(Ah! You thought I was dead, didn't you? You should be so lucky. No, I was fighting my “block”, and hanging around the blog just made me feel guilty and blocked me further. But I'm feeling better now. Here's hoping I haven't lost _all_ of my readers. I'll get to your comments and emails in the coming week.)
Here is December's installment of The Adjusters, “Los Angeles, Part 2", wherein Daniel Malcolm meets up with a friend.
As usual, comments welcome.
I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)
The Adjusters #63 - Los Angeles, Part 2
Daniel Malcolm felt strangely conspicuous in the back of the breakfast diner that touted that they served the best breakfast in the city, day or night. Partly it was because he was dressed more formally than the crowd that had been in the diner—more like a breakfast pub, to be exact—and that had steadily accumulated since he arrived. The place was packed.
But it was a silly reaction, because no one paid any attention to him. They were all students, all from the nearby UCLA, and he was not much older than them. They were loud, eating and talking about all of those things that college students talked about when they needed to wind down and the last thing they wanted to think about was anything serious. It was a Friday night atmosphere, but mid-morning. You could smell it in the air, the ethos of the average college student. Go out, have fun, get laid.
Daniel knew he was being unfair, but he also envied their seemingly insouciant approach to life—one he had himself held until fairly recently. A world where the biggest problem one could have was figuring out whether to follow their girlfriend to Texas or not. And even the answer to that one had been easy. Now, everything had weight. Everything was important. Everything mattered. Having fun seemed almost like a foreign concept.
Continue reading...
Next month: Los Angeles, Part 3.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Update #2
Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I mean, I have one stupid scene to write. One stupid scene. Maybe, what? 2000 words? Something that even at a slow pace I'd knock off in four days. (A slow writing day is about 500 net words.) Yet, I'm stuck. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I'm having writer's block. Which is silly. This ain't no War and Peace. It's smut!
The Adjusters #63 is coming, believe you me. And then I'll have my full head to get to your comments over the last few weeks.
In the meantime, I ran across an oldie on Leviticus' website. Dark Pen's Office Games. No description, basically the story of Brad, a programmer who writes BDSM smut in his spare time, and what happens when he discovers that one of his hot young co-workers masturbates to his stories without knowing that he was the one writing them. Hijinks ensue.
The Adjusters #63 is coming, believe you me. And then I'll have my full head to get to your comments over the last few weeks.
In the meantime, I ran across an oldie on Leviticus' website. Dark Pen's Office Games. No description, basically the story of Brad, a programmer who writes BDSM smut in his spare time, and what happens when he discovers that one of his hot young co-workers masturbates to his stories without knowing that he was the one writing them. Hijinks ensue.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Update and Games
It'll be a few more days before The Adjusters #63 comes out. Struggling with the end of the installment a little bit there. I hate when that happens. And to think that Book VI was supposed to be the easy one....
In the meantime, here are a few things that have come through in the comments that you may be interested in.
First off, and I realize this is old news but still, friend-of-the-blog Georg Kinaski, of SelectaCorp fame, has a few new games out in the world that you simply have to check out. His Corporate Raider series is fantastic. Corporate Raider 3 has some incredible build up. I can't say too many good things about it. You can find links on his Tumblr page, and he has a Patreon as well.
Also filed under interactive games, I was pointed towards a couple of mind-control centered games being written by Fugue. The easiest to get is Heavy Petting, in very early release. It's a blast, even though the interface is a bit cranky. Fugue has a Patreon as well, because hey, who doesn't these days? :)
Story-wise, have a read through Pan's My Car, My Rules: “A man plays a subliminal tape for his carpooler.” I'm usually not a huge fan of Pan's stories—they're technically flawless, but they don't really hit my spots—but this one I like a lot.
In the meantime, here are a few things that have come through in the comments that you may be interested in.
First off, and I realize this is old news but still, friend-of-the-blog Georg Kinaski, of SelectaCorp fame, has a few new games out in the world that you simply have to check out. His Corporate Raider series is fantastic. Corporate Raider 3 has some incredible build up. I can't say too many good things about it. You can find links on his Tumblr page, and he has a Patreon as well.
Also filed under interactive games, I was pointed towards a couple of mind-control centered games being written by Fugue. The easiest to get is Heavy Petting, in very early release. It's a blast, even though the interface is a bit cranky. Fugue has a Patreon as well, because hey, who doesn't these days? :)
Story-wise, have a read through Pan's My Car, My Rules: “A man plays a subliminal tape for his carpooler.” I'm usually not a huge fan of Pan's stories—they're technically flawless, but they don't really hit my spots—but this one I like a lot.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Webcomics
Aargh! Spent the weekend utterly and completely distracted by a smut project that may or may not ever see the light of day. It was fun as a prototyping experiment, but now I'm behind on everything. And I mean everything.
By way of procrastination, here are a couple of adult webcomics I've run across in the last few weeks that are of surprisingly high quality and that until now I had never heard about. Happy accidents, running into them.
Now, the really weird thing is that they are fantasy/human-monster based. Which is not something that usually calls to me. But these work for me. Part of it is the story line, part of it just the really good execution.
I think they all have Patreons, too, so if you like one of them, it gives you a change to support it.
By way of procrastination, here are a couple of adult webcomics I've run across in the last few weeks that are of surprisingly high quality and that until now I had never heard about. Happy accidents, running into them.
Now, the really weird thing is that they are fantasy/human-monster based. Which is not something that usually calls to me. But these work for me. Part of it is the story line, part of it just the really good execution.
- Okay, so the first one is less hardcore sex, and much more too cute for comfort: The Monster Under the Bed. Romantic and vaguely childish. (Though the mother, man, wish there was a series just about her!)
- My favorite of the bunch: Alfie. I know, I know, halflings are not renowned to be sexy. But here, they're cute and sexy and horny and perverted, and there's introspection and psychology and an actual storyline and I expect great things.
- Fun and lighthearted and with some twisted fantastic sex: The Cummoner. What happens when you're a beautiful witch and you get your power from sex? Yeah, pretty much what you'd expect...
I think they all have Patreons, too, so if you like one of them, it gives you a change to support it.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Kiss of the Succubus
Ran across an interesting story last week. Dark, infuriating, and sexy as hell in parts, if you like the supernatural. Kiss of the Succubus, by Totzman: “Detectives investigate disappearance of two college students.” (It's in the illustrated section, but the illustrations are few and not distracting, thankfully...)
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
New Story: The Adjusters #62
(Thanks for your patience, folks. Here we go.)
Here is October's installment of The Adjusters, “Los Angeles, Part 1", wherein Daniel Malcolm and Eve Shawbank start investigating a new Special in Los Angeles.
As usual, comments welcome.
I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)
The Adjusters #62 - Los Angeles, Part 1
The flight from DC to Los Angeles was three-quarter full, a late flight in the middle of the week. Most fliers were business people returning home, as near as Daniel Malcolm could tell, after spending a day or two on the East Coast, ready for their commute the next morning. At least, for the middle managers that surrounded Shawbank and him in Economy Class.
Shawbank was out. The lights were dimmed in the cabin, illuminated only by the glow of the individual entertainment units attached to the seats. She was not sleeping, though. She sat in her seat, head back, eyes closed, thinking about whatever it was that was bothering her.
For she seemed bothered by something, that much was clear. Daniel had noticed she had been distracted for several weeks now, more taciturn than usual. Brisecoeur had shrugged when Daniel had carefully pointed it out, and the Belgian’s guess was she had been given a special project. Like the one about hunting down Thaddeus Cargyle? Daniel had asked. “No clue,” Brisecoeur had replied.
The lack of conversation, the darkness, the stillness that characterized planes after the lights were out suited Daniel just fine. He still had not digested the video clip Paul had sent him earlier that evening—Jenn, his Jenn, in the throes of whatever Biff had done to her, whatever Cargyle had done to her, a puppet to artificially induced lust—his Jenn, fucked up, but alive, and functioning.
Continue reading...
Next month: Los Angeles, Part 2.
Here is October's installment of The Adjusters, “Los Angeles, Part 1", wherein Daniel Malcolm and Eve Shawbank start investigating a new Special in Los Angeles.
As usual, comments welcome.
I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)
The Adjusters #62 - Los Angeles, Part 1
The flight from DC to Los Angeles was three-quarter full, a late flight in the middle of the week. Most fliers were business people returning home, as near as Daniel Malcolm could tell, after spending a day or two on the East Coast, ready for their commute the next morning. At least, for the middle managers that surrounded Shawbank and him in Economy Class.
Shawbank was out. The lights were dimmed in the cabin, illuminated only by the glow of the individual entertainment units attached to the seats. She was not sleeping, though. She sat in her seat, head back, eyes closed, thinking about whatever it was that was bothering her.
For she seemed bothered by something, that much was clear. Daniel had noticed she had been distracted for several weeks now, more taciturn than usual. Brisecoeur had shrugged when Daniel had carefully pointed it out, and the Belgian’s guess was she had been given a special project. Like the one about hunting down Thaddeus Cargyle? Daniel had asked. “No clue,” Brisecoeur had replied.
The lack of conversation, the darkness, the stillness that characterized planes after the lights were out suited Daniel just fine. He still had not digested the video clip Paul had sent him earlier that evening—Jenn, his Jenn, in the throes of whatever Biff had done to her, whatever Cargyle had done to her, a puppet to artificially induced lust—his Jenn, fucked up, but alive, and functioning.
Continue reading...
Next month: Los Angeles, Part 2.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
The story I really meant to post
As was pointed out, I posted the same story twice in a row. That's because I got confused. (It happens often enough.) The one I wanted to post has a similar theme, and a similar title. Even a similar author name. Go figure.
Mother's Dilemma, by Master C: “Tracy is blackmailed by her boss, and forced into a world of slavery.” Again, pretty rough.
Mother's Dilemma, by Master C: “Tracy is blackmailed by her boss, and forced into a world of slavery.” Again, pretty rough.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Still alive
But clearly I haven't solved my scheduling problems...
New ETA: October 1st. The Powers That Be willing.
In the meantime, I've got two old stories that caught my attention this week. A bit on the rough side, though:
Like Mother, Like Daughter, by Dom Master: “Carla’s heart raced at the realization that her little baby girl was about to be forced to suck off this brutal man. In her mind’s eye, she could see her young mouth stretch open to accommodate the foul intruder. She had performed oral sex herself a couple of times, but did not care for it; there was always a musky smell that just seemed too perverted. And now her little girl was experiencing that aroma first hand.”
Private School, by Anne: “A young teacher finds herself under a student's direction and is drawn deeper and deeper into submission and humiliation.”
New ETA: October 1st. The Powers That Be willing.
In the meantime, I've got two old stories that caught my attention this week. A bit on the rough side, though:
Like Mother, Like Daughter, by Dom Master: “Carla’s heart raced at the realization that her little baby girl was about to be forced to suck off this brutal man. In her mind’s eye, she could see her young mouth stretch open to accommodate the foul intruder. She had performed oral sex herself a couple of times, but did not care for it; there was always a musky smell that just seemed too perverted. And now her little girl was experiencing that aroma first hand.”
Private School, by Anne: “A young teacher finds herself under a student's direction and is drawn deeper and deeper into submission and humiliation.”
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Update on The Adjusters #62
I'm on the road until after Labor Day, meaning I probably won't be able to post The Adjusters #62 until then.
To keep you distracted, enjoy the following stories.
From the EMCSA, Pan's My Car, My Rules: “A man plays a subliminal tape for his carpooler.”
Remaining in the mind-control genre, but mixed with fantasy (not usually my cup of tea), ImperatorMentus's The Goblin King: “After her order is enslaved, a knight seeks revenge.”
A new chapter of Wilcox010's Summer's Blackmail came out this summer: “Slut teacher gets tattoos and piercings.”
Blackmail and cuckolding in Facade123's Tantalus: “A gambler loses control of his life to another man.”
Finally, if you like your smut really hard and nasty, check out an oldie, Dom Master's Like Mother, Like Daughter at BDSM Library: “Carla’s heart raced at the realization that her little baby girl was about to be forced to suck off this brutal man. In her mind’s eye, she could see her young mouth stretch open to accommodate the foul intruder. She had performed oral sex herself a couple of times, but did not care for it; there was always a musky smell that just seemed too perverted. And now her little girl was experiencing that aroma first hand.”
Sunday, August 16, 2015
New Story: The Adjusters #61
(I refuse to accept it's already mid-August. So I shan't. Therefore, this is not late. There.)
Here is August's installment of The Adjusters and the beginning of Book VI, “A Warning for Daniel Malcolm", wherein a new ADCorp assignment calls our hero.
As usual, comments welcome.
I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)
The Adjusters #61 - A Warning for Daniel Malcolm
“So tell me, Mister Malcolm—Daniel—how are you adjusting?”
Daniel Malcolm gave Elizabeth Parkinson—Please, call me Betty—a long look, wondering how exactly to answer that question.
He could answer it at face value, given that he was speaking to his main HR contact at ADCorp, his employer: I’m doing okay, I guess. I mean, there’s a lot to learn, and I’m spending most of my time continuing my training and learning the ropes, but I’ve been on a couple of assignments already where we went and nabbed a bad guy and I guess I feel pretty good about it, even though I’ve still got a lot of questions about what we do but I’ve come to understand that it’s a bad idea to ask such questions out loud. I did have a few questions about the benefits package and about floating holidays, though.
Or he could perhaps try to be more frank about what he was feeling: Well, to be entirely honest, Betty, I’m not doing so good. In fact, one might argue with some validity that I’m sinking slowly but surely into a depression. And I don’t care. You’ve got to understand, and I don’t know how much that file you have on your desk tells you about these things, but I’m going through a pretty rough patch.
Maybe he should go into the actual details, just so that he could see her face change, see that arguably beautiful smile fade away slowly. Do you want to hear about my last year at Darnell, where I found out that a bunch of dicks from a frat were messing with girls’ heads to turn them into sex dolls? Do you want to hear about that asshole from said frat who snatched Jenn, my fiancée, and turned her into a fucking slut and sent her out into the world, desperate for cock? Do you want to hear how I got this job, with Agent Shawbank offering it to me after I’m pretty sure she got rid of the man that had given the mind-fuck tech to those frat boys, Thaddeus Cargyle, the one man that might have had the key to undoing what had been done to Jenn? Do you want to hear about how I met up with this guy Sam O’Neill who’s a private investigator and told me that he would look for Jenn in exchange for me accepting ADCorp’s job offer and spying on this company for him? Do you want to hear why I accepted—because he told me that Cargyle had worked for ADCorp, and I believed him, and nothing I’ve seen until now makes me doubt his word? Is that what you would like to hear, Betty?
Continue reading...
Next month: Title TBD....
Here is August's installment of The Adjusters and the beginning of Book VI, “A Warning for Daniel Malcolm", wherein a new ADCorp assignment calls our hero.
As usual, comments welcome.
I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)
The Adjusters #61 - A Warning for Daniel Malcolm
“So tell me, Mister Malcolm—Daniel—how are you adjusting?”
Daniel Malcolm gave Elizabeth Parkinson—Please, call me Betty—a long look, wondering how exactly to answer that question.
He could answer it at face value, given that he was speaking to his main HR contact at ADCorp, his employer: I’m doing okay, I guess. I mean, there’s a lot to learn, and I’m spending most of my time continuing my training and learning the ropes, but I’ve been on a couple of assignments already where we went and nabbed a bad guy and I guess I feel pretty good about it, even though I’ve still got a lot of questions about what we do but I’ve come to understand that it’s a bad idea to ask such questions out loud. I did have a few questions about the benefits package and about floating holidays, though.
Or he could perhaps try to be more frank about what he was feeling: Well, to be entirely honest, Betty, I’m not doing so good. In fact, one might argue with some validity that I’m sinking slowly but surely into a depression. And I don’t care. You’ve got to understand, and I don’t know how much that file you have on your desk tells you about these things, but I’m going through a pretty rough patch.
Maybe he should go into the actual details, just so that he could see her face change, see that arguably beautiful smile fade away slowly. Do you want to hear about my last year at Darnell, where I found out that a bunch of dicks from a frat were messing with girls’ heads to turn them into sex dolls? Do you want to hear about that asshole from said frat who snatched Jenn, my fiancée, and turned her into a fucking slut and sent her out into the world, desperate for cock? Do you want to hear how I got this job, with Agent Shawbank offering it to me after I’m pretty sure she got rid of the man that had given the mind-fuck tech to those frat boys, Thaddeus Cargyle, the one man that might have had the key to undoing what had been done to Jenn? Do you want to hear about how I met up with this guy Sam O’Neill who’s a private investigator and told me that he would look for Jenn in exchange for me accepting ADCorp’s job offer and spying on this company for him? Do you want to hear why I accepted—because he told me that Cargyle had worked for ADCorp, and I believed him, and nothing I’ve seen until now makes me doubt his word? Is that what you would like to hear, Betty?
Continue reading...
Next month: Title TBD....
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Mister Gabe
Writing Journal: The Adjusters #61 progressing well. Mostly resisting the urge to just toss everything into the first installment of Book VI. Patience, little grasshopper.
