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Subject: {ASSM} Surrendering Sarah {Night Writer} (nc, wife, mc) [12/?]
Date: Sat, 7 Jul 2001 07:10:02 -0400
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Surrendering Sarah
by Night Writer
Chapter 12
The subject was within program limits and approaching her next
scheduled peak. In the control room, the thin elderly man watched her
for a moment and turned away to make adjustments at the instrument
panel to his left. He sighed as his eyes returned to the sleek curves
of succulent flesh laid out before him, remembering a time before his
own flesh bore the ravages of a life's obsession. His work was all he
had now, but at times it seemed like only yesterday when things were
much different...
Behavior reconstruction's greatest protection is that no one believes
that it exists. It does, of course, or at least since the conclusion
of Site 27's work in 1983. Instead, there were all sorts of fictions
and rumors and deluded theories, usually masquerading as science or bad
religion. Much of the most wishful thinking emerged in sexually-
oriented stories, always causing someone virtuous and presumably
virginal to fall into sin. The truth was very different, and much
darker. With the collapse of Germany, Army intelligence officers
learned of a secret program to control the populace in the face of the
Allied advance. Their initial work had been useful and its staff was
transferred to a remote location in Montana. Soviet defectors brought
news that the Russians had learned too of the program and of America's
interest, prompting them to launch their own. By 1980, senior KGB
staffers projected that their country would fail in the near future and
sought to buy their way out. Soviet space and missile technology had no
value and the U.S. was well aware of the ongoing bio-weapons program.
The only asset that they had to sell was the Gorky Institute's mind
control program, its working papers, study results and selected doctors
and technicians.
The Russians had taken their lead in 1950 from Pavlov's work to create
their institute. Repeated stimulus and response would program desired
behavior. Still, there were problems that suggested the approach was
limited. Pavlovian training presumed that all stimuli that the subject
had were controlled by a higher power. If the stimuli merely changed,
the response could not be predicted or controlled. While endless
labor, terrorism and isolation could serve as mega-stimuli to bridge
this issue somewhat, inevitably results showed significant erosion in
subject control. By 1963, the field seemed stalled and destined to be
of little more use than a lab to test prison population control
techniques.
He had been on track to a major appointment at Harvard Medical School
Neuropsychology when they came to him. Two men, quietly dressed,
stopped him as he was about to get in his car. They had federal
identification and got in the car with him. He was invited to join a
highly secret project delving into certain aspects of neuropsychology
based upon his recently published papers. He would have to relocate.
Compensation was very high and there were additional bonuses and
benefits of joining that could not be discussed under the circumstance
of where they were. He had retained the presence of mind to ask what
would happen if he refused. They said that they would kill him. That
had been nearly 30 years ago, and he no longer regretted the decision.
In 1983, they had solved the problem at Site 27, and he had been there.
The mistake was to aim too low. Prior mind control techniques focused
almost entirely on the reptile brain. If repetition creates habit and
habit directs and molds behaviors like sexual attraction, eating and
sleep and aggression patterns, training must rely almost entirely on
repetition. This was true enough but failed to go far enough. Site 27
realized that Pavlovian technique served only to paralyze lower level
habit operations and higher level congnition. Unless there was very
substantial reconstruction of higher level thought processes, the
subject would either backslide or fracture into schizophrenia. Neither
state was useful. From 1965 when the first Soviet leaks emerged until
1983 when the breakthrough was achieved, Site 27 labored to create a
mechanism that would permit consistent and effective behavioral
reconstruction whose results were predictable.
He had been the first to see the value of computer architecture as the
correct analogy for program design. Almost entirely, humans, as do
computers, intake data by optical scan. Audio and tactical inputs are
relatively negligible. If lower level responses could be tuned to
certain states and higher level functions suspended, a subject would
find themselves in a constantly refreshed forced instructional setting
in which higher level functions (thoughts, fantasies, dreams) would be
driven by lower, now entirely-controlled habits.
The dream-state was the key. Freud had used it as a purely analytical
tool, a one-way connection from the subject's mind to the scientist's
ear. In the years that followed, Freud's ideas were challenged, then
criticized as outdated and misogynistic. Modern social scientists saw
dreams as housekeeping tool, freeing the mind from clutter assimilated
during waking hours. He saw it for all it might be, a two-way
conduit, receiving as well as transmitting enigmatic fragments that
could reconstruct the architecture of the subject's persona. The goal
was to first open the conduit, then decipher the language of dreams
well enough to speak it. Real-time interaction with the subject's
subconscious followed, allowing preconstructed sequences to be edited
into a mix of naturally occurring and induced dream scenarios. The
technique was elegantly subtle and frighteningly powerful. After years
of perseverance, he had constructed the Rosetta stone of "dream-speak",
enabling him to converse in dream language as easily as present day
archaeologists read the once enigmatic hieroglyphs at Karnak and
Abydos.
