The Adjusters #60 (Part 2 of 2)

Again, sorry for the delay. Here's the end of Book V. And it's about f*****g time, I know!




60
Intermezzo: Jennifer Hansen
(Part 2 of 2)

When I come to, my body is already awake. I can’t explain it better: I wake up, and there’s no need to open my eyes, for they’re already open. And the light is blazing and blinds me, and my reflex is to shut them, and much to my surprise, they close.

I’m moving. I’m in a car. I open my eyes, and I can see an urban landscape out of the window. Tall buildings, people walking around, stores, signs. All in English. I haven’t been outside since forever—the closest I recall was the windows at the Institute, through which you could see the beautiful wilderness around the building.

The sun is high in the air, but it feels cold. The heater is on in the car. I’m in the back seat, diagonal from the driver, a man, sporting driving gloves. Asian. I can only see his profile. He has a long ugly scar running the side of his face, jagged and discolored compared to the rest of his impassible face. With his sunglasses, it makes him look terrible.

I try to move my head, and it does. My arms as well. My breath catches. I’m fighting the instinct to just reach madly for the door handle and get out of the car. Fight the panic, Jenn. This might be your chance. Don’t fuck it up.

Instead, I reach for the door handle slowly. I’m trying to determine if the door is locked, and more importantly, whether I can unlock it. I try to control my breath. Don’t let the driver figure out what I’m trying to do.

I get my hand near the handle, still looking outside as though fascinated by what I’m seeing—I think it’s New York City, which I visited when I was younger, but haven’t been to since, all the signs about the Big Apple being a dead giveaway—and try to hook my fingers around the hardened plastic.

But something won’t let me. My fingers do not obey me. Try as I might, they won’t catch the door handle. My breath picks up, and the man notices, for he gives me a side glance. I drop my arm, and turn to him.

Can I talk?

“Where are we going?” I ask, and I’m surprised I can say anything. There’s no one else inside me but me, no one else that I can feel, like Jennie, or anything.

The man turns his head toward me for a second, gives me a look that freezes my blood, and never says a word. The scar on the side of his face catches the sunlight in a way that’s disturbing. His expression is completely blank. I can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but I know they are cold.

I lean back into the seat, look outside, take it all in. My body will let me do some things, but not others. I want to ask the man questions, but I’m frightened. Still under the shock, I think.

A blur of memories, the last few things I remember from earlier. It’s still a fog, as if it was a dream. But I remember my old room, hiding there after talking with… Daniel! Yes, I remember dreaming of him, while I was having sex—or someone was having sex, and Biff too, and others, countless others, fucking me and—

We’re wiping her mind.

The words cut through the fog like a knife through butter, and I feel panic rising again.

And then I feel silly because clearly, my mind has not been wiped.

I’m here, and I’m me. I’m still me. Whatever they did, they did not destroy me.

I can’t control my body, not in any sense, though, I’m running utterly and completely on automatic, but on automatic without a personality, without an outlet. It’s weird, weird and scary. I cast about inside, and where I would find someone like Jennie, all I feel is a blank, a void, a hole in my mind that I fear will swallow me if I get too close, and so I don’t. It’s calling to me.

There’s nothing there. That’s where the personality that Biff programmed into me, the quirks and the blocks that he imposed, everything that he did to mold me into the image of the perfect me that he wanted, and now it’s all gone, replace by… by nothingness.

I don’t know whether to be ecstatic or terrified—the old blocks seem to be gone, the inability to talk about or to Daniel, the inability to ask for help, the inability to tell anyone what had happened to me, about Biff, about the programming, about anything.

Except I know I still can’t do any of those things. Because doing those things would require going through the dark chasm before me, and I don’t know how I know but if I step a metaphorical foot in there, I’ll be swallowed up and digested like Jennie was before me.

But I can still do little things. I can listen. I can watch. Oddly, I think I can control my eyes, my head, but only if I observe. I try to play a game—look left for yes, right for no—and my head does not obey. I can only be passive.

How does it know what’s being passive and what’s not? How does it know that I’m trying to convey a message?

But then, of course, it’s obvious. It’s in my head, that’s why. In fact, it is my head. Who better to control what I think, feel, do? Who better to understand my intent? Me. Well, a version of me. Or at least, something there in me, maybe sitting in the middle of that black gaping hole in front of me, keeping an eye on everything and keeping me in line.

