                           Surrendering Sarah
                             by Night Writer



                                Chapter 11

It was sooo weird, like she was looking through a tunnel. And it was 
taking way too long. She hadn't been that far from work but she always 
seemed turned in the wrong direction. She tried to walk faster but her 
six-inch heels made that really hard. People were staring at her, just 
openly staring. God, she must be like so dirty and everything. What had 
happened to her? Was she in an accident? Sarah paused to study her 
reflection in a store window. She was having trouble remembering where 
she had been. If she hadn't been able to see her office building, she 
wouldn't know exactly where she was. Her clothes were filthy, her skirt 
split up the rear to the waist. Big holes had been torn in her 
stockings. Thick globs of cum still splattered her face and ran 
sluggishly down over her breasts. Oh God, how had she ever gotten this 
way? Something nagged at her, something she didn't want to think about. 
She had a big meeting today. Sarah looked at her broken watch. It said 
she was two hours late. That's just crazy; she'd never be late for a 
big meeting like that. After all, she was wearing her best suit. 'I 
can't go to the meeting looking like this. I'll sneak in through the 
delivery entrance and clean up first. They'll never see me and I'll 
look as good as new.'

She made her way across the parking lot. Hiding behind vans and larger 
cars, she slipped in unnoticed. No one was on duty at the delivery 
door. Swiping her pass card, she slipped in and quickly used the rear 
fire escape to get to her office. Where was Stacy? She could help! 'I 
don't know what to do. I can't wear these clothes.' Sarah pawed 
aimlessly through the pile of brightly colored spandex, hoping to find 
something suitable. Suddenly, she brightened and began to pluck bits 
and pieces from the pile.

Stacey was worried; perhaps, she had pushed too hard. After work 
yesterday, it had seemed such a cool idea to stop and talk with the 
construction guys across the street. All she had wanted to do was see 
how Sarah was going over, how her lunchtime shows were being received. 
Instead, she found out how angry they were, how much they wanted to put 
"Barbie" (she couldn't believe they called her that too) in her place. 
Stacey suggested that they show her what a good time really was. She 
wanted it anyway. Show her what they had. Stacey suspected something 
had gone wrong, very wrong. Sarah should have been back more than an 
hour ago. The meeting room had called three times to find out why she 
wasn't there. The briefing book with handouts was on the table. There 
just was no Sarah to go. Stacey looked out the window. Where could she 
be? Did she finally go to the police? Stacey hurried down the hallway. 
Passing Sarah's office, something caught her eye. She stopped and went 
in. As quickly as she could, she turned and quietly closed the door.

"What do you think," a giggling Sarah asked. 'Oh my God, she's 
snapped.' On the floor, stained and tattered, the business suit lay 
balled-up and crumpled. Sarah was posing, hands on hips. She had found 
the suit Stacey had brought to work, a suit tailored to humiliate her 
after the meeting. Pink of course, with a little satin jacket over a 
mid-calf, spandex tube skirt. Patterned white stockings, platform 
ankled boots with seven-inch heels, a see-through white lace blouse 
with huge ruffles at wrist and neck, made worse by too much make-up, 
perfume, and jewelry. 

"Aren't I like the most totally fantastic Barbie in the whole world?"

She was out of her mind, Stacey thought. They raped her. She could see 
smears of dirt and traces of what had to be cum in Sarah's hair. 
Standing back a moment, thinking it through, she saw what had happened. 
After the attack, when her suit was ruined and she realized she 
couldn't make the meeting, she, Sarah, couldn't take it, so Barbie had 
taken over. Barbie would go to the meeting and everyone would like her 
and Sarah wouldn't be a failure. It was madness, but Stacey couldn't 
see any other explanation.

She made a couple of exchanges in Barbie's briefing folder and sent her 
on her way. Frantically, she scampered for the telephone and started to 
make calls. Oblivious to Stacey's growing panic, giggling Barbie left 
and made her way to the meeting, hips swinging in the high heels, 
mincing in her skin-tight skirt. Along the way, the secretaries stopped 
and stared. 'Screw them. They're just jealous. They wish they looked as 
hot as I do.' Sticking her tongue out at one mean, shriveled-up old 
bitch, Barbie took a lollipop from her candy jar and put it in her 
mouth. It tasted so good; she had no idea that she liked lollipops so 
much. The door to the meeting room was open so she just walked in, 
twirling her lolly, sucking away, hollowing her cheeks as she did.

Everyone stopped talking when she walked in. It was sooo cool. They 
must be totally turned on by how great she looked. Some of the other 
women from the office were there but they were just some stupid little 
jealous bitches, and screw them too. All of the guys were just staring 
at her, even the old farts. Stu was turning red; he was so cute. It was 
like totally a shame that he was married. Maybe, with just a little 
more time alone with him, she could get him to do her anyway. She had 
to be lots better looking than whatever hag he was married to.

Hank was reviewing sales numbers for Region 2. That was boring, she 
decided. The presentation was for the Japanese affiliates. Now, they 
looked like lots of fun. They were smiling and nodding. They wanted to 
see her, to meet her, to listen to her presentation that was going to 
be sooo radically better than Hopeless Hank's droning drivel.

Mr. Burgess was old but he was cute too, in a "daddy dear" sort of way.
He sat at the far end of the table, folded hands resting on his copy of 
Hank's report. They were large, strong hands for a man his age, much 
like her memory of her father's when she was very young. She stared at 
them, until they became her daddy's hands. She recognized the same 
thick fingers and wide palms - powerful hands that carved a miniature 
zoo of her favorite animals from shapeless scraps of oak with the 
small, red-handled pocket-knife - warm, comforting hands that made her 
feel safe and protected when she was sick, or when a nightmare sent her 
padding down the hall to his bedside in the middle of the night. No 
one's hands had ever touched her in the same way, and for the first 
time she knew that empty space for what it was.

But now he was scowling, like her father used to do after she had her 
first period and her tits began to grow. Then, it was always the same: 
never have any fun, curfews and chaperones at the dances, all day at 
church, getting those droning lectures about how she had to meet a 
higher standard. He was a minister and with her mother dead, people 
were watching. Sarah had to work harder, stand taller, be better, 
someone to look up to, not a girlie for the boys to ogle. 'Boring old 
Sarah. I don't want to be her. I want to have fun. Oooh, those Japanese 
men want to have fun too.'

Barbie pranced over to them, her big breasts bouncing, all smiles and 
flirty eyes. One of them had his hand on her ass. She wiggled to give 
him a better feel. They were saying things she didn't understand. It 
was in like Japanese and she didn't speak that. So what, it didn't 
matter. They definitely liked her a lot. And they'd love her 
presentation ... 'oh my god, I have to do the presentation.'

She opened her folder and began to offer handouts. They were snatching 
them from her. Barbie never got to even see them. She should have 
brought lots more. She never knew she was so popular. Mr. Burgess was 
whispering furiously to someone. What was he so mad about? Barbie made 
her way to the end of the table and started.

"Hi," she burbled gaily, "my name is Barbie." Suddenly, Burgess was on 
his feet. So were Hank and Stu and all the other guys and even the 
women, applauding. They were cheering and laughing and applauding. 
Then, the Japanese were doing the same thing. Everyone was applauding 
and laughing. She didn't know why but she was laughing and applauding 
too. Which made the women laugh even more. Two of them came up to her 
and suggested she go outside for pictures. Okay, that sounded like fun. 
They told her to wave goodbye, it would be so rude if she didn't, so 
she did and everyone waved back, especially those nice Japanese men. 
She liked them. When they got outside, Burgess came out, his face red 
with rage.

"Sarah, you're fired. I've never been so disappointed in anyone. I 
don't know what's happened to you. You used to be someone I could look 
up to for the future, but now ..." 

Sarah had trouble focusing. What had he said, she was fired? 

"Now get her out of here."

'Look up to me? More like look up my skirt.' That's what they all
really wanted, what those guys across the street wanted. They wanted
to watch her show off and then do things to her, nasty things, and
they felt so good. The women grabbed her. Get your hands off me, she
wanted to say, but only a long nasal whine came out. Roughly, they
dragged her to the front door. When she tried to resist, some of
the secretaries helped. Where was Stacey? She'd explain, she'd help
Sarah ... Barbie, she wouldn't let them fire her.

"So Hank, what do we do?"

Hank's stock had suddenly risen with his suggestion that they trick the 
Japanese into thinking that Sarah had been a model done up like Barbie 
as a gag. The problem was there were still the Region 3 numbers to 
present.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Burgess, but let me try something."

Spotting Stacey starting to follow Sarah towards the front door, he 
called her back. Hesitating at first, she finally came to where Hank 
and Burgess were in conference.

"Stacey, how well do you know the Region 3 numbers," Hank asked. "Very 
well, I put them together," she replied.

"If the company paid, do you think you could find a sharp business suit 
and make the presentation right after lunch?"

Stacey swallowed. She wanted to say "yes," and Mistress Shayla should 
be willing to let her. "Okay," she nodded, "but with one condition; I 
need to make sure that Sarah gets home safe. I called someone to pick 
her up." Both men nodded and then Burgess came close.

"Stacey, this is very big. Come through for us, you get Sarah's job."

