Chapter Text
Dear diary,
I write to you again, amidst the ever-growing female populace of the Free World. Today, I take a moment from the bustling creche at Brokenhill High and sit in my quarters. The women buzzing about with the laughter of our precious little girls echoing through the thick, stone walls.
My name is Ruth and I am the caretaker of the creche at Brokenhill High School. I am 35, quite the age for a woman in the Free World. I stand tall, broad-shouldered with curves that have been adored and used equally. My bosom, heavy and full, has nourished countless babies, and not just my own. My posterior, tight and firm, has been the fascination of many, and my nether region, a playground for pleasure and pain, a womb that once bore life, now a mere cavity stripped of its fertility.
I've been a mother, a lover, and a slave. Bearing daughters, a total of ten or eleven if my memory serves right, but none remain. They've all been snatched away too early, a consequence of our existence. Sold into harems, served as a feast or simply snuffed out for amusement.
Brokenhill High School for girls, my last owner, deemed me more useful barren. They gutted me, my ovaries and uterus removed, leaving behind an empty shell. I was repurposed to manage the creche, a role that satisfied the maternal instincts that lingered inside me. Injections were administered regularly, hormones that forced my breasts to lactate, a milkmaid of sorts, serving the needs of the developing girls in my care.
Under my command, there are three other women, younger, inexperienced. They stumble and fumble, their bodies too new for the harsh reality of our world. It falls upon me to shape them, molding them into efficient caretakers.
Their survival depends on their ability to quickly adapt, to be nimble in body and mind. If they fail, the consequences are grim. They'd be disposed of, replaced swiftly, as the creche never stops. Every day, 40 to 50 girls under 5 are at the mercy of our care.
Now, my days are filled with the giggles of girls, their young eyes twinkling with innocence. An innocence they are not destined to keep. While the outside world is a free-for-all, Brokenhill High offers some semblance of safety, an illusion of normalcy.
Girls, as young as nine, enter this school, carrying an almost certain chance of leaving it pregnant. It's a cruel reality, but it is our reality. And I, Ruth, serve as a beacon of hope, a mother to all, providing them with the care they need in this unforgiving world.
Until tomorrow, diary. Remember, we are here, we are alive. We are more than just cunts. We are women. We are nurturers. We are the Free World.
Dear Diary,
Another day in the whirlwind that is Brokenhill High's creche. The days blend seamlessly into one another; the air is always filled with the sounds of little girls laughing, crying, arguing, or simply snoring in a corner. My girls, all naked save for the youngest ones in diapers, dash around with the carefree innocence of youth.
Of course, there are those who test boundaries, squatting down to urinate in the center of the room, disregarding the squat toilets and potties scattered all around. Such behavior is met with a firm spank on their bare bottoms, a harsh but necessary lesson in maintaining cleanliness and obedience.
The rooms are a colorful clutter of toys; some soft and cuddly, others firm and detailed, with protrusions and ridges designed to double as sexual equipment. All washable, of course, catering to the dual purpose of play and sensory exploration. The bookshelves are filled with stories of girls like us, tales of sacrifice and submission, of doing one's duty for society and family - even if it means offering one's own daughter.
Then there are the instructional books. The ones with the big, bright pictures of young girls exploring their own bodies, using the toys to stimulate their tiny slits and asses. These books are popular among the children; it's a sight to see them huddled together, imitating the pictures, guiding one another in this intimate dance.
For the older girls, there are explicit guidebooks on how to satisfy a man, complete with detailed photographs of cocks penetrating the tight, virgin holes of young girls. There's no mincing of words here - the pictures show everything: the initial penetration, the blood, the semen, the pain and pleasure intertwined in their innocent faces.
I realize the creche is a sanctuary, a haven from the brutal reality of life outside Brokenhill High. But it is also a place of learning, of preparing them for what awaits once they step out of our safe haven. They need to understand that their bodies are not just vehicles of pleasure, but also tools for maintaining the delicate balance of our world.
My job is to make sure they understand this - to make them see that they are not just holes to be used, but individuals who can use their bodies to find pleasure and give it in return. And for that, I am grateful.
Until tomorrow, diary.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
A troubling incident occurred today in the creche. I was alerted by the distressed wails of a toddler, a small blonde angel barely two years old. My heart sank as I entered the back room to find Hazel, one of my helpers, in a compromising position.
She had the little girl pinned against the counter, her mouth latched onto the child's undeveloped pussy. Hazel's tongue was moving furiously, her saliva coating the child's tiny slit. The girl's face was a mask of terror, her cries reaching a fever pitch, her petite body squirming desperately against Hazel's grasp. Yet the stronger Hazel held her down, the bluer the girl's face turned.
I was livid. While it isn't forbidden to indulge in the sweet innocence of our girls - God knows I have my favorites whose tiny tongues work wonders on my cunt - risking their lives, their health for personal pleasure is unacceptable. Hazel had abandoned her duties and was endangering a child, all in pursuit of her own lust.
Without a second thought, I yanked Hazel away from the girl by her collar, throwing her onto the cold stone floor. I ordered Isabella, another helper, to soothe and bathe the distressed toddler.