Does it know I’m here? Does it care?

I focus on the outside world—we’re entering a more industrial zone, the stores and restaurants and residences having given way to larger buildings, warehouses, old factories. An area still waiting for gentrification.

The man, who still hasn’t said a word, takes a series of turns, and I try to pay attention because I’ve read too many books where the heroine can tell rescuers where she’s being held because she’s recorded and figured out the path that her abductors took, but it’s much easier written than done, and I soon get lost.

It’s as we round a small warehouse on a deserted street and go in the back—no identification that I can see, no number, no street signs, just graffiti and a large tag in a rainbow of colors on the side of the building—it’s as we round the back that I register what I’m wearing. The last thing I recall wearing was the blue patient uniform at the Institute.

It’s a white dress, short, much too short for the season, since it’s a summer dress, flighty and without much material to it. It barely reaches mid-thigh, and I’m showing a lot of skin. That’s hardly surprising, and that it doesn’t surprise me is depressing in a way that I push to the back of my head because I can feel tears forming back there and I need to control myself—I need to pay attention.

Peering down, I see that the front of the dress dips down extremely low, cut so as to accentuate my breasts and the valley between them. Thin straps over the shoulders, my hair down. No bra I can see or feel. It’s a daring dress, extremely daring in fact, but I can tell that the cut is a good cut—this is quality material. And it seems to fit me just right. Which is disturbing for so many reasons that I don’t know where to start.

I have no time to ponder any of that, because the car stops behind a tall fence, hidden from the street, on the side of the warehouse. The man gets out and, opens my door from outside. All without saying a word. He holds out a hand.

I take it, and get out of the car by swiveling my legs out first before stepping out. It’s not my choice, but I make a production out of it as I emerge. The first thing that strikes me is that whomever chose my shoes chose well. They are tall high heels, white like the dress, but comfortable, even though they’re as tall as I’ve ever worn them.

The second thing that strikes me is that the man—whose facial scar is mirrored on the other side of his face, forming a ghostly pale pair of brackets around his features, ridged as though worms are burrowing their way underneath the skin—the man does not look at my legs, or my chest, or anything. And the way I moved was meant to attract attention—whomever programmed me made sure that I would move to attract male attention.

But he does not look at me. He heads to a small staircase leading to a metal door. I follow, my hand in his, my heels making a hollow sound on the concrete.

The door opens as we reach the foot of the steps and a man—dressed well, but so large that the suit he wears threatens to rip about his shoulder as he stretches to hold the door open—and he makes me think on the spot of an enforcer for a crime family. I want to laugh, but I don’t.

He holds the door open as we go up the stairs and he nods to Scarface but his eyes never leave my legs. If Scarface did not even acknowledge my body, this gorilla takes it in enough for three. I can feel his eyes on my skin like a wet tongue, from my legs up to my chest and down again, never reaching my face, probably not caring one iota for it.

I half expect him to slap my butt and grunt as I walk past, but he doesn’t, though his eyes on my ass are just as unavoidable. And whomever is driving my body puts an extra twist in her step to make sure that my hips move accordingly, giving an even more enticing view. I groan inside, but it’s nothing that I haven’t lived through with Biff, and at least I’m not reaching over and kissing the disgusting bastard.

There are two other men inside, around a small table, playing cards, as burly as the first man, who closes the door behind him. Normally, I would be frightened—a pretty young girl with three large men with a clear aura of aggressiveness around them is an easy prey, especially dressed like I am—and I’m not entirely sure how this body of mine would react were they to pounce on me.

But if there’s one thing that’s clearer than the fact that they look at me like a piece of meat that they’d like nothing better than to sink their teeth into—the two men have dropped their cards and are ogling me without even attempting to hide it, a knowing grin on their face, spreading their legs as if to unconsciously advertise what they’d like to do to me—if there’s one thing that’s clearer than that it’s that they’re afraid of Scarface, who’s standing beside me, unnaturally straight, his hands by his side, his destroyed face unmoving as he eyes the two men by the table.

A short silence that feels longer than it probably is, and then one of the men nods. “That the new chick?”

I’m so tense that if I had any sort of control over my mouth I’d burst out laughing, before screaming my head off. What do you think, moron? Gorilla laughs wetly behind me. I feel his eyes on me, slithering like leeches.

