Chapter 11

It was sooo weird, like she was looking through a tunnel. And it was taking way too long. She hadn't been that far from work but she always seemed turned in the wrong direction. She tried to walk faster but her six-inch heels made that really hard. People were staring at her, just openly staring. God, she must be like so dirty and everything. What had happened to her? Was she in an accident? Sarah paused to study her reflection in a store window. She was having trouble remembering where she had been. If she hadn't been able to see her office building, she wouldn't know exactly where she was. Her clothes were filthy, her skirt split up the rear to the waist. Big holes had been torn in her stockings. Thick globs of cum still splattered her face and ran sluggishly down over her breasts. Oh God, how had she ever gotten this way? Something nagged at her, something she didn't want to think about. She had a big meeting today. Sarah looked at her broken watch. It said she was two hours late. That's just crazy; she'd never be late for a big meeting like that. After all, she was wearing her best suit. 'I can't go to the meeting looking like this. I'll sneak in through the delivery entrance and clean up first. They'll never see me and I'll look as good as new.'

She made her way across the parking lot. Hiding behind vans and larger cars, she slipped in unnoticed. No one was on duty at the delivery door. Swiping her pass card, she slipped in and quickly used the rear fire escape to get to her office. Where was Stacy? She could help! 'I don't know what to do. I can't wear these clothes.' Sarah pawed aimlessly through the pile of brightly colored spandex, hoping to find something suitable. Suddenly, she brightened and began to pluck bits and pieces from the pile.

Stacey was worried; perhaps, she had pushed too hard. After work yesterday, it had seemed such a cool idea to stop and talk with the construction guys across the street. All she had wanted to do was see how Sarah was going over, how her lunchtime shows were being received. Instead, she found out how angry they were, how much they wanted to put "Barbie" (she couldn't believe they called her that too) in her place. Stacey suggested that they show her what a good time really was. She wanted it anyway. Show her what they had. Stacey suspected something had gone wrong, very wrong. Sarah should have been back more than an hour ago. The meeting room had called three times to find out why she wasn't there. The briefing book with handouts was on the table. There just was no Sarah to go. Stacey looked out the window. Where could she be? Did she finally go to the police? Stacey hurried down the hallway. Passing Sarah's office, something caught her eye. She stopped and went in. As quickly as she could, she turned and quietly closed the door.

"What do you think?" a giggling Sarah asked. 'Oh my God, she's snapped.' On the floor, stained and tattered, the business suit lay balled-up and crumpled. Sarah was posing, hands on hips. She had found the suit Stacey had brought to work, a suit tailored to humiliate her after the meeting. Pink of course, with a little satin jacket over a mid-calf, spandex tube skirt. Patterned white stockings, platform ankled boots with seven-inch heels, a see-through white lace blouse with huge ruffles at wrist and neck, made worse by too much make-up, perfume, and jewelry.

"Aren't I like the most totally fantastic Barbie in the whole world?" She was out of her mind, Stacey thought. They raped her. She could see smears of dirt and traces of what had to be cum in Sarah's hair. Standing back a moment, thinking it through, she saw what had happened. After the attack, when her suit was ruined and she realized she couldn't make the meeting, she, Sarah, couldn't take it, so Barbie had taken over. Barbie would go to the meeting and everyone would like her and Sarah wouldn't be a failure. It was madness, but Stacey couldn't see any other explanation.

She made a couple of exchanges in Barbie's briefing folder and sent her on her way. Frantically, she scampered for the telephone and started to make calls. Oblivious to Stacey's growing panic, giggling Barbie left and made her way to the meeting, hips swinging in the high heels, mincing in her skin-tight skirt. Along the way, the secretaries stopped and stared. 'Screw them. They're just jealous. They wish they looked as hot as I do.' Sticking her tongue out at one mean, shriveled-up old bitch, Barbie took a lollipop from her candy jar and put it in her mouth. It tasted so good; she had no idea that she liked lollipops so much. The door to the meeting room was open so she just walked in, twirling her lolly, sucking away, hollowing her cheeks as she did.

Everyone stopped talking when she walked in. It was sooo cool. They must be totally turned on by how great she looked. Some of the other women from the office were there but they were just some stupid little jealous bitches, and screw them too. All of the guys were just staring at her, even the old farts. Stu was turning red; he was so cute. It was like totally a shame that he was married. Maybe, with just a little more time alone with him, she could get him to do her anyway. She had to be lots better looking than whatever hag he was married to.

Hank was reviewing sales numbers for Region 2. That was boring, she decided. The presentation was for the Japanese affiliates. Now, they looked like lots of fun. They were smiling and nodding. They wanted to see her, to meet her, to listen to her presentation that was going to be sooo radically better than Hopeless Hank's droning drivel.

Mr. Burgess was old but he was cute too, in a "daddy dear" sort of way. He sat at the far end of the table, folded hands resting on his copy of Hank's report. They were large, strong hands for a man his age, much like her memory of her father's when she was very young. She stared at them, until they became her daddy's hands. She recognized the same thick fingers and wide palms - powerful hands that carved a miniature zoo of her favorite animals from shapeless scraps of oak with the small, red-handled pocket-knife - warm, comforting hands that made her feel safe and protected when she was sick, or when a nightmare sent her padding down the hall to his bedside in the middle of the night. No one's hands had ever touched her in the same way, and for the first time she knew that empty space for what it was.

But now he was scowling, like her father used to do after she had her first period and her tits began to grow. Then, it was always the same: never have any fun, curfews and chaperones at the dances, all day at church, getting those droning lectures about how she had to meet a higher standard. He was a minister and with her mother dead, people were watching. Sarah had to work harder, stand taller, be better, someone to look up to, not a girlie for the boys to ogle. 'Boring old Sarah. I don't want to be her. I want to have fun. Oooh, those Japanese men want to have fun too.'

Barbie pranced over to them, her big breasts bouncing, all smiles and flirty eyes. One of them had his hand on her ass. She wiggled to give him a better feel. They were saying things she didn't understand. It was in like Japanese and she didn't speak that. So what, it didn't matter. They definitely liked her a lot. And they'd love her presentation ... 'oh my god, I have to do the presentation.'

She opened her folder and began to offer handouts. They were snatching them from her. Barbie never got to even see them. She should have brought lots more. She never knew she was so popular. Mr. Burgess was whispering furiously to someone. What was he so mad about? Barbie made her way to the end of the table and started.

"Hi," she burbled gaily, "my name is Barbie." Suddenly, Burgess was on his feet. So were Hank and Stu and all the other guys and even the women, applauding. They were cheering and laughing and applauding. Then, the Japanese were doing the same thing. Everyone was applauding and laughing. She didn't know why but she was laughing and applauding too. Which made the women laugh even more. Two of them came up to her and suggested she go outside for pictures. Okay, that sounded like fun. They told her to wave goodbye, it would be so rude if she didn't, so she did and everyone waved back, especially those nice Japanese men. She liked them. When they got outside, Burgess came out, his face red with rage.

"Sarah, you're fired. I've never been so disappointed in anyone. I don't know what's happened to you. You used to be someone I could look up to for the future, but now ..."

Sarah had trouble focusing. What had he said, she was fired?

"Now get her out of here."

'Look up to me? More like look up my skirt.' That's what they all really wanted, what those guys across the street wanted. They wanted to watch her show off and then do things to her, nasty things, and they felt so good. The women grabbed her. Get your hands off me, she wanted to say, but only a long nasal whine came out. Roughly, they dragged her to the front door. When she tried to resist, some of the secretaries helped. Where was Stacey? She'd explain, she'd help Sarah ... Barbie, she wouldn't let them fire her.

"So Hank, what do we do?"

Hank's stock had suddenly risen with his suggestion that they trick the Japanese into thinking that Sarah had been a model done up like Barbie as a gag. The problem was there were still the Region 3 numbers to present.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Burgess, but let me try something."

Spotting Stacey starting to follow Sarah towards the front door, he called her back. Hesitating at first, she finally came to where Hank and Burgess were in conference.

"Stacey, how well do you know the Region 3 numbers," Hank asked. "Very well, I put them together," she replied.

"If the company paid, do you think you could find a sharp business suit and make the presentation right after lunch?"

Stacey swallowed. She wanted to say "yes," and Mistress Shayla should be willing to let her. "Okay," she nodded, "but with one condition; I need to make sure that Sarah gets home safe. I called someone to pick her up." Both men nodded and then Burgess came close.

"Stacey, this is very big. Come through for us, you get Sarah's job."

This wasn't hard. Take her husband, take her job, take her life... Stacey assured Burgess she could handle it. Time to ship Barbie off to camp.

Barbie was in the lobby, crying and struggling. She wasn't going to go, Stacey was coming for her. Stacey stepped in and took Sarah under the arm. Forcefully, she steered the sobbing woman to the door.

"Where are we going, Stacey?" Sarah begged. Stacey ignored her until they were in the parking lot. A dark van was pulling in at the opposite end.

"I'm going back to do your presentation, Barbie," she taunted. "They all thought you were too stupid to do it. After all, look at what you were handing out." Sarah looked at the paper that Stacey handed her. It was the handout from her presentation, the one with the graphics on revenue growth. But it was different. On this one, the rising slope for 1st quarter revenue was her bustline and the fourth quarter was her tight rear. It was even called the "Barbie Barometer". No wonder they all were laughing at her. The van was parked, the side door opened and Stacey pushed her in.

"You're too dumb, too ugly to deserve a good job. You're just Cockteasing Barbie, not a Cockpleasing Barbie, a BigCockPleasing Barbie at that. You're just Loser Barbie."

Sarah froze, not able to grasp Stacey's sudden turn against her. Then without warning, the fragile thread severed that connected Barbie to the only remaining life she had, Sarah lashed out at Stacey, arms flailing wildly in a desperate fit of rage.

"You bitch! You fucking bitch! I thought you were my friend! I'll kill you, you little cunt! I'll - "

Just as Sarah readied herself to leap from the open door, her long, pink nails poised to tear into Stacey's smirking face, she lurched backwards into the van. Shayla crouched behind her, her strong fingers buried in Sarah's hair. When Sarah struggled harder, Shayla gave her head a vicious yank, arching her neck painfully until she went limp, still panting and hissing through clenched teeth.

Stacey slammed the door shut, and turned away. Sarah could hear her laughing. They all were laughing at her; everyone was.

Shayla's amused smile appeared over Sarah's upturned face. Her full red lips parted slightly, guiding a hot, sweet column of breath over Sarah's heavily made-up features. Sarah fought the pain, moaning with disgust while Shayla toyed with her.

"Now, my little slice of fuck-meat. Want to tell me what's wrong?"

"My job! That little bitch made me lose my job! My career, my life, it's ruined! Everything I've worked for, everything I've earned, is gone! I'll get her! I'll get all of you! Fuck you, fuck you all!

Shayla let her shattered victim babble on as she skillfully slipped the fine needle beneath the tender skin at the side of her neck. Sarah felt the wasp-like bite, followed by the numbness that began in her fingers and toes and spread across her belly and chest. As darkness engulfed her from all sides, a final shudder racked her body. Something told her that things were going to get very much worse than they ever had been.

---

Chapter 12

The subject was within program limits and approaching her next scheduled peak. In the control room, the thin elderly man watched her for a moment and turned away to make adjustments at the instrument panel to his left. He sighed as his eyes returned to the sleek curves of succulent flesh laid out before him, remembering a time before his own flesh bore the ravages of a life's obsession. His work was all he had now, but at times it seemed like only yesterday when things were much different...

Behaviour reconstruction's greatest protection is that no one believes that it exists. It does, of course, or at least since the conclusion of Site 27's work in 1983. Instead, there were all sorts of fictions and rumors and deluded theories, usually masquerading as science or bad religion. Much of the most wishful thinking emerged in sexually- oriented stories, always causing someone virtuous and presumably virginal to fall into sin. The truth was very different, and much darker. With the collapse of Germany, Army intelligence officers learned of a secret program to control the populace in the face of the Allied advance. Their initial work had been useful and its staff was transferred to a remote location in Montana. Soviet defectors brought news that the Russians had learned too of the program and of America's interest, prompting them to launch their own. By 1980, senior KGB staffers projected that their country would fail in the near future and sought to buy their way out. Soviet space and missile technology had no value and the U.S. was well aware of the ongoing bio-weapons program. The only asset that they had to sell was the Gorky Institute's mind control program, its working papers, study results and selected doctors and technicians.

The Russians had taken their lead in 1950 from Pavlov's work to create their institute. Repeated stimulus and response would program desired behavior. Still, there were problems that suggested the approach was limited. Pavlovian training presumed that all stimuli that the subject had were controlled by a higher power. If the stimuli merely changed, the response could not be predicted or controlled. While endless labor, terrorism and isolation could serve as mega-stimuli to bridge this issue somewhat, inevitably results showed significant erosion in subject control. By 1963, the field seemed stalled and destined to be of little more use than a lab to test prison population control techniques.