There had been a range of experiments to confirm the result. Could
pictures of male genitals excite a reconstructed heterosexual male?
How about a heterosexual female, or homosexuals? Could stealing be a
reconstructed trait in a subject testing high for integrity? Or
alcoholism, drugs? Could they train housewives to want to watch
violent entertainment? Or men to watch to watch soap operas? He had
successfully concluded the experimental phase when he trained a female
conservative Christian, former missionary and elementary teacher to
perform sexually in front of cameras - and like it. The change had
been so complete and final that the overwhelming consensus was that
there was nothing left to be done.
Personnel had been reassigned, operations and facilities closed,
support withdrawn. He was offered a chance to transfer to other
projects but always declined. He would see through the closure, the
accurate storage of results, the film of experiments, and maintain
tracking of subjects. It was a dead end but it suited him. He stopped
responding to colleague inquiries, and more than once left a mostly
empty bottle of scotch in a desk drawer. He allowed deadlines to
elapse and wrote ill-thought and subtly angry notes of explanation to
his superiors. They scheduled a "routine" review a week away but he
had been working steadily so there was no need to rush. He had long
ago removed copies of all the critical information and stored it safely
away. He placed the corpse in his car, a plastics charge in its lap.
He almost had underestimated the blast force but was able to step
behind a wall. Carefully, he made his way back through the burning
rubble to find portions of shattered mandible and skull. He reached
into his mouth and withdrew bridgework that, anticipating just such a
day as this, he had done. Between the heat of the explosive and the
chemical contamination he had induced in the car's interior, there
would be no DNA testing. All they would have would be the crown that
matched his dental records. The finest mind in behavior reconstruction
in the world disappeared into the dark in a well-used 1985 Buick
Skylark, traveling just over the limit like anyone else might.
-*-
A voice drifted in. Sarah slowly became aware of her surroundings. She
recognized it all too well - the precise, calculated cadence laced with
a light accent. Her vision was still blurred, but if she strained,
could just make out the small, bald head perched atop a green gown.
"I understand what's required, but I could make her so much more.
Imagine, physical perfection as a bonus. I could - "
Shayla towered over the old man. The smile he shot back at her was more
like a sneer. Perfect rows of tiny white teeth gleamed from behind
paper-thin lips that twitched and widened, but never opened more than
a sliver.
"I'm all too familiar with your ideas of physical perfection, Finch.
We don't want a freak."
How dare she. In his day he could have ended her, wiped out her
position as a junior agent. His brief note to any one of her superiors
would have removed her from the face of the planet. Perhaps he had
made a mistake when he chose to mentor her. He took her tone of late
much as a parent endures a spoiled child. Back then, Shayla had only
hints of his true work, but his name and reputation inside the agency
would have targeted him for the attentions of any young agent convinced
she was worthy of a future far brighter than her peers. And Shayla
never missed her target. He pulled strings to have her reassigned. He
opened his files to her, years of work that only he understood.
Perhaps it was weakness, but he swelled with pride as she took to his
work with a passion.
Shayla was intelligent, fiercely ambitious, and a natural beauty. He
had been alone all of his life and she was more than he could
understand or analyze. For a month he puzzled over her familiar light
touches during casual conversation, the maddening way she crossed her
long, chocolate legs, and the suggestive phrasing cloaked in the most
innocent of questions. Later, it became routine for them to work late,
order take-out, and put the day's labors behind them. Much later, when
she rode his cock, her dark, firm body pinning him to the office floor,
her motives no longer mattered to him. If he had been the master of
mens' minds, he was no longer the complete master of his own.
But change is inevitable. And the day came when the world changed in
ways Finch never imagined. The Russians imploded and the Cold War
ended. Funding evaporated. No one wanted to admit ownership for his
research. The entire work was redlined before the Agency budget went to
Congress. At first, he was merely bitter about the loss of resources.
As the project closed, he was reduced to a caretaker of his brilliant
career, a lifetime of work made obsolete. As time passed, his
bitterness became rage, sending him on a much darker path. When the
opportunity to jump ship was presented to him, he accepted without
hesitation. The compensation was lavish, but he would have taken much
less than the unchanging figure the DOD discreetly deposited in his
account each month. His new employer's unsavory origins didn't cause
him a moment's pause; in fact, his thirst for revenge made the offer
all the more appealing.
He had taken Shayla with him. In fact, she insisted. Soon her
ambition and good looks brought her to the attention of those higher up
in the organization. She was given a field position, managing a small
group of reports to be selected at her discretion.
Rock was a rare find, almost by accident, during a late-night visit to
a crowded leather bar on the west coast. He hit on her mercilessly,
but all she saw was a clever, powerful male, a born leader.
