Posted by Sawney Beane on August 08, 2006 at 22:21:38:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #47
THE COLLECTOR
by Sawney Beane
2, 16 February; 6-8 March 1997
2,362 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of gratuitous amputation of female parts. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a very old adolescent fantasy that finally became a story. Of course, it was not worked out so well before; mostly it was just the idea of the collector's special room. But this is a cute little story about a collector and his very unorthodox collection.
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"I have a collection of sorts," he said.
"You brought me back here to show me your collection?" she asked. This was going to be dull. Jennifer told herself to remember to give up trying to find interesting men in bars.
"It's something you've never seen anything like."
"Really? What do you collect?"
"Breasts."
"What?" Well, she didn't expect that.
"Women's breasts."
"You collect those?"
"Yes," he said pulling a picture album off his shelf. "I have all of these."
She paged through the book, feeling just bit excited. Each page displayed two photographs: one of a nude or clothed woman and a close-up of a pair of breasts, presumably those of the woman in the first photograph. Her eyes widened as she saw how many pictures of this sort he had. "That's very impressive," she said sincerely.
"I'd like to request the honour of adding your breasts to my collection."
"You want to take pictures of my breasts?" This might be interesting.
"Yes, but I want to do much more," he said. "I think you misunderstand me a bit; I actually have all of the breasts in those photographs."
"You what?"
"Let me show you," he said opening a door just beyond the house's foyer. He led her inside, and her mind spun wildly as he flipped on the light and she saw the bizarre display within.
The room was small, with no windows and only a single door in the centre of one side. The only furniture was a small revolving chair in the centre. It was the wallpaper that really grabbed one's attention. In neat rows, from floor to ceiling, completely covering two walls and part of a third, were mounted pairs of human female breasts. Each pair occupied a space as wide as a human torso and about eight inches tall. The breasts were of all shapes, sizes, and races. Jennifer felt very dizzy and sat in the revolving chair.
"I don't restrict myself to perfectly beautiful breasts," he explained, "I have very large ones and some so small they almost look male; I take from anyone who will sell. My only restriction is that the woman must be between eighteen and thirty years old when she donates."
"This is so sick."
"But you're still here."
"I might not be for long."
"Yes, you will, you're fascinated."
"These can't be real."
"They are; go ahead, touch them."
Jennifer stood and walked to a pair of gargantuan breasts in the centre of the left wall. She touched the side of one gingerly, instantly jerking her finger back in surprise. "They're warm!"
"Yes, that's a special touch. I run body-temperature water through them to maintain authenticity."
"And all of these are real breasts that were once on real women?"
"Yep! Well, actually, they're the skin from actual women, but inside is a special foam I moulded to give them authentic shape and firmness. You see, I can preserve the skin with chemicals, but the fatty tissues inside your breasts would degrade quickly on my wall."
"Leave my breasts out of it!" Jennifer snapped. "How do you get women to let you do this to them?" A sudden chilling thought ran through Jennifer's head, "Or do you murder them for their breasts?"
"No, I assure you, the breast collection process is entirely safe and consensual. I just pay them a lot-$100,000 per pair."
"That's a lot of money!"
"Yes, think how much more useful $100,000 would be than the skin on your breasts."
"It would be nice, but I don't want to have skinless breasts."
"Of course not; I can graft artificial skin in place of your natural skin. Within a year you won't even be able to see the seams between the new skin and your old skin. The whole thing is completely painless with a general anaesthetic."
"If you have this artificial skin, why don't you just mould women's breasts and build replicas?"
"Well, there's something to be said for actually having the real thing," he said thoughtfully. "More importantly, I haven't figured out a way to make nipples, so they wouldn't look quite right."
"So if I give you my breasts, I won't have nipples?"
"True, but you'll have $100,000."
"Perhaps a fair trade."
"So, will you do it?" Hope gleamed in his eyes.
"I'll think about it, but not today."
"Come back here a week from today if you decide to do it; I'll have everything ready for you."
"OK, nutcase, maybe I'll come back; it's been fun," she said as she got up and left the room and the house with no intention of ever returning.
Nevertheless, one week later she was standing on the doorstep nervously pressing the doorbell. It was crazy and she hated to give up any part of her body, but the idea of having $100,000 had driven her insane. There was also something erotic about the whole thing.
"I'm so glad you came back," he said as the door opened. "I knew you would."
"How could you? I didn't even know I would."
"I'm more experienced at this than you are."
"Oh, well, I'd like your $100,000, but I need to know a lot more about what I have to do for it."
"Not much; I'll do most of the work."
"OK, I meant what you are planning on doing to me for it."
"That's a different matter, but there's nothing to it." The collector proceeded to show Jennifer a second book of photographs. This one contained step-by-step demonstrations of his harvesting methods.
"You're sure it's entirely painless?" she said after surveying the snapshots. She was obviously close to accepting.
"Completely painless; some of it might turn you on, but there will be no pain."
"And safe?"
"Of course; you have nothing to fear. I happen to be an experienced plastic surgeon. By the way, if you'd like augmentation or reduction while we're in there, I'll take care of it free of charge."
"No thanks, that's one thing I can do without."
"A wise choice I believe."
"OK, you can have my breasts if I get my money up front."
"That's not a problem," he said, smiling and handing her an envelope full of more money than she had ever seen before.
After counting the cash meticulously, she spread her arms wide and said, "What do I do?"
"If you would just strip, please, I'll take your pictures."
Jennifer removed her clothing slowly and placed everything in a neat pile. Her host brought out a camera and began taking snapshots of her, first the full-body shots and then the close-ups of her moderately-sized mammaries. Because she was generally a fairly shy person, it crossed Jennifer's mind that this might be the most unpleasant part of the process. When he was satisfied with his photographic acquisitions, the collector led Jennifer to his basement.