He had been on track to a major appointment at Harvard Medical School Neuropsychology when they came to him. Two men, quietly dressed, stopped him as he was about to get in his car. They had federal identification and got in the car with him. He was invited to join a highly secret project delving into certain aspects of neuropsychology based upon his recently published papers. He would have to relocate. Compensation was very high and there were additional bonuses and benefits of joining that could not be discussed under the circumstance of where they were. He had retained the presence of mind to ask what would happen if he refused. They said that they would kill him. That had been nearly 30 years ago, and he no longer regretted the decision.

In 1983, they had solved the problem at Site 27, and he had been there. The mistake was to aim too low. Prior mind control techniques focused almost entirely on the reptile brain. If repetition creates habit and habit directs and molds behaviors like sexual attraction, eating and sleep and aggression patterns, training must rely almost entirely on repetition. This was true enough but failed to go far enough. Site 27 realized that Pavlovian technique served only to paralyze lower level habit operations and higher level congnition. Unless there was very substantial reconstruction of higher level thought processes, the subject would either backslide or fracture into schizophrenia. Neither state was useful. From 1965 when the first Soviet leaks emerged until 1983 when the breakthrough was achieved, Site 27 labored to create a mechanism that would permit consistent and effective behavioral reconstruction whose results were predictable.

He had been the first to see the value of computer architecture as the correct analogy for program design. Almost entirely, humans, as do computers, intake data by optical scan. Audio and tactical inputs are relatively negligible. If lower level responses could be tuned to certain states and higher level functions suspended, a subject would find themselves in a constantly refreshed forced instructional setting in which higher level functions (thoughts, fantasies, dreams) would be driven by lower, now entirely-controlled habits.

The dream-state was the key. Freud had used it as a purely analytical tool, a one-way connection from the subject's mind to the scientist's ear. In the years that followed, Freud's ideas were challenged, then criticized as outdated and misogynistic. Modern social scientists saw dreams as a housekeeping tool, freeing the mind from clutter assimilated during waking hours. He saw it for all it might be, a two-way conduit, receiving as well as transmitting enigmatic fragments that could reconstruct the architecture of the subject's persona. The goal was to first open the conduit, then decipher the language of dreams well enough to speak it. Real-time interaction with the subject's subconscious followed, allowing preconstructed sequences to be edited into a mix of naturally occurring and induced dream scenarios. The technique was elegantly subtle and frighteningly powerful. After years of perseverance, he had constructed the Rosetta stone of "dream-speak", enabling him to converse in dream language as easily as present day archaeologists read the once enigmatic hieroglyphs at Karnak and Abydos.

There had been a range of experiments to confirm the result. Could pictures of male genitals excite a reconstructed heterosexual male? How about a heterosexual female, or homosexuals? Could stealing be a reconstructed trait in a subject testing high for integrity? Or alcoholism, drugs? Could they train housewives to want to watch violent entertainment? Or men to watch to watch soap operas? He had successfully concluded the experimental phase when he trained a female conservative Christian, former missionary and elementary teacher to perform sexually in front of cameras - and like it. The change had been so complete and final that the overwhelming consensus was that there was nothing left to be done.

Personnel had been reassigned, operations and facilities closed, support withdrawn. He was offered a chance to transfer to other projects but always declined. He would see through the closure, the accurate storage of results, the film of experiments, and maintain tracking of subjects. It was a dead end but it suited him. He stopped responding to colleague inquiries, and more than once left a mostly empty bottle of scotch in a desk drawer. He allowed deadlines to elapse and wrote ill-thought and subtly angry notes of explanation to his superiors. They scheduled a "routine" review a week away but he had been working steadily so there was no need to rush. He had long ago removed copies of all the critical information and stored it safely away. He placed the corpse in his car, a plastics charge in its lap. He almost had underestimated the blast force but was able to step behind a wall. Carefully, he made his way back through the burning rubble to find portions of shattered mandible and skull. He reached into his mouth and withdrew bridgework that, anticipating just such a day as this, he had done. Between the heat of the explosive and the chemical contamination he had induced in the car's interior, there would be no DNA testing. All they would have would be the crown that matched his dental records. The finest mind in behavior reconstruction in the world disappeared into the dark in a well-used 1985 Buick Skylark, traveling just over the limit like anyone else might.

***

A voice drifted in. Sarah slowly became aware of her surroundings. She recognized it all too well - the precise, calculated cadence laced with a light accent. Her vision was still blurred, but if she strained, could just make out the small, bald head perched atop a green gown.

"I understand what's required, but I could make her so much more. Imagine, physical perfection as a bonus. I could - "

Shayla towered over the old man. The smile he shot back at her was more like a sneer. Perfect rows of tiny white teeth gleamed from behind paper-thin lips that twitched and widened, but never opened more than a sliver.

"I'm all too familiar with your ideas of physical perfection, Finch. We don't want a freak."

How dare she. In his day he could have ended her, wiped out her position as a junior agent. His brief note to any one of her superiors would have removed her from the face of the planet. Perhaps he had made a mistake when he chose to mentor her. He took her tone of late much as a parent endures a spoiled child. Back then, Shayla had only hints of his true work, but his name and reputation inside the agency would have targeted him for the attentions of any young agent convinced she was worthy of a future far brighter than her peers. And Shayla never missed her target. He pulled strings to have her reassigned. He opened his files to her, years of work that only he understood. Perhaps it was weakness, but he swelled with pride as she took to his work with a passion.

Shayla was intelligent, fiercely ambitious, and a natural beauty. He had been alone all of his life and she was more than he could understand or analyze. For a month he puzzled over her familiar light touches during casual conversation, the maddening way she crossed her long, chocolate legs, and the suggestive phrasing cloaked in the most innocent of questions. Later, it became routine for them to work late, order take-out, and put the day's labors behind them. Much later, when she rode his cock, her dark, firm body pinning him to the office floor, her motives no longer mattered to him. If he had been the master of mens' minds, he was no longer the complete master of his own.

But change is inevitable. And the day came when the world changed in ways Finch never imagined. The Russians imploded and the Cold War ended. Funding evaporated. No one wanted to admit ownership for his research. The entire work was redlined before the Agency budget went to Congress. At first, he was merely bitter about the loss of resources. As the project closed, he was reduced to a caretaker of his brilliant career, a lifetime of work made obsolete. As time passed, his bitterness became rage, sending him on a much darker path. When the opportunity to jump ship was presented to him, he accepted without hesitation. The compensation was lavish, but he would have taken much less than the unchanging figure the DOD discreetly deposited in his account each month. His new employer's unsavory origins didn't cause him a moment's pause; in fact, his thirst for revenge made the offer all the more appealing.

He had taken Shayla with him. In fact, she insisted. Soon her ambition and good looks brought her to the attention of those higher up in the organization. She was given a field position, managing a small group of reports to be selected at her discretion.

Rock was a rare find, almost by accident, during a late-night visit to a crowded leather bar on the west coast. He hit on her mercilessly, but all she saw was a clever, powerful male, a born leader. By the end of the night they had struck a deal, and for much less than her budget allowed. His band of bikers was a lucky bonus, perfect for distancing herself from the dirty work she deemed beneath her.

She found Stacey on the street, homeless, hungry, staying afloat on whatever drug she managed to trade for her services. Shayla was moved by something in those sky-blue eyes, and she was seldom wrong about first impressions. She took the girl in, cleaned her up, and began her education. Stacey proved to be a quick study. The streets had made her a survivor; her talent for deception and innocent façade made for a dangerous combination to anyone who crossed her path. Only Shayla was immune to her girlish charm. Within days she began to nurture the submissive lurking just below the surface of Stacey's tough exterior. Within weeks, sleep came only after Stacey buried her face between Shayla's legs, eagerly exploring her dark sex with an agile tongue. After, Stacey slept soundly at her feet, curled into a contented ball like a smiling fetus.

Finch. The years had not been kind to their relationship. The anger that devoured him wrinkled his skin and erased the color from his hair. She found it difficult to ignore his physical decline, and his tortured brooding and short temper did little to help. Fleeting pangs of sentiment, pity, and at times desire made being close to him uncomfortable, and she regretted the loss of control, the words that she knew had both hurt and angered him.

"So, it's come to this! Are you so fond of giving orders that you've forgotten how you've come to give them? Or has it become customary to dismiss old friendships when it's convenient for your career?"

His red-faced protest fell silent in an instant. Shayla's hands rose to the front of his light green gown, her fingers gently caressing the collar and seams over the old man's narrow shoulders. She had taken a step toward him, and her wide smile exposed teeth much larger and whiter than his own. She warmed as she felt his wiry frame tremble at her touch. Such a small, fragile man. How perplexing that such thin, quivering fingers could become the tools of an artist behind needle and knife.

Ice-blue eyes peered up at her, like they had on so many other visits. His trembling never failed to excite her. How she wanted to pass her hands under the gown, to press her fingers into his pale skin, to stroke him as she knew he would allow, down, down, until she held the short rope of flesh, encircling the withered sac with invading digits, probing the meager, firm fruit inside. Her thighs flexed and clenched tightly for a moment. Such delicious pain, twisting and crushing his vulnerable offerings, sending fire and defeat through the sensitive nerves, until they were as dead as his dreary soul.

But, they had work to do...

The sharp bite of the iv needle startled Sarah, clearing her head. The dull presence invading her arm seemed a sickening warning of what was to come. They spoke as though she was still unconscious, ignoring her widened eyes, now filled with increasing terror.

"Such exquisite flesh. So much potential."

Finch drew the fingertips of his left hand over her breast, stopping at the nipple. Grasping and rolling it firmly between thumb and finger, his menacing eyes envisioned what she might become. Sarah inhaled suddenly as a single digit trailed over her ribs and across her shaking abdomen. He lingered there, probing deeply into her soft skin with both hands, committing everything to memory - from the firm but yielding surfaces beneath it to the unyielding boundaries of her narrow pelvis. He watched carefully for the slightest twitch of her eyes, or the sudden rise of her pouting breasts, all telltale signs of a bit of skin where nerves rose close to the surface, or, where deeper clusters of ganglions sent stabs of breath-robbing pain throughout her body. He went back to each of these spots again and again, testing for a stronger response a fraction of an inch this way or that, his smile widening as Sarah gasped and struggled against the restraints that held her naked and spread-eagled on the steel table.

Shayla towered over her, now facing Finch at the opposite side of the table. She seemed fascinated with Sarah's terror. Leaning close, she traced the lines of Sarah's face with an outstretched finger, gloved in warm, black leather.

Finch's hands continued down over her thighs, stroking and kneading them as his breath came faster, his eyes glittering with the reflection of them, a perfect white V that resisted his touch.

Sarah froze in terror when his long fingers arrived spider-like between her legs. Spreading her outer labia, he tugged and pinched the inner lips before inserting two fingers inside her. Now she felt his probing from within, the constant pressure as his fingertips dug into the walls of her vagina, finally arriving at her cervix, where the pain stiffened her slim body with spasms of agony.

Shayla glanced at the plastic iv bag that delivered a steady drip of hazy, viscous liquid to the needle taped to Sarah's arm.

"What's in the bag? I told you I want her to suffer."

Finch said nothing, keeping his eyes on Sarah's as he dilated the firm tissues of her cervix with the tip of his index finger. Her mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream. A minute passed before he withdrew his hand and looked up.

"Look at her. Have you ever seen such pain in a subject's eyes? The drug amplifies the nervous system's sensitivity tenfold. The pain is unimaginable."

"I don't hear her screaming. They always scream."

"Ahh, and you always complain, no? So, a bit of this, a bit of that, and her vocal chords are paralyzed. No screaming - I thought you would be pleased."

It wasn't the first time Shayla had underestimated Finch's attempts to please her. Even so, she shuddered inside as she imagined Sarah's agony, precisely applied, without the ability to scream or even release a defeated moan.

"Finch, my darling little man, you never fail to amaze me."

"Or, excite you, my dear?"

"Or to excite me...," she whispered, her dark eyes drilling through him as he paused, hands trembling over Sarah's nakedness. Shifting her gaze from Finch to Sarah, she smiled and took a single, deep breath.

"Let me see you work."

The small round tray held a circle of tiny syringes, much like a plate of hors d'oeuvres waiting to be sampled. He plucked one at random from the sterile surface and applied a practiced push on the plunger, allowing a tiny fountain to jet from the tip. Sarah's wrists strained at the leather cuffs as he brought the needle close to her face.

Sarah's head burst into fiery agony as the needle sank into the moist flesh along her upper lip. Then, with precision of a delicate machine, Finch injected the full volume as he maneuvered the tip deeper. She had only a few seconds of relief before his hand returned with a second syringe, this time digging into her lower lip, again stiffening her body against the restraints.