“She’s fucking hot,” he says. He has an accent that I can’t place. I concentrate on it, because what else is there to do, except panic?

Scarface remains unmoving, and from the corner of my eyes I see him make a motion with his head without any movement at all. I can’t figure out what he did, if he even did something, but the man that first spoke stands up. “The boss is expecting you.”

“You can leave the babe with us, you know? We’ll take good care of her.” That wet laugh again.

The man in front of us smiles, and gives me another up and down before starting off toward a longer staircase in the corner of the room. We head up, the man leading the way, me right behind, and then Scarface. I’m glad that he’s there, blocking me from Gorilla, especially since my body is swaying raunchily on every step now that there are men around to watch me. I can even feel my pussy dampen, not unlike what Biff programmed into me, but much more subdued than it ever was with him.

All I know is that I’m glad Jennie’s not here, because she would have drooled at the thought of parting her legs for those three men, begging like a starving kitten for them to pound her into mindless oblivion.

But Jennie is no more.

The man leads us down a hallway and stops by a door and knocks on it. Upon hearing a muffled “come in,” he opens he and lets Scarface through first—and I notice the step back he takes as he does so—before letting me through as well.

His eyes never leave my breasts—not surprising given the amount of cleavage I’m showing in this dress and the perspective he has—getting an eyeful and not making any attempt at hiding it.

The old flush is there, the arousal at being made into an object being looked at, admired, lusted over. I can appreciate the difference between this and Biff’s programming better—Biff’s instructions were a sledgehammer hitting full force every time, exhaustingly, relentlessly.

This one is… more subtle. It’s a warmth in my blood, a tiny tingle, an itch deep in my pussy, a slight dampening. This man is eyeing me, ogling me, and my body responds as if I were starting to be attracted to him I’m not, but I watch with fascination as my body gives him a side glance and a wink, along with an imperceptible straightening of my back that pushes my chest out.

The room he ushers us in looks like an office, and a boring one at that. It overlooks the warehouse floor though an immense window. The room itself is large and functional, without any niceties but an old couch in one corner. There’s a man behind a steel desk, working on a laptop and a pile of old-fashioned accounting books—dark suit, thinning hair, small rimless glasses. He’s peering at numbers with a slight frown on his face, and I have the feeling that the frown is pretty much imprinted on his skin by now. It’s just that kind of face.

He doesn’t look up when we enter the room, even as the man who escorted us closes the door behind us. He himself remains outside. I’m glad of that.

Accountant Man behind the desk finally looks up, although I can tell that he was just waiting until he felt the time was right before acknowledging our presence. A classic power play. It’s weird what you notice when you have no choice but to observe.

Scarface next to me is standing at attention, straight but relaxed. He does not seem anxious. He must have realized the same things I have. But I cannot read anything in his face.

“Thien,” Accountant Man says when he looks up at us. “So good to see you.”

Thien. I’ll remember the name.

Scarface—Thien—nods once, and still does not talk. Accountant Man stands up, and he finally looks at me, though I can tell he had been looking at me earlier as well, just from the corner of his eye. A girl always knows when she’s being checked out.

He gets around the desk. He’s short. Short and a bit rotund. He’s a caricature of every single accountant the world over. He’s eyeing me with squinting eyes behind his glasses, and his stare is both appreciative and evaluative.

“Your boss told mine that you had something special for us tonight,” the man says, approaching me. My body, of its own volition stands a bit straighter, breasts thrust out, legs slightly apart. Presenting itself.

He’s close. He smells good—cologne of some sort. Smells expensive. It’s weird what you notice under stress. His suit is a good cut, fits him perfectly well. A nice tie. His glasses even look expensive, though it’s hard to tell sometimes. Gold watch around his wrist. He looks at my face, intently, then his eyes dip down to my cleavage, and he circles me, looking me closely from all angles. Thien remains impassible throughout, keeping an eye on the man, barely glancing at me. As near as I can tell, I don’t exist for him.

“I see what you mean. She’s particularly… fetching. And she’s been adjusted like the others? That’s what you call it, right, adjusted?”

Thien nods once again.

“Same codes?”

Another nod.

“You know what I like about you, Thien? You’re a riveting conversationalist.” Accountant Man’s laugh is more like a bark, and it’s clear that I just heard one of his favorite jokes.