This wasn't hard. Take her husband, take her job, take her life... 
Stacey assured Burgess she could handle it. Time to ship Barbie off to 
camp.

Barbie was in the lobby, crying and struggling. She wasn't going to go, 
Stacey was coming for her. Stacey stepped in and took Sarah under the 
arm. Forcefully, she steered the sobbing woman to the door.

"Where are we going, Stacey?" Sarah begged. Stacey ignored her until 
they were in the parking lot. A dark van was pulling in at the opposite 
end.

"I'm going back to do your presentation, Barbie," she taunted. "They 
all thought you were too stupid to do it. After all, look at what you 
were handing out." Sarah looked at the paper that Stacey handed her. It 
was the handout from her presentation, the one with the graphics on 
revenue growth. But it was different. On this one, the rising slope for 
1st quarter revenue was her bustline and the fourth quarter was her 
tight rear. It was even called the "Barbie Barometer". No wonder they 
all were laughing at her. The van was parked, the side door opened and 
Stacey pushed her in.

"You're too dumb, too ugly to deserve a good job. You're just 
Cockteasing Barbie, not a Cockpleasing Barbie, a BigCockPleasing Barbie 
at that. You're just Loser Barbie."

Sarah froze, not able to grasp Stacey's sudden turn against her. Then 
without warning, the fragile thread severed that connected Barbie to 
the only remaining life she had, Sarah lashed out at Stacey, arms 
flailing wildly in a desperate fit of rage.

"You bitch! You fucking bitch! I thought you were my friend! I'll kill 
you, you little cunt! I'll - "

Just as Sarah readied herself to leap from the open door, her long, 
pink nails poised to tear into Stacey's smirking face, she lurched 
backwards into the van. Shayla crouched behind her, her strong fingers 
buried in Sarah's hair. When Sarah struggled harder, Shayla gave her 
head a vicious yank, arching her neck painfully until she went limp, 
still panting and hissing through clenched teeth.

Stacey slammed the door shut, and turned away. Sarah could hear her 
laughing. They all were laughing at her; everyone was.

Shayla's amused smile appeared over Sarah's upturned face. Her full red 
lips parted slightly, guiding a hot, sweet column of breath over 
Sarah's heavily made-up features. Sarah fought the pain, moaning with 
disgust while Shayla toyed with her.

"Now, my little slice of fuck-meat. Want to tell me what's wrong?"

"My job! That little bitch made me lose my job! My career, my life, 
it's ruined! Everything I've worked for, everything I've earned, is 
gone! I'll get her! I'll get all of you! Fuck you, fuck you all! 

Shayla let her shattered victim babble on as she skillfully slipped the 
fine needle beneath the tender skin at the side of her neck. Sarah felt 
the wasp-like bite, followed by the numbness that began in her fingers
and toes and spread across her belly and chest. As darkness engulfed her 
from all sides, a final shudder racked her body. Something told her 
that things were going to get very much worse than they ever had been.






                               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...

                                   -*-

Behaviour 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 a 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 fa‡ade 
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 franticly 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.








                              Chapter 13



Cold.  Hunger.  Fear.  He had learned to accept two of the three, but 
the cold just seemed to get worse.  Shivering in the dark, Sport sifted 
through the events of the past two months, trying to make sense of it 
all, how everything went wrong, and what he might have done to make it 
right again. Many of his memories were clear, all too clear, but he was 
unable to assemble them into a rational sequence.  Out of context, 
fleeting moments of opportunity from the past only served to frighten 
him, and he retreated from each one, trembling at the likely 
consequences.

It had been cold that day too, when two burly officers dragged him from 
the muck at the bottom of the ditch.  The docks looked so different.  
Daylight had painted over flashing neon and shiny, wet streets with 
drab grays and browns, and burned away the fog that crept and breathed 
about their feet the night before, licking at Sarah's bare thighs with 
a hundred ghostly tongues. 

Bright.  Too bright.

A muddied hand shielded his eyes from the morning light.  Squinting 
through narrow spaces between his fingers, he cringed as face after 
face stared back at him.  Most pointed and snickered, until the growing 
laughter drowned out the cackle of seagulls that circled overhead like 
slow, gray-white vultures.  

A few faces turned away quickly with lips pursed, shaking their heads 
with disgust.  He shuddered as he lowered his eyes over splotches of 
mud, now drying to a thin crust on his skin.  He was naked - worse than 
naked.  He could feel the weight of his erection bounce and pull at him 
as they ushered him to the patrol car.  How?  Why?  The throbbing in 
his head made concentrating difficult.  

Loud.  Too loud.

The policemen were asking him too many questions.  He didn't know what 
they wanted or how to make them stop.  They were pushing him, pulling 
his hand away from his eyes, fastening his wrists together behind his 
back with something cold and hard.  

Once at the station, he tried to explain it all to them.  His head 
ached; he couldn't think straight.  The words came out all wrong and 
the policemen just laughed at his story.  Why wouldn't they listen? Why 
couldn't they understand?  They kept asking the wrong questions.

"So, your wife is having an affair with this biker?"

"How long has she been seeing him?"

"Do you know her lover?"

"Did you plan to kill them both last night?"

"How much did you have to drink?"

No, no, no!  Why couldn't he make them understand?  The metal chair was 
so cold, and they just kept laughing at him, naked, still hard from the 
drugs Rock forced him to take the night before.  A few female officers 
drifted in, anxious to get a look. They snickered as they eyed his 
throbbing erection.  He kept asking for some clothes, anything to cover 
his cock, to keep him warm.  How could they let him sit there naked, 
exposed to anyone passing by the row of windows looking out into the 
busy hallway?  

"Please, help me - some clothes, please - I'm cold - so cold..."

Finally they gave up, threw a blanket over him, and led him to a 
holding cell.  He sat and shivered for hours, dazed and helpless, head 
still bleeding from where the butt of the gun slammed into him.  He 
wished the explosion in his head had been a charging slug of lead, 
tumbling through soft gray-matter.  He had expected that, accepted it, 
finally welcoming the escape from the torture he had grown powerless to 
prevent.  What else did Rock want from them?  He had taken his wife, 
first by force, then willingly, gloating as Sarah begged for the 
biker's huge cock.  Then this - how weak he must have looked to Sarah 
that night, so helpless - he had his chance, he had the gun, only to 
have all hope wrestled away by Shayla's strong arm about his neck, the 
warm metal barrel in his mouth as Rock mocked him, Sarah looking on as 
he sucked the end of the gun at Rock's command - but if it wasn't over, 
what next?...Oh God, what next...
 
"Let's go, Sport.  Your wife's here to take you home."

The words seemed to clear his head, and he stared at the officer, still 
a bit wild-eyed.  Thank God - Sarah was ok - they let her go - they 
could go home now - be together again - try to forget - 

As they rounded the corner and approached the front desk, he recognized 
her voice, a soft mewing mixed with the little-girl whine.  

"He's such a dear, the poor thing.  So understanding, considering what 
he puts himself through.  Oh, Sweetheart, there you are!  I'm so glad 
they found you!  I was worried sick!  Are you ok?"

Stacey ran to him, seizing him with a tight hug.

"No!  No!  No!!!  She's not my wife - she's one of them - get away from 
me - where's Sarah - what have you done with her?"

Stacey watched with her best disappointed look as he backed away 
babbling, refusing to leave with her.

"He gets like this sometimes.  As I was telling you, it's been so 
difficult for him.  He's been impotent for so long.  When he's sober, 
he's agreed to let me go to my friend for my physical needs if I'll 
stay married to him.  It works for a while, until it gets the best of 
him.  Every so often he snaps, goes out and takes God-knows what 
combination of drugs, anything to get him hard.  The sad part is that 
he gets so wrecked, he never comes home to me when he could satisfy me.  
He gets obsessed with finding my friend and me together, and the drugs 
and alcohol send him into the night, driven by a crazed fantasy that 
I'm cruising the city, sleeping with every man I can find.  Of course,
nothing could be further from the truth, officers."

Stacey's wide-eyed stare traveled from one policeman to the next, her
wet lips opened just enough to glisten with anything but innocence.
The policemen stared back, paralyzed by her girlish innuendo.

"Jeeezus..."

"Poor bastard..."

"Well, um, Ma'am, if we could just see some identification, we'll 
release him."

Stacey opened her tiny white purse and presented Sarah's driver's 
license, her picture now neatly covered by Stacey's, blue eyes
gazing coyly from the upper left corner.

When Sport objected a second time, a large blue uniform moved against
him from behind, a wide firm hand heavy on his shoulder.

"Listen buddy, you have a beautiful wife who cares enough about you to 
be here for you.  If I were you, I'd calm down, go home, and sleep it 
off.  Unless of course, you'd like to be our guest for a while..."

Stacey led the way through the double glass doors, her brief cotton 
dress bouncing just enough to show a glimpse of sheer white panties 
from behind.  The roar of the policemen's laughter followed them all 
the way to the curb where Stacey's red Escort waited.  It started on 
the third try, and before pulling into traffic she glanced down where 
the blanket parted, revealing his now-shrunken stub of a penis. He 
caught her looking and tried to cover himself as she shook her head, 
grinning.