Finch paused to watch her as the third syringe hovered over the nipple of her right breast. Sarah shook her head violently, mouthing words no one could hear. He glanced up at Shayla. She was smiling.

Sarah's body went rigid when he slid the needle under the edge of the nipple. Now her eyes were closed, her jaw clenched. He watched the pink bud expand to a hard button, then the full circumference of areola beneath it rise slightly above the mound of white breast.

After filling her left nipple with a fourth syringe, he stopped to inspect his work. His contented smile was interrupted by a pair of large black hands, now cradling his head with long, wandering fingers. Shayla bent over the table, her intoxicating dark eyes inches from his own.

"Sometimes I forget what a wonderfully talented man you are."

Her words were almost a whisper. Finch's eyes dropped to her breasts. They moved ever so slightly, the generous black nipples pouting at him from between rows of undone buttons. It was rare to see her out of leather these days, and even rarer to see her in a dress, even if it was a dress that hugged every curve of her muscular frame. She covered Finch's small mouth with hers, assaulting him with her tongue while holding his head tightly with both hands. Sarah looked up in horror as he mauled Shayla's breasts with thin, trembling fingers. She could feel his long, slim cock pressed against her belly as Shayla pulled him over her across the table. He rocked against her, caving in her stomach as his prick, now exposed and wet, twitched and pulsed over Sarah's bare skin.

Finch's body shuddered briefly, then was still. Sarah felt the cool remains of his orgasm, slippery and wet, spread across her belly. He regained his composure as quickly as he had lost it and stood again beside the table, eyes still on Shayla.

She was tracing circles in the pool of thick semen with a gloved finger. Then, capturing a portion of it as it rose to coat the rounded tip of supple leather, she delivered it to Sarah's open mouth, past lips too sore to resist the invasion. Shayla continued with a haunting smile, until only a slick trace of the old man's cum remained, drying like a second skin on Sarah's flat stomach. She gagged and choked as the salty mass reached the back of her throat, but in time managed to rid her mouth of the vile taste, gulping the mixture of semen and saliva long after Shayla fed her the last drop.

Shayla's face was closer now, her large brown eyes peering into Sarah's. Her breath was hot on Sarah's face, her smile terrifying.

"Mmmm. You're shaking, my dear. Don't you know this is for your own good? Don't you appreciate the efforts we've taken to help you? Your looks are all you have now. Don't you want to be beautiful?"

Sarah shook her head franticly from side to side, her lips forming words where none would come - 'no, no, no, no, no'.

"Now, now, we're nearly done. Unfortunately, this last bit is the worst. I'm afraid it will be horribly painful."

Before Sarah had time to react, Finch drove the needle into the soft, sensitive tissue of her inner labia, filling it with practiced precision. The muscles from her shoulders to her toes tightened into steel bands. Her back arched in a single prolonged spasm, lifting her body off the table. Then, a second injection at the same site, followed by a third and forth, until the entrance to her cunt was frozen in an wide yawn, held open by engorged, fluted ridges of flesh.

Sarah lay panting and exhausted, her mind now focused only on the pain - when it would come, and when it would stop. Trickles of sweat ran between her breasts and over her belly. Her thighs were shiny and wet, her drenched hair cold and sticky between her head and the steel table.

Shayla's lips brushed her ear as she spoke in a low whisper.

"Sooo delicious, showing off for the good doctor, all tits and pussy. It's what you are now - tits and pussy. No career, no husband, no friends, no responsibilities - just two hard tits to be fondled and a warm, juicy hole between your legs."

Sarah glanced at the mirror overhead. She closed her eyes and tried to think. 'A name - my name - if I can just remember - ' Names sifted into the shattered remains of her memory - Barbie, Stacey, Shayla - but which one?

She gasped as Finch tugged at her clit, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Shayla's voice returned, her breath now closer, hotter against Sarah's ear.

"Everyone will want you. Men with long, thick cocks will stand in line to stuff your pouting little cunt. Women will drool at the sight of you, longing to suck those hard nipples. Boys will see you and cum on their sheets at night dreaming of you. And girls will do anything to be like you. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be beautiful, desirable, so satisfied, so content. It's so close - just one more terrible step - but a step you're eager to take, so eager - so..."

Finch drove the needle into her clitoris and squeezed the plunger. His erection returned as he watched the sensitive nub grow thicker, then longer as he guided the needle deeper.

In an instant, she was blinded by the sudden stab of agony. Every nerve in her body seemed to react at once. An explosion of images and memories overwhelmed her in random order, some vaguely familiar, others appallingly real. And then all the pain faded as cold emptiness swallowed her, until the only thing in her world was the comfort of the darkness and the words that floated nearby.

"...drool at the sight of you...do anything to be like you...so eager...so beautiful...so satisfied..."

***

She woke to flashes of brilliant color, to patterns of lines and circles that shifted and pulsed in cadence to a throbbing hum so deep that it seemed to come from inside her. Once she opened her eyes it was impossible to close them. The flickering kaleidoscope drew her in; the longer she looked, the more she needed to follow the evolution of one shape into the next. And the pain was gone. It made the pain go away. And she was so warm, so satisfied, so tired and empty.

Finch forced himself to look away from her nude body, now unrestrained on the padded chair. Her breasts rose and fell seductively with each deep, even breath. The visor covered her face from forehead to just below the bridge of her nose, revealing the slight flare of her nostrils as she inhaled the cool air of the darkened lab. Most of the room's light came from the row of monitors lining the wall behind a long desk where Finch sat peering into a much larger screen. Endless lines of code marched across it, scrolling from top to bottom, but Finch's eyes were glued to the upper right corner where inch-high red numerals marked Sarah's progress.

Shayla watched from the foot of the chair. Finch recognized the sadistic smile and concentrated stare as she enjoyed the view from between the reclining subject's legs. He watched her exhilaration as she attached the necessary instruments - the tiny electrodes glued to Sarah's flat belly, one above each ovary, and finally the thick, plastic double-phallus, inserted simultaneously into rectum and vagina, held in place by a vacuum drawn through the flexible base-plate.

Whirling streams of dazzling light slowed and dimmed to muted shades that dissolved into recognizable shapes and features. Sarah watched, mesmerized, as a pretty housewife dressed in apron and high-heels knelt by the door, gave her small daughter a warm hug, then ushered her along to a waiting school bus. It left Sarah with a warm, full feeling in her belly, a feeling Sarah's own mother might have given her, if only her weakened heart hadn't taken her from Sarah so early in life. She saw a the large hand of a tall, dark man push open the door and hurry through it. He ignored the pretty wife, but glanced back for a second and scowled before disappearing. His look chilled Sarah and her stomach went queasy, just like when her daddy used to give her "a good talking- to".

The scene faded. Sarah stared helplessly as the same housewife knelt in front of a young delivery boy. Her tongue slid from between parted lips in slow motion, gently licking the tip of his monstrous cock. A rush of warmth and excitement washed over Sarah as she watched her take the pulsing head of the boy's cock in her mouth. Something stirred inside her. It felt so good - so warm and thick and filling.

Then came familiar scenes - Sarah, dressed for success, strutting through the halls of her old office - Sport, working on the books at night, never missing a chance to inch a hand under her dress when she came close enough - the two of them embracing, kissing like newlyweds, for no special reason, day or night.

And with them came the pain. At first a twisting sickness in her belly, it grew, gnawing and icy at her very core - so cold, stabbing at her from inside. She wanted to look away, to put the scenes out of her mind, anything to make the nausea and pain stop. She must be dreaming. If she could only wake up, the nightmare would end and everything would be right again. But she couldn't wake up, and the images played on.

Shayla paced in circles around the chair, watching Sarah's squirming body with delight. She stopped and leaned close to her face, studying the repeated grimaces and frowns, each fleeting expression sadistic gratification for Shayla's hard work and twisted desires.

The pain worsened as the visor revealed the familiar softly-lit bedroom. They were making love, with Sport on top of her in his usual position. He stroked her face as he moved slowly, almost cautiously, in and out of her. Then came the short, repeated pecks over her neck and lips, almost kisses, more habit than passion. His weight pressed down on her, trapping her on her back with legs spread. Each breath required more effort than the last. A suffocating claustrophobia seized her, tightening its grip until terror and panic forced her to cry out, begging to be rescued. With one last brutal thrust he stiffened and moaned. She could feel his cum jetting, splashing inside her, searing bursts of fire and acid that ate away at her cunt, robbing her of its delicious sensations forever. His poison crept deeper into her belly, feasting on tender flesh, devouring her from the inside out with relentless agony.

Relief came suddenly when the visor faded to black. Tiny specks of light formed in the darkness, slowly growing brighter, until she stared into a field of thousands of stars gliding past her. They began to dance and rotate, lazily at first, then at a dizzying pace, finally smearing into twisting streams of changing color. She went limp against the padding of the chair, her breathing now soft and even.

Finch watched the monitor intently as the counter reset. The instructions halted for a moment, the screen cleared, then began to fill with new characters, one line at a time.

[Sub*p.22_Sarah]
Rtr mod 3b.11.9y
Ld mod 3b.11.9y
Ini mod 3b.11.9y (tim:3,sr:norm,dp:max)
Inj*


Cal vaga1q {0,9,2}
Cal anaa2q {0,6,1}
Cal stim[3F22C] ld[1,2,3,4]
Cal intmix[min**00,max**?9]v/r set

Wait

Wait

Rtr mod 4a.01.0x
Ld mod 4a.01.0x
Sync[3b.11.9y][4a.01.0x]
Ini [v,a,s,i] lnkcpl m/p
Ini mod 4a.01.0x (tim:*,sr:push,dp:max)
Inj*

Sarah focused on the new scene that formed inside the visor. Her view was from the back seat of a moving car. Looking up and forward, she could see the pretty housewife and the dark man silhouetted in the bright light streaming through the windshield. He drove, she sat silently beside him, watching the passing scenery. She could smell the musty cloth that covered the seats, worn and frayed along the edge where she liked to sit. It was hot. So hot. The car windows provided the only relief from the mid-day heat, tossing her long blonde hair in the gushes of wind that came at her unevenly from the left and right.

Then in the distance, a siren wailed. It grew louder, until finally she turned to see the red flashing light gaining on them from behind. Their car slowed and pulled to the side of the road. The dark man was angry. The pretty housewife put a hand on his arm to settle him, but he shrugged it off, raising his voice and glaring at her.

Sarah watched the policeman from the rear window. He climbed off the biggest, shiniest motorcycle she had ever seen and marched toward the car. She couldn't take her eyes off him - the black leather jacket wrapped around shoulders three feet wide, the stiff black boots that crushed the gravel under them with each heavy step, and the wide belt that circled his slim waist. A holstered gun hung at his right side, a long, thick night-stick at his left, swaying hypnotically as he approached.

She tried to listen as the policeman and the dark man talked, then began to argue. The policeman's face was close now, his large sunglasses reflecting the sudden fear in the dark man's eyes. His wide grin made her heart race with both fear and excitement. His voice seemed to melt the knot in her stomach and warm the insides of her bare thighs. Ignoring the dark man for a second, the policeman studied the pretty housewife from face to calf.

"You've fixed her up real pretty."

The pretty housewife glanced at him, allowing a thin smile to escape.

The dark man yelled at the policeman and opened the door to get out. The policeman put a large hand on his slim arm and pulled him from the car, easily turning him and pinning him to the fender.

"You fucked up, man - big time. You couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you? You had to be a hero. I was ready to walk away, to let you and the wife go back to your pathetic little lives. I'm gonna enjoy this."

He walked the dark man to the front of the car, snapped the handcuffs over both thin wrists, and bent him over the hood. Sarah's heart pounded faster as she stared through the windshield.

His pants were around his ankles now. Passing cars slowed, their passengers laughing at the dark man's sagging buttocks and skinny thighs exposed in broad daylight. His eyes stared back through the windshield, wide with terror. Sarah began to moan at the instant the policeman placed the end of the night-stick against the dark man's ass and slowly pushed an inch of it inside. The dark man was crying now, begging the policeman to stop, begging the pretty housewife for help. Another inch disappeared inside him, then another. Cars continued to slow and gawk, now blowing their horns and cheering through open windows. The dark man became hysterical, crying and screaming for help as the policeman began to pump the weapon in and out, going deeper with each thrust. Sarah's cunt clutched and sucked at the thing between her legs. It felt so good, probing and pulsing with energy and warmth.

The policeman leaned into the car window next to the pretty housewife. She just stared into his dark glasses as he began to unbutton her dress. He pulled her bra down, revealing the two firm mounds of breast topped with large, stiffening nipples. The dark man watched through the windshield as the policeman pulled and squeezed until the pretty housewife's nipples were purple and distended. He began to cry again when she moaned softly, her eyes unable to hide the lust that overpowered her.