Thien doesn’t react. Not a blink. Merely his impassible scarred face. He’s less scary now, at least physically speaking—one gets used to anything, I guess.

“What’s her name?”

Thien pulls a smartphone out from his jacket pocket. Without looking, he thumbs a spot on its front pane. A clipped, artificial, British-accented voice emerges from the device. “Jennie.”

“Jennie. Very well, then,” the man says, having completed his circuit around me, having examined me like a piece of ware at a stall that he was considering purchasing. I don’t know what’s going, but I fear I’m not far off the mark. I should be a lot more upset than I am, which is a disturbing thought in and of itself. “The usual deal, you leave her with me, I test her, and we settle our accounts later?”

Something runs across Thien’s face, a flicker of annoyance. Another thumb press on the device. The same clipped British voice. “The deal is half upon delivery, half upon successful testing.” I know it’s silly given the situation, but I can’t help wonder to what extent he has planned this conversation and how many alternative responses he has programmed into his phone.

Accountant Man sighs and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Of course I know the deal. Your sense of humor, Thien, that’s the other thing I like about you. You must be a hit at parties.”

he walks to a corner and pulls open a panel to reveal a safe. He thumbs it and unlocks it and from inside pulls out a thick envelope. He hands it over to Thien, who pockets it.

“You’re not going to count it?”

There was merely a glance at that comment, no need for conversation. The menace in that look was clear, without a single change of expression. I fantasize for a second that Accountant Man has messed something up so that Scarface would come back and slit the man’s throat, but even I know there’s little chance of that.

“Well, all’s good then,” the man says, somewhat nervously. “The arrangement is to wire the rest of the money once we’ve tested her out. So sometimes tonight, if all goes well.”

Thien nods once, and then stares at the hand that the man is extending. After two beats, he shakes the proffered hand, and takes his leave. I did not realize I much I was relying on his presence because as soon as the door closes back behind him, I feel so alone that if not the blankness in my mind that offers a form of gentle reassurance, I’d be freaking out something fierce right now.

Accountant Man stands before me, waiting. He just drinks me in, and his look is definitely a lot more perverted than earlier when Thien was here. He’s looking me up and down freely, not evaluating this time, but appreciating.

After maybe two minutes, he gets closer, and puts a hand on one of my breasts, through my dress. My body reacts—it feels good—but less than I expected, a buzz, nothing more. I do not try to get away—I could not anyway. I merely stand there, placidly, while his hand kneads my breast harder and harder.

“You’re a pretty bitch,” he says, his eyes suddenly turning mean. “You’re going to be very good for business.” His hand slips underneath my dress and cups my bare flesh. His hands are warm and clammy.

He’s getting excited, that’s obvious—his breathing is rapid, he’s sweating, his glasses are sliding off his nose. He’s close to me, his body against my side.

His hand is grasping my breast hard now, squeezing it, alternating between grabbing a palmful and tweaking my nipple, which hardens under the assault.

Suddenly, he reaches forward and he licks the side of my face, clear from my jaw to my temple, his tongue warm and wet against my skin. I shiver internally, but my body only buzzes slightly with arousal, passively taking in the aggression. No feelings coming from the black hole in my mind. A blankness that is both terrifying and soothing.

Accountant Man steps back, wiping his hands, looking me up and down again. “Let’s have a look at what else you’re hiding under there.”

He gets in front of me and kneels down, the movement causing a sharp exhale of air. But down he goes, and he runs his hands up my naked legs to the hem of my dress, and pauses there for a few seconds, clearly savoring the moment.

Licking his lips, he slides his hands underneath the material and pulls down my underwear, slowly, his eyes closing as it to concentrate all of his attention on the sensation in his fingers.

He pulls down my underwear—white, like my dress, a wispy pair of panties that is more lace than anything else—to my ankles, and my body automatically lifts one foot then the next so that he can toss them aside.

He reaches up to push up my dress, unable to resist. “My, my, my,” he says. “Look at that.” I know exactly what he’s looking at. “Who’s Biff?” he looks up, but does not wait for an answer—I don’t know if I’d been able to answer anyway. “Lucky fellow. Well,” he makes a face, “maybe not so lucky, because you’re here and he’s not, right?” He grins at his own joke. “So you’re a kinky bitch, huh?”