By the end of the night they had struck a deal, and for much
less than her budget allowed. His band of bikers was a lucky bonus,
perfect for distancing herself from the dirty work she deemed beneath
her.
She found Stacey on the street, homeless, hungry, staying afloat on
whatever drug she managed to trade for her services. Shayla
was moved by something in those sky-blue eyes, and she was seldom wrong
about first impressions. She took the girl in, cleaned her up, and
began her education. Stacey proved to be a quick study. The streets
had made her a survivor; her talent for deception and innocent facade
made for a dangerous combination to anyone who crossed her path. Only
Shayla was immune to her girlish charm. Within days she began to
nurture the submissive lurking just below the surface of Stacey's tough
exterior. Within weeks, sleep came only after Stacey buried her face
between Shayla's legs, eagerly exploring her dark sex with an agile
tongue. After, Stacey slept soundly at her feet, curled into a
contented ball like a smiling fetus.
Finch. The years had not been kind to their relationship. The anger
that devoured him wrinkled his skin and erased the color from his hair.
She found it difficult to ignore his physical decline, and his tortured
brooding and short temper did little to help. Fleeting pangs of
sentiment, pity, and at times desire made being close to him
uncomfortable, and she regretted the loss of control, the words that
she knew had both hurt and angered him.
"So, it's come to this! Are you so fond of giving orders that you've
forgotten how you've come to give them? Or has it become customary to
dismiss old friendships when it's convenient for your career?"
His red-faced protest fell silent in an instant. Shayla's hands rose
to the front of his light green gown, her fingers gently caressing the
collar and seams over the old man's narrow shoulders. She had taken a
step toward him, and her wide smile exposed teeth much larger and
whiter than his own. She warmed as she felt his wiry frame tremble at
her touch. Such a small, fragile man. How perplexing that such thin,
quivering fingers could become the tools of an artist behind needle and
knife.
Ice-blue eyes peered up at her, like they had on so many other visits.
His trembling never failed to excite her. How she wanted to pass her
hands under the gown, to press her fingers into his pale skin, to
stroke him as she knew he would allow, down, down, until she held the
short rope of flesh, encircling the withered sac with invading digits,
probing the meager, firm fruit inside. Her thighs flexed and clenched
tightly for a moment. Such delicious pain, twisting and crushing his
vulnerable offerings, sending fire and defeat through the sensitive
nerves, until they were as dead as his dreary soul.
But, they had work to do...
The sharp bite of the iv needle startled Sarah, clearing her head. The
dull presence invading her arm seemed a sickening warning of what was
to come. They spoke as though she was still unconscious, ignoring her
widened eyes, now filled with increasing terror.
"Such exquisite flesh. So much potential."
Finch drew the fingertips of his left hand over her breast, stopping at
the nipple. Grasping and rolling it firmly between thumb and finger,
his menacing eyes envisioned what she might become. Sarah inhaled
suddenly as a single digit trailed over her ribs and across her shaking
abdomen. He lingered there, probing deeply into her soft skin with both
hands, committing everything to memory - from the firm but yielding
surfaces beneath it to the unyielding boundaries of her narrow pelvis.
He watched carefully for the slightest twitch of her eyes, or the
sudden rise of her pouting breasts, all telltale signs of a bit of skin
where nerves rose close to the surface, or, where deeper clusters of
ganglions sent stabs of breath-robbing pain throughout her body. He
went back to each of these spots again and again, testing for a
stronger response a fraction of an inch this way or that, his smile
widening as Sarah gasped and struggled against the restraints that held
her naked and spread-eagled on the steel table.
Shayla towered over her, now facing Finch at the opposite side of the
table. She seemed fascinated with Sarah's terror. Leaning close, she
traced the lines of Sarah's face with an outstretched finger, gloved
in warm, black leather.
Finch's hands continued down over her thighs, stroking and kneading
them as his breath came faster, his eyes glittering with the reflection
of them, a perfect white V that resisted his touch.
Sarah froze in terror when his long fingers arrived spider-like between
her legs. Spreading her outer labia, he tugged and pinched the inner
lips before inserting two fingers inside her. Now she felt his probing
from within, the constant pressure as his fingertips dug into the walls
of her vagina, finally arriving at her cervix, where the pain stiffened
her slim body with spasms of agony.
Shayla glanced at the plastic iv bag that delivered a steady drip of
hazy, viscous liquid to the needle taped to Sarah's arm.
"What's in the bag? I told you I want her to suffer."
Finch said nothing, keeping his eyes on Sarah's as he dilated the firm
tissues of her cervix with the tip of his index finger. Her mouth was
stretched wide in a silent scream. A minute passed before he withdrew
his hand and looked up.