"Don't worry Sport.  They say that size isn't everything, right?  
But I'm afraid right about now Sarah couldn't possibly agree."



                                      ***



Stacey dropped him in front of his house.  Sport was as relieved as he 
was surprised that their destination wasn't more sinister.  He slumped 
beside her in the cramped passenger seat, waiting for the worst.  But 
Stacey just sat and fidgeted, tapping the steering wheel lightly to an 
unheard beat that rolled endlessly through her pretty blonde head.

She gave him a minute or two.  She loved indecision in men.  It made 
her feel powerful, in control, and generally reaffirmed her contempt 
for the crude, useless creatures.  After that, they just pissed her 
off.

"If you're waiting to grow a dick, do it on your own time, Sport.  Some 
of us have a life."

He gathered the blanket around him, taking a few seconds to glance up 
and down the block.  His next-door neighbor eyed the car with quick, 
suspicious glances.

"Christ, do I have to spell it out?  GET OUT, you pathetic fuck!"

Sport kicked open the door and fled across his yard, the small blanket 
trailing behind as he ran for the safety of the house.  He could feel 
the warm sun on his skin and the breeze, unexpectedly cool, as it 
rushed between his legs.  He glanced to the side just long enough to 
see Janey, now still and straight as a statue, follow his progress 
through the ankle-high grass.

He never liked Janey.  He liked her even less after she divorced Fred, 
her henpecked husband, and took everything he had, including their 
spacious two-story home.  Now she had money, *and* the body of a woman 
half her age.

It hadn't taken long for Sarah and Sport to learn to avoid 
Janey's attempts to socialize.  Fred would sit quietly, a shell of a 
man, while Janey went on for hours with stories about how inept Fred 
was at this or that, and how their new gardener ogled her when she 
sunbathed in her new bikini, or how her young doctor spent just a bit 
more time than was absolutely necessary examining her breasts.  Then 
came the slow wink, directed at Sarah, as if Fred didn't notice, as she 
touched Sarah's hand, expecting a knowing wink in return.  But Sarah's 
obvious embarrassment didn't faze Janey.  When Sarah declined to 
respond positively to her crude anecdotes, Janey would counter with, 
"Aww, c'mon, Honey, us girls have to stick together, don't we?"

Sarah told him Janey was too insensitive and "flamboyant" to be 
anything more than a pest of a neighbor.  Sport pictured her staked 
across a mound of fire ants while he poured honey over her silicone-
stuffed tits.  More than once, he imagined her screams as vicious, 
frantic swarms of tiny red predators consumed her naked, writhing body.

Then, suddenly, he was falling, somersaulting head over heels in the 
long, soft grass.  He landed sprawled on his back, naked, the blanket 
gone. Caught in a sudden gust of wind, it folded and flapped against 
itself twice, fluttered in an updraft, and finally came to rest at 
Janey's feet.

He looked up to see her eyes wander over his pale body, then settle 
where his dick hung lifelessly between his outstretched legs. It was 
her grin, that sly, crooked grin, that made his head start to throb 
again - pounding, pounding - long after he reached the front door and 
bolted it behind him.



                                 ***



"Hi, Mr. B.  You look beat.  Tough weekend?"

Shannon, his receptionist/secretary beamed her usual wide smile from 
behind her desk.  

"Uh, yeah, kind of, Shannon.  I may be coming down with something, 
maybe a bad cold. I'll be fine."

'Ah, to be twenty-two again,' he mused.  She wore the white sweater 
today, the one with the deep neckline that clung to her like it 
was custom-knitted with every curve in mind.  Shannon was the all-
American girl - tall, blonde and tan, with the eternal enthusiasm of a 
cheerleader.  He was mildly surprised when Sarah had hired her.  She 
wasn't the type a wife would ordinarily trust around her husband.  
After one week he had a new appreciation for Sarah's judge of 
character.  Shannon was never late, handled customers with the utmost 
tact, and showed a flair for numbers and record-keeping.  She kept her 
private life private, and except for the tastefully flattering clothes, 
never made her presence a temptation for him, or any of the other 
employees.  She was the perfect assistant, and provided a daily helping 
of safe, innocent eye-candy to boot.

"Oh, Mr. B., you have a visitor.  She's waiting in your office.  She's 
hot, Mr.B.  Your taste in customers is improving," she teased.

He smiled, trying not to stare at her cleavage, shook his head, and 
went inside.

Shayla was in his chair. She leaned back casually as if she owned the 
office, her long chocolate legs stretching for what seemed like yards 
in front of her.  The brief navy skirt revealed all but six inches of 
muscular thigh, while the matching jacket narrowed at her long 
waist, emphasizing full breasts that rose firm and round into the open 
space above the top button. 

"Well, it's about time Sport.  How do you stay in business if you don't 
arrive early every day to watch the help?"

He froze in the doorway, his feet now lead, his heart a racing time-
bomb.  

"Close the door, Sport.  We have your future to discuss, and Sarah's of 
course."

He sat across from her, in the chair his customers took while listening 
to his terms and prices.  Shayla just smiled, uncrossed and crossed her 
legs, and smiled wider when she caught him glancing up her skirt. 

"Let me explain how our little business meeting will go, Sport.  I do 
the talking, and you shut up and listen.  When I finish, and ask for 
questions, you may speak, but not before.  Follow my instructions, and 
you and your precious Sarah may be together again soon.  Open your 
mouth when you shouldn't, or make trouble of any kind, and, well, 
believe me, there are horrors that neither of you could possibly 
imagine.

"I'm your new business partner."

Sport straightened in his chair, his reflexes raising him a few inches 
off the seat, then nearly bringing him to his feet before Shayla's 
words stopped him.

"Uh-uh-uhhh, Sport.  

She picked up the receiver of his phone, holding it in mid-air on its 
way to her ear.

"Should I make a call?  I could have your darling wife's boob-job 
undone rather hastily.  The doctor is busy these days, but I'm sure 
Rock would love to give it a try.  He's always so eager to play doctor.  
It might get a bit messy though, not to mention what her little titties 
might look like, if she survives. 

Sport collapsed back into the chair, shaking helplessly with fear and 
rage.

"Relax Sport.  It won't be so bad.  Just do as I say.  You may even 
thank me someday.

"Now, I've looked over your books and inventory, and, well, I see 
potential here.  You custom design and manufacture medical appliances 
and equipment - everything from artificial limbs to wheelchairs and 
hospital beds.  Some very clever stuff, too.  And your mail-order 
business is impressive, to say the least.  I think I can be a big help 
here.  Of course, we'll have to trim the inventory some - and I have 
some interesting plans for your machine shop.  

"We'll share your office for the time being.  I like this desk, and the 
chair's nice and comfy, too.  Set up one of those small tray-tables 
where you're sitting.  I'll be doing most of the work anyway, and I 
want to keep an eye on you.  Now I'd like a tour of our building.  Time 
to meet the help."

Sport led her through his office, cringing inside each time he 
introduced Shayla as his new business partner.  The looks of surprise 
and shock on his employees' faces made it even harder.  Later, Shayla 
did her best to win over the men in the shop, then the shipping 
department.  Her suggestive innuendoes and light touches had most of 
them eating out of her hand after only minutes.  Sport saw her making 
mental notes of the few that were disgusted by her behavior, but most 
just stared at her legs and breasts.  

Lunch had arrived by the time they retired to his office.  Shayla had 
ordered the food from a nearby deli.  Sport stared at his small salad 
while Shayla pulled small white boxes of Chinese takeout from a large 
paper bag.

"I'm putting you on a diet, Sport.  I hope you like salads.  From now 
on, I'll be providing all your meals.  And no cheating, or that sweet 
little wife of yours will end up in pieces."

Shayla sat and watched as he picked at the small mound of lettuce 
lightly coated with watery, bland dressing.  She grinned with 
satisfaction, then began to feast, the odor of General's Chicken 
filling the small room.

Sport spent the rest of the day sitting across the room doing 
absolutely nothing as Shayla raided his computer.  She stretched her 
legs often, opening them just enough to make sure he couldn't miss her 
firm, plump labia framed by the longest, smoothest inner thighs he had 
ever seen. As the hours passed, he began to fidget.  The hard chair 
became more uncomfortable.  His hands began to tremble.  By the end of 
the day, increasing nervousness had him jumping at the slightest noise. 

"Sport!" shouted Shayla.

The sudden command nearly shook him out of his chair.

"What are you looking at, Sport?  Answer me!"

She had caught him staring between her open legs, and he stammered 
nervously, afraid of what would come next.

"So, you like my pussy, Sport?  The least you could do is ask to look 
at it.  I might even give you permission."

He just sat there, heart pounding, dreading what was to come.

"Well, go on.  Let me hear you ask, Sport.  Quickly!  I'm easily 
insulted!"

He gulped, licked his parched lips, and slowly got the words out.

"M-may I please look at your pussy?"

She shook her head as she answered, her voice laced with convincing 
disgust.

"It's no wonder Sarah was so eager for a real man.  You beg for what 
other men so easily take.  Come over here."

Sport rose shakily to his feet.  His eyes stayed glued to Shayla's.

