Brick was dreaming.

At first it was the usual mishmash: one old lover morphing into another, scenes from childhood distorted into fantasies or nightmares, epic battles against the mightiest of his enemies reenacted.

At last he became Samson, one of those great heroes of ancient days on whom he consciously modeled himself. He'd dreamed about the famous strongman many times before. This time, Brick/Samson found himself trudging through a pale, flat desert, the hot sun hammering his bare back, mirages dancing at the edges of his vision.

But one of the mirages wasn't a mirage at all. Out of the swirling, watery haze ahead bounded a lion: giant, golden brown, roaring like a tornado.

Unarmed, nearly nude, Brick/Samson crouched in preparation for battle.

The lion slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and snapping at his face with slavering jaws. Brick/Samson grabbed the two halves of those jaws and twisted them in opposite directions, making the lion screech in agony. It drew back and he leapt atop it, fingers digging into the tender meat beneath its ribs as if into warm dough.

The lion dragged its claws up the length of Samson's back and Brick arched into the pain, remembering a multitude of similar, if more romantic, encounters. Then he reached his other hand inside the lion's guts and tore the creature in two, flinging the separates halves to the ground with a bestial cry of his own. Challenge me, will you?

Suddenly he was at Delilah's door, his back still naked and bloody. His lover took him in and cooed sympathetically over his injuries, though he could see the arousal in her wide blue eyes. Ooooh, a lion? Really? And with your bare hands?

She led him to a mirror, allowing him to admire his fresh scars-to-be as openly as she did, tracing the edges with her finger. Her touch was just light enough and just far enough from the open wounds to provoke pleasure rather than pain.

Then she took him to a warm, round bath inlaid in the floor of her bedroom. The scent of healing herbs wafted up along with the steam. Her robe slipped from her shoulders and tumbled around her feet in a single fluid motion.

Samson felt a moment of unease, though he couldn't pinpoint the cause. Then he glimpsed the swell of her breasts and the sweet, honeyed "V" of her cleft. He forgot his fears and joined her in the warmth of the bath.

Delilah washed him gently and thoroughly, prying into all the little crevices even Samson normally forgot he possessed. The water was warm and soothing against his back, his lover's flesh even more so. She ran her fingers down his chest as he relaxed in her lap, then curved her arms around to reach lower. Her smooth, strong hands embraced his cock and began to caress and pump.

The water heated, the pressure built, and Delilah's hands slid more and more easily along the length of Samson's member as it grew slick with pre-cum.

"Samson," she whispered, just as he was on the brink of release, "what is the source of your strength?"

Something strange prodded against the small of his back, something long and firm and round at the tip.

Brick leaped from the tempter's lap and turned to face a grinning Jordan.

"Fucking pervert," he spat, and lunged for the transvestite's throat.

"Fucking indeed," Jordan chuckled. His/her body evaporated into the swirling mists, which quickly enveloped the scene and left Brick struggling once more in darkness.

Only now, he could feel his cock. It was throbbing.

Jordan watched the scene later on video replay. Abioye Bankole, the doctor/tech on duty at the moment, had just explained the process he'd developed for implanting images in a subject's brain and reconstructing the scenes that developed via computer. The Japanese were experimenting with a similar technique, but they hadn't advanced nearly as far as Dr. Bankole. Then again, the Japanese were bound by a stricter codes of ethics, not to mention a smaller cash flow.

Jordan tried his best to follow Abioye's explanation, but his eyes kept wandering to the high, round curves of the man's blue-black cheekbones. The rest of Bankole was long and lean and utterly ascetic, but his cheeks hinted at something else hidden deep beneath the surface. If Jordan didn't have Sam around to enjoy, the doctor made a very nice substitute. To watch, anyway.

Jordan wondered what type of lover Abioye preferred, but respected his reserved demeanor too much to ask. Resolutely, he returned his attention to the screen, where his own freeze-framed face grinned back at him. Jordan wasn't quite sure what to make of it. On the one hand, he liked being part of the seduction, but on the other....

"You're not trying to turn Brick against women, are you?"

"Oh, certainly not." The doctor's African-British tenor swirled delightfully in Jordan's ears. "We're just giving our recruit the illusion that he's fighting back successfully, when we've actually used the occasion to breach his second lock. He wouldn't have enjoyed your Delilah nearly so much without this--" his long fingers stabbed buttons, back-tracking to the point where Delilah showed Samson his back in the mirror. Since Brick's watchers had only his view on the scene, this was the one moment they could see his wounds for themselves.

