Story: Riley’s Documentation, Part 5

Previous chapters:
One | Two | Three | Four

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Riley looked at the puddle of her own squirt on the floor of the examination room, and then back at the officers.  She knew, by now, that she would receive no mercy from them, and yet this was so humiliating that she couldn’t help herself. 

“Down on all fours, bitch,” said the male officer.  “Clean up your mess.  With your tongue.” 

Riley shifted awkwardly.  She was nude, and she had had her cunt intimately examined, and she had sucked the cock of a man she hated and then allowed him to put it in her pussy – but somehow this procedure kept going, and kept finding new ways to humiliate her. 

She tried to stall.  “Please, sir,” she said.  “My… my cunt.  What grade did it get?” 

She honestly wanted to know.  She had been warned of the dire consequences of having her pussy receive a “bitch” grade – but also, a part of her couldn’t help wanting to excel, even at such an embarrassing assessment as this, 

The male officer consulted his notes, and looked at her, and looked back at his notes.  Finally, he said, “I’m grading your cunt as Fun.  Despite your lack of consent, your cunt responded instinctively to male attention by becoming lubricated, and it was tight and pleasant to fuck.  But you also struggled – ineffectually – in a way that increased the enjoyment and relative power of your partner, maximising the pleasure of raping you.”  He paused, and then said, “Good bitch.” 

Riley blushed.  She wished it didn’t feel so *good* to know that she had received the highest grade.  It was demeaning – and yet, it was certainly better than *failing*, and requiring treatment for being “frigid”, wasn’t it?  Was it so bad to feel pleased that she had avoided that fate? 

And she tried not to admit to herself that hearing the officer describe her cunt as “fun” had given her a warm, happy shiver of affection and pride. 

The female officer gave her a small shove.   

“Stop stalling, bitch,” she snarled.  “Get down there and start licking.” 

There was no more putting it off.  Riley reluctantly got down on all fours and extended her tongue into the puddle of female ejaculate, and began to lick. 

It wasn’t so bad, really.  It was largely tasteless, and no worse than licking anything else off a (hopefully) sterile floor.   

But Tristan was determined to make it more humiliating for her.  He chuckled as she began to lick.  “She looks good like that,” he said.  And then, “Good girl, Kitten.  This is good practice for you.  A girl like you was born to lick up men’s cum.” 

“If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll learn to eat her meals that way, too,” said the woman.  “There’s simply no good reason for a bitch to use her hands to bring things to her mouth.  Teaching myself to eat from a pet bowl like an animal was one of the most freeing lessons of my life.” 

Riley momentarily pictured herself naked, eating from a pet bowl, at Tristan’s feet, and for a moment she felt like she might gag.  But she dismissed the image and kept licking, and soon she had completely cleaned up her “mess”. 

“All right, let’s prepare her for udder grading,” said the male officer. 

The female officer opened a cupboard, and from it she pulled out a large wheeled contraption, which she moved to sit alongside the chair that had been used for the cunt inspection.  

“Come here, bitch,” said the woman.  “Get down on all fours, just here.” 

Riley unhappily complied.   

The device was rolled so that the wheels stood on either side of Riley, and the array of bars and chains they were attached to hung over her.   

The man moved up and snapped a collar onto Riley’s neck.  It was thick, and metal – nothing that would be mistaken for a fashion choice.  It had an industrial feel to it, like something that might be used with cattle. 

“Up onto these,” he said, and motioned at a pair of metal bars crossing from one side of the contraption to the other, just in front of Riley. 

“How?” she said.  She didn’t quite understand what she was supposed to do. 

The man sighed, and reached down to lift her up, and move her forward, before settling her down on the bars.  Now her knees were still on the floor, but her chest was resting on the two bars.  Her tits hung down between the bars, towards the floor.   

Then he connected her collar to the bar near her neck, with a snap, and Riley found that she was trapped in position, unable to move away from the machine, or lift her breasts.   

Finally he lifted her arms, so that her weight was resting on her chest, and snapped each wrist into a cuff connected to the device’s supports. 

She struggled a little, instinctively, but it became clear that the most she could do would be to slightly move the contraption, if she was prepared to move with it. 

“Stay still, bitch,” said the male officer.  “Now, there are four possible grades for a bitch’s udders.  We use bra sizing for measurement, because we’re less interested in how objectively large your tits are, and more interested in how large they are in comparison to your body.  The lowest grade, Bitch, is reserved for tits that are smaller than a C-cup.  That’s considered to be unacceptable, and women who receive that grade are referred for surgical intervention.” 

He looked at her, and said, “That shouldn’t be an issue for you.” 

She moaned with humiliation. 

“The next grade is ‘Pointless’,” he continued, “and that’s reserved for tits that are a DD-cup or smaller, with no milk production.  These are considered to have no practical value, and again, this grade usually comes with a referral for surgical improvement.”

Riley gasped.  Her breasts were a DD, she knew – and she was pretty sure she wasn’t lactating. 

“For an attractive woman, the most desirable rating is ‘Bimbo’,” continued the man.  “That’s any woman with tits between a DD and an H cup, inclusive, or women with larger tits who aren’t lactating.  I personally believe a woman like that still isn’t fulfilling her biological duty, and will need regular breast punishment as a result, but she’s acceptable for most purposes.” 

“And for women over an H cup who are producing a good supply of milk, there’s the ‘Cattle’ grade,” the man concluded.  “And if you receive that grade you’re automatically enrolled in the government’s Compulsory Milk Production scheme.  Most likely you’ll never have to serve, but the government can require you to report to a human dairy for cattle service if it feels the need.  I understand the barns they use are *very* nice, and you can save a lot of money over the term of your service from not needing to pay for clothes or accommodation and eating the free cattle food that’s provided.  The best cattle grade women are subject to compulsory breeding to ensure a good ongoing supply of milkers in the population.” 

Riley couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  It was horrifying – and her only solace came from knowing that her tits were nowhere near that big, and she was unlikely to be graded as Cattle. 

“Let’s start with the measurements,” said the female officer.  She knelt down near Riley, and reached out and grabbed her left tit, squeezing it gently as if it were a fruit on the vine. 

“Appears to be natural,” she reported. 

“Noted,” said the male officer, writing in the notebook. 

The woman now took some measuring tape and ran it around Riley’s body, first over the breasts, and then beneath them. 

“Overbust 35 inches,” she reported.  “Underbust 30 inches.” 

The man opened his mouth, but the woman talked over him. 

“And that’s a DD,” she said.  “I know you can never remember those maths.” 

“Looks like the bitch is pointless,” said the man. 

“Seems so,” said the woman.  “But we’ll do the rest anyway.” 

The woman went through a range of other measurements on Riley’s breast – first checking her nipple length, then her areolae size and colour, then “nipple orientation and alignment”. 

Finally a full bucket of water sitting upon a deep tray was brought over, and Riley was lowered slightly on the machine until her tits were fully immersed in the bucket.  The officers measured the amount of water displaced into the tray in order to assess her “gross breast volume”. 

The treatment once again left Riley feeling objectified and dehumanised.  In this position, and beholden to this process, she felt like nothing more than a carrier for her tits – like her heavy udders were the only part of her that really mattered. 

And that, she realised with a chill, was exactly how she was meant to feel.  And perhaps how she would be expected to feel for the rest of her life, if she spent it in this country.

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