Haven't been reading a whole lot of smut lately—it's summer, and it's nice and warm outside. Plus nothing seems to really be grabbing my attention. Which is a bit sad.
Though I notice that Dainii has been revising and reuploading his (unwarranted assumption) story Mister Gabe on Literotica. It was first posted a few years back, and left incomplete. The author suggests that he wrote himself into a bit of a narrative cul-de-sac. This revision is meant to fix the problem. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, it's a crazy story about a guy who gets bamboozled into giving up his wife to a super-dominant man, only to develop a pretty dominant streak of his own. Warning: some incest. (Okay, fine: lots of incest.)
Haven't been reading a whole lot of smut lately—it's summer, and it's nice and warm outside. Plus nothing seems to really be grabbing my attention. Which is a bit sad.
Though I notice that Dainii has been revising and reuploading his (unwarranted assumption) story Mister Gabe on Literotica. It was first posted a few years back, and left incomplete. The author suggests that he wrote himself into a bit of a narrative cul-de-sac. This revision is meant to fix the problem. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, it's a crazy story about a guy who gets bamboozled into giving up his wife to a super-dominant man, only to develop a pretty dominant streak of his own. Warning: some incest. (Okay, fine: lots of incest.)
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Bioshag Trinity
Writing Journal: Plotting on The Adjusters Book VI is turning out to be trickier than expected, because it affects upcoming threads in upcoming books. Basically, until it now, it was a matter of expanding the universe to set up everything that needed setting up. Now, it's time to start bringing everything together slowly, and I don't want to mess it up. And I'm my own worse enemy for that. I have to remember to keep Book VI as simple as possible. Avoid big entangled complications. Go for the straightforward arc.
If you've ever played BioShock Infinite, you know that Elizabeth is quite the hottie. (Or, you think she's on the wrong side of the uncanny valley — in which case, you may want to skip the link below. Just sayin'...)
Well, the good folks at Studio F.O.W. clearly feel the same, because they just released BioShag Trinity, a supremely well-done 3D animated movie where wonderful Elizabeth lets go of all of her inhibitions.
Free, the way we like it. Enjoy!
If you've ever played BioShock Infinite, you know that Elizabeth is quite the hottie. (Or, you think she's on the wrong side of the uncanny valley — in which case, you may want to skip the link below. Just sayin'...)
Well, the good folks at Studio F.O.W. clearly feel the same, because they just released BioShag Trinity, a supremely well-done 3D animated movie where wonderful Elizabeth lets go of all of her inhibitions.
Free, the way we like it. Enjoy!
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Two Ebooks Writers
Writing Journal: Laying out the foundations for Book VI of The Adjusters, which will start coming out August 1st. (I'm giving myself a bit of a break to reload my buffers, trying to avoid the problems that plagued me during Book V.) Tentative title for Book VI: Hell Hath No Fury.
I haven't been reading as much lately. Actually, that's not entirely true. The reality is that little has really grabbed me, which is a bit of a bummer. But it probably reflects where my mind is at these days.
Flip side, my inability to find anything to catch my attention smut-wise online has sent me exploring what's available as ebooks, and there I did find some stuff that was interesting.
As you may have picked up on by now, one of the many kinks that I enjoy reading about is wife sharing — partly because it's a perfect playground for power play, which really is one of the main things I like reading about. I ran across two authors that write in the genre, and write some pretty good stories.
First up: Kenny Wright, several books available, many full-length novels, hot, and ending happily. I've greatly enjoyed Dreaming of Another and especially Ian's Obsession. Really well done. And very hot. Looking forward to reading the rest of his work.
Second up: Ben Boswell. His Two Sides of Terri is just fantastic: “Bill has just about the perfect life. Good paying job. Lovely home. Perfect children. And most of all, he has his wife Terri—smart, funny, great with the kids. Thing is, she's a good girl trapped in a bad girl's body. Blonde, busty, and devastatingly beautiful, she makes him want to do dirty things—things you don't admit to wanting from the girl-next-door. Or so he thought. It starts with a revelation about Chucky, a past boyfriend, and everything he thought he knew about his sweet wife unravels. He becomes obsessed with learning more about this other side of Terri--and everything he learns points back to Chucky, a man she couldn't say no to. Does he dare invite her past back into their present? And if he did, would she now be able to say no?” Fuck yeah, is all I can say.
As I meander more in the world of ebooks, I'll post my discoveries. If you find something you yourself enjoy, please feel free to post a comment. As you know, I'm always happy for recommendations.
If you don't care about paying for your smut, and you're in a bit of a dark mood, check out Jack08180 on SOL. Older stories, and not the most subtle, but some very hot scenes in there. I particularly enjoyed The Camera: “Follow the adventures of a digital camera as it makes its way around a highschool. A story of love, lust, betrayal and lots of sex.”
I haven't been reading as much lately. Actually, that's not entirely true. The reality is that little has really grabbed me, which is a bit of a bummer. But it probably reflects where my mind is at these days.
Flip side, my inability to find anything to catch my attention smut-wise online has sent me exploring what's available as ebooks, and there I did find some stuff that was interesting.
As you may have picked up on by now, one of the many kinks that I enjoy reading about is wife sharing — partly because it's a perfect playground for power play, which really is one of the main things I like reading about. I ran across two authors that write in the genre, and write some pretty good stories.
First up: Kenny Wright, several books available, many full-length novels, hot, and ending happily. I've greatly enjoyed Dreaming of Another and especially Ian's Obsession. Really well done. And very hot. Looking forward to reading the rest of his work.
Second up: Ben Boswell. His Two Sides of Terri is just fantastic: “Bill has just about the perfect life. Good paying job. Lovely home. Perfect children. And most of all, he has his wife Terri—smart, funny, great with the kids. Thing is, she's a good girl trapped in a bad girl's body. Blonde, busty, and devastatingly beautiful, she makes him want to do dirty things—things you don't admit to wanting from the girl-next-door. Or so he thought. It starts with a revelation about Chucky, a past boyfriend, and everything he thought he knew about his sweet wife unravels. He becomes obsessed with learning more about this other side of Terri--and everything he learns points back to Chucky, a man she couldn't say no to. Does he dare invite her past back into their present? And if he did, would she now be able to say no?” Fuck yeah, is all I can say.
As I meander more in the world of ebooks, I'll post my discoveries. If you find something you yourself enjoy, please feel free to post a comment. As you know, I'm always happy for recommendations.
If you don't care about paying for your smut, and you're in a bit of a dark mood, check out Jack08180 on SOL. Older stories, and not the most subtle, but some very hot scenes in there. I particularly enjoyed The Camera: “Follow the adventures of a digital camera as it makes its way around a highschool. A story of love, lust, betrayal and lots of sex.”
Sunday, May 31, 2015
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
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
Saturday, May 16, 2015
The Adjusters #60 (Part 1 of 2)
Let's do this in small chunks again... I can't quite get it to work the way I want it to.
60
Intermezzo: Jennifer Hansen
(Part 1 of 2)
“Holy crap, look at those spikes!”
The voice is what finally pulls me out of that gray haze that’s been slowly oh so slowly lifting since I first woke up I don’t know how long ago.
My name is Jennifer Hansen, and my brain feels like mush. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, no idea where I am, no idea even how I’m doing. I can’t move, can’t open my eyes—even if I had the energy, it’s like my limbs were severed from my nervous system.
And then there’s the pain.
I don’t feel the pain directly, but it’s there all around me, and I feel someone feeling the pain—she’s screaming, really, because I’m calling it pain but agony might be more accurate—and I’m connected to her and I feel her pain, but it’s like I’m inside her, protected. There is pain, but it’s indirect, diffuse, the intellectual, emotional, empathetic response to pain, and not the nervous response to pain. It still freaks me out, though.
There are voices around me, hard to make out through the screams of pain that resonate inside my head. I realize who’s screaming, too, eventually. Jennie. Jennie is in agony. I can picture her clutching her head as though it’s about to split apart and give rise to a goddess, writhing agony at talons tearing at her mind.
Memories come back to me in pieces, like a movie reel running forward faster and faster. I’m at the Institute, awake and aware but unable to move, in a crazy coma. I’m woken up, and then there’s Richard, Mouse, Cassandra, Gutierrez—everyone in Blue Ward, a dysfunctional little family. My plan to escape. Then my plan to prevent Mouse from being taken away. My plan to get rid of Gutierrez.
And then it flashes in my mind, the last things I remember. Letting Gutierrez have his way with me as Mouse helps him, an elaborate trap to get him to abuse me on camera while the feed is redirected to a conference room within the Institute where executives are assembled—a desperate gambit to save my friend Mouse’s life. Gutierrez wanted to sell her.
Did it work thought? I have no idea. My last memory is fuzzy: I was fighting with Gutierrez after he discovered he had been played and then there was that lighting bolt right between my eyes, like a sharp spike had been shoved in, like my head was being ripped in half. But then everything went dark.
Even as it happened, even as I felt my head explode, I knew that Jennie was taking the brunt of the damage. While I experienced pain, I have no words to describe what Jennie went through.
Jennie. Jennie is, for lack of a better term, the personality that was programmed into me what feels like a lifetime ago. A slut, craving the touch of men, their hands, their mouths, their cocks. Never so happy as when she’s serving, doing what she’s told with sheer enthusiasm. I have no control over her—she’s the driver, I’m merely a passenger. There are drugs that seem to put her to sleep and let me take over, up to a point—so I discovered recently. But clearly, I’m not on them right now. Right now, Jennie’s driving. Well, screaming.
Biff. Biff did this to me. Biff programmed me back at Darnell University. An animal. He turned me into a slut, created Jennie, enslaved to his cock, a fuck toy for that spoiled bastard, a thing that he could use and abuse to his heart’s content.
Biff. He’s the one who created Jennie—the other me who’s not me while being me, in a way that I can’t understand, however hard I try to. I don’t know who I am, and who she is, and if we’re the same or not. She’s the one in charge of my body most of the time, the one that acts, that makes the decisions, and they’re influenced by what Biff did to her, did to us, did to me, influenced and guided and prescribed. And I’m there, in the back of her head, watching, feeling, partaking of whatever she does, the same but separate. But I’m really me. I’m me. She is… another part of me.
Biff. I can unleash all of my hate right now, let it pour forth like a geyser of loathing because Jennie is otherwise occupied by pain. Ordinarily, any thought of Biff on my part is met with immediate arousal from Jennie, and it’s incredibly frustrating to think of someone you hate only to find your pussy juicing up and your heart rate and your breath shortening because a craving for the man’s thick hard cock just skewered you like a kebab. But not now. Now, Jennie is writhing in agony, and I can bask in dark disturbing fantasies of revenge.
Everything else falls before that hate, gets wiped away, scrubbed clean. There is nothing in my heart right but dark raging flames. And Jennie screams in the background and fuels the fire, the perfect melodic accompaniment.
“Is she waking up?” Another voice. From my left this time. I got distracted and forgot all about the voices.
“Yeah, but that’s not normal, is it?” asks the first voice. I don’t recognize it. Someone new at the Institute? The fog is starting to clear, but not enough for me to think straight. And I’m getting some of the pain that Jennie is crumbling under. “Look at those spikes!”
“No, that’s definitely not normal. Never saw anything like that before.”
There’s shuffling behind me. I’m lying down, that much I can tell now.
“Okay, that’s pretty impressive. When did they start?”
“When the Polypherol took effect, I think. I guess. The timing’s about right.”
“What was she on before?”
“Analassillin. And Clorabarbitocin.”
“Powerful combo.”
“Yeah. Look, they’re getting stronger, too. Almost off the charts.”
I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Jennie’s screams are turning shrill in my head, and I start to feel it much more strongly too, as if she’s leaking pain as if she cannot contain it all and it’s pouring into me, and it’s terrifying me. I can’t move—Jennie’s driving, and when she’s driving, I can’t do squat—I know I would reaching for my own head and clutching it myself.
I feel fingers on my face, and one of my eyelids is pulled back and a bright light is shining through and it just adds to the pain. I’m starting to feel sick to my stomach.
“Her file said she suffered some sort of stroke. Is it worse than we thought?” I think that’s the man in front of me, shining a light in my eye speaking. I want to tell him I’m here, to help me, but I can’t, and if I could, it’d come out as a incoherent rant of pain. It’s getting stronger, lava spewing out of the volcano consuming Jennie and threatening to engulf and incinerate me as well. Please, don’t let it happen. Help me, help me!
“Can’t tell—I don’t know what to make of these numbers.” The man behind me is moving about, taping on a keyboard.
“Mmm… Well, that’s weird.” The man in front of my face has switched to my other eye, and closes it after blinding me once again. The fire in my brain is getting worse.
Jennie is dying, I can feel it. She’s burning up. I don’t know why I’m still here. I don’t know how long I’ll still be here.
“Never saw patterns like these. Well, aside from that, there. That I’ve seen. That’s a pain marker. And here, and here. Whatever else is going on in that head of hers, it’s painful, and it’s getting worse.”
“Is that going to mess up the process?”
“Don’t know. Depends on what’s causing it. If it’s neurological damage, then yeah, that may fuck things up badly. We don’t know where they found her, do we?”
“Of course not. The boss said to process her, and so we do.”
“Well, can’t guarantee anything. For all I know, she’s going to come out of the process a vegetable.”
“A good-looking vegetable though”
Laughter. “Yeah. Nice body, but a complete moron. Basically a blow-up doll.”
“Don’t knock it, there are guys that go for that sort of thing..”
“That’s sick.”
“Yeah. Takes all kinds, right? Okay, well, let’s go, then. You’re up on the new protocol?”
“I am. Not too different from the usual one. And I was part of the previous batch, too.”
I feel hands on me, and I realize I’m naked. But the hands don’t linger. Some sort of apparatus closes in on me. Just like that, I’m trapped. Something slips over my head, something presses against my breasts, against my crotch. I want to struggle, but can’t.
And through it all, the pain.
“Okay, injecting the euphoric agent. Let me record this.” There’s a pinch on my arm, followed by a sting that burns all the way up my shoulder.. More tapping on a keyboard. “Subject Jane Doe, recorded on file as Jennie, age unknown, estimated at twenty-three based on measurement. Five foot eight, one hundred and fifty pounds. Caucasian, brown hair, grey eyes. Lean body, good general health. No distinguishing features, save a tattoo over the pudenda, a script in dark red ink, spelling out Biff’s Cunt in an arc. The ink deterioration suggest less than one year old. Breasts average sized, estimated at C cups, with large nipples. Classically beautiful. Appeared to have suffered from a stroke, under medically-induced coma upon arrival.”
“She’s ready for Alpha Prime stage.”
Suddenly, the pain in my head lessens. It takes me by surprise so much that I want to cry, suddenly. Jennie is still suffering, though
“Check. Proceed.”
Tapping on the keyboard.
“Doesn’t it make you feel… I don’t know… bad?”
“What?”
“What we’re doing?”
“And what are we doing?”
“We’re wiping her mind.”
“Okay, first off, are you crazy? You don’t talk about shit like this here. Second, look at her, at her chart. She’s dead within the year, and not a pretty death at that. Her brain’s shot. Kaput. Mush. This gives her another chance at life.”
“Yeah, but what kind of life?”
“Boohoo. Look, this sort of talk won’t lead you far, not with the boss. He’ll have you out on your ass and reassigned to sanitary duty.”
The other man merely grunts. Meanwhile, I can only hear the words that have been said. We’re wiping her mind. Oh God!
“So I heard a rumor.”
“Come on, man, don’t.”
“I hear this is really based on Cargyle’s tech.”
“Fuck,” but there is a note of curiosity in his voice. “Really?”
The other man doesn’t answer. “Okay, that’s weird.”
“What now?”
“There are traces of Serum in her system.”
“Come again?”
“Traces of Serum. Faint, but unmistakeable. The board just lit up.”
“She’s already been adjusted before?”
“You didn’t see an adjustment mark on her, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Mmm…”
“Is this going to mess things up?”
“It shouldn’t. But I wonder why that’s not part of her file.”
“There was another one last time with something similar. Again, a no-name. Black chick. Nice tits on her too. Not a stroke victim, though she was messed up pretty bad. Schizophrenia or something like that. And she had traces of Serum. No adjustment tattoo.”
“What the fuck is going on? They never tell us anything.”
“That’s probably a good thing. I’m pretty sure that half the stuff we don’t really want to know about.”
“So how do we cover our asses?”
“We do our job. That’s how we cover our asses. Now can we get on with Alpha stage already?”
“Fine.”
* * *
Whatever they injected into me was powerful stuff. Jennie goes from screaming her head off inside our head to whimpering quietly and then moaning happily and lustily in no time whatsoever. And I can understand why—waves of sexual desires come crashing down upon me, and Jennie, on the front lines of the assault, has no protection, has no desire whatsoever to protect herself.
