedentary for her. The girl needs pain... needs to feel the power of a superior... needs to yield... capitulate by yielding to another’s sadism. And yet the pump house was found to be... too imposing. So she’ll hang for me a few hours per day. And you’ll note that the manner in which we spike here at Nusquam cleverly leaves the breasts and buttocks perfectly presented for the sjambok... and other instruments of pain and correction. Would not want to deny a girl a brisk flogging. That wouldn’t do...”

“The breasts are amazing,” Linda finally finding her voice. “She should let down abundantly.”

“Oh, she will... when the time comes. We’re very good at it. A diet rich in lactose, injections of prolactin, she’ll be inseminated, suckled twice per day. Within weeks she’ll be expressing at the sound of her superior’s voice... and be grateful to be milked. They develop a fascinating need to nurture. But there can’t be the pain and suffering she craves. It will diminish her flow.”

The Director arises to better survey her hanging plant.

“They’ll masturbate you for insemination, 128. Wouldn’t that be nice? Kelly reports that you’re a squirter. The members enjoy that. So give some thought to the milking parlor... to be publically masturbated, spraying for the delight of others, then inseminated. It’s one of the favorite Nusquam rituals... draws quite a crowd.”

The Director’s left hand smoothes over a hairless quim. The fingers of the right tweak left nipple then right.

“I know you need pain, but the humiliation may suffice. So degrading for you...”

The Director returns to her desk, attention reverting to Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin.

“As Kelly has made you aware... and I’m sure you agree having toured our enclave... Nusquam and our members desire anonymity... complete anonymity. Having the U. S. Marshals Service inquiring about one of our subjugants is... inconvenient. Yet you have a duty to perform. And I think there is one thing upon which we can agree... for the public good, the likes of Michael Mansfield... AKA Muskrat Mike... should be incarcerated... punished.”

Linda Rankin nods.

“So let’s compromise,” the Director continues. “When you near retirement... ten years hence... we’ll surrender Mansfield to your custody. It’s unusual for us, most subjugants live a long life of torment here, never again to face the boring travail of the vanilla world.. But it can be arranged. You’ll be awarded for apprehending a long sought fugitive, enjoy a well deserved retirement and all ends well.”

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“How is it we can be assured Mansfield won’t talk about Nusquam? Even Federal inmates can garner an audience,” Kelly postulates.

“When it is time, we’ll move him from the pump house for a couple months of sensory deprivation... dark silence... fed through a tube. Thereafter he won’t have the cognitive ability to remember his own name much less the details of his servitude here. Is that agreeable to you, Ms. Rankin? To put the search for the culprit aside.”

There comes a pause. Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin arises, her turn to better assess the naked helpless hanging nakedness. She approaches. A hand extends, smoothing over plumped flesh, envisioning the enormous glands being forced to let down... the productivity no doubt impressive.

“I can report that Michael Mansfield is incarcerated in a foreign country. The search for him will be put on hold. Save the Marshals Service time and effort.”

“Excellent.”

“But the fingerprints... such may not be determinative. I’m not sure I got a conclusive set. Without proof that I know of his location, the Service may not suspend the hunt.”

“A DNA sample, Linda? Some penis flesh should be more than enough. I’ll deglove him for you before we leave.”

The Deputy Marshal smiles wickedly.

“Yes, we have his DNA on file for comparison. That should do. But I’d like to visit from time to time. As a guest, to assure Mansfield is indeed incarcerated. And when it is time, I’d to milk this one. The thought fascinates.”

“Agreed. Visit whenever. The plane leaves Teterboro every Friday afternoon.”