Elgin’s Trial
By Mr. J.
Chapter III: White Musk
Jill shifts around anxiously in the metal chair, the dim light bulb from above providing the only source of illumination. She winces as her wrist chafes against the handcuffs. Every so often the ceiling reverbs with the sound of footfalls and heavy objects moving around, causing the bulb to swing. She’d rub her eyes, if it weren’t for the damn restraints.
Her eyes flit towards the steel door, wondering if they’ll keep her here indefinitely or do with her as they please. She is a traitor, after all.
How could she have been so stupid? She should’ve seen the warning signs. The vacant eyes, the flat inflection, the way “Michelle”—if indeed that is her real name—insisted on dragging her to a dimly lit patch of concrete in the middle of nowhere. She had every indication from water cooler gossip and her own gut not to trust a stranger walking up to her. Her big heart cost her freedom, and now she would pay the price.
She bolts up at the clanging sound of the door swinging open. Jill blinks furiously as she tries to make out the tall, strapping figure in silhouette, flanked by two zaftig females, their heads clearly shaven. Dueling scents of leather and aftershave drift into her nostrils. She notices a shaggy object dangling between his fingers in the faint light.
“Don’t worry.” The gruff voice laughs. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Are these bimbos your guards?” Jill huffs. “If I wanted to see a show I would’ve bought tickets to the theater.”
“I knew you’d say something like that.” The official teases. “You’ve always had a way of turning everything into a snarky remark.”
A nagging feeling bugs Jill. That voice...it sounds familiar...
“Could you step into the light? I want to see you.”
“You heard her, girls. No time like the present.”
The prisoner’s eyes go wide at a glimpse of the man with the salt and pepper. The lines on his face tell of many years of smoking tobacco and roughing the outdoors. She’d recognize those azure eyes from anywhere, cold and empty like the women. Only the slightest difference separates him from his companions, except, he is the one pulling the strings.
“Frank Ennis. Kicked the habit, or are you still lighting up after all these years?”
“I think you know I am a man of few vices.” Frank smoothes out his khakis. “I brought a present for you.”
He tosses the shaggy object on the stainless steel. Jill’s eyes bulge at the sight of the raven wig with streaks of white. A nauseous feeling settles in her stomach.
“I should have known you were behind this the moment she came to me.” She mutters. “You used her to get to me, didn’t you?”
“We’ve been following you for some time, aver since you contacted that journalist at the newspaper across town, actually. Did you really think we would allow you to download the family jewels on a thumb drive and walk out unscathed? You stupid, stupid little—”
Jill spits in his face.
“I admire your nobility.” Frank wipes his face with a trembling hand. “But you simply have to accept that it’s checkmate, dear girl.”
“At least I had a choice whether to spread my legs.” Jill barks. “I don’t see those brainwashed Barbies of yours having the same privilege. Tell me, does your God-fearing wife know? Or is this another one of your dirty secrets?
“You mean like Barcelona 2012?”
If there ever was a time Jill would leap out of the chair and strangle someone, it’d be now.
“How dare you bring up something five years old!?” Her nostrils flare. “It was just a fling between the two of us.”
Frank laughs.
“You and I aren’t that different when it comes down to it.” He unshackles her arms and legs. “We both rationalize our sins. We both have double lives—and we both like to live on the edge. Unfortunately for you, you overplayed your hand. Take her away girls!”
The women buckle at the knees, overcome with emotion before recomposing themselves. They flank her as they haul her off kicking and screaming. Jill winces as their fingers dig into her skin. Her protests fall on deaf ears.
They escort her through a narrow passageway. Her eyes struggle to adjust to the light. Posters of a bald woman smiling, apron snug tight against her body, alternate with snapshots of a beatific Frank complete with halo. ‘BY SERVING MEN WE SERVE THE MASTER’, the caption below one reads, “BY SERVING THE MASTER WE SERVE THE WORLD. AND BY SERVING THE WORLD WE SERVE GOD.’
Another simply reads ‘OBEDIENCE IS BETTER THAN SACRIFICE’. Jill instantly recognizes the passage from her days attending her rural church’s Sunday school as a child. Her stomach roils with disgust.