The policeman was in the driver's seat now, unbuttoning the front of the pretty housewife's dress until she sat beside him in bra and panties. His large hands moved over her stomach and thighs, rough calluses against satin skin. She whimpered when a strong finger wormed beneath the white elastic, traveled the length of her moistening slit, and finally found the swollen nub that made tears come to her eyes.

"I knew you'd be easy. I could see it in your eyes. How long have you waited for it, a real man's cock? Say it. He's waiting."

The pretty housewife glanced through the windshield at the dark man, then back into the policeman's dark glasses, now inches from her face.

"I'm yours."

The visor blinked. A second of black, the low rumble of distant thunder, then back again. The dark man was on his back, stretched over the hood, arms pulled wide by invisible restraints, his small erect penis visible as it pointed upward toward the darkening sky. A light rain began to fall, mixing with his tears as he continued to sob and mutter incoherently. A large black bird fluttered down from the sky, landing on his heaving belly. Its size was twice that of the largest of birds, with claws and beak the color of polished steel. Another followed, then a third. They eyed his erection as if it was unfamiliar prey, then together, as if on cue, devoured it with shining, slashing beaks. Dozens of birds arrived as a silver-gray cloud, then dozens more, each finding a perch on his naked body, all feasting in a black, seething frenzy, until his sobs were drowned out by sound of rustling feathers and clicking beaks.

The roof and doors of the car melted away until there was nothing but the musty seat under her and the crawling cloud of black feathers, expanding as far as she could see. As it closed in around her, the black faded to gray, then brightened to a brilliant white. The seat melted away as well, and she floated there, suspended in a sea of white doves, floating, soaring, carrying her with them, caressing her thighs and breasts with a thousand velvet wings. Warm juices pooled, then flowed from between her legs. Never had she been held poised at the brink of orgasm for such a long time. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, losing herself in time, reveling in the ecstasy.

When her eyes opened again, the scene had changed. The pretty housewife pushed a vacuum cleaner back and forth over a spotless, white carpet. There were no walls, no furniture, only brilliant light surrounding her. She was naked, except for bright red high heels and a wide red choker. She hummed softly as the vacuum traveled silently over the carpet.

The policeman appeared behind her, his black boots and jacket a stark contrast to the blinding white light. She turned as if she could feel his eyes on her, then walked to him, stopping when her swollen nipples touched black leather. She looked up at him, expressionless, her delicate features forming a perfect profile, her voice a coarse whisper.

"Fuck me."

The scene exploded in white, then returned as a spacious Victorian bedroom. At its center stood a canopy bed draped in yards of white lace and satin. The pretty housewife rested peacefully, arms extended, legs spread, almost floating over the down-stuffed spread. She was still naked, the red shoes now gone, her creamy skin supple and relaxed beneath the crimson velvet bands that circled her wrists and ankles. A white marble dressing table stood against the opposite wall, just a few paces from the foot of the bed. A small hand-mirror and hair brush, both of glistening silver, lay on its cool, glassy surface. Next to the table, an oval full-length mirror surrounded by an intricately sculpted silver border hung eerily in mid-air.

The policeman appeared at the foot of the bed, still in full uniform. The pretty housewife raised her head to look at him, then sliding her hands along smooth, white thighs, clutched her knees, pulling her legs up to open herself to him. His cock spilled from the fly of his pants, hanging like a thick length of rope. It thickened and grew longer, inch after inch, until the tip reached the quivering slit between her legs. It was impossibly large, the diameter greater than his massive fist, the length still increasing as it pushed her lips aside and entered her, steadily forcing its way deeper into her cunt. Her belly swelled as the monstrous organ filled her, burrowing deeper each second. Slowly, almost reverently, she let her head fall back and opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The fleshy bulb paused for a second, then, forcing her jaw wider still, emerged glistening and pulsing before her eyes. Taking her hands from her knees, she cradled the warm, purple head, spreading flow of slick pre-cum over the enormous glans, then returning to the gaping eye for more. Her legs circled the thick base, her hands the engorged head, while her slim body writhed and twisted, deliciously impaled on the throbbing skewer.

A steady fountain of pearly-white semen erupted from the yawning fissure, flowing over the pretty housewife's hands onto her face and shoulders. It continued down over her body as though seeking out the smallest crevices, until it coated her like a second skin, glossy and moist under the intense light. After clinging to the edge of orgasm for what seemed like hours, Sarah cried out as it finally washed over her. It seemed to lift her into the air, piercing her body through every pore, invading and seizing her tender flesh with an intensity no mortal lover could hope to offer. This was what she needed, what she had waited for, for such a long time. If only it would last this time...she would be a good girl, an obedient girl, a beautiful girl...if only it would last...forever.

Then she was in a different place, with no memory of how her soul seemed such a small price to pay for the satisfaction only a machine could bring, only moments ago. She sat at the marble dressing table in the same white bedroom, slowly running the silver brush through strands of luxuriant blonde hair. She studied her reflection in the glittering hand-mirror. 'Is that me? My thick blonde hair? My full red lips? My perfect nipples?'

"You are everyone's desire, Dear."

The pretty housewife stood beside her, still naked, still radiant with the policeman's semen, now a glowing halo that followed each graceful movement. Her smile was irresistible, so warm, comforting, and familiar. Sarah rose and went to her, falling into her as the pretty housewife held her with strong, slender arms. Her words came softly, lovingly, filling a space left empty far too long.

"I love you, Dear. So many others are waiting to love you too. Men with long, thick cocks will stand in line to stuff your pouting little cunt. Women will drool at the sight of you, longing to suck those hard nipples. Boys will see you and cum on their sheets at night dreaming of you. And girls will do anything to be like you - like me - like us."

Their bodies pressed closer, hard nipples on hard nipples, rippling belly against rippling belly, until they became one, merging as effortlessly as the ether of spirits passes through earthly flesh. Sarah stood alone before the oval mirror. The image reflected back at her was perfection, flesh that no one could resist, lust that consumed all defenses. She could have any man, anyone, and would openly be his slave for the chance to find the rapture that promised to save her.

The mirror's silver border turned crimson, flowing restlessly, expectantly. Its silvery surface rippled, changing from brittle glass to flowing mercury. The voice from behind it was as compelling as it was familiar.

"You've always been a fucktoy, Sarah, always hungry for a bigger cock, never really satisfied with a puny one. We can see it in your eyes. Come to us, Sarah. We have what you're looking for, what you need...what you've always needed."

Her feet moved, one after the other, until she stood an inch from the shimmering surface. She could feel their hands on her breasts, cold fingers teasing her nipples until they stiffened, sending promises of what lie beyond the mirror to the their target, now wet and swollen between her ivory thighs. Another step and she was falling, first through the cold boundary between her world and theirs, then into the darkness that rolled her into a ball and swallowed her, taking everything from her, and giving nothing in return.

***

Shayla and Finch watched as two large men eased Sarah into the padded cage that was to be her home for the long journey. She slept soundly, her breathing shallow but steady. They secured her wrists to leather cuffs at each side, her ankles to identical restraints on the top of the enclosure. Shayla could feel the sudden warmth between her legs and the wet coolness that followed. Sarah lay on her back, naked, knees against her chest, ankles firmly anchored to the cage lid. The position displayed Sarah's exposed genitals at the end of the cage, lodged firmly against a smaller trapdoor.

Finch paced back and forth, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

"We should wait another day, do more tests. There is a small risk... "

Shayla nodded to one of the men and waved them along as they lifted the cage and walked it toward to steel door.

"The real risk is that our client will delay the transfer of payment if we're late. You know who I answer to. I won't end up in one of those cages just because you want to dick around with your statistics for another day. We'll deliver her on time, take our pat on the back, and move on. Where she's going, who's going to care what she's like a year from now, assuming she makes it that long."

They watched the door swing shut, the electric locks buzzing as the steel cylinders snapped into place. Finch stared for a few seconds after the bolts engaged.

'If only I could have had her for just one more day.'

Shayla looked back at the chair, then through the wide glass window where a bare steel table stood surrounded by trays of empty syringes. Her hand came to rest at the front of her dress, two long fingers pressing lightly into the nagging heat between her legs. For the first time in many years, their thoughts were exactly the same.

---

Chapter 13

Cold. Hunger. Fear. He had learned to accept two of the three, but the cold just seemed to get worse. Shivering in the dark, Sport sifted through the events of the past two months, trying to make sense of it all, how everything went wrong, and what he might have done to make it right again. Many of his memories were clear, all too clear, but he was unable to assemble them into a rational sequence. Out of context, fleeting moments of opportunity from the past only served to frighten him, and he retreated from each one, trembling at the likely consequences.

It had been cold that day too, when two burly officers dragged him from the muck at the bottom of the ditch. The docks looked so different. Daylight had painted over flashing neon and shiny, wet streets with drab grays and browns, and burned away the fog that crept and breathed about their feet the night before, licking at Sarah's bare thighs with a hundred ghostly tongues.

Bright. Too bright.

A muddied hand shielded his eyes from the morning light. Squinting through narrow spaces between his fingers, he cringed as face after face stared back at him. Most pointed and snickered, until the growing laughter drowned out the cackle of seagulls that circled overhead like slow, gray-white vultures.

A few faces turned away quickly with lips pursed, shaking their heads with disgust. He shuddered as he lowered his eyes over splotches of mud, now drying to a thin crust on his skin. He was naked - worse than naked. He could feel the weight of his erection bounce and pull at him as they ushered him to the patrol car. How? Why? The throbbing in his head made concentrating difficult.

Loud. Too loud.

The policemen were asking him too many questions. He didn't know what they wanted or how to make them stop. They were pushing him, pulling his hand away from his eyes, fastening his wrists together behind his back with something cold and hard.

Once at the station, he tried to explain it all to them. His head ached; he couldn't think straight. The words came out all wrong and the policemen just laughed at his story. Why wouldn't they listen? Why couldn't they understand? They kept asking the wrong questions.

"So, your wife is having an affair with this biker?"

"How long has she been seeing him?"

"Do you know her lover?"

"Did you plan to kill them both last night?"

"How much did you have to drink?"

No, no, no! Why couldn't he make them understand? The metal chair was so cold, and they just kept laughing at him, naked, still hard from the drugs Rock forced him to take the night before. A few female officers drifted in, anxious to get a look. They snickered as they eyed his throbbing erection. He kept asking for some clothes, anything to cover his cock, to keep him warm. How could they let him sit there naked, exposed to anyone passing by the row of windows looking out into the busy hallway?

"Please, help me - some clothes, please - I'm cold - so cold..."

Finally they gave up, threw a blanket over him, and led him to a holding cell. He sat and shivered for hours, dazed and helpless, head still bleeding from where the butt of the gun slammed into him. He wished the explosion in his head had been a charging slug of lead, tumbling through soft gray-matter. He had expected that, accepted it, finally welcoming the escape from the torture he had grown powerless to prevent. What else did Rock want from them? He had taken his wife, first by force, then willingly, gloating as Sarah begged for the biker's huge cock. Then this - how weak he must have looked to Sarah that night, so helpless - he had his chance, he had the gun, only to have all hope wrestled away by Shayla's strong arm about his neck, the warm metal barrel in his mouth as Rock mocked him, Sarah looking on as he sucked the end of the gun at Rock's command - but if it wasn't over, what next?...Oh God, what next...

"Let's go, Sport. Your wife's here to take you home."

The words seemed to clear his head, and he stared at the officer, still a bit wild-eyed. Thank God - Sarah was ok - they let her go - they could go home now - be together again - try to forget -

As they rounded the corner and approached the front desk, he recognized her voice, a soft mewing mixed with the little-girl whine.

"He's such a dear, the poor thing. So understanding, considering what he puts himself through. Oh, Sweetheart, there you are! I'm so glad they found you! I was worried sick! Are you ok?"

Stacey ran to him, seizing him with a tight hug.

"No! No! No!!! She's not my wife - she's one of them - get away from me - where's Sarah - what have you done with her?"

Stacey watched with her best disappointed look as he backed away babbling, refusing to leave with her.

"He gets like this sometimes. As I was telling you, it's been so difficult for him. He's been impotent for so long. When he's sober, he's agreed to let me go to my friend for my physical needs if I'll stay married to him. It works for a while, until it gets the best of him. Every so often he snaps, goes out and takes God-knows what combination of drugs, anything to get him hard. The sad part is that he gets so wrecked, he never comes home to me when he could satisfy me. He gets obsessed with finding my friend and me together, and the drugs and alcohol send him into the night, driven by a crazed fantasy that I'm cruising the city, sleeping with every man I can find. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, officers."

Stacey's wide-eyed stare traveled from one policeman to the next, her wet lips opened just enough to glisten with anything but innocence. The policemen stared back, paralyzed by her girlish innuendo.

"Jeeezus..."

"Poor bastard..."