I can feel her struggle against our bounds, wanting to free her hands so that she could reach down and push her fingers deep into our pussy, scratch and destroy that itch that clamors for something—anything—to take care of it. Unbidden, the though of a large cock—so large as to take up the whole sky—comes to mind, and Jennie sees it and she lets out a moan of despair and yearning so deep that it pierces me with empathy. This is so much more powerful than any compulsion Biff has ever put into my head, so much beyond even what led to Jennie’s creation, it’s frightening. I know, without a doubt , that if a man offered to fuck me in exchange for cutting off one of my tits, that Jennie would happily go along with it, without hesitation, without any second thought—release is everything.
And I feel the surge of Jennie’s arousal—as it is my own—at that thought, of mutilating herself for sex, because of course she’s me and she can tell what I think—and she agrees wildly and adds images of her own, taking a big cock down her throat and massaging it endlessly until she passes out from lack of oxygen, or having her limbs hacked off and left a torso with tits and holes so that she can be picked up and fucked and dropped off like a discarded rag before the next man picks her up and fucks her as well, in whichever hole he pleases. It’s a small step from that to imagining herself fucked with a huge pike that ends up impaling her, in through her ass and out of her mouth.
This image of being impaled sends Jennie into a frenzy, shoots her up the arousal scale. I can feel her wanting to thrust her hips up, trying to meet that cock that she’s imagining, and suffer her disappointment of finding nothing, unable even to make the smallest movement, the bondage serving merely to arouse her further. It is a positive feedback loop.
And that pike that she’s imagining splitting her up shifts and morphs into a large, hard, demanding cock, breaching the walls of her pussy, tearing her up wider, and the images are incredibly sharp and I understand at some level that those images are not just in my mind’s eye but that I can see them, right there, that the darkness that has engulfed me until now is filled with ghostly shapes, moving, shifting, dancing, and one of them is indeed a large cock—beautiful and mouth-wateringly hard—pushing into a shaved pussy and Jennie moans at the sight and I can understand her because it feels so fucking good, so real, like something was really pushing inside me.
That pussy up there, getting fucked in front of my eyes, that shaved perfect pussy, skewered alive, has a tattoo running over the front of it, in a graceful arc over the mons, lettered in dark red, a script that I know but so well, Biff’s Cunt—I recall the man that tattooed it there too, an artist that really loved his work, only slightly disturbed by the fact that a beautiful woman in front of him with her leg spread was begging him to mark her, only barely distracted by the juices running down her gash because that was what Biff wanted, to see me aroused by the artist, and I was, and so it’s my pussy up there getting fucked hard and Jennie knows it and she loves it and she’s starting to whimper those little words, those “fuck that cock… fuck that hard cock… fuck that hard cock with that tight cunt… fuck that hard cock with that tight juicy hungry little cunt…”
It’s almost a song—repeated often enough any sentence takes on a melody of it own—and it’s almost catchy and I can feel myself wanting to hum along, “Fuck that hard cock… fuck that hard cock with that tight cunt… fuck that hard cunt with that tight juicy hungry cunt…” And the images before go with the song, timed perfectly, each thrust of the shaft matching the accents, the crescendo, the ebbs and flows of the music, plowing through that pussy—my pussy, with that fucking tattoo over it, inviting, marking me, making it clear what sort of girl I am, and then there are flashes all around me, flashes of girls dressed scantily, in various poses, mixed in with the feelings. And those girls are me, but they’re not me, and I can feel Jennie longing to be them, to forget herself in them.
We’re wiping her mind.
The full impact hits me. The overpowering sense of lust that’s threatening to obliterate everything including self-respect and self-preservation, these images, these sensations. They’re serious. They want to wipe me out, turn me into a cock-loving automaton. A year ago, I would have scoffed at the notion as much as I do at human trafficking, a boogeyman I believe is meant to keep us womenfolk in line. Yet here I am, already a slave to my own lust by fucking Biff, and about to be taken further down the rabbit hole!
We’re wiping her mind.
I want to scream, to let out a wild scream to tell everyone that I’m still here, that I’m still me, but it’s like a dream where all your movements are too slow, where you’re moving through molasses. Is this what it feels like to drown, to be submerged in this water that rushes into every nook and every cranny and fills your lungs and you can’t breathe in any air because you are breathing but all the space it taken by this invader that won’t give you what you desperately need and you shout but all that comes out is more water that immediately gets replaced by more water?
Images are coming in faster and faster now, more precise, and I can tell that Jennie is guiding them now, lost as she is in the throes of her ecstasy—she’s not aware of what’s going on, the poor girl, has no sense that her identity is about to disappear, and even if she were, I’m not entirely sure she would not take it for the latest fucked up kink and savor her own oblivion with one more gate crashing orgasm. And I can understand because it’s getting to me too, I’m still subjected to what she’s subjected to, and I can heed the siren call of desire and part of me wants to dive in and drown.
Images float about me, images of flesh and bodies, male and female, faceless, formless, touching themselves, each other, fucking every way possible, as the droning in my ears has gone from a song-like mantra to actual music to a strangely soothing white noise that sounds like I’m listening to multiple voices at once, one on top of each other, some singing, some whispering, shouting, groaning—“Fuck that cunt… I’m a horny little slut… I’m yours, Master… My mouth or my ass?… Please hurt me… Please love me… Please let me obey you…”
And they’re all my voice.
It’s getting to me, how can it not, this subjugation of emotions? I’m responding, nowhere near as strongly as Jennie of course—this is so much her, so much targeted to her weakness, that she’s a moth heading straight into the flame. She was built up by Biff, piece by piece, as the perfect sexpot, ready to drop her panties at the flick of a finger, offer herself to whomever Biff chose, willing to follow her Master to the end of the earth and back, a creature of pure lust, and here she is given lust to spare, in crashing waves.
She’s lost to the world, overwhelmed by everything, by those hands all over our bodies, ghostly hands, some soft, some harsh, groping, tweaking, pressing, poking, invading, while cocks enter us through every opening, and Jennie is on a long never-ending orgasm, moaning and groaning and screaming her pretty head off in time with the crescendo of sound and images that permeate everything.
That’s when the fucking begins.
I know immediately that I’m getting fucked for real, that something hard is pressing into my pussy for real, and Jennie also of course notices but she’s either too far gone to know the difference between getting fucked in the head and getting fucked in the body, or she doesn’t care. She responds by just going even crazier, and I have to admit it feels oh so fucking good.
It starts slowly, a warm hard pressure against my pussy lips—my hot little cunt—vibrating softly, a pressure that eventually enters me slowly and Jennie goes nuts and wants to start impaling herself like mad but of course she can’t and I feel the same need and the same pleasure and I want to feel that hard shaft deep inside me.
Slowly, it pushes in. It’s artificial, I can tell, because really nothing feels like a real human cock—a delicious hard bar of throbbing male flesh to be worshipped like a god—but it’s effective nonetheless and it sinks into me without any difficulty because I’m so wet that I must be drenching whatever I’m lying on.
Jennie snaps when the shaft is fully embedded inside us, and I can feel it, huge and throbbing and hot and cold and all bits in between, filling me like I can’t breathe—and her orgasm reaches a peak and her screams shift into a higher almost impossible register and I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or pain or something else but I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’s not coming back from wherever what’s being done to us is doing—she’s going to drown into that numbing scream of apocalyptic pleasure and it’s with an orgasm that she’ll swallow her last lungful of sanity.
And then the fucking goes into high gear, the shaft pumping in and out, and I can’t concentrate anymore. Jennie takes over, and I just sit back, and watch, and feel, and groan in pleasure.
I sink into Jennie’s fantasy, helpless.
Faceless men are all around me, groping me, pawing me, their hands grasping my breasts, squeezing them hard, mauling them, their hands on my ass, on my pussy, on my legs, caressing and slapping and raking their nails over my sensitive skin, their fingers invading me, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass—in and out, in and out—and Jennie’s there with me the whole time, teammates in this blood sport, and she wants to scream some more but as soon as she opens her—our—mouth there’s a cock—two? three?—pressing in and we’re choking but we suck because the taste is amazing and that’s were here to do—SUCK! WORSHIP! OBEY!
And very soon we’re being mounted, our ass raised and penetrated by a large cock that pummels in, the faceless body behind it hammering with arresting strength, every thrust sending us slamming into the cock that’s fucking deep into our throat and we’re bouncing around like a rag doll and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt—I don’t know when I’ve started coming, but I haven’t stopped since, it’s been waves after waves of pleasure—and those faceless bodies, male and female, never give me a chance to recover, never give me a chance to catch my breath, they just take me over the hump over and over again and I let them because I’m drunk on pleasure—SERVE! WORSHIP! OBEY!
After I don’t know how long—did I black out?—I’m on my back, my legs spread impossibly wide and tied to posts all around us, unable to cover myself: an offering, a wanton display, an invitation to just take me and use me without any consideration for what I want because I want it all, I love it all, I’m the girl that will do anything for cock, and there’s another faceless man between my legs plowing into me, fucking me with hard punishing thrusts, over and over, his body a river of muscles, and I soak it all up and Jennie’s in a continual moan now, a drooling idiot, her brain fucked out of her.
I’m glad the bitch is gone. I’m all they have now, those faceless bodies, those strong muscular shapes that seek nothing but to sink their appendages into my soft wet warm flesh. I wrap my legs around the faceless body o n top of me—I’m not tied up anymore it seems—and I pull him close and my breasts are clamoring for his attention. I want him to grab them, hurt them, use them as he sees fit, because they’re his. I’m all his, to do as he wishes. A slave to his needs, his desires, his fancies.
There’s a steady chorus of voices that I’ve been ignoring but that I focus on now, a steady stream of dirty talk, some describing what we’re doing, other whispered voices calling me a slut, a whore, a cum bucket, a cock sleeve, a fuck rag, a slag, a thing, a doll, flesh, meat, holes, and I know they’re right and I bask in their description because it is me, I am all of that and more.
And when they tell me that I’m such a good girl for obeying, for serving, for worshipping, that I will be rewarded, that I will be loved, that I will be saved, that all I have to do is give in and offer myself, my heart, my soul, let it all go for the pleasure of my Masters, for the will of my Masters, for the whims of my Masters, I close my eyes and want to give myself over to the feelings that this faceless man is nailing right into me.
And the man must have picked up on it, because he starts slamming into me harder and I can’t believe he’s not ripping something inside me and tearing me apart for it’s painful but the pain is pleasure and the pleasure is that of being a pussy, nothing more than a pussy—a pussy and a pair of tits, and a mouth and an ass, and the faceless man growls and I can hear him mutter and tell me how good my tight fucking cunt feels wrapped around his cock and that he’s going to fuck me to the bone and that he’s going to ruin me for everyone else and when my pussy is but bloodied flesh he’s going to turn to my ass next and then I’m going to scream for real and I won’t be able to spend a single day of my life without a fucking cock up my tight ass and there’s something in the way he says it that cuts through my lusty haze and even as I pull him close and shudder in my never-ending orgasm I try to focus on the man’s face and even as he starts slapping my tits—fuck that feels so fucking good and my cunt starts squeezing him like mad and what won’t he just come and drown me with his cum?—his features dances and twist and resolve somewhat and then it’s Biff on top of me taking me the way he always loved to do, taking me like he was punishing me with that cocky grin plastered all over his face that told me how pleased he was to sink his cock into the tight juicy cunt of Jennifer Hansen and to show her that really all she was good for was to spread her legs and get fucked.
“You like it, doll?” His voice was unmistakeable—dripping with conceit, like I was doing this because I wanted to, which of course he’s right because I do. “Tell me how much you like me boning you… go on… tell me…”
Jennie squeals like I’ve never heard a human being squeal before—Biff’s presence must be the only thing able to cut through whatever mind-destroying loop she was caught in—and I can hear her scream her agreement and her screams turn into screeches as she snaps and her screams become part of the background again and Jennie is no more and suddenly I’m all alone and Biff is fucking me harder telling he’s going to come all over my face and my tits and that’s just the beginning because that’s how things are going to be for the ret of my life—SERVE! WORSHIP! OBEY!—I’ll be his fucking slave all over again, with no hope of rescue, no chance to escape, nowhere to go, nobody to be but his fuck doll.
I can’t help fuck back against him, but I close my eyes ever as he leans down and bites one of my nipples so hard that I’m sure he’s bit it clean off and it sends an incredible bolt from my clit down to my soul even as I try to wish him away and wander about helplessly looking for something to hold on to and then I open my eyes again and Biff’s still there fucking me hard, his eyes peering into me, but he’s not Biff any longer.
Richard. Richard Sanderson. The nurse at the Institute, the one who helped me, the one who liked me, and he’s smiling at me and it is not a smile like Biff’s but one full of care and lust and confusion and he fucks me just as hard and it feels just as good if not better and I’ve still got my legs wrapped around him and I pull him close and he kisses me and I let him as grateful relief washes over me even as we buck together and he carries me over yet another orgasmic wave and he’s trying to say something and I have to focus and he’s asking me to get on my hands and knees so that he can fuck me from behind like a bitch in heat and that he wants to stare at my ass as he fucks me and he’s coarse and he’s turning me on and there’s that strange feeling inside me like I passed by something important and it’s Richard but it’s not Richard and I’m having difficulty thinking but Richard is key and I pull him close again and kiss him hard this time sending my tongue deep down his throat while I rub my whole body against his and we’re glued like that for minutes—hours? days?—and when I pull back it’s not Richard any longer, nor Biff, but Daniel fucking me.
Daniel! The shock frightens me.
He’s on top of me, staring at me with one of his typical little smiles on his face, the one that says that he knows what I’m thinking even before I do and in this case he may not be wrong.
Daniel! Biff took me away from him. Snatched me away from him, without a second thought. Daniel. My boyfriend. My fiancé. The love of my life, soulmate. I know it’s cliché to say that when I’m young, but you know those things when they happen. You can’t not know them.
Daniel! My heart leaps and the cries and the voices for a second fade away and I really I must have said it out loud and his smiles grows wider and he nods as if I did good, the exact right thing I was supposed to do, and he’s fucking me as well, like everyone has been doing, but he’s careful, controlled, and my body goes along with this new rhythm like it is the most natural in the world, and it is.
Daniel! He proposed to me before Christmas last year—I think it was last year, when are we anyway?—and I said yes. And he was willing to follow me to Texas when I got my Blumburry Fellowship, back in my old life, back when I looked forward to write and become a legal and analyst—whichever one panned out first. But that was before. Daniel, the Blumburry, the law and English, that was all before. Before Biff. Before Biff turned into a fuck doll.
“Hi love,” he says, looking at me deep in the eyes, and it’s his voice, and I melt and I kiss him and hug him and I think I’m either crying or laughing, screaming my head off because the orgasm that rips through me upon hearing his words is more intense than any that have preceded it, and Daniel has to hang on for dear life—his cock never leaving the cozy confines of my pussy—as I buck and waiver and undulate underneath him.
When I come down, I’m no longer on the bed—or whatever it was I was on before. I’m on the sidelines, watching someone—is it me? it looks like me—getting taken over and over again by a swarm of naked faceless men and women, buzzing around that body like vultures around offals, and it’s like a bad porn movie but I can feel the effects of all that sex and I know it’s still me up there but this time it’s subdued, indirect, and it’s not Jennie getting fucked because Jennie’s gone and I don’t know who it is but I know everything is okay because Daniel is next to me and nothing bad can happen when he’s there.
And he’s right there, lying or sitting or floating beside me, and he’s naked but he’s casual about it and he has his gentle smile on his face and the surge of love and relief that courses through me serves to remind me of how lost and alone I have felt since Biff snatched me and fucked with me.
“You didn’t forget about me,” I say. It’s not a question, more a statement of disbelief.
“Never would, love. You know that. I’d look for you to the ends of the earth and beyond.”
And I know he’s right, because I would do exactly the same. “Take me away from here.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can censor them, and I cringe when I hear the need and the ache that laces them. Then again, if anyone can see me weak without judging me, it’s Daniel. He takes me as I am and accept me, the good and the bad. He always has.
“I can’t, love. I’m not really here, and you know that as well as I do. This is all in your head.”
I nod. Of course, he’s right. I look back at the scene in front of us, all around us, the mind-numbing display of sex in all shapes or forms, my body out there bucking and fucking and doing its best impersonation of a porn star on crack, doing everything and asking for more in a voice that is mine but that I can’t recognize. In the background, I can hear instructions, telling me to act this way and that, to be good, to obey, to acknowledge my masters.
“They’re destroying my mind.”
Daniel chuckles, and pulls me close. It feels better than the myriad of orgasms that have racked me earlier, that are already fading away.
“Well, clearly not, because you’re here,” he says.
I pause, look at him. The way he emphasized you gave me an idea. “Jennie.”
Daniel smiles and nods. “She took the brunt of it. The main personality that evolved from what Biff did to you, and that’s what the reprogramming found and destroyed. Pretty thoroughly, too.”
“How do you know about Jennie?”
“Because I’m not really me, silly. I’m really you.”
“Oh.” Of course. “Am I going crazy?”
Daniel laughs, that laugh I remember so well, that laugh that I sought out many nights when needing to feel better about the world, or just because it put a smile on my face like nothing else could.