"I said get over here, now!"

He crossed the space between them in three rapid steps, stopping at the 
edge of her desk.  She had spread her legs wider, hiking the brief 
skirt about her hips.  He struggled to keep from looking through the 
glass desktop at her magnificent thighs and the parted, shaved lips 
nestled between them.

"Take it out, Sport."

He stared blankly, his heart pounding.

"Your dick, Sport, your dick.  Take it out.  Let me see it."

His hand shook as he lowered the zipper of his slacks and fished the 
limp worm of flesh from its hiding place.  Shayla reached forward and 
gently grasped the head between thumb and fingers, rolling and tugging 
as she watched his reaction.  She lowered her other hand to her crotch, 
first spreading the plump lips with two fingers, then inserting a third 
inside.  Slowly, deliberately, she penetrated herself, with each stroke 
withdrawing just enough to display the glistening juices that coated 
the single long digit.  She smiled as his erection grew.

"You'd love some of this, wouldn't you, Sport?  Your dick says you'd 
sacrifice your precious little Sarah for it.  How do you think she'd 
feel?  You're obviously as easy as she is.  But still, betrayal can be 
the most difficult of life's surprises to accept.  Would she hate you 
for it?  Could she ever erase the pain delivered in an instant, like a 
sudden knife through the heart?" 

His cock responded to her touch, growing longer and harder with each 
careful trace of her long, pearly nails.  He hated himself for the 
betrayal, but found her touch impossible to resist.  His knees shook.  
His trembling hands grasped the edge of the desk.  As he stared at her 
cunt through the glass, he could feel his belt being undone, the slow 
inching of his slacks over his hips, and finally, her invading hands 
around his sac, pulling all of his sex into the cool office air.

"So, the answer to your question Sport, is, yes, you can look at my 
pussy.  Get a good look.  Memorize every detail.  Imagine how tight and 
hot it might feel around your insignificant little prick, and then cum 
in my hand, knowing that Sarah would welcome the same from any man."

He wouldn't.  He couldn't.  He closed his eyes as Shayla's hands milked 
him.  Sarah's face stared back at him in the darkness, black hair 
flowing over delicate, bare shoulders.  Shayla's voice purred in the 
background.

"You're nothing to her now, Sport.  She's had a hundred men better than 
you."

He felt the urgency build in his testicles, then spread slowly through 
his belly and cock.  Sarah's face was replaced with disturbing images - 
her legs wrapped tightly around a biker in their own bedroom, her 
thighs shuddering as her naked body jerked and spasmed in a cage 
suspended over a cheering crowd, and finally, silhouetted by a dying 
bonfire, her small body eagerly rising and falling on Rock's massive 
cock, willingly flaunting her own betrayal...

     "Oh, Rock...it feels so good...so big and hard inside me...
      oh God, you're so huge...sooo good, Rock...so fucking good...
      fuck me, Rock...fuck me harder...you're making me cum, Rock...
      I'm cumming now, Rock. . . "

Shayla's hand tightened around his balls, drawing him closer, forcing 
him to lean forward over the desk.  She circled the head of his cock 
with her fingertip, scraping away the expanding droplet of sticky fluid 
as her nail grazed the sensitive opening.  

"Let her go, Sport.  If she feels anything for you at all, it's 
contempt, or worse, pity.  She's starving for everything you're not.
Cum for me, Sport.  Show me I'm right.  Forget the little slut.  It's 
what she wants.  It's what you want.  Trust me..."

He felt the long, tortured moan rise from deep in his chest, then burst 
from his lips as though it was another man's voice. 

"Nooooo, oh God, nooooo..."

His hips rocked forward.  He could feel the semen surging on its way 
from his belly to where Shayla's fingers stroked his penis, now hard 
and urgent in her exquisite hand.  Behind his clenched eyelids, Sarah's 
face stared back in disbelief. A large tear formed at the corner of her 
eye, then raced over her cheek as a second formed behind it.

Shayla smiled as he delivered the spoonful of cum in her hand, arriving 
in three small spurts.  Three.  She counted them.  Such a small 
offering.  Yet, to Sport, it was much more.  It was his defeat, and the 
betrayal of his love for Sarah, a love that connected them like a 
fraying thread.

He tried to pull away from the edge of the desk, but Shayla snugged the 
fingers of her left hand around his sac, countering with just enough 
resistance to keep him close.  After milking the last drops of semen 
from his cock, she opened her right hand, raising it to offer him a 
better view.

"I see now why you never had children, Sport.  Just look at this tiny 
little puddle of cum.  You do everything in such a small way, don't 
you."

Sport glanced down at the semen she had won from him, now barely 
wetting her open palm.

"What should we do with this, Sport?  Any ideas?"

He knew what was coming, and let his revulsion show as he looked into 
her eyes.

"Mmmm, yes, I thought about that, Sport, but it would be so degrading,
don't you think?  I mean, the homoerotic implications alone are enough 
to send most real men screaming from the room.  On the other hand, it 
could be a valuable learning experience.  Wouldn't you like to know 
what it's like to be on the receiving end for a change?  You may even 
learn to like the taste of it.  Isn't that what men fantasize about - 
that we'll grow savor the taste of your cum so much that we can't get 
enough of it?"

His body shook violently and uncontrollably.  Nausea rose from deep in 
his gut as her hand tightened around his testicles, drawing him closer 
over the desk.  His face was inches from her outstretched hand, close 
enough to see the moist crevices between her fingers, and to smell the 
faint odor of his semen that spread slowly over her palm.

"I sense you're not open to my offer of self-enlightenment, Sport.  I 
should have known.  What were the words that Sarah used to describe 
your sexual prowess to Rock? 'Tediously domestic', I believe.  Although 
'tame', 'dull', and 'unimaginative' also come to mind.  She does tend 
to babble on while she's riding a sturdy cock.  So, consider this your 
first assignment from your new boss. Lick, Sport.  I'll tell you when
to stop."

As his employees' cars filed past the office window at the end 
of their work day, Sport licked, then continued to feast on each of 
Shayla's long, brown fingers, sucking one after another into his mouth 
as she buried her hand between her legs.  Her body stiffened for a 
second as a sudden, quiet sigh escaped her, then relaxed as her full 
lips tightened into a wide smile. The smile became a snicker, then a laugh that 
shook her muscular body from wide shoulders to shapely calves, a laugh that 
echoed painfully through Sport's throbbing head.

Too loud.  Too loud.







Chapter 14


Sport's drive home wasn't much better than the rest of his day. After 
missing his exit, he nearly ran another car off the highway trying to 
catch the next one. His hands shook, and he had trouble focusing on 
the traffic ahead. Assuming hunger was the culprit, he stopped to grab 
a burger and a shake as he doubled back to his neighborhood. Shayla 
had warned him not cheat on his new diet, but hell, how would the bitch 
ever know? Two blocks from his house, he spotted the red and blue 
flashing lights of a police cruiser in his mirror. The officer eyed 
him with suspicion as Sport stammered and fumbled with his wallet, then 
wrote a ticket for $350. 

"Watch your speed, Bud. There are kids in this neighborhood - I 
clocked you at 58. You were probably going faster."

He sat for a while after the policeman pulled away, trying to calm 
himself, now thinking only about the hunger that gnawed at him and the 
aroma of the double burger escaping from the paper bag on the seat 
beside him. But the drugs Shayla added to his lunch-time salad still 
coursed through his system. She had access to a cornucopia of 
pharmaceuticals, many developed and used during her partnership with 
Finch. Sport's salad dressing contained a cocktail of a powerful, 
long-lasting amphetamine and a dash of designer hormone which 
powerfully enhanced libido and erection in males. The third 
ingredient was Shayla's proudest achievement - SSRA. A distorted 
analogue of the SSRIs used to treat depression, her "selective 
serotonin reuptake accelerator" gradually eroded the subject's will and 
self-esteem while slowly smothering him with hopeless depression.
As much as he was tempted to devour the filling fast food then and 
there, the nervousness and fear that nagged at him overpowered his 
hunger, and he headed for the safety of home, away from any more 
trouble that may come his way.

Once home, he entered the darkened house through the garage and headed 
for the kitchen. He fumbled for the light switch, then found it, 
squinting as the overhead fluorescents filled the room with blazing 
white.

"Oh good, I see you've brought my dinner."

Janey sat at the kitchen table. She took a long drag on her cigarette, 
smiled her crooked smile, reaching for the paper bag clenched tightly in 
Sport's shaking hand. She leaned back in the chair as if she owned it, 
legs crossed, dress hiked far enough above the knee to show plenty of 
perfect thigh. The gaudy floral pattern did little to hide two hard 
mounds of breast which clung to her slim torso like ripe, oversized 
grapefruits. Sport couldn't help thinking she was the consummate 
poster-girl for cosmetic surgery.

"I met a friend of yours today. Sounds like you're in deep shit to me.
Anyway, I know about your diet. So, if you hand over the food, maybe I 
won't go running to Shayla just yet."