"Well, um, Ma'am, if we could just see some identification, we'll release him."

Stacey opened her tiny white purse and presented Sarah's driver's license, her picture now neatly covered by Stacey's, blue eyes gazing coyly from the upper left corner.

When Sport objected a second time, a large blue uniform moved against him from behind, a wide firm hand heavy on his shoulder.

"Listen buddy, you have a beautiful wife who cares enough about you to be here for you. If I were you, I'd calm down, go home, and sleep it off. Unless of course, you'd like to be our guest for a while..."

Stacey led the way through the double glass doors, her brief cotton dress bouncing just enough to show a glimpse of sheer white panties from behind. The roar of the policemen's laughter followed them all the way to the curb where Stacey's red Escort waited. It started on the third try, and before pulling into traffic she glanced down where the blanket parted, revealing his now-shrunken stub of a penis. He caught her looking and tried to cover himself as she shook her head, grinning.

"Don't worry Sport. They say that size isn't everything, right? But I'm afraid right about now Sarah couldn't possibly agree."

***

Stacey dropped him in front of his house. Sport was as relieved as he was surprised that their destination wasn't more sinister. He slumped beside her in the cramped passenger seat, waiting for the worst. But Stacey just sat and fidgeted, tapping the steering wheel lightly to an unheard beat that rolled endlessly through her pretty blonde head.

She gave him a minute or two. She loved indecision in men. It made her feel powerful, in control, and generally reaffirmed her contempt for the crude, useless creatures. After that, they just pissed her off.

"If you're waiting to grow a dick, do it on your own time, Sport. Some of us have a life."

He gathered the blanket around him, taking a few seconds to glance up and down the block. His next-door neighbor eyed the car with quick, suspicious glances.

"Christ, do I have to spell it out? GET OUT, you pathetic fuck!"

Sport kicked open the door and fled across his yard, the small blanket trailing behind as he ran for the safety of the house. He could feel the warm sun on his skin and the breeze, unexpectedly cool, as it rushed between his legs. He glanced to the side just long enough to see Janey, now still and straight as a statue, follow his progress through the ankle-high grass.

He never liked Janey. He liked her even less after she divorced Fred, her henpecked husband, and took everything he had, including their spacious two-story home. Now she had money, and the body of a woman half her age.

It hadn't taken long for Sarah and Sport to learn to avoid Janey's attempts to socialize. Fred would sit quietly, a shell of a man, while Janey went on for hours with stories about how inept Fred was at this or that, and how their new gardener ogled her when she sunbathed in her new bikini, or how her young doctor spent just a bit more time than was absolutely necessary examining her breasts. Then came the slow wink, directed at Sarah, as if Fred didn't notice, as she touched Sarah's hand, expecting a knowing wink in return. But Sarah's obvious embarrassment didn't faze Janey. When Sarah declined to respond positively to her crude anecdotes, Janey would counter with, "Aww, c'mon, Honey, us girls have to stick together, don't we?"

Sarah told him Janey was too insensitive and "flamboyant" to be anything more than a pest of a neighbor. Sport pictured her staked across a mound of fire ants while he poured honey over her silicone- stuffed tits. More than once, he imagined her screams as vicious, frantic swarms of tiny red predators consumed her naked, writhing body.

Then, suddenly, he was falling, somersaulting head over heels in the long, soft grass. He landed sprawled on his back, naked, the blanket gone. Caught in a sudden gust of wind, it folded and flapped against itself twice, fluttered in an updraft, and finally came to rest at Janey's feet.

He looked up to see her eyes wander over his pale body, then settle where his dick hung lifelessly between his outstretched legs. It was her grin, that sly, crooked grin, that made his head start to throb again - pounding, pounding - long after he reached the front door and bolted it behind him.

***

"Hi, Mr. B. You look beat. Tough weekend?"

Shannon, his receptionist/secretary beamed her usual wide smile from behind her desk.

"Uh, yeah, kind of, Shannon. I may be coming down with something, maybe a bad cold. I'll be fine."

'Ah, to be twenty-two again,' he mused. She wore the white sweater today, the one with the deep neckline that clung to her like it was custom-knitted with every curve in mind. Shannon was the all- American girl - tall, blonde and tan, with the eternal enthusiasm of a cheerleader. He was mildly surprised when Sarah had hired her. She wasn't the type a wife would ordinarily trust around her husband. After one week he had a new appreciation for Sarah's judge of character. Shannon was never late, handled customers with the utmost tact, and showed a flair for numbers and record-keeping. She kept her private life private, and except for the tastefully flattering clothes, never made her presence a temptation for him, or any of the other employees. She was the perfect assistant, and provided a daily helping of safe, innocent eye-candy to boot.

"Oh, Mr. B., you have a visitor. She's waiting in your office. She's hot, Mr.B. Your taste in customers is improving," she teased.

He smiled, trying not to stare at her cleavage, shook his head, and went inside.

Shayla was in his chair. She leaned back casually as if she owned the office, her long chocolate legs stretching for what seemed like yards in front of her. The brief navy skirt revealed all but six inches of muscular thigh, while the matching jacket narrowed at her long waist, emphasizing full breasts that rose firm and round into the open space above the top button.

"Well, it's about time Sport. How do you stay in business if you don't arrive early every day to watch the help?"

He froze in the doorway, his feet now lead, his heart a racing time- bomb.

"Close the door, Sport. We have your future to discuss, and Sarah's of course."

He sat across from her, in the chair his customers took while listening to his terms and prices. Shayla just smiled, uncrossed and crossed her legs, and smiled wider when she caught him glancing up her skirt.

"Let me explain how our little business meeting will go, Sport. I do the talking, and you shut up and listen. When I finish, and ask for questions, you may speak, but not before. Follow my instructions, and you and your precious Sarah may be together again soon. Open your mouth when you shouldn't, or make trouble of any kind, and, well, believe me, there are horrors that neither of you could possibly imagine.

"I'm your new business partner."

Sport straightened in his chair, his reflexes raising him a few inches off the seat, then nearly bringing him to his feet before Shayla's words stopped him.

"Uh-uh-uhhh, Sport."

She picked up the receiver of his phone, holding it in mid-air on its way to her ear.

"Should I make a call? I could have your darling wife's boob-job undone rather hastily. The doctor is busy these days, but I'm sure Rock would love to give it a try. He's always so eager to play doctor. It might get a bit messy though, not to mention what her little titties might look like, if she survives."

Sport collapsed back into the chair, shaking helplessly with fear and rage.

"Relax Sport. It won't be so bad. Just do as I say. You may even thank me someday.

"Now, I've looked over your books and inventory, and, well, I see potential here. You custom design and manufacture medical appliances and equipment - everything from artificial limbs to wheelchairs and hospital beds. Some very clever stuff, too. And your mail-order business is impressive, to say the least. I think I can be a big help here. Of course, we'll have to trim the inventory some - and I have some interesting plans for your machine shop.

"We'll share your office for the time being. I like this desk, and the chair's nice and comfy, too. Set up one of those small tray-tables where you're sitting. I'll be doing most of the work anyway, and I want to keep an eye on you. Now I'd like a tour of our building. Time to meet the help."

Sport led her through his office, cringing inside each time he introduced Shayla as his new business partner. The looks of surprise and shock on his employees' faces made it even harder. Later, Shayla did her best to win over the men in the shop, then the shipping department. Her suggestive innuendoes and light touches had most of them eating out of her hand after only minutes. Sport saw her making mental notes of the few that were disgusted by her behavior, but most just stared at her legs and breasts.

Lunch had arrived by the time they retired to his office. Shayla had ordered the food from a nearby deli. Sport stared at his small salad while Shayla pulled small white boxes of Chinese takeout from a large paper bag.

"I'm putting you on a diet, Sport. I hope you like salads. From now on, I'll be providing all your meals. And no cheating, or that sweet little wife of yours will end up in pieces."

Shayla sat and watched as he picked at the small mound of lettuce lightly coated with watery, bland dressing. She grinned with satisfaction, then began to feast, the odor of General's Chicken filling the small room.

Sport spent the rest of the day sitting across the room doing absolutely nothing as Shayla raided his computer. She stretched her legs often, opening them just enough to make sure he couldn't miss her firm, plump labia framed by the longest, smoothest inner thighs he had ever seen. As the hours passed, he began to fidget. The hard chair became more uncomfortable. His hands began to tremble. By the end of the day, increasing nervousness had him jumping at the slightest noise.

"Sport!" shouted Shayla.

The sudden command nearly shook him out of his chair.

"What are you looking at, Sport? Answer me!"

She had caught him staring between her open legs, and he stammered nervously, afraid of what would come next.

"So, you like my pussy, Sport? The least you could do is ask to look at it. I might even give you permission."

He just sat there, heart pounding, dreading what was to come.

"Well, go on. Let me hear you ask, Sport. Quickly! I'm easily insulted!"

He gulped, licked his parched lips, and slowly got the words out.

"M-may I please look at your pussy?"

She shook her head as she answered, her voice laced with convincing disgust.

"It's no wonder Sarah was so eager for a real man. You beg for what other men so easily take. Come over here."

Sport rose shakily to his feet. His eyes stayed glued to Shayla's.

"I said get over here, now!"

He crossed the space between them in three rapid steps, stopping at the edge of her desk. She had spread her legs wider, hiking the brief skirt about her hips. He struggled to keep from looking through the glass desktop at her magnificent thighs and the parted, shaved lips nestled between them.

"Take it out, Sport."

He stared blankly, his heart pounding.

"Your dick, Sport, your dick. Take it out. Let me see it."

His hand shook as he lowered the zipper of his slacks and fished the limp worm of flesh from its hiding place. Shayla reached forward and gently grasped the head between thumb and fingers, rolling and tugging as she watched his reaction. She lowered her other hand to her crotch, first spreading the plump lips with two fingers, then inserting a third inside. Slowly, deliberately, she penetrated herself, with each stroke withdrawing just enough to display the glistening juices that coated the single long digit. She smiled as his erection grew.

"You'd love some of this, wouldn't you, Sport? Your dick says you'd sacrifice your precious little Sarah for it. How do you think she'd feel? You're obviously as easy as she is. But still, betrayal can be the most difficult of life's surprises to accept. Would she hate you for it? Could she ever erase the pain delivered in an instant, like a sudden knife through the heart?"

His cock responded to her touch, growing longer and harder with each careful trace of her long, pearly nails. He hated himself for the betrayal, but found her touch impossible to resist. His knees shook. His trembling hands grasped the edge of the desk. As he stared at her cunt through the glass, he could feel his belt being undone, the slow inching of his slacks over his hips, and finally, her invading hands around his sac, pulling all of his sex into the cool office air.

"So, the answer to your question Sport, is, yes, you can look at my pussy. Get a good look. Memorize every detail. Imagine how tight and hot it might feel around your insignificant little prick, and then cum in my hand, knowing that Sarah would welcome the same from any man."

He wouldn't. He couldn't. He closed his eyes as Shayla's hands milked him. Sarah's face stared back at him in the darkness, dark hair flowing over delicate, bare shoulders. Shayla's voice purred in the background.

"You're nothing to her now, Sport. She's had a hundred men better than you."

He felt the urgency build in his testicles, then spread slowly through his belly and cock. Sarah's face was replaced with disturbing images - her legs wrapped tightly around a biker in their own bedroom, her thighs shuddering as her naked body jerked and spasmed in a cage suspended over a cheering crowd, and finally, silhouetted by a dying bonfire, her small body eagerly rising and falling on Rock's massive cock, willingly flaunting her own betrayal...

"Oh, Rock...it feels so good...so big and hard inside me... oh God, you're so huge...sooo good, Rock...so fucking good... fuck me, Rock...fuck me harder...you're making me cum, Rock... I'm cumming now, Rock. . . "

Shayla's hand tightened around his balls, drawing him closer, forcing him to lean forward over the desk. She circled the head of his cock with her fingertip, scraping away the expanding droplet of sticky fluid as her nail grazed the sensitive opening.

"Let her go, Sport. If she feels anything for you at all, it's contempt, or worse, pity. She's starving for everything you're not. Cum for me, Sport. Show me I'm right. Forget the little slut. It's what she wants. It's what you want. Trust me..."

He felt the long, tortured moan rise from deep in his chest, then burst from his lips as though it was another man's voice.

"Nooooo, oh God, nooooo..."

His hips rocked forward. He could feel the semen surging on its way from his belly to where Shayla's fingers stroked his penis, now hard and urgent in her exquisite hand. Behind his clenched eyelids, Sarah's face stared back in disbelief. A large tear formed at the corner of her eye, then raced over her cheek as a second formed behind it.

Shayla smiled as he delivered the spoonful of cum in her hand, arriving in three small spurts. Three. She counted them. Such a small offering. Yet, to Sport, it was much more. It was his defeat, and the betrayal of his love for Sarah, a love that connected them like a fraying thread.