“Not yet, but if you don’t find somewhere safe to go, I can’t promise anything. Whatever they’ve given you is powerful stuff.”
“I’m safe with you.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t stay. And I’m not safe enough for you. I’m too intertwined with what happened with Biff and all that crap. I’m too close to the surface of your thoughts, too obvious. No, you have to find somewhere safer to hide, somewhere from way back.”
And I know there’s a door behind me now and I can even guess where it led, but I don’t want to go. I know Daniel does not exist here, that this is just my mind trying to save itself, my subconscious trying to understand everything that’s going on around me and everything that’s happening to me and interpreting it in the best way it knows how and I should listen to it—to myself.
“Come with me! Stay with me.” Again, the need, the ache.
“I can’t. But don’t worry, I’ll find you. I won’t give up.”
“Promise?” I’m crying now, shamelessly.
“I promise, love. Now go.”
And I go while I have the strength, after kissing Daniel and avoiding the sight of my body fornicating away doing things that I did not know human bodies could do, blocking out the sounds and the voices that are getting louder and telling me to listen to them and obey them and submit to them and I can feel the pull of that body out there, getting overwhelmed with lust and pleasure and pain and sweet oblivion and in a flash I’m through the door and I slam it behind me.
Silence, except for birds in the distance.
I knew what I would find. It’s my old room, back home, the room where I grew up, decorated like I remember. I had forgotten most of the details, but never forgot the feelings. There’s a beautiful Maine early Fall light outside. And I know in my heart that this is how my room was the months after Mom split up from my father and had kicked him out. She told me that I would always be safe here and of course she was right. This is home, in a way deeper than I can ever hope to express.
I crawl onto my old bed, onto the handcrafted quilt that came from my Mom’s mother, and hug Steady, my large plushie turtle, who has seen me through so many childhood crises. I know I’m safe, curled up in a ball, clutching Steady, knowing that Mom will eventually bring me some hot coco before dinner, while outside the door the sounds of unholy fornication continue unabashed.
I fall asleep.
“Holy crap, look at those spikes!”
The voice is what finally pulls me out of that gray haze that’s been slowly oh so slowly lifting since I first woke up I don’t know how long ago.
My name is Jennifer Hansen, and my brain feels like mush. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, no idea where I am, no idea even how I’m doing. I can’t move, can’t open my eyes—even if I had the energy, it’s like my limbs were severed from my nervous system.
And then there’s the pain.
I don’t feel the pain directly, but it’s there all around me, and I feel someone feeling the pain—she’s screaming, really, because I’m calling it pain but agony might be more accurate—and I’m connected to her and I feel her pain, but it’s like I’m inside her, protected. There is pain, but it’s indirect, diffuse, the intellectual, emotional, empathetic response to pain, and not the nervous response to pain. It still freaks me out, though.
There are voices around me, hard to make out through the screams of pain that resonate inside my head. I realize who’s screaming, too, eventually. Jennie. Jennie is in agony. I can picture her clutching her head as though it’s about to split apart and give rise to a goddess, writhing agony at talons tearing at her mind.
Memories come back to me in pieces, like a movie reel running forward faster and faster. I’m at the Institute, awake and aware but unable to move, in a crazy coma. I’m woken up, and then there’s Richard, Mouse, Cassandra, Gutierrez—everyone in Blue Ward, a dysfunctional little family. My plan to escape. Then my plan to prevent Mouse from being taken away. My plan to get rid of Gutierrez.
And then it flashes in my mind, the last things I remember. Letting Gutierrez have his way with me as Mouse helps him, an elaborate trap to get him to abuse me on camera while the feed is redirected to a conference room within the Institute where executives are assembled—a desperate gambit to save my friend Mouse’s life. Gutierrez wanted to sell her.
Did it work thought? I have no idea. My last memory is fuzzy: I was fighting with Gutierrez after he discovered he had been played and then there was that lighting bolt right between my eyes, like a sharp spike had been shoved in, like my head was being ripped in half. But then everything went dark.
Even as it happened, even as I felt my head explode, I knew that Jennie was taking the brunt of the damage. While I experienced pain, I have no words to describe what Jennie went through.
Jennie. Jennie is, for lack of a better term, the personality that was programmed into me what feels like a lifetime ago. A slut, craving the touch of men, their hands, their mouths, their cocks. Never so happy as when she’s serving, doing what she’s told with sheer enthusiasm. I have no control over her—she’s the driver, I’m merely a passenger. There are drugs that seem to put her to sleep and let me take over, up to a point—so I discovered recently. But clearly, I’m not on them right now. Right now, Jennie’s driving. Well, screaming.
Biff. Biff did this to me. Biff programmed me back at Darnell University. An animal. He turned me into a slut, created Jennie, enslaved to his cock, a fuck toy for that spoiled bastard, a thing that he could use and abuse to his heart’s content.
Biff. He’s the one who created Jennie—the other me who’s not me while being me, in a way that I can’t understand, however hard I try to. I don’t know who I am, and who she is, and if we’re the same or not. She’s the one in charge of my body most of the time, the one that acts, that makes the decisions, and they’re influenced by what Biff did to her, did to us, did to me, influenced and guided and prescribed. And I’m there, in the back of her head, watching, feeling, partaking of whatever she does, the same but separate. But I’m really me. I’m me. She is… another part of me.
Biff. I can unleash all of my hate right now, let it pour forth like a geyser of loathing because Jennie is otherwise occupied by pain. Ordinarily, any thought of Biff on my part is met with immediate arousal from Jennie, and it’s incredibly frustrating to think of someone you hate only to find your pussy juicing up and your heart rate and your breath shortening because a craving for the man’s thick hard cock just skewered you like a kebab. But not now. Now, Jennie is writhing in agony, and I can bask in dark disturbing fantasies of revenge.
Everything else falls before that hate, gets wiped away, scrubbed clean. There is nothing in my heart right but dark raging flames. And Jennie screams in the background and fuels the fire, the perfect melodic accompaniment.
“Is she waking up?” Another voice. From my left this time. I got distracted and forgot all about the voices.
“Yeah, but that’s not normal, is it?” asks the first voice. I don’t recognize it. Someone new at the Institute? The fog is starting to clear, but not enough for me to think straight. And I’m getting some of the pain that Jennie is crumbling under. “Look at those spikes!”
“No, that’s definitely not normal. Never saw anything like that before.”
There’s shuffling behind me. I’m lying down, that much I can tell now.
“Okay, that’s pretty impressive. When did they start?”
“When the Polypherol took effect, I think. I guess. The timing’s about right.”
“What was she on before?”
“Analassillin. And Clorabarbitocin.”
“Powerful combo.”
“Yeah. Look, they’re getting stronger, too. Almost off the charts.”
I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Jennie’s screams are turning shrill in my head, and I start to feel it much more strongly too, as if she’s leaking pain as if she cannot contain it all and it’s pouring into me, and it’s terrifying me. I can’t move—Jennie’s driving, and when she’s driving, I can’t do squat—I know I would reaching for my own head and clutching it myself.
I feel fingers on my face, and one of my eyelids is pulled back and a bright light is shining through and it just adds to the pain. I’m starting to feel sick to my stomach.
“Her file said she suffered some sort of stroke. Is it worse than we thought?” I think that’s the man in front of me, shining a light in my eye speaking. I want to tell him I’m here, to help me, but I can’t, and if I could, it’d come out as a incoherent rant of pain. It’s getting stronger, lava spewing out of the volcano consuming Jennie and threatening to engulf and incinerate me as well. Please, don’t let it happen. Help me, help me!
“Can’t tell—I don’t know what to make of these numbers.” The man behind me is moving about, taping on a keyboard.
“Mmm… Well, that’s weird.” The man in front of my face has switched to my other eye, and closes it after blinding me once again. The fire in my brain is getting worse.
Jennie is dying, I can feel it. She’s burning up. I don’t know why I’m still here. I don’t know how long I’ll still be here.
“Never saw patterns like these. Well, aside from that, there. That I’ve seen. That’s a pain marker. And here, and here. Whatever else is going on in that head of hers, it’s painful, and it’s getting worse.”
“Is that going to mess up the process?”
“Don’t know. Depends on what’s causing it. If it’s neurological damage, then yeah, that may fuck things up badly. We don’t know where they found her, do we?”
“Of course not. The boss said to process her, and so we do.”
“Well, can’t guarantee anything. For all I know, she’s going to come out of the process a vegetable.”
“A good-looking vegetable though”
Laughter. “Yeah. Nice body, but a complete moron. Basically a blow-up doll.”
“Don’t knock it, there are guys that go for that sort of thing..”
“That’s sick.”
“Yeah. Takes all kinds, right? Okay, well, let’s go, then. You’re up on the new protocol?”
“I am. Not too different from the usual one. And I was part of the previous batch, too.”
I feel hands on me, and I realize I’m naked. But the hands don’t linger. Some sort of apparatus closes in on me. Just like that, I’m trapped. Something slips over my head, something presses against my breasts, against my crotch. I want to struggle, but can’t.
And through it all, the pain.
“Okay, injecting the euphoric agent. Let me record this.” There’s a pinch on my arm, followed by a sting that burns all the way up my shoulder.. More tapping on a keyboard. “Subject Jane Doe, recorded on file as Jennie, age unknown, estimated at twenty-three based on measurement. Five foot eight, one hundred and fifty pounds. Caucasian, brown hair, grey eyes. Lean body, good general health. No distinguishing features, save a tattoo over the pudenda, a script in dark red ink, spelling out Biff’s Cunt in an arc. The ink deterioration suggest less than one year old. Breasts average sized, estimated at C cups, with large nipples. Classically beautiful. Appeared to have suffered from a stroke, under medically-induced coma upon arrival.”
“She’s ready for Alpha Prime stage.”
Suddenly, the pain in my head lessens. It takes me by surprise so much that I want to cry, suddenly. Jennie is still suffering, though
“Check. Proceed.”
Tapping on the keyboard.
“Doesn’t it make you feel… I don’t know… bad?”
“What?”
“What we’re doing?”
“And what are we doing?”
“We’re wiping her mind.”
“Okay, first off, are you crazy? You don’t talk about shit like this here. Second, look at her, at her chart. She’s dead within the year, and not a pretty death at that. Her brain’s shot. Kaput. Mush. This gives her another chance at life.”
“Yeah, but what kind of life?”
“Boohoo. Look, this sort of talk won’t lead you far, not with the boss. He’ll have you out on your ass and reassigned to sanitary duty.”
The other man merely grunts. Meanwhile, I can only hear the words that have been said. We’re wiping her mind. Oh God!
“So I heard a rumor.”
“Come on, man, don’t.”
“I hear this is really based on Cargyle’s tech.”
“Fuck,” but there is a note of curiosity in his voice. “Really?”
The other man doesn’t answer. “Okay, that’s weird.”
“What now?”
“There are traces of Serum in her system.”
“Come again?”
“Traces of Serum. Faint, but unmistakeable. The board just lit up.”
“She’s already been adjusted before?”
“You didn’t see an adjustment mark on her, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Mmm…”
“Is this going to mess things up?”
“It shouldn’t. But I wonder why that’s not part of her file.”
“There was another one last time with something similar. Again, a no-name. Black chick. Nice tits on her too. Not a stroke victim, though she was messed up pretty bad. Schizophrenia or something like that. And she had traces of Serum. No adjustment tattoo.”
“What the fuck is going on? They never tell us anything.”
“That’s probably a good thing. I’m pretty sure that half the stuff we don’t really want to know about.”
“So how do we cover our asses?”
“We do our job. That’s how we cover our asses. Now can we get on with Alpha stage already?”
“Fine.”
Whatever they injected into me was powerful stuff. Jennie goes from screaming her head off inside our head to whimpering quietly and then moaning happily and lustily in no time whatsoever. And I can understand why—waves of sexual desires come crashing down upon me, and Jennie, on the front lines of the assault, has no protection, has no desire whatsoever to protect herself.
I can feel her struggle against our bounds, wanting to free her hands so that she could reach down and push her fingers deep into our pussy, scratch and destroy that itch that clamors for something—anything—to take care of it. Unbidden, the though of a large cock—so large as to take up the whole sky—comes to mind, and Jennie sees it and she lets out a moan of despair and yearning so deep that it pierces me with empathy. This is so much more powerful than any compulsion Biff has ever put into my head, so much beyond even what led to Jennie’s creation, it’s frightening. I know, without a doubt , that if a man offered to fuck me in exchange for cutting off one of my tits, that Jennie would happily go along with it, without hesitation, without any second thought—release is everything.
And I feel the surge of Jennie’s arousal—as it is my own—at that thought, of mutilating herself for sex, because of course she’s me and she can tell what I think—and she agrees wildly and adds images of her own, taking a big cock down her throat and massaging it endlessly until she passes out from lack of oxygen, or having her limbs hacked off and left a torso with tits and holes so that she can be picked up and fucked and dropped off like a discarded rag before the next man picks her up and fucks her as well, in whichever hole he pleases. It’s a small step from that to imagining herself fucked with a huge pike that ends up impaling her, in through her ass and out of her mouth.
This image of being impaled sends Jennie into a frenzy, shoots her up the arousal scale. I can feel her wanting to thrust her hips up, trying to meet that cock that she’s imagining, and suffer her disappointment of finding nothing, unable even to make the smallest movement, the bondage serving merely to arouse her further. It is a positive feedback loop.
And that pike that she’s imagining splitting her up shifts and morphs into a large, hard, demanding cock, breaching the walls of her pussy, tearing her up wider, and the images are incredibly sharp and I understand at some level that those images are not just in my mind’s eye but that I can see them, right there, that the darkness that has engulfed me until now is filled with ghostly shapes, moving, shifting, dancing, and one of them is indeed a large cock—beautiful and mouth-wateringly hard—pushing into a shaved pussy and Jennie moans at the sight and I can understand her because it feels so fucking good, so real, like something was really pushing inside me.
That pussy up there, getting fucked in front of my eyes, that shaved perfect pussy, skewered alive, has a tattoo running over the front of it, in a graceful arc over the mons, lettered in dark red, a script that I know but so well, Biff’s Cunt—I recall the man that tattooed it there too, an artist that really loved his work, only slightly disturbed by the fact that a beautiful woman in front of him with her leg spread was begging him to mark her, only barely distracted by the juices running down her gash because that was what Biff wanted, to see me aroused by the artist, and I was, and so it’s my pussy up there getting fucked hard and Jennie knows it and she loves it and she’s starting to whimper those little words, those “fuck that cock… fuck that hard cock… fuck that hard cock with that tight cunt… fuck that hard cock with that tight juicy hungry little cunt…”
It’s almost a song—repeated often enough any sentence takes on a melody of it own—and it’s almost catchy and I can feel myself wanting to hum along, “Fuck that hard cock… fuck that hard cock with that tight cunt… fuck that hard cunt with that tight juicy hungry cunt…” And the images before go with the song, timed perfectly, each thrust of the shaft matching the accents, the crescendo, the ebbs and flows of the music, plowing through that pussy—my pussy, with that fucking tattoo over it, inviting, marking me, making it clear what sort of girl I am, and then there are flashes all around me, flashes of girls dressed scantily, in various poses, mixed in with the feelings. And those girls are me, but they’re not me, and I can feel Jennie longing to be them, to forget herself in them.
We’re wiping her mind.
The full impact hits me. The overpowering sense of lust that’s threatening to obliterate everything including self-respect and self-preservation, these images, these sensations. They’re serious. They want to wipe me out, turn me into a cock-loving automaton. A year ago, I would have scoffed at the notion as much as I do at human trafficking, a boogeyman I believe is meant to keep us womenfolk in line. Yet here I am, already a slave to my own lust by fucking Biff, and about to be taken further down the rabbit hole!
We’re wiping her mind.
I want to scream, to let out a wild scream to tell everyone that I’m still here, that I’m still me, but it’s like a dream where all your movements are too slow, where you’re moving through molasses. Is this what it feels like to drown, to be submerged in this water that rushes into every nook and every cranny and fills your lungs and you can’t breathe in any air because you are breathing but all the space it taken by this invader that won’t give you what you desperately need and you shout but all that comes out is more water that immediately gets replaced by more water?
Images are coming in faster and faster now, more precise, and I can tell that Jennie is guiding them now, lost as she is in the throes of her ecstasy—she’s not aware of what’s going on, the poor girl, has no sense that her identity is about to disappear, and even if she were, I’m not entirely sure she would not take it for the latest fucked up kink and savor her own oblivion with one more gate crashing orgasm. And I can understand because it’s getting to me too, I’m still subjected to what she’s subjected to, and I can heed the siren call of desire and part of me wants to dive in and drown.
Images float about me, images of flesh and bodies, male and female, faceless, formless, touching themselves, each other, fucking every way possible, as the droning in my ears has gone from a song-like mantra to actual music to a strangely soothing white noise that sounds like I’m listening to multiple voices at once, one on top of each other, some singing, some whispering, shouting, groaning—“Fuck that cunt… I’m a horny little slut… I’m yours, Master… My mouth or my ass?… Please hurt me… Please love me… Please let me obey you…”
And they’re all my voice.
