THE ADJUSTERS

42

Aware

Bliss. I think that nails it. Bliss. If there was a thesaurus handy, and I had the ability to actually use it, perhaps I might be able to find another word that better fit what I’m feeling—but since there isn’t and I don’t, I’ll make do with that one. Bliss.

My name is Jennifer Hansen, and right now, all I’m feeling is bliss. I’m swimming in bliss, floating in what David Lynch would probably call that vast ocean of consciousness that my friend from film school back in college who was simply crazy about the guy kept going on and on about. I’m submerged in bliss, always two seconds away from drowning in the stuff.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m not complaining at all. The fact is, it’s probably the only thing that’s keeping me sane right now.

I’ve been here for a while now. I’m not sure exactly where here is. I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been here either, because I’m drugged up much of the time. I’m as high as a kite that’s been blown skyward by gale-storm winds. I’m not even hyperbolical about it. I’m fucking floating in the air. As well as swimming in bliss. I’m so happy I don’t care about mixing my metaphors.

I don’t know what they got me on, but it’s knocked out my body pretty thoroughly. I can’t move. I can’t open my eyes. I’m still aware of everything, and I can still feel, but I just can’t move. And whatever signals I get from my body come as if through a thick layer of isolating foam. My body and my mind are disconnected, and my body is shut off, and my mind is awash in happy juice.

And that suits me fine. Because the alternative is worse. The alternative is so much worse. The alternative is what got me here.

You know when sometimes you feel like your body has a mind of its own, like your body just wants to do its own thing and you’re just a passenger along for the ride? Like when you’re drunk, or when you’re so turned on that your pussy’s doing all the thinking? Yeah, well, that’s me. A drunken passenger in my own body, with my pussy driving.

All of that because of Biff. Just thinking of the name almost makes me angry, which is pretty impressive because right now, all I’m feeling is bliss. I’m floating, isolated not only from the needs of my body, but also from the cries of my own mind. I should be suicidal. I was, until recently. But I’m not anymore. Right now, all I feel is bliss. Unending bliss.

Biff. The man who did something to me. What exactly, I don’t know. I can’t be sure. There’s a hole in my head, in my memory. I am—was?—a student. Darnell University. Finishing up a degree in English. Also studying law. I wanted to write. And work at the Supreme Court. I had a fiancé—Daniel—and I was crazy in love with him. Still am. But then, Biff happened. My body tensed at the thought of my fiancé, anxiety gripping it, and I let the thought go, with my usual sadness.

Biff cornered me after class on day—it was in January. How long ago January was, I can’t say. And then it’s all a blur, until it’s not anymore, and I found myself unable to resist obeying whatever Biff tells me to do. It’s like my body was connected to Biff’s mind, and my own mind kept screaming to be heard, but to no avail. A passenger in my own body. With Biff deciding what was what.

And Biff knew exactly what he wanted. A fuck toy. That’s what he called me. A pretty doll that he could dress up however he wanted, positioned however he wanted, treated however he wanted. The bastard enjoyed humiliating me and fucking me. And humiliate me he did, and fuck me he did, and he made me crave both the humiliation, and the fucking. I spent so many nights on my knees dressed as a stupid sexpot, with his dick down my throat, doing my best to give him the best blow job I could, because he told me to. I dressed like a slut because he told me to. I went to any guy he pointed at and begging for a fuck because he told me to. I got on a stage and stripped in front of complete strangers because he told me, and they loved it and it made me dripping wet because Biff told me to.

I screamed myself hoarse inside, trying to get him to stop, trying to maintain some kind of dignity. I screamed loudest—inside, always inside, because on the outside, I was all smiles and flirty winks and come-on gestures—when he made me confront my fiancé, Daniel. From that first time, at the diner, when he had me try to seduce him, try to get him to fuck me one last time—I wanted so much for Daniel to grab me and take me away and save me that I was an incoherent mess inside for days afterward, unable to even react to the worst things Biff did to me—to that last fateful party at Biff’s frat house, DIK-Bash, where everything just went to shit.

Lots of stuff happening that night. Most of which I don’t really understand. Biff had captured Daniel and a bunch of guys from his own frat. I knew he wanted to take over the frat—he talked about little else when he was pounding into me, forcing me to moan like a little bimbo and beg him to fuck him harder. But that night, he just went nuts. He killed the frat president, his own cousin, with a baseball bat. He also forced me to grab a knife and would have had me cut off Daniel’s dick if not for the fact that I managed to resist—the one time I managed to resist an order he gave me, and I so much wanted to take that knife and stab the bastard in the balls and open him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, but resisting him had caused such a killer headache that I was seeing stars everywhere and every movement was pain.

Then the lights went out, and we were running, Biff pulling me by the hand, down darkened hallways and staircases and there was fighting and screaming and eventually he found a quiet corner in the basement and he looked me in the eyes and he told me those fateful words that sealed my fate. I never saw Daniel again.

* * *

Biff was on the ground, grimacing, his face contorted in pain. His right leg was broken and twisted at an unnatural angle. He had bit his lip, and a thin string of blood was sneaking its way down his chin. Jenn stood before him, waiting for his instructions; in the privacy of her own head, unable to voice her feelings, she hoped against all hopes that he would croak right there, cradling his broken leg. She still wore part of the sexy Boba Fett costume Biff had told her to wear to the party, a tiny metallic blue bra and short metallic blue skirt, neither of which hid much of her toned dancer’s body. Biff had made her ditch her shoes to help in their escape, and her feet hurt on the grime of the old bootlegging tunnel Biff had led them to.