Sport stood motionless, feet glued to the floor. He had never 
considered Shayla would go this far. And Janey, of all people. All 
hope seemed to drain from him, just as the color drained from his face. 
The room started to spin. He was moving forward, flashes of her wicked 
smile and bare thighs filling his field of vision, until he was only a 
few feet away. He released the paper sack immediately when she pulled 
it from his hand, apprehension now replacing hunger. Janey brought him 
the familiar salad from the refrigerator and ordered him to sit. It 
was a much larger serving than Shayla had provided at lunch, but after 
picking through the contents of the deep bowl, he found little but 
shredded lettuce swimming in a pool of thick, translucent dressing. It 
tasted of garlic and a tantalizing mix of spices, and strangely seemed 
to soothe his hunger a little more with each spoonful - so he ate 
quickly, scraping every last drop from the bottom of the bowl.

"I always suspected you were cheating on Sarah. You men are all alike. 
Every time she made an excuse to avoid a dinner invitation, I knew you 
were really behind it, trying to keep us apart. And don't even try 
to deny it. I saw you with that little blonde slut the other day when 
she dropped you out front. You could have at least put some clothes 
on.

"I'm not surprised that Sarah left you. She should have done it a 
long time ago. A girl like Sarah could have any man she wants. 
Shayla told me how hurt she was, and how she pleaded with Shayla to 
teach you a lesson. But, hell, I'm not complaining. Things couldn't 
have worked out better for me. Punishing you will be almost as 
satisfying as punishing my ex." 

His nerves frayed to the breaking point from the drugs and Shayla's 
day-long abuse, Sport shoved the empty bowl across the table and glared 
at her.

"You don't know Sarah! You don't know anything about us! Sarah didn't 
like you any more than I do - in fact, we did everything we could to 
avoid your mind-numbing tirades and trashy friends! Oh, and about Shayla - 
you *really* don't know Shayla. She's not your friend. You have no 
idea what she is, or what you've stumbled into!"

Even as his anger rose to a rolling boil, he couldn't look away from 
her creamy thighs as she uncrossed and crossed them again. And worse, 
his erection had returned, cramped and urgent, straining behind the fly 
of his slacks. He jumped from the chair and took a step toward her, 
hoping that some physical action might shake him from the effect she 
had on him. 

"Now get the fuck out of our house, you tacky bitch!"

Janey smiled at him. She reached out with a single digit and traced a 
firm straight line over his pants along outline of his swollen cock.

"Ohh, you're so cute when you're angry! But I think you like me a lot 
more than you let on, honey."

Her tits seemed to grow behind the flowered dress. They were so full 
and round. Perfect - with pouting nipples that hardened before his eyes, 
as if to tease him, to make sure he saw that only a flimsy layer of 
material stood between her flesh and his shaking hands. 

Then, escaping from an instant of lust and indecision, he grabbed her 
wrist, jerked her from the chair, and dragged her kicking and screaming 
to the door. 

"You son of bitch! You gonna hit me, big man? Slap me around a 
little? That's what you men do when do don't get your way, isn't it. 
Go ahead, hit me, you prick! Maybe you beat Sarah, but-"

He shoved her hard through the open door. She tripped and landed on her 
ass, the reds and oranges of her dress gathered about her slim waist, 
smooth inner thighs splayed wide in the light that spilled through the 
kitchen doorway. Sport feasted on the sight between them, a narrow 
space almost covered by transparent red panties, plump cunt-lips moist 
with juices that seeped from the parted slit between them.

"You'll be sorry! Just wait, you'll be - "

Sport slammed the door, freeing himself from the maddening voice and 
the flesh his body struggled to resist.



                               ***



Sport was at work thirty minutes early the next morning. He slept 
little the previous night, waking every hour from a restless sleep. 
Half way to work, he slipped off the freeway, gorged himself with a 
fast food breakfast, then continued on, remembering that Shayla 
expected him there early each day to greet her when she arrived. 

She was already in his office when he arrived, sitting back in his chair with 
her long legs propped up on the desk. Her dark skirt was even shorter 
than the day before, and she made no attempt to hide the dark, plump 
labia on display inches above the hem.

"Relax, Sport. You're not late. And for the last time, I'm warning 
you to ask politely before staring at my pussy."

He tore his eyes away and looked her in the face. She waited for his 
answer. He knew too well what she expected form him.

"P-please Shayla, m-may I look at your pussy?"

A familiar voice came from behind him.

"Take a good look, Sport. If you don't wise up, it may be the last 
cunt you'll ever see."

The words spun him around. Rock stood behind him, with a scowl that 
promised trouble. He moved closer, stopping a foot from Sport's face. 
Then there was that grin again, much like the first time Rock had 
peered into his car window.

Sport didn't see the blow that doubled him over. It caved in his 
stomach, then took his breath away. The pain came within seconds, 
followed by the violent vomiting that spewed his breakfast across the 
office floor. The second punch came before he had a chance to recover. 
The force of it knocked him to the floor. Gasping for breath, he 
rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself from another blow. 

"A friend of ours said you weren't very nice to her last night. She 
said you were rude. She said you assaulted her. That really pisses me 
off."

The toe of Rock's boot landed squarely between Sport's legs. The force 
of it sent pain racing through his body. He rolled onto his back 
moaning, hands clutched over his balls. 

Sport watched Rock's heavy boots step closer, then gasped as Rock took 
him by the hair, pulling his face closer.

"It's so easy, dude. Just do what the ladies tell you to do. How hard 
can that be, even for someone like you? Now, tell me you'll behave. 
Let's hear it, Sport, or the next time I'll cut your nuts off."

Fear and nausea overwhelming him, he nodded two quick nods.

"I said tell me, you pussy. Let's hear it!"

"I-I'll behave. I'll behave, I promise," he croaked.

Rock looked down at him with disgust.

"Fuckin' wimp. I still oughta kick the shit out of you."

Shayla appeared beside him, placing a firm hand on Rock's bulging 
forearm.

"Let's wait and see if he's learned anything today," Shayla cooed. 
"He's such a pathetic little thing. I doubt he'll give us any more 
trouble. If he does, I'll let you finish him off, any way you like."

Shayla smiled down at Sport. He could see up her skirt again as she 
stood over him. Her slit stood open, it's red center now shiny and 
wet.

"Agreed Sport?"

The pain caused his voice to waver.

"O-OK, S-Shayla."

When Rock let go of his hair, his head dropped back onto the floor with 
a crack. Rock wore a nasty smirk as he headed for the door.

"Stupid fuck. I'll be back. You can count on it."

Shayla helped him to his feet. She drew him close to her, holding him 
in her arms while he sobbed against the exposed valley between her firm 
breasts. 

"Shhh, now, now, you'll be alright. Just do things my way from now on, 
and you won't have to suffer. Be a good boy and I'll see that Rock 
never hurts you again. I promise. OK?"

Sport nodded, his face still buried in Shayla's chest.

She clutched his shoulders and moved him away, holding him at arm's 
length.

"You must be starved."

Shayla glanced at the mess on the floor. 

"From now on, please stick to your diet. Had Rock known about it, he 
might have seriously hurt you. Promise?"

Sport looked up at her with eyes full of tears and defeat, and nodded.

"Good boy. Now, let's get you some breakfast."



                                ***



In the days and weeks that followed, Sport watched helplessly as Shayla 
took the reins of his business. His employees watched just as helplessly 
as she ingratiated herself to some, and fired the rest. Those who remained 
were easy prey for her wiles. They stared at her achingly gorgeous body 
and face as she made swift daily changes to their routine, never 
questioning, never objecting to the next order as it slipped from her 
wide, full lips. 

Sport continued to show up for work, on time, at first terrified to 
disobey Shayla, then, after a while, arrived blank and sullen, taking 
his chair in the corner each day as she smiled cruelly at him, demanding 
that he tell her every detail of the night before. And as much as Shayla 
owned his days, Janey now owned his nights. She was there every night 
when he stepped in the door, readying his special dinner of drug-laced 
salad, as condescending and insulting as ever. As the drugs did their 
work, Sport's mind lost all defense against her rants. As hard as he 
tried to filter her lies from the unending barrage of sarcastic banter, 
a few would always slip through, finding some small niche in his brain 
that would nurse them into planted truths and memories of Sarah and 
their past life together. 

In time, Sport began to accept an undeserved guilt for losing Sarah. He 
worshiped her as an icon of physical perfection, but was eventually 
persuaded by Shayla and Janey that he was unworthy of her attention or love. 
As he slept, his drug-laced dreams were of a Sarah who ignored 
him, a golden goddess who could pick and choose cocks of more 
deserving men to satisfy her. She was the ultimate essence of raw, feminine 
sexuality, sacred and desirable, but impossibly, and rightfully, out of his 
reach. 

Existing on a diet of drug-laced salads and protein drinks, Sport's weight 
plummeted from 190 pounds to 140 as the weeks dragged on. The rumor 
among his employees was that he had cancer, but no one dared to ask. 
When his clothes began to sag on his rail-thin frame, Shayla came to the 
rescue.

"I have a present for you, Sport," she told him one day as he headed for 
his corner chair. He stopped and turned to her, eyeing the large white bag 
on her desk. Shayla shook her head and sighed. 

"Well, open it, Sport. I run a business here - I don't have all day."

