Chasti-Permalock's Restrained Fantasy series presents: Testimonial: Serpentine Sculptress
I've always been one to march to the beat of my own drum. I was never afraid to stand out in a crowd, or try something that touched on others antiquated taboos. When I was a little girl I wore intricate Lolita dresses with lots of pleats and lace. When I hit my teens I upgraded to the goth lifestyle. When I went off to college I finally retired my all black wardrobe and heavy makeup collection, though I kept my piercings, tattoos, and pet snake. What kind of girl trying to prove she's a badass doesn't have a pet snake?
In college I floated between styles. I spent a year as a long haired, unshaven hippy. I spent a summer at a nudist colony. I even spent a semester in a burka, just to see what life was like from the conservative side of the spectrum. Though I may have cheated that last one a bit, as I was often wearing nothing underneath it.
I was an artist, and it was allowed, neigh expected, that we experiment. I went through art styles almost as fast as lifestyles, looking for one that felt like a perfect fit. Oils, watercolors, metal craft, sculpture. I would have enjoyed the semester of nudes a lot more if I hadn't been experimenting with self chastity at the time.
After college I used the money I saved up from odd jobs (you'd be surprised how much money you can make as a birthday clown, when it's a sexy version for drunk college frat boys) to set up my own studio and got to work. My work wasn't going to grace museum walls anytime soon, but I sold enough pieces to the get by. The world was finally going my way...and then the accident happened.
I was driving back from the vet with Monty (yes, I named my snake Monty the python. Doing stupid things for curtsey reasons is a hallmark of being a teenage girl) when I got into a car accident. An out of the blue, driver's side t-bone. Lots of crushed metal, lots of spinning in the air.
I don't remember most of it. My memory tends to skip over the details like an old record that was inexpertly glued back together. All I know is what the doctors in the hospital told me afterward. Apparently an eighteen-wheeler suffered brake failure and shot through the intersection at nearly full speed. Forty tons of big rig versus my tiny, quarter ton subcompact. It wasn't much of a contest.
It was a near miracle that I'd survived, though at a cost. The bones in my legs had been shattered on impact, fragmented into so many pieces that the doctors weren't sure if I'd ever be able to walk again. What was even more devastating was that my arms weren't much better. I'd broken my left arm in five places, my right in three. I was going to be in traction for quite a while, and who knew if I'd ever regain the artistic dexterity I had before.
And the cherry on the shit pie my life had become? The rescue workers that pulled me from the wreck also managed to retrieve Monty's cage. A huge chunk of shrapnel had sliced right through it. Poor little guy never had a chance.
I thought that several years as a goth prepared me for the worst misery a human could ever experience. But I was wrong, dead wrong. And I didn't have the closest thing I'd ever admit to an emotional support animal around to cheer me up. All I could do was lay there, wallowing in my misery, and wait for my bones to heal.
After a week like this, I found myself entertaining the company of a lawyer. The truck that hit me belonged to a big warehouse company (I can't name them for legal reasons, so don't ask). Like the police on the scene expected, the accident investigators had confirmed that the cause of the accident was brake failure. What hadn't been known at that point was that this particular truck had been scheduled for brake maintenance three times and had missed them all. It had gone way past both the company's internal requirements and federal ones to boot. That made the accident malfeasance.
The suit standing in the room with me wanted to cover the whole thing up. Sure, what he was actually saying was "take responsibility" and "do what was right", but the non-disclosure agreement bolted onto the backside was so ironclad my ghost would be muzzled.
Folding to the settlement and letting a major company escape from this PR nightmare would have horrified at least three of my past selves, but the present self had to deal with the fact that I had a mountain of medical debt from the doctors gluing me back together, combined with even odds that I wouldn't be able to return to my previous profession. There was no way I could afford to let this litigate on for years while I circled the poorhouse. So I took the deal.
To be fair, the company didn't exactly screw me. Someone up the responsibility chain must have felt an iota of guilt, as they set me up with both a lump sum to cover my upfront expenses and an annuity to take care of long term expenses. This hybrid payment was probably the best things for me. How many artists do you know that could resist burning a huge pile of money on hookers and blow? Or in my case, hardcover anime and crafting supplies.
After two weeks in critical care, the doctors discharged me into a care home. It was effectively a cheaper version of the hospital for my long recovery. I didn't need round the clock care, but it would be months before I recovered enough to successfully wipe my own ass.
The thing no one tells you about recovering from an accident is how boring it is. The care home only had a basic cable package. There's only so many telonovellas you can watch before your brain begins to melt into jelly. At least they had a decent magazine selection. The odds I would ever need to cook a seven course meal for royalty or survive in the tundra with nothing but a knife were small, but on the off chance such events occurred I was well prepared.