"Look at her. Have you ever seen such pain in a subject's eyes? The
drug amplifies the nervous system's sensitivity tenfold. The pain is
unimaginable."
"I don't hear her screaming. They always scream."
"Ahh, and you always complain, no? So, a bit of this, a bit of that,
and her vocal chords are paralyzed. No screaming - I thought you would
be pleased."
It wasn't the first time Shayla had underestimated Finch's attempts to
please her. Even so, she shuddered inside as she imagined Sarah's
agony, precisely applied, without the ability to scream or even
release a defeated moan.
"Finch, my darling little man, you never fail to amaze me."
"Or, excite you, my dear?"
"Or to excite me...," she whispered, her dark eyes drilling through
him as he paused, hands trembling over Sarah's nakedness. Shifting her
gaze from Finch to Sarah, she smiled and took a single, deep breath.
"Let me see you work."
The small round tray held a circle of tiny syringes, much like a plate
of hors d'oeuvres waiting to be sampled. He plucked one at random from
the sterile surface and applied a practiced push on the plunger,
allowing a tiny fountain to jet from the tip. Sarah's wrists strained
at the leather cuffs as he brought the needle close to her face.
Sarah's head burst into fiery agony as the needle sank into the moist
flesh along her upper lip. Then, with precision of a delicate machine,
Finch injected the full volume as he maneuvered the tip deeper.
She had only a few seconds of relief before his hand returned with a
second syringe, this time digging into her lower lip, again stiffening
her body against the restraints.
Finch paused to watch her as the third syringe hovered over the nipple
of her right breast. Sarah shook her head violently, mouthing words no
one could hear. He glanced up at Shayla. She was smiling.
Sarah's body went rigid when he slid the needle under the edge of the
nipple. Now her eyes were closed, her jaw clenched. He watched the pink
bud expand to a hard button, then the full circumference of areola
beneath it rise slightly above the mound of white breast.
After filling her left nipple with a fourth syringe, he stopped to
inspect his work. His contented smile was interrupted by a pair of
large black hands, now cradling his head with long, wandering fingers.
Shayla bent over the table, her intoxicating dark eyes inches from
his own.
"Sometimes I forget what a wonderfully talented man you are."
Her words were almost a whisper. Finch's eyes dropped to her breasts.
They moved ever so slightly, the generous black nipples pouting at him
from between rows of undone buttons. It was rare to see her out of
leather these days, and even rarer to see her in a dress, even if it
was a dress that hugged every curve of her muscular frame. She covered
Finch's small mouth with hers, assaulting him with her tongue while
holding his head tightly with both hands. Sarah looked up in horror as
he mauled Shayla's breasts with thin, trembling fingers. She could feel
his long, slim cock pressed against her belly as Shayla pulled him over
her across the table. He rocked against her, caving in her stomach as
his prick, now exposed and wet, twitched and pulsed over Sarah's bare
skin.
Finch's body shuddered briefly, then was still. Sarah felt the cool
remains of his orgasm, slippery and wet, spread across her belly. He
regained his composure as quickly as he had lost it and stood again
beside the table, eyes still on Shayla.
She was tracing circles in the pool of thick semen with a gloved
finger. Then, capturing a portion of it as it rose to coat the rounded
tip of supple leather, she delivered it to Sarah's open mouth, past
lips too sore to resist the invasion. Shayla continued with a haunting
smile, until only a slick trace of the old man's cum remained, drying
like a second skin on Sarah's flat stomach. She gagged and choked as
the salty mass reached the back of her throat, but in time managed to
rid her mouth of the vile taste, gulping the mixture of semen and
saliva long after Shayla fed her the last drop.
Shayla's face was closer now, her large brown eyes peering into
Sarah's. Her breath was hot on Sarah's face, her smile terrifying.
"Mmmm. You're shaking, my dear. Don't you know this is for your own
good? Don't you appreciate the efforts we've taken to help you? Your
looks are all you have now. Don't you want to be beautiful?"
Sarah shook her head frantically from side to side, her lips forming
words where none would come - 'no, no, no, no, no'.
"Now, now, we're nearly done. Unfortunately, this last bit is the
worst. I'm afraid it will be horribly painful."
Before Sarah had time to react, Finch drove the needle into the soft,
sensitive tissue of her inner labia, filling it with practiced
precision. The muscles from her shoulders to her toes tightened into
steel bands. Her back arched in a single prolonged spasm, lifting her
body off the table. Then, a second injection at the same site,
followed by a third and forth, until the entrance to her cunt was
frozen in an wide yawn, held open by engorged, fluted ridges of flesh.
Sarah lay panting and exhausted, her mind now focused only on the pain
- when it would come, and when it would stop. Trickles of sweat ran
between her breasts and over her belly. Her thighs were shiny and wet,
her drenched hair cold and sticky between her head and the steel table.