It’s getting to me, how can it not, this subjugation of emotions? I’m responding, nowhere near as strongly as Jennie of course—this is so much her, so much targeted to her weakness, that she’s a moth heading straight into the flame. She was built up by Biff, piece by piece, as the perfect sexpot, ready to drop her panties at the flick of a finger, offer herself to whomever Biff chose, willing to follow her Master to the end of the earth and back, a creature of pure lust, and here she is given lust to spare, in crashing waves.
She’s lost to the world, overwhelmed by everything, by those hands all over our bodies, ghostly hands, some soft, some harsh, groping, tweaking, pressing, poking, invading, while cocks enter us through every opening, and Jennie is on a long never-ending orgasm, moaning and groaning and screaming her pretty head off in time with the crescendo of sound and images that permeate everything.
That’s when the fucking begins.
I know immediately that I’m getting fucked for real, that something hard is pressing into my pussy for real, and Jennie also of course notices but she’s either too far gone to know the difference between getting fucked in the head and getting fucked in the body, or she doesn’t care. She responds by just going even crazier, and I have to admit it feels oh so fucking good.
It starts slowly, a warm hard pressure against my pussy lips—my hot little cunt—vibrating softly, a pressure that eventually enters me slowly and Jennie goes nuts and wants to start impaling herself like mad but of course she can’t and I feel the same need and the same pleasure and I want to feel that hard shaft deep inside me.
Slowly, it pushes in. It’s artificial, I can tell, because really nothing feels like a real human cock—a delicious hard bar of throbbing male flesh to be worshipped like a god—but it’s effective nonetheless and it sinks into me without any difficulty because I’m so wet that I must be drenching whatever I’m lying on.
Jennie snaps when the shaft is fully embedded inside us, and I can feel it, huge and throbbing and hot and cold and all bits in between, filling me like I can’t breathe—and her orgasm reaches a peak and her screams shift into a higher almost impossible register and I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or pain or something else but I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’s not coming back from wherever what’s being done to us is doing—she’s going to drown into that numbing scream of apocalyptic pleasure and it’s with an orgasm that she’ll swallow her last lungful of sanity.
And then the fucking goes into high gear, the shaft pumping in and out, and I can’t concentrate anymore. Jennie takes over, and I just sit back, and watch, and feel, and groan in pleasure.
I sink into Jennie’s fantasy, helpless.
Faceless men are all around me, groping me, pawing me, their hands grasping my breasts, squeezing them hard, mauling them, their hands on my ass, on my pussy, on my legs, caressing and slapping and raking their nails over my sensitive skin, their fingers invading me, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass—in and out, in and out—and Jennie’s there with me the whole time, teammates in this blood sport, and she wants to scream some more but as soon as she opens her—our—mouth there’s a cock—two? three?—pressing in and we’re choking but we suck because the taste is amazing and that’s were here to do—SUCK! WORSHIP! OBEY!
And very soon we’re being mounted, our ass raised and penetrated by a large cock that pummels in, the faceless body behind it hammering with arresting strength, every thrust sending us slamming into the cock that’s fucking deep into our throat and we’re bouncing around like a rag doll and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt—I don’t know when I’ve started coming, but I haven’t stopped since, it’s been waves after waves of pleasure—and those faceless bodies, male and female, never give me a chance to recover, never give me a chance to catch my breath, they just take me over the hump over and over again and I let them because I’m drunk on pleasure—SERVE! WORSHIP! OBEY!
After I don’t know how long—did I black out?—I’m on my back, my legs spread impossibly wide and tied to posts all around us, unable to cover myself: an offering, a wanton display, an invitation to just take me and use me without any consideration for what I want because I want it all, I love it all, I’m the girl that will do anything for cock, and there’s another faceless man between my legs plowing into me, fucking me with hard punishing thrusts, over and over, his body a river of muscles, and I soak it all up and Jennie’s in a continual moan now, a drooling idiot, her brain fucked out of her.
I’m glad the bitch is gone. I’m all they have now, those faceless bodies, those strong muscular shapes that seek nothing but to sink their appendages into my soft wet warm flesh. I wrap my legs around the faceless body o n top of me—I’m not tied up anymore it seems—and I pull him close and my breasts are clamoring for his attention. I want him to grab them, hurt them, use them as he sees fit, because they’re his. I’m all his, to do as he wishes. A slave to his needs, his desires, his fancies.
There’s a steady chorus of voices that I’ve been ignoring but that I focus on now, a steady stream of dirty talk, some describing what we’re doing, other whispered voices calling me a slut, a whore, a cum bucket, a cock sleeve, a fuck rag, a slag, a thing, a doll, flesh, meat, holes, and I know they’re right and I bask in their description because it is me, I am all of that and more.
And when they tell me that I’m such a good girl for obeying, for serving, for worshipping, that I will be rewarded, that I will be loved, that I will be saved, that all I have to do is give in and offer myself, my heart, my soul, let it all go for the pleasure of my Masters, for the will of my Masters, for the whims of my Masters, I close my eyes and want to give myself over to the feelings that this faceless man is nailing right into me.
And the man must have picked up on it, because he starts slamming into me harder and I can’t believe he’s not ripping something inside me and tearing me apart for it’s painful but the pain is pleasure and the pleasure is that of being a pussy, nothing more than a pussy—a pussy and a pair of tits, and a mouth and an ass, and the faceless man growls and I can hear him mutter and tell me how good my tight fucking cunt feels wrapped around his cock and that he’s going to fuck me to the bone and that he’s going to ruin me for everyone else and when my pussy is but bloodied flesh he’s going to turn to my ass next and then I’m going to scream for real and I won’t be able to spend a single day of my life without a fucking cock up my tight ass and there’s something in the way he says it that cuts through my lusty haze and even as I pull him close and shudder in my never-ending orgasm I try to focus on the man’s face and even as he starts slapping my tits—fuck that feels so fucking good and my cunt starts squeezing him like mad and what won’t he just come and drown me with his cum?—his features dances and twist and resolve somewhat and then it’s Biff on top of me taking me the way he always loved to do, taking me like he was punishing me with that cocky grin plastered all over his face that told me how pleased he was to sink his cock into the tight juicy cunt of Jennifer Hansen and to show her that really all she was good for was to spread her legs and get fucked.
“You like it, doll?” His voice was unmistakeable—dripping with conceit, like I was doing this because I wanted to, which of course he’s right because I do. “Tell me how much you like me boning you… go on… tell me…”
Jennie squeals like I’ve never heard a human being squeal before—Biff’s presence must be the only thing able to cut through whatever mind-destroying loop she was caught in—and I can hear her scream her agreement and her screams turn into screeches as she snaps and her screams become part of the background again and Jennie is no more and suddenly I’m all alone and Biff is fucking me harder telling he’s going to come all over my face and my tits and that’s just the beginning because that’s how things are going to be for the ret of my life—SERVE! WORSHIP! OBEY!—I’ll be his fucking slave all over again, with no hope of rescue, no chance to escape, nowhere to go, nobody to be but his fuck doll.
I can’t help fuck back against him, but I close my eyes ever as he leans down and bites one of my nipples so hard that I’m sure he’s bit it clean off and it sends an incredible bolt from my clit down to my soul even as I try to wish him away and wander about helplessly looking for something to hold on to and then I open my eyes again and Biff’s still there fucking me hard, his eyes peering into me, but he’s not Biff any longer.
Richard. Richard Sanderson. The nurse at the Institute, the one who helped me, the one who liked me, and he’s smiling at me and it is not a smile like Biff’s but one full of care and lust and confusion and he fucks me just as hard and it feels just as good if not better and I’ve still got my legs wrapped around him and I pull him close and he kisses me and I let him as grateful relief washes over me even as we buck together and he carries me over yet another orgasmic wave and he’s trying to say something and I have to focus and he’s asking me to get on my hands and knees so that he can fuck me from behind like a bitch in heat and that he wants to stare at my ass as he fucks me and he’s coarse and he’s turning me on and there’s that strange feeling inside me like I passed by something important and it’s Richard but it’s not Richard and I’m having difficulty thinking but Richard is key and I pull him close again and kiss him hard this time sending my tongue deep down his throat while I rub my whole body against his and we’re glued like that for minutes—hours? days?—and when I pull back it’s not Richard any longer, nor Biff, but Daniel fucking me.
Daniel! The shock frightens me.
He’s on top of me, staring at me with one of his typical little smiles on his face, the one that says that he knows what I’m thinking even before I do and in this case he may not be wrong.
Daniel! Biff took me away from him. Snatched me away from him, without a second thought. Daniel. My boyfriend. My fiancé. The love of my life, soulmate. I know it’s cliché to say that when I’m young, but you know those things when they happen. You can’t not know them.
Daniel! My heart leaps and the cries and the voices for a second fade away and I really I must have said it out loud and his smiles grows wider and he nods as if I did good, the exact right thing I was supposed to do, and he’s fucking me as well, like everyone has been doing, but he’s careful, controlled, and my body goes along with this new rhythm like it is the most natural in the world, and it is.
Daniel! He proposed to me before Christmas last year—I think it was last year, when are we anyway?—and I said yes. And he was willing to follow me to Texas when I got my Blumburry Fellowship, back in my old life, back when I looked forward to write and become a legal and analyst—whichever one panned out first. But that was before. Daniel, the Blumburry, the law and English, that was all before. Before Biff. Before Biff turned into a fuck doll.
“Hi love,” he says, looking at me deep in the eyes, and it’s his voice, and I melt and I kiss him and hug him and I think I’m either crying or laughing, screaming my head off because the orgasm that rips through me upon hearing his words is more intense than any that have preceded it, and Daniel has to hang on for dear life—his cock never leaving the cozy confines of my pussy—as I buck and waiver and undulate underneath him.
When I come down, I’m no longer on the bed—or whatever it was I was on before. I’m on the sidelines, watching someone—is it me? it looks like me—getting taken over and over again by a swarm of naked faceless men and women, buzzing around that body like vultures around offals, and it’s like a bad porn movie but I can feel the effects of all that sex and I know it’s still me up there but this time it’s subdued, indirect, and it’s not Jennie getting fucked because Jennie’s gone and I don’t know who it is but I know everything is okay because Daniel is next to me and nothing bad can happen when he’s there.
And he’s right there, lying or sitting or floating beside me, and he’s naked but he’s casual about it and he has his gentle smile on his face and the surge of love and relief that courses through me serves to remind me of how lost and alone I have felt since Biff snatched me and fucked with me.
“You didn’t forget about me,” I say. It’s not a question, more a statement of disbelief.
“Never would, love. You know that. I’d look for you to the ends of the earth and beyond.”
And I know he’s right, because I would do exactly the same. “Take me away from here.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can censor them, and I cringe when I hear the need and the ache that laces them. Then again, if anyone can see me weak without judging me, it’s Daniel. He takes me as I am and accept me, the good and the bad. He always has.
“I can’t, love. I’m not really here, and you know that as well as I do. This is all in your head.”
I nod. Of course, he’s right. I look back at the scene in front of us, all around us, the mind-numbing display of sex in all shapes or forms, my body out there bucking and fucking and doing its best impersonation of a porn star on crack, doing everything and asking for more in a voice that is mine but that I can’t recognize. In the background, I can hear instructions, telling me to act this way and that, to be good, to obey, to acknowledge my masters.
“They’re destroying my mind.”
Daniel chuckles, and pulls me close. It feels better than the myriad of orgasms that have racked me earlier, that are already fading away.
“Well, clearly not, because you’re here,” he says.
I pause, look at him. The way he emphasized you gave me an idea. “Jennie.”
Daniel smiles and nods. “She took the brunt of it. The main personality that evolved from what Biff did to you, and that’s what the reprogramming found and destroyed. Pretty thoroughly, too.”
“How do you know about Jennie?”
“Because I’m not really me, silly. I’m really you.”
“Oh.” Of course. “Am I going crazy?”
Daniel laughs, that laugh I remember so well, that laugh that I sought out many nights when needing to feel better about the world, or just because it put a smile on my face like nothing else could.
“Not yet, but if you don’t find somewhere safe to go, I can’t promise anything. Whatever they’ve given you is powerful stuff.”
“I’m safe with you.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t stay. And I’m not safe enough for you. I’m too intertwined with what happened with Biff and all that crap. I’m too close to the surface of your thoughts, too obvious. No, you have to find somewhere safer to hide, somewhere from way back.”
And I know there’s a door behind me now and I can even guess where it led, but I don’t want to go. I know Daniel does not exist here, that this is just my mind trying to save itself, my subconscious trying to understand everything that’s going on around me and everything that’s happening to me and interpreting it in the best way it knows how and I should listen to it—to myself.
“Come with me! Stay with me.” Again, the need, the ache.
“I can’t. But don’t worry, I’ll find you. I won’t give up.”
“Promise?” I’m crying now, shamelessly.
“I promise, love. Now go.”
And I go while I have the strength, after kissing Daniel and avoiding the sight of my body fornicating away doing things that I did not know human bodies could do, blocking out the sounds and the voices that are getting louder and telling me to listen to them and obey them and submit to them and I can feel the pull of that body out there, getting overwhelmed with lust and pleasure and pain and sweet oblivion and in a flash I’m through the door and I slam it behind me.
Silence, except for birds in the distance.
I knew what I would find. It’s my old room, back home, the room where I grew up, decorated like I remember. I had forgotten most of the details, but never forgot the feelings. There’s a beautiful Maine early Fall light outside. And I know in my heart that this is how my room was the months after Mom split up from my father and had kicked him out. She told me that I would always be safe here and of course she was right. This is home, in a way deeper than I can ever hope to express.
I crawl onto my old bed, onto the handcrafted quilt that came from my Mom’s mother, and hug Steady, my large plushie turtle, who has seen me through so many childhood crises. I know I’m safe, curled up in a ball, clutching Steady, knowing that Mom will eventually bring me some hot coco before dinner, while outside the door the sounds of unholy fornication continue unabashed.
I fall asleep.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Update on the Adjusters #60
Still here, still alive, still writing. Putting the finishing touches to #60 — one last scene to clean up. No clue how this one's turning out. I'm way too close to it at the moment.
It's still going to be a few days though. So in the meantime, keep yourself entertained with the following stories which held my attention in April.
Update: Here are the links. Both involve a future reality where bad things happen, for lack of a better term.
Why I Love My Job by HandsInTheDark: “I capture a new secretary and teach her the rules.” Some nice dark ideas and scenes, especially when it comes to the sort of addictive drugs that are developed by The Company. The sort of thing I wish I had thought of...
Secrets of the New World Order by Bjmichaels: “Open your eyes people! This is happening now!” Not as dark as the above, or at least, not as cynically dark as the above. Probably because the initial main character is such an idiot that he makes you want to root for the ideology that he's clearly a strawman for. But if you manage to overlook that bit, there are some nice ideas in there, sharing a lot with the SelectaCorp world, except more, shall we say, gender equitable.
It's still going to be a few days though. So in the meantime, keep yourself entertained with the following stories which held my attention in April.
Update: Here are the links. Both involve a future reality where bad things happen, for lack of a better term.
Why I Love My Job by HandsInTheDark: “I capture a new secretary and teach her the rules.” Some nice dark ideas and scenes, especially when it comes to the sort of addictive drugs that are developed by The Company. The sort of thing I wish I had thought of...
Secrets of the New World Order by Bjmichaels: “Open your eyes people! This is happening now!” Not as dark as the above, or at least, not as cynically dark as the above. Probably because the initial main character is such an idiot that he makes you want to root for the ideology that he's clearly a strawman for. But if you manage to overlook that bit, there are some nice ideas in there, sharing a lot with the SelectaCorp world, except more, shall we say, gender equitable.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
The Adjusters #59, Part 3 of 3
March... kicked... my... ass...! Like, WTF happened?
Next installment, the last of Book V (Blessed be the Powers That Be), out May 1st. “Intermezzo: Jennifer Hansen”. Because obviously!
Intermezzo: The Medicine Man (Part 3)
The next day, Colin Blackstone entered the bar near UCLA at seven sharp. He was nervous. He usually did not get nervous. Certainly not before meeting a girl, however attractive she might be. And that he was nervous made him nervous.
The bar had a different feel in the evening than it had during the day, as most places do. The crowd was more dressed up, everyone was a little more vocal, a little more active, a little more on. There were college students mixed in with older folks. In the back of the room, a band was setting up their equipment and getting ready to perform.
Colin stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around, noticing without seeing them all the beautiful girls littering the various tables. He saw Cindy, sitting at small table in the corner, nursing a neon-colored drink, a broad smile across her face, chatting with a handsome young man who was leaning way too close to her.
She must have felt Colin’s gaze on her, because Cindy looked right at him, and her smile spread to her own eyes. She returned her attention to the man above her.
Colin hesitated for a second, then decided. It was an easy decision. He took the three steps down to the courtyard, and excused his way through the crowd.
When he reached her table, he was not subtle. “Hey Cindy,” he said.
“Hi Colin,” she said, her smile still as broad. “Colin, this is Jack, who was keeping me company until you showed up.”