Then...fate threw me a bone. I do not know where the magazine came from. It certainly wasn't part of the center's wholesome rotating library of reading material. Perhaps it was brought in my another guest and accidentally ended up in general circulation. Perhaps one of the nurses "borrowed" it from her husband to prevent him from getting any ideas. Perhaps a cunning marketing executive thought that a bunch of people on bed rest would have nothing else to do but let their mental fantasies run wild.
Whatever the reason, I found myself holding a copy of Chasti-Permalock's quarterly product catalogue. Page after glorious page of gold and silver jewelry, all designed to be worn forever. I was no novice when it came to such matters. Like I mentioned previously, I spent a semester experimenting with a chastity belt of my own. My masturbation habits were cutting into my art time, and I needed to do something to shift the balance. But that belt had been a child's toy compared to the bounty I was presented with.
My heart beat faster and faster as I made my way to the back third of the catalogue. Once the perennial best sellers were out of the way, the catalogue devoted space to new or niche products for those looking to stand out in a crowd. A description that fit me to a T. And what I found took my breath away.
Chasti-Permalock had devoted six full pages to a series called Restrained Fantasy. Products that turned the wearer into facsimiles of creatures of myth and legend. And on the fourth page was a half page spread of a snake woman, a naga. Her body was coiled like a loop of rope, no sign of the limbs that had once marked her as human. Her face was shrouded by a cobra's hood, the scales hiding her eyes from view. But what was on full display was her devious smile, a forked tongue flitting out invitingly between fangs. If this had been the snake to temp Adam into biting the apple, it was no wonder the poor man had fallen for her sales pitch.
It was a moment of revelation. I'd spent my entire life searching for something, waiting for that "click" that would tell me I had finally settled on the right path. What I hadn't expected was that said path was to becoming a chastised serpent creature, but when you know, you know. And the near instant orgasm I had staring at the picture was a pretty good "click" indicator.
It was another week before I had recovered enough for the nurses to let me use a laptop. I thought recovery had been agony before. Now it was doubly so, knowing what I wanted was so tantalizing close, but just out of reach.
The second thing I did (the first thing being check my e-mail, because what kind of monster doesn't thank her well-wishers) was log onto the Chasti-Permalock site and pull up the Restrained Fantasy series. The catalogue had been a hook, but here was the meat that would allow me to design my future.
Busted limbs? Didn't matter, a full serpent bodysuit would absorb them anyway. A pair of oversized, snake filled breasts would allow me all the interaction I would need with the outside world. Inability to maintain a relationship beyond the "one night stand" stage? The egg laying system would provide me with plenty of self pleasure, while providing crafting materials to boot. Body hair? Having been on all sides of the minefield, I was happy to let go and never have to deal with it again.
The part I went back and forth on the most was the hood. The base model reduced the wearer's sight to a kind of heat vision. That wouldn't be too much of a problem. I could rig up some heat lamps to provide definition in my studio and rely on tactile art like sculpture (which went perfectly with the egg system). The hood had the option to either muffle sounds the wearer could hear, or remove them completely. I changed my mind a dozen times, but finally settled on full removal. That would cut down on distractions. On that same vein I decided to go for the chasti-gag as well. The vaginal model, because some deviant part of my psyche immensely enjoyed the thought of spending the rest of my life with a pussy on my face.
I totaled up my purchases and stared agog at the final price. I had expected high quality, permanent chastity products to be expensive, but this was unreal. If I hadn't been hit by a truck, I never could have afforded half of my cart. Then again, if I hadn't been hit by a truck, I likely wouldn't have needed to.
Sticker shock made me trim back a few of my options. I judged I could get away with only two snake breasts instead of four. And growing an egg every three days instead of daily would be more manageable. But on the whole I managed to fit in everything I wanted, while making sure I had enough money left to pay my medical bills when I was done. Thank god for the annuity, or I might have spent myself into the poorhouse.
As I was making such a large order, Chasti-Permalock sent out a rep to make sure I would be satisfied with my choices. After all, it wasn't like I would be able to adjust things if I changed my mind. To my surprise, the rep, Angela, was wearing products from the Restrained Fantasy series. Her lower body was long coils red and black scales, while her upper body sported several items from the Infernal line. A metal plate covered her upper face, curving back to cover her ears while a quartet of short, sharp horns stuck out the top. Angela was wearing a skintight leather corset that supported two mammoth breasts. Instead of an areola, a fist sized eye stared at me from each mammary.