Shayla's lips brushed her ear as she spoke in a low whisper.
"Sooo delicious, showing off for the good doctor, all tits and pussy.
It's what you are now - tits and pussy. No career, no husband, no
friends, no responsibilities - just two hard tits to be fondled and
a warm, juicy hole between your legs."
Sarah glanced at the mirror overhead. She closed her eyes and
tried to think. 'A name - my name - if I can just remember - '
Names sifted into the shattered remains of her memory - Barbie, Stacey,
Shayla - but which one?
She gasped as Finch tugged at her clit, rolling it between thumb and
forefinger. Shayla's voice returned, her breath now closer, hotter
against Sarah's ear.
"Everyone will want you. Men with long, thick cocks will stand in line
to stuff your pouting little cunt. Women will drool at the sight of
you, longing to suck those hard nipples. Boys will see you and cum on
their sheets at night dreaming of you. And girls will do anything to
be like you. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be beautiful,
desirable, so satisfied, so content. It's so close - just one more
terrible step - but a step you're eager to take, so eager - so..."
Finch drove the needle into her clitoris and squeezed the plunger. His
erection returned as he watched the sensitive nub grow thicker, then
longer as he guided the needle deeper.
In an instant, she was blinded by the sudden stab of agony. Every
nerve in her body seemed to react at once. An explosion of images and
memories overwhelmed her in random order, some vaguely familiar, others
appallingly real. And then all the pain faded as cold emptiness
swallowed her, until the only thing in her world was the comfort of the
darkness and the words that floated nearby.
"...drool at the sight of you...do anything to be like you...so
eager...so beautiful...so satisfied..."
-*-
She woke to flashes of brilliant color, to patterns of lines and
circles that shifted and pulsed in cadence to a throbbing hum so deep
that it seemed to come from inside her. Once she opened her eyes it
was impossible to close them. The flickering kaleidoscope drew her in;
the longer she looked, the more she needed to follow the evolution of
one shape into the next. And the pain was gone. It made the pain go
away. And she was so warm, so satisfied, so tired and empty.
Finch forced himself to look away from her nude body, now unrestrained
on the padded chair. Her breasts rose and fell seductively with each
deep, even breath. The visor covered her face from forehead to
just below the bridge of her nose, revealing the slight flare of her
nostrils as she inhaled the cool air of the darkened lab. Most of the
room's light came from the row of monitors lining the wall behind a
long desk where Finch sat peering into a much larger screen. Endless
lines of code marched across it, scrolling from top to bottom, but
Finch's eyes were glued to the upper right corner where inch-high red
numerals marked Sarah's progress.
Shayla watched from the foot of the chair. Finch recognized the
sadistic smile and concentrated stare as she enjoyed the view from
between the reclining subject's legs. He watched her exhilaration as
she attached the necessary instruments - the tiny electrodes glued to
Sarah's flat belly, one above each ovary, and finally the thick,
plastic double-phallus, inserted simultaneously into rectum and vagina,
held in place by a vacuum drawn through the flexible base-plate.
Whirling streams of dazzling light slowed and dimmed to muted shades
that dissolved into recognizable shapes and features. Sarah watched,
mesmerized, as a pretty housewife dressed in apron and high-heels knelt
by the door, gave her small daughter a warm hug, then ushered her along
to a waiting school bus. It left Sarah with a warm, full feeling in her
belly, a feeling Sarah's own mother might have given her, if only her
weakened heart hadn't taken her from Sarah so early in life. She saw a
the large hand of a tall, dark man push open the door and hurry through
it. He ignored the pretty wife, but glanced back for a second and
scowled before disappearing. His look chilled Sarah and her stomach
went queasy, just like when her daddy used to give her "a good talking-
to".
The scene faded. Sarah stared helplessly as the same housewife knelt
in front of a young delivery boy. Her tongue slid from between parted
lips in slow motion, gently licking the tip of his monstrous cock. A
rush of warmth and excitement washed over Sarah as she watched her take
the pulsing head of the boy's cock in her mouth. Something stirred
inside her. It felt so good - so warm and thick and filling.
Then came familiar scenes - Sarah, dressed for success, strutting
through the halls of her old office - Sport, working on the books at
night, never missing a chance to inch a hand under her dress when she
came close enough - the two of them embracing, kissing like newlyweds,
for no special reason, day or night.
And with them came the pain. At first a twisting sickness in her
belly, it grew, gnawing and icy at her very core - so cold, stabbing at
her from inside. She wanted to look away, to put the scenes out of her
mind, anything to make the nausea and pain stop. She must be dreaming.
If she could only wake up, the nightmare would end and everything would
be right again. But she couldn't wake up, and the images played on.