Biff looked at her for a beat before telling her to lean down near him, that he had something to tell her. He stared at her breasts half spilling out of her skimpy bra, and he groaned.

“I can’t go much further,” he said, his voice still strong despite the pain. “Those fuckers busted me up. I don’t know what happened to your dickhead ex-fiancé, but whatever happens, I don’t want him to put his fucking hands on you again. You got that, doll? I want you to go down this tunnel, get out of here, and go to Cleveland. Find a friend of mine.” He handed her a folded piece of paper he pulled out of his pockets with difficulty. “Read this and memorize it, and then eat it. When you see my friend, tell him that you’re now his, and that you’ll do anything he wants you to do until I show up. Make it convincing, doll—I know you know how to do that. And indeed, you’ll obey him like you obey me, you got that, doll?”

Jenn, her heart sinking, nodded. “Jennie got it, big guy. Jennie finds your friend, and offers herself to him, body and soul. Jennie will be the best fuck doll he’s ever had.” She had no choice.

Biff snorted. “Like he’s ever had a fuck doll,” he muttered to himself. Then he shook himself up. “Listen: nothing the bastard can tell you will ever change the fact that I am your real master, that when you see me again, you will be mine again, to obey only me, my lovely doll.”

“Jennie is yours forever, big guy,” Jenn responded, despairing further. “No one else can make Jennie come like you do.” Die, you piece of shit, she thought.

Biff grinned. “You always know just what to say.” He shifted, and pain made him bite down a scream. “Now, you will not try to contact your dickhead ex-fiancé—you will avoid him at all costs. Look at me. Deep down inside, you’re afraid of him, scared for your life—he wants to rape you, crush you, mutilate you. Whatever sick twisted thing you can imagine, he wants to do to you, laughing the whole time. Got it? He’ll break you, then kill you.”

Jenn shivered inside. Her mind screamed. None of it was true—Daniel loved her, or at least, he used to, who knew now given what Biff had told him and shown him. Daniel would never hurt her. But what her mind knew was irrelevant, for her body soaked up all that Biff was saying, and she felt in her bones the fear that was gripping her body at the thought of Daniel finding her.

“Fact is,” continued Biff, unaware or uncaring of Jenn’s internal distress, and with a mean grin on his face, “if you ever are in his presence, I want you to claw his eyes out.”

Bastard! she thought. Fucking cowardly bastard! I hope you choke on your own shit!

“Now go, doll. Run.”

And Jenn, without hesitating, despite her mind screaming to stay put and find Daniel and throw herself into his arms where she would be safe—though her body seized in panic as an image of her fiancé flashed through her head—ran, her body grasping the urgency of Biff’s words. She ran, away from this place, from Daniel, away to find this friend of Biff and offer herself to him.

* * *

“So, how are we doing today, sweetie?”

The voice is cheerful, happy, with just a hint of an accent that you only really pick up on the harsh consonants of English. The smell of Jasmine wafts about me just a moment afterward. Doctor Agnieska has arrived for her twice-a-week visit.

I figured out that I’m in a hospital pretty early on during my stay—and that I’ve been here at least two months. It’s pretty tough to tell with all the drugs running in my system, but this place works on a schedule, and I have little to do but think and try to pick up patterns. Day shifts. Night shifts. Different attitudes, different people. I can’t see them, but I can hear them, and I can smell them. So I know I’ve been here for a few months already, but I have no idea when I got here. The time since DIK-Bash has been a blur of weeks and maybe months with no rational basis on which to hang a timeframe that I have any chance of trusting.

They call this place the Institute. At least, that’s what they call it when they’re trying to sound official, or when they’re talking to people in charge. The rest of the time, they refer to it as the Gallery. It took me a while to work out why, but it gave me something to do. This is a mental hospital, or at least, the section I’m in is a mental hospital. Mental hospital. Nut house. Nuts. Peanuts. Peanut gallery. Hence, the Gallery. That’s the best I could come up with.

Doctor Agnieska follows her usual routine, examining my chart, then checking the various intravenous solutions that are attached to my arm, before turning to me. I can tell because of the sounds and the position and movements of her body. I get ready because, also as usual, she starts by opening my eyelids and shining a bright light directly into my eyes that has me seeing spots for minutes afterwards.

I have half a second to sneak a look at her before I’m blinded, and as usual I see a friendly Japanese face framed with straight black hair. Agnieska is a bit of an odd name for a Japanese woman, but once I saw a wedding ring flash on her hand from the corner of my eye, and I figure that she must have taken her husband’s last name when she married. She’s more handsome than beautiful, and reminds me a lot of Tannaka, a friend of mine from back at Darnell. From back in my previous life, as I call it. I’m amazed, as I often am, that I’m not breaking down when I think of it. The drugs. Bliss. Darnell feels so long ago, and sometimes I imagine that my life as a student, that Daniel and my friends, all of that was a dream, and that this is my real life. That I’m crazy, and that I’ve always been institutionalized.

I spend my days in bed, in a room all by myself, utterly unable to move a muscle even if I had the will to do so, which I don’t. Nurses and doctors drop by once in a while—I can always recognize them now,, they sound different, they smell different, they whistle different songs while they work. They wash me, change me and my bedding, move me about, talk to me, give me my drugs, the usual things nurses and doctors do. I get fed intravenously, for obvious reasons. I got over my stomach pangs pretty quickly. Doctor Agnieska sounds like my dedicated physician, and she shows up twice a week. Once in a while a doctor I do not recognize shows up, but does nothing, simply observes. Or at least, that’s what I think, because I can’t hear anything. It’s a bit creepy.