My chat with Angela was wonderfully informative. She explained how locomotion worked with a snake tail instead of legs (short answer, slowly). Her demonic visor wasn't quite the same as the naga hood, but Angela was able to explain how she'd come to live with altered visual inputs (short answer, careful planning and judicious use of the imps stored in her breasts). At the end of the day we both went away satisfied. Me, in that I'd made the right choice of life path. Angela, that I would be able to thrive under such heavy restriction.
Remember when I said the week waiting for the laptop was torture. I take that back. The real torture was waiting two weeks for my order to be processed and for someone to pick me up for transfer to a Chasti-Permalock conversion facility. At least I had finally healed enough to begin masturbating again, even if I had to be careful to do it when the nurses weren't around (one had almost caught me, and I did not want a repeat of that nasty glare).
When transfer day arrived, I was surprised to find Angela wait for me in the lobby. Doubly surprised that she had asked to be there personally to ferry me over. As Angela pushed me out of the center, I was struck with a strange thought. Just what kind of car does a women with no legs drive? The answer turns out to be none, as we were getting chauffeured instead. The vehicle wasn't quite a limo, but it was large enough to fit both a wheelchair bound passenger and one twice as large as normal.
As we pulled away from the center, Angela explain that our ride was part of Chasti-Permalock's new vehicle fleet. Each car had a human permanently integrated to act as driver and maintainer. Apparent they were taking the rideshare industry by storm; over half of the taxi's in New York used the new technology already.
The Chasti-Permalock conversion facility turned out to be a four story, all glass building in an unassuming office park. There was a gated off parking lot, which is probably how the last point stayed that way.
Angela pushed me through the front doors and toward the elevators. It was a tight squeeze, but we made it up to the RF offices on the third floor. The walls were covered by glamour shots of the various product options. There was a wide variety of seating options that ranged from toddler to morbidly obese sizes. There was also seating for those with four, two, one, or no legs.
Angela wheeled me up to the front desk. The receptionist looming over the counter could have been a model for the orc race change suit advertised on the wall. Considering how CP like to beta-test their products on their staff, it was possible. In a voice that was way too high pitched for such a hyper-muscular frame, the receptionist said, "Good afternoon dearie. Are you Melody Clearwater."
"Y...yes." I stammered, momentarily mesmerized by a pair of the largest breasts I had ever seen in person.
"They're nearly ready for you. If you can wait right over there, one of our nurses will come collect you in a moment."
Angela wheeled me over to an open space and set the brake on my chair. "Sorry to transport and dash, but I have another meeting with a new client in an hour and I need to hustle. I'll stop by afterward and see how it went."
"You better. I owe you a drink after I finally get out of this chair."
Angela slithered from the waiting room, leaving me with nothing to do but wait and examine the other patients. In the next row over sat a drow, black of skin and white of hair, dressed in a vaguely bondagey leather and latex outfit. At her feet knelt a man wearing as little as public society allowed, plus a dog collar. The drow kept whispering softly to him about how much she was looking forward to playing with her new hellhound.
A blue haired mermaid sat in a chair like mine, reading a book on oceans. On her other side a pair of blonde twins (they had to be twins, they looked nearly identical despite being different genders) were arguing over who was going to be the top and who was going to be the bottom. I wasn't sure what they planned to become, but "horse's ass" came up several times in their conversation.
After a few minutes the door to the back offices opened and a figure stepped through. She was covered head to toe in metal, with the only flesh showing from a small opening at her cleavage. Her head was a blank sphere of silvery metal with the number "4" painted on it in black. If I had to guess the nurse was wear a modified version of a metalmaid suit.
"Ms. Clearwater," the receptionist called. "They're ready for you now."
4 came up behind me, undid the brake on my chair, and began pushing me toward the back. All this occurred in total silence. I don't know if she was shy or gagged under the mask.
The corridor beyond the door was long and straight. Every ten feet or so on either side was a door. 4 wheeled me past two sets of door, then pushed through the left opening for the next set. The room beyond looked like a cross between a doctor's office and cheap hotel. There was a bed in the corner and a small shower in the other. The television on the wall was surrounded by locked drawers of unknown medical items.
There was another nurse in the room as we entered. While this nurse was also wearing head to toe metal, hers was carefully sculpted to appear as medieval full plate. An Armored One race change suit. Did everyone who worked at this company wear their products?
"Ms. Clearwater, I am 6." the Armored One nurse tapped at the roman numerals on her left pauldron. "Nurse 4 and I will be conducting your conversion today. If you have any last minute questions or wish to not go through with the procedure, now is the last time you can do so."