He went to her desk and slid the contents onto glass desktop. Just below, 
his eyes were drawn to her firm, slim legs, stretched to their amazing full 
length, the smooth chocolate skin beckoning him to touch her. Shayla caught 
him looking, and spread her hands over the glass, blocking his view. 

"There'll be time for that later, Sport. Do you think I want you to touch me 
this early in the morning? Ugh - it's enough to make me lose my breakfast. 
Pay attention, Sport! Concentrate! Your present, remember? Honestly, I don't 
know how you were ever able to run this business."

He unfolded the items and held them up, one by one, before her. At first he 
didn't understand - a few pair of red spandex bicycle shorts, some T-shirts in 
a variety of pink and purple pastels, and a pair of white tennis shoes with 
pink eyelets. 

"Well, do you like them?" Shayla asked, grinning slyly. 

"I-I don't know - are they - you want me to wear this?"

"Of course, Sport! Why else would I waste my hard-earned money on you?"

"B-but, I can't wear these - I mean, I can't be seen in these - people would 
think - "

"What, Sport? That you're a sissy? That you're not a man? They'd be right, 
wouldn't they? Your own wife thinks so. Sarah never saw you as a real man. She 
told you that, more than once, remember?"

Sport struggled with past memories, trying to sort out the real from the 
imagined. In his mind, Sarah's face, the face he used to know, framed by soft, 
dark hair, was replaced in an instant by Barbie's big blonde hair and pouty red 
lips. And then the lips were moving, the words sultry and wanton. "Ummm, I want 
you Rock, I want a real man, a real man who can put his big hard cock inside 
me. Not like him! He was never a man! He could never make me cum like you do! 
Never! Never!" She was pointing at Sport, shouting at him, accusing him of the 
very thing Shayla had told him. In the end, he no longer knew what Sarah had 
said, but the words seemed so familiar, and came back to him so easily. He had 
probably just forgotten them. 

"Well, Sport, what are you waiting for? Try them on! Let's get a good look at 
the new you!"

"B-but, here? At work? What will everyone - "

"I run this company now, not you. No one cares, Sport. Not anymore. No one will 
even notice."

Sport knew she was right, but the truth still hit him like a sledge hammer. He 
didn't even know most of the employees anymore. Shayla had hired new workers to 
replace anyone who thought about objecting to the changes she brought. She 
hired a new engineer to replace Sport's life-long friend, and he couldn't lift 
a finger to stop her. She called him Spike, and he quickly went about changing 
the product line from hospital beds and wheelchairs to sex paraphernalia of 
every size and shape. She had tripled the company's income in a month while 
Sport sat drugged in his corner, fidgeting nervously with a constant erection, 
staring up her skirt. It was what he lived for now - to watch her, to touch 
her, to please her. And in return, she would take care of him, protect him from 
Rock. And that was all that mattered.

Sport undressed in front of Shayla, his sense of modesty erased long ago by her 
skillful manipulations. When he reached for a pair of the spandex shorts, 
Shayla stopped him. 

"You can't wear briefs under spandex, Sport! I hate panty lines. It's why I 
never wear them myself. You wouldn't want to look up my skirt and see panties 
instead of my bare pussy, would you, Sport?"

Sport got the message and stripped off his underwear. He reached for the shorts 
again, and again Shayla stopped him. She couldn't help but stare. His body had 
become wire-thin and soft, almost boyish in appearance. In contrast, his ever-
present erection jutted forward, as hard and urgent as a sixteen-year-old's. It 
was a strange sight, she thought, this boy-man she had created. How bizarre he 
looked - such weak, androgynous, impotent flesh flaunting the rigid, pulsing 
organ that seemed oddly out of place, so wasted on such a pathetic excuse of a 
man. Her creation brought her pleasure, and she smiled at him.

"Turn around for me, slowly. I want to look at you." 

Sport did as she said, hoping that if he pleased her, she might reward him. As 
he continued to turn for her, she watched, still amused by the outlandish 
sight. 

"Is your little prick always hard?" she asked him casually as he stopped to 
face her.

"Yes - I don't know why, but it is," he answered.

Shayla smiled wider. "I think it's because you can't stop thinking about me. 
Isn't that right? Do you want to fuck me with your little prick? Come on, you 
can tell me. I won't bite." 

Sport tried to process her question, but his mind short-circuited. Would 
agreeing bring Rock's boot to his groin? Would declining be taken as an insult 
to Shayla? She had become his protector, the one safe place in his life where 
he could go for both comfort and the touch of a woman's flesh, however limited 
it might be. Could he dare hope for sex with her? 

"I-I want to, but I shouldn't," he finally muttered, looking down at his bare 
feet. 

"And why shouldn't you?" Shayla asked, smiling as she guided their conversation 
to it's usual end.

"Because you probably want men like Rock, not like me. You wouldn't enjoy it."

"And why do you think that, Sport?"

"Because women want that, women want - "

"Women, Sport? What women? Be specific. How do you know what women want? Tell 
me, Sport. How do you know?"

Sport shivered as he stood naked in the air-conditioned office. Shayla kept it 
cold, especially in the summer. But he shivered just as much from what he saw 
as he looked down over his pale, emaciated body, the outrageous erection ever-
present, but the flesh so soft and afraid. The images again flooded his mind, 
and he told her what she wanted to hear, what he now accepted as the truth. 

"Sarah wanted him. She wanted him instead of me. I know because she left me for 
men like that. I couldn't be that for her - I never can be. So I can't be that 
for you, either." 

Shayla smiled again and stretched her legs under the glass desk, letting her 
skirt ride high enough to tease him with a glimpse of her naked slit. She 
marveled at how simple it had been to break him, to convert this once proud 
husband of a beautiful woman into a weak, fearful shell of a man. She wondered 
how far he would go for her, to what depths of perversion he might descend for 
her. The possibilities made her wet as her mind raced with twisted flashes of 
depravity. If only there was time. 

"Get dressed, Sport. You're insight is right on target, as usual. And, the 
sight of you naked isn't exactly stirring my appetite for sex, with a man, that 
is. I want to take a tour of the shop this morning, and you can come along, to 
take notes."

Sport shivered again as he thought of having to face the employees in the 
clothes Shayla had brought him. He dressed slowly, pulling the tight red 
spandex shorts up over his bobbing erection, then stretching a small pink T-
shirt over his head and shoulders, tugging at it until it covered his thin 
chest and belly like a second skin. After lacing and tying the white tennis 
shoes, he stood up and faced her, afraid to think of the sight she must be 
enjoying. Shayla got up and went to him, this time circling him with slow, 
enticing steps, her hips swaying maddeningly beneath the tiny skirt. She 
stopped in front of him, looking down at the obvious outline of his erection 
under the spandex. Then looking up, directly into his eyes, she traced a path 
over his cock with a single finger, her finely-manicured nail grazing the 
underside of it, then moving slowly over the head until she felt the spandex 
grow moist with a droplet of the fluid she coaxed from him. 

"Now, you really don't want to fuck me, do you Sport?" she whispered, still 
circling her nail over the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum into an ever-
widening spot on the front of his shorts. He was shaking, trying to contain the 
orgasm that threatened to explode from deep within his gut. His eyes were 
locked on hers, his body nearly out of control, but still, the fear of Rock's 
boot paralyzed him. 

"P-please, no, I don't, I mean, I know you don't want me to - I know you 
want..."

Shayla suddenly burst into laughter, then carefully wiped her finger clean on 
the front of Sport's T-shirt. Turning back to her desk, she picked up a large 
clipboard and handed it to him. "Come on, Sport. Let's see what our people are 
up to this morning. I'm sure you're eager to give them a good look at the new 
you!"

Shayla led him around the shop, using all her wiles to ensure her new employees 
stayed compliant and loyal. Her smile melted every man she spoke to, and her 
mesmerizing voice had even the women eating out of her hands. Sport used the 
clipboard to try to hide his erection, but everyone's eyes were drawn to his 
new outfit, and as Shayla ordered him to take notes while they gave her their 
comments and suggestions, howls of laughter rose from the back of the shop. For 
her grand finale, Shayla called everyone together for one of her pep-talks, 
took the clipboard from Sport, and let everyone have a good long look. She 
ignored the sniggering and whispers as she talked, glancing at Sports' erection 
now and then to make sure her audience got the message. 

Whatever Sport had become, there was no question that Shayla was the boss, both 
theirs and his. But there were plenty of questions about Sport's sanity, as 
well as his apparent betrayal of Sarah. The few that still knew him either 
pitied him or wrote him off. Only Shannon continued to treat him with her 
familiar brand of acceptance and respect, smiling her gorgeous smile at him 
every morning, checking on him throughout the day, and always remembering to 
give him a cheery goodbye at closing. In time, she became his only anchor to 
reality, and to the past. In a world gone mad, Shannon's presence was the only 
thing that hadn't gone mad with it. She was the one and only bright spot in day 
after day of increasing hopelessness and depression.

As the drugs Shayla fed him did their work, Sport withdrew from their world 
into one where Shayla was the only safe refuge from the encroaching depression 
and fear. And those nights when Sarah came to him in his dreams, a strange 
pleasure filled him as he put her hand in Rock's, then watched as the rugged 
biker took her, using her perfect body the way she deserved, as only a real man 
could.









