The air in the basement was damp and stifling. The dim yellow light from an old hanging lamp cast faint shadows on the moss-covered walls. That same weak glow illuminated the silhouettes of two people busy in a small kitchen in the corner of the room.
Emmy, a thin girl with pale white skin and long, greasy hair falling messily over her shoulders, stood there. She wore only a faded short-sleeved T-shirt and a clean white diaper, making her look like an oversized baby, a stark contrast to her legs, covered in scars and bruises.
Both of Emmy's wrists were shackled in front of her, connected by a half meter long iron chain. The length was just enough to allow basic movements like eating or picking something up, but too short to let her do much else. Meanwhile, her ankles were also bound by a similar iron chain, limiting her steps to small, shuffling movements. The short length ensured that any attempt at escape was not only difficult but nearly impossible.
And the woman standing with Emmy now was a large built figure near the stove, stirring a pot with slow, deliberate movements.
She was Mrs. Gloria, a woman in her 30s with dark skin and short, boyish hair. Her body was tall, fat, and large, far bigger than Emmy. If they stood side by side, Emmy's head would only reach her neck.
Mrs. Gloria wore only a tight-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that hugged her upper body and a pair of loose shorts that revealed her thick calves. Without a bra for support, her large breasts hung beneath the fabric, creating a distinct curve on her chest. The outline of her nipples pressed faintly against the fabric, forming two noticeable circles, especially when she moved or turned.
Her hands worked skillfully, stirring the contents of the pot on an old stove burning with a small flame. The aroma filled the room, a thick soup with chunks of meat and vegetables. But for Emmy, this was just another part of her routine, something she had to do every day.
"Bring me a plate, baby!" Mrs. Gloria said, her voice soft yet undeniable.
Emmy obeyed. She walked with her restricted steps, the chains on her ankles clinking with each movement. She took a plate from the wooden rack in the corner of the kitchen and carefully placed it on the table. Her shackled hands forced her to adjust her posture to avoid dropping anything.
Mrs. Gloria turned, smiling warmly at Emmy.
"You're such a smart girl, baby." She murmured, pouring the soup into a bowl.
Emmy didn't respond. She simply stood by, waiting for the next command.
"Mrs. Pamela will be home today." Mrs. Gloria said as she continued serving the soup. Her voice was deep and calm, almost soothing. "We need to make sure everything is in order."
Emmy only nodded. She had long learned that speaking was pointless.
Once the food was ready, Emmy moved on to her next task. She took a small broom and swept the already clean floor. Every movement she made seemed ingrained in her daily life.
With her limited range of motion, Emmy helped Mrs. Gloria tidy up the kitchen, sweep the floor, and wipe the dining table. This was her routine.
Mrs. Gloria watched with a small smile on her lips. "Good girl. You make Mama proud."
When everything was in order, Mrs. Gloria pulled out a chair, sat down, and patted the seat beside her.
"Come here, baby. Let's eat first!" Mrs. Gloria said gently.
The chains on Emmy's feet clinked softly as she stepped toward the dining table and sat down with a straight posture. Her shackled hands in front of her made her movements stiff, but she could still manage to eat on her own. Every action she took was limited by the iron that bound her. But she was used to these restrictions.
In front of her, a bowl of warm soup steamed, its aroma wafting through the damp basement air. Emmy awkwardly picked up a spoon, lifted it slowly to her mouth, and blew on it before sipping the contents. Warm and soft on the tongue, but offering no comfort.
Beside her, Mrs. Gloria sat calmly, occasionally watching Emmy with careful attention. When Emmy struggled with the spoon, the woman took over, feeding her with slow yet firm motions.
"Slow down, baby!" Mrs. Gloria said, her voice warm yet full of control. "Don't spill the soup!"
Emmy opened her mouth without resistance, accepting the spoonful like an obedient child. Her face remained expressionless, only surrender deeply etched into her being. This wasn't the first time Mrs. Gloria had fed her, and it wasn't something she could avoid.
For a moment, only the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl and Emmy's quiet sips filled the air. A suffocating silence.
"Mama..." Emmy lowered her head slightly, her shackled fingers clutching tightly. "Mrs. Pamela is coming back tomorrow, right?"
Mrs. Gloria's hand paused slightly. She placed the spoon back into the bowl and gazed at Emmy with an unreadable expression.
"Yes, baby," Mrs. Gloria finally replied. "She'll arrive tomorrow morning."
Emmy's body stiffened instantly. She lowered her head further, nervously wringing her fingers. Her heart pounded, fear creeping over her entire body at just the thought of Pamela returning to this room.
"She... She'll hurt me again..." Emmy's voice trembled, almost a whisper. "I... I'm scared, Mama."