Without any prompting, he slips two fingers between my pussy lips and pushes up, and they sink in without any difficult because my body is aroused, a low-level arousal that is nevertheless perfectly effective. And while I can’t enjoy what he’s doing because of all the obvious reasons, I also cannot deny that the physical sensations are pleasurable. Whatever they did to me, they certainly heightened my body sensations.

He spends a few minutes fucking me with two fingers, his eyes staring straight at my crotch, attentive, intense. In and out, juices starting to coat his hand. My hips are swaying gently, and my body is enjoying the attention, once in a while a moan escapes my lips that makes him smile. “You like that, don’t you?”

It’s largely rhetorical I know, but I answer, “Yes.” It’s not me—it’s whatever blank that’s there in my mind in charge of these automatic responses, and it’s using a neutral placid voice, like the rest of my body’s attitude. I can’t help but wonder what the fuck they—whomever they are—did to me.

I don’t know if that’s what does it for him, but he gets a look in his eyes and he dives into my crotch after pulling his fingers out, licking up and down my slit in a way that is inexpert if enthusiastic. He french-kisses my pussy for a long time, his hands running up and down my legs, his nose pressing into my skin, and my body enjoys the sensations.

He pulls back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stays down there staring at me while he catches his breath. When he’s calmer, he stands up, straightens his tie, pats down his hair, adjusts his glasses.

“We’ve got plenty of time to play later,” he says with a smile. “But before that, I have to test you out. Lest my bosses think that I put pleasure before business.”

He stands before me. “So. Of the guys out there that you met as you came up, which is the one you like the least?”

I don’t expect that question. My body takes it in stride though—I know, I keep referring to it as my body, but I swear, there’s no personality associated with it at all, it’s a bit like when you’re so busy thinking about something that worries you and then you snap out of it and it’s been ten minutes and in the meantime you’ve been driving or something and clearly your body is able to put together all the correct moves to steer the car and deal with traffic and everything else that happens but you were not there consciously?—so my body takes the question in stride and answer what I know is of course the right answer, and it comes out of my mouth without any censorship. “The gorilla that opened the door first.”

The man barks out a laugh. “The gorilla! Nice! That’s perfect!” He turns to the door and shouts “Larry.”

The door opens. “Yes, boss?” There’s an expectant tone in his voice.

“Call up Franz.”

The man at the door looks disappointed and gives me a quick glance before nodding. “Yes, boss.”

I can hear the man shout “Franz! Get your ass up here!” and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Frank is Gorilla’s name. I wonder what’s going to happen—my body’s feeling pretty buzzed right now after the man’s fingering and licking, but unless Franz is into passive chicks, it’s not going to be fun for him. Not that I want to make it fun for anybody—quite the opposite.

Accountant Man turn to me, pulls out his phone, and looks up something. “Jennie, adjustment code R1, authorization 332565. Mode”, a pause, “girlfriend experience,” he adds with a smile.

There’s a click in my head when I hear these words, and while the blankness in the midst of my mind does not lift, does not change, there is a charge of energy in the background that was not there before. Anticipation.

A knock at the door. “Come in,” says Accountant Man with a grin.

Gorilla comes in, big and with a shit-eating grin on his face. His eyes slither over me and suddenly I’m worried—flashbacks of all those times where Biff just gave me away to random guys run through my head, and I’m still amazed that it doesn’t half bother me as much as it should have—you’d figure I’d have PTSD or something, but maybe it’s the drugs that they fed me at the Institute, or maybe it’s whatever was just done to me, but all I can feel is a mollified dread and the expectation of an unpleasant experience—I am much more detached than the situation warrants. Not that I have any choice in any of this, mind you.

“Jennie,” Accountant Man says, “please meet Franz, your date for the night.”

At his words, my world explodes. There’s no other word for it. It explodes. And when everything settles, the blankness that was there in my mind has been filled out by this welter of emotions and thoughts and images and dreams, and there’s another me there, a beautiful me, a friendly me, a loving me, and all of her—our—feelings are directed at Franz, who’s looking at me expectedly, still with his grin on his face.

And the feeling I get from inside me, which I have to fight for all it’s worth because it is overpowering—it is so much stronger, so much more defined, so much more swamping than what I felt when Biff used me—is that that smile that Franz has, that smile that I know is really a self-satisfied I’m-going-to-get-what-I-want grin, is just simply adorable because that’s the way Franz always looks at me, like I’m his one and only baby, the girl that he’s decided to take as his.

