The Breeding Bitch Diaries, Chapter 2: Conditions

Special thanks as always to Mistress Charlotte – for being an inspiration in multiple senses, but specifically for this entire idea.

Note: this takes place almost immediately after the first chapter in this series. You seem pretty smart, though, so you can probably piece together what happened without it if you wanted.

(t-minus 8 months)

After I’d tidied up the dungeon (I told you we’d make a mess of it), you’d laid out some new ground rules, now that I was your full-time breeding stock. Firstly, seeing as I was nothing but breeding stock now, there would be no need to leave the house – I should instead busy myself with housework, cooking, cleaning, etc. You know, boy jobs.

(I could practically see the phrase “barefoot and pregnant” behind your gleeful smile, but… Well, I was hardly going to say anything – it’s not like you were wrong.)

Secondly, as one of those duties would be to please you whenever and however you liked, it would really be easier for both of us if I stuck to wearing loose-fitting, easy-to-remove clothing – anything you could rip off in a hurry if need be. Going naked is always an acceptable alternative – except my slave collar must be on at all times.

And thirdly – it can often be hard to tell, you said, whether or not a pregnancy has truly taken root, or if it’s simply my slutty mind wanting to be knocked up so badly that it’s affecting my perception. To that end, then… You proposed a simple schedule designed for maximum breedability – a minimum of seven cumshots a week, timing and location chosen by you, pounded directly into that sluthole (“Not the one on your face,” you helpfully clarified).

I operated under these rules for a few weeks – keeping things spick-and-span while you were hard at work, and then getting completely impaled, stuffed full, ravaged, once you returned home. Usually left in a pile on the floor, all my holes fucked wide and sloppy, dripping with your seed. But one week… things were a little different.

(t-minus 7 months)

It was a Saturday, late at night – I was kneeling in my place, awaiting your return from work, your food cooling on its plate. This had been a recurring thing this week – you’d been working so many late nights that I’d barely seen you, let alone been able to properly serve you as you deserved. My ears perked up like a puppy when I heard the clack of the door latch opening – perhaps tonight you’d be able to play! But I could tell straight away how tired you were – like you wanted nothing more than to eat and collapse into bed. You sat down, had your dinner, and put my portion into my bowl. Then, rather ominously, you said that you’d make this week up to me on your day off tomorrow – but as a start, I could sleep in the spare bed tonight, instead of my cage.

I wasn’t sure what form this “making it up” would take, but, well… Even if you’d said “this is a trap, now walk into it, slut”, I’d still do it. Obedience is just the way for me. So after you’d finished eating and retired for the evening, I got up, cleaned the dishes, and before long, headed to bed myself.

It wasn’t much longer after that, that I was asleep. Deeply, deeply asleep, and dreaming – of comfort, and warmth, and blissful emptiness. Just laying back, relaxing, calm and quiet.


And then.

Still dreaming, I felt myself stir. A feeling washed over me, almost like a cool breeze – not unpleasant, but a delicious contrast to the warmth of relaxation. It started down at my toes, then moved up past my ankles, my shins, my thighs, my hips… It stopped once it got to my lower torso, though, leaving me half-warm, half-cool. Briefly, I became aware of the fact that I was dreaming – but before I could use that to my advantage, I felt something else. A warm feeling, first on one hip, then the other – sort of an persistent pressure, soft to the touch, yet unyielding. There was a brief moment, while I was still dreaming, that I felt a third pressure, in between…

…and then I was awake, your strap driving deep into me and covers torn away, my fuzzy, sleepy mind struggling to accept the reality of the waking world – that I was being fucked into consciousness. My body reflexively clenched, by sheer instinct – but it proved no match for your thick cock as it forced its way past my defences, any resistance eventually ground away by your thrusts. You pounded away through bleary eyes, through stammered words, through clouded thoughts – railing the cobwebs from my brain, along with the notion that I was ever anything but your hole. It didn’t last long – just a quick rut, fitting for a disposable toy – and once you’d filled me up from within, all hot and sticky and perfect, the only thing you had to say was “Don’t rest too long now, slut. You’ve still got six more loads to take today, minimum.”.

To which all I could respond was a fucked-out, affirmative groan.

And take them I did. Bouncing myself on your strap while you ate breakfast – being taken from behind as I prepared lunch, looking so vulnerable in an apron and nothing else that you just couldn’t resist – pressed up against a window, shame nowhere to be found as you railed me open and sloppy for anyone walking past to see. All interspersed with plenty of other fuck-sessions, in more positions than I could count – bent over the couch, strapped onto your bench… On the bed, legs over my head like the desperate breeding bitch I was. Whenever you found an opportunity, you made sure to stuff me with your big, fat cock – pumping my belly full with load after load just to watch it swell with your seed, until all I could do was moan like a slut in heat and beg for more. And you were happy to oblige.

Eventually, night fell, and after eating (while you fucked me) and after-dinner entertainment (I presented holes to be railed – you kindly and graciously agreed) we finished up with me bent over my sleeping enclosure. The lock of my chastity cage rattled back and forth with my movements; each powerful thrust driving me forwards, each slow pull-out dragging me with it. On a whim you pulled my torso up and back towards you, and reached a hand around to rest on my belly – as if you could feel the bulge of your strap under my skin as it pounded deep and hard into me. I was practically insensate by this point, drool falling from my mouth, literally fucked dumb as your cock crushed my prostate for the thousandth time that day. You whispered filthy thoughts into my ear, filth I now took as gospel truth – that I was made for this, that I loved to be your breeding bitch, that you couldn’t wait to see your hellspawn get me all soft and round. And with a final statement – “You love it, whore,” – you hilted that wonderfully fat cock inside me and released, filling me up with hot spunk, as I found my voice and moaned with the blissful knowledge that you were knocking me up, using me for my truest purpose. Excess seed coated the inside of my sleeping cage, but I was beyond caring, nothing more now than a wrecked mess.

As you left, you turned back to me – face in the ground panting; sluthole gaped and ruined, but still presented high out of sheer breeding instinct – and posed a simple question:

“What do you say, whore?”

To which my answer was the same as it always is, always has been, always will:

“Thank you, Mistress.”

(t-minus 6 months, 29 days)

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