A long time ago or so it feels, there was a nurse from Alabama—she had the most delicious voice—that would take me out into a main area with other patients every day, but she disappeared after a while, and ever since I’ve been stuck here day in and day out. Not that I did much when I was out of my room—I was in a wheelchair, my eyes closed, my head resting on a neck pillow—but I was in the company of other patients, and it broke the monotony of the days. All the patients were girls, I noted, and they were not knocked out by their drugs, and they moved about and talked and acted crazy. I couldn’t join in, but that didn’t matter. Their presence was enough. I tried to picture what the girls were like, based on their voices and on the sounds they made when they moved, and pretty soon I had these mental images inside my head of what the world out there looked like. I couldn’t talk and ask questions, so I made up stories about their lives, based on what I overheard. It passed the time.

I’m distracted by Doctor Agnieska’s hands on my body, gently grasping my limbs and bending them. She checks every major joint, and I can feel her looking up at something—a monitor?—every time she does so. I suspect I’m connected to some kind of EEG and that she’s checking whether I react to the movements, and I wonder if she’s able to read off discomfort or pain from the displays. My body, despite the drugs, reacts the way it always does when someone touches it these days—I feel myself get wet. I don’t know if Doctor Agnieska ever notices. If she does, she’s never had a reaction.

“Time to refill your meds, sweetie.”

The way she says it makes me shiver. She sounds almost apologetic, as if she’s ask me forgiveness. Here we go, I think. The Pig is planning another little party. I would groan if I could. Of course, it’s an intellectual groan—bliss prevents it to be emotional in any way. But I know now that bliss won’t last and my pussy will be driving again. As if it knows as well, I can feel my juices drip down between my cheeks.

I hear Doctor Agnieska messing with the intravenous drip that’s fed directly in my forearm, and replacing the bag of drugs. Despite the hint I have just received that I’m going to dive back into my own personal hell before the night is through, I can’t help but feel gratitude for the drugs. I don’t know what I’d do without them. No, I’m lying—I know exactly what I’d do without them—I’d degrade myself, the way I’ve done before making it here. Degrade myself, debase myself, humiliate myself. The drugs make it possible for me to ignore the pull of my body, the unholy drives of my body. With the drugs, my body is a lump of flesh on a bed in some hospital, and my mind is free.

I miss reading. Bliss is nice, and compared to the misery that was Biff, there is no comparison. But the mind forgets, and craves stimulation after a while. And so much of my stimulation used to come from reading, and writing, I realize. Even before I was writing, I was journaling. But now, it’s all gone. To pass the time, I’ve started going over the stories I knew in my head, getting to the essence of the books I read. Remembering the classics, the Homeric poems, the Aeneid, and the stuff I read in high school and freshman year—Waugh, Woolf, Hemingway, Faulkner. Remembering the stuff I used to read on my own—Hugo, Dickens, Dostoyevsky, and the moderns that I discovered later, Lethem, Miéville, Auster. He, Auster, is especially on my mind these days, because to be honest I feel like I’m in an Auster novel. Which doesn’t bode well for me.

Doctor Agnieska is done with me, and I can feel her looking me for a long moment before pulling up the covers up to my chin, gently, like a mother would to a child. I think she’s going to make a great mother, really, if she ever decides to have a kid. My gut feeling is that she doesn’t have one now, but would like one. At least, in my head, that’s the character I’ve developed for her. Up to and including that strange impulse that makes her adjust my medication whenever the Pig intends to have a party. Aristotle calls it hamartia, the tragic flaw, that aspect of a character in a tragedy that forecasts how their downfall will occur. Am I in a tragedy? I cannot tell. I try hard to approach it as a comedy, but the humor rarely comes to pass. When it does, it is dark and thick and drips down like molasses.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Doctor Agnieska quips, and her gaiety is forced. I can only imagine the expression that mars her face.

Atypically, she hesitates before leaving my side, and eventually leans down to give me a gentle kiss on the forehead. The contact of her lips on my skin makes my pussy twitch. My body wants to shiver, wants to grab that woman and pull her down onto me and suck on her tits and spread her legs and rub myself on her pussy until we both explode. Some of the nurses take liberties with me from time to time, squeezing my breasts, or rubbing a finger between my things. It should piss me off, I know, but my body unnaturally craves sexual touches, despite the drugs that knock it out as much as possible. I’m just glad that the drugs make me able to resist the calls of my body. For being touched is pleasure. Superb pleasure. Mind-bending pleasure. Just as Biff intended.

* * *

Jenn was at a truck stop in Southern New Hampshire when the first pangs of lust hit her. She had been dreading it ever since she ran away from the frat house the night of DIK-Bash, nearly a week earlier.

Biff had made her liquidate her bank accounts and get rid of her credit cards. He had confiscated the money, wanting her as dependent as possible. So she had had to find some money to eat and to clothes herself for her trip to Cleveland. And there were only a few sure-fire ways to earn money without revealing one’s name or where one was from, or what had happened to her, instructions that Biff had pounded into her since their first day together. She was a pretty girl. Hating herself, but also unable to override her body’s drive to run away from North Alexandria towards Cleveland, she had haggled her way with men that were willing to offer her rides, letting them see her breasts, touch them, suck on them. A few had wanted blow jobs, and she had obliged, for the right price, putting to good use the constant practice that Biff, who had loved to feel her worship his cock with her mouth, had imposed upon her. Most of the men wanted her to swallow, and she did.