Shayla paced in circles around the chair, watching Sarah's squirming
body with delight. She stopped and leaned close to her face, studying
the repeated grimaces and frowns, each fleeting expression sadistic
gratification for Shayla's hard work and twisted desires.
The pain worsened as the visor revealed the familiar softly-lit
bedroom. They were making love, with Sport on top of her in his usual
position. He stroked her face as he moved slowly, almost cautiously,
in and out of her. Then came the short, repeated pecks over her neck
and lips, almost kisses, more habit than passion. His weight pressed
down on her, trapping her on her back with legs spread. Each breath
required more effort than the last. A suffocating claustrophobia
seized her, tightening its grip until terror and panic forced her to
cry out, begging to be rescued. With one last brutal thrust he
stiffened and moaned. She could feel his cum jetting, splashing inside
her, searing bursts of fire and acid that ate away at her cunt, robbing
her of its delicious sensations forever. His poison crept deeper into
her belly, feasting on tender flesh, devouring her from the inside out
with relentless agony.
Relief came suddenly when the visor faded to black. Tiny specks of
light formed in the darkness, slowly growing brighter, until she stared
into a field of thousands of stars gliding past her. They began to
dance and rotate, lazily at first, then at a dizzying pace, finally
smearing into twisting streams of changing color. She went limp
against the padding of the chair, her breathing now soft and even.
Finch watched the monitor intently as the counter reset. The
instructions halted for a moment, the screen cleared, then began to
fill with new characters, one line at a time.
[Sub*p.22_Sarah]
Rtr mod 3b.11.9y
Ld mod 3b.11.9y
Ini mod 3b.11.9y (tim:3,sr:norm,dp:max)
Inj*
Cal vaga1q {0,9,2}
Cal anaa2q {0,6,1}
Cal stim[3F22C] ld[1,2,3,4]
Cal intmix[min**00,max**?9]v/r set
Wait
Wait
Rtr mod 4a.01.0x
Ld mod 4a.01.0x
Sync[3b.11.9y][4a.01.0x]
Ini [v,a,s,i] lnkcpl m/p
Ini mod 4a.01.0x (tim:*,sr:push,dp:max)
Inj*
Sarah focused on the new scene that formed inside the visor. Her view
was from the back seat of a moving car. Looking up and forward, she
could see the pretty housewife and the dark man silhouetted in the
bright light streaming through the windshield. He drove, she sat
silently beside him, watching the passing scenery. She could smell the
musty cloth that covered the seats, worn and frayed along the edge
where she liked to sit. It was hot. So hot. The car windows provided
the only relief from the mid-day heat, tossing her long blonde hair in
the gushes of wind that came at her unevenly from the left and right.
Then in the distance, a siren wailed. It grew louder, until finally
she turned to see the red flashing light gaining on them from behind.
Their car slowed and pulled to the side of the road. The dark man was
angry. The pretty housewife put a hand on his arm to settle him, but
he shrugged it off, raising his voice and glaring at her.
Sarah watched the policeman from the rear window. He climbed off the
biggest, shiniest motorcycle she had ever seen and marched toward the
car. She couldn't take her eyes off him - the black leather jacket
wrapped around shoulders three feet wide, the stiff black boots that
crushed the gravel under them with each heavy step, and the wide belt
that circled his slim waist. A holstered gun hung at his right side, a
long, thick night-stick at his left, swaying hypnotically as he
approached.
She tried to listen as the policeman and the dark man talked, then
began to argue. The policeman's face was close now, his large
sunglasses reflecting the sudden fear in the dark man's eyes. His wide
grin made her heart race with both fear and excitement. His voice
seemed to melt the knot in her stomach and warm the insides of her bare
thighs. Ignoring the dark man for a second, the policeman studied the
pretty housewife from face to calf.
"You've fixed her up real pretty."
The pretty housewife glanced at him, allowing a thin smile to escape.
The dark man yelled at the policeman and opened the door to get out.
The policeman put a large hand on his slim arm and pulled him from the
car, easily turning him and pinning him to the fender.
"You fucked up, man - big time. You couldn't keep your mouth shut,
could you? You had to be a hero. I was ready to walk away, to let you
and the wife go back to your pathetic little lives. I'm gonna enjoy
this."
He walked the dark man to the front of the car, snapped the handcuffs
over both thin wrists, and bent him over the hood. Sarah's heart
pounded faster as she stared through the windshield.
His pants were around his ankles now. Passing cars slowed, their
passengers laughing at the dark man's sagging buttocks and skinny
thighs exposed in broad daylight. His eyes stared back through the
windshield, wide with terror. Sarah began to moan at the instant the
policeman placed the end of the night-stick against the dark man's ass
and slowly pushed an inch of it inside. The dark man was crying now,
begging the policeman to stop, begging the pretty housewife for help.