"Next, you just sit in that chair, and I'll get the mould ready." He pointed to a barber's chair in the centre of the room. She sat, and waited with a chill running up her spine as she looked around at the weird assortment of equipment and supplies stored in this underground room.
The collector's mould was an odd contraption. It was a basically a plastic box that fit over Jennifer's chest. It was held in place by loops around her arms and a waist strap that buckled in the small of her back. A foam rubber edging ensured a snug fit against her torso, and the depth of the box was a few inches more than needed to enclose her breasts without touching them. The collector explained this by saying that it was important to maintain the natural shape, which would be ruined if anything touched her breasts. In the interests of keeping the right shape, she was also required to sit straight up with her chest thrust forward slightly.
Once she was in position, he attached a thin rubber tube to a small nozzle in the upper edge of the box and turned a handle on the nearest wall. In a few seconds, Jennifer felt a warm watery liquid running down her chest and pooling around her abdomen. The mould filled quickly, and Jennifer soon found her entire chest immersed in the warm fluid. It felt quite pleasant, really, and Jennifer knew what the collector had meant when he suggested she might be turned on by the process.
After she had sat perfectly still for fifteen minutes, the liquid had cooled and become a solid but flexible rubbery mass. The collector unfastened her straps and pulled the box gently away from her body. She looked curiously at the reverse image of her chest set into the new mould.
The collector lost no time in moving to the next phase. He produced a magic marker and outlined his claim on the nervous woman's chest. The resulting box began an inch above the tops of Jennifer's breasts and ended eight inches lower, near the lower end of her ribcage. The connecting lines ran down the sides of Jennifer's torso. The foolishness of her accepting this predicament was making itself apparent in Jennifer's mind as the collector readied the anaesthetic, but she did not object as he placed the mask over her face and she resignedly accepted the slow drift into unconsciousness.
The collector carefully sterilized his scalpels and began the incision in the upper left corner of his claim. With the surgeon's precision, he had sliced out the rectangle of skin in a matter of ten minutes and had peeled it from the sleeping woman's body in another fifteen.
Laying his trophy aside for the time being, the collector attended to mending the mess he had made of Jennifer' s chest. He slid a sheet of human skin out of the culture medium in which he had been growing it for the past week and trimmed it to fit his patient's needs. He gently attached the skin graft with a row of tiny stitches around its perimeter and bandaged everything up so that the skin could attach itself to Jennifer's flesh undisturbed. Then he worked on his new prize as he waited for Jennifer to return to consciousness.
The expensive plaything was dipped in and treated with several chemical solutions designed to sterilize, preserve, and prevent discoloration of Jennifer's donation. When this process was completed, the collector slid the hide into the mould he had prepared from Jennifer's chest and smoothed it until it fit the moulded contours exactly. Then he arranged along the inside of the breast skin the network of tiny plastic tubing through which heated water would flow. Finally, it was time to fill the skin with his special formula polymer solution, which would solidify within the reconstructed breasts with the perfect consistency--firm enough to maintain its shape yet pliable enough to feel like a real woman's mammary.
Jennifer came groggily back to the world of consciousness just as the collector lifted his newest pair of breasts from the mould. She gasped in horror as she awoke enough to realize what she was seeing and looked down at her bandaged torso.
He read her thoughts and explained, "You'll have to keep the bandages on for a week so that the skin grafts can take hold undisturbed. After that, they will be very pale, and the seams will be visible for a while, but you can touch them or whatever. The main thing you have to beware of is sunburn. Don't expose your new breasts to any sunlight if you can avoid it for the first year. After about a year, the complexion and edges will have healed enough that you probably won't be able to tell that it's not your original skin, except for the lack of nipples, of course." All of this was said while he dangled the pair of moulded breasts by one hand. Jennifer's eyes remained fixed on the swaying mammaries.
The collector vanished up the stairs without explanation, and Jennifer followed him into his special breast room. She found him busy mounting his newest trophies just opposite the door at about eye level. He affixed the capillary tubes set within the breast filling to some tubing that protruded from the wall. Then he slid the filled breasts themselves onto a special bracket and stepped back to admire his prize. A shudder ran through Jennifer's violated body.
"Sometimes I like to come into this room naked and roll myself against all the breasts," he said almost to himself.
"Sounds wonderful," she said tonelessly.
"Are you satisfied with our agreement," he asked, noting her daze.
"I'm not sure yet."
"Wait until you start spending that money, and it will all make sense again."
"Perhaps."
"You're free to go anytime you want now, but I'd love it if you could stay for dinner."
"I think I'll leave now," she said as she immediately began to dress herself.
"Feel free to come back and visit your breasts anytime you like."
"I'll do that," she said as she took one last look at her surrendered bosom and slithered out the front door, knowing full well that she would never set foot in that house again.
Jennifer's breasts were the 269th pair in the collector's collection. He continued to collect for a good many years, eventually obtaining nearly one hundred more pairs. He lived a long life and never married, but he greatly enjoyed his unique avocation.
Jennifer's shock was assuaged somewhat over time as she bought herself many nice things and as her new breasts became a part of her. As promised, within a year, the only trace of artificiality in Jennifer's chest was her lack of nipples. The seams were virtually invisible, and the difference in pigmentation was nothing more significant than bikini lines. Almost two years to the day after her voluntary mastectomies, Jennifer married a tattoo artist who, although a bit mystified by her story, loved her enough to tolerate her lack of nipples. She was thrilled when he was kind enough to tattoo extraordinarily realistic, albeit two-dimensional, imitation nipples onto her breasts for her. All seven of their children were bottle-fed.