And here she was, in Southern New Hampshire, looking for a long-haul semi that was headed west. She had a backpack containing the bare minimum for the trip. No identification. No wallet. Only a pocketful of dwindling cash.

At the diner inside the stop, truck drivers were sprawled around, drinking coffee, eating, catching up with each other. She looked around, trying to ascertain which of the men would be the most likely to accept taking her on as a passenger without assaulting her and leaving her for dead on the side of the highway.

Her pussy, which had been getting hotter and hotter for the past several hours, twitched in frenzy as her eyes crossed those of a man sitting alone at a booth in the far corner. She headed towards him with a decided step, her hips swaying slightly more than they strictly needed to, her boots clacking on the tiled floor. He looked at her and his eyes dropped down to her white blouse that was unbuttoned to the middle of her chest, baring the top of her breasts, and then further down to her skin tight jeans. When he looked back up, he was smiling, and that smile went directly to her crotch and she almost stumbled at the shock of the arousal that ran through her. She knew what was happening—she had been waiting for it.

Biff had told her, at some point, that if she was away from him for too long—for a week was what he said—she would start craving cocks: craving the feel of a cock in her mouth, in her pussy, in her ass, craving the feel of cocks spurting inside her, and those cravings would get worse and worse until she felt Biff’s cock in one of her holes. He had grinned like mad at his little insurance policy, as he called it. She would even start craving pussy, he had added, almost as an afterthought. Nothing was too good for his favorite fuck doll, he had said.

And now it was a week since the last time she had seen Biff, and her pussy was starting to beg for some attention. And her pussy had decided that the man in front of her, who at least was young and attractive, would fit the bill perfectly.

Two hours later, she was sitting in the cab of the tractor, on the turnpike headed towards Albany, the night closing in around them. Her pussy was on fire, her mouth was watering, and she was having problem concentrating. Mick, the truck driver, was recounting a tale of jackknifing on the ice in the middle of winter, but she was hardly paying any attention. Her breasts felt sensitive and heavy, and it was only when she noticed that Mick had stopped talking and was swinging his eyes back and forth between her and the road that she realized that she was caressing her breasts through her blouse.

She flushed red and stammered something, but Mick merely smiled a smile that made her melt and told her that she should keep going if she felt like it, that he did not mind. The way he looked at her made her head spin, and she sighed and sank in her seat and soon her hands were opening her blouse and kneading her breasts without impediment, twisting her nipples, imagining Mick’s lips on them while her slipped a hand into her jeans and down her panties and sinking deep into her pussy and she must have moaned his name out loud because the semi jerked as it swung into a rest area and before too long Mick’s hands were replacing hers on her breasts and she was sliding off his pants and she wanted his cock inside her so bad that she was whimpering into his mouth as he kissed her to strip her and fuck her like the little slut she was.

And he did.

* * *

The appearance of Gutierrez—the Pig—confirms my worries. I know it’s him because of his breath, both loud and shallow, and his cologne, which smells too sweet. I hear and feel him tidy up my room and check on my drip lines, the way he and every other nurse does during their rounds.

I hear him go to the door and I guess he looks up and down the hallway because he opens the door and then closes and locks it. I cannot see the grin on his face, but I can practically feel it from across the room.

Some of the nurses that attend me are sexual opportunists, definitely, but Gutierrez is a pig. I know, because I’ve encountered my fair share of pigs lately. But at least those were all about messing about with a woman that was up and awake. Gutierrez, on the other hand, seems to get off on the fact that in bed unable to move, talk, or do anything.

I feel him by the side of my bed, near my head.

“Hello gorgeous.”

That’s what he always call me.

“Did you miss me?”

Of course not, you disgusting pig. I want to spit in his face. Biff was a bastard and an asshole, but at least he had some backbone. He wasn’t afraid to get in your face and confront you. He liked to act like he was just a big stupid log, but he was smarter than he looked. He was fucked up in the head, for sure, and he had it in for his cousin and for pretty much everyone else in the world, but he had balls.

Gutierrez, not so much. If he were an animal, he’d be a rat. Not one of those cuddly lab rats either. No, the vermin that live in sewers and stay out of the way and sneak up to steal your meal when you’re not paying attention.

The only reason he’s next to me is because I’m drugged up to my ears. I’d like to see how he’d react if I were awake, and in full possession of my faculties, and not as the sex-starved slut that Biff turned me into. I’d kick his balls so hard he’d be the new Farinelli.

Gutierrez leans over me and he presses his lips on mine. I always expect him to have bad breath, and he always surprises me. He kisses me hard, his lips bruising mine as he shoves his tongue in my mouth. My lips part, because I can’t clasp them shut and stop him. He tongues me deeply, and much to my dismay—even though of course I’m not surprised—my body awakes and reacts to the contact.

One of his hands is on my chest, and he squeezes my breasts through the sheet and my gown. This is just prelude, I know. He’s not going to be content with simply feeling me up. He’s locked the door, so this is going to be a longish session. Again, it’s all as expected. There’s a rhythm to this place, and it’s an easy one to pick up.

“It’s been too long,” he says, kneading my breast. “Way too long.”

He pauses for a second before giving me a long lick up the side of my face. He clearly relishes the fact that I can’t do anything to resist. I bet that’s what gets him hard, too. He’s never tried to fuck me when I’m awake and going crazy for cock the way Biff wanted me to be.