Another inch disappeared inside him, then another. Cars continued to
slow and gawk, now blowing their horns and cheering through open
windows. The dark man became hysterical, crying and screaming for help
as the policeman began to pump the weapon in and out, going deeper with
each thrust. Sarah's cunt clutched and sucked at the thing between her
legs. It felt so good, probing and pulsing with energy and warmth.
The policeman leaned into the car window next to the pretty housewife.
She just stared into his dark glasses as he began to unbutton her
dress. He pulled her bra down, revealing the two firm mounds of breast
topped with large, stiffening nipples. The dark man watched through
the windshield as the policeman pulled and squeezed until the pretty
housewife's nipples were purple and distended. He began to cry again
when she moaned softly, her eyes unable to hide the lust that
overpowered her.
The policeman was in the driver's seat now, unbuttoning the front of
the pretty housewife's dress until she sat beside him in bra and
panties. His large hands moved over her stomach and thighs, rough
calluses against satin skin. She whimpered when a strong finger wormed
beneath the white elastic, traveled the length of her moistening slit,
and finally found the swollen nub that made tears come to her eyes.
"I knew you'd be easy. I could see it in your eyes. How long have you
waited for it, a real man's cock? Say it. He's waiting."
The pretty housewife glanced through the windshield at the dark man,
then back into the policeman's dark glasses, now inches from her face.
"I'm yours."
The visor blinked. A second of black, the low rumble of distant
thunder, then back again. The dark man was on his back, stretched over
the hood, arms pulled wide by invisible restraints, his small erect
penis visible as it pointed upward toward the darkening sky. A light
rain began to fall, mixing with his tears as he continued to sob and
mutter incoherently. A large black bird fluttered down from the sky,
landing on his heaving belly. Its size was twice that of the largest
of birds, with claws and beak the color of polished steel. Another
followed, then a third. They eyed his erection as if it was unfamiliar
prey, then together, as if on cue, devoured it with shining, slashing
beaks. Dozens of birds arrived as a silver-gray cloud, then dozens
more, each finding a perch on his naked body, all feasting in a black,
seething frenzy, until his sobs were drowned out by sound of rustling
feathers and clicking beaks.
The roof and doors of the car melted away until there was nothing but
the musty seat under her and the crawling cloud of black feathers,
expanding as far as she could see. As it closed in around her, the
black faded to gray, then brightened to a brilliant white. The seat
melted away as well, and she floated there, suspended in a sea of
white doves, floating, soaring, carrying her with them, caressing her
thighs and breasts with a thousand velvet wings. Warm juices pooled,
then flowed from between her legs. Never had she been held poised at
the brink of orgasm for such a long time. She closed her eyes,
breathing deeply, losing herself in time, reveling in the ecstasy.
When her eyes opened again, the scene had changed. The pretty
housewife pushed a vacuum cleaner back and forth over a spotless, white
carpet. There were no walls, no furniture, only brilliant light
surrounding her. She was naked, except for bright red high heels and a
wide red choker. She hummed softly as the vacuum traveled silently
over the carpet.
The policeman appeared behind her, his black boots and jacket a stark
contrast to the blinding white light. She turned as if she could feel
his eyes on her, then walked to him, stopping when her swollen nipples
touched black leather. She looked up at him, expressionless, her
delicate features forming a perfect profile, her voice a coarse
whisper.
"Fuck me."
The scene exploded in white, then returned as a spacious Victorian
bedroom. At its center stood a canopy bed draped in yards of white
lace and satin. The pretty housewife rested peacefully, arms extended,
legs spread, almost floating over the down-stuffed spread. She was
still naked, the red shoes now gone, her creamy skin supple and relaxed
beneath the crimson velvet bands that circled her wrists and ankles.
A white marble dressing table stood against the opposite wall, just a
few paces from the foot of the bed. A small hand-mirror and hair
brush, both of glistening silver, lay on its cool, glassy surface.
Next to the table, an oval full-length mirror surrounded by an
intricately sculpted silver border hung eerily in mid-air.
The policeman appeared at the foot of the bed, still in full uniform.
The pretty housewife raised her head to look at him, then sliding her
hands along smooth, white thighs, clutched her knees, pulling her legs
up to open herself to him. His cock spilled from the fly of his pants,
hanging like a thick length of rope. It thickened and grew longer,
inch after inch, until the tip reached the quivering slit between her
legs. It was impossibly large, the diameter greater than his massive
fist, the length still increasing as it pushed her lips aside and
entered her, steadily forcing its way deeper into her cunt. Her belly
swelled as the monstrous organ filled her, burrowing deeper each
second. Slowly, almost reverently, she let her head fall back and
opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The fleshy bulb paused for a second,
then, forcing her jaw wider still, emerged glistening and pulsing
before her eyes. Taking her hands from her knees, she cradled the
warm, purple head, spreading flow of slick pre-cum over the enormous
glans, then returning to the gaping eye for more. Her legs circled the
thick base, her hands the engorged head, while her slim body writhed
and twisted, deliciously impaled on the throbbing skewer.