Said Jack glared at Colin, making it clear that Colin was intruding. Colin felt like decking him right there on the spot, a reaction he did not quite expect. Jack bugged him, bugged him something fierce.
“Jack,” Colin said, without extending a hand. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her. You’d be surprised the number of arrogant assholes that just can’t help hitting on a pretty girl when she’s alone waiting for someone.”
Jack’s teeth clenched, and he did not respond, merely turned on his heels and trudged off, almost slamming into a couple standing behind him.
“It’s no problem, Colin my man,” said Colin after him in a falsetto voice. “Glad to be of help.”
Cindy laughed, and her crystalline laugh melted him. Fuck, he thought. That’s not good.
“That was mean,” she said, indicating he should sit down.
“Really?”
“He just wanted some love and attention.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about him,” he said, nodding behind Cindy. She turned, and saw the man, Jack, gleefully flirting with a pair of women in the back that looked like they had already too much to drink even at this early hour. “I think he might actually have a chance with those two.”
“It’s not kindda cheating when the girls’ intoxicated,” Cindy said, turning back to him. Did he imagine the meaningful glance she was giving him?
“I doubt he cares very much about that sort of thing.”
“Do you really think I’m pretty?”
“Huh, yeah,” Colin said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the easiest thing to ascertain about you?”
“Oh? And what’s harder?”
“What someone like you is doing in a place like this, with a guy like me?”
“Someone like me?”
“Beautiful, smart, observant, friendly.”
“How long have you been stalking me, then?”
Colin bit back a defensive response, and ordered a beer from a passing waitress. “Told you, I wasn’t stalking you. I saw you enter the bar, decided to wait for you, and hadn’t planned much beyond that. Clearly.”
“You’re lying, but you’re cute when you lie, so I’ll let that fly.”
Colin felt himself blush and was saved by the waitress sliding his beer in front of him.
“So how about we start from scratch. Hi I’m Colin—”
“Colin Blackstone. Thirty-one years old, single, living in Sherman Oaks. You come from Ann Harbor, but didn’t go to college there. You’ve been writing scripts for the past eight years, and have had a few short movies produced, but you haven’t made it big, though you’re trying, if finishing fifth in the Nicholl competition is any indication.”
Colin’s jaw fell and for a second there, he felt like he was the prey.
“How did you..?”
Cindy shrugged, and her smile broadened. “It’s amazing what you can find out online these days if you have a photograph and a modicum of wherewithal.”
“A modicum of wherewithal… right…”
Cindy looked to Colin like a cat that had swallowed a canary whole. “A girl’s gotta protect herself.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m a screenwriter. Guilty as charged.”
“And a good one, too. I read your The Postman Never Rings Thrice.”
“You read it?”
“Modicum. Wherewithal.”
“You’re a tiny bit frightening.”
“Little old me?” Cindy took a sip of her neon drink.
“So what did you think?”
“I liked it. It was a bit slow in the second act—and I’m not sure about Jeremy’s motivation—”
“Wait, you actually read it?”
“Well, yes?”
Colin was shocked. “Wow.”
“Why, didn’t you girlfriend ever read your screenplays?”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Cindy nodded towards the braided bracelet Colin wore on his right wrist. “You’ve got the whole laid-back kick-back I-dropped-out-but-I’m-cool vibe going for you, but only two kind of guys wear that kind of bracelet with those kind of colors: guys with a daughter, or guys with a girly girlfriend. And you don’t strike me as a guy with a daughter.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t be here doing this if you had one. You’re too sweet.”
“Shows what you know.”
“You got a daughter?”
“I’m not nice.”
“Never said you were nice. Said you were sweet.”
Colin drank his beer to give himself some time—he did not know how to handle this girl. Cindy merely sipped her drink, smiling.
“You think you’re quite clever, aren’t you?” he asked her, impressed despite himself.
She shrugged, but the smile never left her lips. “Clever enough to guess what you’re doing here?”
“Oh? And am I doing here?”
“That’s not the interesting question.”
“What is?”
“What am I doing here?”
“I think I did wonder about that, didn’t I?”
“I think you did, in fact.” Her smile grew wider. “You’re interesting, Colin Blackstone.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Not so sure about that.”
Cindy looked at her watch, and nodded. “Ah, time to go.” She reached across the table, and grabbed his hand. The move took Colin by surprise, and he felt his Gift kick in without any volition on his part—the spark of electricity shooting from his hand to the palm of Cindy’s surprising him more than anything else.
Cindy stood, beaming. “Ah! I love that.” She pulled him out of his chair, and Colin followed, stunned. Doubly so when he saw that the shirt that he thought Cindy was wearing was in fact a short dress, so short that it almost did qualify as a shirt, but did manage to cover—barely—her ass. Her legs were bare, and tantalizing and mouth-watering. Heels completed the picture, and gave her a much needed lift—she reached Colin’s shoulders now.
“Come on,” she said, pulling on his hand. She was practically jumping in place, which did wonderful things to the hem of her dress. Men around had noticed. “We’ll be late.”
“Where are we going?” Colin was barely catching up.
“You’ll see.”
* * *
Colin saw. And heard. And enjoyed.
Cindy had brought him to a small theater three blocks away, a dinky basement room with walls covered by burgundy curtains, where the floor was painted concrete and the audience sat on long benches of dark wood. The stage was in the center, with the benches on all sides, meaning that the actors had to turn around to face all audience members at any point during the representation.
The title of the play—if it could be called that—meant nothing to Colin. In through the back door. Three actors on the stage, two men a woman. They started the play with very little clothes on, and ended the play with even less.
Colin watched, transfixed, getting into the barebones of the story despite any misgivings, despite his being distracted by Cindy next to him, with her easy laugh and her tendency to swing her foot rhythmically when her legs—her delectable legs—were crossed. Colin guessed that she was watching him watch the play as much as she was watching the play proper. He did not mind.
It was a sexy play without being crass, arousing despite being unabashedly explicit. Colin was hard pressed to determine what the play was about exactly—it seemed to work on so many levels, whether on purpose or accidentally he had no clue—but something in it grabbed him, and his excitement grew, both for the play, and for Cindy.
For Cindy in the middle of the first act slipped her hand on his thigh, and the touch surprised him.
His surprise increased when at the beginning of the second act Cindy that time took his hand and place it square on her own thigh. Her leg was bare, and the feel of her warm soft skin on his palm was like a bolt of lightning in Colin, who had touched much female flesh in the past few years but none of it was messing with his mind the way this girl’s was.
Of course, as soon as his hand landed on her flesh, Colin felt the spark from his Gift skewer Cindy—unbidden, prompted by the copious amount of skin and sex and out and out dirty language in the play but also because of Cindy herself, delightful and sweet and smelling like candy right next to him. Again, she must have felt something, because she gave him a sideway glance and smiled coyly, shifting her legs slightly so that his touch was even more thorough, his whole palm pressing against her skin. Her dress had ridden up all the way to her upper thighs, and were he to lean forward he knew he could see what she wore underneath.
She did not react like any other girl he had ever affected. Generally, they would stare blankly for a few seconds, and then their behavior would be different, they would start acting either like he wanted them to act—often to throw themselves at him, or to whisper sweet dirty nothings in his ear, or to just strip, right then, right there, and offer themselves to him—or like he wanted them to act without admitting it to himself, but not Cindy. He could not tell how she was affected. That mystery was arousing all of its own. Like a game of hide and seek with his own subconscious.
What had he done now, with his latest touch? Part of him wanted to blatantly flip over Cindy’s short dress and expose whatever underwear she had on and fuck her, without preliminaries, without foreplay—enter her hard and fast and feel her petite body wrapped around him—hearing her shout his name and telling him to fuck her little slutty cunt harder, spank her for being a bad girl.
But Cindy was not moving, merely kept watching the play, and therefore his subconscious must have had some other plans for him. By that point, Colin had pretty much forgotten that Bryan had sent him to turn Cindy, to convince her to make dirty movies for him and his producer friends.
Cindy kept his hand on her thigh the whole time, pressed into her skin, and he ran it up and down her upper leg when he was not entirely captivated by the scenes acted out in front of him—the play was that good—once in a while going up dangerously high, feeling the hem of her dress over the back his hand, wanting to go up and feel the warmth of her pussy right there a few inches away, wondering whether he’d find her wet and ready and wanting him as much as he wanted her.
But all of those thoughts flew out of his mind by the last half of the second act, where the story just gripped him. He sat forward on the stand, almost straining to get closer, his hand forgotten, in a world of his own, too engaged to even feel jealousy toward the playwright.
There was no curtain, but the actors sauntered off the stage, entirely naked by that point in the performance, and the lights came back on, and Colin blinked back almost in shock, returning to the here and now, realizing belatedly that Cindy was looking at him with a broad grin and that his hand was underneath her dress and pressed into her crotch and that his fingers were damp.
She let him go and smiled knowingly, pulling the hem of her dress down. Colin merely stared at her, shock compounding shock. Cindy, never letting go of his hand, brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them lightly, and Colin for a second thought—wanted—her to suck on them, to taste her own juices, but she did not, even as he felt the jolt of his Gift fire through those same fingers and onto her lips.
He did not know what to say—this was so outside the norm of his interactions that he felt blocked. What was his subconscious trying to tell him. Unless—
It was the first time the thought came through his head.
Unless she was immune to his Gift.
His mind reeled as everyone around them stood up.
But it did not make sense. If she was not affected by his Gift, what was she doing here, with him? Why did she spend the last part of the play with—clearly—his hand pressed against her pussy?
He did not have time to dwell on any of that. Cindy stood, and they walked out.
“So what did you think?” Cindy asked as they stepped outside the small theater. The night was cool, but not cold. She was practically skipping, two steps ahead of him, her dress bouncing enticingly, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
“About what?”
“About the play, silly! I saw you just zone out you were so into it. Liked it?”
Colin shook his head to clear it. “I did—it was…” He took a deep breath, refocused. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. How did you hear about it?”
Cindy, walking next to him on the sidewalk—they were wandering aimlessly, the high moon casting a glow everywhere—shrugged. She had slipped her arm underneath his. It felt astonishingly comfortable. In a flash, Colin wondered what Madeleine was up to, only to immediately feel guilty. What the fuck am I doing?
“A friend of mine came to see the play earlier in the week. She’s a friend of the actor, and she said that it was really good. And I trust her taste.”
“Which actor?”
“The one with the big dick,” Cindy said without skipping a beat. “So what did you think it was about? I came up with something like six different interpretations, and I’m not sure about any of them.”
“You mean, aside from the obvious one…”
“Right. The anal sex. Well, yeah, aside from that. It was clearly a metaphor.”
Colin looked at her, wondering where this girl came from. She was right of course. Colin had wondered during half the play exactly what it was about—it was clever, and seemed to work at several levels of subtext, may of which he merely guessed at. At face value, the plot revolved around about anal sex, or at least, about one of the men wanting to have anal sex with the woman, while the other man wanted to have anal sex with the first man. It was not clear what the woman wanted, but she kept playing between the two men, either working one against the other, or pushing them together despite their different proclivities.
Whatever the play was about, it made Colin think, and was not dull. Which he could not fathom, as there were essentially no props on the stage aside from a pair of chopsticks. He was curious who wrote the play.
“A metaphor for what, though?” Cindy continued. “The illusion of choice? The ability to create your own destiny? Pain as a definitional prerequisite for pleasure? Do you like anal, Colin?”
“Excuse me? That’s a bit personal, I think…”
Cindy shrugged. “The girl had a cute ass. I can see why the guy wanted to do it, to do her. I don’t particularly go for anal myself. It’s a bit… demeaning? Not in essence, of course. But in the current politico-sexual climate? It’s a power thing more often than not. Adds just the right touch of slut-shaming.”
She made a face, and then started on a little falsetto voice. “Cindy takes it up the ass, you know? She’s a little anal slut, a butt whore, a corn-hole queen.”
Colin looked at her,. Unbidden, an image of Cindy, on all four, hands on her butt cheeks pulling them apart, waiting for a man to slide into her rear—Cindy takes it up the ass. It had a nice ring to it.
“Then again,” Cindy continued, seemingly unaware of the images ringing through Colin’s brain, “that it’s a bit demeaning can be arousing, too. With the right guy, of course.”
The way she said it made Colin shiver. He was touching her—she had one arm under his, the other was holding his hand as she walked against him, as if they were an old couple—he took to it like there was nothing—and his Gift did its best to turn her into what he secretly or not so secretly wanted.
She noticed, once again, and turned to him and smiled. “So how long have you known you were a Special?”
“Excuse me?” He kept on saying that, but then again, she kept on blindsiding him.
“Right, you wouldn’t necessarily know the term, would you?” She frowned, the seriousness on her face he found almost as cute as her broad smile. “How long have you been able to influence the ladies by touching them. Because I presume that you can, and that you do.”
Colin was flustered, and for the first time in a long time—except for interviews with directors looking at script doctor—he was nervous and wanted to run away and hide somewhere. “I don’t know what—”
Cindy pulled him into the wide courtyard of a small hotel, where a large fountain held court, and she guided them to the side of the fountain. “Of course you do. I felt it just now, and all through the night—it tickles, just so you know. Like you’ve touched some tiny live wires.” She pressed into him, forcing him to sit against the fountain border, and she slid between his arms. “How does it work? Does it spark whenever you want? Do you even control it?”
She seemed to be working through it even as she spoke. Her eyes were far away—thinking about him, about how he worked. What had she called him? A Special? Colin was frightened, almost, but also could not help think about anything else than her petite body in his arms, warm against the slightly cool night, and his hands carried down her back. Cindy takes it up the ass, the voice in his head sang.
“If I were to guess, I’d say it sparks whenever you touch me and you get a dirty nasty thought about me.” She looked up at him and smiled. And went on her tiptoes and kissed him, a light kiss that fired him up all the way. “Are you thinking about my ass?” she asked him in a soft voice, almost shy.
Unbidden, the spark flew from his lips to hers, and she giggled—it was a giggle, no mistake there. “You are a dirty boy, Colin Blackstone. And you’ve had a lot of naughty thoughts about me all evening.”
“You can’t blame a man for that,” he started. “I mean, it’s—”
“It’s okay. Actually, it’s kind of sweet. In a creepy entitled way, of course. It’s like you just expect to click your fingers and your date just falls to her knees like an adoring fan.” Colin could not tell whether she was serious, but there was a light in her eyes, one he had seen often, because he had put it there for many girls—arousal. This was turning her on. I must have done this then, he told himself. Why the fuck does my brain do this to me?
“So what were you thinking about then?” Cindy asked him.
“I don’t… look, Cindy… I like you, a lot, but—”
“Good,” she said, and she kissed him again. But this time, there was no lightness, no coyness. She kissed him hard, her body—her breasts—pressing against his, her stomach rubbing against his crotch. Another spark flew from his lips, just as he slipped his hands down to her ass—to her round tight ass barely covered by her skimpy dress—and it seemed to merely spur Cindy on.
She pulls back, and they stared at each other for a beat, Colin feeling his head spin, Cindy with a look in her eyes that was half lust half amusement. She bit her lip, smiled.
“You’ll have to tell me everything you thought about me, all the things you’ve imagined me doing, all the dirty things you wanted me to do in that head of yours.”
“Cindy,” he said, pushing her away with a force of will that surprised him. “I’m not sure what you’re doing, but—”
“Me? I’m not doing anything. You’re the one making me do it, remember?” Again, she had an undecipherable smile on her lips, but she kissed him again before he could ponder about that too long. Colin felt his resolve crumble, thoughts of Madeline and Radhika, and even Bryan Seeker flying out of his head. There was something to her kisses, something playful—and the way she squirmed in his arms, as if she was trying to guide his hands to all the sensitive spots on her body.
“Come,” she said, pulling out of their embrace and taking his hand. She dragged him away from the fountain and into the lobby of the small hotel, almost deserted at this hour, against almost skipping, a broad smile on her face, her hair bouncing about, her legs delectable in the soft lift.
She headed to the elevator, which opened as she pressed the button. Colin followed her in and he was all over her when the doors closed. This time he was the aggressor, pushing her against the wall of the compartment and kissing her, one of his hands reaching up for her breasts through her dress, and her moans in response merely egged him on. Had the elevator ride been longer, he would have shoved a hand down her panties and explored the steaming hot treasure he expect to find there.
Colin had given up any pretense at resistance by the time they reached a room to which Cindy had a key. Which action should perhaps have made him suspicious, but he was too distracted by the girl in his arms to really care.
They tumbled into the room after Cindy managed to unlock it, laughingly fending away Colin's kisses into her neck and his hands wandering underneath her dress, discovering her diminutive underwear, just a few strings holding up whiff of silky material and exposing soft smooth fleshy cheeks that fit in the palm of his hands as if they had always belonged there.
“Hold on, Mister Octopus,” she laughed, pushing him away. I’ve got something for us.” She walked over to a table by the wall, which held a bottle of sparkling wine on ice and two glasses. She corked open the bottle, and filled the two glasses. She handed one to Colin.
He drank it, and was surprised by the taste. “It’s sweet? It’s not champagne?”
