Surrendering Sarah
by Night Writer
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 fa‡ade
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. It's 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, black 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, it's 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 it's 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.
Previous chapters of Surrendering Sarah, along with other works by Night Writer
can be found at http://www.asstr.org/~Night_Writer/