Meanwhile, Hazel lay on the floor, protesting and pleading her innocence. But I was past listening. I quickly hogtied her, binding her wrists and ankles together. To silence her whining, I forcefully inserted a dildo into her mouth, the rubbery phallus muffling her protests.
For her punishment, I selected a cattle prod, a device designed to unleash a world of pain. I slowly pushed it deep into Hazel's cunt, the cold metal disappearing inside her. Her eyes widened in fear, but the muffled dildo denied her any chance to plead for mercy. I flicked the switch on, sending a surge of electricity directly into her pussy meat.
Her body convulsed, the pain evident in her wide, terrified eyes. I left her there, writhing in agony, while I went to check on the little girl. Later, I would decide if Hazel deserved a second chance, if she could still be useful. Or, if like many before her, she would end up on the butcher's slab, her flesh served as a reminder of the cost of recklessness.
It's a harsh world, Diary, but it's a world we have been thrust into. We must adapt or be cast aside.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today was a day of harsh decisions and unfortunate outcomes. I delivered Hazel to the cafeteria, still trussed up like a Christmas turkey. She tried to plea, her muffled voice barely coherent. But she was just another cunt, not particularly useful or smart, and I had no time for her. The cooks could make good use of her - at least she would provide a few meals.
While at the cafeteria, I received another piece of disheartening news. Luna, a 14-year-old student, had been caught cheating in her exams. The rules of Brokenhill High are clear: transgressions are met with severe consequences. Luna was to be impaled and cooked alive for lunch, her death a lesson to all the other girls. Cheating wasn't just risking a grade here; it was gambling with your life.
To add to the tragedy, Luna was a mother to twin girls, barely 14 months old. They resided in my creche, their innocent eyes clueless of the cruel fate that awaited them. Since Luna had been condemned to a punishment execution, her daughters were to share her fate.
I was tasked with the grim job of retrieving the twins and delivering them to the cafeteria in time for Luna to witness their demise, just before her own. I sighed at the cold order. It always pained me when the actions of one stupid cunt affected the innocent.
There's little room for pity in our world, especially for us cunts. We are responsible for our actions, and sometimes, for the lives of those around us. I have to accept that. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm just doing my duty.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today was the definition of harsh reality. Fetching Luna's daughters, two innocent, naked toddlers sleeping soundly on a blanket, their tiny limbs intertwined in a sisterly embrace. I couldn't help but notice their small cunts, nestled between their chubby legs, untouched and pristine.
Gently, I scooped them up into my arms, waking them from their peaceful slumber. Their initial confusion faded as they recognized my face, the one face, other than their mother's, that greeted them with warmth and kindness. I forced myself to smile back, despite the knot in my stomach.
I knew what awaited them, I knew the horrific fate they were about to meet - a fate they were too young to understand, a fate they didn't deserve. These sweet, innocent cunts were about to endure unimaginable pain and terror, a public spectacle of death - all because of their mother's stupidity.
I hoped Luna would feel the weight of her actions, the cost of her mistake. I hoped she would suffer for the lives she'd so carelessly thrown away. I'd be there to watch, to bear witness to the consequences of such reckless behavior.
It's a cruel world, Diary, and today, it feels even more so. My heart grieves for these innocent souls, but this is the reality we live in. This is our way of life.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today's execution was a spectacle, a gruesome display of retribution. I delivered Luna's daughters to Christina, the cook, who grabbed the toddlers by their feet, causing them to scream in shock and discomfort. Ignoring their cries, Christina carried them to the bustling dining hall, filled with a sea of faces reflecting a mix of excitement, dread, and curiosity.
I found my place at the faculty table, my mind heavy with the looming fate of the innocent girls. Christina wheeled in Luna, confined in a cage, her face a mask of terror and helplessness. The School Mistress then began her speech, a stern warning against cheating and its severe consequences.
The cook brandished a sharp knife and slit open the bellies of the toddlers. Their desperate screams echoed through the hall, followed by a collective gasp from the audience. I watched in detached horror as Christina emptied their little bodies of intestines and organs, spilling them into a waste bin.
She then stuffed their hollowed bellies with a spiced filling. I saw her push large carrots into their tiny assholes before sewing their bellies shut, now bulging due to the stuffing. The toddlers were crying weakly, their bodies ready to be roasted.
Luna, their mother, could only watch helplessly from her cage. Her eyes filled with remorse, fear, and a sense of impotency that twisted my stomach.
And yet, like others around me, my hand found its way between my legs, my fingers exploring my wet slit. The sight of young cunts in pain, their screams of agony, it was a turn on - a twisted, perverse pleasure that I couldn't resist.
It's a dark world, Diary, where agony and ecstasy dance together, where innocence is brutally snuffed out for a mistake, and where the suffering of cunts is a cause for arousal.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today was a blend of horror and fascination. Christina, the cook, was an artist in her domain. A large skillet sat on the stove, flames licking its underside with heat enough to melt the heart of the coldest bitch. Butter sizzled within, popping and crackling like the anticipation in the room.