Chapter 15


In Sport's world, the weeks that followed seemed like years. Ever increasing 
dosages of Shayla's drugs made his body twitch constantly and deepened his 
depression. Mindlessly submitting to Shayla at work all day followed by 
servicing Janey at night became his life. Sleep came to him in restless fits of 
unconsciousness, always plagued by nightmares of Sarah and Rock together with 
Shayla's commanding voice laughing in the background. He had even lost the 
ability to orgasm, thanks to the drugs, but that still didn't stop Janey from 
torturing him by fingering his erection as she verbally humiliated him. "What a 
shame," she'd tell him over and over as she stroked him. "Such a hard dick 
attached to such a useless excuse of a man." But by that time, Sport knew no 
humiliation. Janey's words settled in through layers of fatigue as an accepted 
truth. In fact, the final surrender was calming to Sport - once he let his 
resistance drift away, his frayed nerves nagged at him a little less, and a 
little less anxiety was a considerable level of relief. What remained was the 
relentless sexual frustration accompanied by an erection that constantly 
throbbed for relief, an itch that could never be scratched as long as Shayla's 
drugs saturated his frail body. 

It was a Monday morning like most other Mondays, except that his weekend with 
Janey had been particularly unpleasant. She had invited her friends over, two 
women in impeccable white tennis outfits who also wore predictably cruel 
smiles. Sport tried not to stare at their athletic figures, at the long, 
suntanned legs bared beneath short white pleated skirts. When they caught him 
looking, they giggled uncontrollably, pointing to his erection that bulged 
obscenely beneath his spandex shorts. Janey had ordered him to strip, and one 
of the women wanted to see him dance. Sport felt his erection bob in all 
directions as he tried his best, but he was no dancer, and his amateurish 
hopping and wiggling made the women laugh until tears streaked over their 
faces. Afterward, they each stroked and pulled at his cock in a contest to see 
who could make him cum. Janey stood by and gloated with the secret knowledge 
that it was a competition that could never be won. It was a new low, even in 
Sport's world. 

When he arrived at the office, he noticed Shannon wasn't there to greet him. 
Her unexpected absence was suddenly more than a passing curiosity. Although her 
fresh-faced smile and cheery, "Hi, Mr. B!" always lifted his spirits a bit as 
he passed by on his way to Shayla's office, he had never realized how it was 
the nudge that got him through Shayla's door each morning, and through the rest 
of day. He paused a second, felt the emptiness close in around him a bit more 
than most days, then went to Shayla's door and opened it. 

"Well, it's about time, pussy-boy. Come in and join the party." 

Rock stood a few feet in front of him, hands on his hips, grinning as though he 
was savoring in advance some obscene joke that Sport had yet to comprehend. As 
he stepped aside, Sport stared in horror at the scene before him. Behind 
Shayla's desk stood a gleaming chrome framework of steel and leather, an 
elaborate scaffold designed to accommodate the human form in an endless variety 
of positions. The body contained within it was one of bronzed perfection, the 
firm young thighs held in place by padded leather bands, the flat quivering 
belly stretched taught as the structure seemed to breathe in subtle movements 
that mimicked a living entity. Tiny sensors and motors guided agile appendages 
that clasped her arms and legs, moving in a bizarre dance that seemed only 
partly voluntary, a perverse ballet of flesh and machine. Shayla stood between 
her legs, staring at the flexible snake of silicone that weaved and probed 
within the light patch of golden pubic hair now wet with arousal. Shayla rested 
her hand on her belly, smiling at the immediate response, a returned loving 
gaze from within the machine. Slowly, the gaze moved to Sport, but changed from 
adoration to derision. As Shannon's blue eyes met his, her full lips curled 
into a warped smile that betrayed everything she had been to him. 

Shayla looked up at Sport and smiled a kinder smile. "Sport, you look like 
you've seen a ghost," she said. Her tone was almost genuine; enough so to reach 
the part of Sport that relied on her for security in times of doubt and 
confusion. "Oh my, you didn't think she saw you as anything but a weak and 
pathetic creature, did you? Really Sport, if you imagined she considered you 
anything slightly more than that, maybe you need more training." 

Shannon closed her eyes and moaned as the machine lifted her hips up into the 
jittering probe between her thighs. Shayla moved her hand upward over the 
fluttering stomach, finally cupping a large full breast in her palm. "Now 
Shannon, my Sweet, who do you live to please? Who makes your little cunt drip? 
Tell us, my Sweet. Tell us." But the only reply was a more drawn-out moan from 
the young girl, a confession of surrender to her master, but not one of her 
master's identity. 

Sport watched in stunned disbelief as Shannon tensed her stomach and tilted her 
hips forward and up, straining to suck the thin, agile phallus inside her. As 
though sensing her intent, the machine exaggerated her movements, guiding her 
hips upward in a quick, almost violent succession of thrusts while the rubbery 
probe teased her with a series of shallow penetrations calculated to excite, 
but not to satisfy. Beads of sweat formed over her breasts and belly, finally 
wetting the leather pads that supported her. She seemed to be a living part of 
the machine, her damp, smooth skin so like the slick, shiny leather - her lean, 
tanned arms and legs the warm blood and nerves that gave life to the slender 
steel rods and purring motors. 

Shayla stood beside her, gently scraping the long, manicured nail of her index 
finger over Shannon's turgid nipple. "You mustn't be shy, my Sweet. Tell me 
what you want." Shayla's voice was velvety and soothing, more of a purr than a 
command. "Do you want someone to finish you? Do you want to cum, my Sweet?" 

"Yesssss...," Shannon hissed, her eyes still closed, concentrating, as though 
she might try to trigger her orgasm by sheer will alone. 

"Who do you want, my Sweet? Who makes you cum harder than anyone ever has? Who 
do you live to please?"

Shannon's eyes drifted open, then scanned the room slowly.

"Him," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I want him."

A familiar, sick revulsion settled in Sport's gut as he watched the scene 
before him. Shannon's eyes were fixed on Rock, her full lips moist and parted. 
Her body, her face, her words - all had become a betrayal to Sport. The 
innocence and empathy Sport had come to love in her was gone, replaced by 
twisted sexual obsession for the same grinning biker who had so easily taken 
Sarah from him, the very same animal that had spawned Sarah's unquenchable 
addiction for satisfaction from "bigger", "better" men. "She's not Sarah," a 
distant, feeble voice within him warned. "She's not Sarah". But the  fragile, 
unraveling thread to reality was a droplet of reason in an ocean of delusion 
and defeat. It was overwhelmed and silenced in an instant.

Shannon babbled wildly as Rock approached her. Tears flowed down her cheeks as 
she whimpered and thrashed against the machine. Rock moved between her 
outstretched legs, lowered his jeans, and leaned over her, balancing his weight 
on the polished chrome supports. 

Shannon was crying openly, begging him to enter her, begging him to use her, 
begging for things Sport had never imagined coming from her perfect, pink lips. 
As the head of his cock inched inside her, two slippery, spaghetti-like 
appendages caressed her lower belly, then  slid maddeningly lower, nestling 
along each side of her swollen clitoris where they writhed like miniature 
snakes. As Rock forced his cock into her, the life-like machine-tentacles read 
her response to their touch and refined their dance, coaxing and lifting the 
pink bud of flesh until the two slithering fingers held the rubbery meat of her 
clit in a swirling, throbbing embrace. 

Shannon came within seconds. Her arms and legs shuddered within the confines of 
the machine as her climax approached. The sudden onset of spasms that rippled 
through her body overwhelmed the machine's ability to interpret them and 
respond, wrenching her lithe arms and legs in a rapid succession of halting, 
random excursions that delivered brief twinges of pain to straining tendons and 
ligaments within her fragile body.  The confused tendrils that encircled her 
clitoris collided and retreated, slashing and stabbing between moments of their 
maddening feather touch. 

Sport watched with an odd mix of desire and disgust. Shannon's tanned body 
convulsed in orgasm before his eyes. Exquisitely toned muscles flexed and 
stretched beneath the velvet golden skin of her legs and belly. Silken hair 
covered much of her face, revealing only her full, wide mouth. Her moist lips 
were parted, but far from the way he remembered them when she greeted him at 
work each day. Now she had become this unimaginable sexual creature of 
tantalizing flesh and gleaming steel, lost in a bizarre, frenzied dance of lust 
that she craved but could no longer control. 

Rock stood over her wearing an amused grin as the machine-girl thrashed and 
moaned. Her sex swallowed him so perfectly while in the embrace of the machine 
that he simply stood between her legs and let her do all the work. Her hips 
were guided forward and upward in a precise arc, measured and refined to the 
shape and size of his rigid cock. When he saw her wince in pain as the machine 
tried to amplify her orgasm, his grin widened, and he fought the urge to come 
in her on the spot.

It was only after her orgasm subsided that Rock began his slow, even strokes, 
merely grinning down at her as she lay recovering in the still-pulsating 
network of rods and beams. When she didn't respond, he began to batter her with 
his cock, shaking the machine as he plowed into her limp, twitching body. 