Gutierrez’s saliva is wet on my cheek as he tongues my ear, breathing hard. I can tell by the shakiness I can hear in his breath that he’s rubbing himself through his pants, if not straight up jerking off.

Gutierrez is predictable, if nothing else. He’s got a routine, and he sticks to it. He likes it that way. I bet you anything he’s the kind of guy that eats the same freaking breakfast cereal every morning, has done so for the past decade, and gets really angry when the store runs out of his brand and he has to improvise.

As I knew he would, he straightens up and moves my head towards the edge of the bed. I know what’s coming, and it doesn’t help. He’s got his pants down, and he’s stroking his dick. He’s clean, at least, and as far as male shafts go, his is actually pretty nice. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I would even see him getting some success with the ladies. But as it is, it’s no wonder he has to resort to fucking the resident drugged up girl. I’m sure it does wonders for his inferiority complex, too.

“You’ve got such a pretty face...” he murmurs, before slapping his dick over all said face. I hate when he does that. Or at least I feel I should hate it, but really, I’m just numb to it all. The fucking I can take. But this, this is just bad. Plus it’s like a bad porno flick. My body doesn’t care. My body feels cock near, and if it were a dog it’d be panting and whining. As it is, I feel my pussy heat up.

He rubs his dick over my cheeks, against my nose, over my lips. He’s leaking pre-cum, and it’s smearing all over my skin. It doesn’t get in my eyes, for which I’m grateful because it stings like nothing else. But soon I feel sticky all over, and I pray that it won’t start to itch.

I don’t have time to ponder too much before I feel the tip of Gutierrez’s now rock-hard cock pressing against my lips and pushing in. “Time for your snack, gorgeous,” he says, in a low voice, and he slowly invests my mouth with his shaft. My lips don’t resist, and part to let him in, and I feel the hard flesh run over my tongue and the taste sparkle all across my taste buds. Even through the numbness I feel, it sends fireworks down my body. The taste of male flesh is activating whatever fucked up programming Biff put inside my head, and I can feel my pussy juice up instantly. It doesn’t affect me too much, because of the drugs, but it happens, I can feel it, and soon my body is going to get really horny but unable to do anything about it.

The drugs take the edge off and let me control what I’m feeling, but the pressure is there, the craving is there, the desire is there.

“Fuck I love your mouth,” Gutierrez groans softly as his dick reaches the back of my mouth. My body gags reflexively, and Gutierrez sighs before pulling out slightly.

With his hands on my head keeping me in place, he starts fucking my mouth with short quick stabs. I’ve had my share of dicks in my mouth in the past year, and this one is no worse than the rest, nor better. It’s a dick, fucking my mouth, using me as a sex toy, the way most guys have. Sometimes I swear it’s like they don’t even see me except as a pretty shiny thing with holes to stick their dicks in. Although I shouldn’t complain: the ones that see you as a person that can be humiliated and hurt are worse. Much worse.

Gutierrez is not that sophisticated. He fucks my mouth selfishly, thrusting hard and pulling on my head with his hands. My mouth is filled with saliva, and the sounds would be disgusting if not for the fact that my body reacts to the situation and I feel the craving for that cock to spear into me and fuck me into oblivion.

Gutierrez is not paying any attention. He’s fucking my mouth, mumbling under his breath, the way he’s wont to do. “Fucking great mouth, fucking great.” He always does that. He’s not the loud kind, he’s always mumbling to himself as he fucks me, always a soft voice, as if he’s lost in a little world of his own. “Little cock sucking slut. Take my cock—that’s it, like that, just like that—nice and deep.”

He starts getting into it, and his dick is banging the back of my throat, which makes me even wetter. And Gutierrez starts to speak in a disturbing little soft falsetto voice. “Oh my God, Pietro—your cock is so big! Fuck my mouth, Pietro! Fuck my mouth hard! I’m just a little cock sucker that loves your fucking cock!”

He groans, and I can feel his hands clench in my hair, getting a better grip. He lifts my head up to get a better angle, and fucks harder, with long strokes that slide the tip of his cock in my throat, choking me, and I can’t do anything about it. The humiliation of it, the feeling I’m just a toy for him, revs my body up even further. My nipples get hard, my pussy gushes. My body cannot help it. It was programmed to react this way. I’m still floating on my cloud of bliss, taking it all in.

“That’s right, you little slut. Take it, take it all, my big cock.”

His cock is big enough to be uncomfortable as it plows its way inside.

“What’s that, baby?” murmurs Gutierrez. “You want me to fuck you now? ‘Yes, Pietro, I want to feel your big cock in my tight little cunt! Pleasure me like only you know how to do!’ Well, baby, if that’s what you want!” He does my part in his falsetto voice.

His cock slides out, and I can feel drool spill out the side of my mouth and pool on the sheet. In one grandiose gesture, he pulls off the sheet that covers me and bares my body. I only have a thin hospital gown on, which is good because they keep the temperature on the warm side in here.

Gutierrez takes a moment to look at me, I can feel it. Then I feel his hand on my thigh, caressing softly, before rising up and grasping the hem of the gown and pulling it up my body. Despite the temperature, I shiver when the air hits my naked stomach, and then my breasts. I’m wearing panties, the granny panties that the hospital nurse slides up my legs after she washes me. I know Gutierrez hates them—he’s said so repeatedly, and says it once more, muttering under his breath about them.