"My only question is how soon can we get started?"
Though 6's face was entirely hidden by her mask, I felt a smile form underneath. "Immediately. We'll need to get you out of those clothes and into the decontamination shower."
If you're imagining what came next was a sexy striptease, then I'm afraid to disappoint. Nurse 4 cut me out of my clothes instead. I wasn't too concerned about their destruction. Angela had warned me this would happen, so I was wearing old disposables. Besides, it wasn't like they were going to fit after today anyway.
After that 6 lifted me from my wheelchair and carried me into the shower. I know I'd lost a lot of weight in the hospital and center, but she carried me like I weighed twenty pounds. 6 set me on the shower's small seat and advised, "Keep your eyes closed for this next part. Once you feel the water begin to fall, I need you to rub it into every part of your body you can reach."
I heard the thud of the shower's glass door closing, followed by a click. A moment later water began pouring down on my head. Thankfully it was already body temperature, as if it had been cold I probably would have jumped off the little ledge I was sitting on.
Remembering 6's instructions, I kept my eyes screwed tight and began rubbing the liquid into myself. As I rubbed my head I kept having to stop and disentangle clumps of hair from my fingers. I quickly realized there was a depilatory component to the shower. With what was coming next I shouldn't have been surprised, but it still came as a shock.
After about five minutes the water shut off. Long past the point I could feel any hair left on my body. My head, limbs, genitals...all were smoother than the day I was born.
6's voice sounded through the shower wall. "Ms. Clearwater, please stand if you can. Keep your eyes closed."
Unsteadily, I got up off my ledge. A moment later I was buffeted by hot air that spiraled through the shower like a desert breeze. In seconds every last drop of water evaporated off my skin like rats from a sinking ship.
"You can open your eyes now."
I did just that and marveled at just how strange my body looked without any hair. 6 helpfully came in and carried me over to stand before a full length mirror. It was my last chance to say goodbye to the body I would be giving up. Small breasts. Decent hips. Long, thin legs and arms. The scars from all my surgeries. Soon all would be concealed.
4 came back into the room carrying a bundle of black rubber. She unfolded it to reveal a bodysuit in my size.
"This is the undersuit." 6 explained as she began lubing up my legs. "Once we get in on you, we'll apply the oversuit and hood."
With 6 supporting me upright, 4 began sliding the suit up my legs. Progress was slow, the suit tight enough that every inch had to be fought for. When the nurses finally got the suit up to my hips, I realized that it included two build in plugs. Very large plugs. I'd experimented with anal in one of my previous phases, but what wholly unprepared for the sensation of the large plug shoved up my backside. At least 6 used plenty of lube.
Getting the suit pulled up my chest was easier, as this part seemed much roomier. That was, until 6 came over holding a pair of foot diameter spheres. "These are the genesis for your snake baskets." 6 said as she slipped the orbs into pockets on the front of the suit. Now everything seemed much tighter. I was agog at how large the spheres looked when they were attached to my body. A small part of me was worried about the implications of having such large breasts. A significantly larger part of me was lubricating at the thought of having someone play with them.
As the nurses pulled the suit up to my shoulders they had me slip my arms down the sleeves. To my surprise they didn't end in fingers but in a pocket and straps. I hadn't realized the suit was actually a straightjacket style, but in retrospect it made sense. After all, I wasn't going to be using my arms soon anyway.
With gentle pressure, 4 pulled the zipper that ran up the spine of the suit, sealing it tightly up to my neck. She and 6 made a few adjustments, tugging here and there until they were satisfied. They then utilized the binding built into the suit, wrapping my arms around me in a hug. Additional straps went around my thighs and calves, binding my legs together.
"Now it is time for the oversuit." 6 picked me up like a plank of wood, my body nearly horizontal. 4 came over with what appeared to be a sleeping bag, only it was made of black rubber with white and pink edging. Unlike the undersuit, which fit like a second skin, the oversuit only loosely covered my body. It took the nurses mere moments to slide it up to my neck and set me back down.
"Now for the last part, the hood." 6 said as 4 retrieved the item in question. Much like with my breasts, the flaps of the cobra hood seemed much larger in person. Getting it on my head was a rather claustrophobic process, but soon the only exposed skin on my body was around my nose and mouth.
"Can you hear me, Ms. Clearwater?" 6's voice was muffled by the hood, but still audible. "I see from the spec sheet that you selected the full deafness model hood. For your information, upon activation the hood will only decrease sound by 50%. Volume will decrease by 10% per week until you reach your desired level. This gradual process gives you time to adjust and make life arrangements post conversion. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"Then the only step left in the process is the gag. Once that is in place, we will lay you on the bed and activate the devices around your body. This will knock you out for seventy-two hours, during which time your body will be converted into its new form. Do you have any final questions?"