Mrs. Gloria exhaled softly. She picked up a napkin and gently wiped the corner of Emmy's lips, which were slightly wet from the soup. Her movements were calm, like a patient mother cleaning her child's face.
"Emmy..." Mrs. Gloria spoke in a gentle yet firm tone. "I know Mrs. Pamela punishes you every day, but she's just venting her anger. Once her anger fades, she'll stop punishing you, and everything will be fine."
"It has been a year since she kidnapped me and kept me here, and you helped her..." Emmy lifted her face, fear evident in her tear filled eyes. "Why doesn't she just kill me?"
Mrs. Gloria gave a faint smile and reached out, stroking Emmy's long hair gently. "Ssh..!! Don't talk too much, baby! Mama is here. Mama will always take care of you."
Emmy shook her head weakly, her voice fading into a whisper. "I didn't know that man was married. I... I didn't know he was Mrs. Pamela's husband, Mama... I didn't know..."
The air at the dining table grew heavier.
Mrs. Gloria gazed at Emmy with an unreadable look. "Mrs. Pamela lost everything because of that, baby." She said in a soft tone, though her words carried a quiet finality. "To her, you are the reason her marriage was destroyed."
Emmy lowered her head, her lips quivering. "I didn't know..." She whispered. "I've apologized countless times... But Mrs. Pamela keeps torturing me."
Mrs. Gloria simply smiled thinly and stroked Emmy's head again. "That's enough, baby. Eat well so you stay healthy!"
Emmy knew, no matter how many times she explained, Mrs. Gloria would only listen. Nothing would change.
She swallowed her food with difficulty. Not because it tasted bad, but because something heavier pressed on her chest, the unbearable fear of Pamela's return.
Emmy lifted her wounded gaze to Mrs. Gloria. "Mama..." Her voice was barely audible in the basement's silence. "Do you think... do I not deserve to ask for forgiveness and fix my mistakes, then live free and start a better life?"
Mrs. Gloria looked at Emmy with serene eyes, as if the question didn't trouble her at all. "Mrs. Pamela just wants to teach you a lesson, baby."
Emmy let out a bitter chuckle. "A lesson?" She glanced down at the faint scars on her shackled wrists. "I've admitted everything... I've apologized over and over... but she still beats me, slaps me, kicks me... She almost killed me once by choking me too long."
Mrs. Gloria didn't respond. She merely stirred her soup, as if Emmy's words were nothing more than a passing breeze.
Emmy took a shaky breath, then shifted her gaze to the older woman. "You and her are the same... Both of you are torturing me."
Her heart pounded. "You don't hit me, but you torture me in another way."
Mrs. Gloria finally stopped moving. She turned to Emmy, her expression still gentle, but her eyes held something deeper. "What do you mean, baby?"
Emmy's voice trembled. "You dress me in diapers, you breastfeed me, you carry me like a child..." Her breath hitched as she gripped the edge of the table. "You even give me a pacifier and talk to me like I'm really a baby!"
Mrs. Gloria gave a small, affectionate smile. "Because you are my baby, Emmy."
Emmy fell silent.
"Mama never feels like she's hurting you, Emmy." Mrs. Gloria continued in a soft yet chilling voice. "Mama doesn't see what she's doing as abuse. To Mama, everything Mama has done is exactly what you deserve."
"Deserve?" Emmy nearly laughed out of fear. "You're torturing me in a different way!"
Mrs. Gloria's eyes clouded over. She looked disappointed. "Torturing?" She shook her head slowly. "Baby, what Mama does isn't torture. This is love."
"Love?" Emmy almost wanted to scream. "Ma... you force me to call you Mama. I'm not a baby! I'm a grown woman! I'm not a child who needs diapers, and I certainly don't need breast milk!"
Mrs. Gloria smiled, but there was something unsettling about her expression. "That's what you think, baby. But Mama knows what's best for you."
Emmy stared at her in horror. She wanted to protest, to scream that all of this was wrong. But she knew it was useless.
Mrs. Gloria wasn't just insane.
She truly believed that what she was doing was right.
In this room, Emmy was trapped between two forms of torture, Pamela with her violence, and Mrs. Gloria with her twisted kindness. Mrs. Gloria didn't see herself as an abuser, but as a caretaker, even though to Emmy, this was just another form of torment.
***
After finishing the meal, Mrs. Gloria wiped the corner of Emmy's lips with her finger and smiled in satisfaction.
Without saying a word, Mrs. Gloria stood up, bent down, and lifted Emmy into her arms. Emmy didn't resist, didn't say anything. She already knew what Mrs. Gloria was about to do to her.
Mrs. Gloria carried Emmy over to the large sofa not far from the dining table. Once she was comfortably seated, she laid Emmy's thin body across her lap, positioning her as if she were a mother about to lull her baby to sleep.