He tried to pull away from the edge of the desk, but Shayla snugged the fingers of her left hand around his sac, countering with just enough resistance to keep him close. After milking the last drops of semen from his cock, she opened her right hand, raising it to offer him a better view.

"I see now why you never had children, Sport. Just look at this tiny little puddle of cum. You do everything in such a small way, don't you."

Sport glanced down at the semen she had won from him, now barely wetting her open palm.

"What should we do with this, Sport? Any ideas?"

He knew what was coming, and let his revulsion show as he looked into her eyes.

"Mmmm, yes, I thought about that, Sport, but it would be so degrading, don't you think? I mean, the homoerotic implications alone are enough to send most real men screaming from the room. On the other hand, it could be a valuable learning experience. Wouldn't you like to know what it's like to be on the receiving end for a change? You may even learn to like the taste of it. Isn't that what men fantasize about - that we'll grow savor the taste of your cum so much that we can't get enough of it?"

His body shook violently and uncontrollably. Nausea rose from deep in his gut as her hand tightened around his testicles, drawing him closer over the desk. His face was inches from her outstretched hand, close enough to see the moist crevices between her fingers, and to smell the faint odor of his semen that spread slowly over her palm.

"I sense you're not open to my offer of self-enlightenment, Sport. I should have known. What were the words that Sarah used to describe your sexual prowess to Rock? 'Tediously domestic', I believe. Although 'tame', 'dull', and 'unimaginative' also come to mind. She does tend to babble on while she's riding a sturdy cock. So, consider this your first assignment from your new boss. Lick, Sport. I'll tell you when to stop."

As his employees' cars filed past the office window at the end of their work day, Sport licked, then continued to feast on each of Shayla's long, brown fingers, sucking one after another into his mouth as she buried her hand between her legs. Her body stiffened for a second as a sudden, quiet sigh escaped her, then relaxed as her full lips tightened into a wide smile. The smile became a snicker, then a laugh that shook her muscular body from wide shoulders to shapely calves, a laugh that echoed painfully through Sport's throbbing head.

Too loud...... Too loud......

---

Chapter 14

Sport's drive home wasn't much better than the rest of his day. After missing his exit, he nearly ran another car off the highway trying to catch the next one. His hands shook, and he had trouble focusing on the traffic ahead. Assuming hunger was the culprit, he stopped to grab a burger and a shake as he doubled back to his neighborhood. Shayla had warned him not cheat on his new diet, but hell, how would the bitch ever know? Two blocks from his house, he spotted the red and blue flashing lights of a police cruiser in his mirror. The officer eyed him with suspicion as Sport stammered and fumbled with his wallet, then wrote a ticket for $350.

"Watch your speed, Bud. There are kids in this neighborhood - I clocked you at 58. You were probably going faster."

He sat for a while after the policeman pulled away, trying to calm himself, now thinking only about the hunger that gnawed at him and the aroma of the double burger escaping from the paper bag on the seat beside him. But the drugs Shayla added to his lunch-time salad still coursed through his system. She had access to a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals, many developed and used during her partnership with Finch. Sport's salad dressing contained a cocktail of a powerful, long-lasting amphetamine and a dash of designer hormone which powerfully enhanced libido and erection in males. The third ingredient was Shayla's proudest achievement - SSRA. A distorted analogue of the SSRIs used to treat depression, her "selective serotonin reuptake accelerator" gradually eroded the subject's will and self-esteem while slowly smothering him with hopeless depression. As much as he was tempted to devour the filling fast food then and there, the nervousness and fear that nagged at him overpowered his hunger, and he headed for the safety of home, away from any more trouble that may come his way.

Once home, he entered the darkened house through the garage and headed for the kitchen. He fumbled for the light switch, then found it, squinting as the overhead fluorescents filled the room with blazing white.

"Oh good, I see you've brought my dinner."

Janey sat at the kitchen table. She took a long drag on her cigarette, smiled her crooked smile, reaching for the paper bag clenched tightly in Sport's shaking hand. She leaned back in the chair as if she owned it, legs crossed, dress hiked far enough above the knee to show plenty of perfect thigh. The gaudy floral pattern did little to hide two hard mounds of breast which clung to her slim torso like ripe, oversized grapefruits. Sport couldn't help thinking she was the consummate poster-girl for cosmetic surgery.

"I met a friend of yours today. Sounds like you're in deep shit to me. Anyway, I know about your diet. So, if you hand over the food, maybe I won't go running to Shayla just yet."

Sport stood motionless, feet glued to the floor. He had never considered Shayla would go this far. And Janey, of all people. All hope seemed to drain from him, just as the color drained from his face. The room started to spin. He was moving forward, flashes of her wicked smile and bare thighs filling his field of vision, until he was only a few feet away. He released the paper sack immediately when she pulled it from his hand, apprehension now replacing hunger. Janey brought him the familiar salad from the refrigerator and ordered him to sit. It was a much larger serving than Shayla had provided at lunch, but after picking through the contents of the deep bowl, he found little but shredded lettuce swimming in a pool of thick, translucent dressing. It tasted of garlic and a tantalizing mix of spices, and strangely seemed to soothe his hunger a little more with each spoonful - so he ate quickly, scraping every last drop from the bottom of the bowl.

"I always suspected you were cheating on Sarah. You men are all alike. Every time she made an excuse to avoid a dinner invitation, I knew you were really behind it, trying to keep us apart. And don't even try to deny it. I saw you with that little blonde slut the other day when she dropped you out front. You could have at least put some clothes on.

"I'm not surprised that Sarah left you. She should have done it a long time ago. A girl like Sarah could have any man she wants. Shayla told me how hurt she was, and how she pleaded with Shayla to teach you a lesson. But, hell, I'm not complaining. Things couldn't have worked out better for me. Punishing you will be almost as satisfying as punishing my ex."

His nerves frayed to the breaking point from the drugs and Shayla's day-long abuse, Sport shoved the empty bowl across the table and glared at her.

"You don't know Sarah! You don't know anything about us! Sarah didn't like you any more than I do - in fact, we did everything we could to avoid your mind-numbing tirades and trashy friends! Oh, and about Shayla - you really don't know Shayla. She's not your friend. You have no idea what she is, or what you've stumbled into!"

Even as his anger rose to a rolling boil, he couldn't look away from her creamy thighs as she uncrossed and crossed them again. And worse, his erection had returned, cramped and urgent, straining behind the fly of his slacks. He jumped from the chair and took a step toward her, hoping that some physical action might shake him from the effect she had on him.

"Now get the fuck out of our house, you tacky bitch!"

Janey smiled at him. She reached out with a single digit and traced a firm straight line over his pants along outline of his swollen cock.

"Ohh, you're so cute when you're angry! But I think you like me a lot more than you let on, honey."

Her tits seemed to grow behind the flowered dress. They were so full and round. Perfect - with pouting nipples that hardened before his eyes, as if to tease him, to make sure he saw that only a flimsy layer of material stood between her flesh and his shaking hands.

Then, escaping from an instant of lust and indecision, he grabbed her wrist, jerked her from the chair, and dragged her kicking and screaming to the door.

"You son of bitch! You gonna hit me, big man? Slap me around a little? That's what you men do when do don't get your way, isn't it. Go ahead, hit me, you prick! Maybe you beat Sarah, but-"

He shoved her hard through the open door. She tripped and landed on her ass, the reds and oranges of her dress gathered about her slim waist, smooth inner thighs splayed wide in the light that spilled through the kitchen doorway. Sport feasted on the sight between them, a narrow space almost covered by transparent red panties, plump cunt-lips moist with juices that seeped from the parted slit between them.

"You'll be sorry! Just wait, you'll be - "

Sport slammed the door, freeing himself from the maddening voice and the flesh his body struggled to resist.

***

Sport was at work thirty minutes early the next morning. He slept little the previous night, waking every hour from a restless sleep. Half way to work, he slipped off the freeway, gorged himself with a fast food breakfast, then continued on, remembering that Shayla expected him there early each day to greet her when she arrived.

She was already in his office when he arrived, sitting back in his chair with her long legs propped up on the desk. Her dark skirt was even shorter than the day before, and she made no attempt to hide the dark, plump labia on display inches above the hem.

"Relax, Sport. You're not late. And for the last time, I'm warning you to ask politely before staring at my pussy."

He tore his eyes away and looked her in the face. She waited for his answer. He knew too well what she expected form him.

"P-please Shayla, m-may I look at your pussy?"

A familiar voice came from behind him.

"Take a good look, Sport. If you don't wise up, it may be the last cunt you'll ever see."

The words spun him around. Rock stood behind him, with a scowl that promised trouble. He moved closer, stopping a foot from Sport's face. Then there was that grin again, much like the first time Rock had peered into his car window.

Sport didn't see the blow that doubled him over. It caved in his stomach, then took his breath away. The pain came within seconds, followed by the violent vomiting that spewed his breakfast across the office floor. The second punch came before he had a chance to recover. The force of it knocked him to the floor. Gasping for breath, he rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself from another blow.

"A friend of ours said you weren't very nice to her last night. She said you were rude. She said you assaulted her. That really pisses me off."

The toe of Rock's boot landed squarely between Sport's legs. The force of it sent pain racing through his body. He rolled onto his back moaning, hands clutched over his balls.

Sport watched Rock's heavy boots step closer, then gasped as Rock took him by the hair, pulling his face closer.

"It's so easy, dude. Just do what the ladies tell you to do. How hard can that be, even for someone like you? Now, tell me you'll behave. Let's hear it, Sport, or the next time I'll cut your nuts off."

Fear and nausea overwhelming him, he nodded two quick nods.

"I said tell me, you pussy. Let's hear it!"

"I-I'll behave. I'll behave, I promise," he croaked.

Rock looked down at him with disgust.

"Fuckin' wimp. I still oughta kick the shit out of you."

Shayla appeared beside him, placing a firm hand on Rock's bulging forearm.

"Let's wait and see if he's learned anything today," Shayla cooed. "He's such a pathetic little thing. I doubt he'll give us any more trouble. If he does, I'll let you finish him off, any way you like."

Shayla smiled down at Sport. He could see up her skirt again as she stood over him. Her slit stood open, its red center now shiny and wet.

"Agreed Sport?"

The pain caused his voice to waver.

"O-OK, S-Shayla."

When Rock let go of his hair, his head dropped back onto the floor with a crack. Rock wore a nasty smirk as he headed for the door.

"Stupid fuck. I'll be back. You can count on it."

Shayla helped him to his feet. She drew him close to her, holding him in her arms while he sobbed against the exposed valley between her firm breasts.

"Shhh, now, now, you'll be alright. Just do things my way from now on, and you won't have to suffer. Be a good boy and I'll see that Rock never hurts you again. I promise. OK?"

Sport nodded, his face still buried in Shayla's chest.

She clutched his shoulders and moved him away, holding him at arm's length.

"You must be starved."

Shayla glanced at the mess on the floor.

"From now on, please stick to your diet. Had Rock known about it, he might have seriously hurt you. Promise?"

Sport looked up at her with eyes full of tears and defeat, and nodded.

"Good boy. Now, let's get you some breakfast."

***

In the days and weeks that followed, Sport watched helplessly as Shayla took the reins of his business. His employees watched just as helplessly as she ingratiated herself to some, and fired the rest. Those who remained were easy prey for her wiles. They stared at her achingly gorgeous body and face as she made swift daily changes to their routine, never questioning, never objecting to the next order as it slipped from her wide, full lips.

Sport continued to show up for work, on time, at first terrified to disobey Shayla, then, after a while, arrived blank and sullen, taking his chair in the corner each day as she smiled cruelly at him, demanding that he tell her every detail of the night before. And as much as Shayla owned his days, Janey now owned his nights. She was there every night when he stepped in the door, readying his special dinner of drug-laced salad, as condescending and insulting as ever. As the drugs did their work, Sport's mind lost all defense against her rants. As hard as he tried to filter her lies from the unending barrage of sarcastic banter, a few would always slip through, finding some small niche in his brain that would nurse them into planted truths and memories of Sarah and their past life together.

In time, Sport began to accept an undeserved guilt for losing Sarah. He worshiped her as an icon of physical perfection, but was eventually persuaded by Shayla and Janey that he was unworthy of her attention or love. As he slept, his drug-laced dreams were of a Sarah who ignored him, a golden goddess who could pick and choose cocks of more deserving men to satisfy her. She was the ultimate essence of raw, feminine sexuality, sacred and desirable, but impossibly, and rightfully, out of his reach.

Existing on a diet of drug-laced salads and protein drinks, Sport's weight plummeted from 190 pounds to 140 as the weeks dragged on. The rumor among his employees was that he had cancer, but no one dared to ask. When his clothes began to sag on his rail-thin frame, Shayla came to the rescue.