A steady fountain of pearly-white semen erupted from the yawning
fissure, flowing over the pretty housewife's hands onto her face and
shoulders. It continued down over her body as though seeking out the
smallest crevices, until it coated her like a second skin, glossy and
moist under the intense light. After clinging to the edge of orgasm
for what seemed like hours, Sarah cried out as it finally washed over
her. It seemed to lift her into the air, piercing her body through
every pore, invading and seizing her tender flesh with an intensity no
mortal lover could hope to offer. This was what she needed, what she
had waited for, for such a long time. If only it would last this
time...she would be a good girl, an obedient girl, a beautiful
girl...if only it would last...forever.
Then she was in a different place, with no memory of how her soul
seemed such a small price to pay for the satisfaction only a machine
could bring, only moments ago. She sat at the marble dressing table in
the same white bedroom, slowly running the silver brush through strands
of luxuriant blonde hair. She studied her reflection in the glittering
hand-mirror. 'Is that me? My thick blonde hair? My full red lips? My
perfect nipples?'
"You are everyone's desire, Dear."
The pretty housewife stood beside her, still naked, still radiant with
the policeman's semen, now a glowing halo that followed each graceful
movement. Her smile was irresistible, so warm, comforting, and
familiar. Sarah rose and went to her, falling into her as the pretty
housewife held her with strong, slender arms. Her words came softly,
lovingly, filling a space left empty far too long.
"I love you, Dear. So many others are waiting to love you too. Men
with long, thick cocks will stand in line to stuff your pouting little
cunt. Women will drool at the sight of you, longing to suck those hard
nipples. Boys will see you and cum on their sheets at night dreaming
of you. And girls will do anything to be like you - like me - like
us."
Their bodies pressed closer, hard nipples on hard nipples, rippling
belly against rippling belly, until they became one, merging as
effortlessly as the ether of spirits passes through earthly flesh.
Sarah stood alone before the oval mirror. The image reflected back at
her was perfection, flesh that no one could resist, lust that consumed
all defenses. She could have any man, anyone, and would openly be his
slave for the chance to find the rapture that promised to save her.
The mirror's silver border turned crimson, flowing restlessly,
expectantly. It's silvery surface rippled, changing from brittle glass
to flowing mercury. The voice from behind it was as compelling as
it was familiar.
"You've always been a fucktoy, Sarah, always hungry for a bigger cock,
never really satisfied with a puny one. We can see it in your eyes.
Come to us, Sarah. We have what you're looking for, what you
need...what you've always needed."
Her feet moved, one after the other, until she stood an inch from the
shimmering surface. She could feel their hands on her breasts, cold
fingers teasing her nipples until they stiffened, sending promises of
what lie beyond the mirror to the their target, now wet and swollen
between her ivory thighs. Another step and she was falling, first
through the cold boundary between her world and theirs, then into the
darkness that rolled her into a ball and swallowed her, taking
everything from her, and giving nothing in return.
-*-
Shayla and Finch watched as two large men eased Sarah into the padded
cage that was to be her home for the long journey. She slept soundly,
her breathing shallow but steady. They secured her wrists to leather
cuffs at each side, her ankles to identical restraints on the top of
the enclosure. Shayla could feel the sudden warmth between her legs
and the wet coolness that followed. Sarah lay on her back, naked,
knees against her chest, ankles firmly anchored to the cage lid. The
position displayed Sarah's exposed genitals at the end of the cage,
lodged firmly against a smaller trapdoor.
Finch paced back and forth, his eyebrows knitted with concern.
"We should wait another day, do more tests. There is a small risk... "
Shayla nodded to one of the men and waved them along as they lifted the
cage and walked it toward to steel door.
"The real risk is that our client will delay the transfer of
payment if we're late. You know who I answer to. I won't end up in
one of those cages just because you want to dick around with your
statistics for another day. We'll deliver her on time, take our pat on
the back, and move on. Where she's going, who's going to care what
she's like a year from now, assuming she makes it that long."
They watched the door swing shut, the electric locks buzzing as the
steel cylinders snapped into place. Finch stared for a few seconds
after the bolts engaged.
'If only I could have had her for just one more day.'
Shayla looked back at the chair, then through the wide glass window
where a bare steel table stood surrounded by trays of empty syringes.
Her hand came to rest at the front of her dress, two long fingers
pressing lightly into the nagging heat between her legs. For the first
time in many years, their thoughts were exactly the same.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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