"How 'bout that, you little bitch? That what you want? All of it at once, like 
- THAT! Aw fuck yeah, I'm gonna do you till you're raw, bitch. How d'ya like it 
NOW - like THAT! C'mon you little pig, squeal for it! Beg for it! THAT's how 
you like it, right?" 

Rock pounded her with his hips, his cock pistoning into her with sudden violent 
thrusts. Shannon lay in the machine, unmoving, her head fallen to one side as 
she stared blankly into space. Her body was now like a marionette with half the 
strings severed. Nervous reflexes from Rock's assault were amplified by the 
machine, causing her body to move in a combination of erratic random jerks and 
unpredictable spasms. 

Sport looked on helplessly as Rock's body tensed, his pace slowed, and his 
groan filled the office. Seconds seemed like minutes to Sport, minutes like 
hours. Finally, Rock pulled his cock from the broken doll of a girl strapped to 
the machine before him. Shannon lay quivering within the machine, dazed and 
barely breathing. Sport's hatred of Rock began to boil within him, just as his 
sympathy for Shannon became overwhelming. Then, when a wide, satisfied smile 
grew across Shannon's face, he began to sob uncontrollably. 

Rock wheeled to face Sport. In seconds, his look of disbelief turned to one of 
disgust. Seething with anger, Rock headed straight for Sport, his jaw set, his 
fist clenched into a tight ball of muscle and bone. Sport stepped backward, his 
face a picture of pure horror.  Just as Sport's eyes met Shayla's in a last-
minute plea for help, Rock's fist slammed into his stomach with a sickening 
thud. He fell to his knees, eyes bulging, his stomach a cauldron of nausea that 
threatened to erupt at any second. 

"Awww, look at that," Rock said, his all-to-familiar sneer locked on Sport. 
"Gonna be her hero, big guy? Think she would ever want a wimp like you? Tell ya 
what - I'll fight you for her - well, what's left of her. You gotta remember 
how I ruined your sweet little wife the first time I fucked her, right? This 
one's no different. She's the same kind of whore, all fresh and pretty on the 
outside..." Rock reached out and grabbed a fist-full of Sport's hair, his wild-
eyed stare inches from Sport's face. "...all stupid, cock-hungry cunt on the 
inside. I thought I taught you that once. Now I gotta show your sorry ass all 
over again."

Sport's stomach caved inward as Rock's second blow knocked him to the floor. He 
began to vomit as his head hit the floor with a sharp crack. Sick and 
disoriented, his head pounding with a dull, distant pain, Sport remained 
conscious of only one thing - his hatred of Rock, amplified by the biker's 
revolting laughter that rang through the room. Slowly, using every once of 
energy he could rally, Sport pushed himself to his knees. He struggled to keep 
his balance, his body shaking violently, his hands clenched into fists at his 
side. He glared up at Rock, up at the laughing giant who had destroyed his 
life. 

"S-she never l-loved y-you," Sport uttered haltingly as he strained to stay 
upright on his knees. "S-she never..."

Rock's boot carried all the power his massive leg could deliver. When it landed 
between Sport's legs, he collapsed backward onto the floor, groaning, then 
whimpering, tears of defeat streaming over his face. Now Sport's world was one 
of pain and loss, nothing else. Minutes ago a spark of resistance had still 
existed, a tiny flame that had become his only remaining connection to Sarah, 
the Sarah that he knew, Sarah, his wife. As dim as it had become, it was still 
there, almost unreachable, but there just the same. As skilled and relentless 
as Shayla's attempts to extinguish it had become, they merely pushed it farther 
into the distance. Lying there in his own vomit, in his own well of certain 
destruction, Sport felt it vanish as suddenly as if Rock had snuffed the flame 
between his thumb and finger. At that instant, he began to sob. 

Rock stood over him, his laughter turned to a disgusted smirk. 

"Faggot's no fun anymore. He just lays there. I say, kill him." 

Shayla's footsteps came closer, the click, click, click of her black stilettos 
a familiar, welcome sound to Sport. 

"Sorry, but it's not our call. I've found another plaything for you. See if she 
has a boyfriend. We can use some fresh meat."

Shayla's voice was now cold and calculating, no longer the refuge that Sport 
knew so well. Click, click, click - she was coming closer, so close to him now. 
Sport opened his eyes in time to see her kneeling beside him. Her blouse opened 
to reveal large, chocolate breasts as she leaned over him. So perfect, he 
thought. He had never been allowed to touch them. He saw the syringe in her 
hand, bright and glittering under the fluorescent lights of his former office. 

"Ugh...he stinks," she complained as she lowered the syringe to the side of his 
neck. "I think he shit himself."

She looked into his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"Disgusting..." she whispered. Shayla stabbed the needle into his neck, pushed 
the plunger to the bottom of the barrel, and Sport's world went black.



                                  ***



The old warehouse was deserted at 2:00 AM. On the loading dock, shallow puddles 
reflected stray light from a single bulb mounted on a rusting sheet metal wall. 
Rain fell in a light mist, coating concrete and steel in a fever sweat of 
things sick and dying. Two burly men stood just inside the wide roll-up door. 
They stared impatiently into the foggy night. 

"Gotta wonder where these sick fucks send this stuff," the fatter of the two 
men said, as though he might be talking to himself. His stained t-shirt barely 
covered the mound of gut that hung over the top of his jeans. 

"None of yer damn business," the second man answered. "Like always, I take the 
money and git the hell outta here. If you ain't up to it, go ahead and leave - 
I'll take your share." He looked over at his accomplice and grinned. 

"Fuck you," the fatter man answered, and went back to staring into the night.

Outside, at the edge of the dock, two large wire cages sat in the chilly rain. 
As usual, each cage held a naked, unconscious body, one male, one female. Both 
were placed inside crouching on hands and knees, their ankles and wrists tied 
to the wire, although the cages were too small to allow much if any movement. 
They appeared to be sleeping, their heads resting on the thick leather pads 
beneath them, their breathing slow and shallow. 

"Did you get a good look at her?" the fatter man asked. "Mm, mm, mm, she's 
really somethin'." 

"Yeah, yeah," the second man growled. "Whatta you gonna do, ask her for a 
date?" 

"Heh, well, maybe you like the other one better."

"Right. Fuck you."

Sport shivered, partially rousing from his drug-induced sleep. His legs and 
back ached, his vision blurred. He was cold and wet, and the plastic ties 
holding his arms and legs to the wire cage cut into his flesh painfully. 
Somewhere in the distance someone was talking - who? It was so cold. So wet and 
clammy. Where was he? 

His vision began to clear, only to fade to a blur again within seconds. In, 
then out. Clear, then a blur. Eventually, when he could see for longer periods, 
Sarah's cage became recognizable.  She was naked, on her knees, but it was 
unmistakably her. Sarah's pale skin glowed in the darkness, her slim legs 
folded under her, her supple torso and full breasts an angelic vision to Sport. 
He could see her closed eyes and inviting mouth through parted strands of 
golden hair that spilled over her face and creamy bare shoulders. If her eyes 
would open, she would be looking right at him. But she slept, peacefully, 
beautifully - a rare, delicious treasure, caged and trussed as though she would 
be sold like meat, by the pound. Then, just as the vision took form, he blacked 
out again, losing her to Shayla's drugs. 

Sport woke a second time to sounds and movement much closer to his cage. The 
door to Sarah's cage stood open. A very large man leaned over it, panting and 
thrusting, his cock buried between Sarah's legs. Sport watched helplessly, as 
if dreaming. Unconscious, trapped within the confines of her cage, Sarah showed 
no sign that she objected to the violation. In fact, as the fat man's flabby 
gut hammered the cage, Sarah seemed to raise her ass to accept him, arching her 
back a little like an animal in heat. Sarah's mouth opened slightly, then 
formed a wide, satisfied smile across her angelic face. Sport closed his eyes, 
and again, as another of his dreams became a nightmare, he prayed for his 
escape. His prayer was answered as the drugs brought sleep once again. 

It was 3:00 AM when approaching lights in the distance signaled the men to 
ready the cargo. The rear door of the brown step-van was three feet below the 
dock, which meant the cages had to be lowered over the edge, then lifted into 
the truck. The two burly men accomplished it easily, each pausing to stare into 
Sarah's cage as they hoisted it into the back of the van. The driver handed 
them envelopes thick with cash, and the truck disappeared into the fog. 

"What the hell were you up to while I was takin' a shit?"

The fatter man grinned. "Just askin' her for a date, like you said."

"And what do you think they'll do when your "date" is delivered with cum 
leaking out of her?"

"Hell, I dunno - maybe they won't notice."

"Well, I noticed. Christ man, she was soaked."

The two men walked quietly back through the warehouse, then across a railroad 
siding to their cars. Neither knew who "they" were, or what trouble the fatter 
man might have created. But for the time being, the weight of the money in 
their pockets was comfort enough. 

When they reached their cars, the fatter man glanced over his shoulder. 

"What the fuck. She was probably just some stupid slut anyway."

The other man closed his car door without answering.

"Right. Probably just some stupid slut," he muttered to himself as he drove hastily 
into the night. 







Previous chapters of Surrendering Sarah, along with other works by Night Writer 
can be found at http://www.asstr.org/~Night_Writer/