"I have a present for you, Sport," she told him one day as he headed for his corner chair. He stopped and turned to her, eyeing the large white bag on her desk. Shayla shook her head and sighed.

"Well, open it, Sport. I run a business here - I don't have all day."

He went to her desk and slid the contents onto glass desktop. Just below, his eyes were drawn to her firm, slim legs, stretched to their amazing full length, the smooth chocolate skin beckoning him to touch her. Shayla caught him looking, and spread her hands over the glass, blocking his view.

"There'll be time for that later, Sport. Do you think I want you to touch me this early in the morning? Ugh - it's enough to make me lose my breakfast. Pay attention, Sport! Concentrate! Your present, remember? Honestly, I don't know how you were ever able to run this business."

He unfolded the items and held them up, one by one, before her. At first he didn't understand - a few pair of red spandex bicycle shorts, some T-shirts in a variety of pink and purple pastels, and a pair of white tennis shoes with pink eyelets.

"Well, do you like them?" Shayla asked, grinning slyly.

"I-I don't know - are they - you want me to wear this?"

"Of course, Sport! Why else would I waste my hard-earned money on you?"

"B-but, I can't wear these - I mean, I can't be seen in these - people would think - "

"What, Sport? That you're a sissy? That you're not a man? They'd be right, wouldn't they? Your own wife thinks so. Sarah never saw you as a real man. She told you that, more than once, remember?"

Sport struggled with past memories, trying to sort out the real from the imagined. In his mind, Sarah's face, the face he used to know, framed by soft, dark hair, was replaced in an instant by Barbie's big blonde hair and pouty red lips. And then the lips were moving, the words sultry and wanton.

"Ummm, I want you Rock, I want a real man, a real man who can put his big hard cock inside me. Not like him! He was never a man! He could never make me cum like you do! Never! Never!"

She was pointing at Sport, shouting at him, accusing him of the very thing Shayla had told him. In the end, he no longer knew what Sarah had said, but the words seemed so familiar, and came back to him so easily. He had probably just forgotten them.

"Well, Sport, what are you waiting for? Try them on! Let's get a good look at the new you!"

"B-but, here? At work? What will everyone - "

"I run this company now, not you. No one cares, Sport. Not anymore. No one will even notice."

Sport knew she was right, but the truth still hit him like a sledge hammer. He didn't even know most of the employees anymore. Shayla had hired new workers to replace anyone who thought about objecting to the changes she brought. She hired a new engineer to replace Sport's life-long friend, and he couldn't lift a finger to stop her. She called him Spike, and he quickly went about changing the product line from hospital beds and wheelchairs to sex paraphernalia of every size and shape. She had tripled the company's income in a month while Sport sat drugged in his corner, fidgeting nervously with a constant erection, staring up her skirt. It was what he lived for now - to watch her, to touch her, to please her. And in return, she would take care of him, protect him from Rock. And that was all that mattered.

Sport undressed in front of Shayla, his sense of modesty erased long ago by her skillful manipulations. When he reached for a pair of the spandex shorts, Shayla stopped him.

"You can't wear briefs under spandex, Sport! I hate panty lines. It's why I never wear them myself. You wouldn't want to look up my skirt and see panties instead of my bare pussy, would you, Sport?"

Sport got the message and stripped off his underwear. He reached for the shorts again, and again Shayla stopped him. She couldn't help but stare. His body had become wire-thin and soft, almost boyish in appearance. In contrast, his ever- present erection jutted forward, as hard and urgent as a sixteen-year-old's. It was a strange sight, she thought, this boy-man she had created. How bizarre he looked - such weak, androgynous, impotent flesh flaunting the rigid, pulsing organ that seemed oddly out of place, so wasted on such a pathetic excuse of a man. Her creation brought her pleasure, and she smiled at him.

"Turn around for me, slowly. I want to look at you."

Sport did as she said, hoping that if he pleased her, she might reward him. As he continued to turn for her, she watched, still amused by the outlandish sight.

"Is your little prick always hard?" she asked him casually as he stopped to face her.

"Yes - I don't know why, but it is," he answered.

Shayla smiled wider. "I think it's because you can't stop thinking about me. Isn't that right? Do you want to fuck me with your little prick? Come on, you can tell me. I won't bite."

Sport tried to process her question, but his mind short-circuited. Would agreeing bring Rock's boot to his groin? Would declining be taken as an insult to Shayla? She had become his protector, the one safe place in his life where he could go for both comfort and the touch of a woman's flesh, however limited it might be. Could he dare hope for sex with her?

"I-I want to, but I shouldn't," he finally muttered, looking down at his bare feet.

"And why shouldn't you?" Shayla asked, smiling as she guided their conversation to its usual end.

"Because you probably want men like Rock, not like me. You wouldn't enjoy it."

"And why do you think that, Sport?"

"Because women want that, women want - "

"Women, Sport? What women? Be specific. How do you know what women want? Tell me, Sport. How do you know?"

Sport shivered as he stood naked in the air-conditioned office. Shayla kept it cold, especially in the summer. But he shivered just as much from what he saw as he looked down over his pale, emaciated body, the outrageous erection ever- present, but the flesh so soft and afraid. The images again flooded his mind, and he told her what she wanted to hear, what he now accepted as the truth.

"Sarah wanted him. She wanted him instead of me. I know because she left me for men like that. I couldn't be that for her - I never can be. So I can't be that for you, either."

Shayla smiled again and stretched her legs under the glass desk, letting her skirt ride high enough to tease him with a glimpse of her naked slit. She marveled at how simple it had been to break him, to convert this once proud husband of a beautiful woman into a weak, fearful shell of a man. She wondered how far he would go for her, to what depths of perversion he might descend for her. The possibilities made her wet as her mind raced with twisted flashes of depravity. If only there was time.

"Get dressed, Sport. You're insight is right on target, as usual. And, the sight of you naked isn't exactly stirring my appetite for sex, with a man, that is. I want to take a tour of the shop this morning, and you can come along, to take notes."

Sport shivered again as he thought of having to face the employees in the clothes Shayla had brought him. He dressed slowly, pulling the tight red spandex shorts up over his bobbing erection, then stretching a small pink T- shirt over his head and shoulders, tugging at it until it covered his thin chest and belly like a second skin. After lacing and tying the white tennis shoes, he stood up and faced her, afraid to think of the sight she must be enjoying. Shayla got up and went to him, this time circling him with slow, enticing steps, her hips swaying maddeningly beneath the tiny skirt. She stopped in front of him, looking down at the obvious outline of his erection under the spandex. Then looking up, directly into his eyes, she traced a path over his cock with a single finger, her finely-manicured nail grazing the underside of it, then moving slowly over the head until she felt the spandex grow moist with a droplet of the fluid she coaxed from him.

"Now, you really don't want to fuck me, do you Sport?" she whispered, still circling her nail over the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum into an ever- widening spot on the front of his shorts. He was shaking, trying to contain the orgasm that threatened to explode from deep within his gut. His eyes were locked on hers, his body nearly out of control, but still, the fear of Rock's boot paralyzed him.

"P-please, no, I don't, I mean, I know you don't want me to - I know you want..."

Shayla suddenly burst into laughter, then carefully wiped her finger clean on the front of Sport's T-shirt. Turning back to her desk, she picked up a large clipboard and handed it to him. "Come on, Sport. Let's see what our people are up to this morning. I'm sure you're eager to give them a good look at the new you!"

Shayla led him around the shop, using all her wiles to ensure her new employees stayed compliant and loyal. Her smile melted every man she spoke to, and her mesmerizing voice had even the women eating out of her hands. Sport used the clipboard to try to hide his erection, but everyone's eyes were drawn to his new outfit, and as Shayla ordered him to take notes while they gave her their comments and suggestions, howls of laughter rose from the back of the shop. For her grand finale, Shayla called everyone together for one of her pep-talks, took the clipboard from Sport, and let everyone have a good long look. She ignored the sniggering and whispers as she talked, glancing at Sports' erection now and then to make sure her audience got the message.

Whatever Sport had become, there was no question that Shayla was the boss, both theirs and his. But there were plenty of questions about Sport's sanity, as well as his apparent betrayal of Sarah. The few that still knew him either pitied him or wrote him off. Only Shannon continued to treat him with her familiar brand of acceptance and respect, smiling her gorgeous smile at him every morning, checking on him throughout the day, and always remembering to give him a cheery goodbye at closing. In time, she became his only anchor to reality, and to the past. In a world gone mad, Shannon's presence was the only thing that hadn't gone mad with it. She was the one and only bright spot in day after day of increasing hopelessness and depression.

As the drugs Shayla fed him did their work, Sport withdrew from their world into one where Shayla was the only safe refuge from the encroaching depression and fear. And those nights when Sarah came to him in his dreams, a strange pleasure filled him as he put her hand in Rock's, then watched as the rugged biker took her, using her perfect body the way she deserved, as only a real man could.

---

Chapter 15

In Sport's world, the weeks that followed seemed like years. Ever increasing dosages of Shayla's drugs made his body twitch constantly and deepened his depression. Mindlessly submitting to Shayla at work all day followed by servicing Janey at night became his life. Sleep came to him in restless fits of unconsciousness, always plagued by nightmares of Sarah and Rock together with Shayla's commanding voice laughing in the background. He had even lost the ability to orgasm, thanks to the drugs, but that still didn't stop Janey from torturing him by fingering his erection as she verbally humiliated him. "What a shame," she'd tell him over and over as she stroked him. "Such a hard dick attached to such a useless excuse of a man." But by that time, Sport knew no humiliation. Janey's words settled in through layers of fatigue as an accepted truth. In fact, the final surrender was calming to Sport - once he let his resistance drift away, his frayed nerves nagged at him a little less, and a little less anxiety was a considerable level of relief. What remained was the relentless sexual frustration accompanied by an erection that constantly throbbed for relief, an itch that could never be scratched as long as Shayla's drugs saturated his frail body.

It was a Monday morning like most other Mondays, except that his weekend with Janey had been particularly unpleasant. She had invited her friends over, two women in impeccable white tennis outfits who also wore predictably cruel smiles. Sport tried not to stare at their athletic figures, at the long, suntanned legs bared beneath short white pleated skirts. When they caught him looking, they giggled uncontrollably, pointing to his erection that bulged obscenely beneath his spandex shorts. Janey had ordered him to strip, and one of the women wanted to see him dance. Sport felt his erection bob in all directions as he tried his best, but he was no dancer, and his amateurish hopping and wiggling made the women laugh until tears streaked over their faces. Afterward, they each stroked and pulled at his cock in a contest to see who could make him cum. Janey stood by and gloated with the secret knowledge that it was a competition that could never be won. It was a new low, even in Sport's world.

When he arrived at the office, he noticed Shannon wasn't there to greet him. Her unexpected absence was suddenly more than a passing curiosity. Although her fresh-faced smile and cheery, "Hi, Mr. B!" always lifted his spirits a bit as he passed by on his way to Shayla's office, he had never realized how it was the nudge that got him through Shayla's door each morning, and through the rest of day. He paused a second, felt the emptiness close in around him a bit more than most days, then went to Shayla's door and opened it.

"Well, it's about time, pussy-boy. Come in and join the party."

Rock stood a few feet in front of him, hands on his hips, grinning as though he was savoring in advance some obscene joke that Sport had yet to comprehend. As he stepped aside, Sport stared in horror at the scene before him. Behind Shayla's desk stood a gleaming chrome framework of steel and leather, an elaborate scaffold designed to accommodate the human form in an endless variety of positions. The body contained within it was one of bronzed perfection, the firm young thighs held in place by padded leather bands, the flat quivering belly stretched taught as the structure seemed to breathe in subtle movements that mimicked a living entity. Tiny sensors and motors guided agile appendages that clasped her arms and legs, moving in a bizarre dance that seemed only partly voluntary, a perverse ballet of flesh and machine. Shayla stood between her legs, staring at the flexible snake of silicone that weaved and probed within the light patch of golden pubic hair now wet with arousal. Shayla rested her hand on her belly, smiling at the immediate response, a returned loving gaze from within the machine. Slowly, the gaze moved to Sport, but changed from adoration to derision. As Shannon's blue eyes met his, her full lips curled into a warped smile that betrayed everything she had been to him.

Shayla looked up at Sport and smiled a kinder smile. "Sport, you look like you've seen a ghost," she said. Her tone was almost genuine; enough so to reach the part of Sport that relied on her for security in times of doubt and confusion. "Oh my, you didn't think she saw you as anything but a weak and pathetic creature, did you? Really Sport, if you imagined she considered you anything slightly more than that, maybe you need more training."

Shannon closed her eyes and moaned as the machine lifted her hips up into the jittering probe between her thighs. Shayla moved her hand upward over the fluttering stomach, finally cupping a large full breast in her palm. "Now Shannon, my Sweet, who do you live to please? Who makes your little cunt drip? Tell us, my Sweet. Tell us." But the only reply was a more drawn-out moan from the young girl, a confession of surrender to her master, but not one of her master's identity.