"Wow," Jordan murmured, "just like sex scratches, only deeper."

"Yes, deeper," Abioye responded with relish. "And fiercer....The dream clawing gave us an ideal point to introduce a higher level of hypnotics - and to begin revising Mr. Logan's brain chemistry, making him a bit more open to advances from other males."

The doctor's eyes roved across the display screens. "We also edged up the sensation on his genitals, beginning with the first appearance of the lion and peaking during the bath scene, when we brought almost the full force of the anterior pump to bear for a good fifteen minutes."

Jordan had never seen such a sly smile on the scientist's face. "It gave him something to preoccupy his thoughts even after the dream ended," Abioye went on. "He's deep enough in trance now that we can afford to show our hand a bit. At this point he can't wake up, no matter how hard he tries; and even a mind as sharp as Mr. Logan's is unable to maintain a state of lucid dreaming for more than a few minutes. You see? Already he's lost his grip on his anger and returned to a state of confused relaxation."

Bankole's eyes slid to Jordan's. "Let's give him another nudge, shall we?"

He pushed another button, and their gazes turned to the central monitor, where Brick lay still in his pool. The casing around his dick began to ripple and squeeze. Abioye turned up the audio feed, and Jordan grinned at the sound of moans issuing through Brick's clenched lips.

He wondered how long it would take before the posterior pump came into play.

Brick floated, inside and out. He had indeed come to relish the occasional flashes of sight and sound and sensation that lit the vacuum of his existence. Sometimes he recalled a voice predicting this would happen, but it took great effort to pin down the memory; and without knowing more, he wasn't sure it was worth the work. It was so much easier, so much more pleasurable, just to suck down every scrap of stimulus he was given.

Like a starved dog begging at a table, he thought, and felt a flash of angry rebellion. It faded within minutes, as everything always did within the vacuum.

The dreams began again, and Brick tumbled joyously into the rich new sensations. Sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell - always several at a time, and for luxuriously long stretches of uninterrupted pleasure. It didn't even matter that they made no sense, at first; at least they were there. They were real.

Eventually he became Hercules, fulfilling the first of his twelve great labors of legend. He had been sent to kill the Nemean Lion.

He found the great beast in the midst of the desert, sitting sphinx-like atop a low cliff, waiting for him. It watched him approach with unreadable golden eyes.

Hercules had prepared for this moment. He reached into the quiver on his back and withdrew a specially crafted arrow, which he flung with the force of a javelin straight at the beast's massive chest.

The arrow bounced off harmlessly and the lion yawned, displaying a mouthful of razor-sharp fangs and a strangely enticing pink tongue.

Hercules flung another arrow, this one directly at the creature's eye. It, too, clattered off; and the lion winked at him. Then casually, almost teasingly, it rose and retreated down the back of the cliff.

The hero followed close behind, at last spying the tip of the lion's tail, still swaying as it disappeared into a small, tight cave within the rock.

Hercules knew all about caves. Grinning, he detached the quiver from his back and left it lying in the sand. Then he pulled his club from his belt and stepped into the dark, holding his weapon ready at groin level and gripping it tight in both hands.

There came a rush of noise, a sensation of movement. Suddenly Hercules found himself flat on his back, hammering uselessly at his attacker with a club he now realized was no more effective than his arrows had been. It just wasn't big enough, wasn't strong enough for a foe this powerful.

And yet Hercules continued to struggle, expecting at any second to feel the fatal slash of fangs across his throat.

The slash never came. Instead, there was only the wrestling of heavy body against heavier, the slick slide of sweaty flesh against fur - or was it fur? Didn't it feel somehow softer? More like human skin?

Yes, here was something slick and fleshy, all right. Hercules tried to conjure up the revulsion he felt expected to feel, but it just wasn't there. He found himself angry at the loss and pushed the lion away. It made a sound surprisingly close to human laughter.

Suddenly Hercules was back at the mouth of the cave, facing outwards. The lion's pelt hung down his back like a cape, with the top half of its head arching hoodlike over his own. The fang tips pressed against his forehead just hard enough to prick the skin.

Hercules squinted into the sunlight, trying to remember just how he'd reached this point. He'd been sent to kill the lion, but had he really done it? The pelt said yes, but he had no memory of the deed. In fact, though it made no sense whatsoever, he had the strangest feeling that the lion had given him the pelt. But why?

He staggered out into the bright desert sun, trudging toward his next appointed task. He could no longer remember what it was, but he'd know it when he got there.