Then his hands are on my breasts, and just like that my pussy is on fire. No matter how much I expected it, it always takes me by surprise. I’m again thankful about the drugs that numb the connection between my mind and my body, because otherwise, I’d be a babbling fool begging this man to take me and use me however he wanted, just so that I could extract an ounce of pleasure out of giving him my body. As it is, that’s pretty much exactly what my body’s saying, but that’s just physical. Like the pain you get after stubbing your toe. It hurts, but your mind can ignore it if it really wants to.

Gutierrez kneads my breasts with his hands, grabbing them and pawing them and pinching my nipples that have been hard for the past several minutes. I can’t see his face because my eyes are closed, but I can just imagine the look he has. Then his hands leave my body and I hear him pull his pants off.

The bed sinks as he climbs on, and I feel him straddle my hips. His erect cock thumps on my stomach. He reaches down and straightens my head, and I can feel him tower above me now, caressing the side of my face with his hand while grabbing one of my breasts with the other. He smears the drool that dripped down the right side of my face, and slides two fingers in my mouth. In the state I’m in, and with his hand on my breast, he’s making my body react even more strongly.

“God I love your tits,” he says, still in a low voice, almost to himself. He kneads them with both hands now, roughly, feeling them press into his palms, pushing them up and down and left and right.

When he moves higher up on my body, I know what’s about to happen, and indeed I feel his cock slide between my breasts, and he squeezes them together with his hands. And then he starts fucking his cock through the tunnel he’s just created.

“Oh yeah, ‘Fuck my tits, Pietro. Fuck my big fat tits with your big cock!’” he continues in his falsetto voice. “‘Are you gonna come all over my face and my tits, Pietro? You gonna come before you fuck my tight cunt?’”

This would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that I’m unable to resist any of it, and that my body is begging for more. I can feel my pussy open up and gush, slicking itself up for an upcoming penetration, the way it always does.

Gutierrez knows that about me, and he straightens up after a few minutes of jerking his cock between my breasts, turning himself around on my chest, facing down to my feet. He pulls off my underwear before spreading my legs wide, and my pussy starts pulsating when it is exposed. Gutierrez runs a finger through my slit, and my body just loves it. My consciousness if hovering above it all, uncaring, aware of my body, but unaffected. Bless these drugs.

Part of me should be hating this. And part of me is, there is no doubt. But the hate is so high level, so abstract, that it is almost guilt-induced. I feel I should be hateful, but I’m not. I’m just numb.

Pleasure—my body is reacting to pleasure, like a heated spike through the ground that is my skin. Gutierrez has bent down between my legs, in a sixty-nine position, and his tongue is flicking my clit, and it’s sending fire through my lower body and tingles into my nipples. When he thrusts two fingers into my sopping wet pussy, the fire becomes an inferno consuming everything ahead of it. My body loves it, craves it, demands more.

Gutierrez is not particularly good; his licking is perfunctory, his fingers not well timed—sometimes too slow, most of the time too fast. I analyze all of this with the detachment of a scientific observer. Gutierrez has probably never satisfied a woman in his life. Any girlfriend worth her salt would have coached him. But my body doesn’t care. He’s male, he’s touching my pussy, he wants me. That’s plenty enough.

I feel the head of his cock at my lips, pressing straight down, and of course it slips in, because I can’t stop it. As Gutierrez finger fucks me with gusto, he jerks his hips up and pumps his cock into my mouth from above. He seems to enjoy it, because his licking becomes spasmodic and almost an afterthought. I taste his pre-cum, washing down my throat. His balls thump my nose on the downstroke, and once in a while he stuffs his cock in deep and grinds his hips and I fear I’ll choke.

My body doesn’t care—it likes it. My body is primed to be used like a sex toy, to be treated like a bunch of holes for men to stick their cocks in. My body is going crazy from the fingers thrusting in and out of my pussy, and the tongue sliding over my clit.

“I think you’re all nice and ready for me now, gorgeous,” Gutierrez says, straightening up and sliding his cock out of my mouth. He manages to turn around on the narrow bed without falling off, something I really wanted to happen, and position himself between my legs.

As he always does, he pulls my legs apart and bends them at the knee, pushing them up to my breasts so that I’m completely open before him. I’m grateful I’m still limber from all my years of dancing and from my yoga because the way he’s pushing my legs back puts a huge strain on my hamstrings.

Of course, the position is degrading—naked, legs splayed and pushed back, pussy exposed. My body is basking in the humiliation, and I can feel moisture leaking down my thigh and pooling between my cheeks. I’m just glad—really glad—that Gutierrez has never shown any interest in sodomizing me. That was Biff’s specialty.

Gutierrez rubs his cock on my pussy, and it feels delightful. “Pretty pussy,” he says. “Such a pretty pussy. ‘Oh, Pietro, my tight cunt is aching for you. Please, Pietro, fuck me, fuck me hard. I want to feel your big cock in my tight little cunt.’ I like it when you beg, gorgeous,” he continues, supplying both parts of the dialogue.

Slowly, he presses the head of his cock between my pussy lips, and because I’m so wet, he slides in, as the cliché goes, like a hot knife through butter. And I have to say, it feels good. At least, my body loves it. I know I should be disgusted, but I’m not. I’m numb. But my pussy isn’t, and it squeezes the slowly invading cock with gusto.

As he penetrates me, Gutierrez leans on top of me, pressing my knees against my breasts, his weight on the back of my thighs. With one hand he caresses one of my feet by his head, while he kisses the other. He bottoms out inside me like that, his cock fully embedded, and he groans in sheer happiness.