Those feelings are alien, I know, but they feel so real that they make my head spin for a second and they confuse me.

My body shifts slightly, relaxing, settling into a style, a rhythm. “Hey baby,” my mouth says, and I feel a smile forming on my lips. It’s because Franz is here. My Franz, here, with me, looking as cock-sure and as sweet as I remember him to be. My big burly sweetheart.

“Hey Jennie,” he says, his own smile getting wider. “Miss me?”

“You know I did, you fathead. Why did you leave me alone so long?” I take a step towards him, and slide my arms around his neck. I have to reach up as I always do, and that I’m wearing tall fuck-me heels, Franz’s favorites, helps because I’m pretty much as tall as he is now, if a third his size—my big strong man!

He kisses me, and I respond by slipping him some tongue, and our kiss gets real deep real fast and I’m pressing against him—or he’s squeezing me hard against him, I don’t know, I don’t care—and there’s no one else in this world for me but this hard strong body wrapped around me.

His hands are on my ass—Franz loves my ass, would spend all of his time pawing it and squeezing it and fucking it if I let him—and I push back against them, and moan in his mouth.

He pulls up my dress and his hands are on my bare skin now and they feel so good, grabbing my flesh—when he gives my cheek a slap I yelp and pull back, making sure to rub my crotch against his wonderful cock so hard in front of me—all hard because of me!

“Franz, baby, come on, he’s watching.” I glance to my left, where Franz’s boss, I don’t remember his name, is looking at us with what’s pretty clearly lust in his eyes.

“Oh don’t mind him. He’s not going to bother us. Come on, turn around, I’ve been wanting to fuck that sweet cunt of yours ever since you walked through the door.”

I shiver at his words—Franz loves to talk dirty, loves to treat me like I’m a little slut that he picked up in a bar, it fits so much into his manly man tough guy persona, and I admit it drives me crazy to think that he wants me and wants my body, and I groan and sway as he reaches up to grab one of my tits and squeezes it hard the way I can’t get enough of.

“Oh baby, you want to do it in front of him? While he watches?” It feels so kinky I nearly wet myself. My Franz has such crazy ideas sometimes!

“You love it and you know that. All you sluts get off by showing off anyway. Come on, turn around. Show me that fucking ass of yours.” He slaps me on the ass again, hard, and I squirm against him.

“Baby, you’re so fucking kinky!” And I kiss him again, hard, pushing my tongue so far down his mouth that it feels like I’m fucking him, and I can’t wait to feel his hard cock plowing deep inside me.

I turn around and make a shameless show of bending down to the table while lifting up my dress over my ass, flashing him my bare cunt. No panties, I never wear them with Franz because he likes easy access. I caress myself, running a hand between my cunt lips and finding them sensitive and engorged and ready for action, before spreading my legs and gently swaying my ass from side to side.

“Come fuck me, baby.”

Franz wastes no time and he’s got his pants around his ankles before he reaches me and I gasp when I feel his hot cock sliding over my cunt and pressing in and it’s as big and hard as I remember it to be and it spreads me open like a flower and it feels so fucking good.

“Fuck yeah,” Franz growls, and I respond in kind. “Fuck you feel nice!”

His words—and his cock, his wonderful hard cock—send shivers down my spine. I so love to make him happy! “You feel amazing too, baby, so fucking good!”

And then he takes me, pounding into me the way he usually does, hard and fast, those long feverish thrust that I love because they tell me that he finds me too hot to handle sitting inside me without pumping in and out of my cunt, and I thrust my ass back against him as he does, enjoying the moment, enjoying the feel of having him inside of me, making me his woman. Completely forgotten are the cold table on which I’m pressing my tits and Franz’s boss looking at us with his little piggy eyes, wishing he was as brutish as Franz, wishing I was his girlfriend so that he could take me the way Franz is taking me, claiming me, owning me.

I have my first orgasm when Franz starts slapping my ass, hard, not quite in time with his thrusts, and it’s pain and pleasure mixed in and it sends me over the edge in no time, between that and the relentless pounding he gives my hungry cunt.