Her captors nod at a male guard who opens a door. Jill stares at the rows of egg shaped pods, a glint of silver shining off their exteriors. Lines of tubes feed out from them. They resemble nothing so much as sinister props from a movie set.
“Let me go!” She protests as her captors strip her from her clothes.
She makes a futile effort to run away before the girls catch her, tears streaming from her face as first her blouse and then her undershirt is torn away, revealing an average-sized chest hidden by cream colored bra. Her pants join the pile of wrinkled clothes lying on the floor. She pleads for mercy. But they don’t seem determined to stop until her entire nakedness is on display, pubic hair and all.
“Please, think about what you’re doing.” She whimpers. “This is wrong.”
A tear streaks down the face of one of the girls, smile creeping across her face. It takes a moment for Jill to recognize it as one of joy, not regret. Her hands tremble, feeling violated yet unable to do much about it. The woman embraces her, sealing it with a sisterly peck on the cheek. She caresses her cheek as they break away.
“Do not be afraid.” Her voice is flat. “Soon you’ll be one of us now.”
Jill allows the woman to take her hand as she guides her to one of the unoccupied pods. A sense of resignation takes over as she climbs in. Her skin grows clammy submerged in the chilly goop. She winces as her scalp burns while the woman place electrodes to her chest and forehead. She waits anxiously as the top closes.
She glances at the EEG monitor doing its work. This can’t be too bad she wonders as she waits for several minutes for nothing to happen. She shrugs off the ordeal as a really bad version of performance art—perhaps Frank’s idea of scaring her into compliance, by making her think she was going to be brainwashed. She wouldn’t put it past him—his tastes always ran to the cheesy and tasteless.
Soft music plays through tiny speakers mounted on the sides, mostly instrumental and New Age. She chuckles at the resemblance to a spa. The only thing missing is a cup of chamomile tea and a mud wrap. How cliché.
A puff of air invades her nostrils. Several puffs, actually, a sweet, pleasant smell smacking of cardamom or something similar. She searches her brain, trying to remember where she last noticed it. Then it hits her.
It is cardamom.
The slang term in the trade is white masking—literally, the masking of something toxic by making it appear to be clean. It’s the “clean” scent in detergent, the ubiquitous new car smell in a luxury vehicle. Chlorine, perfume—it takes all kinds—including, apparently, mood-altering drugs.
Before she knows it her arms droop and her legs go limp. A tingling sensation spreads from her legs upward, stimulating her brain in addition to more sensitive organs. Her pussy tingles.
“Oooooooh.” She groans in a low voice.
Her hands travel across her stomach towards her submerged mound. She moves her hand around the stubble of hair below, surprised to find her virgin pubes have disappeared. She explores the changes in her body, curious yet anxious at what she might find. A voice emerges through the beat of music, faint yet steadily growing.
“Be not afraid.” The voice is placid. “There is nothing to fear. You are safe here.”
As if to drive reinforce the message, a puff of scent invades her nostrils once more. She instantly returns to her relaxed state, a gasp of pleasure escaping her lips. She moans, enjoying the electric tickling of skin.
A contraption sprouts from an opening; pumping her clit in rhythm to the motion of her body. She arches her back and whimpers, lost in sexual bliss. The rhythm grows more intense as the build-up intensifies. She feels as though she’s on the verge of losing herself in wanton pleasure.
“You are no longer independent. You remember nothing of your former life.” The voice intrudes. “You are as a newborn.”
“Yesssss...”
“You desire nothing but obedience. You live to serve men. You want to serve men. Especially your Lord and Savior, Frank Ennis.”
Waves of joy rack her body at the mention of his name. The machine continues to invade her slick hole, in and out, in and out, in and out, a crescendo of lustful thoughts racing through her brain. She finds it difficult to hold back the well of happiness inside her. She needs release. She craves it.
“I AM YOURS!” She screams as she comes.
Spent, she pants, her body covered in sweat and goop. A hissing sound interrupts her ragged breaths as a mechanical arm stamps her torso. Stumbling out of the pod, she glances down at the barcode on her stomach, denoting her new identity.
For she is no longer Jill St. John of Divinex International, she is 023980.