With slow movements, Ms. Gloria lifted her T-shirt, and as the fabric rose, it became evident that she was not wearing a bra. Her large, huge breasts hung from her chest, swaying slightly in rhythm with her movements. Her skin was dark, with deeply black, dilated areolas and prominent nipples that were rather large and had a rubbery texture, as if ready to be savored.
With her sturdy fingers, Ms. Gloria gently squeezed her protruding, incredibly supple nipples. A few drops of breast milk began to form at the tips, slowly trickling down the corners of Emmy's lips and cheeks as she remained motionless on Ms. Gloria's lap.
As the flow of breast milk intensified, Ms. Gloria gently lifted Emmy's head, bringing her huge breasts closer. Her nipples continued to squirt breast milk profusely, soaking Emmy's lips and cheeks. Resignedly, Emmy immediately opened her mouth, as if accustomed to this moment. With her firm hands, Ms. Gloria pressed Emmy's head forward, ensuring her nipple was fully inserted into the girl's mouth.
Without resistance, Emmy's face pressed against Mrs. Gloria's enormous breast. With a slight tremble, her lips immediately sealed tightly around Mrs. Gloria's swollen nipple, sucking with a steady, deep, strong, and voracious rhythm. Each gulp felt so natural, as if her body had already grown accustomed to savoring the pure milk flowing directly from Mrs. Gloria's ample breast, wetting her throat and filling her frail stomach.
Emmy's eyes were closed, her expression calm, immersed in the strange comfort that enveloped her. The sound of her swallowing echoed clearly in the silence, accompanied by her slightly heavy breaths, almost like soft sighs, signaling how accustomed she had become and how much she was savoring this moment.
Emmy's thin fingers weakly clutched Mrs. Gloria's T-shirt, which was lifted above Mrs. Gloria's huge breasts, as if trying to grasp the remnants of her sanity. Mrs. Gloria's strong hands kept pressing Emmy's head against her huge breast, while her other hand continued squeezing her huge breast, forcing the breast milk to flow into Emmy's mouth, trapping her in a strange and unnatural illusion of a mother's love.
Mrs. Gloria smiled, her eyes lingering on Emmy's beautiful face, calm yet resigned. Satisfaction was evident on her face as she watched Emmy eagerly suckle from her large breast. She hugged the frail girl's body tighter, gently rocking her, cradling her like a real baby.
"I know you're still thirsty, Baby." Mrs. Gloria whispered. "You've helped Mama take care of the house."
Emmy's breath hitched, a small sigh escaping her lips, accompanied by the faint sound of breast milk being swallowed to fill her stomach. No matter how much she wanted to resist, no matter how fiercely her mind rebelled, her body had already surrendered.
***
After half an hour of breastfeeding, Mrs. Gloria finally decided to stop, even though Emmy's lips were still firmly latched onto her nipple, sucking eagerly as if unwilling to let go. Emmy's breath remained steady and warm, brushing against Mrs. Gloria's dark, generous breast, creating a soft, tingling sensation on its surface.
Mrs. Gloria slowly pulled her huge nipple away from Emmy's mouth, producing a gentle, wet pop as her large, supple nipple slipped free. Droplets of breast milk still trickled from her protruding nipple, leaving traces of the white liquid on Emmy's lips and cheeks, smearing her face.
Casually, Mrs. Gloria pulled down her shirt, covering her bare full breast once again, as she wasn't wearing a bra. Then, with her large hand, she wiped Emmy's lips and cheeks, cleaning off the remaining milk that had dripped onto her. Her rough yet warm fingers gently swept across the girl's pale skin, as if tending to a baby who had just finished breastfeeding.
Once she was satisfied that Emmy was clean enough, Mrs. Gloria effortlessly lifted the girl and sat her on her lap. She rested Emmy's head against her shoulder while her hand began to rub the girl's back in slow, repetitive motions, the familiar routine of a mother soothing her baby after feeding.
Before long, Emmy's body tensed slightly, and a small sound escaped from her throat. She hiccupped a few times, releasing trapped air from her stomach, while Mrs. Gloria patiently continued to rub her back.
Once Emmy had completely calmed down, Mrs. Gloria gently laid her back onto her lap, positioning her so that her head rested on the soft, warm cushion of her huge breast. Using it as a natural pillow, she started patting Emmy's bottom in a slow, rhythmic motio, soothing and gentle.
The combination of her touch and the warmth of Mrs. Gloria's body gradually made Emmy's eyelids grow heavier. Her breathing slowed, her body became limp, until finally, she drifted into slumber, cradled in the arms of the woman who treated her like a baby meant to be cared for forever.
Emmy eventually fell into a deep sleep in Mrs. Gloria's embrace, lulled by a strange yet suffocating sense of comfort.