With the audience watching in morbid fascination, I saw Christina lift the two stuffed toddlers and lay them in the skillet. The second their flesh made contact with the searing surface, they let out screams that reverberated around the room. Their skin, once smooth and soft, started to blister and sizzle in the hot butter.
Christina shook the skillet, flipping the girls over, ensuring even cooking. When she turned them again, their faces pressed against the scorching metal. I had to fight back the bile rising in my throat at the sight - their tender lips and tiny noses sticking to the pan, and being torn away when Christina shook the skillet again.
Their blood mingled with the butter, creating a gruesome gravy. Christina poured in some wine, deglazing the pan with practiced ease. The girls were still, their bodies finally succumbing to the brutal treatment. She added broth and covered the pan, lowering the heat.
I was in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions - horror at the sight, fascination at Christina's skill, and arousal brought upon by the sheer brutality of it all. This was the life we led - a twisted dance of pleasure and pain, where one cunt's agony was another's ecstasy.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today I witnessed Luna's punishment execution. After the horrific death of her daughters, she had the audacity to plead for mercy. In my eyes, she deserved prolonged suffering as penance for her selfishness. Having sentenced her own flesh and blood to such a gruesome death, any plea for a swift end was a mockery of her daughters' pain.
Christina the cook, with her cold, clinical efficiency, led Luna to the harness, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wide with terror. A long, wickedly sharp pole, slicked with grease, awaited her. The sight of this soon-to-be instrument of torment triggered a visceral response in Luna. Her legs, spread wide, trembled uncontrollably, and a stream of piss gushed from her cunt, pooling onto the floor. Then a loud fart echoed, followed by a trickle of feces from her quivering asshole.
The audience, including myself, broke into laughter at her involuntary bowel release. Luna, her face and chest flushed a deep crimson, looked as if she wished the ground would swallow her up. Christina simply hosed down Luna's soiled crotch and aligned the pole with Luna's quivering slit.
With the mistress's order, Christina executed Luna, impaling her with the pole. It pierced through her cervix, invading her womb and winding its way through her intestines. Luna's screams echoed around the hall, a chilling symphony of pain and despair. Only when the pole jutted out of her mouth, effectively muting her, did the screams cease.
Now Luna hung there, impaled and helpless, her remaining life destined to be spent in excruciating pain, roasting alive. Her fate was a stark reminder for all of us. In this world, mistakes were not forgiven. They were paid for in blood and tears. And sometimes, in the suffering of the innocent.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today, I found myself in the throes of arousal as I watched Luna's punishment unfold. I sat in the audience, my hand buried in my cunt, my fingers plunging into my dripping hole with fervor. Luna was on the spit, rotating slowly over the crackling fire, the heat licking her impaled form, creating a spectacle of the transformation of human flesh into a feast.
Her screams were muffled around the metal pole impaling her, yet they echoed through the hall, a chilling testament to her torment. Her eyes, wide and filled with terror, darted around the room, landing on me multiple times. I could almost taste her fear, her desperation - it was intoxicating.
As I watched her body roast, her skin blistering and popping in the intense heat, her fat dribbling down into the flames, my fingers worked in sync with Luna's writhing. The sight of her transformation, her raw, blistering flesh turning golden brown, stirred an animalistic lust within me.
Meanwhile, Luna's twin daughters had been reduced to a delicious soup, their tender flesh melting off their tiny frames to create a rich, hearty broth. Their skeletons were discarded, the remnants of their once vibrant lives now part of a feast.
The soup was served to the entire school, the delicious aroma permeating the dining hall. I took my serving, the hot liquid steaming in the bowl. I sipped it slowly, deliberately, savoring each mouthful, each hint of their innocent flesh that had been rendered into this wonderful broth.
And I made it a point to enjoy this meal in plain view of Luna, ensuring she saw me relish the fruits of her stupidity. Her eyes burned into me with every sip, a potent mix of despair, regret, and loathing. It was a cruel reminder of the cost of her folly, a taste of sweet retribution.
Ruth.
Dear Diary,
Today, I watched Luna's life flicker out after a grueling half hour on the spit. Her once vibrant skin turned a deep, mouth-watering brown, crisping and crackling under the intense heat. The sight of Luna's tormented body reaching its breaking point sent waves of pleasure coursing through me, culminating in a fierce orgasm that left me breathless.
As Luna's lifeless form continued to cook, the School Mistress addressed the school with a stern warning against cheating. The scent of roasting girl meat still hung heavily in the air, a grisly reminder of the cost of deceit.
Upon my return to the creche, I indulged in a piece of Luna's roasted tit, savoring the taste of her cooked flesh. As I relished in the flavors, I summoned Violet, a fiery-haired, green-eyed five-year-old who had become a favorite. Commanding her to lick my cunt, I leaned back and enjoyed the sensation of her tiny, eager tongue on my moist slit.
The taste of Luna's meat in my mouth and the sensation of Violet's tongue on my cunt made me ponder on the fate of my little pet. Inevitably, she too would end up on the spit, her tender flesh slow-roasted to perfection, devoured by cunts like me.
Such is the cycle of our existence. We live, we serve, we die - and if we're lucky, we end up as a delicious meal instead of in a waste bin.
Ruth.
- 052 - p1 -