And then he starts fucking me, with long deep thrusts driven from his hips and his legs. He’s supporting himself on my thighs, which starts to become uncomfortable after a while, but the discomfort is more than made up by the fire that’s spreading from my pussy outward.

Gutierrez mutters to himself the whole time, as he usually does by that point. Sometimes, it’s in his own voice, telling me how much of a slut that I am for willingly spreading my legs like that for anyone coming through the door, telling me that he likes my tits, that he loves the way my pussy feels around him, telling me to take it like the cunt I am. Nothing particularly original, sadly, and after a while the mind-numbing stupidity of it all gets to me—which is pretty amazing, considering that he’s practically raping me. But such is my life ever since I left North Alexandria that it’s hardly bothering me anymore. And that it’s hardly bothering me is something that should bother me even more.

Gutierrez is not privy to this internal conversation, of course. Once in a while, he starts with his little falsetto, playing my role, as if I were urging him to fuck me harder, faster, to drive his cock into me like a man, to plow me like a slut deserves to be plowed, to make me come so hard on his big fat cock. Gag me with a spoon, please.

I retreat deep inside myself, and do what I usually do whenever Gutierrez comes to spend some quality time with me, which is to simply ride the waves of pleasure of my body, who couldn’t care less about the ethics of the situation. As far as my body is concerned, it’s getting fucked, and it’s happy.

Gutierrez has stopped muttering, and is now starting to pant. A drop of sweat falls on my cheek. All I can do is lie back and get pummeled. I do hope he doesn’t start really dripping on me. I hate that. Not only is it gross, it tickles and itches something fierce.

His panting means he’s almost done, and that’s great, because that means he’s not going to flip me around and take me from behind, the way he does sometimes. I usually end up with my face smashed into my pillow, or into the mattress, and it’s uncomfortable, especially after a few minutes of fucking when he’s been pushing my body forward and my head starts to press against the headboard. I think I pulled a muscle more than once from such acrobatics. As it is, I’m already going to feel this afternoon’s performance in the back of my thighs for the rest of the week.

Gutierrez starts to hammer into me faster, and my pussy goes simply crazy. I admit, it’s pleasurable—very pleasurable. Part of me just wants to surrender to it, surrender to the feeling, give in. It beckons, the way a lazy Saturday winter morning in bed cuddling under the covers with your lover does, promising warmth and love and freedom from the worries of life.

But the drugs keep me from surrendering, which is just as well—I have surrendered to it before, been forced to surrender to it before, and it’s a mess. It is less cuddling with your lover in bed and more being chained up in a dungeon with a fire blazing nearby and a stony faced whip-wielding Master pounding into you from behind. Heat of a different sort.

Gutierrez is getting close. I can feel it. My pussy can feel it. His cock is swelling up, getting ready to burst. The hunger deep in my cunt peaks, screaming for release and for his seed. I listen, amazed as I always am by the sheer strength of the need, glad to be free of it, frightened by its continued presence. Biff fucked me up something bad, that’s for sure. The bastard. I hope he gets what’s coming to him.

Gutierrez is huffing above me, his eyes closed, his lips moving but no sound coming. I never know what he says there, at the end, before he comes. I’m curious, I admit it. What else is there for me to do but wonder? Is he making me talk? What is he making me say? What is it he tells himself to carry him the last yard to the finish line, to get him over the edge? What sick twisted story is he telling himself?

Just as he’s about to come, he pulls out, the way he always does. He straddles me, and jacks off, real fast. He whimpers a little bit, and his back twitches. He never comes inside me. I suspect because it’s more difficult to clean me afterwards. Whereas if he comes all over my chest, like he seems about do...

And indeed, with a loud exhalation and a jerking forward of his hips, his cock explodes, sending long strings of cum all over my chest all the way up to my face, a copious production that never ceases to amaze me. I’ve seen a lot of men come in the past months, and few can manage to spurt manageable distances. Gutierrez can. His semen is watery, and I can feel it drip off the sides of my face and down my neck.

Gutierrez remains above me, cradling his cock, rocking slowly back and forth, breathing in and out. It’s over. Of course, my pussy is still screaming for him to come back inside and plow me even harder than he already has—grab my tits, pinch my nipples, punish me for being a needy little slut that can’t keep her legs closed.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” Gutierrez finally says, running one of his hands up the side of my body, tickling me. “You’ve got the most amazing pussy ever.” He slides his hand in the cum that found its way between my breasts, and starts massaging it into my skin, kneading my breasts over and over again, which does absolutely nothing to help quiet down the fire between my thighs. My mind remains above it all, observing quietly.

“Here,” he says, leaning over and running his now sticky fingers over my lips, pushing them in, “you deserve your reward.” His slips his cum-coated fingers into my mouth, and I taste his bitter offering.

Gutierrez gets off me after rinsing his fingers in my mouth, clearly relishing the thought of making me eat his cum. Once in a while, to change things up, he will spurt directly into my mouth—he’s a bit weary of that because I’ve choked a few times, and the last thing he wants is to get in trouble. Which is one of the reasons why he goes to the adjoining restroom and comes back with a wet washcloth, and proceeds to clean me up.

The cloth is warm, and his touch is gentle. He is silent as he washes me, and it’s like I’m with a different Gutierrez, a loving, caring Gutierrez. The guy is a psycho, I’m sure of it. That’s really the only explanation for how he goes from fucking a drugged-out-of-her-mind woman to cleaning her up tenderly.