“It’s Italian. We don’t have much of a taste for the dry stuff.”
Colin stopped and looked at her for a second, frowning. Cindy—Cynthia Barnes, Bryan had told him. “You’re Italian?” She did look it, if there was such a look. Definitely something Mediterranean about her.
“Maybe,” she grinned, and she put her glass down. She had not touched it. She unbuttoned her dress and after four buttons it collapsed at her feet in slow motion.
Colin stared.
Her body had been on display most of the night, but seeing it like this, in front of him, completely exposed but for a pair of thin gossamer pink panties that barely hid anything, her skin pale and smooth, her breasts standing tall with nipples hard and red, her curves guiding the eye toward all the attractions she presented, she looked beautiful.
“Where were we?” she asked, a purr in her voice. She took a step forward, out of the pile that was her dress. She still had her heels on, Colin noted almost absent-mindedly. He liked it. “Ah yes,” she said. “You were about to take your pants off.”
She rubbed her hands up and down the sides of her body as she watched him fumble for the belt on his slacks after pulling his shirt above his head. When he was down to his boxer shorts, he waited for a second and exchange a grin with Cindy before pulling them down and standing naked before him.
“Like this?” he asked. He was getting into it. So the girl wanted to play—or he wanted her to play, he was fine with that—so he would play.
“Nice,” Cindy said, cupping one of her breasts and squeezing it, two fingers playing with a hard nipple. “Sit on the bed,” she said.
“What if I want to go over there and grab you?”
Her eyes flashed with pleasure. “Oh you’d ravish me? Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you were thinking before when you were going all sparks on me? You were thinking of grabbing me, maybe throwing me against the wall and fuck me just like that, like a whore, against the wall, hard, and I’d like it because you know I like it rough—you’d make me like it rough?”
She seemed to turn herself on as she spoke, and Colin watched her, turned on himself. He had never meet someone like her—he had never turned someone like her like that.
Her smile turned almost wolfish. “Or maybe you were thinking of getting me to crawl to you, on my hands and knees, like a bitch crawling to her master, itching to serve, begging to submit.” She dropped to her knees, her eyes never leaving his. When she leaned forward, her breasts swung, their movement enticing.
She took a cat-like step towards him, and Colin’s legs suddenly felt heavy and he sat down on the bed, his erection swaying, hard.
She crawled to him, the way she had told him she would, and she looked less like a submissive girl crawling to her master than a wild cat stalking a prey. Colin was okay with that.
“Actually, I was thinking about your ass,” he said, getting into her game.
“Really?” She had reached him, and she straightened up between his legs, on her knees. He reached over to fondle her breasts, and she arched her back to give him better access. “Mmm, that feels nice. So you were thinking about my ass? My tight little ass?”
“Yeah.”
She grabbed his cock. The touch was electric to Colin, doubly more so when she started moving her hand up and down, jacking him off. “You like fucking girls in the ass, Colin? I bet you get to do it with them all the time, with the kind of skill you have. You just snap your fingers and boom she’s on the ground offering her ass to you, don’t you? And you love it.”
Colin grinned, not arguing the matter, and let go of one of her breasts long enough to snap his fingers, looking at her in the eyes all the while.
Cindy laughed, and stroked his cock harder. “I told you, I find getting assfucked pretty demeaning. Do you like that, demeaning girls? Making them feel like whores?”
“Some of them like it.”
“Yes, some of them do. And those that don’t, you just make them like it anyway, right? Is that what you want to do with me? Make me like taking your big cock up my tight little ass?”
Her hand stroked him harder, and Colin groaned and leaned back on the bed. His head was spinning now—Cindy was that good. He closed his eyes, and he hoped that she would take his cock into her mouth and suck him. He was certain she was a fantastic cocksucker.
But she did not. Instead, Cindy pushed herself up and straddled his lap. Her panty-clad crotch pressed into his erection, and she leaned forward, her face close to his. She still had her broad smile across her face. “Thing is, my little asshole is way too small, way too tight—your big cock would never fit.” Her lips were wet, red. “You’d really have to force it in, like, real hard.”
She kissed him, hard, and he responded just as hard, while his hand sought the topic of discussion—her tight rear—and massaged it, and Colin could not help but wonder how it would feel to invade it.
“Is that what Bryan wants to see?” Cindy whispered in his ear as she rubbed herself against him. “You forcing your big fat cock up my tight little asshole?”
What?
That jerked him out of his cozy little world, and he wanted to pull back and look at her but she was too heavy now, and his head was spinning even faster.
“Oh yes,” she said, almost purring. “I know what you’re up to. Bryan sent you, didn’t he? Bryan Seeker? To convince me to star in his little movies?”
He wanted to argue, but it was getting more and more difficult to move. His hands slid off her ass, and fell to the bed.
Cindy kept on rubbing herself against him, against his cock that remained hard, craving the attention, demanding release. “I know you and he have made movies together in the past. And I’ve seen the sort of things he shoots for his producer friend. Real dirty stuff—rough interracial, degrading gangbangs, vicious anal fucks, throat choking—really sick. Is that what you want to see, me being abused like a piece of meat? Is that what gets you off? Turning poor innocent little girls like me into dirty whores that fuck on camera?”
He wanted to defend himself, to tell her that he was not like that, not anymore—there was Madeleine now, and he wanted to make it work with her, and there was Radhika, that was helping him control his impulses and become a better human being, but he could not talk anymore. The world had stopped spinning, blessedly, but the movement had been replacing by a rushing sensation, one that filled his ears, his mind, his soul, and he could no longer control his eyes, which started to roll up in his head.
“Ah, the drug’s kicking in. Sorry about that, Colin,” Cindy said, sounding almost apologetic. She was close, very close. “You’ll have a killer headache tomorrow. But you also won’t remember a thing about tonight. I’m sorry. But I can’t pass up the opportunity to do this.”
He felt her get off from him, and he was left in the void, in the dark, unable to move, unable to think. His head was starting to lose grip with reality.
He felt something cold on his left arm, and felt the prick of a syringe. She was drawing blood—one vial, two, three. Maybe more. He lost count. He was still hard. He was still horny. He wanted to fuck her bad. He wanted to sleep.
“There you go,” she said, and her voice came from far, very far. He nearly jumped—except he could not move—when she grasped his cock again, and stroked him. “I gotta check this out,” she said.
And he felt her climb on top of him again, and then his cock was engulfed in warmth and wetness, and he sank into her pussy to the hilt in one stroke, and he would have gasped had he been able to, and instead Cindy gasped for him as she ground her crotch against his.
But she did not fuck him—she pulled off, and the cold of the air was almost a shock after the heat he had felt.
Cindy said, in a tone that he might have recognized as fascination, “Very, very interesting,” and he might have wondered what she meant by that had he been in any position to process her words.
He felt her hands back on his cock, and she stroked him again, and he felt confusedly grateful, and she did not stop this time, continued stroking him faster and faster until he exploded, his cum spurting out of his cock as his consciousness petered out.
He did not see Cindy collect his semen in a small vial.
Her last words to him he did not understand, and would not remember if not for her writing them down on a note that she would leave on the nightstand. “I suggest you don’t hang out around me too much, Colin. I have some people watching me that are very bad news for people like you. So I expect I won’t see you again. It’s been fun. Oh, and check out is at eleven.”
And then his world went dark.
* * *
ADCORP CONFIDENTIAL MEMO to Adonai Davenham.
SUBJECT: Cynthia Caprese
MEMO: As a consequence of direct executive order red-flagging Operation Caprese, the observation team for Cynthia Caprese (level 1, distance observation, no contacts) has remained in place, collecting data. No suspicious contact, no interaction with any other subject pertaining to Operation Cargyle. Recent observation logs attached.
The observation team reports contacts with an individual identified as Colin Blackstone (biographical information attached). Request analysis of situational reports to validate the possibility that Blackstone might be a Special. Preliminary analysis indicates a Special Identification Score of 23.4, three standard deviations above the mean. Since Operation Caprese is red flagged, awaiting further instructions.
Next installment, the last of Book V (Blessed be the Powers That Be), out May 1st. “Intermezzo: Jennifer Hansen”. Because obviously!
The next day, Colin Blackstone entered the bar near UCLA at seven sharp. He was nervous. He usually did not get nervous. Certainly not before meeting a girl, however attractive she might be. And that he was nervous made him nervous.
The bar had a different feel in the evening than it had during the day, as most places do. The crowd was more dressed up, everyone was a little more vocal, a little more active, a little more on. There were college students mixed in with older folks. In the back of the room, a band was setting up their equipment and getting ready to perform.
Colin stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around, noticing without seeing them all the beautiful girls littering the various tables. He saw Cindy, sitting at small table in the corner, nursing a neon-colored drink, a broad smile across her face, chatting with a handsome young man who was leaning way too close to her.
She must have felt Colin’s gaze on her, because Cindy looked right at him, and her smile spread to her own eyes. She returned her attention to the man above her.
Colin hesitated for a second, then decided. It was an easy decision. He took the three steps down to the courtyard, and excused his way through the crowd.
When he reached her table, he was not subtle. “Hey Cindy,” he said.
“Hi Colin,” she said, her smile still as broad. “Colin, this is Jack, who was keeping me company until you showed up.”
Said Jack glared at Colin, making it clear that Colin was intruding. Colin felt like decking him right there on the spot, a reaction he did not quite expect. Jack bugged him, bugged him something fierce.
“Jack,” Colin said, without extending a hand. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her. You’d be surprised the number of arrogant assholes that just can’t help hitting on a pretty girl when she’s alone waiting for someone.”
Jack’s teeth clenched, and he did not respond, merely turned on his heels and trudged off, almost slamming into a couple standing behind him.
“It’s no problem, Colin my man,” said Colin after him in a falsetto voice. “Glad to be of help.”
Cindy laughed, and her crystalline laugh melted him. Fuck, he thought. That’s not good.
“That was mean,” she said, indicating he should sit down.
“Really?”
“He just wanted some love and attention.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about him,” he said, nodding behind Cindy. She turned, and saw the man, Jack, gleefully flirting with a pair of women in the back that looked like they had already too much to drink even at this early hour. “I think he might actually have a chance with those two.”
“It’s not kindda cheating when the girls’ intoxicated,” Cindy said, turning back to him. Did he imagine the meaningful glance she was giving him?
“I doubt he cares very much about that sort of thing.”
“Do you really think I’m pretty?”
“Huh, yeah,” Colin said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the easiest thing to ascertain about you?”
“Oh? And what’s harder?”
“What someone like you is doing in a place like this, with a guy like me?”
“Someone like me?”
“Beautiful, smart, observant, friendly.”
“How long have you been stalking me, then?”
Colin bit back a defensive response, and ordered a beer from a passing waitress. “Told you, I wasn’t stalking you. I saw you enter the bar, decided to wait for you, and hadn’t planned much beyond that. Clearly.”
“You’re lying, but you’re cute when you lie, so I’ll let that fly.”
Colin felt himself blush and was saved by the waitress sliding his beer in front of him.
“So how about we start from scratch. Hi I’m Colin—”
“Colin Blackstone. Thirty-one years old, single, living in Sherman Oaks. You come from Ann Harbor, but didn’t go to college there. You’ve been writing scripts for the past eight years, and have had a few short movies produced, but you haven’t made it big, though you’re trying, if finishing fifth in the Nicholl competition is any indication.”
Colin’s jaw fell and for a second there, he felt like he was the prey.
“How did you..?”
Cindy shrugged, and her smile broadened. “It’s amazing what you can find out online these days if you have a photograph and a modicum of wherewithal.”
“A modicum of wherewithal… right…”
Cindy looked to Colin like a cat that had swallowed a canary whole. “A girl’s gotta protect herself.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m a screenwriter. Guilty as charged.”
“And a good one, too. I read your The Postman Never Rings Thrice.”
“You read it?”
“Modicum. Wherewithal.”
“You’re a tiny bit frightening.”
“Little old me?” Cindy took a sip of her neon drink.
“So what did you think?”
“I liked it. It was a bit slow in the second act—and I’m not sure about Jeremy’s motivation—”
“Wait, you actually read it?”
“Well, yes?”
Colin was shocked. “Wow.”
“Why, didn’t you girlfriend ever read your screenplays?”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Cindy nodded towards the braided bracelet Colin wore on his right wrist. “You’ve got the whole laid-back kick-back I-dropped-out-but-I’m-cool vibe going for you, but only two kind of guys wear that kind of bracelet with those kind of colors: guys with a daughter, or guys with a girly girlfriend. And you don’t strike me as a guy with a daughter.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t be here doing this if you had one. You’re too sweet.”
“Shows what you know.”
“You got a daughter?”
“I’m not nice.”
“Never said you were nice. Said you were sweet.”
Colin drank his beer to give himself some time—he did not know how to handle this girl. Cindy merely sipped her drink, smiling.
“You think you’re quite clever, aren’t you?” he asked her, impressed despite himself.
She shrugged, but the smile never left her lips. “Clever enough to guess what you’re doing here?”
“Oh? And am I doing here?”
“That’s not the interesting question.”
“What is?”
“What am I doing here?”
“I think I did wonder about that, didn’t I?”
“I think you did, in fact.” Her smile grew wider. “You’re interesting, Colin Blackstone.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Not so sure about that.”
Cindy looked at her watch, and nodded. “Ah, time to go.” She reached across the table, and grabbed his hand. The move took Colin by surprise, and he felt his Gift kick in without any volition on his part—the spark of electricity shooting from his hand to the palm of Cindy’s surprising him more than anything else.
Cindy stood, beaming. “Ah! I love that.” She pulled him out of his chair, and Colin followed, stunned. Doubly so when he saw that the shirt that he thought Cindy was wearing was in fact a short dress, so short that it almost did qualify as a shirt, but did manage to cover—barely—her ass. Her legs were bare, and tantalizing and mouth-watering. Heels completed the picture, and gave her a much needed lift—she reached Colin’s shoulders now.
“Come on,” she said, pulling on his hand. She was practically jumping in place, which did wonderful things to the hem of her dress. Men around had noticed. “We’ll be late.”
“Where are we going?” Colin was barely catching up.
“You’ll see.”
Colin saw. And heard. And enjoyed.
Cindy had brought him to a small theater three blocks away, a dinky basement room with walls covered by burgundy curtains, where the floor was painted concrete and the audience sat on long benches of dark wood. The stage was in the center, with the benches on all sides, meaning that the actors had to turn around to face all audience members at any point during the representation.
The title of the play—if it could be called that—meant nothing to Colin. In through the back door. Three actors on the stage, two men a woman. They started the play with very little clothes on, and ended the play with even less.
Colin watched, transfixed, getting into the barebones of the story despite any misgivings, despite his being distracted by Cindy next to him, with her easy laugh and her tendency to swing her foot rhythmically when her legs—her delectable legs—were crossed. Colin guessed that she was watching him watch the play as much as she was watching the play proper. He did not mind.
It was a sexy play without being crass, arousing despite being unabashedly explicit. Colin was hard pressed to determine what the play was about exactly—it seemed to work on so many levels, whether on purpose or accidentally he had no clue—but something in it grabbed him, and his excitement grew, both for the play, and for Cindy.
For Cindy in the middle of the first act slipped her hand on his thigh, and the touch surprised him.
His surprise increased when at the beginning of the second act Cindy that time took his hand and place it square on her own thigh. Her leg was bare, and the feel of her warm soft skin on his palm was like a bolt of lightning in Colin, who had touched much female flesh in the past few years but none of it was messing with his mind the way this girl’s was.
Of course, as soon as his hand landed on her flesh, Colin felt the spark from his Gift skewer Cindy—unbidden, prompted by the copious amount of skin and sex and out and out dirty language in the play but also because of Cindy herself, delightful and sweet and smelling like candy right next to him. Again, she must have felt something, because she gave him a sideway glance and smiled coyly, shifting her legs slightly so that his touch was even more thorough, his whole palm pressing against her skin. Her dress had ridden up all the way to her upper thighs, and were he to lean forward he knew he could see what she wore underneath.
She did not react like any other girl he had ever affected. Generally, they would stare blankly for a few seconds, and then their behavior would be different, they would start acting either like he wanted them to act—often to throw themselves at him, or to whisper sweet dirty nothings in his ear, or to just strip, right then, right there, and offer themselves to him—or like he wanted them to act without admitting it to himself, but not Cindy. He could not tell how she was affected. That mystery was arousing all of its own. Like a game of hide and seek with his own subconscious.
What had he done now, with his latest touch? Part of him wanted to blatantly flip over Cindy’s short dress and expose whatever underwear she had on and fuck her, without preliminaries, without foreplay—enter her hard and fast and feel her petite body wrapped around him—hearing her shout his name and telling him to fuck her little slutty cunt harder, spank her for being a bad girl.
But Cindy was not moving, merely kept watching the play, and therefore his subconscious must have had some other plans for him. By that point, Colin had pretty much forgotten that Bryan had sent him to turn Cindy, to convince her to make dirty movies for him and his producer friends.