"Nope."
As final words went they were rather stupid, but 6 didn't give me time to add anything else before she shoved the gag into my mouth. It felt like I was biting into a semi-solid block of jello. It flowed into all the little nooks and crannies of my mouth, binding everything together. I tried making a sound, but the gag fully muffled me.
Without warning I was lifted into the air again, turned horizontal, and set down on what I assumed was the bed. "Pleasant dreams, Ms. Clearwater. We'll see you in several days. You, on the other hand, will be seeing us in whole new way."
And then I was out like a light. I don’t remember the dreams I had while my body was being reshaped, but they were definitely odd. Orgies and inhuman bodies and that sort of thing.
What was even stranger was waking back up. The controls of my body, so long ingrained as to be taken for granted, were jumbled like a fallen tower of cards. My eyes didn't work. My arms didn't work. My mouth was doing something, but definitely not what I told it to. And my legs were giving off the weirdest signals.
After my conversion, it took nearly two weeks of physical therapy before I could act like a functional human again. This included getting used to my new vision, learning to slither around, and practicing using the prehensile serpents in my breasts as arm analogues.
I have two stand out memories from my time in PT. Moment A was after they took me off a liquid diet and gave me real food for the first time. Choosing a vaginal chasti-gag was an indulgence in taboo breaking. I didn't realize just how functional it would be. I came at least three times during my first meal, to the amusement of the nurses feeding me. Even now a feeding usually gets me at least one big O, possibly more depending on the meal.
Standout moment B was the laying of my first egg. Much like with Moment A, it was significantly more orgasmic experience than I expected. The difference was that the pleasure from feeding only lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes, the time it took to consume my meal. Egg laying, on the other hand, was a several hour process. A process I spent mostly in a state of slow burn orgasm catatonia.
After PT I was finally free to return home for the first time in months. A team from CP had already come in and made some upgrades. Heat lamps that would allow me to see better. Replacing door knobs with door handles, that kind of thing. Angela swung by with a studio warming present and didn't leave until the following morning. I'll leave it to your imagination what perverted mischief we got up to.
In those early days I had a lot of pent up energy as a side effect of learning to deal with my new existence. I channeled that energy into my art and, after some initial fits and starts, it became my most productive period. Within three months I had enough pieces for a solo showing, which CP helped me organize. I didn't realize how much support they gave to their more extreme clients, but was very grateful. Being deaf, mute, and armless, my communication skills weren't the best. The woman they sent out to assist, Bethany, was the embodiment of patience as we slowly communicated back and forth. Bethany turned out to be quite the ophidiophile, which made it easier to reward her for such hard work.
I didn't end up taking the art world by storm, but I certainly made enough to set up a comfortable life for myself. A live in metalmaid to take care of the cooking and cleaning I could no longer easily accomplish. An exorbitant collection to sex toys to satisfy my many paramours.
And most importantly, an upgrade to my egg laying system.
Making sculptures out of my eggs had quickly become a trademark. But I ran into supply problems when I could only gestate one every three days. CP was able to increase the size of the eggs by 50%, but due to the initial nanite programming they couldn't reduce the gestation time. Then one brilliant engineer had an idea. If it took my body three days to make an egg but I wanted an egg a day, the obvious solution was for my body to be working on three eggs at a time. Adding the additional capacity wouldn't be seen as trying to tinker with base parameters, so I wouldn't run into any problems.
This approach did have one downside. Before the change, I only began showing in the last six hours or so before laying began, at the "just barely found out I'm pregnant" level. With three eggs inside me, all much bigger than before, I pretty much ended up looking like I was about to pop out a pair of twins full time. But I soon came to love this new aspect and even did a well received series of statues of myself with the ebb and wane of my stomach size.
And that pretty much wraps up my story for now. It's been only two years since my conversion and I was only in my twenties to start with, so with the life extension properties of the nanites I have lots of time to get up to new shenanigans.
Before I finish I supposed I should touch on the topic doubtless on the mind of anyone reading this testimonial. Should I get a Chasti-Permalock device for myself? To that question I pass back one of my own. What are you looking to get out of life? Do you plan to be a boring person who plans to live by stodgy old values? Then CP products may not be for you. But if you want to push boundaries, to live life to the fullest, then I wholehearted recommend you pick up the latest catalogue. It changed my life. It could change yours next.
Melody Clearwater
aka the Serpentine Sculptress