After awhile the pelt grew too hot and heavy to wear, and he abandoned it gladly. It had never belonged on his back, anyway.

Timeless time passed, and he came upon two ragged golden shapes half-buried in the sand. On closer inspection, he saw that they were the remains of another great beast - one he had killed himself, hadn't he? Yes, he was almost certain he really had slain this one. Or thought he had. No, come to think of it, he wasn't certain after all. Not about anything.

A buzzing sound drew his attention to the lower half of the carcass. There, deep within the slick, fresh meat, lay a golden honeycomb crawling with bees.

Samson realized he was starving. He'd be stung for certain if he reached into that comb, but what were a few little bee stings in the face of all he'd been through already? He squatted and slid his hand into the sweet, sticky mess, ignoring the pricks of pain and pleasure that danced across his skin. His fingers closed around the soft comb, grasping a long, tubular piece and pulling it out into the sunlight. It glistened like pure gold.

Samson closed his lips around the nearer end and began to suck, his eyes rolling back in delight.

The dream shattered into a billion honeyed shards that pierced him in all the right places.

Brick floated in the midst of a high-speed kaleidoscope of shifting sights, sounds, and sensations. Sometimes he caught some sense in the mix, sometimes not. Sometimes he remembered to be wary of the images, sometimes not. More and more frequently, he just allowed himself to be bounced among the fragments at the kaleidoscope twister's whim.

Another dream coalesced amidst the shards. He was Hercules again, had always been Hercules, had never been Hercules. He was no one. He was everyone.

He'd been sent to kill the Hydra, a multi-headed beast that lurked in the swamps of Lake Lernaea. Its eyes steamed with poisonous fumes; so he and his nephew Iolaus had wrapped their mouths and noses in thick cloths to protect themselves during the battle.

The teen's blue eyes loomed huge and frightened above the hidden lower half of his face. Hercules gave him a smile of reassurance, then paused as he felt a breeze against his teeth. He shouldn't have been able to feel that through-- Had he--? No, he couldn't have forgotten his own protection. He never did.

But he had.

And now it was too late. A great, boiling rumble shook the swamp, and up from the midst of the lake swarmed a mass of hissing heads, each mounted atop a long, thick snakelike neck.

All that sinuous twisting held him spellbound for a moment, amazed by the unexpected beauty of his enemy. Acting more from obligation than any real desire to kill, Hercules held his breath and swept his sickle across the gathered stalks of necks. White blood spurted from the stumps in pearly gobbets, splashing his face and neck.

But wait - the creature wasn't dying, wasn't even close to it. Out from the stump of each neck sprang two necks, two heads, each larger and more magnificent than the first.

Hercules gasped, realizing in the process that he'd stopped holding his breath several seconds earlier. He'd already been breathing the venom...but it wasn't killing him! Instead, he felt freshly invigorated, more alive than he'd ever been. His manhood swelled and pumped beneath his skirt.

Smiling now, he swung the sickle again, and this time the pearly gobbets spattered him head to toe. Two fresh heads rose from each already-doubled neck, and Iolaus passed him a firebrand to cauterize the stumps as Hercules continued to swing and swing and swing....

It became a sort of game, the necks and heads whirling about him, caressing him with their smooth, slick, sinuous surfaces as they passed. Hercules' world faded to a blur of steamy, pearly blood and venom; and the beast closed in, its heads multiplying too fast now for the hero even to think of keeping pace. Not that it mattered; Hercules was having too much fun to stop. He was grinning widely now, licking his lips and relishing the strange, salty taste of the creature's blood.

Eventually the Hydra drew too close for the sickle to be any use, and Hercules embraced the throng of whipping necks as eagerly as they embraced him. One by one the heads began to find their way inside him, first through ears and nose and mouth, then through lower, stranger orifices.

By this point Hercules was so full of blood and steam and venom that he had no room left for fear. Instead, he felt only amazement that each gigantic head could shrink itself to just the right size for its chosen orifice.

Then came the ecstasy, and that left no room even for amazement.

Jordan and Sam watched from the control room as Brick's body - now less than fully paralyzed, had he been able to realize it - twitched and humped within the pool. Both anterior and posterior pumps were fully engaged, and judging by the sounds emanating from the loudspeakers, he was enjoying himself every bit as much as Jordan and Sam were.

They sat nude and intertwined in a single chair, their bodies slick with sweat and cum - no telling by this point whose was whose. Their own fireworks had peaked already, leaving them relaxed enough to enjoy the explosions that continued on inside Brick.