When he’s done he pulls my gown down my body, and covers me back up. He even takes a second to adjust my hair, and make sure my head is lined up right so that I don’t get uncomfortable. A psycho, I tell you. And a pig.

He finishes it up with a soft kiss on my lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, gorgeous. I’ll let you get mentally ready. It’s going to be a special night.”

Fuck. Just as I feared.

* * *

The Buffalo cops raided the motel in the middle of the night, while Jenn was with a customer. She was straddling him on the bed, his cock embedded deep into her ass, slamming up and down like a crazed woman, her hair wild, her breasts bouncing when the man underneath her was not simply grabbing them with both hands and using them as handles to guide her. He was having the fuck of his life, and had vowed that he would return whenever he could scrounge up the two hundred dollars that this crazy chick went for. The cops changed his plans.

Jenn barely noticed that officers had entered the room, guns drawn, shouting “This is a raid—raise your hands and drop any weapons!” She kept fucking with abandon, caring about nothing but for the sensation of the man’s shaft stretching out her rear as it pounded into her over and over again. When the officers approached her, she registered they were male, and then stared at the closest one, her lips spreading into a wide grin, asking him if he wanted to fuck her throat and feed her his cum.

The cops had the worst time trying to get her off the man, and she fought them, shouting to be allowed to have the man’s cock inside her again, begging, whimpering, mewling her need. The cops were taken aback when they noticed that she was chained to the bed in the small, a long chain trailing on the ground and giving her enough mobility to reach the desk and the bathroom, but not enough to reach the outside door.

The owner of the motel, which doubled as a part-time brothel featuring a cast of illegal immigrant girls—mostly Mexican—that barely knew any English, had had to resort to the chain for Jenn since threats were insufficient to keep her under control. She kept trying to run away, mumbling something about Cleveland, her eyes crazed, her hands dropping to her crotch several times a minute, when they were not fondling her own breasts, or reaching out for the crotch of someone close, male or female.

Jenn was his best talent, providing him with the biggest profit margin of all his whores. She had landed on his doorstep one late Spring night, half-ripped clothes hanging off her body, having been thrown out of a limousine filled with partying visiting businessmen. She was covered in semen, some of it drying in her hair and around her mouth, and she kept asking him if she could suck his cock, begging him to fuck her, to make her feel good. The man obliged, and realized he had struck gold: the girl was beautiful, knew how to please a man, held no identification, and had a fascinating tendency to want to fuck anything that moved.

He always took her first thing in the evening, before his customer showed up—he liked her fresh, and since she had been without cock for an entire day by that point, she always had a vocal desperation that simply drove him insane with lust. Seeing her so willing to demean herself for a chance to slide his cock between her lips was so close to a fantasy of his that he sometimes thought that he had died and gone to heaven, a feeling that only grew stronger when he rutted between her legs, her large breasts pressing into his chest, her lips by his ears spewing forth a stream of dirty filthy dialogue to keep them both aroused.

Most of the time, she was barely coherent, unable to resist attacking either man or woman whenever they got close. The owner of the motel had to resort to giving her sleeping pills during the day so she could rest. His drug supplier, a local pusher that refused to deal hard drugs and specialized in prescription pills, was happy to trade pills for quality time in the sack with the “wild brunette with the silky cunt.”

As the cops hauled everyone away, Jenn had to be restrained, and she kept begging the cops to fuck her, offering to satisfy their dirtiest desires, their vilest fantasies, if only they would stuff her with their cocks and fuck her until she passed out. Many of them might have considered it, even, but a young officer took pity on her and called psychiatric services at the local hospital. Medical personal took custody of her and sedated her, and eventually referred her to the care of the Craven-Wilford Institute for Mental Health, the one facility on the East Coast that they felt was equipped to deal with whatever was hailing her.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep shortly after Gutierrez left. And I can’t have been sleeping for too long, because I’m still floating above my body, disconnected from it. The drugs are still floating through my system. For how long is the question, is always the question. Doctor Agnieska, I fear, programmed the automatic drug dispenser connected to my intravenous drip to gradually reduce the dosage until that time when my body is able to reassert its control over my mind, and I will go insane with lust, unable to resist my urges, a sex-craving addict begging for her fix.

There is a presence by the bed. That must be what woke me up. Has Gutierrez come back to abuse me some more?

No, it doesn’t sound nor smell like Gutierrez. The presence is silent. Breathing deeply. A man. Looking at me, I can feel it. Staring at me with roving eyes.

I recognize his smell. Fresh soap—Irish Spring. It is the new nurse. Sanderson, I think. I wonder if he’s going to touch me. It’s sad that that’s pretty much what I’ve come to expect from men around me.

But no, he does not reach out to fondle me. Somehow, he guesses I’m awake, and he speaks softly. “Are you awake? Gutierrez said your name was Jennie. I know you can’t answer me, but I’m guessing you can hear me. I checked, and the drugs you’re under shouldn’t provoke unconsciousness. And beside, your monitor show Beta waves.”

He pulls something closer to the bed.

“So Jennie, I brought a wheelchair. This may sound stupid, and if it is, tell me.” He stops and I can feel the smile on his face, and a stammer of embarrassment. “Sorry. That was in really poor taste. Anyway, I thought we could go and spend some time in the rec room. At least, it’d be less boring than being cooped up by yourself in this little room.”

I think I’d cry if I could. Thank you, I tell Sanderson internally, as he pulls back the covers and tries to figure out the best way to pick me up and slide me into the wheelchair. I consider this a reprieve before the hell that is to come.