I come for the second time when Franz’s wet fat thumb presses into my asshole. He loves assplay, and I love it because he loves it. I want to tilt my hips up to facilitate his entry, to show him I can be his good little anal girlfriend, but between his cock still pounding me and my orgasm ripping through me, I cannot summon the necessary coordination, and instead I just let Franz do what he does best, which is fuck me into oblivion.

I’m nearing my third big one when I feel him tense and I know he’s about to spurt out and I try to squeeze him inside me to make it even better for him since he’s given me so much pleasure already but he slaps me harder and pulls out and I have no time to whine because his gruff voice tells me that he wants to come all over my face.

I get to my knees in front of him faster than you can spell cum-craving, and I take his lovely fat cock in my hand and jack him off while looking up at him. He’s looking down at me, sweat pouring down his face, and it’s so fucking hot how crazy I made him. I use my free hand to push my dress down, freeing my tits, letting him ogle them in all of their glory. His eyes on me make me even hotter.

“You gonna cream all over my face, baby?” I egg him on as I stroke him faster. “You gonna cream all over my face like in the pornos? You want me to be your little pornstar girlfriend?”

He growls an indistinct “fuck yeah” as he pumps his hips and I swear his cock gets even fatter as I stroke him and I wonder how much cum he’s going to give me this time and before I can think much further he explodes and long streams of delicious jism spurt out and land on my face and streak my mouth and nose and eyes and I open my mouth to snatch some of them off as they fly and he’s covering me and it barely registers with me that I’ve got three fingers up my cunt and I’m coming for the third time.

I collapse on the floor panting as Franz staggers back, pulling up his pants and snorting like a horse after a race. I can barely think as Franz’s boss nods to Franz. “Good job. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, boss. You gonna stick around?”

A head shake. “No. I’ll be taking her. I’ll make sure that she’s fit to work at the House without any problem.”

“Looks fit enough to me,” Franz says with an adorable grin. “Is she…”

Franz is so cute the way he almost blushes when he asks whatever it is he’s asking, and I want to cuddle him and pet him and maybe get him to slide his cock inside me again.

Franz’s boss gives a little grin. “I don’t know if she’s going part of the bonus roster, but if she does, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Franz’s smile grows wider still. “Thanks boss!”

Franz gives me a last glance before he turns to leave, and I give him a little wave, making a production out of spreading his cum all over my face as though it were skin cream.

Franz’s boss looks at me with bright eyes full of lust—I can tell, and why wouldn’t he, I’m a hot bitch that’s just gotten fucked good by her hung boyfriend—and nods. “Well done, Jennie. Welcome back.”

There’s something in the way he says that that just extinguishes me. I can’t use a different word for it. All color in the world, all emotions, all sparks just fade away and disappear, and suddenly there’s that blankness in the middle of my mind, that ethereal beckoning numbness that calls to me. And it’s like a spell wearing off, and I’m back, shaken, wondering what the hell happened.

This is so much stronger than whatever Biff ever did to me, that I’m stunned speechless. I’m going to lose myself is the thought that run non-stop through my mind.

Accountant Man is standing over me, looking at me with his evaluating eyes. He nods. “There’s a washroom right there. Clean yourself up. We’re going for a ride. I have more… tests for you.”

I shudder—if this was the first test, what are the others going to be like? I’m going to lose myself. As my body stands up obediently to go clean up the disgusting filth that Gorilla splashed all over my face, I hang on to the image of the room I grew up in, that safe place that reminds me who I really am, and I hang on to the image of Daniel, my love, hugging me in that same room, offering me warmth and solace.

“Welcome to the House of the Rising Sun,” I hear Accountant Man say under his breath as I walk away.


* * *

ENCRYPTED MESSAGE to Patrick Dee

I successfully delivered the latest girl to the Connelly Brothers’ man. The fund transfer was completed earlier today, and he expressed satisfaction with the delivery, both this one and the previous girls.

I want to register my discomfort once more at dealing with the Connelly Brothers. I understand why you feel we must do it, but I still think it is a bad idea.

Since I cannot change your mind, with your permission, I would like to work out contingency plans in case things go, as you say in this country, south. I would like to understand their organization, its strength and weaknesses. That should give us some idea where potential failures may come from, and how we might react to them and prevent them ruining your plans. Please acknowledge.

Regards, T


THE END of BOOK V