Cindy kept his hand on her thigh the whole time, pressed into her skin, and he ran it up and down her upper leg when he was not entirely captivated by the scenes acted out in front of him—the play was that good—once in a while going up dangerously high, feeling the hem of her dress over the back his hand, wanting to go up and feel the warmth of her pussy right there a few inches away, wondering whether he’d find her wet and ready and wanting him as much as he wanted her.
But all of those thoughts flew out of his mind by the last half of the second act, where the story just gripped him. He sat forward on the stand, almost straining to get closer, his hand forgotten, in a world of his own, too engaged to even feel jealousy toward the playwright.
There was no curtain, but the actors sauntered off the stage, entirely naked by that point in the performance, and the lights came back on, and Colin blinked back almost in shock, returning to the here and now, realizing belatedly that Cindy was looking at him with a broad grin and that his hand was underneath her dress and pressed into her crotch and that his fingers were damp.
She let him go and smiled knowingly, pulling the hem of her dress down. Colin merely stared at her, shock compounding shock. Cindy, never letting go of his hand, brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them lightly, and Colin for a second thought—wanted—her to suck on them, to taste her own juices, but she did not, even as he felt the jolt of his Gift fire through those same fingers and onto her lips.
He did not know what to say—this was so outside the norm of his interactions that he felt blocked. What was his subconscious trying to tell him. Unless—
It was the first time the thought came through his head.
Unless she was immune to his Gift.
His mind reeled as everyone around them stood up.
But it did not make sense. If she was not affected by his Gift, what was she doing here, with him? Why did she spend the last part of the play with—clearly—his hand pressed against her pussy?
He did not have time to dwell on any of that. Cindy stood, and they walked out.
“So what did you think?” Cindy asked as they stepped outside the small theater. The night was cool, but not cold. She was practically skipping, two steps ahead of him, her dress bouncing enticingly, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
“About what?”
“About the play, silly! I saw you just zone out you were so into it. Liked it?”
Colin shook his head to clear it. “I did—it was…” He took a deep breath, refocused. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. How did you hear about it?”
Cindy, walking next to him on the sidewalk—they were wandering aimlessly, the high moon casting a glow everywhere—shrugged. She had slipped her arm underneath his. It felt astonishingly comfortable. In a flash, Colin wondered what Madeleine was up to, only to immediately feel guilty. What the fuck am I doing?
“A friend of mine came to see the play earlier in the week. She’s a friend of the actor, and she said that it was really good. And I trust her taste.”
“Which actor?”
“The one with the big dick,” Cindy said without skipping a beat. “So what did you think it was about? I came up with something like six different interpretations, and I’m not sure about any of them.”
“You mean, aside from the obvious one…”
“Right. The anal sex. Well, yeah, aside from that. It was clearly a metaphor.”
Colin looked at her, wondering where this girl came from. She was right of course. Colin had wondered during half the play exactly what it was about—it was clever, and seemed to work at several levels of subtext, may of which he merely guessed at. At face value, the plot revolved around about anal sex, or at least, about one of the men wanting to have anal sex with the woman, while the other man wanted to have anal sex with the first man. It was not clear what the woman wanted, but she kept playing between the two men, either working one against the other, or pushing them together despite their different proclivities.
Whatever the play was about, it made Colin think, and was not dull. Which he could not fathom, as there were essentially no props on the stage aside from a pair of chopsticks. He was curious who wrote the play.
“A metaphor for what, though?” Cindy continued. “The illusion of choice? The ability to create your own destiny? Pain as a definitional prerequisite for pleasure? Do you like anal, Colin?”
“Excuse me? That’s a bit personal, I think…”
Cindy shrugged. “The girl had a cute ass. I can see why the guy wanted to do it, to do her. I don’t particularly go for anal myself. It’s a bit… demeaning? Not in essence, of course. But in the current politico-sexual climate? It’s a power thing more often than not. Adds just the right touch of slut-shaming.”
She made a face, and then started on a little falsetto voice. “Cindy takes it up the ass, you know? She’s a little anal slut, a butt whore, a corn-hole queen.”
Colin looked at her,. Unbidden, an image of Cindy, on all four, hands on her butt cheeks pulling them apart, waiting for a man to slide into her rear—Cindy takes it up the ass. It had a nice ring to it.
“Then again,” Cindy continued, seemingly unaware of the images ringing through Colin’s brain, “that it’s a bit demeaning can be arousing, too. With the right guy, of course.”
The way she said it made Colin shiver. He was touching her—she had one arm under his, the other was holding his hand as she walked against him, as if they were an old couple—he took to it like there was nothing—and his Gift did its best to turn her into what he secretly or not so secretly wanted.
She noticed, once again, and turned to him and smiled. “So how long have you known you were a Special?”
“Excuse me?” He kept on saying that, but then again, she kept on blindsiding him.
“Right, you wouldn’t necessarily know the term, would you?” She frowned, the seriousness on her face he found almost as cute as her broad smile. “How long have you been able to influence the ladies by touching them. Because I presume that you can, and that you do.”
Colin was flustered, and for the first time in a long time—except for interviews with directors looking at script doctor—he was nervous and wanted to run away and hide somewhere. “I don’t know what—”
Cindy pulled him into the wide courtyard of a small hotel, where a large fountain held court, and she guided them to the side of the fountain. “Of course you do. I felt it just now, and all through the night—it tickles, just so you know. Like you’ve touched some tiny live wires.” She pressed into him, forcing him to sit against the fountain border, and she slid between his arms. “How does it work? Does it spark whenever you want? Do you even control it?”
She seemed to be working through it even as she spoke. Her eyes were far away—thinking about him, about how he worked. What had she called him? A Special? Colin was frightened, almost, but also could not help think about anything else than her petite body in his arms, warm against the slightly cool night, and his hands carried down her back. Cindy takes it up the ass, the voice in his head sang.
“If I were to guess, I’d say it sparks whenever you touch me and you get a dirty nasty thought about me.” She looked up at him and smiled. And went on her tiptoes and kissed him, a light kiss that fired him up all the way. “Are you thinking about my ass?” she asked him in a soft voice, almost shy.
Unbidden, the spark flew from his lips to hers, and she giggled—it was a giggle, no mistake there. “You are a dirty boy, Colin Blackstone. And you’ve had a lot of naughty thoughts about me all evening.”
“You can’t blame a man for that,” he started. “I mean, it’s—”
“It’s okay. Actually, it’s kind of sweet. In a creepy entitled way, of course. It’s like you just expect to click your fingers and your date just falls to her knees like an adoring fan.” Colin could not tell whether she was serious, but there was a light in her eyes, one he had seen often, because he had put it there for many girls—arousal. This was turning her on. I must have done this then, he told himself. Why the fuck does my brain do this to me?
“So what were you thinking about then?” Cindy asked him.
“I don’t… look, Cindy… I like you, a lot, but—”
“Good,” she said, and she kissed him again. But this time, there was no lightness, no coyness. She kissed him hard, her body—her breasts—pressing against his, her stomach rubbing against his crotch. Another spark flew from his lips, just as he slipped his hands down to her ass—to her round tight ass barely covered by her skimpy dress—and it seemed to merely spur Cindy on.
She pulls back, and they stared at each other for a beat, Colin feeling his head spin, Cindy with a look in her eyes that was half lust half amusement. She bit her lip, smiled.
“You’ll have to tell me everything you thought about me, all the things you’ve imagined me doing, all the dirty things you wanted me to do in that head of yours.”
“Cindy,” he said, pushing her away with a force of will that surprised him. “I’m not sure what you’re doing, but—”
“Me? I’m not doing anything. You’re the one making me do it, remember?” Again, she had an undecipherable smile on her lips, but she kissed him again before he could ponder about that too long. Colin felt his resolve crumble, thoughts of Madeline and Radhika, and even Bryan Seeker flying out of his head. There was something to her kisses, something playful—and the way she squirmed in his arms, as if she was trying to guide his hands to all the sensitive spots on her body.
“Come,” she said, pulling out of their embrace and taking his hand. She dragged him away from the fountain and into the lobby of the small hotel, almost deserted at this hour, against almost skipping, a broad smile on her face, her hair bouncing about, her legs delectable in the soft lift.
She headed to the elevator, which opened as she pressed the button. Colin followed her in and he was all over her when the doors closed. This time he was the aggressor, pushing her against the wall of the compartment and kissing her, one of his hands reaching up for her breasts through her dress, and her moans in response merely egged him on. Had the elevator ride been longer, he would have shoved a hand down her panties and explored the steaming hot treasure he expect to find there.
Colin had given up any pretense at resistance by the time they reached a room to which Cindy had a key. Which action should perhaps have made him suspicious, but he was too distracted by the girl in his arms to really care.
They tumbled into the room after Cindy managed to unlock it, laughingly fending away Colin's kisses into her neck and his hands wandering underneath her dress, discovering her diminutive underwear, just a few strings holding up whiff of silky material and exposing soft smooth fleshy cheeks that fit in the palm of his hands as if they had always belonged there.
“Hold on, Mister Octopus,” she laughed, pushing him away. I’ve got something for us.” She walked over to a table by the wall, which held a bottle of sparkling wine on ice and two glasses. She corked open the bottle, and filled the two glasses. She handed one to Colin.
He drank it, and was surprised by the taste. “It’s sweet? It’s not champagne?”
“It’s Italian. We don’t have much of a taste for the dry stuff.”
Colin stopped and looked at her for a second, frowning. Cindy—Cynthia Barnes, Bryan had told him. “You’re Italian?” She did look it, if there was such a look. Definitely something Mediterranean about her.
“Maybe,” she grinned, and she put her glass down. She had not touched it. She unbuttoned her dress and after four buttons it collapsed at her feet in slow motion.
Colin stared.
Her body had been on display most of the night, but seeing it like this, in front of him, completely exposed but for a pair of thin gossamer pink panties that barely hid anything, her skin pale and smooth, her breasts standing tall with nipples hard and red, her curves guiding the eye toward all the attractions she presented, she looked beautiful.
“Where were we?” she asked, a purr in her voice. She took a step forward, out of the pile that was her dress. She still had her heels on, Colin noted almost absent-mindedly. He liked it. “Ah yes,” she said. “You were about to take your pants off.”
She rubbed her hands up and down the sides of her body as she watched him fumble for the belt on his slacks after pulling his shirt above his head. When he was down to his boxer shorts, he waited for a second and exchange a grin with Cindy before pulling them down and standing naked before him.
“Like this?” he asked. He was getting into it. So the girl wanted to play—or he wanted her to play, he was fine with that—so he would play.
“Nice,” Cindy said, cupping one of her breasts and squeezing it, two fingers playing with a hard nipple. “Sit on the bed,” she said.
“What if I want to go over there and grab you?”
Her eyes flashed with pleasure. “Oh you’d ravish me? Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you were thinking before when you were going all sparks on me? You were thinking of grabbing me, maybe throwing me against the wall and fuck me just like that, like a whore, against the wall, hard, and I’d like it because you know I like it rough—you’d make me like it rough?”
She seemed to turn herself on as she spoke, and Colin watched her, turned on himself. He had never meet someone like her—he had never turned someone like her like that.
Her smile turned almost wolfish. “Or maybe you were thinking of getting me to crawl to you, on my hands and knees, like a bitch crawling to her master, itching to serve, begging to submit.” She dropped to her knees, her eyes never leaving his. When she leaned forward, her breasts swung, their movement enticing.
She took a cat-like step towards him, and Colin’s legs suddenly felt heavy and he sat down on the bed, his erection swaying, hard.
She crawled to him, the way she had told him she would, and she looked less like a submissive girl crawling to her master than a wild cat stalking a prey. Colin was okay with that.
“Actually, I was thinking about your ass,” he said, getting into her game.
“Really?” She had reached him, and she straightened up between his legs, on her knees. He reached over to fondle her breasts, and she arched her back to give him better access. “Mmm, that feels nice. So you were thinking about my ass? My tight little ass?”
“Yeah.”
She grabbed his cock. The touch was electric to Colin, doubly more so when she started moving her hand up and down, jacking him off. “You like fucking girls in the ass, Colin? I bet you get to do it with them all the time, with the kind of skill you have. You just snap your fingers and boom she’s on the ground offering her ass to you, don’t you? And you love it.”
Colin grinned, not arguing the matter, and let go of one of her breasts long enough to snap his fingers, looking at her in the eyes all the while.
Cindy laughed, and stroked his cock harder. “I told you, I find getting assfucked pretty demeaning. Do you like that, demeaning girls? Making them feel like whores?”
“Some of them like it.”
“Yes, some of them do. And those that don’t, you just make them like it anyway, right? Is that what you want to do with me? Make me like taking your big cock up my tight little ass?”
Her hand stroked him harder, and Colin groaned and leaned back on the bed. His head was spinning now—Cindy was that good. He closed his eyes, and he hoped that she would take his cock into her mouth and suck him. He was certain she was a fantastic cocksucker.
But she did not. Instead, Cindy pushed herself up and straddled his lap. Her panty-clad crotch pressed into his erection, and she leaned forward, her face close to his. She still had her broad smile across her face. “Thing is, my little asshole is way too small, way too tight—your big cock would never fit.” Her lips were wet, red. “You’d really have to force it in, like, real hard.”
She kissed him, hard, and he responded just as hard, while his hand sought the topic of discussion—her tight rear—and massaged it, and Colin could not help but wonder how it would feel to invade it.
“Is that what Bryan wants to see?” Cindy whispered in his ear as she rubbed herself against him. “You forcing your big fat cock up my tight little asshole?”
What?
That jerked him out of his cozy little world, and he wanted to pull back and look at her but she was too heavy now, and his head was spinning even faster.
“Oh yes,” she said, almost purring. “I know what you’re up to. Bryan sent you, didn’t he? Bryan Seeker? To convince me to star in his little movies?”
He wanted to argue, but it was getting more and more difficult to move. His hands slid off her ass, and fell to the bed.
Cindy kept on rubbing herself against him, against his cock that remained hard, craving the attention, demanding release. “I know you and he have made movies together in the past. And I’ve seen the sort of things he shoots for his producer friend. Real dirty stuff—rough interracial, degrading gangbangs, vicious anal fucks, throat choking—really sick. Is that what you want to see, me being abused like a piece of meat? Is that what gets you off? Turning poor innocent little girls like me into dirty whores that fuck on camera?”
He wanted to defend himself, to tell her that he was not like that, not anymore—there was Madeleine now, and he wanted to make it work with her, and there was Radhika, that was helping him control his impulses and become a better human being, but he could not talk anymore. The world had stopped spinning, blessedly, but the movement had been replacing by a rushing sensation, one that filled his ears, his mind, his soul, and he could no longer control his eyes, which started to roll up in his head.
“Ah, the drug’s kicking in. Sorry about that, Colin,” Cindy said, sounding almost apologetic. She was close, very close. “You’ll have a killer headache tomorrow. But you also won’t remember a thing about tonight. I’m sorry. But I can’t pass up the opportunity to do this.”
He felt her get off from him, and he was left in the void, in the dark, unable to move, unable to think. His head was starting to lose grip with reality.
He felt something cold on his left arm, and felt the prick of a syringe. She was drawing blood—one vial, two, three. Maybe more. He lost count. He was still hard. He was still horny. He wanted to fuck her bad. He wanted to sleep.
“There you go,” she said, and her voice came from far, very far. He nearly jumped—except he could not move—when she grasped his cock again, and stroked him. “I gotta check this out,” she said.
And he felt her climb on top of him again, and then his cock was engulfed in warmth and wetness, and he sank into her pussy to the hilt in one stroke, and he would have gasped had he been able to, and instead Cindy gasped for him as she ground her crotch against his.
But she did not fuck him—she pulled off, and the cold of the air was almost a shock after the heat he had felt.
Cindy said, in a tone that he might have recognized as fascination, “Very, very interesting,” and he might have wondered what she meant by that had he been in any position to process her words.
He felt her hands back on his cock, and she stroked him again, and he felt confusedly grateful, and she did not stop this time, continued stroking him faster and faster until he exploded, his cum spurting out of his cock as his consciousness petered out.
He did not see Cindy collect his semen in a small vial.
Her last words to him he did not understand, and would not remember if not for her writing them down on a note that she would leave on the nightstand. “I suggest you don’t hang out around me too much, Colin. I have some people watching me that are very bad news for people like you. So I expect I won’t see you again. It’s been fun. Oh, and check out is at eleven.”
And then his world went dark.
ADCORP CONFIDENTIAL MEMO to Adonai Davenham.
SUBJECT: Cynthia Caprese
MEMO: As a consequence of direct executive order red-flagging Operation Caprese, the observation team for Cynthia Caprese (level 1, distance observation, no contacts) has remained in place, collecting data. No suspicious contact, no interaction with any other subject pertaining to Operation Cargyle. Recent observation logs attached.
The observation team reports contacts with an individual identified as Colin Blackstone (biographical information attached). Request analysis of situational reports to validate the possibility that Blackstone might be a Special. Preliminary analysis indicates a Special Identification Score of 23.4, three standard deviations above the mean. Since Operation Caprese is red flagged, awaiting further instructions.
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