"Was that the final lock?" Jordan murmured, twining his fingers through Sam's short, curly hair.

"Not - mmm - not yet. Just you wait."

He hung in blackness once again, his mind so limp and pliant now that he was at peace even in the midst of the vacuum.

But wait. This wasn't a vacuum after all. A cool surface hardened slowly beneath his bare feet; then came a distant murmur that grew louder and nearer until it became a swell of boisterous voices whose owners seemed just out of reach. The reek of cheap wine filled the air. He still couldn't see anything.

Who was he again? He racked his sluggish brain for nearly a minute before stumbling upon the answer. He was Samson. Yes. He'd been betrayed by Delilah (dear, sweet, Delilah with her mocking blue eyes), captured by his enemies, and blinded. Now he was merely a broken slave to be displayed for their pleasure, should they even care to notice him.

Acting purely on instinct, Samson fumbled to his right and found a pillar: huge, smooth, and strangely warm for stone.

He reached out his left hand and found another pillar.

Ah, yes. He remembered this story now, knew how it ended. His enemies only thought Samson was broken, when in reality he had reserves they'd never dreamed of. In fact, he'd been hoarding them, building up a load of...of what? Whatever it was, when he released it, it would be enough to bring the whole palace down around their perverted little heads. He'd kill himself in the process, but it would be worth it. He'd die a free man.

Samson laid a palm flat against each pillar and flexed his massive biceps.

The pillars didn't budge.

He bent his head, gritted his teeth, and flexed harder, enjoying the ripple of muscles beneath flesh, the rise of his manhood as his whole body strained against the force of implacable stone.

Or was it stone?

Something quivered deep in Samson's belly as recognized the ripple of another set of muscles within the pillars themselves.

Horror shriveled his erection, but realization pumped it fuller than ever. Slowly Samson lifted his head.

His vision cleared as his eyes rose, revealing the "pillars" to be a pair of gigantic, black-leather-clad legs. He followed them upward to the point where they met around a massive, gleaming bulge that melted everything below Samson's chest to a quivering puddle of awe. How had he ever imagined he could fight against this?

Why had he ever wanted to?

He gaped up at the bulge, dangling so high above on those pillared legs that no mere human could reach it - and oh, he did so want to reach it. This was everything he'd ever longed to be, but knew now was beyond him. This was the epitome of true manhood, to which Samson was merely a devotee.

Had it been possible, he would have climbed those smooth, black legs and ripped that leather wide - with teeth alone, if necessary - then cupped his desperate mouth around the sweet, slick flesh beneath. He longed to express his adoration for this gigantic, perfect titan of a man. Express it with lips and tongue, tears and sperm. Blood, too, if that was what the titan wanted. Anything at all was his for the taking. "My life for you," Samson whispered.

But Samson was just a puny little human, cowering at the feet of an immortal. What hope did he have of making his devotion known? Even if he shouted, the most the giant would hear, if anything, was the buzzing of a gnat. And the best Samson could hope for if the giant did hear would be not to be squashed as a nuisance.

But wait! The titan's legs were bending, the beautiful black bulge swinging closer to Samson's upturned face. A marble-like torso appeared above the leather, then a head.

Ohh, that head! Pre-cum drooled the length of Samson's cock as he beheld the wise, majestic, supernaturally beautiful countenance of the lion he'd fought so many times - fought and failed, though the lion had allowed him to think he'd won at first.

Samson grinned as he realized the truth: the lion was a tease.

The lion grinned back, its fangs blunting into square human teeth that gleamed between a pair of delightfully sensual human lips. Mane and fur sank out of sight; and tiny, helpless Brick Logan stared up into the upside-down face of the man who had utterly mastered him, Guy Wylde.

Brick had never been conquered before, never known how exquisite it could feel, to be so completely helpless at the feet of one's enemy. But after all, love and hate made up one famously two-sided coin, and Brick had always felt more of a connection to his nemeses than to his lovers. His battles, he saw now, had been at least as passionate as his lovemaking, at least as pleasurable - and certainly far more drawn out.

If only he'd learned before how pleasurable it could be to lose one of those battles. But of course, he'd never found anyone worthy of losing to before now. It had taken up-and-comer Guy Wylde to teach him the ecstasy of surrender.

Tears of joy ran from Brick's eyes as the giant head swept downward: now leonine, now human, now both. The lips drew back, the teeth parted; and the final shreds of Brick Logan's ego disappeared down that long, slick gullet, trailing a pearly smear behind them.