Sport watched in stunned disbelief as Shannon tensed her stomach and tilted her hips forward and up, straining to suck the thin, agile phallus inside her. As though sensing her intent, the machine exaggerated her movements, guiding her hips upward in a quick, almost violent succession of thrusts while the rubbery probe teased her with a series of shallow penetrations calculated to excite, but not to satisfy. Beads of sweat formed over her breasts and belly, finally wetting the leather pads that supported her. She seemed to be a living part of the machine, her damp, smooth skin so like the slick, shiny leather - her lean, tanned arms and legs the warm blood and nerves that gave life to the slender steel rods and purring motors.

Shayla stood beside her, gently scraping the long, manicured nail of her index finger over Shannon's turgid nipple. "You mustn't be shy, my Sweet. Tell me what you want." Shayla's voice was velvety and soothing, more of a purr than a command. "Do you want someone to finish you? Do you want to cum, my Sweet?"

"Yesssss...," Shannon hissed, her eyes still closed, concentrating, as though she might try to trigger her orgasm by sheer will alone.

"Who do you want, my Sweet? Who makes you cum harder than anyone ever has? Who do you live to please?"

Shannon's eyes drifted open, then scanned the room slowly.

"Him," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I want him."

A familiar, sick revulsion settled in Sport's gut as he watched the scene before him. Shannon's eyes were fixed on Rock, her full lips moist and parted. Her body, her face, her words - all had become a betrayal to Sport. The innocence and empathy Sport had come to love in her was gone, replaced by twisted sexual obsession for the same grinning biker who had so easily taken Sarah from him, the very same animal that had spawned Sarah's unquenchable addiction for satisfaction from "bigger", "better" men. "She's not Sarah," a distant, feeble voice within him warned. "She's not Sarah". But the fragile, unraveling thread to reality was a droplet of reason in an ocean of delusion and defeat. It was overwhelmed and silenced in an instant.

Shannon babbled wildly as Rock approached her. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she whimpered and thrashed against the machine. Rock moved between her outstretched legs, lowered his jeans, and leaned over her, balancing his weight on the polished chrome supports.

Shannon was crying openly, begging him to enter her, begging him to use her, begging for things Sport had never imagined coming from her perfect, pink lips. As the head of his cock inched inside her, two slippery, spaghetti-like appendages caressed her lower belly, then slid maddeningly lower, nestling along each side of her swollen clitoris where they writhed like miniature snakes. As Rock forced his cock into her, the life-like machine-tentacles read her response to their touch and refined their dance, coaxing and lifting the pink bud of flesh until the two slithering fingers held the rubbery meat of her clit in a swirling, throbbing embrace.

Shannon came within seconds. Her arms and legs shuddered within the confines of the machine as her climax approached. The sudden onset of spasms that rippled through her body overwhelmed the machine's ability to interpret them and respond, wrenching her lithe arms and legs in a rapid succession of halting, random excursions that delivered brief twinges of pain to straining tendons and ligaments within her fragile body. The confused tendrils that encircled her clitoris collided and retreated, slashing and stabbing between moments of their maddening feather touch.

Sport watched with an odd mix of desire and disgust. Shannon's tanned body convulsed in orgasm before his eyes. Exquisitely toned muscles flexed and stretched beneath the velvet golden skin of her legs and belly. Silken hair covered much of her face, revealing only her full, wide mouth. Her moist lips were parted, but far from the way he remembered them when she greeted him at work each day. Now she had become this unimaginable sexual creature of tantalizing flesh and gleaming steel, lost in a bizarre, frenzied dance of lust that she craved but could no longer control.

Rock stood over her wearing an amused grin as the machine-girl thrashed and moaned. Her sex swallowed him so perfectly while in the embrace of the machine that he simply stood between her legs and let her do all the work. Her hips were guided forward and upward in a precise arc, measured and refined to the shape and size of his rigid cock. When he saw her wince in pain as the machine tried to amplify her orgasm, his grin widened, and he fought the urge to come in her on the spot.

It was only after her orgasm subsided that Rock began his slow, even strokes, merely grinning down at her as she lay recovering in the still-pulsating network of rods and beams. When she didn't respond, he began to batter her with his cock, shaking the machine as he plowed into her limp, twitching body.

"How 'bout that, you little bitch? That what you want? All of it at once, like - THAT! Aw fuck yeah, I'm gonna do you till you're raw, bitch. How d'ya like it NOW - like THAT! C'mon you little pig, squeal for it! Beg for it! THAT's how you like it, right?"

Rock pounded her with his hips, his cock pistoning into her with sudden violent thrusts. Shannon lay in the machine, unmoving, her head fallen to one side as she stared blankly into space. Her body was now like a marionette with half the strings severed. Nervous reflexes from Rock's assault were amplified by the machine, causing her body to move in a combination of erratic random jerks and unpredictable spasms.

Sport looked on helplessly as Rock's body tensed, his pace slowed, and his groan filled the office. Seconds seemed like minutes to Sport, minutes like hours. Finally, Rock pulled his cock from the broken doll of a girl strapped to the machine before him. Shannon lay quivering within the machine, dazed and barely breathing. Sport's hatred of Rock began to boil within him, just as his sympathy for Shannon became overwhelming. Then, when a wide, satisfied smile grew across Shannon's face, he began to sob uncontrollably.

Rock wheeled to face Sport. In seconds, his look of disbelief turned to one of disgust. Seething with anger, Rock headed straight for Sport, his jaw set, his fist clenched into a tight ball of muscle and bone. Sport stepped backward, his face a picture of pure horror. Just as Sport's eyes met Shayla's in a last- minute plea for help, Rock's fist slammed into his stomach with a sickening thud. He fell to his knees, eyes bulging, his stomach a cauldron of nausea that threatened to erupt at any second.

"Awww, look at that," Rock said, his all-to-familiar sneer locked on Sport. "Gonna be her hero, big guy? Think she would ever want a wimp like you? Tell ya what - I'll fight you for her - well, what's left of her. You gotta remember how I ruined your sweet little wife the first time I fucked her, right? This one's no different. She's the same kind of whore, all fresh and pretty on the outside..." Rock reached out and grabbed a fist-full of Sport's hair, his wild- eyed stare inches from Sport's face. "...all stupid, cock-hungry cunt on the inside. I thought I taught you that once. Now I gotta show your sorry ass all over again."

Sport's stomach caved inward as Rock's second blow knocked him to the floor. He began to vomit as his head hit the floor with a sharp crack. Sick and disoriented, his head pounding with a dull, distant pain, Sport remained conscious of only one thing - his hatred of Rock, amplified by the biker's revolting laughter that rang through the room. Slowly, using every once of energy he could rally, Sport pushed himself to his knees. He struggled to keep his balance, his body shaking violently, his hands clenched into fists at his side. He glared up at Rock, up at the laughing giant who had destroyed his life.

"S-she never l-loved y-you," Sport uttered haltingly as he strained to stay upright on his knees. "S-she never..."

Rock's boot carried all the power his massive leg could deliver. When it landed between Sport's legs, he collapsed backward onto the floor, groaning, then whimpering, tears of defeat streaming over his face. Now Sport's world was one of pain and loss, nothing else. Minutes ago a spark of resistance had still existed, a tiny flame that had become his only remaining connection to Sarah, the Sarah that he knew, Sarah, his wife. As dim as it had become, it was still there, almost unreachable, but there just the same. As skilled and relentless as Shayla's attempts to extinguish it had become, they merely pushed it farther into the distance. Lying there in his own vomit, in his own well of certain destruction, Sport felt it vanish as suddenly as if Rock had snuffed the flame between his thumb and finger. At that instant, he began to sob.

Rock stood over him, his laughter turned to a disgusted smirk.

"Faggot's no fun anymore. He just lays there. I say, kill him."

Shayla's footsteps came closer, the click, click, click of her black stilettos a familiar, welcome sound to Sport.

"Sorry, but it's not our call. I've found another plaything for you. See if she has a boyfriend. We can use some fresh meat."

Shayla's voice was now cold and calculating, no longer the refuge that Sport knew so well. Click, click, click - she was coming closer, so close to him now. Sport opened his eyes in time to see her kneeling beside him. Her blouse opened to reveal large, chocolate breasts as she leaned over him. So perfect, he thought. He had never been allowed to touch them. He saw the syringe in her hand, bright and glittering under the fluorescent lights of his former office.

"Ugh...he stinks," she complained as she lowered the syringe to the side of his neck. "I think he shit himself."

She looked into his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"Disgusting..." she whispered. Shayla stabbed the needle into his neck, pushed the plunger to the bottom of the barrel, and Sport's world went black.

***

The old warehouse was deserted at 2:00 AM. On the loading dock, shallow puddles reflected stray light from a single bulb mounted on a rusting sheet metal wall. Rain fell in a light mist, coating concrete and steel in a fever sweat of things sick and dying. Two burly men stood just inside the wide roll-up door. They stared impatiently into the foggy night.

"Gotta wonder where these sick fucks send this stuff," the fatter of the two men said, as though he might be talking to himself. His stained t-shirt barely covered the mound of gut that hung over the top of his jeans.

"None of yer damn business," the second man answered. "Like always, I take the money and git the hell outta here. If you ain't up to it, go ahead and leave - I'll take your share." He looked over at his accomplice and grinned.

"Fuck you," the fatter man answered, and went back to staring into the night.

Outside, at the edge of the dock, two large wire cages sat in the chilly rain. As usual, each cage held a naked, unconscious body, one male, one female. Both were placed inside crouching on hands and knees, their ankles and wrists tied to the wire, although the cages were too small to allow much if any movement. They appeared to be sleeping, their heads resting on the thick leather pads beneath them, their breathing slow and shallow.

"Did you get a good look at her?" the fatter man asked. "Mm, mm, mm, she's really somethin'."

"Yeah, yeah," the second man growled. "Whatta you gonna do, ask her for a date?"

"Heh, well, maybe you like the other one better."

"Right. Fuck you."

Sport shivered, partially rousing from his drug-induced sleep. His legs and back ached, his vision blurred. He was cold and wet, and the plastic ties holding his arms and legs to the wire cage cut into his flesh painfully. Somewhere in the distance someone was talking - who? It was so cold. So wet and clammy. Where was he?

His vision began to clear, only to fade to a blur again within seconds. In, then out. Clear, then a blur. Eventually, when he could see for longer periods, Sarah's cage became recognizable. She was naked, on her knees, but it was unmistakably her. Sarah's pale skin glowed in the darkness, her slim legs folded under her, her supple torso and full breasts an angelic vision to Sport. He could see her closed eyes and inviting mouth through parted strands of golden hair that spilled over her face and creamy bare shoulders. If her eyes would open, she would be looking right at him. But she slept, peacefully, beautifully - a rare, delicious treasure, caged and trussed as though she would be sold like meat, by the pound. Then, just as the vision took form, he blacked out again, losing her to Shayla's drugs.

Sport woke a second time to sounds and movement much closer to his cage. The door to Sarah's cage stood open. A very large man leaned over it, panting and thrusting, his cock buried between Sarah's legs. Sport watched helplessly, as if dreaming. Unconscious, trapped within the confines of her cage, Sarah showed no sign that she objected to the violation. In fact, as the fat man's flabby gut hammered the cage, Sarah seemed to raise her ass to accept him, arching her back a little like an animal in heat. Sarah's mouth opened slightly, then formed a wide, satisfied smile across her angelic face. Sport closed his eyes, and again, as another of his dreams became a nightmare, he prayed for his escape. His prayer was answered as the drugs brought sleep once again.

It was 3:00 AM when approaching lights in the distance signaled the men to ready the cargo. The rear door of the brown step-van was three feet below the dock, which meant the cages had to be lowered over the edge, then lifted into the truck. The two burly men accomplished it easily, each pausing to stare into Sarah's cage as they hoisted it into the back of the van. The driver handed them envelopes thick with cash, and the truck disappeared into the fog.

"What the hell were you up to while I was takin' a shit?"

The fatter man grinned. "Just askin' her for a date, like you said."

"And what do you think they'll do when your "date" is delivered with cum leaking out of her?"

"Hell, I dunno - maybe they won't notice."

"Well, I noticed. Christ man, she was soaked."

The two men walked quietly back through the warehouse, then across a railroad siding to their cars. Neither knew who "they" were, or what trouble the fatter man might have created. But for the time being, the weight of the money in their pockets was comfort enough.

When they reached their cars, the fatter man glanced over his shoulder.

"What the fuck. She was probably just some stupid slut anyway."

The other man closed his car door without answering.

"Right. Probably just some stupid slut," he muttered to himself as he drove hastily into the night.